Kitabı oku: «Erskine Dale—Pioneer», sayfa 11
XXVI
Yorktown broke the British heart, and General Dale, still weak from wounds, went home to Red Oaks. It was not long before, with gentle inquiry, he had pieced out the full story of Barbara and Erskine and Dane Grey, and wisely he waited his chance with each phase of the situation. Frankly he told her first of Grey’s dark treachery, and the girl listened with horrified silence, for she would as soon have distrusted that beloved father as the heavenly Father in her prayers. She left him when he finished the story and he let her go without another word. All day she was in her room and at sunset she gave him her answer, for she came to him dressed in white, knelt by his chair, and put her head in his lap. And there was a rose in her hair.
“I have never understood about myself and – and that man,” she said, “and I never will.”
“I do,” said the general gently, “and I understand you through my sister who was so like you. Erskine’s father was as indignant as Harry is now, and I am trying to act toward you as my father did toward her.” The girl pressed her lips to one of his hands.
“I think I’d better tell you the whole story now,” said General Dale, and he told of Erskine’s father, his wildness and his wanderings, his marriage, and the capture of his wife and the little son by the Indians, all of which she knew, and the girl wondered why he should be telling her again. The general paused:
“You know Erskine’s mother was not killed. He found her.” The girl looked up amazed and incredulous.
“Yes,” he went on, “the white woman whom he found in the Indian village was his mother.”
“Father!” She lifted her head quickly, leaned back with hands caught tight in front of her, looked up into his face – her own crimsoning and paling as she took in the full meaning of it all. Her eyes dropped.
“Then,” she said slowly, “that Indian girl – Early Morn – is his half-sister. Oh, oh!” A great pity flooded her heart and eyes. “Why didn’t Erskine take them away from the Indians?”
“His mother wouldn’t leave them.” And Barbara understood.
“Poor thing – poor thing!”
“I think Erskine is going to try now.”
“Did you tell him to bring them here?” The general put his hand on her head.
“I hoped you would say that. I did, but he shook his head.”
“Poor Erskine!” she whispered, and her tears came. Her father leaned back and for a moment closed his eyes.
“There is more,” he said finally. “Erskine’s father was the eldest brother – and Red Oaks – ”
The girl sprang to her feet, startled, agonized, shamed: “Belongs to Erskine,” she finished with her face in her hands. “God pity me,” she whispered, “I drove him from his own home.”
“No,” said the old general with a gentle smile. He was driving the barb deep, but sooner or later it had to be done.
“Look here!” He pulled an old piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. Her wide eyes fell upon a rude boyish scrawl and a rude drawing of a buffalo pierced by an arrow:
“It make me laugh. I have no use. I give hole dam plantashun Barbara.”
“Oh!” gasped the girl and then – “where is he?”
“Waiting at Williamsburg to get his discharge.” She rushed swiftly down the steps, calling:
“Ephraim! Ephraim!”
And ten minutes later the happy, grinning Ephraim, mounted on the thoroughbred, was speeding ahead of a whirlwind of dust with a little scented note in his battered slouch hat:
“You said you would come whenever I wanted you. I want you to come now.
“Barbara.”
The girl would not go to bed, and the old general from his window saw her like some white spirit of the night motionless on the porch. And there through the long hours she sat. Once she rose and started down the great path toward the sun-dial, moving slowly through the flowers and moonlight until she was opposite a giant magnolia. Where the shadow of it touched the light on the grass, she had last seen Grey’s white face and scarlet breast. With a shudder she turned back. The night whitened. A catbird started the morning chorus. The dawn came and with it Ephraim. The girl waited where she was. Ephraim took off his battered hat.
“Marse Erskine done gone, Miss Barbary,” he said brokenly. “He done gone two days.”
The girl said nothing, and there the old general found her still motionless – the torn bits of her own note and the torn bits of Erskine’s scrawling deed scattered about her feet.
XXVII
On the summit of Cumberland Gap Erskine Dale faced Firefly to the east and looked his last on the forests that swept unbroken back to the river James. It was all over for him back there and he turned to the wilder depths, those endless leagues of shadowy woodlands, that he would never leave again. Before him was one vast forest. The trees ran from mountain-crest to river-bed, they filled valley and rolling plain, and swept on in sombre and melancholy wastes to the Mississippi. Around him were birches, pines, hemlocks, and balsam firs. He dropped down into solemn, mysterious depths filled with oaks, chestnuts, hickories, maples, beeches, walnuts, and gigantic poplars. The sun could not penetrate the leafy-roofed archway of that desolate world. The tops of the mighty trees merged overhead in a mass of tent-like foliage and the spaces between the trunks were choked with underbrush. And he rode on and on through the gray aisles of the forest in a dim light that was like twilight at high noon.
At Boonesborough he learned from the old ferryman that, while the war might be coming to an end in Virginia, it was raging worse than ever in Kentucky. There had been bloody Indian forays, bloody white reprisals, fierce private wars, and even then the whole border was in a flame. Forts had been pushed westward even beyond Lexington, and 1782 had been Kentucky’s year of blood. Erskine pushed on, and ever grew his hopelessness. The British had drawn all the savages of the Northwest into the war. As soon as the snow was off the ground the forays had begun. Horses were stolen, cabins burned, and women and children were carried off captive. The pioneers had been confined to their stockaded forts, and only small bands of riflemen sallied out to patrol the country. Old Jerome Sanders’s fort was deserted. Old Jerome had been killed. Twenty-three widows were at Harrodsburg filing the claims of dead husbands, and among them were Polly Conrad and Honor Sanders. The people were expecting an attack in great force from the Indians led by the British. At the Blue Licks there had been a successful ambush by the Indians and the whites had lost half their number, among them many brave men and natural leaders of the settlements. Captain Clark was at the mouth of Licking River and about to set out on an expedition and needed men.
