 Book 1, Chapter 6 of the Crossing by Winston Churchill. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6 Man Proposes But God Disposes A week passed and another Sunday came. A Sunday so still and hot and moist that steam seemed to rise from the heavy trees. An idle day for master and servant alike. A hush was in the air and a pre-sage of we knew not what. It weighed upon my spirits and even nicks, and we wandered restlessly under the trees seeking for distraction. About two o'clock a black line came on the horizon and slowly crept higher until it broke into giant, fantastic shapes. Mudderings arose, but the sun shone hot as ever. We're to have a hurricane, said Nick. I wish we might have it and be done with it. At five the sun went under. I remember that madam was lolling listless in the garden, dinkily arrayed in fine linen, trying to talk to Mr. Mason when a sound startled us. It was the sound of swift hoof beats on the soft drive. Mrs. Temple got up, an unusual thing. For chance she was expecting a message from some of the gentlemen, or else she may well have been tired of Mr. Mason. Nick and I were before her and running through the house arrived at the portico in time to see a negro ride up on a horse covered with lather. It was the same negro who had fetched me hither from Mr. Lowndes, and when I saw him, my heart stood still lest he had brought news of my father. What's to do, boy? cried Nicholas to him. The boy held in his hand a letter with a great red seal. Well, Mr. Temple, he said, and looking at me clearly, he took off his cap as he jumped from the horse. Mistress Temple, herself having arrived, he handed her the letter. She took it and broke the seal carelessly. Oh, she said, it's only from Mr. Lowndes. I wonder what he wishes now. Every moment of her reading was for me in agony, and she read slowly. The last word she spoke allowed. If you do not wish the lad sent him to me, as Kate has very fond of him. So Kate is very fond of him, she repeated, and handing the letter to Mr. Mason, she added. Tell him, parson. The words burned into my soul and seared it, and to this day I tremble with anger as I think of them. The scene comes before me. The sky, the darkened portico, and Nicholas running after his mother, crying. Oh, mama, how could you? How could you? Mr. Mason bent over me in compassion and smoothed my hair. David, said he in a thick voice. You're a brave boy, David. You will need all your courage now, my son. May God keep your nature sweet. He led me gently into the harbor and told me how, under Captain Baskin, the detachment had been ambushed by the Cherokees, and how my father, with Ensign Calhoun and another, had been killed, fighting bravely. The rest of the company had cut their way through and reached the settlements after terrible hardships. I was left an orphan. I shall not dwell here on the bitterness of those moments. We have all known sorrows in our lives, great sorrows. The clergyman was a wise man and did not strive to comfort me with words. But he sat there under the leaves with his arm about me until a blinding bolt flipped the blackness of the sky and the thunder rent our ears. And a Caribbean storm broke over Temple Bow with all the fury of the tropics. Then he led me through the drenching rain into the house, nor heeded the wet himself on his Sunday coat. A great anger stayed me and my sorrow. I would no longer tarry under Mrs. Temple's roof, though the world without were a sea or a desert. The one resolution to escape rose stronger and stronger within me. And I determined neither to eat nor sleep until I had gone away. The thought of leaving Nick was heavy indeed. And when he ran to me in the dark hall and threw his arms around me, it needed all my strength to keep from crying aloud. Davey, he said passionately. Davey, you mustn't mind what she says. She never means anything she says. She never cares for anything, save her pleasure. You and I will stay here until we're old enough to run away to Kentucky. Davey, answer me. Davey, I could not try as I would. There were no words that would come with honesty, but I pulled him down on the mahogany settle near the door which led into the back gallery. And there we sat huddled together in silence, while the storm raged furiously outside, and the drafts banged at the great doors of the house. In the lightning flashes, I saw Nick's face, and it haunted me afterwards through many years of wandering. On it was written a sorrow for me greater than my own sorrow, for God had given to this lad every human passion and compassion. The storm rolled away with the night, and Mammy came through the hall with a candle. Where is you, Mars Nick? Where is you, honey? Your supper's ready. And so we went into our little dining room, but I would not eat. The good old Negroes brushed her eyes with her apron as she pressed a cake upon me she had made herself, for she had grown fond of me, and presently we went away silently to bed. It was a long, long time before Nick's breathing told me that he was asleep. He held me tightly clutched to him, and I know that he feared I would leave him. The thought of going broke my heart, but I never once wavered in my resolve, and I lay staring into the darkness, pondering what to do. I thought of good Mr. Loundies and his wife, and I decided to go to Charlestown. Some of my boyish motives come back to me now. I should be near Nick, and even at that age, having lived a life of self-reliance, I thought of gaining an education and of rising to a place of trust. Yes, I would go to Mr. Loundies and ask him to let me work for him, and so earn my education. With a heavy spirit, I crept out of bed, slowly disengaging Nick's arm lest he should wake. He turned over, inside in his sleep. Carefully, I dressed myself, and after I was dressed, I could not refrain from slipping to the bedside to bend over him once again, for he was the only one in my life with whom I had found true companionship. Then I climbed carefully out of the window and sewed down the corner of the house to the ground. It was a starlight and a waning moon hung in the sky. I made my way through the drive between the black shadows of the forest and came at length to the big gates at the entrance, locked for the night. A strange thought of their futility struck me as I climbed the rail fence beside them and pushed on into the main road, the mud sucking under my shoes as I went. As I try now to cast my memory back, I can recall no fear, only a vast sense of loneliness, and the very song of it seemed to be sung and never ending refrained by the insects of the night. I had been alone in the mountains before. I had crossed great strips of wilderness since, but always there was love to go back to. Then I was leaving the only being in the world that remained to me. I must have walked two hours or more before I came to the mire of a crossroad and there I stood in a quandary of doubt as to which side led to Charlestown. As I lingered a light began to tremble in the heavens, a cock crew in the distance. I sat down on a fallen log to rest, but presently as the light grew I heard shouts that drew nearer and deeper and brought me to my feet in an uncertainty of expectation. Next came the rattling of chains, the scramble of hooks in the mire, and here was a wagon with a big canvas cover. Beside the straining horses was a great burly man with a red beard, cracking his long whip and calling to the horses in a strange tongue. He stopped still beside his panting animals when he saw me. His high boots sunk in the mud. Good morning, boy, he said, wiping his red face with his sleeve. What do you do here? I'm going to Charlestown, I answered. Ah, he cried. Doctor's bad. Mine boy, you run away. You are a good boy, I know. I will pay in good price to help me with my wagon, yeah? Where are you going? I demanded with a sudden wavering. Old