"'Be kind to my remains, and oh! defend, Against your judgment, your departed friend.'

"RICHARD W. RALSTON."

"Dick Ralston! And but for him I would not have had David. The ways of Providence are past finding out, Rodney."

"Nor would we have had a home but for him, mother."

"True, I forgot that. He had a kind heart and I remember what an attractive gentleman I thought him, the day he came here. Think what he might have been!"

The day on which the remains of Ralston were laid at rest, Rodney, on returning home, found Mam in a state of agitation. She beckoned him into the house and hoarsely whispered: "Dar's a dirty Injun in de shed. I wouldn' 'low him ter set foot in dis yar house, I wouldn', not ef he'd scalped me on de spot. He grunt, an' squat, an' 'lowed he done wouldn' stir less he seed you."

"I'll bet I know him," saying which, Rodney ran out and, as he suspected, found Conrad stolidly waiting for him.

"Where's little Louis, Conrad?"

"He vould stay mit der priest at Detroit. He say he a medicine man be himself."

As Rodney wrote the letter Conrad was to take back through the hundreds of miles of forest to the son of Richard Ralston, he thought what a pity the boy's father died without seeing him. The son should know, however, that he was loved and that his father had been a brave man and that, if he but chose to return to England, he might come into his inheritance. What would he choose, the life of the missionary with all its dangers and sacrifices, or that of a country gentleman,—rather what would his advisers choose for him?

Weeks lengthened into months and months into years, slowly so far as concerned the progress of the war, but swiftly with regard to the growth of the country. Notwithstanding Continental money was becoming almost worthless, bountiful crops were raised and the greater part of the population were engaged in work.

The surrender of Burgoyne had proved the success necessary to enable that wise old man, Benjamin Franklin, to secure recognition of the United States by France. A French fleet hovered along the coast and annoyed the British without accomplishing anything decisive. The American people seemed less inclined to make great effort, relying on French aid to secure independence for them. Corruption,—depriving the army of supplies and money,—the weakness of Congress,—unable to do more than suggest and leave to the several states to respond or not as they chose,—all served to delay the war. But for Washington, patient and wise, standing as a tower of strength about which the patriotic people might rally, the end of it all might well have been in doubt. The people of the country, however, did not doubt. The great majority of them believed their cause invincible.

Washington's army had chased Clinton's British troops from Philadelphia back to New York, and would have inflicted serious punishment upon them but for the treachery of General Charles Lee. As it was, Washington saw the hand of Providence in the fact that, after two years, his and the British army were back in their old positions with the British less confident and powerful. General Howe on returning to England had remarked: "Things go ill and will not go better."

The Wyoming massacre, perpetrated by Indians and Tories, sent a thrill of horror over the land, and the man who had been thinking the war would be ended without further assistance from him burned to fight the foe. The successes of Clark in capturing British posts west of the Alleghanies, and so laying the foundation of our claim to that vast territory, increased Rodney's restlessness.

"Zeb," he said to his friend on hearing the report, "I'm beginning to long to go West again."

"You ought to know what is thought of a man as fools with fire after havin' his fingers burned once."

"I can't help it. I know that is a wonderful country. Great work will be done there in the next few years and I want a share in it."

"I reckon I'd wait till the war is over an' the redskins are tamed."

"Well, I suppose I'll have to. But it'll be either the West or the war for me before long."

Zeb looked shrewdly at his friend, wondering why he was so restless, for he had prospered. "It's nigh two years since we licked Burgoyne an' they don't make much headway. Reckon we'll hev to go back an' show 'em how we used to do it. But, if we ain't needed, it will be too bad to leave things here just as we've got 'em into shape."

"You ought never to go to the front again, Zeb. You've done your share and, with your wound and your rheumatism, you couldn't last long in camp. You stay at home and take charge of matters and let me go. I heard yesterday that the British are having things their own way down in South Carolina, murdering and pillaging. Cornwallis evidently intends to frighten the people into submission and then invade Virginia."

"He hasn't licked 'em to a standstill yet awhile. Thar's Sumter an' Marion left, an' the boys o' the mountains,—oh! but he'll have trouble."

"I hear the Tories down there are helping the British much more than the Tories in any other part of the country have been able to do."

