The messages I bore Ellen from Aunt Martha, when I rode to Mr. White's
to bring her home, were ample in assurances of forgiveness and
reconciliation, while Uncle Thomas' were full of affection and
satisfaction at her return. Aunt Martha I found much changed; she looked
not only older, but a new expression of meekness struggled with the
habitual one of self-righteousness and indomitable will. Mother, ready
as ever to make excuses for the faults of those she loved, declared that
Aunt Martha's whole nature had been softened by recent chastenings, and
that she had even lost her restless, bustling energy, so that one could
spend, now, a peaceful afternoon with her and not be conscious of having
interrupted a soap boiling, a candle molding, or a quilting. It was
evident from my brief talk with her that Ellen's return was a great
satisfaction; that she regarded it in some sense as a vindication in the
eyes of husband, son, and neighbors. Thomas had just departed for
Liberty Hall Academy to continue his ministerial studies, which was one
reason, perhaps, that Aunt Martha could welcome Ellen sincerely.
Especially had Thomas' full confession of all that had passed between
Ellen and himself softened his mother's heart toward her, and increased
her regret for past harshness.
Thomas, I found, had been most considerate, having given no hint to any
one of my feelings toward Ellen. But I told my mother, as we sat
talking, late into the night, and got her blessing, with a promise of
profound secrecy, and whatever help she might find quiet opportunity to
give me. All my own affairs were for the present as I would have them,
and my heart would have been as light as thistledown but for the
discouraging war news I had from my father.
The year that had given us such unbroken success, and such fruitful
victories in the Northwest, had been one of disaster for the American
cause in the East. The British still held New York; Fort Washington had
been taken, Continental currency was depreciated in value till it was no
longer possible to procure necessary army supplies; the troops had not
been paid for months, and were ragged, poorly equipped, half starved,
and mutinous. Georgia had fallen, and South Carolina sorely beset by
home and foreign enemies, could not hope to hold out much longer unless
strongly reenforced from without. Worse still, the gallant and patriotic
Arnold had turned traitor, and a shuddering horror and apprehension was
upon the land--since the noble and high-spirited Arnold could fall to
such depths, might we not look for treason everywhere? On hearing all
this discouraging news, I determined at once to visit Colonel Morgan,
and to urge him, despite his physical infirmities and his justly wounded
pride--for Congress had not yet raised him to the rank to which his past
services had entitled him--to call together his scattered riflemen once
more, and go to the help of the hard-pressed patriots of the sparsely
settled South. And so I told Ellen as we rode together to Uncle Thomas'.
"Shall I feel as lonely, and as friendless when you are gone, I wonder,
as I did the first time you left the valley with Morgan?" said Ellen
with a light sigh.
"You were a child then," I answered, "and had few resources. Now you are
sufficient to yourself. I fear you will not miss me half so much as you
will the kindly Kaskaskians, and the good Father, and the faithful
Angelique."
"Bless their memories! I shall miss them, and long for a sight of their
kind faces. But, all the more, since they are so far away, I shall miss
my one true and tried friend in the valley."
"Will you be very lonely and unhappy in the valley, Ellen? Would you
have been far better contented had I left you in Kaskaskia?" I
questioned anxiously.
"Father Gibault thought it my duty, Cousin Donald, and more and more I
understand that it is the one right thing for me. I must find the way my
God would have me walk by following the lowly path of duty, and by
making reparation for past sins. Do you remember, Cousin, that night
before you left the valley--when you found me star-gazing on the rock
overhanging the spring?"
"Aye, Ellen! The vision of you, as you looked that night, has come back
to me again and again--so often that I began to question, long before I
knew I loved you, as man loves but one woman in his life, what import
the vision might have, and to wonder if it foretold the crossing of our
lives in some fateful way. That picture was the last that floated
through my dream the day I slept in the forest, when you saved me from
the Indian's tomahawk."
"Memory, it seems to me, has mysterious power,--beyond our will to
guide, or our reason to explain," Ellen replied. "That night of our
farewell at the spring, the first fibers of affection and sympathy
reached out from your heart to mine, and through all these months have
stretched and held till they have grown strong enough to bring me back
to my duty."
"May they grow yet stronger, Ellen, till our hearts are knitted together
for life, and for eternity!"
Ellen's serious absorption was shaken by these words, and she blushed
like any earthly minded maiden, as she answered:
"My heart will ever feel itself bound to yours by the fibers of a deep
and strong affection, Cousin Donald, wherever my duty leads me. There
can be no harm in a nun's cherishing gratitude and affection, nor in her
offering hourly prayers for one who has been to her the noblest of
friends."
"Your thoughts and prayers would be but cheerless consolation for a
desolate life. I want your daily presence, Ellen, the hourly benediction
of your smile. But, forgive me, dear,"--for I saw that her lips trembled
like a grieved child's, and that a tear had slipped from underneath her
lowered lids; "I am very weak. After all my promises I continue to
disturb you with my arguing and beseeching. You shall have a year to
think upon it all, and, meanwhile, I shall smother in my breast every
word that my heart may urge to my lips."