country, pack country. You know the Broad River, yes? No, I did not. But a longing came upon me for the old backwoods life with its freedom and self-reliance and a hatred for this steaming country of heat and violent storms and artificiality and pomp. And I had a desire, even at that age, to make my own way in the world. What will you give me? I asked. At that he put his finger to his nose. Thruppence paid the day. I shook my head. He looked at me queerly. How old you be? Twelve, yes? But I had no notion of telling him. So I said, is this the Charlestown road? Four pence, he cried. Doctor's riches. I will go for six pence, I answered. My God, he cried. Six pence, that is robbery. But seeing me obdurate, he added, I will give it because I'm boy I must have. Vast as your name. David, you are a sharp boy, David. And so I went with him. In writing a biography, the relative value of days and years should hold. There are days which count in space for years and years for days. I spent the time on the whole happily with this Dutchman, whose name was Hans Kappel. He talked merrily safe when he spoke of the war against England and then contemptuously. For he was a bitter English partisan. And in contrast to this, he would dwell for hours on a king he called Frederick de Grosse, and a war he waged that was a war. And how this mighty king had fought a mighty queen of Rospach and Loutin in his own country. Battles that were battles. And he were there, Hans? I asked him once, Yeah, he said. But I did not stay. You ran away? Yeah, Hans would answer laughing. Run away. I love peace, David. That is why I come here and now bitterly. And now I have war again once. I would say nothing. But I must have looked my disapproval. For he went on to explain that in Soxgata, where he was born, men were made to fight whether they would or no. And they were stolen from their wives at night by soldiers of the great king and lured away by fair promises. Traveling with incredible slowness, in due time we came to a county called Orangeburg, where all were Dutchmen like Hans and very few spoke English. And they all thought like Hans and loved peace and hated the Congress. On Sundays, as we lay over at the taverns, these would be filled with a walking crowd of fiddlers and dancers, quinkly dressed, the women bringing their children and babies. At such times, Hans would be drunk. And I would have to feed the tired horses and mount watch over the cargo. I had many adventures, but none worth the telling here. And at length we came to Hans's farm, in a prettily rolling country on the broad river. Hans's wife spoke no English at all, nor did the brood of children running about the house. I had small fancy for staying in such a place, and so Hans paid me two crowns for my three-week service. I think with real regret, for labor was scarce in those parts, and though I was young, I knew how to work. And I could at least have guided his plow in the furrow and cared for his cattle. It was the first money I had earned in my life, and a prouder day than many I have had since. For the convenience of travelers passing that way, Hans kept a tavern, if it could have been dignified by such a name. It was in truth merely a log house with shakedowns, and stood across the rude road from his log farmhouse. He gave me leave to sleep there and to work for my board until I cared to leave. It's so chance that on the second day after my arrival, a tack train came along, guided by a nettlesome old man and a strong black-haired lass of 16 or thereabouts. The old man whose name was Ripley wore a nut-brown hunting shirt, trimmed with red cotton, and he had no sooner slipped the packs from his horses than he began to rail at Hans, who stood looking on. You damn Dutchman, be all Tories and worse, he cried. You stay here until your farms while our boys are off in the hill towns fighting Cherokees. I wish the devils had every one of your fat sculpts. Holly Anne, water the mags. Hans replied to this sally with great vigor, lapsing into Dutch. Holly Anne led the scrawny ponies to the trough, but her eyes snapped with merriment as she listened. She was a wonderfully cumbly lass, despite her loose cotton gown and poke bonnet and the shoe packs on her feet. She had blue eyes, the whitest, strongest of teeth, and the rosiest of faces. Grandpa hates a Dutchman worse in prison, she said to me. So do I. We've all been burned out and scoped up river, and they never give us so much as a man or a measure of corn. I helped her feed the animals and tether them and loose their bells for the night and carry the packs undercover. All the boys has gone to join Rutherford and Lambda Indians. She continued. So Grandpa and I had to go to the settlements. There weren't anyone else. What's your name? She demanded suddenly. I told her. She sat down on a log at the corner of the house and pulled me down beside her. And where are you from? I told her. It was impossible to look into her face and not tell her. She listened eagerly, now with compassion and now showing her white teeth and amusement. And when I had done, much to my discomforture, she seized me in her strong arms and kissed me. For, Davey, she cried, you ain't out of home. You shall come home with us. Catching me by the hand, she ran like a deer across the road to where her grandfather was still quarreling violently with Hans and pulled him backward by the skirts of his hunting shirt. I looked for another and mightier explosion from the old back woodsman. But to my astonishment, he seemed to forget Hans' existence and turned and smiled on her benevolently. Holly Ann, said he, what be you about now? Grandpa, said she, here's Davey Trimble, who's a good boy, and his pie is just killed by the Cherokees along the Baskin, and he wants work in a home, and he's coming along with us. All right, David, answered Mr. Ripley mildly. If Holly Ann says so, you can come. Where was she raised? I told him on the upper yetton. You don't tell me, said he. Did you ever know, Donald Boone? I did indeed, sir. I answered my face lighting up. Can you tell me where he is now? He's gone to Kentucky. Them new settlements for good. And if an hour and eighty years old, I'd go there too. I reckon I'll go there when I'm married, said Holly Ann, and blushed redder than ever. Drawing me to her, she said, I'll take you too, Davey. When you marry that worthless Tom Machesney, said her grandfather, Tester Lee. He's not worthless, said Polly, hotly. He's the best man in Rutherford's army. He'll get more scopes than any of them, you see. David is a good boy, Ann's put in, for he had recovered his composure. I wish Machesney'd stay with me. As for me, Polly Ann never consulted me on the subject, nor had she need to. I would have followed her to Kingdom come. And at the thought of reaching the mountains, my heart leaped with joy. We all slept in the one flea-infested windowless room of the tavern that night. And before dawn, I was up and untethered the horses. And Polly Ann and I together lifted the two bushels of alum salt on one of the beasts and the plow share on the other. By daylight, we had left ponds and his farm forever. I can see the last now as she strove it along the trace by the flowing river through sunlight and shadow, straight and supple and strong. Sometimes she sang like a bird and the forest rang. Sometimes she would make fun of her grandfather or of me. And again, she would be silent for an hour at a time, staring ahead. And then I knew she was thinking of that Tom Machestney. She would wake from those reveries with a laugh and give me a push to send me rolling down the bank. What's the matter, Davy? You look as solemn as a wood owl. What a little wise anchor you be. Once I retorted, you were thinking of Tom Machestney. Ah, that she was, I'll borrow it, snapped her grandfather. Polly Ann replied with a merry peel of laughter. You're