Some to endure, and many to quail,
Some to conquer, and many to fail,
Toiling over the Wilderness Trail.
As long as I live I shall never forget the morning we started on our
journey across the Blue Wall. Before the sun chased away the filmy veil
of mist from the brooks in the valley, the McChesneys, father, mother,
and children, were gathered to see us depart. And as they helped us to
tighten the packsaddles Tom himself had made from chosen tree-forks, they
did not cease lamenting that we were going to certain death. Our scrawny
horses splashed across the stream, and we turned to see a gaunt and
lonely figure standing apart against the sun, stern and sorrowful. We
waved our hands, and set our faces towards Kaintuckee.
Tom walked ahead, rifle on shoulder, then Polly Ann; and lastly I drove
the two shaggy ponies, the instruments of husbandry we had been able to
gather awry on their packs,--a scythe, a spade, and a hoe. I
triumphantly carried the axe.
It was not long before we were in the wilderness, shut in by mountain
crags, and presently Polly Ann forgot her sorrows in the perils of the
trace. Choked by briers and grapevines, blocked by sliding stones and
earth, it rose and rose through the heat and burden of the day until it
lost itself in the open heights. As the sun was wearing down to the
western ridges the mischievous sorrel mare turned her pack on a sapling,
and one of the precious bags burst. In an instant we were on our knees
gathering the golden meal in our hands. Polly Ann baked journeycakes on
a hot stone from what we saved under the shiny ivy leaves, and scarce had
I spancelled the horses ere Tom returned with a fat turkey he had shot.
"Was there ever sech a wedding journey!" said Polly Ann, as we sat about
the fire, for the mountain air was chill. "And Tom and Davy as grave as
parsons. Ye'd guess one of you was Rutherford himself, and the other Mr.
Boone."
No wonder he was grave. I little realized then the task he had set
himself, to pilot a woman and a lad into a country haunted by frenzied
savages, when single men feared to go this season. But now he smiled,
and patted Polly Ann's brown hand.
"It's one of yer own choosing, lass," said he.
"Of my own choosing!" cried she. "Come, Davy, we'll go back to Grandpa."
Tom grinned.
"I reckon the redskins won't bother us till we git by the Nollichucky and
Watauga settlements," he said.
"The redskins!" said Polly Ann, indignant; "I reckon if one of 'em did
git me he'd kiss me once in a while."
Whereupon Tom, looking more sheepish still, tried to kiss her, and failed
ignominiously, for she vanished into the dark woods.
"If a redskin got you here," said Tom, when she had slipped back, "he'd
fetch you to Nick-a-jack Cave."
"What's that?" she demanded.
"Where all the red and white and yellow scalawags over the mountains is
gathered," he answered. And he told of a deep gorge between towering
mountains where a great river cried angrily, of a black cave out of which
a black stream ran, where a man could paddle a dugout for miles into the
rock. The river was the Tennessee, and the place the resort of the
Chickamauga bandits, pirates of the mountains, outcasts of all nations.
And Dragging Canoe was their chief.
It was on the whole a merry journey, the first part of it, if a rough
one. Often Polly Ann would draw me to her and whisper: "We'll hold out,
Davy. He'll never now." When the truth was that the big fellow was
going at half his pace on our account. He told us there was no fear of
redskins here, yet, when the scream of a painter or the hoot of an owl
stirred me from my exhausted slumber, I caught sight of him with his back
to a tree, staring into the forest, his rifle at his side. The day was
dawning.
"Turn about's fair," I expostulated.
"Ye'll need yere sleep, Davy," said he, "or ye'll never grow any bigger."
"I thought Kaintuckee was to the west," I said, "and you're making
north." For I had observed him day after day. We had left the trails.
Sometimes he climbed tree, and again he sent me to the upper branches,
whence I surveyed a sea of tree-tops waving in the wind, and looked
onward to where a green velvet hollow lay nestling on the western side of
a saddle-backed ridge.
"North!" said Tom to Polly Ann, laughing. "The little devil will beat me
at woodcraft soon. Ay, north, Davy. I'm hunting for the Nollichucky
Trace that leads to the Watauga settlement."
