Donald McElroy, Scotch Irishman

"To shoot, to climb, to swim, to chop wood, to drive sheep and to read."

I opened my eyes wide, I suppose, for I never heard of a girl who liked such things. "And you can do these things?" I asked.

"Yes, my father taught me, and my mother said I needed outdoor life to make me strong, and at night my father would read to us, or else my mother would teach me."

"But you may like to spin; Jean does."

"No; I shall hate everything I have to do here; I would rather have died than to have come." As she said this I noticed a singular quality in her voice, though not until afterwards did I analyze it. There was a sort of tremor in certain tones, though tremor is, perhaps, too strong a word, since it was rather the suggestion of a harp-like vibration. – like the faintest echo of a sob.

"I wish I might have died when my mother did," she continued, with rising passion. "Why did God leave me alone in the world with no one to love me?" and the strange child burst into a storm of weeping, and ran out of the room, her face hidden by her arm, her slight body shaken by sobs.

"Isn't she queer, Don?" said Thomas, while Aunt Martha came from the room to inquire what was the matter, followed by my mother and grandmother.

"O, 'twas Ellen," I explained, making as light of the matter as possible; "she was answering our questions, and spoke of her mother, which started her to crying."

"Poor child!" said my mother; "I do not wonder she is unhappy, having so recently lost both her parents."

"She is by no means humbled by her afflictions, nor does she seem ever to have been taught respect and obedience," replied Aunt Martha. "Last night I stayed in her room to see that she said her prayers, and when she kneeled down she began to count the beads about her neck and to kiss the crucifix hung to them. I called her to me, and asked her if she did not know they were idolatrous symbols, that she was breaking the second commandment in using them, and that she ought to pray to the unseen God rather than to a wooden cross; and then I bade her give me the beads that I might put it out of her power to sin in that way again. But she refused to give them up, said they were the last thing her mother had kissed, and that her father had told her to say her prayers to them every day; then she grew violent and said she would part with them only with her life. I took her to her Uncle Thomas this morning, and urged him to remonstrate with her, but she again became angry and wept and stormed till Thomas bade me let the child's beads alone; since they were the gift of her dead parents, he could not see how they could do her harm, even though she did attach a superstitious importance to them. So you see, mother, that already this Irish girl is bringing trouble to my household, as I was forewarned she would. Last night was the first time I have ever heard Thomas say a word in favor of idolatry, and not for months has he spoken to me so sternly."

"But, Martha, you dinna use due discretion with the child," said my grandmother; "couldna you hae waited till she hae gotten used to her new surroundings, an' her grief for her parents had some abated, afore you began to abuse her religion? You will soon hae the child set in stubborn defiance, at this rate; hae na' I told you that ne'er yet micht an O'Niel be driven – that they wad be easier led to hell, than driven to heaven?"

"Such language sounds irreverent to me, mother," Aunt Martha replied, with her most pious air, "and if that is the character of the O'Niels they must be a stiff necked people. In my opinion anyone should be grateful to be driven in the right way. But, be that as it may, I cannot risk the effect of an idolatrous example upon my own children, even could I bring myself to tolerate such practices in my house. If Ellen persists in saying prayers to her beads she must do so without my knowledge or consent, and I shall consider it my duty to speak out against such practices whenever the opportunity is afforded."

"Well, Martha, you maun need take your ain way, and reap the fruit of it," said my grandmother, in her sharpest tone; and my mother as usual rushed in with soothing words, diverting the conversation into smoother channels, by further laudation of the beauty of the table linens they were already beginning to hem.

Ellen did not come into dinner, and no one appeared to notice her absence, though Uncle Thomas watched the door, I thought. After dinner I took my rifle on my shoulder, and went down to the canebrake where I hoped to find a flock of wild ducks. Thomas had been sent by his father with more seed to the fields, where the men were sowing wheat, so could not go with me. I went by the dining room, and found platters of wheaten bread, and spice cake still on the side table with which I filled my pockets, for my appetite would be as hearty as ever in three hours, and I might need bait for the ducks.

My way lay under a sycamore tree, on the edge of the creek behind the barn, and as I stooped to pass beneath a low bough, something jumped from a branch just before me. I raised my head quickly, and saw the child, Ellen, standing in the path.

"May I go hunting with you, now?" she said, eagerly. "You asked me this morning, so I brought my bonnet, and I have been watching for you."

"But you've had no dinner."

"I'm not hungry, and I can't eat when she looks at me."

"Who?"

"The one I must call Aunt Martha; do you like her?"

"Well, I never thought about it, much, but I don't believe I am as fond of her as I ought to be."

"Ought to be, – why?"

"She is my real blood aunt, you know – my mother's sister."

"That's nothing. She's hateful, just as much as if she weren't – this morning she stole my crucifix – I left it on my dresser, and it's gone. O, I know she stole it!"

