Produced by Charles Keller, David Widger, and Robert Homa THE CROSSING By Winston Churchill CONTENTS BOOK I. THE BORDERLAND I. THE BLUE WALL II. WARS AND RUMORS OF WARS III. CHARLESTOWN IV. TEMPLE BOW V. CRAMâS HELL VI. MAN PROPOSES, BUT GOD DISPOSES VII. IN SIGHT OF THE BLUE WALL ONCE MORE VIII. THE NOLLICHUCKY TRACE IX. ON THE WILDERNESS TRAIL X. HARRODSTOWN XI. FRAGMENTARY XII. THE CAMPAIGN BEGINS XIII. KASKASKIA XIV. HOW THE KASKASKIANS WERE MADE CITIZENS XV. DAYS OF TRIAL XVI. DAVY GOES TO CAHOKIA XVII. THE SACRIFICE XVIII. âANâ YE HAD BEEN WHERE I HAD BEENâ XIX. THE HAIR BUYER TRAPPED XX. THE CAMPAIGN ENDS BOOK II. FLOTSAM AND JETSAM I. IN THE CABIN II. âTHE BEGGARS ARE COME TO TOWNâ III. WE GO TO DANVILLE IV. I CROSS THE MOUNTAINS ONCE MORE V. I MEET AN OLD BEDFELLOW VI. THE WIDOW BROWNâS VII. I MEET A HERO VIII. TO ST. LOUIS IX. âCHERCHEZ LA FEMMEâ X. THE KEEL BOAT XI. THE STRANGE CITY XII. LES ISLES XIII. MONSIEUR AUGUSTE ENTRAPPED XIV. RETRIBUTION BOOK III. LOUISIANA I. THE RIGHTS OF MAN II. THE HOUSE ABOVE THE FALLS III. LOUISVILLE CELEBRATES IV. OF A SUDDEN RESOLUTION V. THE HOUSE OF THE HONEYCOMBED TILES VI. MADAME LA VICOMTESSE VII. THE DISPOSAL OF THE SIEUR DE ST. GRE VIII. AT LAMARQUEâS IX. MONSIEUR LE BARON X. THE SCOURGE XI. âIN THE MIDST OF LIFEâ XII. VISIONS, AND AN AWAKENINGS XIII. A MYSTERY XIV. âTO UNPATHED WATERS, UNDREAMED SHORESâ XV. AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF A MAN AFTERWORD THE CROSSING BOOK I. THE BORDERLAND CHAPTER I. THE BLUE WALL I was born under the Blue Ridge, and under that side which is blue in the evening light, in a wild land of game and forest and rushing waters. There, on the borders of a creek that runs into the Yadkin River, in a cabin that was chinked with red mud, I came into the world a subject of King George the Third, in that part of his realm known as the province of North Carolina. The cabin reeked of corn-pone and bacon, and the odor of pelts. It had two shakedowns, on one of which I slept under a bearskin. A rough stone chimney was reared outside, and the fireplace was as long as my father was tall. There was a crane in it, and a bake kettle; and over it great buckhorns held my fatherâs rifle when it was not in use. On other horns hung jerked bearâs meat and venison hams, and gourds for drinking cups, and bags of seed, and my fatherâs best hunting shirt; also, in a neglected corner, several articles of womanâs attire from pegs. These once belonged to my mother. Among them was a gown of silk, of a fine, faded pattern, over which I was wont to speculate. The women at the Cross-Roads, twelve miles away, were dressed in coarse butternut wool and huge sunbonnets. But when I questioned my father on these matters he would give me no answers. My father was--how shall I say what he was? To this day I can only surmise many things of him. He was a Scotchman born, and I know now that he had a slight Scotch accent. At the time of which I write, my early childhood, he was a frontiersman and hunter. I can see him now, with his hunting shirt and leggings and moccasins; his powder horn, engraved with wondrous scenes; his bullet pouch and tomahawk and hunting knife. He was a tall, lean man with a strange, sad face. And he talked little save when he drank too many âhorns,â as they were called in that country. These lapses of my fatherâs were a perpetual source of wonder to me,--and, I must say, of delight. They occurred only when a passing traveller who hit his fancy chanced that way, or, what was almost as rare, a neighbor. Many a winter night I have lain awake under the skins, listening to a flow of language that held me spellbound, though I understood scarce a word of it. âVirtuous and vicious every man must be, Few in the extreme, but all in a degree.â The chance neighbor or traveller was no less struck with wonder. And many the time have I heard the query, at the Cross-Roads and elsewhere, âWhar Alec Trimble got his larninâ?â The truth is, my father was an object of suspicion to the frontiersmen. Even as a child I knew this, and resented it. He had brought me up in solitude, and I was old for my age, learned in some things far beyond my years, and ignorant of others I should have known. I loved the man passionately. In the long winter evenings, when the howl of wolves and âpaintersâ rose as the wind lulled, he taught me to read from the Bible and the âPilgrimâs Progress.