The meeting with my parents has a place in my memory so sacred that
description seems desecration. My mother went white as the linen
handkerchief she wore, and with one sharp cry, "O! William, it is
Donald, our son! Oh my laddie, my laddie!" fell into my outstretched
arms, weeping and laughing, in a violent hysteria of joy.
"There, there, Rachael, wife, don't take on so," said my father. "Of
course it's Donald! You know I've always said he was not dead; he's well
and strong, only broader and more manly looking,"--and he took mother
out of my arms, and began to stroke her hair and to soothe her.
"And this is the little sister I left three years ago"--turning to Jean
to hide my own emotion. "I can hardly believe it, yet the eyes are the
same," and I kissed her and held her off to look at her, saying
teasingly, "Why, Jean, you are almost as pretty as our mother."
"Do you hear that, mother?" asked my father in pleased tones. "Don
hasn't forgotten his blarneying ways, either;--just the same lad who
went away from us so many months ago."
Mother smiled at this, and ceased weeping, and together we went joyfully
into the big room, where I was forced to turn aside to the window to
blink back the tears that welled up at the recollections of my
grandmother, which the familiar room with her chair still in its place
called forth. Not until mother followed me to my room that night, to sit
on the side of my bed, as she used to do when I was a little boy, did we
talk of her. None of us wished to dim the pure joy of our first hours
together by reference to our bereavement, and I had so much to tell
them, so many questions to answer.
Then, mother gave me a minute history of grandmother's last days. "You
and I, dear daughter," she had said to my mother, "will not for long be
separated; I am just gangin' on a little before you, to make our real
hame the mair ready for your welcome, but Donald's a young man, and will
live a lang an' useful life, I trust. I should like to see him once mair
on earth, an' gie him my last message. But since that could not be,
Rachael, kiss him for me, and tell him the message's just the verra same
as that I told him the day he held the last hank o' yarn for me--he'll
not fail to remember, I'm sure."
Then I told my mother what it was grandmother had said to me, and also
of the resolution I had made that day to live hereafter a Christian's
life. Mother wept with me, tears of joy mixed with tears of regret that
grandmother was not there to hear the glad news. "I hope, dear Donald,"
she said, as she kissed me good night, after the clock had chimed the
midnight hour, "that your dear grandmother in heaven knows of your
conversion, and that it adds to her perfect joy this day, as it has to
mine."
I was too happy to go to sleep, my heart too full of thankfulness and
high resolve, to be willing to waste the blessed moments in
unconsciousness. So I lay awake until daybreak, tasting with keener and
keener relish my new found holy joy. Then I fell asleep, and slept so
restfully that, after two hours' repose, I awoke feeling as fresh as the
robins, caroling joyously in the branches of the elms that shaded the
eastern window of my room.
Mother seemed to avoid talking of Ellen. I knew it was because she could
not bear to blame her sister, and yet she could not, in justice,
exonerate her; but with father I discussed the matter freely. He blamed
Aunt Martha's severity, and had little excuse to make for her:
"She was not only unsympathetic, and harsh with the child," he said,
"but, in all save blows, she was cruel. She overworked her, and tried
hard to break her spirit. Many a child would have been driven to lying,
but Ellen was honest through all, if she was at times defiant and
disrespectful. I do not blame her for running away; it is what any high
spirited lad would have done, long ago."
"Yes, father," I answered, "but Ellen, being a girl, should have been
more submissive to authority, more meek it seems to me. Think what
fearful risks she took in running away."
"The very fact that a woman must take such grave risks in pursuing any
course of action not countenanced by her lawful protectors, makes her
condition the more pitiable under oppression. Ellen was completely in
your aunt's power; no relief was possible to her, save from some act of
desperation such as the one she was guilty of."
"Could she not have found refuge somewhere in the neighborhood?"
"No one would have taken her in. It would not do to encourage the child
in disrespect and disobedience."
"What do you surmise has been her fate, father?" with an effort to speak
calmly.
"I think it most likely she has been carried off by some band of roving
Indians. She doubtless tried to find her way back to Baltimore, lost her
way, and was picked up by the savages. She, I surmise, watched the
chance to turn the horse loose, that he might find his way home."
"They would hardly kill her."
"No; more likely they have taken her to their village, and are training
her for a chief's squaw."
The thought blanched my cheek, and I resolved to make inquiry and search
from the crest of the Blue Ridge all the way to the Mississippi, and not
to return home till I had found Ellen, or had gotten some clew to her
fate.
"Uncle Thomas has searched the neighborhood thoroughly you think?"
"He and Tom have made enquiry at every house in the county, I am sure;
have sent to Charlottesville and Richmond; written to Baltimore, and
posted notices at every store and cross roads between here and Maryland.
No, I think there's little room for doubt that she's been carried west
by Indians."
"That's what I told Thomas, yesterday, and advised him that our best
chance to find her was to go with Clark on this expedition to the
Kentucky border, next month."
"What expedition, son? I had heard no rumor of it--and do you mean
George Rogers Clark, the Kentucky pioneer and friend of Daniel Boone?"
"The very same, father, and a most remarkable young man he is." Then I
went on to tell of my interview with Governor Henry, Captain Clark, Mr.
Jefferson and the rest, and of the service to which I had engaged
myself.
I saw at once that my father was not pleased, and now for the first
time, I felt the chilling influence of his disapproval of my plans. He
had never approved the forward movement into Kentucky, believing it to
have been worked up by land companies, that they might line their
pockets at the expense of the lives of the settlers.
