Donald McElroy, Scotch Irishman

"You Have Evidently Mistaken Me for a Villain."

"Captain Forsythe," I said, while my hand and my voice shook with the strain I put upon myself to control my anger, "you and others have evidently mistaken me for a villain of that low and despicable type capable of treason to his country. For the present I condone the insult for the sake of other British officers who have seemed to consider me a man of honor. I bid you good night, sir," and reaching for cloak and hat, I hastened into the street, where the freshness and purity of the early morning air and the calming message of the steadfast stars—shining on in their clear, soft beauty, whether men pray and sleep like Christians, or dice and plot, and drink like devils, on the changeful earth beneath them—cooled my fevered brow, and helped me to restrain a seething desire to take violent vengeance upon my insulter. But I realized clearly the foolhardiness of such course, and moreover the ingratitude and disrespect to my friends it would seem to imply.

The second evening after the banquet was the one set for the performance of our carefully rehearsed comedy, and all the Tory society of Philadelphia was agog with interest and curiosity to see the latest London hit, played by the belles of the city and the most popular of the British officers. I was told, moreover, that the story had gone abroad that the part of Sir Peter would be taken by a youthful Virginia mountaineer, whose giant proportions and unusual gifts of person and bearing—considering his backwoods breeding—made him the feature of the performance. I was no little annoyed by this talk, though I credited Wheaton, who retailed it to me, with a good deal of bantering exaggeration. In truth, being still sore from the insult offered me at the banquet, I wanted to throw up my part; but, after consideration of the difficulties it would entail upon my entertainers, and others who had been courteous to me, I forced myself to stick to my role cheerfully, and to do my best at it.

Rigged out in all the toggery of a stage Sir Peter, I presented myself to Miss Nelly. "Perfect," she exclaimed taking me by the elbow with the tips of her fingers, and slowly turning me around at arm's length, while she inspected critically my pompous finery. "Now must they all admit that there's not so handsome a figure of a man in the British army," and she nodded approval bewitchingly, with her puffed, powdered, and plumed head. She was altogether charming in her rich brocade gown and yellow laces, and I managed to tell her so in words that pleased her.

The play was pronounced a London success, and the players universally complimented. Twice were Lady Teazle and Sir Peter called before the curtain, and such flattering compliments were showered upon me in the green room that I was quite puffed with vanity and forgot my inward soreness. After the performance, Colonel Forbes entertained the players at a supper where sherry, Burgundy, and sparkling white wines of France were as free as spring water. Wheaton was made to sing his hit of the evening—Sheridan's jolly drinking song over again, and did so with even better voice and expression.

(And all joined in the chorus:—)

Even Miss Nelly, and the stately Miss Shippen had drunken till their fair faces were a little flushed, and they joined with noticeable abandon in the chorus. The men presently became too hilarious, there being ladies present, and I suddenly realized that I also had imbibed more freely than I usually allowed myself. Just then I caught Miss Shippen's eye, saw that she observed my change of manner, and took it either for reproof or warning. Not to appear either rude or Puritanical in her eyes, I silently rebuked myself for my Presbyterian straight-lacedness, and began again to drink and to make noisily merry with the rest. A moment later Miss Shippen leaned over to us and asked, in an undertone, if Nelly and I would escort her home—the recent Joseph Surface being, she feared, already incapacitated for that duty. We slipped out almost unobserved, being followed soon after, I think, by the rest of the ladies, and the few gallants in fit condition to escort them.

My brain cooled but slowly, even in the fresh night air, and, after we had safely delivered Miss Shippen at her home, and driven to the Buford mansion, I begged Nelly to sit with me, in the library, till I felt more ready to welcome sleep. A single candle burned still in the silver stick on the candlestand, but through the shutterless French windows giving upon the rear balcony, a bath of opal-rayed moonlight flooded the room. I blew out the candle, as Nelly sank into a deep chair within the circle of the moon's softer radiance, and bade me find something to talk of, other than the play, for she was sick of it.

"Then give me a subject your ladyship will be pleased to hear discourse upon," I said, placing a chair for myself in front of her.