both jealous of Tom, both of you. But, Davy, when you see him, you'll love him as much as I do. I'll not, I said sturdily. He's a man to look upon. He's a rip-roarer, old man Ripley put in. You're daft about him. That I am, said Polly, flushing and subsiding, but he'll not know it. As we rose into the more rugged country, we passed more than one charred cabin that told its silent story of Indian massacre. Only on the scattered hill farms, women and boys and old men were working in the fields. All saved the scattywags having gone to join Rutherford. There were plenty of these around the taverns to make eyes at Polly Ann and open love to her, had she allowed them. But she treated them in return to such scathing tirades that they were glad to desist, all but one. He must have been an escaped redemptioner, for he wore jointly a swan-skinned, three-connored hat and stained britches of a fine cloth. He was a bold, vain fellow. My beauty, says he, as we said it separate. Silver and Wedgewood better become you than Peter and Trencher, and I reckon a rope would sit better on your neck than a rough, retorted Polly Ann while the company shouted would laughter. But he was not the kind to become discomforted. I give a guinea to see you in silk, but I value your hair looks better as it is. Not so yours, said she, like lightning, could look better to me hanging on the belt of one of them red devils. In the morning, when he would have lifted the pack of alum salt, Polly Ann gave him a push that sent him sprawling. But she did it in such good nature with all that the fellow mistook her. He scrambled to his feet, along his arm about her waist, and kissed her, whereupon I hit him with a sapling, and he staggered and let her go. You amp of hell, he cried, rubbing the buck. He made a vicious dash at me that boated no good. But I slipped behind the hominy block, and Polly Ann, who was like a panther on her feet, dashed at him and gave him a bucket of the cheek that sent him reeling again. After that we were more devoted friends than ever. We traveled slowly, day by day, until I saw the mountains lift blue against the western sky, and the sight of them was like home once more. I loved them, and though I thought with sadness of my father, I was on the whole happier with Polly Ann than I had been in the lonely cabin on the Atten. Her spirits flagged a little as she drew near home, but old Ripley's rose, there's burrs, he would say, and old Harrow's and Williamson's marking the cabin set amongst the stump-dotted cornfields. And there, weeping his hand at a blackened heap of logs lying on the stones. That's where Nail Tyler, her baby, was sculpted. Or Nail, said Polly Ann, the tears coming into her eyes as she turned away. And Jim Tyler was killed getting to the fort. He can't say I didn't warn him. I reckon he'll never say nothing now, said Polly Ann. It was in truth a dismal sight, the shapeless timbers, the corn planted with such care, choked with weeds, and the poor utensils of the little family scattered and broken before the door sill. These same Indians had killed my father, and they surged up in my breast that hatred of the painted race felt by every backwards boy in my time. Towards the end of the day, the trace led into a beautiful green valley, and in the middle of it was a stream shining in the afternoon sun. And Polly Ann fell entirely silent. And presently, as the shadows grew purple, who came to a cabin set under some spreading trees on a knoll where a woman sat spinning at the door, three children playing at her feet. She stared at us so earnestly that I looked at Polly Ann and saw her redden and pale. The children were the first to come shouting at us. And then the woman dropped her wool and ran down the slope straight into Polly Ann's arms. Mr. Ripley halted the horses with a grunt. The two women drew off and looked into each other's faces. Then Polly Ann dropped her eyes. Heavy, she said, and stopped. No, Polly Ann, not one word since Tom and his pa went. What do folks say in the settlements? Polly Ann turned to her nose. They don't know nothing in the settlements, she replied. I wrote to Tom and told him he was gone, said the older woman. I knowed he'd want to hear, and she looked meaningly at Polly Ann, who said nothing. The children had been pulling at the girl's skirts, and suddenly she made a dash at them. They scattered, screaming with delight, and she after them. Howdy, Mr. Ripley, said the woman, smiling a little. Howdy, Ms. Machesney, said the old man shortly. So this was the mother of Tom, of whom I had heard so much. She was in truth a motherly-looking person. Her fleshy face creased with strong character. You have your broad with you, she asked, lancing at me. A lad Polly Ann took a shine to in the settlements, said the old man. Polly Ann? Polly Ann, he cried shortly. We'll have to be getting home, and then as though an afterthought, which it really was not, he added. I'll be you for salt, Ms. Machesney. So-so, said she. Well, I reckon a little might come handy, said he, and to the girl who stood panting beside him. Polly, give Ms. Machesney some salt. Polly Ann did, and generously. The salt they had carried was so much labor, three score, and ten miles from the settlements. Then we took our departure, the girl turning for one last look at Tom's mother, and at the cabin where he had dwelt. We were all silent the rest of the way, climbing the slender trail through the forest over the gap into the next valley. For I was jealous of Tom, I'm not ashamed to own it now. In the smoky haze that rises just before night lets her curtain fall. We descended the father's slope, and came to Mr. Ripley's cabin. End of chapter six. Book one, chapter seven of The Crossing by Winston Churchill. This lever box recording is in the public domain. Chapter seven, in sight of the blue wall once more. Polly Ann lived alone with her grandfather, her father and mother having been killed by Indians some years before. There was that bond between us that we needed one. Her father had built the cabin, a large one with a loft and a ladder climbing to it, and a sleeping room and a kitchen. The cabin stood on a terrace that nature had leveled, looking across a swift and shallow stream towards the mountains. There was the truck patch with its yellow squashes and melons and cabbages and beans, where Polly Ann and I worked through the hot mornings, and the corn patch with the great stunts of the primeval trees standing in it. All around us the silent forest threw its encircling arms, spreading up the slopes higher and higher to crown the crests with the little pines and hemlocks and balsam fur. There had been no meat, save bacon, since the machestneys had left, for of late game had become scarce and old Ripley was too feeble to go on the long huts. So one day when Polly Ann was gone across the ridge, I took down the long rifle from the buck horns over the heart and the hunting knife and powder horn and pouch beside it, and trudged up the slope to a game trail I discovered. All day I waited until the forest light grew gray, when a buck came and stood over the water, raising his head and stamping from time to time. I took aim in the notch of a sapling, brought him down, cleaned and skinned and dragged him into the water and triumphantly hauled one of his hands down the trail. Polly Ann gave a cry of joy when she saw me. Davey, she exclaimed, little Davey, I reckoned you was gone away from us. Grandpa, here's Davey back, and he shot a deer. You don't say, replied Mr. Ripley, surveying me and my booty with a grim smile. How could you, Grandpa? said Polly Ann reproachfully. Well, said Mr. Ripley, the gun was gone and Davey, I reckoned he ain't such a little rascal after all. Polly Ann and I went up the next day and brought the rest of the buck merrily homeward. After that I became the hunter of the