Voices; Birth-Marks; The Man and the Elephant

by Mathew Joseph Holt

  CHAPTER XII.--Raise Us Up, Oh Lord.

  The work of tending the corn fell to John and a single servant. As itwas done with a bull-tongue plow and with hoes it was no easy job; butit was well done, as its green thriftiness and fresh, healthy night odorbore witness. After it was laid by the workers passed into the meadow,and with their blades in the slow, olden way, mowed the twenty acres ofgrassland. Under a sultry mid-summer sun they moved forward, step andstroke in unison, sometimes humming in concert. At the end of each crosssection, they rested and whetted their blades and the noise was in keywith the rasping song of the harvest fly.

  After the hay was stacked in four great ricks near the barn, they workeda week getting in the winter wood; and then ten days in repairing thefences, which in places a deer or straying buffalo had tossed aside withhis horns and in splitting walnut and chestnut rails to extend thewoodland pasture, which had to be enlarged as the flocks grew. If thecattle and sheep ran at large they strayed into the mountains and wereeaten by timber wolves and bears. By the time this was done it was thefirst of October; the corn was ripe; the heavy ears had dropped over toprotect the hardening grain from the fall rains; and the ripening bladesrustled in the wind, which bore a message of coming frost. For threeweeks John was busy pulling fodder and shocking and husking the corn,which work lacerated and hardened his hands.

  He was working on the last row of shocks, when Michael Stoner, aone-time companion scout with Kenton, but now trader, traveling toVirginia to return in the spring with a pack train of goods, handed hima letter from Dorothy. Scarcely waiting for John to thank him, much lessanswer questions as to friends in the cane-brake country, he hastened onto join his companions, yet in sight, near the foot of the Gap.

  The evening of the day they finished shucking and housing the corn, thefall rains set in. They were ready for winter; and John should have beenenjoying the sleepy quietude that follows hard physical labor; but neverbefore had his parents seen him so restless and disquieted. The poise ofthe sober, dreamy John was disturbed.

  Dorothy's letter had done it. He had carried it for several days andread it many times. Ashamed to let his mother see him do so again, hewalked to the creek and would have climbed out upon the great boulderwhere they sat the night before she left but the swift, swollen streamintervened. Then he read the letter again; and stamping his foot withvexation, tore it into fragments and cast them forth upon the yellowstream.

  She wrote: "* * * Father leaves Danville for Boston the first ofNovember, taking me with him. I am to remain and attend a finishingschool for young ladies, making my home for the winter with Aunt Mildredand Uncle John. Father will remain but a few days.

  "He has become quite intimate with General Wilkinson, who makes our homehis headquarters whenever he comes to Danville. He seems to like me;though he is not the sort of man I would ever fancy. He came to Kentuckyin 1784; has a large store in Lexington and a small plantation on theTown Fork of Elkhorn Creek; is more than thirty years old, is short andfat, though elegant and fastidious in appearance, with a bland andcourteous manner, an easy address and his general manner uphold histitle, which was conferred upon him for distinguished service atSaratoga.

  "Recently he has obtained a permit from Governor Miro, of Louisiana, totransport tobacco by river to New Orleans, where it is bought at a goodprice by the Spanish Government. Father is acting as one of hispurchasing agents and can talk of nothing else except the General andthe prospect of wealth that is presented to us because of this businessconnection.

  "I do not like the spirit that pervades his talks with father. He doesnot seem to have any love for Virginia and little regard or patriotismfor the Union. He is one of the leaders of what is spoken of as theCourt Party; and he, father, Judge Sebastian and Colonel Harry Innes,with several other men I do not know, meet at our house. One is aSpaniard, Don Pedro Wouver d'Arges; and they treat him with greatdeference.

  "From what I gather, they advocate immediate severance of Kentucky fromVirginia as an independent state; and declare that unless the federalgovernment will protect them from the Indians of the Northwest territoryand procure an open market by river to New Orleans for their tobacco andother surplus produce, Kentucky, having nothing to gain by remaining inthe union of states had better become a province of Spanish Louisiana;as only in that way can we enjoy free navigation of the Mississippi andtrade privileges with New Orleans, our only market. They say theoriginal thirteen states oppose free navigation, as it diverts tradefrom the Atlantic; and when we say trade between us and the Atlantic isimpossible, they talk of building canals connecting the Potomac and theOhio.