â I can see his long, slim fingers on the page. They seemed but ill fitted for the life he led. The love of rhythmic language was somehow born into me, and manyâs the time I have held watch in the cabin day and night while my father was away on his hunts, spelling out the verses that have since become part of my life. As I grew older I went with him into the mountains, often on his back; and spent the nights in open camp with my little moccasins drying at the blaze. So I learned to skin a bear, and fleece off the fat for oil with my hunting knife; and cure a deerskin and follow a trail. At seven I even shot the long rifle, with a rest. I learned to endure cold and hunger and fatigue and to walk in silence over the mountains, my father never saying a word for days at a spell. And often, when he opened his mouth, it would be to recite a verse of Popeâs in a way that moved me strangely. For a poem is not a poem unless it be well spoken. In the hot days of summer, over against the dark forest the bright green of our little patch of Indian corn rippled in the wind. And towards night I would often sit watching the deep blue of the mountain wall and dream of the mysteries of the land that lay beyond. And by chance, one evening as I sat thus, my father reading in the twilight, a man stood before us. So silently had he come up the path leading from the brook that we had not heard him. Presently my father looked up from his book, but did not rise. As for me, I had been staring for some time in astonishment, for he was a better-looking man than I had ever seen. He wore a deerskin hunting shirt dyed black, but, in place of a coonskin cap with the tail hanging down, a hat. His long rifle rested on the ground, and he held a roan horse by the bridle. âHowdy, neighbor?â said he. I recall a fear that my father would not fancy him. In such cases he would give a stranger food, and leave him to himself. My fatherâs whims were past understanding. But he got up. âGood evening,â said he. The visitor looked a little surprised, as I had seen many do, at my fatherâs accent. âNeighbor,â said he, âkin you keep me over night?â âCome in,â said my father. We sat down to our supper of corn and beans and venison, of all of which our guest ate sparingly. He, too, was a silent man, and scarcely a word was spoken during the meal. Several times he looked at me with such a kindly expression in his blue eyes, a trace of a smile around his broad mouth, that I wished he might stay with us always. But once, when my father said something about Indians, the eyes grew hard as flint. It was then I remarked, with a boyâs wonder, that despite his dark hair he had yellow eyebrows. After supper the two men sat on the log step, while I set about the task of skinning the deer my father had shot that day. Presently I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. âWhatâs your name, lad?â he said. I told him Davy. âDavy, Iâll larn ye a trick worth a little time,â said he, whipping out a knife. In a trice the red carcass hung between the forked stakes, while I stood with my mouth open. He turned to me and laughed gently. âSome day youâll cross the mountains and skin twenty of an evening,â he said. âYeâll make a woodsman sure. Youâve got the eye, and the hand.â This little piece of praise from him made me hot all over. âGame rare?â said he to my father. âNone sae good, now,â said my father. âI reckon not. My cabinâs on Beaver Creek some forty mile above, and gameâs going there, too.â âSettlements,â said my father. But presently, after a few whiffs of his pipe, he added, âI hear fine things of this land across the mountains, that the Indians call the Dark and Bluidy Ground.â âAnd well named,â said the stranger. âBut a brave country,â said my father, âand all tramped down with game. I hear that Daniel Boone and others have gone into it and come back with marvellous tales. They tell me Boone was there alone three months. Heâs saething of a man. Dâye ken him?â The ruddy face of the stranger grew ruddier still. âMy nameâs Boone,â he said. âWhat!â cried my father, âit wouldnât be Daniel?â âYouâve guessed it, I reckon.â My father rose without a word, went into the cabin, and immediately reappeared with a flask and a couple of gourds, one of which he handed to our visitor. âTell me aboot it,â said he. That was the fairy tale of my childhood. Far into the night I lay on the dewy grass listening to Mr. Booneâs talk. It did not at first flow in a steady stream, for he was not a garrulous man, but my fatherâs questions presently fired his enthusiasm. I recall but little of it, being so small a lad, but I crept closer and closer until I could touch this superior being who had been beyond the Wall. Marco Polo was no greater wonder to the Venetians than Boone to me. He spoke of leaving wife and children, and setting