"I have never grudged your services in the cause of our independence,
Donald," he said, "nor would I your life even, were the sacrifice of it
necessary; but I cannot feel it our duty to give you up a victim to the
scalping knife of some savage, in order that this rash project of the
premature settlement of Kentucky should be encouraged. Have we not
already more land than we can protect, and properly cultivate? The
Kentucky settlers would do much better to move back over the mountains
'til our independence has been won--when Virginia will be able to
establish posts, garrison them adequately, and furnish sufficient
protection to make emigrating to Kentucky other than wanton
self-destruction. Why not stay with us, lad, since you are honorably
released from service for a while?--you'll never know how much we've
missed you these three long years."
"Father," I replied, laying my hand on his, and inwardly reproaching
myself bitterly for my comparative indifference, now that I realized how
much my long absence had really meant to him, "if my word had not been
given, if I had not already taken service for this expedition, it would
be my pleasure to make my own wishes second to yours. But now, father,
it is too late. I cannot honorably draw back. Moreover, I must join in
the search for Ellen. I could never stay quietly at home as long as
there is uncertainty as to her fate. And I think I can unite the two
duties, follow Clark and make constant search for Ellen from the
mountains to the mouth of the Ohio. Thomas will go with me, I think.
He'd far better do that than some of the rash things he is
contemplating."
"It will almost break his mother's heart, but she deserves it," spoke my
father, harshly for him, who was usually calm and mild in his judgments.
I think at this time I had more tolerance for Aunt Martha than any one
in the family, except my mother. To my mind Ellen had not been
blameless, and Aunt Martha's harshness was to have been expected from
her character, and the spirit in which she had received the child. I put
much of the blame on Uncle Thomas for his unmanly meekness, and part on
the neighborhood for not speaking out its sympathy for the child until
too late. And when I thought of her probable sufferings, and dangers, I
almost ground my teeth in impotent rage with them all.
Poor little Ellen! With her indomitable spirit, and courageous
faithfulness, what a cold, hard, loveless life she had had these three
years! And hers was a nature made for happiness and love, one to expand
under appreciation and sympathy, as a morning glory opens in the early
sun's rays, and to fold close all its beauty and sweetness under the
chilling influence of disapproval, as the morning glory on a cold and
sunless day.
"You'll not withhold your consent, I hope, father, to my going with
Clark," I said when we had sat together in silence for a while. "This
expedition means far more to our country than appears, and before the
expiration of my year's parole I shall be back, I hope, ready to engage
in the regular service again, should the war not yet be ended."
"You will take my consent and blessing, Donald, and my love and prayers
upon any honest adventure you see fit to enter. But I grieve, lad, for
your mother. This last strain of anxiety about you, following so soon
upon the shock of her mother's death, came nigh killing her. Tell her
yourself, lad, and soften the blow as much as you can."
Women are unaccountable creatures. They are apt to do the least expected
things, and to take quietly the news you most dread to break to them. So
it proved in my mother's case. She went white for an instant, and her
hands began to tremble, but she spoke quietly:
"I knew, Donald, you'd never be content to dwell idly at home, when
there's so much doing in the land; nor would I be so proud of my lad
were he less a man of deeds, and duty. Governor Henry and Captain Clark
honored you in taking you into their confidence; they saw that my son is
no ordinary man," and she stroked the hand that had taken hers, and
smiled tearfully upon me.
"That such men as Governor Henry, Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Mason, and Mr.
Wythe take an interest in the expedition would seem to mean, Donald,"
she went on presently, "that they have some more important object in
view than to protect a few scattered emigrants. If the rumored alliance
of the French with us is confirmed, they may intend to use Clark's
troops to make a surprise advance on the western forts, recently ceded
by France to England. That would overawe the Indians and strike a blow
at the British power at the same time."
My mother's shrewdness so astonished me that I came near telling her all
I knew. "You may be right, mother," I answered nonchalantly, after a
moment; "certainly we hope to overawe the Indians, but our present
instructions go no further than safe conduct for the band of emigrants,
and an attack upon the Indians, should we find them on the warpath, or
plotting an attack on the border settlements. It lifts a weight from my
heart, mother, dear, to have your approval," I added.
"You are a man, Donald; it would be presumption in your mother to
withhold her blessing from any worthy thing you had set your heart upon.
As for your safety, dear, I must leave that in God's hands. I trust you
to Our Heavenly Father's care, my son, with only the shield of our
hourly prayers about you."
* * * * *
Recruiting was no easy task, especially with the account I was free to
give of the object of our expedition. I encountered all sorts of
objections and discouragements, and was obliged to travel from end to
end of the county, and into the district of West Augusta, with little
left of my two months' anticipated holiday to spend at home. I grew
impatient of my ill success, especially since all my enquiries in the
county concerning Ellen were as fruitless as Thomas' had been. There was
no other conclusion left us than the one my father had reached, and both
Thomas and I grew more and more restless to start westward, that we
might begin a more hopeful search.
At last I was enabled to add Captain Bowman's company to the score of
volunteers I had been able to get together, although this made it
necessary that I should yield him my place as captain, and content
myself with a lieutenant's rank. Captain Bowman was encouraged by the
prospect of glory and land grants, the men satisfied with large but
vague promises; and by the middle of May we were ready to start.
Clark--recently made colonel by Governor Henry--with three companies,
each of less than fifty men, and a band of emigrants, had already
reached the falls of the Ohio, and we were ordered to join him there as
speedily as possible.