It was wonderful to me how he chose his way through the mountains. Once
in a while we caught sight of a yellow blaze in a tree, made by himself
scarce a month gone, when he came southward alone to fetch Polly Ann.
Again, the tired roan shied back from the bleached bones of a traveller,
picked clean by wolves. At sundown, when we loosed our exhausted horses
to graze on the wet grass by the streams, Tom would go off to look for a
deer or turkey, and often not come back to us until long after darkness
had fallen.
"Davy'll take care of you, Polly Ann," he would say as he left us.
And she would smile at him bravely and say, "I reckon I kin look out for
Davy awhile yet."
But when he was gone, and the crooning stillness set in broken only by
the many sounds of the night, we would sit huddled together by the fire.
It was dread for him she felt, not for herself. And in both our minds
rose red images of hideous foes skulking behind his brave form as he trod
the forest floor. Polly Ann was not the woman to whimper.
And yet I have but dim recollections of this journey. It was no hardship
to a lad brought up in woodcraft. Fear of the Indians, like a dog
shivering with the cold, was a deadened pain on the border.
Strangely enough it was I who chanced upon the Nollichucky Trace, which
follows the meanderings of that river northward through the great Smoky
Mountains. It was made long ago by the Southern Indians as they threaded
their way to the Hunting Lands of Kaintuckee, and shared now by Indian
traders. The path was redolent with odors, and bright with mountain
shrubs and flowers,--the pink laurel bush, the shining rhododendron, and
the grape and plum and wild crab. The clear notes of the mountain birds
were in our ears by day, and the music of the water falling over the
ledges, mingled with that of the leaves rustling in the wind, lulled us
to sleep at night. High above us, as we descended, the gap, from naked
crag to timber-covered ridge, was spanned by the eagle's flight. And
virgin valleys, where future generations were to be born, spread out and
narrowed again,--valleys with a deep carpet of cane and grass, where the
deer and elk and bear fed unmolested.
It was perchance the next evening that my eyes fell upon a sight which is
one of the wonders of my boyish memories. The trail slipped to the edge
of a precipice, and at our feet the valley widened. Planted amidst giant
trees, on a shining green lawn that ran down to the racing Nollichucky
was the strangest house it has ever been my lot to see--of no shape, of
huge size, and built of logs, one wing hitched to another by "dog alleys"
(as we called them); and from its wide stone chimneys the pearly smoke
rose upward in the still air through the poplar branches. Beyond it a
setting sun gilded the corn-fields, and horses and cattle dotted the
pastures. We stood for a while staring at this oasis in the wilderness,
and to my boyish fancy it was a fitting introduction to a delectable
land.
"Glory be to heaven!" exclaimed Polly Ann.
"It's Nollichucky Jack's house," said Tom.
"And who may he be?" said she.
"Who may he be!" cried Tom; "Captain John Sevier, king of the border, and
I reckon the best man to sweep out redskins in the Watauga settlements."
"Do you know him?" said she.
"I was chose as one of his scouts when we fired the Cherokee hill towns
last summer," said Tom, with pride. "Thar was blood and thunder for ye!
We went down the Great War-path which lies below us, and when we was
through there wasn't a corn-shuck or a wigwam or a war post left. We
didn't harm the squaws nor the children, but there warn't no prisoners
took. When Nollichucky Jack strikes I reckon it's more like a
thunderbolt nor anything else."
"Do you think he's at home, Tom?" I asked, fearful that I should not see
this celebrated person.
"We'll soon l'arn," said he, as we descended. "I heerd he was agoin' to
punish them Chickamauga robbers by Nick-a-jack."
Just then we heard a prodigious barking, and a dozen hounds came charging
down the path at our horses' legs, the roan shying into the truck patch.
A man's voice, deep, clear, compelling, was heard calling:--
"Vi! Flora! Ripper!"
I saw him coming from the porch of the house, a tall slim figure in a
hunting shirt--that fitted to perfection--and cavalry boots. His face,
his carriage, his quick movement and stride filled my notion of a hero,
and my instinct told me he was a gentleman born.
