"And this statute will be enacted?"

"Without doubt. It is one of Mr. Jefferson's cherished measures; and when peace is won, he with Mason, Henry and others, I among them, of divergent creeds, but a single ideal, are pledged to give all our energies to its enactment."

"The brave, I think, are ever liberal-minded," said Ellen, "yet they are stubborn too, fixed as adamantine in their principles." And then, as she was wont to do when the talk between us grew personal, she called Captain Bowman to her side and asked him laughingly, if he still thought a Catholic worse than an unbeliever, and priests monsters of superst.i.tion, now that he had lived among them, and had known good Father Gibault?

"If ever I have thought so I do no longer," replied Bowman. "The Kaskaskians are honest Christians, and have been faithful friends to us, while Father Gibault is, I must admit, the equal for piety and charitableness of any Presbyterian parson I have ever known."

"Then will you not tell them so in the valley?" pleaded Ellen; "cannot you, with good conscience, speak a kind word for a misunderstood and reviled sect?"

"But I have yet one serious objection to your church, Queen Eleanor, that it encourages the immuring behind convent walls such as you--women whom the world _needs_ to leaven its sodden ma.s.s of selfishness and sin.

Since you have relinquished your vow of nunnery, however, and are half willing to reward as he deserves this brave comrade of mine, I can heartily promise not only my tongue but my rifle also to your defense, and the defense of your religion--should there ever be need."

"But you misapprehend my cousin's purposes, Captain Bowman," I made haste to say; "she is not my promised wife; she but goes to her uncle's home under our protection, and from there, when she is fully ready, to a convent."

"Grant me your pardon for a soldier's bluntness," said Bowman with an embarra.s.sed bow to Ellen; then followed my lead eagerly, as I broached another subject.

Fair weather attended us the entire route, with only summer showers now and then to drive us to the cabin's shelter; and placid currents made the rowing, when we came to ascend the Ohio and the Alleghany, easy work. More fatiguing was the landward journey, which Bowman, Ellen, and I continued, in company, across mountain range after mountain range, valley after valley. When the top of the last ridge was reached, and the fair land of the Shenandoah lay unrolled to my eager vision, I lifted my hat, and said aloud:

"Thank G.o.d! once more I am home!"

"Aye, thank G.o.d for this crowning mercy!" added Bowman devoutly. There it lay, the sweet, peaceful scene I loved better than nature's grandest efforts! My horse must have felt the joyful impetus throbbing in my heart and tingling through my nerves, for he quickened his gait to match my eagerness.

We were still some miles from home, and the sun was setting, when Bowman halted at a farm gate.

"A cousin of mine lives a mile beyond this meadow," he said, "and I shall spend the night with him. He will gladly welcome my friends, and since you cannot hope to reach home before midnight, McElroy, why not come with me? Queen Eleanor is already tired; see how her shoulders droop; and for an hour she has not spoken."

I thought I saw a.s.sent in Ellen's eyes and so answered him, "Thank you, Captain, for a kind suggestion. I accept gladly for my cousin, but I am too hungry for a sight of home to need rest. On the day after to-morrow, Ellen, I shall return for you."

"You are very thoughtful, Cousin Donald," said Ellen, in low tones, as Captain Bowman considerately rode up to the gate, and occupied himself with its fastenings. "You will break the news of my coming, and soften the way for me. Good-by--till Thursday." Then she added with a merry smile, "You may promise what you will for me; I shall be good, and meek, and humble; I will even learn the Shorter Catechism, and wear my beads and crucifix beneath my bodice. It is easier to be good"--her expression changing to one of serious grat.i.tude--"when one has a friend and sympathy."

"And love, you should say, also, Ellen. My tongue is bound by a promise, for a year, yet I wish you not to forget that I shall love you with unchanging devotion to the end of my life. Every breeze that caresses your hair, Ellen, every sunbeam that kisses your cheek, will bring a love message from my heart to yours. You cannot get away from my love, dear one, never again while you live! It will follow you even behind convent walls, should ever your conscience take you there. You will then bury my happiness as well as your own."

The words had sprung from my heart, and were spoken without premeditation. I realized, as soon as they were uttered, that they strained, perhaps, the strict letter of my compact with Father Gibault; yet when I saw the flush upon Ellen's cheeks, and met for an instant a tender glance, which seemed to beam without permission from those rare blue eyes, I did not regret the impulse which had made me speak. Who can set bounds to a lover's tongue, or demand of the eye of love that it express only what cold reason bids it say? Hearts have swayed heads since Adam listened to Eve, in the garden, and will to the end of time.

CHAPTER XXV

The messages I bore Ellen from Aunt Martha, when I rode to Mr. White's to bring her home, were ample in a.s.surances 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 pa.s.sed 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 n.o.ble 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 ent.i.tled him--to call together his scattered riflemen once more, and go to the help of the hard-pressed patriots of the spa.r.s.ely 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 G.o.d 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 grat.i.tude and affection, nor in her offering hourly prayers for one who has been to her the n.o.blest 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 circ.u.mstance made easier for me the duty which had been a.s.signed 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 circ.u.mstance occurred which made me entirely willing to perform the duty which had been first a.s.signed me.

This circ.u.mstance 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."