"Unless they do they won't help much. They were goin' ter help Burgoyne an' didn't amount to a pinch o' snuff. All they can do in the way o' fightin' is killing women an' children an' then scalpin' 'em. Anyhow, if ye can't keep contented at home any longer I'll try to look after matters here while you are away. But why not get advice from your friend at Monticello? 'Pears to me you have done your share of the fightin'."

"I don't like to bother him with my petty affairs, with his many important duties. Being governor of Virginia is enough for one man, let alone all he's doing for national affairs and for education. I wouldn't be surprised if he did something to abolish slavery; father believed he would. You know Mr. Jefferson says he trembles for the future when he thinks that God is just."

"We'll never live to see it, Rodney."

Rodney inherited his father's hatred of slavery, and his kindly feelings toward all men, but the following morning, when he went to the stable and found that Nat, together with saddle and bridle, had been stolen in the night, and thought of what Mogridge had asked Angus—well, it was fortunate for both that young Allison and Mogridge did not meet that morning.



CHAPTER XXX

RODNEY RIDES WITH THE DRAGOONS

After the battle of Camden, in which Gates was sorely defeated by Cornwallis, affairs in the South looked very dubious for the American forces. A large part of the people in South Carolina and Georgia were loyalists, and their relations with their Whig neighbours were exceedingly bitter. Except for small bands of patriots under daring leaders like Marion and Sumter, "The Carolina Gamecock," as his followers proudly called him, the British and their Tory allies held possession of Georgia and South Carolina and were planning to sweep northward into North Carolina and on into Virginia. Cornwallis' fame was in the ascendant.

Such were the conditions on that October day when Rodney Allison joined the army of Gates. Two days later came the cheering news that a force of Tories under the command of Colonel Ferguson had been almost annihilated at King's Mountain by a body of pioneer Whigs, most of whom came from the border settlements over the mountains. A number of those captured, known to be guilty of murder, were hanged and the impression made on other Tories in those states was very depressing.

The Americans now expected great assistance from the militia of those states, but the British emissaries among the Indians incited them to attack the frontier settlements, thus making it necessary for those brave fellows who had won the battle of King's Mountain to return home to protect their families from the savages.

When finally General Nathaniel Greene, at Washington's request, was sent to supersede Gates, he found an army of only about two thousand men, poorly equipped, the enemy strongly entrenched, the country swept bare of subsistence and winter approaching.

Through the influence of General Morgan, Rodney was assigned to duty with Colonel Washington's dragoons. It was a proud moment for the lad when he found himself associated with the finest body of cavalry in the army. Those daring horsemen were the terror of the Tories and young Allison rode with them on many a daring exploit, a full account of which would fill a volume. The lad had now grown to man's stature and sat his horse like a veteran. How often on those wild rides he longed to be on the back of Nat once more! Poor fellow, what had become of him? The sight of the spur-scarred, hard-ridden horses of the British cavalry filled him with fury as he thought it probable the fate of his beloved colt had been like theirs.

Finally came the day when General Morgan was to add another to the long list of his successes. Cornwallis and Colonel Tarleton, "the bloodhound," had planned to trap Morgan and annihilate his force. The latter was compelled to retreat and Tarleton was sent in pursuit. When he believed Morgan was fleeing from him he threw caution to the winds and hurried his force on to what he doubted not would be the capture of the doughty leader.

Morgan has since been criticized for hazarding a battle. His force was far inferior to Tarleton's and did not include artillery as did the latter's. Moreover, with Morgan were many raw militia who could not be depended upon to face the veterans under the British leader, knowing, as they did from sad experience, that little quarter would be granted them if defeated. But he had the veteran Marylanders who had fought so bravely at Camden, and the support of Colonel Washington's dragoons. Furthermore, shrewd leader of men that he was, he felt that the moment had come when he must fight. To continue his flight meant capture or dispersion of his forces. He believed that Tarleton would be over-confident and so run headlong into whatever trap he might set, and this was just what happened.

At a place called the Cowpens he found the position he desired. Here were two small hills, one behind the other and with a river at the rear; no place for a scared militiaman to escape, nothing to do but fight to his last gasp, because he knew that if he offered to surrender he would be ruthlessly bayoneted.