"Why, bless my soul, it's Tom McChesney!" he cried, ten paces away, while
Tom grinned with pleasure at the recognition "But what have you here?"
"A wife," said Tom, standing on one foot.
Captain Sevier fixed his dark blue eyes on Polly Ann with approbation,
and he bowed to her very gracefully.
"Where are you going, Ma'am, may I ask?" he said.
"To Kaintuckee," said Polly Ann.
"To Kaintuckee!" cried Captain Sevier, turning to Tom. "Egad, then,
you've no right to a wife,--and to such a wife," and he glanced again at
Polly Ann. "Why, McChesney, you never struck me as a rash man. Have you
lost your senses, to take a woman into Kentucky this year?"
"So the forts be still in trouble?" said Tom.
"Trouble?" cried Mr. Sevier, with a quick fling of his whip at an unruly
hound, "Harrodstown, Boonesboro, Logan's Fort at St. Asaph's,--they don't
dare stick their noses outside the stockades. The Indians have swarmed
into Kentucky like red ants, I tell you. Ten days ago, when I was in the
Holston settlements, Major Ben Logan came in. His fort had been shut up
since May, they were out of powder and lead, and somebody had to come.
How did he come? As the wolf lopes, nay, as the crow flies over crag and
ford, Cumberland, Clinch, and all, forty miles a day for five days, and
never saw a trace--for the war parties were watching the Wilderness
Road." And he swung again towards Polly Ann. "You'll not go to
Kaintuckee, ma'am; you'll stay here with us until the redskins are beaten
off there. He may go if he likes."
"I reckon we didn't come this far to give out, Captain Sevier," said she.
"You don't look to be the kind to give out, Mrs. McChesney," said he.
"And yet it may not be a matter of giving out," he added more soberly.
This mixture of heartiness and gravity seemed to sit well on him.
"Surely you have been enterprising, Tom. Where in the name of the
Continental Congress did you get the lad?"
"I married him along with Polly Ann," said Tom.
"That was the bargain, and I reckon he was worth it."
"I'd take a dozen to get her," declared Mr. Sevier, while Polly Ann
blushed. "Well, well, supper's waiting us, and cider and applejack, for
we don't get a wedding party every day. Some gentlemen are here whose
word may have more weight and whose attractions may be greater than
mine."
He whistled to a negro lad, who took our horses, and led us through the
court-yard and the house to the lawn at the far side of it. A rude table
was set there under a great tree, and around it three gentlemen were
talking. My memory of all of them is more vivid than it might be were
their names not household words in the Western country. Captain Sevier
startled them.
"My friends," said he, "if you have despatches for Kaintuckee, I pray you
get them ready over night."
They looked up at him, one sternly, the other two gravely.
"What the devil do you mean, Sevier?" said the stern one.
"That my friend, Tom McChesney, is going there with his wife, unless we
can stop him," said Sevier.
"Stop him!" thundered the stern gentleman, kicking back his chair and
straightening up to what seemed to me a colossal height. I stared at
him, boylike. He had long, iron-gray hair and a creased, fleshy face and
sunken eyes. He looked as if he might stop anybody as he turned upon
Tom. "Who the devil is this Tom McChesney?" he demanded.
Sevier laughed.
"The best scout I ever laid eyes on," said he. "A deadly man with a
Deckard, an unerring man at choosing a wife" (and he bowed to the
reddening Polly Ann), "and a fool to run the risk of losing her."
"Tut, tut," said the iron gentleman, who was the famous Captain Evan
Shelby of King's Meadows, "he'll leave her here in our settlements while
he helps us fight Dragging Canoe and his Chickamauga pirates."
"If he leaves me," said Polly Ann, her eyes flashing, "that's an end to
the bargain. He'll never find me more."
Captain Sevier laughed again.
"There's spirit for you," he cried, slapping his whip against his boot.