"The one nearest your heart, sir."

"That would be the one most accessible to my present satisfied vision."

"I—and what could you say upon so meager a topic?"

"Meager? To recount your goodness to me would furnish material for an hour's discourse; to enumerate your charms and graces another; your qualities and accomplishments a third. Give me leave and I'll talk till cock crow upon one subdivision of my theme—how much I love you! But always you hush me when I approach that subject."

"Because I know you love me not—that only you love to flatter me. How learned you such arts of the world, thou whilom backwoodsman?"

"From instinct. Needs a man ever to learn how to tell a woman he loves her? How to descant upon charms and graces he sees limned in beauty before his eyes? How can you say I do not love you?"

"Have you read of King Arthur's knights, and how they dared mighty deeds of prowess for the damsels they loved?"

"Yes, and so would I—were there deeds of prowess to be done. But I, a prisoner," and then I stopped, ashamed that I should complain, like a whining stripling, of the fortunes of war,—which in truth had used me but too kindly in all save enforced inactivity.

"True, there are no deeds of prowess you may do now, but one single act of self-sacrifice would convince me of your love."

"Only name it, dear Nelly," and I leaned nearer and caught in mine the hands that folded in her lap.

"It will serve to prove the value of your protestations—though I know beforehand you will not consent."

"First name my reward; were it but one kiss from those sweet lips, I'll engage to earn it at any cost."

"It might be something more lasting than a kiss, an' you would," and Nelly blushed adorably, and dropped the soft fringe of her eyes upon her glowing cheeks.

"Your dear self, Nelly, your love?" I questioned ardently, kissing the hands I still imprisoned, and dropping on my knees beside her, that I might force her eyes to meet mine.

"Even my own poor self—nor is the sacrifice I would ask so great; indeed it carries with it a compensation which by many would be deemed ample reward, were all you are now bargaining for left out of the contract. Can you not guess what proof of your sincerity I would claim?"

"Thick headed soldier that I am, I cannot—" but I scarcely knew what I said, for my arm was about Nelly's warm, pliant form, her soft cheek rested against mine, her fragrant breath was in my nostrils, and my heart thumped audibly, while all my blood was in a hot tumult of blissful agitation.

"Simply to don the uniform of a British captain, and then to teach these luxurious laggards how to put a speedy end to this fratricidal contest. By doing so you will the sooner bring to this distracted country the blessing of restored peace, and for yourself win quick promotion, honor, fame, fortune—and if you love me, Donald, that which will make you happiest."

As soon as I had realized the full meaning of Nelly's rapidly poured forth persuasions, I gently released her, and rose to my feet, then stood silently by, for a moment, looking down upon her, with a conscious tenseness of all my muscles, as of one who inwardly strengthens himself for a wrenching effort. Beneath my fixed gaze Nelly paled, and flushed, and paled again, and the fingers of her freed hands were locked and loosed alternately, while from beneath her lowered lids two big tears slipped, and fell unheeded.

Meantime I thought of Colonel Morgan, and the indignation with which he had repelled an offer of treason when a prisoner in Canada; then of my father, and his perfect trust in me—his only son, bearer of a yet untarnished name to future generations; and then, most strangely, came a sudden vision of Ellen O'Niel, as last I had seen her poised like a spirit upon the rock above the spring; and with the vision came a new and more complete understanding of her feelings of fierce loyalty to her parents' religion, and of all that it meant to her.

"And you could give yourself to a traitor," I said, at last—"or would you play Delilah to my Samson, Jael to my Sisera, Judith to my Holofernes? But I am roused from my well nigh fatal slumber; I have broken my bonds. To-morrow I resign my parole, and deliver myself a prisoner. I must indeed have sunk low, since twice in forty-eight hours infamous proposals of treason have been made to me!" Then my heart softened to Nelly, now shaken with sobs, her face covered with her hands.

"But I can well believe you meant it not for insult, Miss Nelly; you were set on by others to offer me love and luxury at the price of my honor. Women have no place in intrigue; I shall forget the nightmare of this hour, and remember only your goodness to me, and my happiness in your home. Farewell, thou sweet and gracious Nelly of my heart; the only Nelly I shall ever remember." And then I stooped and kissed the bowed head with reverent tenderness—as one kisses the face of a dying comrade.

