by John Fox
III
From the sun-dial on the edge of the high bank, straight above the brimof the majestic yellow James, a noble path of thick grass as broad as amodern highway ran hundreds of yards between hedges of roses straight tothe open door of the great manor-house with its wide verandas and mightypillars set deep back from the river in a grove of ancient oaks. Behindthe house spread a little kingdom, divided into fields of grass, wheat,tobacco, and corn, and dotted with whitewashed cabins filled withslaves. Already the house had been built a hundred years of brickbrought from England in the builder's own ships, it was said, and thesecond son of the reigning generation, one Colonel Dale, sat in theveranda alone. He was a royalist officer, this second son, but his elderbrother had the spirit of daring and adventure that should have beenhis, and he had been sitting there four years before when that elderbrother came home from his first pioneering trip into the wilds, to tellthat his wife was dead and their only son was a captive among theIndians. Two years later still, word came that the father, too, had metdeath from the savages, and the little kingdom passed into ColonelDale's hands.
Indentured servants, as well as blacks from Africa, had labored on thatpath in front of him; and up it had once stalked a deputation of thegreat Powhatan's red tribes. Up that path had come the last of the earlycolonial dames, in huge ruffs, high-heeled shoes, and short skirts, withher husband, who was the "head of a hundred," with gold on his clothes,and at once military commander, civil magistrate, judge, and executiveof the community; had come officers in gold lace, who had been rowed upin barges from Jamestown; members of the worshipful House of Burgesses;bluff planters in silk coats, the governor and members of the council;distinguished visitors from England, colonial gentlemen and ladies. Atthe manor they had got beef, bacon, brown loaves, Indian corn-cakes,strong ales, and strong waters (but no tea or coffee), and "drunk" pipesof tobacco from lily-pots--jars of white earth--lighted with splinters ofjuniper, or coals of fire plucked from the fireplace with a pair ofsilver tongs. And all was English still--books, clothes, plates, knives,and forks; the church, the Church of England; the Governor, therepresentative of the King; his Council, the English House of Lords; theBurgesses, the English Parliament--socially aristocratic, politicallyrepublican. For ancient usage held that all "freemen" should have avoice in the elections, have equal right to say who the lawmakers andwhat the law. The way was open as now. Any man could get two thousandacres by service to the colony, could build, plough, reap, save, buyservants, and roll in his own coach to sit as burgess. There was but oneseat of learning--at Williamsburg. What culture they had they broughtfrom England or got from parents or minister. And always they had seemedto prefer sword and stump to the pen. They hated towns. At every wharf along shaky trestle ran from a warehouse out into the river to load shipswith tobacco for England and to get in return all conveniences andluxuries, and that was enough. In towns men jostled and individualfreedom was lost, so, Ho! for the great sweeps of land and the sway of aterritorial lord! Englishmen they were of Shakespeare's time but livingin Virginia, and that is all they were--save that the flower of libertywas growing faster in the new-world soil.
The plantation went back to a patent from the king in 1617, and by thegrant the first stout captain was to "enjoy his landes in as large andample manner to all intentes and purposes as any Lord of any manours inEngland doth hold his grounde." This gentleman was the only man afterthe "Starving Time" to protest against the abandonment of Jamestown in1610. When, two years later, he sent two henchmen as burgesses to thefirst general assembly, that august body would not allow them to situnless the captain would relinquish certain high privileges in hisgrant.
"I hold my patent for service done," the captain answeredgrandiloquently, "which noe newe or late comers can meritt orchallenge," and only with the greatest difficulty was he finallypersuaded to surrender his high authority. In that day the house wasbuilt of wood, protected by a palisade, prescribed by law, and thewindows had stout shutters. Everything within it had come from England.The books were ponderous folios, stout duodecimos encased in embossedleather, and among them was a folio containing Master WilliamShakespeare's dramas, collected by his fellow actors Heminge andCondell. Later by many years a frame house supplanted this primitive,fort-like homestead, and early in the eighteenth century, after severalgenerations had been educated in England, an heir built the noble manoras it still stands--an accomplished gentleman with lace collar, slasheddoublet, and sable silvered hair, a combination of scholar, courtier,and soldier. And such had been the master of the little kingdom eversince.