  "General Wilkinson has told father that should Kentucky become a Spanishprovince, he will use his influence to procure his appointment ascommander of the military forces or as governor.

  "It is at his suggestion that I am being sent to Boston. He haspersuaded father that such an aristocrat as poor, little, insignificantDorothy, must be educated in accord with her prospective station. Whenhe left, I mentioned to father that I expected to marry you, at which heflew into a passion and said: 'Not while I am alive shall you marry amountain preacher; if he wants you let him first come down here and livelike a man.' I left the room. He and mother quarreled for some timebecause she took out part. He seems a different man since we leftJackson River. There he was deacon of the church; now he never goes tochurch.

  "If you wish to see your Dorothy as much as she longs for a sight of herJohn, you must come to Danville before the first of November. * * *"

  John stood for a long time looking down the trail that led northward toDanville and the cane-brake country; then he saddled his horse and tookthe trail in the opposite direction to the Gap. Having tied his horse atthe foot of the path leading to the Pinnacle, he climbed to the apex ofthe peak, as at the old home he climbed John Calvin Rock when mentallydisturbed.

  It was a stormy day; heavy, black, threatening clouds rode the northwestwind. Only at rare intervals did the sun break through; yet from hisaerie, always, somewhere to the north or south, a sunbeam found a riftand bathed in golden glory the red and brown foliage of a portion of thegreat forest; which from where he sat, seemed to cover the earth, savethe little clearing round their station. Today as always from thePinnacle, the earth's upturned face, marked by rift and shadow,presented a new, though a kindly and varied expression.

  In such altitudes and surroundings, John had always been able to unravelthe mesh that bound his mind, recover his poise and deliver his spirit;though today the struggle was long and fierce.

  He looked northward, ready, it afterward seemed, to give up that workwhich the men of his mother's people had followed for many generationsand become a planter in the cane-brake country; the price CaptainFairfax demanded for Dorothy. To John an insistent voice kept saying: "Aplanter can do almost as much good as a preacher; you can still serveGod but in another way; merely dilute the stringency of your puritanism;be human, a he-man; make life more a game and less a crusade; smile andthe world will smile with you; God gave Dorothy to you!"

  Through a sudden rift he saw the clear blue of the sky; and indistinctlyas though a long way off, yet looking at him; the face, that as a boy hehad seen before. His mind projected upon the black clouds in letters ofgold, a portion of the gospel of Matthew, which he had learned inJeremiah Tyler's school: "Then was Jesus led up of the spirit into thewilderness to be tempted of the devil, * * * the devil taketh him upinto an exceeding high mountain and showeth him all the kingdoms of theworld and the glory of them; and sayeth unto him; all these things willI give thee, IF * * *"

  John saw below the great forest, and above the black clouds, with rarelya rift; and from the shadow of the forest and from the face of theclouds, Dorothy's face peeped out in the glory of its loveliness.Finding himself he answered: "Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God andHim only shalt thou serve."

  If the devil thought to tempt John on the Pinnacle he made a mistake;the valley was a better place. To John the path upward to the Pinnaclewas a series of
upward stepping stones to the heights of clearer visionand the table land of God's glory. As John climbed he left behind theearthly and entered into the glory of God's distant, actual presence.Such had been his belief since a little boy; as also that before hedescended, angels ministered unto him.

  When he returned home it was twilight. They were waiting supper. Afterhis father had asked the blessing, which the present generation wouldthink too long and comprehensive; taking in the world as little Tim'sprayer--"God bless everybody;" they ate a meal, such as people who livein the open and earn their bread by toil, enjoy.

  His mother was happy because her son had found his appetite, which haddeparted with his peace of mind upon the receipt of Dorothy's letter.After she had respread the table for breakfast, she went into the roomwhere he lay on a buffalo rug reading by the firelight; and sat downbeside him. In a little while her son's head was resting in her lap andshe with loving fingers arranged his hair.