My visit to Colonel Morgan was made before Christmas, and I returned
home cheered by his promise to take the field early in the spring.
Meanwhile I was put to my old work of enlisting recruits--a work much
interrupted by the malarial chills which every second day tied me to the
chimney corner. Gradually they wore themselves out, and by the faithful
use of bitters concocted from the Peruvian bark Father Gibault had given
me, I made myself fit for active duty by the early spring, and gladly
joined Morgan. He had been almost grudgingly made general by Congress at
last, and generously forgetting all past wrongs and differences had
hastened to join Gates, after the woeful disaster of Camden.
But that unfortunate officer reaped now the fruits of his previous
scheming and bragging, and fell rapidly from the favor of Congress, in
which he had held so high a place since Saratoga. He was replaced by the
capable General Greene, and roundly abused by the whole country. Having
been sent into North Carolina with dispatches from General Morgan to
certain officers of the State Militia, it was my good fortune on my
return to fall in with grim backwoodsmen marching to meet and repulse
the advance of Ferguson. I accepted temporary service under Colonel
Campbell, and so had the honor of fighting beside those indomitable
militiamen, who won the victory of King's Mountain--one of the most
glorious incidents of our Revolution, and the turning point of
disasters, from which events marched on, more and more successfully, to
Cowpens and Yorktown. At the risk of wearying my readers with constant
reiteration of the praises of the race from which I, proudly claim
descent--though I have played fair with them, saying, in the beginning,
that it was partly with the hope of repairing our historians' neglect of
the Scotch Irish that this chronicle was undertaken--I must call
attention to the fact that King's Mountain was a Scotch Irish victory,
won by militiamen of that race. I doubt, indeed, if the plan could have
been conceived, or if conceived could have been executed, by regulars.
Men used to climbing mountains, and to the methods of Indian warfare,
were needed to fight and win as the frontiermen fought and won at King's
Mountain.
By the first of January our affairs in the South were more hopeful.
Recently discouraged patriots, inspired by the victory of King's
Mountain, flocked to General Greene's standard, and that able officer,
supported by General Morgan and Colonel Washington, and aided by the
daring bands led by Sumter and Marion, soon threatened Cornwallis on
both his flanks, and by a series of surprises and sudden maneuvers so
confused that military pedant that he did not know what next to expect,
and hardly which way to turn. Having divided his army into two bodies,
Greene skillfully avoided a drawn battle, and continued to threaten the
British communications. For Cornwallis to sit still was to await his
doom; to march against either army was to give the other an opportunity
to win a fatal advantage. He, therefore, divided his own force, sending
the renowned Tarleton to hold Morgan in check, while he drew Greene
after him into North Carolina.
Morgan retired slowly before Tarleton's advance to some meadows, not far
from King's Mountain, and there formed his men upon the field of
Cowpens, on gently rising ground, with hills to the left, and a deep,
broad river in the rear. There would be no chance for the militiamen to
run, for, said Morgan, with grim humor, when they had reached the
river's bank they would likely be willing to turn and fight again. We
slept that night upon our chosen battle ground, and until past midnight
General Morgan was abroad in the camp, inspecting arms, inspiring his
officers, joking with his men, and telling them what they and the "old
wagoner" would do for the British regulars the next morning.
To form in fighting line, according to prearranged plan, was but an
hour's work, when Tarleton's advance was discovered, and time was still
left for our General to ride down the line, encouraging and animating us
with a few hearty words--such as he so well knew how to fit to each
heroic occasion. A furious rush, Tarleton's favorite maneuver, drove in
our front line of militia, as had been foreseen, after they had obeyed
General Morgan's oft repeated command to fire at least two volleys, at
killing range, before breaking rank. But, behind the militia stood
DeKalb and his Marylanders, and a tried company of Virginia
Continentals, who met calmly the too confident pursuit of the British,
and fought deliberately, till Colonel Washington's cavalry swooped down
from the hills, attacking the enemy's right flank simultaneously with
the charge of the militia, which had been re-formed, and marched around
our position, on their left. Already entangled, by their over-eager
pursuit of our first column, with their opponents, and now almost
surrounded, the British fought on, gallantly but hopelessly. A bayonet
charge from the Continentals in their front quickly brought about rout
and panic, and nearly the whole British force engaged was killed or
captured. Their loss was nearly one thousand; ours not more than
seventy-five. No battle of our War for Independence was more skillfully
planned, more boldly won, and to General Morgan, alone, belongs the
credit for plan and execution.
A fortunately heavy rainfall cut off Cornwallis' pursuit, and gave us an
opportunity to carry our prisoners across the Catawba. General Greene
joined us here, escorted by a few dragoons, his force behind him. He had
heard of Morgan's splendid victory, and pushed forward to help him reap
the fruits of it. But Morgan was now attacked violently by his old
enemy, rheumatism, and could not leave his tent; the gallant "old
wagoner" who had never known defeat in battle, had more than once been
vanquished by disease, the result, he bitterly admitted, of his own
youthful excesses. A few weeks later he was forced to resign his
command, and to return to his home.