The soft moon radiance which had caressed Nelly so becomingly, in the room below, streamed through my opened window, and I kneeled in it, and prayed, earnestly, that the God of my fathers would protect me against temptation, as he had hitherto protected me against all other dangers. As I did so the quavering voice of my grandmother seemed to sound in my ears, and I could hear her chanting in tones of solemn rapture her favorite song:

Often had I sung with her these words, but now they took on a new meaning. I had chosen to enjoy luxury with the enemies of my country, rather than endure the hardships of prison life with other captives, and had allowed myself to become so entangled with them that the wrench of total separation must cost me much of regret and suffering. I had walked astray—therefore God's blessing was no longer upon me.

All night I tossed, regretting past weakness, and planning an honorable retreat. I could see, now, how they had played upon my conceit, and even upon my sociability, and, with writhings of spirit, I was compelled to admit that Nelly herself had measured my weaknesses, and used them to gain her ascendancy over me.

The household was still wrapped in the slumber of early morning when I arose, packed my belongings, and leaving a note of thanks and farewell to Madam Buford, betook myself to Captain Wheaton's quarters.

"He was still asleep," his man said; so I stretched myself upon a settee in his smoking room, fell into a doze, and then asleep.

"In the name of Pluto, and all the other gods of the lower region, how came you here, McElroy! Had you to bring me home, and were you too drunk to go farther?" were the first words which aroused me; and they came from Wheaton, who stood in the middle of the room, unshaven, and uncombed, his fine figure wrapped in a gay Turkish chamber-robe.

"I know not how drunk you may have been before the feast ended, Wheaton," I answered, laughing, "but I slept in my own bed, rose at sun-up, and have dozed here an hour or so waiting for you."

"Then you have the stomach and the head of Charles Fox himself. I know not how, or when I got to bed, and my head is as big and as tight as a drum. But you came avisiting full early—what's to pay?"

"I wish to ask a last favor, Captain, though already your courtesy to a prisoner passeth thanks."

"Out with it, man,—though why last, I can no way surmise. 'Tis done if can be."

As briefly as possible I told him of the offer which had been made me at the officers' banquet, and of my growing conviction that my own conduct had made me liable to the insult; so that, though I felt no sentiment but one of gratitude to the officers, I could no longer remain among them, as a guest. I wished him, therefore, to ask Colonel Forbes to grant me an exchange as soon as possible, and meantime I would hand in my parole, and go to prison. "I tell you truth, Wheaton," I concluded, "when I say that I scorn myself for my conduct during the past two months."

"You take a most exaggerated view of the situation, McElroy, and your decision is quixotic," answered Wheaton. "I'll ask for your immediate exchange, but, meantime, why not make yourself comfortable? I'll gladly share my quarters with you, if you feel indisposed to accept the Bufords' hospitality longer."

"Thank you from my heart, Wheaton," and I laid my hand upon his arm in grateful affection. "You British are good fellows, as well as brave and generous enemies; would there had never been cause of quarrel between us. But my resolution is taken; to prison I will go till exchanged. Will you be so good as to consider me your prisoner, and to send me under guard to your most comfortable resort for the enemy? Here is my parole."

"Damn your foolishness, McElroy! I'll not have your parole, nor will I send you to prison. If you are set to do this absurd thing, and no doubt you are, for you are as stubborn as—as—a Scotch Irishman, and I know of no other breed of animal worthy to be compared with him for that virtue, march yourself over to the general prison, find a cell, lock yourself in, and throw the key out of the window."

I laughed, wrung Wheaton's hand in farewell, and took his advice; except that I had no need to lock myself in, the astonished prison officer doing that for me with due courtesy.

My fare that day, and my couch that night were as poor and as hard as my aroused conscience could have suggested, but I took them as penance, and almost with pleasure. The very next day, Wheaton came to tell me that my exchange was, for the present, refused on the ground that I knew too much of the state of the defenses of Philadelphia; but that my parole was extended for a year, and I was requested to return to my home until my exchange could be allowed, as provisions were growing scarce, and the feeding of prisoners had become well-nigh impossible.