At this another gentleman stood up, a younger counterpart of the first,
only he towered higher and his shoulders were broader. He had a
big-featured face, and pleasant eyes--that twinkled now--sunken in, with
fleshy creases at the corners.
"Tom McChesney," said he, "don't mind my father. If any man besides
Logan can get inside the forts, you can. Do you remember me?"
"I reckon I do, Mr. Isaac Shelby," said Tom, putting a big hand into Mr.
Shelby's bigger one. "I reckon I won't soon forget how you stepped out
of ranks and tuk command when the boys was runnin', and turned the tide."
He looked like the man to step out of ranks and take command.
"Pish!" said Mr. Isaac Shelby, blushing like a girl; "where would I have
been if you and Moore and Findley and the rest hadn't stood 'em off till
we turned round?"
By this time the third gentleman had drawn my attention. Not by anything
he said, for he remained silent, sitting with his dark brown head bent
forward, quietly gazing at the scene from under his brows. The instant
he spoke they turned towards him. He was perhaps forty, and
broad-shouldered, not so tall as Mr. Sevier.
"Why do you go to Kaintuckee, McChesney?" he asked.
"I give my word to Mr. Harrod and Mr. Clark to come back, Mr. Robertson,"
said Tom.
"And the wife? If you take her, you run a great risk of losing her."
"And if he leaves me," said Polly Ann, flinging her head, "he will lose
me sure."
The others laughed, but Mr. Robertson merely smiled.
"Faith," cried Captain Sevier, "if those I met coming back helter-skelter
over the Wilderness Trace had been of that stripe, they'd have more men
in the forts now."
With that the Captain called for supper to be served where we sat. He
was a widower, with lads somewhere near my own age, and I recall being
shown about the place by them. And later, when the fireflies glowed and
the Nollichucky sang in the darkness, we listened to the talk of the war
of the year gone by. I needed not to be told that before me were the
renowned leaders of the Watauga settlements. My hero worship cried it
aloud within me. These captains dwelt on the border-land of mystery,
conquered the wilderness, and drove before them its savage tribes by
their might. When they spoke of the Cherokees and told how that same
Stuart--the companion of Cameron--was urging them to war against our
people, a fierce anger blazed within me. For the Cherokees had killed my
father.
I remember the men,--scarcely what they said: Evan Shelby's words, like
heavy blows on an anvil; Isaac Shelby's, none the less forceful; James
Robertson compelling his listeners by some strange power. He was
perchance the strongest man there, though none of us guessed, after
ruling that region, that he was to repeat untold hardships to found and
rear another settlement farther west. But best I loved to hear Captain
Sevier, whose talk lacked not force, but had a daring, a humor, a
lightness of touch, that seemed more in keeping with that world I had
left behind me in Charlestown. Him I loved, and at length I solved the
puzzle. To me he was Nick Temple grown to manhood.
I slept in the room with Captain Sevier's boys, and one window of it was
of paper smeared with bear's grease, through which the sunlight came all
bleared and yellow in the morning. I had a boy's interest in affairs,
and I remember being told that the gentlemen were met here to discuss the
treaty between themselves and the great Oconostota, chief of the
Cherokees, and also to consider the policy of punishing once for all
Dragging Canoe and his bandits at Chickamauga.
As we sat at breakfast under the trees, these gentlemen generously
dropped their own business to counsel Tom, and I observed with pride that
he had gained their regard during the last year's war. Shelby's threats
and Robertson's warnings and Sevier's exhortations having no effect upon
his determination to proceed to Kentucky, they began to advise him how to
go, and he sat silent while they talked. And finally, when they asked
him, he spoke of making through Carter's Valley for Cumberland Gap and
the Wilderness Trail.
"Egad," cried Captain Sevier, "I have so many times found the boldest
plan the safest that I have become a coward that way. What do you say to
it, Mr. Robertson?"
Mr. Robertson leaned his square shoulders over the table.
"He may fall in with a party going over," he answered, without looking
up.
Polly Ann looked at Tom as if to say that the whole Continental Army
could not give her as much protection.