out for the Unknown with other woodsmen. He told how, crossing over our blue western wall into a valley beyond, they found a âWarriorâs Pathâ through a gap across another range, and so down into the fairest of promised lands. And as he talked he lost himself in the tale of it, and the very quality of his voice changed. He told of a land of wooded hill and pleasant vale, of clear water running over limestone down to the great river beyond, the Ohio--a land of glades, the fields of which were pied with flowers of wondrous beauty, where roamed the buffalo in countless thousands, where elk and deer abounded, and turkeys and feathered game, and bear in the tall brakes of cane. And, simply, he told how, when the others had left him, he stayed for three months roaming the hills alone with Nature herself. âBut did you noâ meet the Indians?â asked my father. âI seed one fishing on a log once,â said our visitor, laughing, âbut he fell into the water. I reckon he was drowned.â My father nodded comprehendingly,--even admiringly. âAnd again!â said he. âWal,â said Mr. Boone, âwe fell in with a war party of Shawnees going back to their lands north of the great river. The critters took away all we had. It was hard,â he added reflectively; âI had staked my fortune on the venter, and weâd got enough skins to make us rich. But, neighbor, there is land enough for you and me, as black and rich as Canaan.â ââThe Lord is my shepherd,ââ said my father, lapsing into verse. ââThe Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He leadeth me into green pastures, and beside still waters.ââ For a time they were silent, each wrapped in his own thought, while the crickets chirped and the frogs sang. From the distant forest came the mournful hoot of an owl. âAnd you are going back?â asked my father, presently. âAye, that I am. There are many families on the Yadkin below going, too. And you, neighbor, you might come with us. Davy is the boy that would thrive in that country.â My father did not answer. It was late indeed when we lay down to rest, and the night I spent between waking and dreaming of the wonderland beyond the mountains, hoping against hope that my father would go. The sun was just flooding the slopes when our guest arose to leave, and my father bade him God-speed with a heartiness that was rare to him. But, to my bitter regret, neither spoke of my fatherâs going. Being a man of understanding, Mr. Boone knew it were little use to press. He patted me on the head. âYouâre a wise lad, Davy,â said he. âI hope we shall meet again.â He mounted his roan and rode away down the slope, waving his hand to us. And it was with a heavy heart that I went to feed our white mare, whinnying for food in the lean-to. CHAPTER II. WARS AND RUMORS OF WARS And so our life went on the same, but yet not the same. For I had the Land of Promise to dream of, and as I went about my tasks I conjured up in my mind pictures of its beauty. You will forgive a backwoods boy,--self-centred, for lack of wider interest, and with a little imagination. Bear hunting with my father, and an occasional trip on the white mare twelve miles to the Cross-Roads for salt and other necessaries, were the only diversions to break the routine of my days. But at the Cross-Roads, too, they were talking of Kaintuckee. For so the Land was called, the Dark and Bloody Ground. The next year came a war on the Frontier, waged by Lord Dunmore, Governor of Virginia. Of this likewise I heard at the Cross-Roads, though few from our part seemed to have gone to it. And I heard there, for rumors spread over mountains, that men blazing in the new land were in danger, and that my hero, Boone, was gone out to save them. But in the autumn came tidings of a great battle far to the north, and of the Indians suing for peace. The next year came more tidings of a sort I did not understand. I remember once bringing back from the Cross-Roads a crumpled newspaper, which my father read again and again, and then folded up and put in his pocket. He said nothing to me of these things. But the next time I went to the Cross-Roads, the woman asked me:-- âIs your Pa for the Congress?â âWhatâs that?