Unless exchanged in the meantime I could not bear arms against the British under any circumstances for six months, and I was not permitted to join my old command under a fixed period of twelve months from the first day of the present month. The terms seemed to me unduly severe, but upon Wheaton's assurance that they were the best I could hope for, I determined to accept them, and to start at once for home. The last was no unwelcome prospect, more than two years having expired, since I had seen the dear valley and the faces of loved ones.

I had still a dozen gold sovereigns in my pocket—fruits of the last game of Hazard I had played—and Wheaton assisted me in buying that afternoon, a sorrel horse, a saddle, and a pair of saddle pockets which I stocked with a bottle of rum, a package of biscuits, and a change of garments. By sunrise next morning, equipped with proper passports, my parole, and a pistol, presented to me by Wheaton, I rode southward to the Virginia border line; then deflected my course eastward, towards Williamsburg.

Governor Henry was an acquaintance of my father and a warm friend of Colonel Morgan. It might be worth my while to ask his influence in securing my early exchange, and to let him understand how irksome to me were the terms of my parole. When so many were ready to shirk there were those who would ask nothing better than an honorable excuse to stay at home. I would see Governor Henry, and ask that he transfer me to some frontier service where at least I could help defend the Virginia border against Indians, during the months of forced inactivity against the British.

It will doubtless seem a matter for wonderment to those who may read this chronicle, that it was no more difficult, in those days, to secure an interview with the Governor of the State of Virginia than with any other gentleman in the Commonwealth. The morning after my arrival in Williamsburg, I betook myself to the Governor's mansion, clanged the iron knocker, and was shown by the negro doorkeeper straight into the Governor's office. He sat before a square deal table, littered with documents, inkhorns, and the like, while under his hand, on a small tray, lay a pile of letters, one of which he was engaged in deciphering. I made my bow in the doorway, and with my cocked hat upon my heart, after the latest manner, announced myself:

"Your Honor's most obedient servant, sir! My name is Donald McElroy, late captain in Colonel Morgan's rifle company."

Governor Henry rose and came to meet me, a friendly smile upon his lean, dark, beak-nosed face, his hand cordially outstretched. "Then you are one of the notable marksmen who whipped us the gallantly led English regulars at Freeman's Farm—closing thereby the trap in which Burgoyne was taken, a few days later. Let me shake your hand, sir, and thank you in the name of Virginia. Gates seems minded to claim all the glory, and that asinine congress still allows him to throw dust into their half shut eyes. But, history, sir, will be no more deceived than are General Washington, and others, and the debt of honor due Colonel Morgan and his riflemen will be paid in full by posterity, Captain McElroy."

Governor Henry's manner of saying this had far more effect than the mere words. His head went up, and his whole face beamed with lively enthusiasm, while his deep voice rang thrillingly. Wheaton had told me of Charles Fox, and how he made any man think what he pleased, more by the kindling power of his rich, finely modulated voice, than by his logic, or bursts of eloquence. Now, I understood what had seemed exaggeration in Wheaton; now I knew why those simple words, eloquent only with feeling, spoken by Mr. Henry before the Virginia assembly, at a surcharged moment, had set them aflame with patriotic fervor.

So proud was I again of my recent service under Morgan, that I forgot the depression and self-abasement I had suffered these last few days, and found it easy to sit down before Governor Henry, and give him an account of all that had happened to me since I was taken prisoner on the battle field of Chestnut Hill—leaving out, of course, the name of Nelly Buford, and hiding as well as I could the part a woman had played in my downfall. He guessed, I thought, much of what I tried to conceal, though his words in no way intimated that he did so. He told me candidly, that he thought I had been wrong to linger with my kind entertainers after my wound was healed, but added this remark of sympathy which warmed my heart anew:

"Yet, who knows but that I'd have done the same in like circumstances. Your conduct, sir, was less wise than natural. However, a whole year's absence from your command, without privilege of exchange, meantime, seems unwarranted by the harm you may be able or inclined to do them."