family, but oftener than not I returned tired and empty-handed and ravenously hungry. Indeed, our chief game was rattlesnakes, which we killed by the dozens in the corn and truck patches. As Polly Ann and I went about our daily chores, we would talk of Tom a chestnut. Often she would sit idle at the handmill, a light in her eyes that I would have given kingdoms for. One ever memorable morning, early in the crisp autumn, a grizzled man strode up the trail, and Polly Ann dropped the ear of corn she was husking and stood still, her bosom heaving. It was Mr. Machesney, Tom's father, alone. No, Polly Ann, he cried. Ain't nothing happened. We've laid out the hill towns, but the Virginia man wanted a guide and Tom volunteered, and so he ain't come back with Rutherford's boys. No, Polly Ann, he cried. There ain't nothing happened. We've laid out the hill towns, and the Virginia man wanted a guide and Tom volunteered, and so he ain't come back with Rutherford's boys. Polly Ann seized him by the shoulders and looked him in the face. Be a telling the truth, Warner Machesney, she said in a hard voice. As God hears me, said Warner Machesney solemnly. He sent you this. He drew from the bosom of his hunting shirt a soiled piece of birch bark scrawled over with rude writing. Polly seized it and flew into the house. The hickories turned a flaunting yellow, the oaks of copper red, the leaves crackled on the Katoba vines, and still Tom Machesney did not come. The Cherokees were homeless and houseless and subdued. Their hill towns burned, their corn destroyed, their squalls and children wanderers. One by one the men of the grapevine settlement returned to save what they might of their crops and plow for the next year. Burrs, O'Harris, Whimsons and Whims. Yes, Tom had gone to guide the Virginia boys. All had tales to tell of his prowess and how he had saved Rutherford's men from ambush at the risk of his life, to all of which Polly Ann listened with conscious pride and replied with sallies. I reckon I don't care if he never comes back. She would cry. If he likes the Virginia boys more than me, there'll be others here I fancy more than him. Whereupon the informant, if he were not bound in matrimony, would begin to make eyes at Polly Ann. Or if he were bolder and went at the wooing in the more demonstrative fashion of the backwoods, Polly Ann had a way of hitting him behind the ear with most surprising effect. One windy morning, when the leaves were kiting over the valley, we were getting ready for pounding harmony when a figure appeared on the trail, steadying the hood of her son Bonnet with her hands. The girl gazed long and earnestly, and a lump came into my throat at the thought that the cumber might be Tom Machesney. Polly Ann sat down at the block again and discussed. It's only Chauncey Dyke, she said. Who's Chauncey Dyke? I asked. He reckons he's a buck was all that Polly Ann vouchsafed. Chauncey drew near with a strut. He had very long black hair, a new coon skin cap with a long tassel, and a new blue fringed hunting shirt. But first caught my eye was a couple of withered Indian scalps that hung by their long locks from his girdle. Chauncey Dyke was certainly handsome. Well, Polly Ann, are you tired of hanging out for Tom? He cried when a dozen places away. I wouldn't be if he was the only one left to choose. Polly Ann retorted. Chauncey Dyke stopped in his tracks and he hawed with laughter. But I could see that he was not very much pleased. Well, he said, I load you won't see Tom very soon. He's gone to Kentucky. Has he? said Polly Ann with brave indifference. He met a gal on the trail, a blazing fine gal, said Chauncey Dyke. She was going to Kentucky and Tom. He'd laugh, he'd go long. Polly Ann laughed and fingered the withered pieces of skin that Chauncey's girdle. Did Tom give you them sculpts? She asked innocently. Chauncey drew up stiffly. Oh, Tom, a Chesney. I reckon he ain't got none to give. This year's from a big brave at Nawee where the Virginia boys were surprised. And he held up the one with the longest tunt. He had a like to tum off me out of the briars, but I throwed him first. Chauncey said Polly Ann pounding the corn. I reckon you found him dead. But that night as we sat before the fading red of the backlog, the old man dozing in his chair, Polly Ann put her hand on mine. Baby, she said softly, do you reckon he's gone to Kentucky? How could I tell? The days passed. The wind grew colder and one subdued dawn we awoke to find that the pines had fantastic white arms and the stream ran black between white banks. All that day and for many days after, the snow added silently to the thickness of its blanket and winter was upon us. It was a long winter and a rare one. Polly Ann sat by the little window of the cabin, spinning the flax into Lindsay Woolsey, and she made a hunting shirt for her grandfather and another little one for me, which she fitted with careful fingers. But as she spun, her wheel made the only music, for Polly Ann sang no more. Once I came on her as she was thrusting the tattered piece of birch bark into her gown, but she never spoke to me more of Tom McCestney. When from time to time the snow melted on the hillsides, I sometimes surprised a deer there and shot him with the heavy rifle. And so the months wore on till spring. The buds reddened and popped and the briars grew pink and white. Through the lengthening days, we toiled in the truck patch, but always as I bent to my work, Polly Ann's face saddened me. It had once been so bright, and it should have been so at this season. Oh, Mr. Ripley grew quarrelous and savage and hard to please. In the evenings when my work was done, I often lay on the banks of the stream, staring at the high ridge, its ragged edges, the setting sun burned or molten gold. And the thought grew on me that I might make my way over the mountains into that land beyond, and find Tom for Polly Ann. I even climbed the watershed to the east as far as the O'Hara farm to sound that big Irishman about the trail, for he had once gone to Kentucky to come back with his scalp and little besides. O'Hara, with his brogue, gave me such a terrifying notion of the horrors of the wilderness trail that I threw up all the thought of following it alone. And so I resolved to wait until I heard of some settlers going over it, but none went from the grapevine settlement that spring. War was a waging in Kentucky. The great Indian nations were making a frantic effort to drive from their hunting grounds the little bands of settlers there, and these were in sore straits. So I waited and gave Polly Ann no hint of my intention. Sometimes she herself would slip away across the notch to see Mrs. Machesney and the children. She never took me with her on these journeys, but nearly always when she came back at nightfall her eyes would be red, and I knew the two women had been weeping together. There came a certain hot Sunday in July when she went on this errand, and grandpa Ripley having gone to spend the day at Old Man Winds, I was left alone. I remember I sat on the squared log at the doorstep wondering whether if I were to make my way to Salisbury I could fall in with a party going across the mountains into Kentucky and wondering likewise what Polly Ann would do without me. I was cleaning the long rifle, a labor I loved, when suddenly I looked up, startled to see a man standing in front of me. How he got there I know not. I stared at him. He was a young man, very spare and very burned with bright red hair and blue eyes that had a kind of laughter in them and yet were sober. His buckscan hunting shirt was old and stained and frayed by the briars, and his leggings and moccasins were wet from farting the stream. He laid his chin on the muzzle of his gun. Folks live here, sonny, said he. I nodded, where be they out, said I. Coming back, he asked. Tonight, said I, and began to