That circumstance made easier for me the duty which had been assigned
me--namely, to command one company of the militia which was to escort
our seven hundred prisoners to Virginia. My latest service, on General
Morgan's staff, had been most congenial to me, and even the honor now
offered me of a similar position with General Greene did not console me
for the loss of my first leader. The place would have been gratefully
accepted, however, for I admired and trusted General Greene, both as man
and leader--even with loss of the opportunity of a few days at home, and
a glimpse of Ellen--had not a circumstance occurred which made me
entirely willing to perform the duty which had been first assigned me.
This circumstance was communicated to me by General Morgan.
"Whom, in heaven's name, think you I found this morning among our
prisoners, McElroy? Young Buford--the pretty Nelly's brother, he who
rescued you from Philadelphia prison hospital. He has a painful but not
dangerous wound in the hip, for which reason he sent to me, asking for
ambulance service, his wound having become inflamed from the march."
"Make him _my_ prisoner, General?" I asked eagerly; "I claim no other
share of the spoils."
"Eh? You'll hold him as hostage for his sister's favor--fair stratagem,
I suppose. He'll be perfectly safe in your hands, doubtless, so I'll
turn him over to you."
"To him and to his entire family I owe an obligation which can be repaid
in kind only; this is a longed for opportunity."
"And what will you do with him?"
"Take him to my own home, even as he did me, and leave him to my
mother's nursing, till he is well enough to be discharged."
"And no parole asked? The terms granted you were less generous."
"Buford did not make the terms; but if he had, I should still wish to
surpass my enemies in generosity, as well as in bravery."
"Then you will decline Greene's offer of a place on his staff? I asked
it for you, thinking this excursion to Virginia in charge of prisoners
less to your liking."
"It was most kind of you, General, but for this find of Buford it would
have been my choice--could the place be held for me?"
"It can be, doubtless, especially if you can bring back some recruits.
Greene will need reinforcements, and must look to Virginia for them. But
for these swollen and painful limbs of mine,"--with a grimace toward
those much swathed members--"I should be the last to desert him. It's a
bitter pill, lad, to be obliged to go home--to be chained by disease to
my chair, like a galley slave to his bench, when my spirit is with the
front ranks, against our country's enemies."
"It is a sore grief to me, also, General, and particularly that your
malady should attack you now, when your newest laurels are still green,
and there are more awaiting you. Your retirement takes half the heart
out of me for the service, as it does for every rifleman in the
regiment."
"That spirit must not be encouraged, lad. As much as it pleases me to be
regretted by my gallant boys, it would sincerely grieve me were my going
to affect in any way their zeal or bravery. I shall expect them to do no
less than they have always done, indeed they must fight the more
determinedly because their commander has gone stiff and lame and must be
content to stand like a used up horse in the stall, munching memories
for diversion."
"You'll get better after a rest, General, and be at it again before the
war's over. Not even disease can conquer your spirit."
"Right, lad! If the war lasts long enough for my good Abigail to tea and
poultice the swelling from my joints, I'll be at 'em again."
* * * * *
That evening I had Buford removed to my tent, where, presently, I
visited him.
"I am sorry for the occasion, Captain Buford," I said, extending my hand
to him, "but since it was written that this misfortune of war should
befall you, I am grateful that the opportunity has come to me to repay
in some degree the courtesy and kindness I received at your hands, when
my situation was similar to your present one."
"It is indeed Donald McElroy!" Buford exclaimed, in pleased tones. "I am
lucky in spite of this painful accompaniment to my good fortune,"
pointing to his bandaged thigh.
"You are now my prisoner," I said, "and your wound shall have the best
attention possible."
"You are then in command of the militia which is to convey us to
Virginia? Is it proper to tell me our final destination?"
"Yours, with your consent, Captain Buford, is my own home. My mother is
the best of nurses. I promise you comfort and kind care, at any rate, if
you will agree to the arrangements just made between Colonel Morgan and
me."
"One would think me an urged guest, rather than a poor sick prisoner,"
answered Buford, a smile upon his face. He was much like Nelly, though
his was strictly a masculine, as hers was purely a feminine, type of
comeliness. "There is small likelihood that I shall decline so generous
an offer--a comfortable home and woman's nursing are all too tempting
for my present weakness."
"As was your offer to me in Philadelphia. It is seldom, I imagine, that
a man is granted so high a boon as the opportunity to evince in fitting
deeds his gratitude. Your mother and sister are well, I hope, and in
safety?"
"My mother is dead, Captain McElroy, and I fear her constant anxiety for
me hastened her end. Nelly, poor girl, is left lonely and desolate. She
has taken refuge for the present with Quaker friends near the city."
I expressed my regret and sympathy, and left him to make arrangements
for the march next day. His news oppressed my spirit more than one would
have supposed; it was hard to think of light-hearted Nelly as a sad
refugee. Oh, this weary, cruel war! When would it end?