â said I. âI reckon he ainât,â said the woman, tartly. I recall her dimly, a slattern creature in a loose gown and bare feet, wife of the storekeeper and wagoner, with a swarm of urchins about her. They were all very natural to me thus. And I remember a battle with one of these urchins in the briers, an affair which did not add to the love of their family for ours. There was no money in that country, and the store took our pelts in exchange for what we needed from civilization. Once a month would I load these pelts on the white mare, and make the journey by the path down the creek. At times I met other settlers there, some of them not long from Ireland, with the brogue still in their mouths. And again, I saw the wagoner with his great canvas-covered wagon standing at the door, ready to start for the town sixty miles away. âTwas he brought the news of this latest war. One day I was surprised to see the wagoner riding up the path to our cabin, crying out for my father, for he was a violent man. And a violent scene followed. They remained for a long time within the house, and when they came out the wagonerâs face was red with rage. My father, too, was angry, but no more talkative than usual. âYe say yeâll not help the Congress?â shouted the wagoner. âIâll not,â said my father. âYeâll live to rue this day, Alec Trimble,â cried the man. âYe may think yeâre too fine for the likes of us, but thereâs them in the settlement that knows about ye.â With that he flung himself on his horse, and rode away. But the next time I went to the Cross-Roads the woman drove me away with curses, and called me an aristocrat. Wearily I tramped back the dozen miles up the creek, beside the mare, carrying my pelts with me; stumbling on the stones, and scratched by the dry briers. For it was autumn, the woods all red and yellow against the green of the pines. I sat down beside the old beaver dam to gather courage to tell my father. But he only smiled bitterly when he heard it. Nor would he tell me what the word aristocrat meant. That winter we spent without bacon, and our salt gave out at Christmas. It was at this season, if I remember rightly, that we had another visitor. He arrived about nightfall one gray day, his horse jaded and cut, and he was dressed all in wool, with a great coat wrapped about him, and high boots. This made me stare at him. When my father drew back the bolt of the door he, too, stared and fell back a step. âCome in,â said he. âDâye ken me, Alec?â said the man. He was a tall, spare man like my father, a Scotchman, but his hair was in a cue. âCome in, Duncan,â said my father, quietly. âDavy, run out for wood.â Loath as I was to go, I obeyed. As I came back dragging a log behind me I heard them in argument, and in their talk there was much about the Congress, and a woman named Flora Macdonald, and a British fleet sailing southward. âWeâll have two thousand Highlanders and more to meet the fleet. And yeâll sit at hame, in this hovel yeâve made yereselâ (and he glanced about disdainfully) âand no help the King?â He brought his fist down on the pine boards. âYe did no help the King greatly at Culloden, Duncan,â said my father, dryly. Our visitor did not answer at once. âThe Yankee Rebels âll no help the House of Stuart,â said he, presently. âAnd Hanoverâs coom to stay. Are ye, too, a Rebel, Alec Ritchie?â I remember wondering why he said Ritchie. âIâll no take a hand in this fight,â answered my father. And that was the end of it. The man left with scant ceremony, I guiding him down the creek to the main trail. He did not open his mouth until I parted with him. âPuir Davy,â said he, and rode away in the night, for the moon shone through the clouds. I remember these things, I suppose, because I had nothing else to think about. And the names stuck in my memory, intensified by later events, until I began to write a diary. And now I come to my travels. As the spring drew on I had had a feeling that we could not live thus forever, with no market for our pelts. And one day my father said to me abruptly:-- âDavy, weâll be travelling.â âWhere?â I asked. âYeâll ken soon enough,â said he. âWeâll go at crack oâ day.â We went away in the wild dawn, leaving the cabin desolate. We loaded the white mare with the pelts, and my father wore a woollen suit like that of our Scotch visitor, which I had never seen before. He had clubbed his hair. But, strangest of all, he carried in a small parcel the silk gown that had been my motherâs. We had scant other baggage. We crossed the Yadkin at a ford, and climbing the hills to the south of it we went down over stony traces, down and down, through rain and sun; stopping at rude cabins or taverns, until we came into the valley of another river. This I know now was the Catawba. My memories of that ride are as misty as the spring weather in the mountains. But presently the country began to open up into broad fields, some of these abandoned to pines. And at last, splashing through the stiff red clay that was up to the mareâs fetlocks, we came to a place called Charlotte Town. What a day that was for me! And how I gaped at the houses there, finer than any I had ever dreamed of! That was my first sight of a town. And how I listened open-mouthed to the gentlemen at the tavern! One I recall had a fighting head with a lock awry, and a negro servant to wait on him, and was the principal spokesman. He, too, was talking of war. The Cherokees had risen on the western border. He was telling of the massacre of a settlement, in no mild language. âSirs,â he cried, âthe British have stirred the redskins to this. Will you sit here while women and children are scalped, and those devilsâ (he called them worse names) âStuart and Cameron go unpunished?