The night before the battle it is said Morgan did not sleep. His men, enraged at the cruelties inflicted upon their country by the invaders, were longing for revenge. This spirit Morgan fanned to flame. Throughout the night this big, brawny man, whose fame for success in many perilous undertakings inspired the confidence of every man who came to know him, walked among the soldiers and talked with them. His was the appearance of a man perfectly confident that the next day would bring victory and glory to American arms. He laughed and joked with them. "Just hold up your heads, boys; give 'em three fires and you are free. The Old Wagoner will crack his whip over Ben Tarleton in the morning, sure as he lives. Think of what your wives an' sweethearts will say when you go home an' tell what ye did."

Ah! How they loved and admired the big fellow who was one of them. He had stormed the defences at Quebec after leading his men through an almost impassable wilderness; he had led his Rangers in wild charges against the regulars under Burgoyne and driven them; he would win, and they would help him, to the last drop of blood in their veins.

In that spirit of implicit confidence in their stalwart leader even the raw recruits never thought of trembling on that raw morning in the middle of January, 1781, when the outposts came riding back with the report that Tarleton was approaching. They had been placed down in front with the Marylanders at their backs to support them, and Colonel Washington's dragoons screened behind the hill waiting for the word to charge. In front of the Carolina and Georgia militia, between whom Morgan had excited a spirit of rivalry as to which body should behave with the greater bravery under fire, riflemen had been stationed.

Soon the American sharpshooters in front began firing and falling back toward the militia, who never wavered. They had been ordered to hold their fire and they obeyed implicitly.

Now the solid wall of British infantry is almost upon them, and a sheet of flame spurts out along the American line; then another and another, and those raw soldiers only retreat before overwhelming numbers when it is apparent they can resist no longer, and then, like veterans, slowly and under orders.

Over behind the hill Rodney Allison's knees grip his horse. This waiting is worse than fighting, waiting for that soul-stirring word, "Charge!" Now it rings out and echoes through the ranks, and like a whirlwind they sweep right through the lines of Tarleton's cavalry forming for a charge, and, wheeling about, come riding and slashing back through them again. Colonel Howard is skilfully handling the troops and the gallant Pickens rallying the militia. The British ranks waver and become disorganized, the Americans charge and the British throw down their arms and sue for mercy or flee from the field.

Tarleton is trying to rally his shattered horsemen when down upon them come Washington's dragoons, with Colonel Washington far ahead of his men.

Then it is that Tarleton tries to kill or capture his antagonist. Washington's sword is broken at the hilt and, but for the assistance of a boy, the brave Washington would have been struck down. Now his men are at his back and Tarleton rides away with his fleeing men as though pursued by demons.

Then come orders to pursue and the dragoons go riding out into the country after the fleeing British. Most of them choose a wrong road and only succeed in picking up a few stragglers.

Rodney had charged and wheeled and charged again. It had been his fortune to be in the thickest of the struggle from first to last. Then he joined in the pursuit.

The group of horsemen with whom Rodney was riding came to forks in the road. Rodney's training among the Indians often proved valuable and now he declared there were but two horses of the enemy on the road they had come, also that they had divided at the forks, each taking a different road. As many of the cavalry had come to the Cowpens over this road early the same morning, there was a confusion of tracks and a consequent confusion in the minds of the pursuers. Allison doggedly stuck to his conclusion and rode on alone.

Judging from the tracks, it was evident that the fleeing British cavalryman had ridden his horse at a mad gallop and Rodney urged his own to the utmost.

On either side of the road stretched a scraggly growth of trees. Suddenly his horse shied and at the same instant a pistol shot rang out. The lad's left hand relaxed its grasp of the bridle and slipped nervelessly to his side. The ball had broken his arm below the elbow. Had his horse not been frightened and shied, the ball intended for his heart probably would have hit the mark.

A British rider came crashing through the bushes. Finding there was but one pursuer, and he wounded, the fellow had decided to fight. He certainly had Allison at serious disadvantage, but the latter, slipping the half drawn pistol back into the holster, grasped the bridle with his uninjured hand and wheeled his horse sharply to meet the foe, who was almost upon him.

