CHAPTER XIII
The realization that before another sunset I should be at home, shouldtake mother, grandmother, and little Jean in my arms, clasp my father'shand and meet his welcoming eye, thrilled me with a joyous excitementsuch as I had not felt since, nearly three years before, I had led mysquad of recruits out of the valley.
The road between the foot of the mountain and Staunton seemedelastic--as if it stretched as I traveled it. Not for six months now hadI heard from home. The last letter had been brought me by a recruit fromour valley, before the fight at Chestnut Hill, and was then severalweeks old. It told of my grandmother's gradually failing strength, ofAunt Martha's increasing vexation with still unconquered Ellen, ofJean's rapid development into womanhood; of my mother's good health andfather's continued vigor; also of the fine crops harvested during theyear, and sold at good prices, after a generous proportion had beengiven to help load the wagon train sent from the valley to help to feedGeneral Washington's army. There were, also, bits of local news andgossip most interesting to me.
A chill, misty March drizzle came on with the twilight, my steed droopedhis head wearily, and lifted his feet with mechanical, springlesseffort.
"Poor tired beast," I said, patting his flanks, "we'll stop this nightin Staunton, and you shall have supper and stable if there's a barn leftin the town." He appeared to understand my promise, for his gaitquickened, his head was lifted hopefully, and a moment later, as a turnin the highway revealed the lighted windows of the town, he uttered alow, 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 weremen now, of course--had been mates of mine at "the academy," and 'twasAllen 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 thegate, I rapped loudly with the hilt of my sword upon the door. It wasopened somewhat cautiously, and Elder Walker's voice enquiredperemptorily, "Who's without?"
"An old school mate of your son John's, Donald McElroy."
"What! Captain McElroy, whom family and friends have mourned as deadthese six months past? Come in, lad, come in!" and the door was flungwide open. "You'll be chilled to the bone in that drenchingdrizzle,--and your horse likewise. John! John! Here's an old schoolfriend! Call the niggers, wife! Send one of them round for CaptainMcElroy's horse, and have on another back log! Bring out the rum and thepeach brandy! The son of William McElroy would be welcome under allcircumstances, but coming from the dead, as it were, and covered withhonor, doubtless,--why, there's nothing in the town good enough forhim."
The house was abustle by this time, negroes running to and fro, Mrs.Walker and John overwhelming me with welcoming attention, and the Elderalternately rattling the decanters and glasses, and ringing the heavyiron poker against the massive brass andirons, as he vigorously punchedthe logs into a brisker blaze. I had half forgotten the warmth andheartiness of a Scotch Irish welcome, and my eyes filled with tears atthe familiar sound of it all, and the sight of John's kind, homely facewreathed with glad smiles.
How pleasant the flavor of the oily peach brandy, how genial the blazeof the hickory logs, how good to hear the rich voices and the slightaccent, as they called over familiar names and faces, and told me thevalley 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 themost prosperous and respected men in the county, and your mother thebest of housewives. Little Jean has grown into a beauty, and your fatherhas built a big new barn, and is burning brick for a spacious dwellingto take the place of the old cabin," answered the Elder loquaciously,while Mrs. Walker superintended the maid Jinsey, serving me, upon afolding table placed at my elbow, a cavalry man's lunch--which meansenough for three.
"And they thought me dead, Elder?"
"They feared it, lad, having heard that you fell wounded on the field atChestnut Hill, were taken prisoner, and carried to the prison hospitalin Philadelphia--death traps they are said to be. Your father hopesstill, but your mother greets sair, and fears the very worst."
It was not easy to get away from my entertainers the next morning, but Iwas eager to be at home, and managed to be off by half past ten, despitetheir urgent hospitality, and their disinclination to have my horsebrought around.
"It was communion Sabbath at the Stone Church," the Elder had insisted,"and my whole family would, without doubt, spend the day at theservices; so I might as well take dinner with them, and ride home in theafternoon."
But "No," I said; "I would ride on to the church, hear part of thesermon, find my people, and take them home with me at the recess betweenthe morning and afternoon service."
Elder Walker was one of those who had gone off to form a newcongregation at Tinkling Spring, and I gathered from his talk that thefeud caused by a secession of a part of the congregation had not yetabated. Between my Uncle Thomas and Elder Walker this split in thecongregation had given rise to a lasting bitterness, and during all ourconversation my Uncle Thomas' name was not mentioned.
Every rod of the way, from the town to the church, was marked withmemories for me. I smiled at the recollection of the squirrel I hadcaught in the top branches of a certain gnarled old oak; of the deer Ihad shot, as it bounded across the branch in yonder meadow; of thestrawberries I had gathered from the sunny hillsides. Wrapped in theserecollections of a happy boyhood, I rode on, as in a dream, and came atlast with the surprise of suddenness, upon the old church.