I thanked Governor Henry for his sympathy, and then unfolded to him my wish to spend this forced interval of absence from the regular army in frontier service, where I might still defend my state, and wipe from my conscience the reproach of having proved myself unworthy.

"If that be your wish, Captain," the governor answered heartily, "I have in waiting the very service you are looking for; and moreover, we sorely need men for the enterprise—as great a one and almost as difficult, to my thinking, as the undertaking of Jason and his Argonauts. Have you ever chanced to meet George Rogers Clark, one of the pathfinders in the Kentucky wilderness, a friend of Daniel Boone?"

"I have not had that honor, sir."

"Then it shall be yours, this evening, and an honor you may well esteem it. He is yet a young man, but he has the daring of a Cortez. He has vast schemes abrewing which, if successful, mean great things for Virginia, and timely aid to the cause. His plans, however, are yet secret, and must remain so, except in so far as he may see fit to enlighten you should you enter his service. Meet him here this evening, and, if Clark consents, you shall be present at our conference. I demand, you see, no credentials. Most men I can read in an hour's talk; and, moreover, I know the Scotch Irish breed—rugged, plain, a little hard and narrow, perhaps, but also steadfast as the rocks which rib the mountains they delight to dwell among."

"Though you but give proper praise to the worthy breed from which you also have partly sprung, Governor Henry, I still owe you warm thanks for saying it," I answered; "yet with your permission I'll leave my credentials for Mr. Clark's inspection," and I took from my pocket my captain's commission, a personal letter from General Arnold, commending my bravery at Freeman's Farm, and a copy of one written my father by Captain Morgan.

Impatiently I awaited the chance to learn more of this great adventure, and not a moment behind the hour named, presented myself. Yet Clark was before me. The first look into each other's eyes fixed, I think, our mutual confidence, and with our first handclasp began a life long friendship.

George Rogers Clark had the look and bearing of a man born for deeds of great emprise. He was half an inch taller than I, measuring in his moccasins six feet three and a half inches, and not one of Morgan's riflemen was tougher of muscle, suppler of limb. His face, lighted with glowing brown eyes, was singularly handsome, at once winning and commanding. It indicated a lofty mind, and a sweet nature, but also a reckless boldness of disposition. Better than all, for the fulfilling of his purposes, there was boundless confidence in himself and his resources, and a buoyant hopefulness of disposition; and these were united with a daring will which but strengthened under difficulty.

"Captain McElroy, I introduce you to Captain George Rogers Clark. He is quite ready to take you into his service if you can promise to join him heart and soul in this bold enterprise he is determined upon," said Governor Henry.

"Yes, Captain McElroy," and Clark grasped my hand, bestowing his winning smile upon me. "I am satisfied that I can trust you, and you may be of great assistance to me. Could you enlist forty or fifty volunteers in your valley, think you?"

"If there be left that many able bodied men, if the service be one of Virginia's need or honor, and there be no rumor of an Indian uprising afloat."

"Our enterprise will put an end to all fear of Indian forays, by driving them to the Mississippi. Our nominal purpose, indeed, is to turn back the gathering forces of the Northwest savages, who are planning a surprise for Bonnesville, Harrodsburg and Logan's Fort, and who, after devastating Virginia's outposts, expect to over-run your valley, and exterminate the settlements of the Blue Ridge. Now, while all the able bodied men are engaged in the war upon the coast, is the red man's last opportunity to regain his lost hunting ground. Does the plan to meet them more than half way, to do ourselves the surprise act, appeal to you, Captain McElroy? Is it likely to appeal to your neighbors in the valley?"

"Next to fighting our invaders, it is the service I shall like best, Captain Clark; and there are those of my neighbors more likely to respond to this call upon their rifles than to any other. The happy results of Point Pleasant have taught us 'tis best not to wait for the savages, but to go to meet them."