For an instant each stared in astonishment at the other. Then into the face of young Allison swept a savage fury. His gray eyes looked black and blazing. He dropped the bridle and drew his sword, spurring his unguided horse forward. The horse swerved and Rodney missed the blow he aimed at the head of his antagonist. The latter was a better swordsman on equal terms, and Rodney, unable to use his left hand, was at a decided disadvantage.

Soon he was at his wits' end. Twice the thrust of his antagonist had grazed his neck. Thinking he had Rodney at his mercy, the Englishman rose in his stirrups and swung his blade with evident intent to cut him down. In parrying the blow Rodney's inferior blade was broken near the hilt, which was knocked from his hand. He struck his horse a smart blow with his right spur, reached for his pistol and cried "Down, Nat!"

Mogridge, for the Englishman was none other than the one who had stolen Nat and nearly ridden him to death, again rose in his stirrups, confident of cutting down his foe. The look of malignant hate in his face changed to that of consternation; the horse under him was kneeling!

Rodney draws his pistol. The foe is wickedly spurring and yanking the bridle and cursing his horse. Every thrust of the spur into Nat's gaunt flanks pricks Rodney as well. He aims to kill and his finger is on the trigger, when, like a flash of light, he recalls Zeb's words: "Killin' even an enemy is serious, an' not pleasant to dream about."

"Dismount and surrender your arms or I'll blow out your brains," he cried.

Mogridge dared not disobey.

"You will now lead that horse back to camp. If he could ride you he should have the chance, you cur."

"There's such a thing as courtesy even in war," replied Mogridge, though he was careful to do as he was bid.

"Not with horse thieves."

"All's fair in love and war," retorted Mogridge, and then, seeing the look in Allison's face, he wisely decided to say no more.



CHAPTER XXXI

HOME AGAIN

Back at the scene of the battle Rodney found preparations were being made for the little army to march, leaving a detachment behind to dispose of the dead and care for the wounded. No one seemed to know where they were to go. Many thought, in view of the fact that the British had been defeated and Tarleton put to flight, Morgan would remain in the vicinity for reinforcements and await an attack by Cornwallis. Few realized what a daring thing he had already done.

Had Tarleton's headlong charges thrown his meagre forces into confusion they would have had little opportunity to retreat and most of them would have been cut down. Morgan afterwards was criticized by the envious for having risked a battle under the circumstances. He believed he knew that it was necessary to fight that battle and he had won against odds. The "Old Wagoner" didn't propose to wait while Cornwallis should overtake him with a superior force and recapture the prisoners and spoils and annihilate his forces. Instead, though he concealed his plans, he resolved upon making the quickest retreat possible. To do this he marched toward a ford which was nearer to Cornwallis than to him. It was a great risk but he felt he must take it.

"If you've got a home, you better get to it, my lad," the kindly doctor had said while hastily bandaging the lad's wounded arm. "This may give ye trouble, though I hope not."

"That's good advice," said Morgan, who chanced to overhear the doctor's words and recognized Rodney. "You report to Colonel Washington and tell him Morgan has ordered you home to Charlottesville. This war has eaten up too many of my Rangers already." With that parting advice he mounted his horse and rode away.

There remained for Rodney nothing to do but obey orders, though he was loath to leave. The spirit of victory was in his soul. That had been a glorious battle and the right had triumphed. The bloodhounds had put their tails between their legs and fled. He did not realize that they would rally and soon be close upon the heels of the retreating Americans, and that nothing would save the latter but the winter floods which were to fill the rivers and delay the British.

Through a land ravaged by war, over roads deep with mud, where might be found only the poorest accommodations for man or beast, Rodney Allison rode homeward. His arm give him little trouble except the fear it might always be stiff. The nearer he came to home the more he longed to be back with the army. It troubled him to think that in the victories he was sure would follow he could not have a part.

"I'm never able to win promotion," he said to himself, rather bitterly. The picture of that winter night, the witching face of Lisbeth and her mocking laugh as she rode away, kept recurring to his mind. What a girl she had been, the best playmate even a boy might wish; always ready for a lark, daring, mischievous, with wit as keen as a blade and quick as a flash. He could not think of her as dead, and the bitterness of his heart at the trick she had played upon him troubled him now as he looked back upon it. "She didn't know what she was doing, did she, Nat, old boy?"