â My father got up from the corner where he sat, and stood beside the man. âI ken Alec Cameron,â said he. The man looked at him with amazement. âAy?â said he, âI shouldnât think youâd own it. Damn him,â he cried, âif we catch him weâll skin him alive.â âI ken Cameron,â my father repeated, âand Iâll gang with you to skin him alive.â The man seized his hand and wrung it. âBut first I must be in Charlestown,â said my father. The next morning we sold our pelts. And though the mare was tired, we pushed southward, I behind the saddle. I had much to think about, wondering what was to become of me while my father went to skin Cameron. I had not the least doubt that he would do it. The world is a storybook to a lad of nine, and the thought of Charlestown filled me with a delight unspeakable. Perchance he would leave me in Charlestown. At nightfall we came into a settlement called the Waxhaws. And there being no tavern there, and the mare being very jaded and the roads heavy, we cast about for a place to sleep. The sunlight slanting over the pine forest glistened on the pools in the wet fields. And it so chanced that splashing across these, swinging a milk-pail over his head, shouting at the top of his voice, was a red-headed lad of my own age. My father hailed him, and he came running towards us, still shouting, and vaulted the rails. He stood before us, eying me with a most mischievous look in his blue eyes, and dabbling in the red mud with his toes. I remember I thought him a queer-looking boy. He was lanky, and he had a very long face under his tousled hair. My father asked him where he could spend the night. âWal,â said the boy, âI reckon Uncle Crawford might take you in. And again he mightnât.â He ran ahead, still swinging the pail. And we, following, came at length to a comfortable-looking farmhouse. As we stopped at the doorway a stout, motherly woman filled it. She held her knitting in her hand. âYou Andy!â she cried, âhave you fetched the milk?â Andy tried to look repentant. âI declare Iâll tan you,â said the lady. âGit out this instant. What rascality have you been in?â âI fetched home visitors, Ma,â said Andy. âVisitors!â cried the lady. âWhat âll your Uncle Crawford say?" And she looked at us smiling, but with no great hostility. âPardon me, Madam,â said my father, âif we seem to intrude. But my mare is tired, and we have nowhere to stay.â Uncle Crawford did take us in. He was a man of substance in that country,--a north of Ireland man by birth, if I remember right. I went to bed with the red-headed boy, whose name was Andy Jackson. I remember that his mother came into our little room under the eaves and made Andy say his prayers, and me after him. But when she was gone out, Andy stumped his toe getting into bed in the dark and swore with a brilliancy and vehemence that astonished me. It was some hours before we went to sleep, he plying me with questions about my life, which seemed to interest him greatly, and I returning in kind. âMy Paâs dead,â said Andy. âHe came from a part of Ireland where they are all weavers. Weâre kinder poor relations here. Aunt Crawfordâs sick, and Ma keeps house. But Uncle Crawfordâs good, anâ lets me go to Charlotte Town with him sometimes.â I recall that he also boasted some about his big brothers, who were away just then. Andy was up betimes in the morning, to see us start. But we didnât start, because Mr. Crawford insisted that the white mare should have a half dayâs rest. Andy, being hustled off unwillingly to the âOld Fieldâ school, made me go with him. He was a very headstrong boy. I was very anxious to see a school. This one was only a log house in a poor, piny place, with a rabble of boys and girls romping at the door. But when they saw us they stopped. Andy jumped into the air, let out a war-whoop, and flung himself into the midst, scattering them right and left, and knocking one boy over and over. âIâm Billy Buck!â he cried. âIâm a hull regiment oâ Rangers. Let thâ Cherokees mind me!