In the earliest days the highest and reddest cedars in the world roseabove the underbrush. The wild vines were so full of grape bunches thatthe very turf overflowed with them. Deer, turkeys, and snow-white craneswere in incredible abundance. The shores were fringed with verdure. TheIndians were a "kind, loving people." Englishmen called it the "GoodLand," and found it "most plentiful, sweet, wholesome, and fruitful ofall others." The east was the ocean; Florida was the south; the northwas Nova Francia, and the west unknown. Only the shores touched theinterior, which was an untravelled realm of fairer fruits and flowersthan in England; green shores, majestic forests, and blue mountainsfilled with gold and jewels. Bright birds flitted, dusky maids dancedand beckoned, rivers ran over golden sand, and toward the South Sea wasthe Fount of Youth, whose waters made the aged young again. BermudaIslands were an enchanted den full of furies and devils which all mendid shun as hell and perdition. And the feet of all who had made historyhad trod that broad path to the owner's heart and home.
Down it now came a little girl--the flower of all those dead and gone--andher coming was just as though one of the flowers about her had steppedfrom its gay company on one or the other side of the path to makethrough them a dainty, triumphal march as the fairest of them all. Atthe dial she paused and her impatient blue eyes turned to a bend of theyellow river for the first glimpse of a gay barge that soon must come.At the wharf the song of negroes rose as they unloaded the boat justfrom Richmond. She would go and see if there was not a package for hermother and perhaps a present for herself, so with another look to theriver bend she turned, but she moved no farther. Instead, she gave alittle gasp, in which there was no fear, though what she saw was surelystartling enough to have made her wheel in flight. Instead, she gazedsteadily into a pair of grave black eyes that were fixed on her fromunder a green branch that overhung the footpath, and steadily shesearched the figure standing there, from the coonskin cap down thefringed hunting-shirt and fringed breeches to the moccasined feet. Andstill the strange figure stood arms folded, motionless and silent.Neither the attitude nor the silence was quite pleasing, and the girl'ssupple slenderness stiffened, her arms went rigidly to her sides, and ahaughty little snap sent her undimpled chin upward.
"What do you want?"
And still he looked, searching her in turn from head to foot, for he wasno more strange to her than she was to him.
"Who are you and what do you want?"
It was a new way for a woman to speak to a man; he in turn was notpleased, and a gleam in his eyes showed it.
"I am the son of a king."
She started to laugh, but grew puzzled, for she had the blood ofPocahontas herself.
"You are an Indian?"
He shook his head, scorning to explain, dropped his rifle to the hollowof his arm, and, reaching for his belt where she saw the buckhorn handleof a hunting-knife, came toward her, but she did not flinch. Drawing aletter from the belt, he handed it to her. It was so worn and soiledthat she took it daintily and saw on it her father's name. The boy wavedhis hand toward the house far up the path.
"He live here?"
"You wish to see him?"
The boy grunted assent, and with a shock of resentment the little ladystarted up the path with her head very high indeed. The boy slippednoiselessly after her, his face unmoved, but his eyes were darting rightand left to the flowers, trees, and bushes, to every flitting, strangebird, the gray streak of a sc
ampering squirrel, and what he could notsee, his ears took in--the clanking chains of work-horses, the whir of aquail, the screech of a peacock, the songs of negroes from far-offfields.
On the porch sat a gentleman in powdered wig and knee-breeches, who,lifting his eyes from a copy of _The Spectator_ to give an order to anegro servant, saw the two coming, and the first look of bewilderment onhis fine face gave way to a tolerant smile. A stray cat or dog, acrippled chicken, a neighbor's child, or a pickaninny--all these hislittle daughter had brought in at one time or another for a home, andnow she had a strange ward, indeed. He asked no question, for a purposevery decided and definite was plainly bringing the little lady on, andhe would not have to question. Swiftly she ran up the steps, her mouthprimly set, and handed him a letter.
"The messenger is the son of a king"]
"The messenger is the son of a king."
"A what?"
"The son of a king," she repeated gravely.
"Ah," said the gentleman, humoring her, "ask his highness to be seated."
His highness was looking from one to the other gravely and keenly. Hedid not quite understand, but he knew gentle fun was being poked at him,and he dropped sullenly on the edge of the porch and stared in front ofhim. The little girl saw that his moccasins were much worn and that inone was a hole with the edge blood-stained. And then she began to watchher father's face, which showed that the contents of the letter wereastounding him. He rose quickly when he had finished and put out hishand to the stranger.
"I am glad to see you, my boy," he said with great kindness. "Barbara,this is a little kinsman of ours from Kentucky. He was the adopted sonof an Indian chief, but by blood he is your own cousin. His name isErskine Dale."
