The realization that before another sunset I should be at home, should
take mother, grandmother, and little Jean in my arms, clasp my father's
hand and meet his welcoming eye, thrilled me with a joyous excitement
such as I had not felt since, nearly three years before, I had led my
squad of recruits out of the valley.
The road between the foot of the mountain and Staunton seemed
elastic--as if it stretched as I traveled it. Not for six months now had
I heard from home. The last letter had been brought me by a recruit from
our valley, before the fight at Chestnut Hill, and was then several
weeks old. It told of my grandmother's gradually failing strength, of
Aunt Martha's increasing vexation with still unconquered Ellen, of
Jean's rapid development into womanhood; of my mother's good health and
father's continued vigor; also of the fine crops harvested during the
year, and sold at good prices, after a generous proportion had been
given to help load the wagon train sent from the valley to help to feed
General Washington's army. There were, also, bits of local news and
gossip most interesting to me.
A chill, misty March drizzle came on with the twilight, my steed drooped
his head wearily, and lifted his feet with mechanical, springless
effort.
"Poor tired beast," I said, patting his flanks, "we'll stop this night
in Staunton, and you shall have supper and stable if there's a barn left
in the town." He appeared to understand my promise, for his gait
quickened, his head was lifted hopefully, and a moment later, as a turn
in the highway revealed the lighted windows of the town, he uttered a
low, thankful nicker.
"If William Allen or John Walker is at home, we'll not lack a welcome,"
I added, giving him a second encouraging pat. Both these lads--they were
men now, of course--had been mates of mine at "the academy," and 'twas
Allen to whom I made gift of my books when I went home to enlist.
Walker's house was the first reached and, leaving my horse before the
gate, I rapped loudly with the hilt of my sword upon the door. It was
opened somewhat cautiously, and Elder Walker's voice enquired
peremptorily, "Who's without?"
"An old school mate of your son John's, Donald McElroy."
"What! Captain McElroy, whom family and friends have mourned as dead
these six months past? Come in, lad, come in!" and the door was flung
wide open. "You'll be chilled to the bone in that drenching
drizzle,--and your horse likewise. John! John! Here's an old school
friend! Call the niggers, wife! Send one of them round for Captain
McElroy's horse, and have on another back log! Bring out the rum and the
peach brandy! The son of William McElroy would be welcome under all
circumstances, but coming from the dead, as it were, and covered with
honor, doubtless,--why, there's nothing in the town good enough for
him."
The house was abustle by this time, negroes running to and fro, Mrs.
Walker and John overwhelming me with welcoming attention, and the Elder
alternately rattling the decanters and glasses, and ringing the heavy
iron poker against the massive brass andirons, as he vigorously punched
the logs into a brisker blaze. I had half forgotten the warmth and
heartiness of a Scotch Irish welcome, and my eyes filled with tears at
the familiar sound of it all, and the sight of John's kind, homely face
wreathed with glad smiles.
How pleasant the flavor of the oily peach brandy, how genial the blaze
of the hickory logs, how good to hear the rich voices and the slight
accent, as they called over familiar names and faces, and told me the
valley news!
"Are they all well at home?" was my first question.
"All well, the last we heard, and your father continues to be one of the
most prosperous and respected men in the county, and your mother the
best of housewives. Little Jean has grown into a beauty, and your father
has built a big new barn, and is burning brick for a spacious dwelling
to take the place of the old cabin," answered the Elder loquaciously,
while Mrs. Walker superintended the maid Jinsey, serving me, upon a
folding table placed at my elbow, a cavalry man's lunch--which means
enough for three.
"And they thought me dead, Elder?"
"They feared it, lad, having heard that you fell wounded on the field at
Chestnut Hill, were taken prisoner, and carried to the prison hospital
in Philadelphia--death traps they are said to be. Your father hopes
still, but your mother greets sair, and fears the very worst."
It was not easy to get away from my entertainers the next morning, but I
was eager to be at home, and managed to be off by half past ten, despite
their urgent hospitality, and their disinclination to have my horse
brought around.