Nat had been plodding along but now lifted his head with some show of interest. The hard life he had led since the day Mogridge had stolen him had not quite broken his spirit, though he was gaunt and worn with cruel service.

"I've got you, Nat, if I haven't got a promotion, and of the two I'd rather have you," said his rider, patting his shoulder.

The lad was nearing his long journey's end. In the distance were the mountains. A few miles further and Monticello would be visible. Over those mountains lay what seemed to the lad a great world. The life he had lived in it seemed like another life and Ahneota, little Louis, the Indian village and all, but the fancies of a dream. Sometime he would go back there.

When he saw the familiar house a thought came to his mind, and he wondered it had not come sooner. Would he find them as he had left them, mother, and 'Omi, and Zeb, and Mam, and Thello?

For an instant he almost feared to go on. Ah, there was Mam, waddling across from house to shed, probably going to call Thello from his favourite seat in the sunshine on the sheltered side of the building. The door opens and his mother runs out. She has seen him riding up, and she cries: "Rodney, my boy!" and throws her arms about his neck, standing on tiptoe, for he is tall.

"Only one arm left for hugging, Mother. This is the only badge I bring back from the war," and he pointed to his arm in the sling, adding, as he notes her alarm, "it's nothing serious. How are you all?"

"All well and happy now you are back, all save poor old Thello, who's very miserable, but sight of you will make him forget his aches, I'm sure. Why, Rodney, where did you find Nat? Don't you know me, Nat, or have they treated you so badly you've forgotten old friends?"

Naomi, now grown to a handsome girl, ran out and it was some minutes before quiet was restored. Then Rodney asked for Zeb.

"I sent him to Philadelphia. I learned a very dear friend of ours living there is in sore trouble, and I hope he will succeed in having her return with him."

"Any one I know?"

"Some one you are much interested in. Your friend, Captain Enderwood, who had been to Philadelphia to see her, came all the way to Charlottesville to tell us about her. He also told me how she was the one who had you released from prison and nursed you through your sickness while you were unconscious, and made herself sick in consequence."

"You don't mean—you can't mean—"

"I mean that Elizabeth Danesford is alive. The mistake came from the report that she couldn't live. Doesn't it seem too good to be true?" and Mrs. Allison watched Rodney's face as she added: "She is very poor. Captain Enderwood wished to marry her, he frankly told me so, but you know it would require more than poverty to weaken Lisbeth's resolution. The captain had heard her speak of me as her adopted aunt and he came all the way to Charlottesville to tell me about her. You see, her uncle and aunt in Philadelphia are dead and she has no kin in this country save a cousin who is not able to render her much if any assistance."

"She'll not be poor if we ever get what the 'Chevalier' left to us in his will, for half of what he gave to me, you know, he said he should have given to her."

"It may be difficult to persuade her to accept it. Enderwood, you know, offered to share his fortune with her and she refused." There was a questioning smile on Mrs. Allison's face.

Two days later Zeb returned from the Quaker City, very much downcast in appearance until he saw Rodney, when his face lighted with pleasure that was unmistakable.

"Looks how Tarleton let ye off easy."

"He was busy looking after himself. But, Zeb, it seems you failed in your errand. Is Lis—is Miss Danesford sick?"

"No. I reckon," and Zeb gave a shrewd glance at Rodney, "the wrong man was sent. She looks pale and tired. She has to work hard; she's runnin' some sort of a girls' school, an' I'd ruther train a yardful o' raw recruits."

"I'm sorry you could not persuade her to come," was all Mrs. Allison said, but she looked at her son, who remained silent.

About two weeks later he announced that he was going to Philadelphia and no one questioned him as to what his errand might be, though it was evident to Zeb that Rodney's mother was much pleased.

He had recovered from his wound, and good care and plenty to eat had restored some of Nat's good spirits, so that man and horse made a very pleasing appearance as they set forth on the long journey. Nat found his rider impatient and both were tired when at evening they reached the tavern where they were to stop for the night. After supper Rodney sat on the veranda watching the arrivals and departures, for the house was a much frequented public resort on the main thoroughfare.



CHAPTER XXXII

A REWARD GREATER THAN PROMOTION

Rodney had risen from his seat to step inside when the arrival of a coach, which bore the marks of a long journey, attracted his attention.