"Don't let's talk about that now," I said, "but sit down here and have lunch together. I'm hungry still, though I've had my dinner." This was not strictly true, but I managed to eat enough to keep her at it till I thought she was satisfied, and then I bade her follow me, and not to let me walk too fast for her.

She scouted the idea, saying: "My father was tall, like you, and walked fast always, and he never had to wait for me."

She kept up without seeming to try, and helped me to pile brush for a blind on the edge of the brake, keeping as still as possible when we were hidden behind it.

A flock rose presently, and flew straight over our heads toward the river. I took aim, brought down one, then loaded quickly, and hit a second, as the flock circled, calling noisily to each other.

Ellen ran fleetly into the marshy grass, and brought both of the dead ducks to me.

"I wish you had two rifles with you," she said, her eyes shining with excitement. "I might be loading one, while you shoot the other."

I smiled at her enthusiasm. "The next flock that rises is yours," I said, "I want to see how well you can aim."

In less than half an hour we again heard a whirring in the brake, and this time the flock flew low, and between us and the river, affording Ellen a fine chance. She waited with a coolness that surprised me, then took careful aim and shot the leader.

"Well done!" I said, seizing the gun to reload, and getting it ready to pick off one of the scattered flock before they could all get back into the brake.

By the time the light began to fail we had six ducks, two of which Ellen had killed. Already we were good friends, and the child looked so happy, as she tripped lightly beside me, that I could not believe that she would ever again seem to me sullen and forbidding as she had that morning.

"It's a pity you're a girl, Ellen," with the patronizing air of a youth of nineteen.

"I wish I were a boy!" with a profound sigh; "I'd live in the woods, and eat roots, berries, and game; I'd never have to weave and spin for my keep, then. Why must I wear skirts and live in the house just because I'm a girl, Cousin Donald?"

"I'm not sure I can give a better answer than the one Aunt Martha would likely make you. God fixed it that way. He meant women for the home, and men for the fields and for war. There's one good thing, maybe, about being a girl – that is, some persons might think it a compensation, – you will never have to fight, or go to war."

"I think fighting would be fine, a heap more fun than staying at home and hearing about it. Don't women ever go to war?"

"Of course not, child, though in this valley they have more than once helped to fight Indians."

"I do wish I were a boy," she repeated, "or I'd like better still to be a splendid, big man like you."

This flattery, whether intentional or not, had its effect upon me, and I constituted myself Ellen's champion from that moment. When we reached the house I marched boldly in with her to Aunt Martha, and after announcing that I had taken the child to the river to pick up ducks for me, made Aunt Martha a peace offering of half of them.

CHAPTER IV

My father had destined me for a lawyer, there being at that time need for one in our valley – a fact which sounds strangely now, when knights of quill and ink horn are everywhere so numerous. An accumulation of legal lore requiring, as was then thought, the deep laid foundation of a thorough classical education, I was sent, after old David Ramsey had imparted to me such measure of his learning as his failing powers permitted, to the Augusta Academy, to continue my Greek and Latin, while at the same time I read Coke and Blackstone, and practiced on legal forms.

We had just begun a second session of eleven months, and I flattered myself I was making some progress in comprehending the great underlying principles of law, as well as in unlearning certain faults of pronunciation and scanning acquired under old David, when my studies encountered a sudden interruption in an event whose influence upon my after life was of sufficient importance to justify me in briefly recording it.

The class room that August afternoon was hot and buzzing, and most of the lads in the Greek class awaited the coming of the master with a sort of drowsy impatience, while a few bent their eyes upon well thumbed books, and read the coming lesson over greedily, hoping to make up for previous neglect by diligent use of an unexpected respite. When the master did come, he had an absent and very serious look upon his face, and he heard us recite with surprising indifference to mistakes. We knew intuitively that he held something in waiting, to tell us as soon as the lesson should be over, and a subdued inward excitement quickly counteracted our drowsiness.

After the last line had been recited, he got on his feet, his tall gaunt figure, stern mouth and Roman nose more impressive than usual, and told us, as quietly as if he were announcing the next day's lesson, that news had been received of a confederated rising of the Indians in the Ohio Valley, and that Colonel Lewis had been ordered to call out the militia, to enlist volunteers, and to march to the frontier to meet the savages. He, the master, being a militia man, was in duty bound to go, and as it was but two days to the one set for the mustering, he would not meet his class again until his return – if it should be God's will to spare his life and liberty, and allow him to come back to more peaceful pursuits. Meantime, he hoped we would not neglect our studies, or grow careless of our duty to our parents, and our country. That duty, at present, was to train our minds by constant exercise, and to fill our brains with varied knowledge, that we might become useful and honored citizens in a commonwealth, standing upon the threshold of a future which promised to be one of glorious and continued progress. Then he bade us good-by feelingly, and left us, each one envying him his chance of adventure and danger, and each sheepishly conscious of tears in his eyes. A moment later I made a sudden but resolute decision, and having put my books, desk, and other school belongings in the care of a fellow student, struck out 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.