â âWay for Sandy Andy!â cried the boys. âWhereâd you get the new boy, Sandy?â âHis nameâs Davy,â said Andy, âand his Paâs goinâ to fight the Cherokees. He kin lick tarnation outân any oâ you.â Meanwhile I held back, never having been thrown with so many of my own kind. âHeâs shot painters and bâars,â said Andy. âAnâ skinned âem. Kin you lick him, Smally? I reckon not.â Now I had not come to the school for fighting. So I held back. Fortunately for me, Smally held back also. But he tried skilful tactics. âHe kin throw you, Sandy.â Andy faced me in an instant. âKin you?â said he. There was nothing to do but try, and in a few seconds we were rolling on the ground, to the huge delight of Smally and the others, Andy shouting all the while and swearing. We rolled and rolled and rolled in the mud, until we both lost our breath, and even Andy stopped swearing, for want of it. After a while the boys were silent, and the thing became grim earnest. At length, by some accident rather than my own strength, both his shoulders touched the ground. I released him. But he was on his feet in an instant and at me again like a wildcat. âAndy wonât stay throwed,â shouted a boy. And before I knew it he had my shoulders down in a puddle. Then I went for him, and affairs were growing more serious than a wrestle, when Smally, fancying himself safe, and no doubt having a grudge, shouted out:-- âTell him he slobbers, Davy.â Andy did slobber. But that was the end of me, and the beginning of Smally. Andy left me instantly, not without an intimation that he would come back, and proceeded to cover Smally with red clay and blood. However, in the midst of this turmoil the schoolmaster arrived, haled both into the schoolhouse, held court, and flogged Andrew with considerable gusto. He pronounced these words afterwards, with great solemnity:-- âAndrew Jackson, if I catch ye fightinâ once more, Iâll be afther givinâ ye lave to lave the school.â I parted from Andy at noon with real regret. He was the first boy with whom I had ever had any intimacy. And I admired him: chiefly, I fear, for his fluent use of profanity and his fighting qualities. He was a merry lad, with a wondrous quick temper but a good heart. And he seemed sorry to say good-by. He filled my pockets with June apples--unripe, by the way--and told me to remember him when I got till Charlestown. I remembered him much longer than that, and usually with a shock of surprise. CHAPTER III. CHARLESTOWN Down and down we went, crossing great rivers by ford and ferry, until the hills flattened themselves and the country became a long stretch of level, broken by the forests only; and I saw many things I had not thought were on the earth. Once in a while I caught glimpses of great red houses, with stately pillars, among the trees. They put me in mind of the palaces in Bunyan, their windows all golden in the morning sun; and as we jogged ahead, I pondered on the delights within them. I saw gangs of negroes plodding to work along the road, an overseer riding behind them with his gun on his back; and there were whole cotton fields in these domains blazing in primrose flower,--a new plant here, so my father said. He was willing to talk on such subjects. But on others, and especially our errand to Charlestown, he would say nothing. And I knew better than to press him. One day, as we were crossing a dike between rice swamps spread with delicate green, I saw the white tops of wagons flashing in the sun at the far end of it. We caught up with them, the wagoners cracking their whips and swearing at the straining horses. And lo! in front of the wagons was an army,--at least my boyish mind magnified it to such. Men clad in homespun, perspiring and spattered with mud, were straggling along the road by fours, laughing and joking together. The officers rode, and many of these had blue coats and buff waistcoats,--some the worse for wear. My father was pushing the white mare into the ditch to ride by, when one hailed him. âHullo, my man,â said he, âare you a friend to Congress?â âIâm off to Charlestown to leave the lad,â said my father, âand then to fight the Cherokees.â âGood,â said the other. And then, âWhere are you from?â âUpper Yadkin,â answered my father. âAnd you?â The officer, who was a young man, looked surprised. But then he laughed pleasantly. âWeâre North Carolina troops, going to join Lee in Charlestown,â said he. âThe British are sending a fleet and regiments against it.