  "John, you did not read me Dorothy's last letter as you usually do."

  "No, mother I have torn it up," and he detailed its contents.

  "Are you going to Danville, John?"

  "I think not, mother."

  "Is that fair to Dorothy?"

  "We cannot marry if her father will not consent. Would you have me giveup being a preacher to become Dorothy's husband?"

  "Certainly not, John, nor can you. You have been called and you willpreach, though carried to your destination in a whale's belly. That isCalvinism. But you must go to Dorothy; and no time is to be lost.Besides you should have a finishing course before starting in on yourwork and a few months training at Rev. David Rice's Seminary will do yougood. Your father and I have talked it over and we can spare you untilnext harvest. Go out and feed your horse and go in the morning. We willmiss you; but your father and I can be happy together; we are stillsweethearts."

  "Mother, I am glad you think I should go. That was my desire; but Ifeared desire had warped judgment and had decided to remain, fearingthat in the end I might give up my work. It strengthens your faith tobelieve that you are a part in God's plan and must do your part of hisservice."

  "Dorothy is a girl of good judgment. She knows just the life that willbe hers as your wife; she is prepared for it and may not count it asacrifice but a privilege. It is right that you should wait for herfather's consent, which he will give in time. The Lord answers myprayers but not always my way. Before you marry you must be betterfitted for your work and it must be established. A year or so seems along time now but if you both are busy it will soon pass by and willgive you time to demonstrate if her father's wish is to be Dorothy'sfuture. Good night, John. Call me at daylight."

  When John awoke, the waning light of the morning star, which he couldsee through the sashless window, heralded the birth of a clear Octoberday. He arose and pushed together the back-logs that had burned apartthrough the night, adding fresh fuel. A great crackling of wood anddense, pungent smoke poured forth, followed by a bright and cheery glow,which filled the room with light. He finished dressing, called hismother and went out into the red frosty morning to feed the horses andmilk the cows.

  When he came in again ruddiness of sky had given place to the goldenglow of sunrise and the morning sun tinted the mountain tops. Hisbreakfast was ready and his mother had packed his best clothing into thesaddle bags which his father had carried at Monmouth, at King's Mountainand at Yorktown; two home-made blankets of fine, long wool, light ofweight and soft and warm, were rolled and wrapped to be tied behind hissaddle, with a small sack containing his mess kit and provisions andlying over all was the Mingo girdle. He was probably the only person inKentucky who would undertake such a journey without carrying a rifle. Hefelt no need for one.

  At noon, twenty miles from home, he unsaddled and rested an hour,picketing his horse. Twelve miles below Flat Lick, near Brown's Station,he came upon Dick Martin and his family in a sorry plight. Two daysbefore they had passed Campbell Station traveling to Danville fromTidewater, Virginia. The night before in crossing a stream, their wagonhad been swept by high water below the ford and one of their two horseshad been drowned. It was impossible to continue their journey with butone.

  Martin, a shiftless fellow, had not even removed the harness from thedrowned horse. The wagon stood with the rear wheels in the edge of thereceding flood; and their scanty chattels were spread about drying inthe sun. While his wife was rustling the fire wood, looking after thechildren and attempting to cook a few potatoes and slices of bacon, hesat by the camp fire smoking a corncob pipe, while the youngest of thechildren sat near him on a dirty piece of rag carpet munching a rawbacon rind.

  John hitched his horse and Martin's surviving one to the wagon and drewit into the road. Then he helped reload it; and after night they droveon to Brown's Station. As they rode along, learning the man had nomoney, John, having his year's savings, fifty dollars, loaned Martinforty to buy a horse, which loan he accepted in a matter-of-fact way.Brown, having but one horse, refused to sell it and informed them it wasimpossible to buy another nearer than Logan's Station; more than seventymiles distant.

  There seemed no solution, except that John's horse should be hitched tothe wagon and that they travel together to Logan's Station. The otherhorse was so weak and emaciated that they only made twenty miles thefirst day; and John grew fearful lest Dorothy might leave for Bostonbefore his arrival. The following morning it seemed he would never getMartin started; so telling him to keep the horse until he got toDanville, he went ahead on foot. That night when he was miles ahead, thethought occurred that though Martin had his horse he had not returnedhis money.