"That's encouraging talk, Captain," and Clark's voice rang more heartily, and his face sparkled with animation and humor, "and you may be doubly grateful before we see the end of our expedition; though we go against the Indians, and shall cheerfully fight them if there be need, our real object"—his voice sank to a whisper—"is to strike the forts at Kaskaskia and Vincennes. They are weakly garrisoned and unsuspecting, and their French inhabitants, I hear, are much disaffected to British rule. We have but need to appear before them with a small, resolute, well-armed force to compel capitulation, after which we can form alliance with the French, intimidate the Indians, and claim all the Ohio Valley as Virginia territory. By doing so we will not only more than double the dominion of our State, and give a blow to autocratic power, but will secure safety to the pioneers of Virginia and Kentucky, and save from butchery many a helpless family."

"But my parole, Governor Henry," I said, turning to him with rueful countenance.

"You are not violating its terms, Captain McElroy, by accepting service with Clark, since there's small chance of a clash with the British before your parole has expired."

"Then what can I do, Captain Clark, to forward your bold enterprise?" I said, turning again eagerly to my new leader.

"First you can sit here and listen, while Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Wythe, Mr. Mason, Governor Henry and I devise ways and means that will make known to you the details of our plan. You can then hasten home to enlist men for an advance against the Indians. Later—"

"That's Jefferson's voice now," interrupted the Governor, "and the others are with him," and hastening to the street door with a flaring candle in his hand, he lighted the group through the passage way to our presence.

Mr. Jefferson had once dined at our house, and I remembered him as an elegant and gracious gentleman, though somewhat over dignified and sententious. Colonel Mason, and the learned and able Wythe, I saw now for the first time. Since he had written our "Declaration of Independence" Mr. Jefferson's fame was world-wide, and Colonel Mason, as the author of our "Bill of Rights," and our State's Constitution, was not less favorably, though perhaps less widely, known; while Mr. Wythe's reputation as jurist had already extended beyond America.

As behooved in such company, I was a silent listener, learning much of Colonel Clark's plans, and even more of the difficulties in the way of them. It seemed to me a rash and dangerous undertaking but not without chance of success.

Governor Henry, I found, was not a whit behind Clark in zeal for the enterprise; nor was Mr. Jefferson much less ready to give the plan full countenance, though he did not expect from the expedition, even if successful, the vast results that Clark reckoned upon so confidently. Mr. Wythe showed the caution to have been expected from his calm and logical mind, suggesting difficulties at every turn, and urging forethought in the plans, while Colonel Mason spoke infrequently and with less of flowing readiness than any of the others, but most pointedly and justly, first on the side of caution, and then on the side of boldness, as Clark's enthusiasm and strongly presented arguments gradually won him to our side.

Governor Henry's fiat had already gone forth, nor could he be persuaded to modify it, that the men for the expedition must be drawn from the counties west of the mountains. If the seven companies, of fifty men each, which was the minimum force demanded by Clark, could be raised in the counties of Frederick, Augusta, and Fincastle, Clark was welcome to enlist and use them—otherwise the undertaking must be given up. But Clark was no wise minded to give up and, after accepting the Governor's terms, turned to me to know what I thought might be done toward raising a company in Augusta.

"It has been more than two years since I left home," I answered, "and I cannot speak with assurance, but I believe one or more companies of fifty might be raised, if I am allowed to say that the settlements in Kentucky are threatened, and that our object is to turn back an Indian invasion."

"You can say that with truth, Captain McElroy. I shall rely upon you for at least one company."

"I'll do my best, Captain Clark. I continue my journey homeward to-morrow, and shall begin the work of enlistment at once."

"You ride my way, Captain McElroy, I think," said Mr. Jefferson pleasantly, "and I also go to-morrow; with your consent we'll keep each other company."

I thanked him, and we fixed sun rise as the hour for our departure from the Bell Tavern.

"You are the son of Justice McElroy, of the Stone Church neighborhood, I suppose, Captain? The name is not a common one even in your valley of Macs."

"I am his only son, sir."

"Once when you were a lad I dined at your house; you scarcely remember the occasion, I suppose?"

"Perfectly, sir, and I should have recognized you anywhere. We cherish with pride the memory of your visit."

Mr. Jefferson was evidently pleased—few men are so great as to be indifferent to appreciation.