We left that hospitable place about nine o'clock, Mr. Robertson having
written a letter to Colonel Daniel Boone,--shut up in the fort at
Boonesboro,--should we be so fortunate as to reach Kaintuckee: and
another to a young gentleman by the name of George Rogers Clark,
apparently a leader there. Captain Sevier bowed over Polly Ann's hand as
if she were a great lady, and wished her a happy honeymoon, and me he
patted on the head and called a brave lad. And soon we had passed beyond
the corn-field into the Wilderness again.
Our way was down the Nollichucky, past the great bend of it below Lick
Creek, and so to the Great War-path, the trail by which countless parties
of red marauders had travelled north and south. It led, indeed,
northeast between the mountain ranges. Although we kept a watch by day
and night, we saw no sign of Dragging Canoe or his men, and at length we
forded the Holston and came to the scattered settlement in Carter's
Valley.
I have since racked my brain to remember at whose cabin we stopped there.
He was a rough backwoodsman with a wife and a horde of children. But I
recall that a great rain came out of the mountains and down the valley.
We were counting over the powder gourds in our packs, when there burst in
at the door as wild a man as has ever been my lot to see. His brown
beard was grown like a bramble patch, his eye had a violet light, and his
hunting shirt was in tatters. He was thin to gauntness, ate ravenously
of the food that was set before him, and throwing off his soaked
moccasins, he spread his scalded feet to the blaze, and the steaming odor
of drying leather filled the room.
"Whar be ye from?" asked Tom.
For answer the man bared his arm, then his shoulder, and two angry scars,
long and red, revealed themselves, and around his wrists were deep gouges
where he had been bound.
"They killed Sue," he cried, "sculped her afore my very eyes. And they
chopped my boy outen the hickory withes and carried him to the Creek
Nation. At a place where there was a standin' stone I broke loose from
three of 'em and come here over the mountains, and I ain't had nothin',
stranger, but berries and chainey brier-root for ten days. God damn
'em!" he cried, standing up and tottering with the pain in his feet, "if
I can get a Deckard--"
"Will you go back?" said Tom.
"Go back!" he shouted, "I'll go back and fight 'em while I have blood in
my body."
He fell into a bunk, but his sorrow haunted him even in his troubled
sleep, and his moans awed us as we listened. The next day he told us his
story with more calmness. It was horrible indeed, and might well have
frightened a less courageous woman than Polly Ann. Imploring her not to
go, he became wild again, and brought tears to her eyes when he spoke of
his own wife. "They tomahawked her, ma'am, because she could not walk,
and the baby beside her, and I standing by with my arms tied."
As long as I live I shall never forget that scene, and how Tom pleaded
with Polly Ann to stay behind, but she would not listen to him.
"You're going, Tom?" she said.
"Yes," he answered, turning away, "I gave 'em my word."
"And your word to me?" said Polly Ann.
He did not answer.
We fixed on a Saturday to start, to give the horses time to rest, and in
the hope that we might hear of some relief party going over the Gap. On
Thursday Tom made a trip to the store in the valley, and came back with a
Deckard rifle he had bought for the stranger, whose name was Weldon.
There was no news from Kaintuckee, but the Carter's Valley settlers
seemed to think that matters were better there. It was that same night,
I believe, that two men arrived from Fort Chiswell. One, whose name was
Cutcheon, was a little man with a short forehead and a bad eye, and he
wore a weather-beaten blue coat of military cut. The second was a big,
light-colored, fleshy man, and a loud talker. He wore a hunting shirt
and leggings. They were both the worse for rum they had had on the road,
the big man talking very loud and boastfully.
"Afeard to go to Kaintuckee!" said he. "I've met a parcel o' cowards on
the road, turned back. There ain't nothin' to be afeard of, eh,
stranger?" he added, to Tom, who paid no manner of attention to him. The
small man scarce opened his mouth, but sat with his head bowed forward on
his breast when he was not drinking. We passed a dismal, crowded night
in the room with such companions. When they heard that we were to go
over the mountains, nothing would satisfy the big man but to go with us.
"Come, stranger," said he to Tom, "two good rifles such as we is ain't to
be throwed away."