  The following noon-day, as he was resting at a spring near the head ofDick's River, two Indians unexpectedly came upon him; their manner wasthreatening until they saw his girdle, when they shook hands ingreeting, saying: "How do, How do." He spoke to them in their own tongueand they traveled along with him to Jenkins Station.

  While they were at supper, Jenkins, hiding the rifles of the Indians,suddenly appeared at the door of the room with three companions who,with rifles presented, declared: "We are going to kill you three horsethieves;" merely making the statement as an excuse for robbing andassassinating them.

  John, rising from his chair, stated that he had no money except tendollars, which he offered to give them. This Jenkins took, saying: "Thiswill pay for your lodging. We will let you go but we are going to killthe redskins."

  At this he struck Jenkins with his fist, who sank to the floor as herushed the man nearest him, seizing his rifle. The Indians following hisexample, had rushed the other two men, who, surprised by the suddennessof the attack, had no opportunity to use their rifles effectively,though one of the Indians was slightly wounded.

  John, drawing two of the men to him, pounded their heads together untilthey sank to the floor unconscious. He was just in time to save Jenkinsand the other man from being scalped and tomahawked. The Indiansdisarmed the men while John, forcing Jenkins to disclose the hidingplace of the rifles of the Indians, placed them in a heap on the floorbeside him and sat down at the table with the Indians and resumedeating; while Jenkins and his companions sat beside the fire nursingbruises in sullen silence.

  After they had eaten, John gave Jenkins a lecture on the entertainmentof future guests and at its close ordered the men to take blankets andsleep in the stable loft; while he and the Indians, retaining possessionof all weapons, barred and occupied the cabin; John saying: "The price Ihave paid justifies sole occupancy." At this Jenkins laughed and said:"I think so too." He came to the house at daybreak and preparedbreakfast and they all sat down and ate together.

  The Indians having removed the hammers from the four rifles returnedthem to the owners; and Jenkins, at John's request, accompanied them fora mile or so on their journey. When he left he was given the hammers andcautioned to treat Martin and his family with proper courtesy when theyshould arrive.

  At mid-day the Indians left him, taking a trail to the eastward. Theytold their adventure to the P
rophet; and in such an embellished form,narrating how John had tossed the four men about like pumpkins, that thestory established a not altogether undeserved reputation for greatstrength and courage.

  Mid-afternoon the next day, Martin drove up to Jenkins', and wasreceived with great friendliness.

  "Well, I expected you yesterday. Young Campbell told me you were coming,to make ready the feast and kill the fatted calf. This has been done.Get out; the place is yours." And they were entertained in Jenkins' beststyle.

  John was the chief subject of conversation, each telling the other sucha tale as suited his fancy and both vieing to make him the greater hero.Jenkins told how young Campbell had saved his life, having put to rout aband of robbers, of three white men and two Indians; and his guest, ofhow the hero swam into the turbid waters of the Cumberland and afterrescuing his entire family from drowning, saved one of his horses,pulled his loaded wagon out of the river, gave him his own saddle horseand some money; and being in a great hurry rushed off afoot.

  The night that Martin and his family spent at Jenkins', John passed atSt. Asaph's Plantation, in the most comfortable and commodious house hehad seen since leaving Jackson River. It was the home of GeneralBenjamin Logan, to whom his father had sent a letter introducing hisson, who was very cordially received. The two men had been friends whenboth were officers in the Virginia militia. The General came to Kentuckyin 1775 and founded Logan Station; to which place he brought his familyfrom Holston, Virginia, in 1776.

  He found the young people of the Station assembled at the house, andparticipating in their amusements, soon became quite a favorite.

  About 8 o'clock some negro musicians were called in and the companystarted dancing. John attempted to withdraw from the room, but theyinsisted that he join them and would listen to no excuse. He was led outupon the floor and a daughter of General Logan was assigned as hispartner. The head musician's name was Gallagher; and some of the crowdcalled out: "Let her go, Gallagher."