"It was communion Sabbath at the Stone Church," the Elder had insisted,
"and my whole family would, without doubt, spend the day at the
services; so I might as well take dinner with them, and ride home in the
afternoon."
But "No," I said; "I would ride on to the church, hear part of the
sermon, find my people, and take them home with me at the recess between
the morning and afternoon service."
Elder Walker was one of those who had gone off to form a new
congregation at Tinkling Spring, and I gathered from his talk that the
feud caused by a secession of a part of the congregation had not yet
abated. Between my Uncle Thomas and Elder Walker this split in the
congregation had given rise to a lasting bitterness, and during all our
conversation my Uncle Thomas' name was not mentioned.
Every rod of the way, from the town to the church, was marked with
memories for me. I smiled at the recollection of the squirrel I had
caught in the top branches of a certain gnarled old oak; of the deer I
had shot, as it bounded across the branch in yonder meadow; of the
strawberries I had gathered from the sunny hillsides. Wrapped in these
recollections of a happy boyhood, I rode on, as in a dream, and came at
last with the surprise of suddenness, upon the old church.
One might have supposed that a cavalry company was bivouacked in the
grove, from the horses hitched to every tree and shrub, and the illusion
would only be strengthened upon closer view, by the rude but strong
fortifications encircling the building. How vividly came back the sounds
and scenes of the Indian raid! especially the erect form and inspired
face of old Parson Craig, addressing "his lads," in the spirit of a
Spartan leader. Years before this intrepid man of God had gone to his
reckoning, and I had no doubt as to the side of the account on which he
had found that Mosaic charge he had given us to "slay and spare not."
But the sounds issuing that March morning from the closed doors of the
old church were sounds of Christian harmony and pious rejoicing. The
congregation was singing one of Rouse's paraphrases as I pushed the door
open gently, and glided into the vacant pew against the wall. Not a head
was turned, so engrossed were they all in worship, save those of two or
three restless children. I drew myself close in the shadow of a pillar,
and listened with glad and thankful heart to the singing. This was the
psalm, and the words were set to one of those solemn, grand old tunes,
which rolled so deep and full from the throats of big chested, earnest
men, and devout women, that no accompaniment of instruments, such as the
modern music is said to require, was needed.
"O praise the Lord, for He is good,
His mercy lasteth ever,
Let those of Israel now say
His mercy faileth never.
Let those who fear the Lord now say
His mercy faileth never."
I thought I recognized the full tones of my father's voice and my
emotions almost choked me.
The instant the minister rose to give out his text, I knew him to be
Parson Waddell--the eloquent, blind preacher of Hanover, who more than
once had been described to me, though never before had I seen him, or
heard him preach. That long, lank form; that thin face, and high, bald
forehead, from which the long gray locks flowed backward; those fixed,
open eyes, so evidently sightless; those long, restless arms, and hands,
trembling with palsy--that ensemble could be no other than Parson
Waddell--the pulpit orator of America during his generation, and one who
has been seldom equaled in any age or country.
I cannot now recall the words of his text, nor their exact place in the
Bible, only that it was some passage in the description of the passion
of our Lord. This I remember well, that from the first sentence uttered
by that mellifluous and feeling voice, I forgot everything but the scene
he depicted, which scene I saw as 'twere passing before me. I agonized
with Jesus in the garden; flamed with Peter's anger, when he struck off
the ear of the servant of the high priest; followed, weeping, afar with
the other disciples; burned with indignation against Christ's accusers
and torturers; heard Pilate's decision, and the High Priest's sentence,
with the despairing astonishment of His followers; grew sick and
tremulous with sympathy as His bleeding form, weighted with the cross,
struggled up Calvary; and my very soul was overwhelmed in horror and
amaze, as I saw His broken body hanging upon the cross, scorned,
reviled, His sacred head crowned with thorns, His sacred side pierced by
the soldier's spear. As the preacher went on to depict Jesus' agony of
spirit, when He felt Himself deserted by His Father, and uttered that
piercing cry, "Eli, Eli, lama Sabachthani?" my every nerve was strung to
its tightest tension, and my throat became so rigid that the moans which
came from my heart could find no utterance. The entire congregation was
moved almost as I was.