"Why do you want to go over?" asked Tom. "Be ye a Tory?" he demanded
suspiciously.
"Why do you go over?" retorted Riley, for that was his name. "I reckon
I'm no more of a Tory than you."
"Whar did ye come from?" said Tom.
"Chiswell's mines, taking out lead for the army o' Congress. But there
ain't excitement enough in it."
"And you?" said Tom, turning to Cutcheon and eying his military coat.
"I got tired of their damned discipline," the man answered surlily. He
was a deserter.
"Look you," said Tom, sternly, "if you come, what I say is law."
Such was the sacrifice we were put to by our need of company. But in
those days a man was a man, and scarce enough on the Wilderness Trail in
that year of '77. So we started away from Carter's Valley on a bright
Saturday morning, the grass glistening after a week's rain, the road
sodden, and the smell of the summer earth heavy. Tom and Weldon walked
ahead, driving the two horses, followed by Cutcheon, his head dropped
between his shoulders. The big man, Riley, regaled Polly Ann.
"My pluck is," said he, "my pluck is to give a redskin no chance. Shoot
'em down like hogs. It takes a good un to stalk me, Ma'am. Up on the
Kanawha I've had hand-to-hand fights with 'em, and made 'em cry quits."
"Law!" exclaimed Polly Ann, nudging me, "it was a lucky thing we run into
you in the valley."
But presently we left the road and took a mountain trail,--as stiff a
climb as we had yet had. Polly Ann went up it like a bird, talking all
the while to Riley, who blew like a bellows. For once he was silent.
We spent two, perchance three, days climbing and descending and fording.
At night Tom would suffer none to watch save Weldon and himself, not
trusting Riley or Cutcheon. And the rascals were well content to sleep.
At length we came, to a cabin on a creek, the corn between the stumps
around it choked with weeds, and no sign of smoke in the chimney. Behind
it slanted up, in giant steps, a forest-clad hill of a thousand feet, and
in front of it the stream was dammed and lined with cane.
"Who keeps house?" cried Tom, at the threshold.
He pushed back the door, fashioned in one great slab from a forest tree.
His welcome was an angry whir, and a huge yellow rattler lay coiled
within, his head reared to strike. Polly Ann leaned back.
"Mercy," she cried, "that's a bad sign."
But Tom killed the snake, and we made ready to use the cabin that night
and the next day. For the horses were to be rested and meat was to be
got, as we could not use our guns so freely on the far side of Cumberland
Gap. In the morning, before he and Weldon left, Tom took me around the
end of the cabin.
"Davy," said he, "I don't trust these rascals. Kin you shoot a pistol?"
I reckoned I could.
He had taken one out of the pack he had got from Captain Sevier and
pushed it between the logs where the clay had fallen out. "If they try
anything," said he, "shoot 'em. And don't be afeard of killing 'em." He
patted me on the back, and went off up the slope with Weldon. Polly Ann
and I stood watching them until they were out of sight.
About eleven o'clock Riley and Cutcheon moved off to the edge of a
cane-brake near the water, and sat there for a while, talking in low
tones. The horses were belled and spancelled near by, feeding on the
cane and wild grass, and Polly Ann was cooking journey-cakes on a stone.
"What makes you so sober, Davy?" she said.
I didn't answer.
"Davy," she cried, "be happy while you're young. 'Tis a fine day, and
Kaintuckee's over yonder." She picked up her skirts and sang:--
"First upon the heeltap,
Then upon the toe."
The men by the cane-brake turned and came towards us.
"Ye're happy to-day, Mis' McChesney," said Riley.
"Why shouldn't I be?" said Polly Ann; "we're all a-goin' to Kaintuckee."
"We're a-goin' back to Cyarter's Valley," said Riley, in his blustering
way. "This here ain't as excitin' as I thought. I reckon there ain't no
redskins nohow."
"What!" cried Polly Ann, in loud scorn, "ye're a-goin' to desert?
There'll be redskins enough by and by, I'll warrant ye."
"How'd you like to come along of us," says Riley; "that ain't any place
for wimmen, over yonder."