  Then John making a sign for silence, stated: "I am licensed for theministry and it is my habit when I enter upon any unaccustomed thing orbusiness to ask the blessing of God upon it. As I am placed in anunexpected position I ask permission to implore Divine guidance." Hesank upon his knees and offered an impassioned prayer.

  Several of those present began to weep, his partner among them,declaring they would never dance again. They insisted that he talk tothem about their souls' salvation. This he did and after he had finishedall sat together singing old and familiar hymns, led by John andaccompanied by the negro musicians. When the party broke up all agreedthat they had enjoyed the evening more than if they had spent it indancing.

  John borrowed a horse from General Logan on which he rode to Danville,arriving October 30, at eight o'clock in the evening. Inquiring the way,he rode directly to Captain Fairfax's house. Dismounting he knocked uponthe door, which after a moment was opened by Mrs. Fairfax.

  "Good evening, Mrs. Fairfax. I have come to see Dorothy; she wrote thatshe and her father were leaving for Boston on the first."

  "Come in, John, I am glad to see you. You are looking well. How are yourfather and mother? Take that chair. I am so sorry, but Dorothy and herfather left yesterday morning and are by now at Limestone: from whichpoint they expect to travel up the Ohio and Monongahela to the head ofnavigation; then over the mountains to the Potomac; thence by boat andschooner to Boston."

  "But she wrote they would not leave before the first."

  "They left sooner than we had expected; her father, for business reasonsand to make the boat, was forced to expedite his plans. Dorothy was alittle rebellious about leaving before she heard from you; but herfather insisted, saying it was impossible to wait. She had quite a cryand told me to tell you when you came that if you waited she would marryyou or remain an old maid for a thousand years."

  John thought that Captain Fairfax, learning that Dorothy was expectinghim, hastened their departure on that account. He was confirmed in thisbelief, when he learned that they waited four days for their boat; whichleft Limestone on the third of November.

  Mrs. Fairfax insisted that he remain for the night; but thanking her heasked and was directed to the Clark Plantation, where he remained sometime. He returned General Logan's horse by a messenger, using onebelonging to his uncle until Martin returned his own.

  Many people of Danville inquired the name of the young stranger ridingabout with David Clark. For a day or two they learned nothing exceptthat he was the son of Colonel Campbell of Cumberland Gap. Thisinformation in a day or two was supplemented by exaggerated reports ofthe incident at the dance; coupled with the story of his captivity andadoption by the Mingoes; of the girdle of wampum; of his strange name asa chief of that nation; of the tattooed cross upon his breast, fromwhich it was said drops of blood fell. Talk about him was at its heightwhen Dick Martin drove into town. He told of his generosity and gave outthe story of his adventure at Jenkins' Station, laying stress upon hisstrength and courage.

  John was forced to hunt up Dick Martin, who when found was very profusein his thanks and promised to return his horse that night. When askedwhere the horse was, he explained that his brother had ridden him toHarrods Town. He showed John his two horses feeding at ease in the barn.The old one had improved in condition; the other which he had purchasedat Logan Station with thirty-five dollars of John's money, was a fineanimal. It should have been as the price was a good one.

  At that time, the wages of a laborer did not exceed eight dollars amonth; beef sold at two cents a pound, venison and buffalo meat at acent and a half, potatoes at fifty cents a barrel, turkeys at fifteencents each and whiskey at forty cents a gallon.

  When Martin returned the horse he handed John five dollars; but made nomention as to when he would pay the other thirty-five. John's horse wasthin, out of condition and his back was saddle-galled, and looked asthough he had seen constant service since changing masters.

  Any other man in vexation would have repented his generosity, but Johnsaid: "I am glad I was able to serve you; if I can do it again do nothesitate to call upon me. Do not trouble to return the money until youcan afford to do it." He meant what he said, though he had saved it topay his way at the Rice Seminary; and he now had no money to do so.

  The thought never once entered his mind to sell his horse, which waseven then nudging his master's shoulder; or to write to his father formoney; or to borrow it from his uncle. He thought, I must wait and workand save for another year.