One might have supposed that a cavalry company was bivouacked in thegrove, from the horses hitched to every tree and shrub, and the illusionwould only be strengthened upon closer view, by the rude but strongfortifications encircling the building. How vividly came back the soundsand scenes of the Indian raid! especially the erect form and inspiredface of old Parson Craig, addressing "his lads," in the spirit of aSpartan leader. Years before this intrepid man of God had gone to hisreckoning, and I had no doubt as to the side of the account on which hehad 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 theold church were sounds of Christian harmony and pious rejoicing. Thecongregation was singing one of Rouse's paraphrases as I pushed the dooropen gently, and glided into the vacant pew against the wall. Not a headwas turned, so engrossed were they all in worship, save those of two orthree restless children. I drew myself close in the shadow of a pillar,and listened with glad and thankful heart to the singing. This was thepsalm, 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, earnestmen, and devout women, that no accompaniment of instruments, such as themodern music is said to require, was needed.
"O praise the Lord, for He is good, His mercy lasteth ever, Let those of Israel now say His mercy faileth never. Let those who fear the Lord now say His mercy faileth never."
I thought I recognized the full tones of my father's voice and myemotions almost choked me.
The instant the minister rose to give out his text, I knew him to beParson Waddell--the eloquent, blind preacher of Hanover, who more thanonce had been described to me, though never before had I seen him, orheard him preach. That long, lank form; that thin face, and high, baldforehead, from which the long gray locks flowed backward; those fixed,open eyes, so evidently sightless; those long, restless arms, and hands,trembling with palsy--that ensemble could be no other than ParsonWaddell--the pulpit orator of America during his generation, and one whohas been seldom equaled in any age or country.
I cannot now recall the words of his text, nor their exact place in theBible, only that it was some passage in the description of the passionof our Lord. This I remember well, that from the first sentence utteredby that mellifluous and feeling voice, I forgot everything but the scenehe depicted, which scene I saw as 'twere passing before me. I agonizedwith Jesus in the garden; flamed
with Peter's anger, when he struck offthe ear of the servant of the high priest; followed, weeping, afar withthe other disciples; burned with indignation against Christ's accusersand torturers; heard Pilate's decision, and the High Priest's sentence,with the despairing astonishment of His followers; grew sick andtremulous with sympathy as His bleeding form, weighted with the cross,struggled up Calvary; and my very soul was overwhelmed in horror andamaze, as I saw His broken body hanging upon the cross, scorned,reviled, His sacred head crowned with thorns, His sacred side pierced bythe soldier's spear. As the preacher went on to depict Jesus' agony ofspirit, when He felt Himself deserted by His Father, and uttered thatpiercing cry, "Eli, Eli, lama Sabachthani?" my every nerve was strung toits tightest tension, and my throat became so rigid that the moans whichcame from my heart could find no utterance. The entire congregation wasmoved almost as I was.
From Dr. Waddell's sightless eyes tears streamed like rain, and hisutterances were almost choked by the heartfelt emotion which moved him.At last he was forced to pause and to cover his face with his tremblinghands. For an instant the deep silence over all the church was brokenonly by low sobs and stifled moans.
Presently Dr. Waddell lifted up a face, wet with tears, straightenedslowly his tall, gaunt form, lifted his left arm with solemnimpressiveness, and pointing and looking upward, with a gesture ofindescribable faith and assurance, said, in tones which rang in gladtriumph, though an echo of the recent sobs of penitence still lingeredin them,
"Friends--Socrates died like a philosopher, Jesus Christ like a God."
The effect was marvelous. The moans and the sobbing ceased, and all overthe church men, women, and children bowed their heads, and wept tears ofthankfulness, while the preacher went on to describe the last scenes ofthe crucifixion:--the rent veil of the temple, the darkness, theearthquake, the terror of the soldiers--divine signs that no mere man,but the Son of God Himself had here offered up His life a free sacrificeto satisfy Divine justice.
When the invitation had been given to the celebration of the Lord'sSupper, and while the communicants were taking their places at the longtables spread in the aisles, which formed a cross, another psalm wassung. During its singing I slipped unheeded from the church, and walkedback and forth under the trees, my soul more moved than ever it had beenbefore. That hour I gave my heart, and my life to Christ, making solemnvow that from henceforth I would take my place, as my heritage andbaptism, gave me right--at God's Table; that I would no longer be one ofthose to scorn so mighty a sacrifice, to refuse so priceless aredemption. There, under the trees, I knelt and consecrated all myfuture to God's service.
The very day seemed set apart by this solemn resolve, and now I did notwish to greet my family before the congregation. So I got on my horseand rode homeward.
At the bars which led from the highway across my Uncle Thomas Mitchell'sfields to his house, stood my Cousin Thomas, half leaning on the stile.His gaze was fixed upon some distant object, and though he answered mygreeting, as I halted before him, there was neither interest norcuriosity in his listless manner.
"You do not know me, Thomas," I said.
"Can it be Donald McElroy?" and he was interested enough now, his faceaglow with pleasure. "We had given you up for dead in Philadelphiaprison, Donald," and almost before I was off my horse he had his armsabout me, and was hugging me as if I had been his mother.
It did not take long to tell him so much of my story as was needful heshould know at once, and then I began to put questions.
"Are all well at home? Tom?"
"Yes, all well."
"Then dear grandmother has recovered from her illness; I'm glad to knowthat."