â âOh, aye,â said my father, and would have passed on. But he was made to go before the Colonel, who plied him with many questions. Then he gave us a paper and dismissed us. We pursued our journey through the heat that shimmered up from the road, pausing now and again in the shade of a wayside tree. At times I thought I could bear the sun no longer. But towards four oâclock of that day a great bank of yellow cloud rolled up, darkening the earth save for a queer saffron light that stained everything, and made our very faces yellow. And then a wind burst out of the east with a high mournful note, as from a great flute afar, filling the air with leaves and branches of trees. But it bore, too, a savor that was new to me,--a salt savor, deep and fresh, that I drew down into my lungs. And I knew that we were near the ocean. Then came the rain, in great billows, as though the ocean itself were upon us. The next day we crossed a ferry on the Ashley River, and rode down the sand of Charlestown neck. And my most vivid remembrance is of the great trunks towering half a hundred feet in the air, with a tassel of leaves at the top, which my father said were palmettos. Something lay heavy on his mind. For I had grown to know his moods by a sort of silent understanding. And when the roofs and spires of the town shone over the foliage in the afternoon sun, I felt him give a great sigh that was like a sob. And how shall I describe the splendor of that city? The sandy streets, and the gardens of flower and shade, heavy with the plant odors; and the great houses with their galleries and porticos set in the midst of the gardens, that I remember staring at wistfully. But before long we came to a barricade fixed across the street, and then to another. And presently, in an open space near a large building, was a company of soldiers at drill. It did not strike me as strange then that my father asked his way of no man, but went to a little ordinary in a humbler part of the town. After a modest meal in a corner of the public room, we went out for a stroll. Then, from the wharves, I saw the bay dotted with islands, their white sand sparkling in the evening light, and fringed with strange trees, and beyond, of a deepening blue, the ocean. And nearer,--greatest of all delights to me,--riding on the swell was a fleet of ships. My father gazed at them long and silently, his palm over his eyes. âMen-oâ-war from the old country, lad,â he said after a while. âTheyâre a brave sight.â âAnd why are they here?â I asked. âTheyâve come to fight,â said he, âand take the town again for the King.â It was twilight when we turned to go, and then I saw that many of the warehouses along the wharves were heaps of ruins. My father said this was that the town might be the better defended. We bent our way towards one of the sandy streets where the great houses were. And to my surprise we turned in at a gate, and up a path leading to the high steps of one of these. Under the high portico the door was open, but the house within was dark. My father paused, and the hand he held to mine trembled. Then he stepped across the threshold, and raising the big polished knocker that hung on the panel, let it drop. The sound reverberated through the house, and then stillness. And then, from within, a shuffling sound, and an old negro came to the door. For an instant he stood staring through the dusk, and broke into a cry. âMarse Alec!â he said. âIs your master at home?â said my father. Without another word he led us through a deep hall, and out into a gallery above the trees of a back garden, where a gentleman sat smoking a long pipe. The old negro stopped in front of him. âMarse John,â said he, his voice shaking, âheahâs Marse Alec done come back.â The gentleman got to his feet with a start. His pipe fell to the floor, and the ashes scattered on the boards and lay glowing there. âAlec!â he cried, peering into my fatherâs face, âAlec! Youâre not dead.â âJohn,â said my father, âcan we talk here?â âGood God!â said the gentleman, âyouâre just the same. To think of it--to think of it! Breed, a light in the drawing-room.â There was no word spoken while the negro was gone, and the time seemed very long. But at length he returned, a silver candlestick in each hand. âCareful,â cried the gentleman, petulantly, âyouâll drop them.â He led the way into the house, and through the hall to a massive door of mahogany with a silver door-knob. The grandeur of the place awed me, and well it might. Boylike, I was absorbed in this. Our little mountain cabin would almost have gone into this one room. The candles threw their flickering rays upward until they danced on the high ceiling. Marvel of marvels, in the oval left clear by the heavy, rounded cornice was a picture. The negro set down the candles on the marble top of a table. But the air of the room was heavy and close, and the gentleman went to a window and flung it open. It came down instantly with a crash, so that the panes rattled again. âCurse these Rebels,â he shouted, âtheyâve taken our window weights to make bullets.