"By the way, Clark," continued Mr. Jefferson, "the ex-scout hermit we were talking of this morning lives on McElroy's direct homeward route, near the top of the south slope of the mountain between Monticello and Staunton. It might be well to engage McElroy to see him; that would save delay and me a journey at a busy season."

"I am at your service, Mr. Jefferson," spoke I. Then made my bow and left them. They might wish to talk matters over before taking me further into their confidence.

That ride with Mr. Jefferson, and the day I spent at Monticello, have still a pleasant flavor in retrospect. Mr. Jefferson's urbanity matched his delightful conversation, and my pleasure in his condescension and his intellectual charm gave him evident satisfaction.

Part of our way lay through the forest, and one could hear the oozing sap, mounting upward into the yet leafless branches interlaced above us. The graceful, clean-limbed maples had strung themselves with strand after strand of glowing coral leaf buds, and the white trunked cotton woods were hung thickly with a soft pinkish brown fringe, while each branch of the laurel, the dogwood and the ivy shrubs bulged with close folded gray green buds—big with promise of leaf and blossom. The rich loam under our horses' feet was cracked open here and there, making tiny winrows of the rotted leaves, where reawakened roots of fern or flower were pushing upward with divine instinct for life and sunshine. From sunny dell's slope, and the southern side of oak and locust trees, rose nature's incense—the breath of purple violets, of white anemones, and flushed arbutus blossoms, floating intermittently upon the whimsical zephyrs of a balmy day in March.

Sudden bursts of rapture, or shrill, happy calls from vibrant throats of robin, and wren, cat bird and oriole, red bird and yellow hammer, mocking bird and blue jay, rang from treetop to treetop, and the fluttering of busy wings, and the important chirruping and twittering of the nest builders, told that the birds, too, recognized the many hints of coming spring, and were all of a spirit with the mounting sap, and the promise-breathing perfume of violet and arbutus buds.

We talked of farming and gardening, upon which subject Mr. Jefferson had gathered much valuable information. From horticulture we drifted to books, and the writers of them. It pleased me to find that, as far as my limited reading had gone, our tastes were similar. He preferred the Greeks and Greek literature to the Romans and their writings. He admired Demosthenes, Thucydides, and Homer; Tacitus and Horace were his favorites among the Latins; and when we came to English writers, he also gave first place to Dryden, Milton, Pope and Ossian among the poets, to Bacon, Hume and Addison among prose writers. Finding I knew nothing of French, Italian or German literatures, he barely mentioned Molière, Racine, Petrarch, Tasso and Goethe. Yet his mere word of appreciation kindled my resolution to know these masters, when peace and a quiet life should give me opportunity.

My liking for Ossian seemed to delight Mr. Jefferson, and he quoted freely from his poems, saying, with warmth, that he thought "this rude bard of the North the greatest of poets."

"Then, sir, you give no credence to the charge of the English critics, that there was never any other Ossian than his pretended translator?"

"No, I do not!" answered Mr. Jefferson emphatically, then proceeded to give me cogent reasons to back his opinion.

The urgency of Mr. Jefferson's invitation to stop a day at Monticello was not to be resisted, nor was my inclination far behind the courtesy of my host. The early morning was spent about the beautifully turfed and planted grounds, and the carefully cultivated gardens. I was even allowed to look over the garden books, as accurate as algebraic demonstrations, and as neat as copy books. Horses were then ordered for a ride over the plantation. Mr. Jefferson scanned their satiny coats with critical eye, rubbed a single rough spot on his own mount with his handkerchief, and showing the black groom who held the impatient steed's bridle the dust stain made upon it, gave him a sharp reprimand. We got back in time for a glass of Scotch rum and hot water, seasoned with nutmeg, before dinner. A second ride to Charlottesville in the afternoon, to procure the mail and attend to some matter of business, seemed necessary to Mr. Jefferson's indefatigable energy.

Mrs. Jefferson gave us her charming company in the evening, and some excellent music with voice and spinet, after which I was so fortunate as to be able to entertain her by an account of the Philadelphia performance of "A School for Scandal," with a few quotations from the text—since they had not yet had the opportunity to read any of Mr. Sheridan's plays.