rub the lock. Be they good folks, said he. Yes, I answered. Well, said he, making a move to pass me. I reckon I'll slip in and take what I have a mind to and move on. Now I like the man's looks very much, but I did not know what he would do. So I got in his way and clutched the gun. It was loaded, but not primed. And I emptied a little powder from the flask in the pan. At that he grinned. You're a good boy, sonny, he said. You reckon you could hit me if you shot? Yes, I said. But I knew I could scarcely hold the gun out straight without a rest. And do you reckon I could hit you first? He asked. At that I laughed, and he laughed. What's your name? I told him. Who do you love best in all the world? Said he. It was a queer question, but I told him. Polly Ann Ripley. Oh, said he after a pause. And what she liked. She's beautiful, I said. She's been very kind to me. She took me home with her from the settlements when I had no place to go. She's good. And a sharp tongue, I reckon, said he. When people need it, I said. Oh, said he. And presently, she's very merry, I warrant. She used to be, but that's gone by. I said. Gone by? Said he. His voice falling. Is she sick? No? Said I. She's not sick. She's sad. Sad? Said he. It was then I noticed he had a cut across his temple, red and barely healed. Do you reckon your Polly Ann would give me a little might to eat? This time I jumped up, ran into the house, and got down some cornpone and a leg of turkey. Well, that was the rule of the border. He took them in great bites, but slowly and depict the bones clean. I had breakfast yesterday morning, said about 40 miles from here, and nothing since, said I in astonishment. Fresh air and water and exercise, said he, and sat down in the grass. He was silent for a long while, and so was I. For a notion had struck me, though I hardly dared to give him voice. Are you going away? I asked. At last he laughed. Why? Said he. If you were going to Kentucky, I began and faltered. Well, he stared at me very hard. Kentucky, he said. There is a country, but it's full of blood and engine varmints now. Would you leave Polly Ann and go to Kentucky? Are you going? I said. I reckon I am, he said. As soon as I can, will you take me? I asked, breathless. I won't be in your way, and I can walk and shoot game. At that he bent back his head and laughed, which made me reddened with anger. Then he turned and looked at me more soberly. You're a queer little piece, said he. Why do you want to go there? I want to find Tom Machestny for Polly Ann, I said. He turned away his face. Now good for nothing, scamp, said he. I have long thought so, I said. He laughed again. It was a laugh that made me want to join him, had I not been irritated. And he's a scamp, you say? And why? Else he would be coming back to Polly Ann. May happy couldn't, said the stranger. Else he dyke, said he went off with another girl into Kentucky. And what did Polly Ann say to that? The stranger demanded. He asked Chonsey if Tom Machestny gave him the scalps he had on his belt. At that he laughed in good earnest and slapped his breech clout repeatedly. All at once he stopped and stared up the ridge. Is that Polly Ann, said he. I looked and far up the trail was a speck. I reckoned it is, I answered, and wondered at his eyesight. She travels over to see Tom Machestny's mom once in a while. He looked at me queerly. I reckon I'll go here and sit down, baby, said he. So is not to be in the way. And he walked around the corner of the house. Polly Ann saltered down the trail slowly, as was her want after such an occasion. And the man behind the house twice whispered with extreme caution how near is she before she came up the path. Have you been lonesome, Davy? She said. No, said I. I've had a visitor. It's not Chonsey dyke again. She said. He doesn't dare show his face here. No, it wasn't Chonsey. This man would have liked to see you, Polly Ann. He here I braced myself. He knew Tom Machestny. He called him a good for nothing scamp. He did, did he? said Polly Ann, very low. I reckon it was good for him. I wasn't here. I grin. What are you laughing at, you little monkey? said Polly Ann cross-lipped. Pun my soul. Sometimes I reckon you are witch. Polly Ann, I said. Did I ever do anything but good to you? She made a dive at me. And before I could escape, caught me in her strong young arms and hugged me. You're the best friend I have, little Davy. She cried. I reckon that so said the stranger who had risen and was standing at the corner. Polly Ann looked at him like a frightened doe. And as she stared, uncertain whether to stay or fly, the color surged into her cheeks and mounted to her fair forehead. Tom, she faltered. I've come back, Polly Ann, said he, but his voice was not so clear as a while ago. Then Polly Ann surprised me. What made you come back? said she, as though she didn't care a mink skin where at Mr. Machestny shifted his feet. I reckon it was to fetch you, Polly Ann. I like that, cried she. He's come to fetch me, Davy. That was the first time in months her laugh had sounded natural. I hear you fetched one gal across the mountains, and now you want to fetch another? Polly Ann, says he. There was a time when you knew a truthful man from a liar. That time's past, retorted she. I reckon all men are liars. What are you Tom fooling about here for, Tom Machestny? When your ma's breaking her heart. And when you come back at all? Polly Ann, says he, very serious. I ain't a booster. But when I think what I come through to get here, I wonder that I come back at all. The folks shut up at Harrod's, said it was sure death across the mountains now. I've walked 200 miles and fed seven times, and my sculpt says near hanging on a red stick's belt as ever I want it to be. Tom Machestny, said Polly Ann, with her hands on her hips and her sunbond it tilted. That's the longest speech you ever made in your life. I declare I lost my temper with Polly Ann then, nor did I blame Tom Machestny for turning on his heel and walking away. But he had gone no distance at all before Polly Ann with three springs was at his shoulder. Tom, she said gently, he hesitated, stopped, dumped the stock of his gun on the ground and wheeled. He looked at her doubtingly and her eyes fell to the ground. Tom Machestny, said she, you're a born fool with women. Thank God for that, said he, his eyes devouring her. I, said she, and then you want me to go to Kentucky with you? That's what I come for, he stammered, his assurance all run away again. I'll go, she answered so gently that her words were all but blown away by the summer wind. He laid his rifle against the stump at the edge of the cornfield, but she bound it clear of him. Then she stood, panting, her eyes sparkling. I'll go, she said, raising her finger. I'll go for one thing. What's that, he demanded, that you'll take deity along with us. This time Tom had her struggling like a wild thing in his arms and kissing her black hair madly. As for me, I might have been in the next settlement for all they cared. And then Polly Ann, as red as a holly berry, broke away from him and ran to me, caught me up and hit her face in my shoulder. Tom Machestny stood looking at us, grinning, and that day I ceased to hate him. There's no devil if I don't take him, Polly Ann, said he, why, he was a going to Kentucky to find me for you. What, she said, raising her head. That's what he told me before he knew who I was. He wanted to know if I'd fetch him there. Little Davey, cried Polly Ann. The last I saw of them that day, they were going up the trace towards his mother's, Polly Ann keeping ahead of him and just out of his reach. And I was very, very happy for Tom Machestny had come back at last and Polly Ann was herself once more. As long as I live, I shall never forget Polly Ann's wedding. She was all for delay and such a bunch of coquetry as I've never seen. She