"And you have not heard, Donald? You do not know that grandmother hasbeen dead these five months. But there, cousin," putting a comfortingarm about me, "don't grieve for her; she went joyously, her one regretbeing that she could not see you once more on earth."
"And mother has stood it bravely?"
"Yes, and is if anything, kinder than before, but she grieves all thetime about you. The only thing that keeps her in heart is your father'sconfidence in your coming. He looks for you every day, or for good newsof you."
"And does little Jean believe that I am dead?"
"Oh, no; she agrees stoutly with Uncle William, and watches the road foryou, each evening."
"She is almost grown now?"
"Quite grown up, and the prettiest, sweetest lass in the valley--nowEllen's gone," and Thomas sighed deeply and fixed his eyes upon thehills again.
"Ellen gone? What mean you, Thomas? Where would she go? I thought shehad no other relatives."
"She has no others, and we do not know where she is. Three months agoshe disappeared--my mother was harsh with her, and Ellen would not brookit. One night she slipped from her bed, took father's riding horse fromthe stable, and rode away. Three days later the horse came back, saddledand bridled, but we have never heard a word of Ellen, nor had a clew asto her whereabouts. Perhaps the horse threw and killed her; perhaps wildbeasts devoured her; perhaps she was captured by Indians. My mother saysshe is hiding somewhere to spite us, and hardens her heart againstgrieving for her; but father and I keep up constant search and inquiryfor her.
"Meantime, Donald, our peace is gone, and our home is disgraced. We havedriven the orphan, and one of our own blood, forth into the wilderness,to perish by savages or by wild beasts--yet we boast our religion, prayour prayers, sing our psalms, and blame harshly the intolerance of theestablished church, and the tyranny of the British! Do you wonder thatI'm half Tory, and whole heretic, Donald?--at war with my race, myreligion, and my family?"
"Then you loved Ellen O'Niel, Thomas?" I said, coming to the promptconclusion that such morbid vehemence could spring but from one root.
"Yes, Donald, I loved her, and will always love her--or her memory, morethan aught else in the world. It was, I think, the suspicion that I wasgrowing to love Ellen, and the fear of her influence over me, that mademy mother more and more harsh to her. She is beginning, however, to findout that if I have lost Ellen, she has lost a son, and what is more toher, I think, the church has lost a preacher. She thought I would soonget over it, but now she is beginning to worry about it, and to wish meto find Ellen. I care little any more; however, mother's worries are herchief sources of happiness."
"I do not believe Ellen is dead, Thomas," I said, ignoring hisdisrespect to his mother. "Either she is hiding somewhere, as AuntMartha surmises, or she has been carried off by the Indians. In eithercase, Thomas, we'll find her, for I intend to join you in the search,and will not give up 'till we have a sure clew. Don't let it trouble youso, laddie, but cheer up and expect good news every day as father hasdone. And I'm sorry, Thomas, to hear you express yourself so bitterlyagainst religion on this day of all others--when for the first time Ihave felt the influence of converting grace," and then I told him ofParson Waddell's sermon, and my resolve to be a Christian.
Thomas was moved, I could see, but he held firmly to his latest view,that religion in most people was naught but fanaticism, andPresbyterianism a narrowing creed. "If ever I find Ellen alive," heconcluded, "I shall become a Catholic and marry her. Should I be assuredof her death I shall go west as pioneer or scout or else turn monk."
"I can offer you a better career than either of those," I replied,laying my hand on his arm, and speaking cheerfully, "and not only a finecareer, but, if all our searching hereabouts fails, your best chance tofind Ellen. Come to see me, and we'll talk it over."
At the first bend in the road, I turned to wave to Thomas; he was stillleaning dejectedly upon the stile, his back to me, and his absent gazefixed upon the mountains. And now surprising thoughts and feelings tookpossession of me. My sympathy for Thomas was marred by sudden andunreasoning jealousy. What right had he to fall in love with EllenO'Niel in my absence? Had she not shown plainly enough her preferencefor me? He had not been man enough to protect her from his mother'styranny, and yet he talked as presumptuously of marrying her as if hehad earne
d a right to her. He had not even found her in all these weeks,and was now hanging idly on his father's stile, whining, and utteringblasphemies. Find her and marry her indeed! I'd find her myself, and,marry her, too, if I pleased, for all he might say. Nor would I turnCatholic and abuse my relatives, and the religion of my fathers to winher; rather, I'd make her see she had acted foolishly and teach her tohonor our creed, as I should honor hers. Ellen, I plainly saw, hadneeded sympathy, and love, also some one to show her the dangers of herown impetuous, and self-willed nature.
Thinking these thoughts, I put my horse to graze in the meadow, and satdown on the porch, drinking in, with profound content, the wellremembered prospect, and planning how I should search minutely all overthe country for Ellen, and get together my recruits for Clark'sexpedition at the same time. Then I fell to castle building, and it wasEllen, restored to us with added beauty and a nobleness of characterdeveloped by her trials, who was to lend charm and grace to my "Castlein Spain."
Already I avoided thoughts of Nelly Buford, and though they often forcedthemselves upon me, they brought me always regret and mortification,mingled still with a lively sense of her powers of fascination.
Donald McElroy, Scotch Irishman Page 13