Erskine, sure of a welcome, joined him and again rode forth with Clark through the northern wilderness, and this time a thousand mounted riflemen followed them. Clark had been stirred at last from his lethargy by the tragedy of the Blue Licks and this expedition was one of reprisal and revenge; and it was to be the last. The time was autumn and the corn was ripe. The triumphant savages rested in their villages unsuspecting and unafraid, and Clark fell upon them like a whirl-wind. Taken by surprise, and startled and dismayed by such evidence of the quick rebirth of power in the beaten whites, the Indians of every village fled at their approach, and Clark put the torch not only to cabin and wigwam but to the fields of standing corn. As winter was coming on, this would be a sad blow, as Clark intended, to the savages.
Erskine had told the big chief of his mother, and every man knew the story and was on guard that she should come to no harm. A captured Shawnee told them that the Shawnees had got word that the whites were coming, and their women and old men had fled or were fleeing, all, except in a village he had just left – he paused and pointed toward the east where a few wisps of smoke were rising. Erskine turned: “Do you know Kahtoo?”
“He is in that village.”
Erskine hesitated: “And the white woman – Gray Dove?”
“She, too, is there.”
“And Early Morn?”
“Yes,” grunted the savage.
“What does he say?” asked Clark.
“There is a white woman and her daughter in a village, there,” said Erskine, pointing in the direction of the smoke.
Clark’s voice was announcing the fact to his men. Hastily he selected twenty. “See that no harm comes to them,” he cried, and dashed forward. Erskine in advance saw Black Wolf and a few bucks covering the retreat of some fleeing women. They made a feeble resistance of a volley and they too turned to flee. A white woman emerged from a tent and with great dignity stood, peering with dim eyes. To Clark’s amazement Erskine rushed forward and took her in his arms. A moment later Erskine cried:
“My sister, where is she?”
The white woman’s trembling lips opened, but before she could answer, a harsh, angry voice broke in haughtily, and Erskine turned to see Black Wolf stalking in, a prisoner between two stalwart woodsmen.
“Early Morn is Black Wolf’s squaw. She is gone – ” He waved one hand toward the forest.
The insolence of the savage angered Clark, and not understanding what he said, he asked angrily:
“Who is this fellow?”
“He is the husband of my half-sister,” answered Erskine gravely.
Clark looked dazed and uncomprehending:
“And that woman?”
“My mother,” said Erskine gently.
“Good God!” breathed Clark. He turned quickly and waved the open-mouthed woodsmen away, and Erskine and his mother were left alone. A feeble voice called from a tent near by.
“Old Kahtoo!” said Erskine’s mother. “He is dying and he talks of nothing but you – go to him!” And Erskine went. The old man lay trembling with palsy on a buffalo-robe, but the incredible spirit in his wasted body was still burning in his eyes.
“My son,” said he, “I knew your voice. I said I should not die until I had seen you again. It is well … it is well,” he repeated, and wearily his eyes closed. And thus Erskine knew it would be.
XXVIII
That winter Erskine made his clearing on the land that Dave Yandell had picked out for him, and in the centre of it threw up a rude log hut in which to house his mother, for his remembrance of her made him believe that she would prefer to live alone. He told his plans to none.
In the early spring, when he brought his mother home, she said that Black Wolf had escaped and gone farther into the wilderness – that Early Morn had gone with him. His mother seemed ill and unhappy. Erskine, not knowing that Barbara was on her way to find him, started on a hunting-trip. In a few days Barbara arrived and found his mother unable to leave her bed, and Lydia Noe sitting beside her. Harry had just been there to say good-by before going to Virginia.
Barbara was dismayed by Erskine’s absence and his mother’s look of suffering and extreme weakness, and the touch of her cold fingers. There was no way of reaching her son, she said – he did not know of her illness. Barbara told her of Erskine’s giving her his inheritance, and that she had come to return it. Meanwhile Erskine, haunted by his mother’s sad face, had turned homeward. To his bewilderment, he found Barbara at his mother’s bedside. A glance at their faces told him that death was near. His mother held out her hand to him while still holding Barbara’s. As in a dream, he bent over to kiss her, and with a last effort she joined their hands, clasping both. A great peace transformed her face as she slowly looked at Barbara and then up at Erskine. With a sigh her head sank lower, and her lovely dimming eyes passed into the final dark.
Two days later they were married. The woodsmen, old friends of Erskine’s, were awed by Barbara’s daintiness, and there were none of the rude jests they usually flung back and forth. With hearty handshakes they said good-by and disappeared into the mighty forest. In the silence that fell, Erskine spoke of the life before them, of its hardships and dangers, and then of the safety and comfort of Virginia. Barbara smiled:
“You choose the wilderness, and your choice is mine. We will leave the same choice…” She flushed suddenly and bent her head.
“To those who come after us,” finished Erskine.