"Along of you!" cried Polly Ann, with flashing eyes.
"Do you hear that, Davy?"
I did. Meanwhile the man Cutcheon was slowly walking towards her. It
took scarce a second for me to make up my mind. I slipped around the
corner of the house, seized the pistol, primed it with a trembling hand,
and came back to behold Polly Ann, with flaming cheeks, facing them.
They did not so much as glance at me. Riley held a little back of the
two, being the coward. But Cutcheon stood ready, like a wolf.
I did not wait for him to spring, but, taking the best aim I could with
my two hands, fired. With a curse that echoed in the crags, he threw up
his arms and fell forward, writhing, on the turf.
"Run for the cabin, Polly Ann," I shouted, "and bar the door."
There was no need. For an instant Riley wavered, and then fled to the
cane.
Polly Ann and I went to the man on the ground, and turned him over. His
eyes slid upwards. There was a bloody froth on his lips.
"Davy!" cried she, awestricken, "Davy, ye've killed him!"
I grew dizzy and sick at the thought, but she caught me and held me to
her. Presently we sat down on the door log, gazing at the corpse. Then
I began to reflect, and took out my powder gourd and loaded the pistol.
"What are ye a-doing?" she said.
"In case the other one comes back," said I.
"Pooh," said Polly Ann, "he'll not come back." Which was true. I have
never laid eyes on Riley to this day.
"I reckon we'd better fetch it out of the sun," said she, after a while.
And so we dragged it under an oak, covered the face, and left it.
He was the first man I ever killed, and the business by no means came
natural to me. And that day the journey-cakes which Polly Ann had made
were untasted by us both. The afternoon dragged interminably. Try as we
would, we could not get out of our minds the Thing that lay under the
oak.
It was near sundown when Tom and Weldon appeared on the mountain side
carrying a buck between them. Tom glanced from one to the other of us
keenly. He was very quick to divine.
"Whar be they?" said he.
"Show him, Davy," said Polly Ann.
I took him over to the oak, and Polly Ann told him the story. He gave me
one look, I remember, and there was more of gratitude in it than in a
thousand words. Then he seized a piece of cold cake from the stone.
"Which trace did he take?" he demanded of me.
But Polly Ann hung on his shoulder.
"Tom, Tom!" she cried, "you beant goin' to leave us again. Tom, he'll
die in the wilderness, and we must git to Kaintuckee."
* * * * * * *
The next vivid thing in my memory is the view of the last barrier Nature
had reared between us and the delectable country. It stood like a lion
at the gateway, and for some minutes we gazed at it in terror from
Powell's Valley below. How many thousands have looked at it with sinking
hearts! How many weaklings has its frown turned back! There seemed to
be engraved upon it the dark history of the dark and bloody land beyond.
Nothing in this life worth having is won for the asking; and the best is
fought for, and bled for, and died for. Written, too, upon that towering
wall of white rock, in the handwriting of God Himself, is the history of
the indomitable Race to which we belong.
For fifty miles we travelled under it, towards the Gap, our eyes drawn to
it by a resistless fascination. The sun went over it early in the day,
as though glad to leave the place, and after that a dark scowl would
settle there. At night we felt its presence, like a curse. Even Polly
Ann was silent. And she had need to be now. When it was necessary, we
talked in low tones, and the bell-clappers on the horses were not loosed
at night. It was here, but four years gone, that Daniel Boone's family
was attacked, and his son killed by the Indians.
We passed, from time to time, deserted cabins and camps, and some places
that might once have been called settlements: Elk Garden, where the
pioneers of the last four years had been wont to lay in a simple supply
of seed corn and Irish potatoes; and the spot where Henderson and his
company had camped on the way to establish Boonesboro two years before.
And at last we struck the trace that mounted upward to the Gateway
itself.
Read next: BOOK I - THE BORDERLAND#IX - ON THE WILDERNESS TRAIL
Read previous: BOOK I - THE BORDERLAND#VII - IN SIGHT OF THE BLUE WALL ONCE MORE
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