From Dr. Waddell's sightless eyes tears streamed like rain, and his
utterances were almost choked by the heartfelt emotion which moved him.
At last he was forced to pause and to cover his face with his trembling
hands. For an instant the deep silence over all the church was broken
only by low sobs and stifled moans.
Presently Dr. Waddell lifted up a face, wet with tears, straightened
slowly his tall, gaunt form, lifted his left arm with solemn
impressiveness, and pointing and looking upward, with a gesture of
indescribable faith and assurance, said, in tones which rang in glad
triumph, though an echo of the recent sobs of penitence still lingered
in them,
"Friends--Socrates died like a philosopher, Jesus Christ like a God."
The effect was marvelous. The moans and the sobbing ceased, and all over
the church men, women, and children bowed their heads, and wept tears of
thankfulness, while the preacher went on to describe the last scenes of
the crucifixion:--the rent veil of the temple, the darkness, the
earthquake, the terror of the soldiers--divine signs that no mere man,
but the Son of God Himself had here offered up His life a free sacrifice
to satisfy Divine justice.
When the invitation had been given to the celebration of the Lord's
Supper, and while the communicants were taking their places at the long
tables spread in the aisles, which formed a cross, another psalm was
sung. During its singing I slipped unheeded from the church, and walked
back and forth under the trees, my soul more moved than ever it had been
before. That hour I gave my heart, and my life to Christ, making solemn
vow that from henceforth I would take my place, as my heritage and
baptism, gave me right--at God's Table; that I would no longer be one of
those to scorn so mighty a sacrifice, to refuse so priceless a
redemption. There, under the trees, I knelt and consecrated all my
future to God's service.
The very day seemed set apart by this solemn resolve, and now I did not
wish to greet my family before the congregation. So I got on my horse
and rode homeward.
At the bars which led from the highway across my Uncle Thomas Mitchell's
fields to his house, stood my Cousin Thomas, half leaning on the stile.
His gaze was fixed upon some distant object, and though he answered my
greeting, as I halted before him, there was neither interest nor
curiosity in his listless manner.
"You do not know me, Thomas," I said.
"Can it be Donald McElroy?" and he was interested enough now, his face
aglow with pleasure. "We had given you up for dead in Philadelphia
prison, Donald," and almost before I was off my horse he had his arms
about me, and was hugging me as if I had been his mother.
It did not take long to tell him so much of my story as was needful he
should know at once, and then I began to put questions.
"Are all well at home? Tom?"
"Yes, all well."
"Then dear grandmother has recovered from her illness; I'm glad to know
that."
"And you have not heard, Donald? You do not know that grandmother has
been dead these five months. But there, cousin," putting a comforting
arm about me, "don't grieve for her; she went joyously, her one regret
being that she could not see you once more on earth."
"And mother has stood it bravely?"
"Yes, and is if anything, kinder than before, but she grieves all the
time about you. The only thing that keeps her in heart is your father's
confidence in your coming. He looks for you every day, or for good news
of you."
"And does little Jean believe that I am dead?"
"Oh, no; she agrees stoutly with Uncle William, and watches the road for
you, each evening."
"She is almost grown now?"
"Quite grown up, and the prettiest, sweetest lass in the valley--now
Ellen's gone," and Thomas sighed deeply and fixed his eyes upon the
hills again.
"Ellen gone? What mean you, Thomas? Where would she go? I thought she
had no other relatives."
"She has no others, and we do not know where she is. Three months ago
she disappeared--my mother was harsh with her, and Ellen would not brook
it. One night she slipped from her bed, took father's riding horse from
the stable, and rode away. Three days later the horse came back, saddled
and bridled, but we have never heard a word of Ellen, nor had a clew as
to her whereabouts. Perhaps the horse threw and killed her; perhaps wild
beasts devoured her; perhaps she was captured by Indians. My mother says
she is hiding somewhere to spite us, and hardens her heart against
grieving for her; but father and I keep up constant search and inquiry
for her.