raised one objection after another, but Tom was a firm man and his late experiences in the wilderness had made him impatient of trifling. He had promised the Kentucky settlers fighting for their lives in their blockhouses that he would come back again and a resolute man who was a good shark was sorely missed in the country in those days. It was not the thousand dangers and hardships of the journey across the wilderness trail that frightened Polly Ann, not she, nor would she listen to Tom when he implored her to let him return alone to come back for her when the Redskins had got over the first furies of their hatred. As for me, the thought of going with them into that promised land was like wine, wondering what the place was like. I could not sleep at nights. Ain't you afraid to go, Davey? said Tom to me. You promised Polly Ann to take me, said I, indignantly. Davey, said he, you ain't overhandsome who would improve your looks to be bald. They have a way of taking your hair. Better stay behind with Grandpa Ripley till I can fetch you both. Tom, said Polly Ann, you can just go back alone if you don't take Davey. So one of the wind boys agreed to come over to stay with old Mr. Ripley until quieter time. The preparations for the wedding went on a pace that weak. I had not thought that the great nine settlement held so many people. And they came from other settlements, too, for news spread quickly in that country, despite the distances. Tom Machesty was plainly a favorite with the men who had marched with Rutherford. All the week they came, loaded with offerings, turkeys and venison and pork, and bare meat, greatest delicacy of all, until the cool spring was filled for the feast. From 30 miles down the broad, a gaunt Baptist preacher on a fat white pony arrived the night before. He had been sent for to tie the knot. Polly Ann's wedding day dawned bright and fair, and long before the sun glistened on the corn tassels, we were up and clearing out the big room. The fiddlers came first, a merry lot. And then the guests from afar began to arrive. Some of them had traveled half the night. The bridegroom's friends were assembling at the Machesney Place. At last, when the sun was over the stream, rose such Indian war hoops and shots from the ridge trail as made me think the redskins were upon us. The shouts and hurrahs grew louder and louder. The quickening thud of horses hoofs was heard in the woods, and they're burst into sight, the assembly by the truck patch, two wild figures on crazed horses charging down the path towards the house. We scattered to left and right. On they came, leaping logs and brush and ditches, until one of them pulled up yelling madly at the very door, the phone flicked sides of his horse moving with quick heaves. It was Chauncey Dyke, and he had won the race for the bottle of black beddy. Chauncey Dyke, his long black hair shining with bears oil. Amid the cheers of the bride's friends, he leaked from the saddle, mounted a stump and, flapping his arms, crowed in victory. Before he had done, the vanguard of the groom's friends were upon us, pale male, all in the finest of backwoods regalia, new hunting shirts, trimmed with bits of color, and all armed to the teeth. Scalping knife, tomahawk, and all. Nor had Chauncey Dyke forgotten the scalp of the brave who had leaped at him out of the briars at Neowea. Polly Ann was radiant, and a white linen gown woven and sewed by her own hands. It was not such a gown as Mrs. Temple, Nick's mother would have worn, and yet she was to me a hundred times more beautiful than that lady in all her silks. Keeping out from under it were the little blue beaded moccasins which Tom himself had brought across the mountains in the bosom of his hunting shirt. Polly Ann was radiant, and yet at times so rapturously shy that when the preacher announced himself ready to tie the knot, she ran into the house and hid in the cupboard, for Polly Ann was a child of nature. Bence, coloring like a wild rose, she was dragged by a boisterous bevy of burrows and menzy woozy to the spreading maple of the forest that stood on the high bank over the stream. The assembly fell solemn, and not a sound was heard save the breathing of nature and the heyday of her time. And though I was happy, the sobs rose in my throat. There stood Polly Ann as white now as the bleached linen she wore, and Tom Machestny tall and spare and broad, as strong a figure of a man as ever I lay eyes on. God had truly made that couple for wedlock in his leafy temple. The deep-toned words of the preacher in prayer broke the stillness. They were made man and wife, and then began a day of merriment of unrestraint, such as the backwards alone nose. The feast was spread out in the long grass under the trees, sides of venison, bare meat, horned poem, fresh to bake by Mrs. Machestny and Polly Ann herself, and all the vegetables in the patch. There was no stent either of maple beer and rum and black beddy, and toast to the bride and groom amidst gusts of laughter that they might populate Ken Tucky. And Polly Ann would have it that I should sit by her side under the maple. The fiddlers played, and there were foot races and shooting matches. I am wrestling matches in the severe manner of the backwoods between the young bucks, more than one of which might have ended seriously were it not for the high humor of the crowd. Tom Machestny himself was in most of them a hot favorite. By a trick he had learned in the Indian country, he threw Chauncey Dyke, no mean adversaries, so hard that the backwoods dandy lay for a moment in sleep. Contrary to the custom of many, Tom was not in the habit of crowing on such occasions, nor did he even smile as he held Chauncey to his feet. But Polly Ann knew, and I knew, that he was thinking of what Chauncey had said to her. So the long summer afternoon wore away into twilight, and the sun fell upon the blue ridges we worked across. Pine knots were lighted in the big room, the fiddlers set to again, and then came jigs and three and four-handed reels that made the punchians rattle, chicken fluttering, cut the buckle. And Polly Ann was the leader now, the young men flinging the girls from fireplace to window in the reels and back again, and when panting and perspiring, the lass was too tired to stand longer. She dropped into the hospitable lap of the nearest buck, who was perched on the bench along the wall awaiting his chance. So it went in the backwoods in those days and long after, and no harm of it did ever I could see. Well, suddenly, as if by concert, the music stopped, and a shouted laughter rang under the beams as Polly Ann flew out of the door with the girls after her as swift of foot as she. They dragged her a struggling captive to the bride chamber, which made the other end of the house, and when they emerged, blushing and giggling and subdued, the fun began with Tom Machestny. He gave the young men a pretty fight indeed, and long before they had in conquered, the elder guests had made their escape through door and window. All night the reels and jigs went on, and the feasting and drinking too, in the fine rain that came at dawn to hide the crests, the company road wearily homered through the notches. And chapter seven, book one, chapter eight of The Crossing by Winston Churchill. This labor box recording is in the public domain. Chapter eight, The Knolly Chucky Trace. 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 blokes in the valley, the Machestny's father, mother, and children were gathered to see us depart. And as they helped us to tighten the pack-settles 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 Kentucky. 