Though Mr. Jefferson had given me most minute directions, I came near losing the trail—to the right, half way up the mountain—which was to lead me to the hermit's retreat. One of the giant sentinel maples, which marked the entrance to the trail, had recently blown down, and its sprawling branches completely hid the path. A double log cabin, built in a dent of the mountain's southern slope, was the old scout's home. The forest clustered about it protectingly, except for a clearing a few yards wide just in front of the door, and no other than wild growth was anywhere visible. Two yelping dogs came from the doorway at the sound of my horse's feet, followed closely by the hermit himself.

"Light, stranger, an' hitch," he called, pointing to the nearest tree trunk.

I did so, while he leisurely approached, a short stemmed cob pipe in his mouth, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his homespun breeches. His hunting shirt was also of homespun; his leggins, belt, and moccasins of leather; and the cap which surmounted his face—so covered with beard that a pair of heavy browed, keen brown eyes, and a large crooked nose were the only features visible—was made of deerskin. Though hair and beard were grizzled, he showed no signs of age in figure or bearing. Within the cabin's wide chimney a fire smoldered, and a rough bench was drawn up before it. Seated and served with tobacco for my pipe, I unfolded my mission.

"Thar' ain't no two men nowhares I'd ruther pleasure thin Pat Henry en' George Clark," said the scout, "en' I 'low I'm the man they er' lookin' fur. I knows them Algonquins, en' ther savage ways, en' ther heathen talk better'n menny."

"Governor Henry and Mr. Clark say they cannot do without you, and Mr. Jefferson bade me tell you to come to Monticello this week to give him your promise."

"Thar' ain't but one thing es'll hinder me—but thet's 'nuff. I see no way er promisin' jist now, Cap'n—but I'll see Mr. Jefferson afore I sez no. You coulden' nohow mention no kind uv frolic, nur no feastin' nur pleasuring es temptin' ter me, Capt'n, es killin' Injuns. The way I hates the redskins mought be counted es hell-desarvin' sin, Capt'n, but fur the fact thet they's devils en' hes devils' ways, en' the Holy Word commands us ter hate the devil and all his wurrucks. Did Mr. Henry ur Clark tell yer the old scout's story, Capt'n?"

Just then my eye was drawn to the crack in the door, between the two rooms, by hearing the swishering as of a woman's skirts, and a soft tread upon the planks, and I was much astonished to see what seemed to me the shadow of a woman's form. The scout, too, looked up, then drew his brow into a half worried frown. I had not heard of a wife or a daughter; indeed, had understood that the hermit lived entirely alone, so was greatly surprised. Something in the scout's manner led me to think, however, that he did not care to be questioned, so I made haste to withdraw my eyes and to answer his question in the negative.

"Wall, ef you kin bide er spell longer you shell hear the pitiful tale"—said the old man with a sigh—"en' er sadder, I 'low you've seldom hearn, even in this land uv sorrowful stories en' terrurble sufferin's."

"Then without doubt your opportunity has come," said I when the tale was ended; "nor do I wonder you hate the Indians," and I wrung his hand. "But I must say good-by now, and ride on. I hope you will decide to join us, as your not doing so will be a serious loss to our expedition."

"I'll see, I'll see. Ther temptation to fight Injun devils is not one I'm likely ter resist; yit thar's reasons, serious reasons," and he lowered his voice, looked grave, and watched the crack in the door between the two rooms as he gripped my hand in farewell.

A mile farther down the mountain a sudden crackling in the bushes at one side caused my horse to snort and sniff suspiciously. But I had no time now to track wild beast, or snare game, for it was already midday, and I must reach Staunton, if not home, that night. As I rode on I thought much of the scout's sad story, and pitied his bereaved and lonely condition. But could he be a hypocrite posing for sympathy? Surely that was a woman's form which flitted before the partly open door, yet he had let fall no hint of having any companion of his solitude, and I knew of no neighbors nearer than the dwellers on the plantations around Charlottesville.

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.