"Meantime, Donald, our peace is gone, and our home is disgraced. We have
driven the orphan, and one of our own blood, forth into the wilderness,
to perish by savages or by wild beasts--yet we boast our religion, pray
our prayers, sing our psalms, and blame harshly the intolerance of the
established church, and the tyranny of the British! Do you wonder that
I'm half Tory, and whole heretic, Donald?--at war with my race, my
religion, and my family?"
"Then you loved Ellen O'Niel, Thomas?" I said, coming to the prompt
conclusion that such morbid vehemence could spring but from one root.
"Yes, Donald, I loved her, and will always love her--or her memory, more
than aught else in the world. It was, I think, the suspicion that I was
growing to love Ellen, and the fear of her influence over me, that made
my mother more and more harsh to her. She is beginning, however, to find
out that if I have lost Ellen, she has lost a son, and what is more to
her, I think, the church has lost a preacher. She thought I would soon
get over it, but now she is beginning to worry about it, and to wish me
to find Ellen. I care little any more; however, mother's worries are her
chief sources of happiness."
"I do not believe Ellen is dead, Thomas," I said, ignoring his
disrespect to his mother. "Either she is hiding somewhere, as Aunt
Martha surmises, or she has been carried off by the Indians. In either
case, Thomas, we'll find her, for I intend to join you in the search,
and will not give up 'till we have a sure clew. Don't let it trouble you
so, laddie, but cheer up and expect good news every day as father has
done. And I'm sorry, Thomas, to hear you express yourself so bitterly
against religion on this day of all others--when for the first time I
have felt the influence of converting grace," and then I told him of
Parson Waddell's sermon, and my resolve to be a Christian.
Thomas was moved, I could see, but he held firmly to his latest view,
that religion in most people was naught but fanaticism, and
Presbyterianism a narrowing creed. "If ever I find Ellen alive," he
concluded, "I shall become a Catholic and marry her. Should I be assured
of her death I shall go west as pioneer or scout or else turn monk."
"I can offer you a better career than either of those," I replied,
laying my hand on his arm, and speaking cheerfully, "and not only a fine
career, but, if all our searching hereabouts fails, your best chance to
find Ellen. Come to see me, and we'll talk it over."
At the first bend in the road, I turned to wave to Thomas; he was still
leaning dejectedly upon the stile, his back to me, and his absent gaze
fixed upon the mountains. And now surprising thoughts and feelings took
possession of me. My sympathy for Thomas was marred by sudden and
unreasoning jealousy. What right had he to fall in love with Ellen
O'Niel in my absence? Had she not shown plainly enough her preference
for me? He had not been man enough to protect her from his mother's
tyranny, and yet he talked as presumptuously of marrying her as if he
had earned a right to her. He had not even found her in all these weeks,
and was now hanging idly on his father's stile, whining, and uttering
blasphemies. Find her and marry her indeed! I'd find her myself, and,
marry her, too, if I pleased, for all he might say. Nor would I turn
Catholic and abuse my relatives, and the religion of my fathers to win
her; rather, I'd make her see she had acted foolishly and teach her to
honor our creed, as I should honor hers. Ellen, I plainly saw, had
needed sympathy, and love, also some one to show her the dangers of her
own impetuous, and self-willed nature.
Thinking these thoughts, I put my horse to graze in the meadow, and sat
down on the porch, drinking in, with profound content, the well
remembered prospect, and planning how I should search minutely all over
the country for Ellen, and get together my recruits for Clark's
expedition at the same time. Then I fell to castle building, and it was
Ellen, restored to us with added beauty and a nobleness of character
developed by her trials, who was to lend charm and grace to my "Castle
in Spain."
Already I avoided thoughts of Nelly Buford, and though they often forced
themselves upon me, they brought me always regret and mortification,
mingled still with a lively sense of her powers of fascination.