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 arrived on their packs, aside the spade and the hoe. I triumphed, but may carry 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 trees, choked by briars 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 sorrow mayor 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 journey cakes on a hot stone from what we saved under the shiny ivy leaves, and scarce had I spent sell the horses ere Tom returned with a fat turkey he had shot. Was there ever such a wedding journey? said Polly Ann as we set about the fire, for the mountain air was chill, and Tom and Davy as grave as Parsons, yet guessed 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 your 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 get by the gnollychucky and wetawga settlements, he said. The Redskins said Polly Ann indignant. I reckon if one of them did get 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 the Redskins got you here, said Tom when she had slipped back. It fetch you to Nickerjack Cave. What's that? she demanded, for all the red and white and yellow scallowags 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, Davey, he'll never know. 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 panther or 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. Turnabouts fair, I expost you, lady, he'll need your sleep, Davey, said he. Now you'll never grow any bigger. I thought Kentucky was to the west, I said, and you're making north, for I had observed him day after day. We had left the trade-offs. Sometimes he climbed a tree, and again he sent me to the upper branches, once I surveyed a sea of treetops waving in the wind, and looked onward to where 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. I, North, Davey, I'm hunting for the knowledge-checky trace that leads to the Wataga 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 and 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 traveler 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. Davey'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 can look out for Davey a while 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 whipper. And yet I have but damn 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 dead ended pain on the border. Strangely enough, it was I who chanced upon the Nali Chucky trace, which follows the neanderings 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 Kentucky and shared now by the 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 a day, and the music of the water falling over the ledges mingled with out 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 light. The virgin valleys, where future generations were to be borne, spread out and narrowed again, valleys with a deep carpet of cane and grass, with a deer and elk and bear head 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 gnolly-chucky was the strangest house it had 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 call 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 gnolly-chucky Jack's house, said Tom. And who may he be, said she. Who may he be, cried Tom. Captain John Severe, king of the border, and I reckon the best man to sweep out redskins in the Wataga 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. It was blood and thunder for you. We went down the great warpath, which lies below us, and when we was through there wasn't a corn shuck or a wigwam or a warpost left. We didn't harm the swalls nor the children, but there weren't no prisoners took. With gnolly-chucky Jack's strikes I reckon it's more like a thunderbolt than or anything else. You think he's at home, Tom? I asked, fearful that I should not see this celebrated person. Will soon learn, said he as we descended. I heard he was going to punish them Chikamogo robbers by a knick-a-jack. Just then we heard a prodigious barking, and a dozen hounds came charging down the path at our horse's legs, the roan shying into the truck patch. A man's voice, deep, clear, compelling, was heard calling. Hi, Laura, 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 to my instinct told me he was a gentleman born. Well, I bless my soul, it's Tom Machesney, 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 Saviour 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 Kentucky, said Polly Ann. But Kentucky, cried Captain Saviour, turning to Tom. Eagad, then, you've no right to a wife and to such a wife, and he glanced again at Polly Ann. Why, Machesney, you never struck me as a rash man. Have you lost your senses to take a woman into Kentucky this year? So the fort still be in trouble, said Tom. Trouble, said Mr. Saviour, with a quick fling of his whip at an unruly hound. Parrots Town, Boonesboro, Logan's Fort at St. Assaps. 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. May, as the crow flies over, crag and thorn, cumberland, clench 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 Kentucky, 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 Saviour, said she. You don't look to be the kind to give out, Mrs. Machesney, 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 you. Surely you've been enterprising, Tom. We're 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. Saviour, while Polly Ann blushed. Well, well, supper's waiting us, and cider and applejack. But we don't get a waiting party every day. Some gentleman 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 courtyard of the house to the lawn at the far side of it. A rude table was set there under 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 Saviour startled them. My friends, said he, if you have dispatches for Kentucky, I pray you get them ready overnight. They looked up at him one sternly, the other two gravely. What the devil you mean, Saviour, said the stern one. That, my friend Tom Machesty, is going there with his wife. Unless we can stop him, said Saviour, stop him! Thundered the stern, gentlemen, 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 Machesty? he demanded. Saviour laughed. The best scowl I've laid eyes on, said he, a deadly man with a decade, an unerring man at choosing a wife. He bowed to the reddening Polly Anne and a fool to run the risk of losing her. Thut-tut, said the iron gentleman, who was the famous Captain Heaven Shelby of Kings Meadows. He'll leave her here in our settlements while he helps us fight dragging canoe and his Chick-a-Monga pirates. If he leaves me, said Polly Anne, her eyes flashing. That's an end to the bargain. You'll never find me more, Captain Saviour 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, sucking in with fleshy creases at the corners. Tom Machestney, said he, don't mind my father, if any man besides Logan can get inside the Fort you can. 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 took command when the boys was running and turned the tide. He looked like the men to step out of ranks and take command. Bash, said Mr. Isaac Shelby, blushing like a girl, where would I have been if you and Moore and Fendle and the rest hadn't stood them off till we turned round? By this time the third gentleman had drawn my attention. Not by anything he said, 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 shoulders, not so tall as Mr. Severe. Why do you go to Kentucky, Machestney? He asked. I give my word to Mr. Herod 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 Severe, if those I met coming back held her skelter over the wilderness trace had been of that stripe that have more men in the forts now. With that the Captain called for supper to be served where we set. He was a widower, with lads somewhere near my own age, and I recall them shone about the place by them. And later when the fireflies glowed and the nulla-chucky 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 Wotoga settlements. My hero worship cried it aloud within me. These captains dwelt on the borderland 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 steward, 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 nonetheless 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, Father West. But best I love to hear Captain Seedier, 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 saw the puzzle. To me he was Nick Temple grown to manhood. I slept in the room with Captain Seedier's boys, and one window of it was of paper smeared with bears 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 O'Connor's Tota, chief of the Cherokees, and also to consider the policy of punishing once for all dragging canoe and his bandits at Chikamaga. 