The light from the small paned windows shone dimly, but he saw that only two passengers alighted, one a young woman accompanied by an old man who appeared to be very feeble and leaned heavily on her. "Father and daughter," was Rodney's thought, but his words were, "May I assist," as he went to meet them.

The girl turned a white, tired face toward him, the face of Elizabeth, but, oh! so unlike that which had mocked him three years before!

"Rodney!" The girl's voice trembled.

"Aye, lass," said the old man in a weak, quavering voice. "Would the laddie were here the noo. I'm a sair burden for your frail strength."

For an instant Rodney's face was whiter than Elizabeth's.

"Father! I am here," he cried and took the tottering man in his strong young arms.

It was a strange story to which Rodney listened that evening, one of thrilling interest and unusual even in the annals of wild frontier life.

Not all Indians were grateful, especially when maddened by lust for war and vengeance. In the gray light of the dawn of the morning, after the fierce conflict at Point Pleasant, the savage who, because of his greed for scalps, had skulked behind when his fellows had crossed the river the night before, bore little resemblance in his war paint to the Indian David Allison once had warmed and fed within the walls of the stockade on a cold winter night; but he instantly recognized his benefactor. For hours David Allison had lain unconscious in the place where he had fallen. During the night he had regained consciousness, but could make no outcry louder than a moan. He had thought to drag himself toward the camp where he might attract the attention of his comrades, but had failed, and lay back against a fallen tree, his face gray and ghastly.

The morning mists hung low over the river, and, under cover of these, the savage paddled away unobserved, his captive lying in a faint on the bottom of the canoe. No prisoner ever received kinder treatment at the hands of an Indian than did David Allison. As he gradually regained his strength he yearned for home and pleaded to be taken back to Virginia, but his captor was obdurate; he wanted the man for a companion and in many ways gave evidence of affection for him.

One day, in a quarrel with another savage, the Indian was killed. Shortly after, Allison made his escape and in a canoe drifted down the Ohio. He felt unequal to attempting to work his way back as he had come and so decided to go with the current down the Ohio into the Mississippi. His utmost endurance and shrewdness were put to many severe tests before he reached a white settlement and eventually New Orleans. There, when about to take ship for Norfolk, he was taken sick with a fever which left him without strength or money.

The desire to return home, whatever might be the sacrifice, became almost a mania with him, but he would not beg his way. And so he struggled on, meeting with disappointment again and again, yet never yielding in his purpose. Then, on the threshold of success, when he landed in Philadelphia without money and without friends, he was taken seriously ill. By what seemed the merest chance Elizabeth learned of him, and it was through her efforts and sacrifices that he was spared, to enjoy in the comforts of home and family, years, scant in number but abundant in happiness.

Rodney Allison won promotion—the esteem of all who knew him—and who could wish for greater? A few years later, on the spot where had stood the lodge of Ahneota, he built a home such as he planned that night, years before, when he lay by the spring looking down on the sleeping Indian village; and Zeb was his neighbour, prosperous and respected. Some called Rodney "Colonel" Allison because of his military experience and influence, but he preferred the title of "Squire," and by this he was generally known among neighbours and friends. In the Indian wars he was serviceable in securing peace, for he was trusted alike by red people and white. Through influential friends, of whom General Morgan was one, he was able to accomplish much that was of benefit to the pioneers with whom he had cast his lot.

Soon after Benedict Arnold's treason, Rodney received a letter from Donald Lovell, then a captain in the army. "Uncle Dick," the letter said, "exclaimed when he heard of it: 'what a pity that a British bullet had not taken his life before a British bribe killed his good name!'" It became a custom for Rodney and Zeb to yearly exchange letters with Donald Lovell who, later in life, established his home down on the far-away Kennebec River.

"Squire" Allison's children were David, and Harriet, and Elizabeth, and Rupert, and Donald; and Elizabeth's eyes were very dark blue with long lashes, at times as serene as the eyes of the beautiful lady whose portrait had greeted those who came to "The Hall." At other times they flashed, as did those which her father, when a shivering soldier lad, saw looking out of the old coach and mocking him as he stood guard one bleak winter night.

THE END