Donald McElroy, Scotch Irishman. Caldwell Willie Walker

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ across the fields, and walked the twelve miles to the home stile by sunset.

      "Father," I said, before he had time to express astonishment, "I am going with Colonel Lewis to whip the Indians."

      The day after the next, my father accompanied me to the mustering, and gave full consent to my enlistment for the campaign.

      The long march we made through an almost trackless wilderness, and the effectual check we gave Cornstalk and his warriors, are, now, facts of history, and since they in no way serve to help on my story, I must resist the temptation to dwell upon our brief campaign. I cannot even stop to point out convincingly the far reaching and most important consequences to the cause growing out of this victory. But this much of a digression must be forgiven me – though my story halts while I say it.

      Had not the strength and confidence of the Shawnees, and the tribes confederated with them, been shaken at Point Pleasant, and the prestige and influence of the brave and capable Cornstalk destroyed, the Indians would, doubtless months before, have made impossible that intrepid defiance of Washington, the memory of which we Scotch Irish cherish with so much pride: – that he would never surrender but if driven to bay would make a last stand in the mountain fastnesses of Augusta; and, rallying to his aid those brave pioneers, yet bid defiance to the enemy and hope to pluck victory from apparent defeat. Nor, had there been no battle of Point Pleasant, would a dauntless rifle company have been available for service under the gallant Morgan, to march to Quebec, to win the decisive battle at Freeman Farm, and the telling victories of King's Mountain and of Cowpens.

      Returned from the Ohio, I went back to my books, but I could not settle down contentedly to Latin odes and Greek classics. The excitement of the march, the battle, and the victory, had aroused within me a sleeping aptitude for the life of a soldier, and I chafed at the prospect of a safe and uneventful career.

      At Christmas I had two weeks' holiday, and what time I was not tracking game in the snow, was spent breaking the colts to the cutter, or coasting on a plank down the steepest hills to be found, with Jean and Ellen O'Niel behind me. My grandmother, who did not share the universal disapproval of the Irish child's "defiant spirit," had persuaded my mother to have Ellen over to spend the holidays with Jean, using the adroit argument, with both my mother and Aunt Martha, that Jean's gentle and tractable spirit might have a good influence over the untamed Ellen. She had come, but not very graciously, and sat silent among us, for the first day and evening, looking sullen and unhappy.

      Few could resist, however, the contagion of our kindly home atmosphere, and by the second morning, Ellen had melted sufficiently to smile at grandmother's quaint jokes and stories of Ireland. By dinner time she was ready to listen with interest to some of my father's pioneer experiences, and that night when mother bade me give her a relation of my fight with the panther, she listened with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. We were by this time drawn in the usual family circle about the glowing fireplace, from which roasting apples and chestnuts were sending forth a rich odor. Mother sat in her special corner, her head resting against the panther's skin, and father sat beside her, grandmother opposite, and I near her on the settle, while Jean nestled close to me. Thomas, who occupied the other end of the settle, wore a radiant face, for he enjoyed the absence of restraint which he found nowhere but with us, and all the sullen reserve was gone from Ellen's countenance.

      Presently Ellen, who so far had deigned only to answer us, began to talk. At first she barely asked a question into which interest or surprise had betrayed her, or made an occasional impulsive remark. But, as her reserve melted in the genial and sympathetic atmosphere, the sluice gates of pent up memories seemed suddenly to open, and she talked freely, relating anecdotes and reminiscences of her childhood, and showing a depth and warmth of emotion which surprised us. These led her on to repeat some of the stories her father had read or told to her. They were chiefly tales from Shakespeare's "Tempest," "Winter's Tale," "Hamlet," and others of the more fantastical and tragic of these dramas. None of her listeners had read them, then, though I had heard of Shakespeare, the great English playwright. We were all charmed, as much, perhaps, by the flashing expressions of intelligence and feeling which transformed Ellen's face into one almost of beauty, as by the stories themselves. Moreover that emotional quality of her voice, so prone to subtle vibrations, added a special charm to all she said.

      "Now, Donald," said my father, when Ellen seemed to have spent her present memories, and had lapsed into her usual quiet, "get your fiddle, and let's have a tune."

      Jean ran at once to bring my violin, and I did my best to add my share of entertainment to the evening's innocent pleasures.

      "Ellen can sing sweeter than a lark, or a red bird," said Thomas, as I paused to rest my arm.

      "Can she?" from Jean with eager delight. "I do love singing; sing for us, Ellen."

      "I can sing only the Irish and Scotch ballads, and the Catholic hymns my mother used to sing," answered Ellen, flushing. "I do not know the solemn songs you people sing, and I shall never learn them" – the last said in a defiant tone which the occasion scarcely called for.

      "Our psalms are vera sweet an' sacred to us, my dear," remarked my grandmother, with no apparent recognition of the challenge in Ellen's voice, yet choosing her words with a precision that was evidence of slight displeasure, "but we like aither sangs too, an' sing them except on the Sabbath. I love the Scotch and Irish ballads, an' though you hae already done your share aboot making the evening go by pleasantly for us a', we'd greatly like a sang or twa, if ye dinna mind to pleasure us further."

      "It's a delight to please you, grandma," said Ellen impulsively, and she rose from her chair, slipped behind the settle and dropped upon the floor beside grandmother, kissing as she did so, one of the soft, wrinkled hands folded in her lap. Then, resting her head against grandmother's knee, she fixed her eyes upon the dancing flames, and began to sing somewhat unsteadily, but with more fullness and confidence, as she continued. Her voice did indeed soar and swell like a redbird's, and she threw all her heart into her singing, while the quaint words of the old ballads slipped meltingly from her lips, as drops of dew from the petals of a flower.

      "Why, my dear, I hae na' been up sae late for years," remarked grandmother, in a tone of alarm as the clock struck midnight; then stroking Ellen's hair, which was growing out in loose curls, "You g'ie us mouch pleasure, dear, but it's bedtime now, for a'. Come, Jean and Ellen! Good night a', and a merry Christmas to you."

      Not only were cider and persimmon beer drawn from the full barrels in the cellar, but a big bowl of apple toddy was concocted early Christmas morning, and flanked by plates of doughnuts, and ginger bread, raisin and spiced cake, apples, and nuts, sat upon the long table in the big room, all day, every one being free to eat and drink his fill. This custom of my father, which usually drew to our house most of the men within a ten mile ride, always scandalized my Aunt Martha, and but for Uncle Thomas' backing we would never have gotten Ellen and Thomas to our house until after Christmas day. Uncle Thomas himself always came, however, and on this occasion Aunt Martha broke her rule and came with him, bringing too their younger son, John.

      I observed a change come over Ellen's face as soon as Aunt Martha appeared in the doorway; she seemed to draw within herself, and her face took on the sullen expression which so marred its comeliness, and presently when I looked about for her, she was nowhere to be found.

      "Ah, Rachael," said Aunt Martha, glancing toward the laden table between the two southern windows, and shaking her head in solemn disapproval, "I see you have not yet been able to persuade William of the sinfulness of this habit of his, of offering the intoxicating cup to all comers, at this season. Strange perversion, that this holy Christ festival should be turned into an occasion for gluttony and rioting."

      "William has his own ideas, Martha, and I do not set mine against him," I heard my mother answer, from the doorway, as she followed my aunt into the bedroom. "The neighbor gentlemen will all be in presently, and a warming cup will be needed СКАЧАТЬ