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 Seedier'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. He gad, cried Captain Seedier. 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 Ford at Boonesboro. Should we be so fortunate as to reach Kentucky? And another to a young gentleman by the name of George Rogers Clark, apparently a leader there. Captain Seedier 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 cornfield into the wilderness again. Our way was down the Nalachukki, past the great bend of it below Lick Creek, and so to the Great Warpath, the trail by which countless parties of red marauders had traveled 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 forwarded the Holston and came to the scattered settlement in Carter's valley. I have since wracked my brain to remember at whose cabin we stopped there. He was a rough back woodsman with a wife and a horde of children, but I recalled that a great rain came out of the mountains and down the valley. We were counting over the powdered gourds in our pack when they're burst in at the door as wild the man as has ever been my lot to see. His brown beard was grown like a bramble patch, his eye had a violent 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 scaled feet to the blaze, and the steaming odor of drying leather filled the room. Where be ye from? asked Tom. For answer the man bared his arm and in his shoulder and two angry scars, long and red, revealed themselves, and around his wrist were deep gorges where he had been bound. They killed Sue, he cried, sculptor of four my very eyes, and they chopped my boy out in the hickory witches and carried him to the Greek nation, at a place where there was a standing stone I broke loose from three of them, and come here over the mountains, and I ain't had nothing stranger but berries and chainy briar root for ten days. God damn them, he cried, standing up and tottering with the pain in his feet. If I can get a décor, will you go back? said Tom. Go back! he shouted. I'll go back and fight him while I have blood in my body. He fell into a bonk, 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 Pollyanne, imploring her not to go. He became wild again, and brought tears to her eyes when he spoke of his own life. 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 Pollyanne to stay behind, but she would not listen to him. You're going, Tom? she said. Yes, he answered, turning away. I gave him my word, and your word to me, said Pollyanne. 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 decked rifle he had bought for the stranger, whose name was Weldon. There was no news from Kentucky, 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 Chuchyan, 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 of a loud talker. He wore a hunting shirt and leggings. They were both the worst for Rome they had had on the road, the big man talking very loud and boastfully. I've heard to go to Kentucky, said he. I've met a parcel of cards on the road, turned back. Ain't nothing to be feared of, eh, stranger? he added to Tom, who paid no manner of attention to him. The small man scarce opened his mouth, but said with his head bowed forward on his breast when it 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 thrown 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 a Tory than you. Where'd you come from? asked Tom. Chiswell's mind, taken out led for the army of Congress, but there ain't excitement enough in it. And you, said Tom, turning to Chechian and eyeing his military coat. I got tired of their damn discipline, the man answered surly. 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 over a weak rain, the road sodden and the smell of the summer earth heavy. Tom and Weldon walked ahead, driving the two horses followed by Chuchin, his head dropped between his shoulders. The big man Riley regaled Polly Ann. My pluck is, said he, my pluck is to give a red skin no chance. Shoot them down like hogs. It takes a good end to stalk me, man. Upon the canal I've had hand to hand fights with them and made them crack wits. 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 like a bird, talking all the while to Riley, who blew like a bellows, for once he was silent. We spent two per chance three days climbing and descending and forwarding. At night Tom would suffer none to watch, say Weldon and himself, not trusting Riley or Cuchin. 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 damned 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 of angry hurl and a huge yellow rattler lay coiled with him. 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 meep was to be got, as we could not use our gun 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. Davey said, I don't trust these rascals. Can you shoot a pistol? Can you shoot a pistol? I reckoned I could. He had taken one out of the pack he had got from Captain Severe and pushed it between the logs where the clay had fallen out. If they try anything, said he, shoot them and don't be afraid of killing them. He patting 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 Cushion moved off to the edge of a cane break near the water and sat there for a while talking in low tones. The horses were veiled and spanned so nearby feeding on the cane and wild grass and Polly Ann was cooking journey cakes on a stone. What makes you so sober Davey? she said. I didn't answer. Davey? she cried. Be happy while you're young. It is a fine day and Kan Tucky's over yonder. She picked up her skirts and sang, first upon the heel tip, then upon the toe. The men by the cane break turned and came towards us. You're happy today Miss Machesney? said Riley. Why shouldn't I be? said Polly Ann. We're all going to Kan Tucky. We're going back to Carter's Valley. said Riley in his blustering way. This year ain't as exciting as I thought. I reckon there ain't no Redskins know-how. What? cried Polly Ann in loud scorn. Here are going to dessert. There'll be Redskins enough buy and buy. How aren't you? How'd you like to come along of us? says Riley. That ain't any place for women, no beyond her. Along of you cried Polly Ann with flashing eyes. Do you hear that Davey? I did. Meanwhile the man Kutchian was slowly walking towards her. It took scarce a second from you 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 the whole 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 Kutchian 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. Davey, cried she, all stricken. Davey, you'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 you 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 Dave. 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 it. Wherever they, said he. Show him, Davey, 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 though it's more of gratitude in it than 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 bent going to leave us alone again. Tom, he'll die in the wilderness, and we must get to Kentucky. 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 engaged upon it the dark history of the dark and bloody land beyond. Nothing in this life worth having is one 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 travel under it towards the gap, our eyes drawn to it by a resist less 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 want 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. End of chapter eight.