â Calling to the negro to pry open the window with a walking-stick, he threw himself into a big, upholstered chair. âTwas then I remarked the splendor of his clothes, which were silk. And he wore a waistcoat all sewed with flowers. With a boyâs intuition, I began to dislike him intensely. âDamn the Rebels!â he began. âTheyâve driven his Lordship away. I hope his Majesty will hang every motherâs son of âem. All pleasure of life is gone, and theyâve folly enough to think they can resist the fleet. And the worst of it is,â cried he, âthe worst of it is, Iâm forced to smirk to them, and give good gold to their government.â Seeing that my father did not answer, he asked: âHave you joined the Highlanders? You were always for fighting.â âIâm to be at Cherokee Ford on the twentieth,â said my father. âWeâre to scalp the redskins and Cameron, though âtis not known.â âCameron!â shrieked the gentleman. âBut thatâs the other side, man! Against his Majesty?â âOne side or tâother,â said my father, ââtis all one against Alec Cameron.â The gentleman looked at my father with something like terror in his eyes. âYouâll never forgive Cameron,â he said. âIâll no forgive anybody who does me a wrong,â said my father. âAnd where have you been all these years, Alec?â he asked presently. âSince you went off with--â âIâve been in the mountains, leading a pure life,â said my father. âAnd weâll speak of nothing, if you please, thatâs gone by.â âAnd what will you have me do?â said the gentleman, helplessly. âLittle enough,â said my father. âKeep the lad till I come again. Heâs quiet. Heâll no trouble you greatly. Davy, this is Mr. Temple. Youâre to stay with him till I come again.â âCome here, lad,â said the gentleman, and he peered into my face. âYouâll not resemble your mother.â âHeâll resemble no one,â said my father, shortly. âGood-by, Davy. Keep this till I come again.â And he gave me the parcel made of my motherâs gown. Then he lifted me in his strong arms and kissed me, and strode out of the house. We listened in silence as he went down the steps, and until his footsteps died away on the path. Then the gentleman rose and pulled a cord hastily. The negro came in. âPut the lad to bed, Breed,â said he. âWhah, suh?â âOh, anywhere,â said the master. He turned to me. âIâll be better able to talk to you in the morning, David,â said he. I followed the old servant up the great stairs, gulping down a sob that would rise, and clutching my motherâs gown tight under my arm. Had my father left me alone in our cabin for a fortnight, I should not have minded. But here, in this strange house, amid such strange surroundings, I was heartbroken. The old negro was very kind. He led me into a little bedroom, and placing the candle on a polished dresser, he regarded me with sympathy. âSo youâre Miss Lizbethâs boy,â said he. âAnâ she dade. Anâ Marse Alec rough anâ hard es though he been boân in de woods. Honey, olâ Breed âll tek care ob you. Iâll git you one oâ dem night rails Marse Nick has, and some ob hisân close in de mawninâ.â These things I remember, and likewise sobbing myself to sleep in the four-poster. Often since I have wished that I had questioned Breed of many things on which I had no curiosity then, for he was my chief companion in the weeks that followed. He awoke me bright and early the next day. âHeahâs some close oâ Marse Nickâs you kin wear, honey,â he said. âWho is Master Nick?â I asked. Breed slapped his thigh. âMarse Nick Temple, Marsaâs son. Heâs âbout you size, but he ainâ no moâ laik you den a jack rabbitâs laik anâ owl. Dey ainâ none laik Marse Nick foâ gittinâ into trouble--and gittinâ out agin.â âWhere is he now?â I asked. âHe at Temple Bow, on de Ashley Ribber. Datâs de Marsaâs barony.â âHis what?â âDe place whah he lib at, in de country.â âAnd why isnât the master there?â I remember that Breed gave a wink, and led me out of the window onto a gallery above the one where we had found the master the night before. He pointed across the dense foliage of the garden to a strip of water gleaming in the morning sun beyond. âSee dat boat?â said the negro. âSometime de Marse he tek ar ride in dat boat at night. Sometime gentlemen comes heah in a powâful hurry to git away, outân de harbor whah de English is at.â By that time I was dressed, and marvellously uncomfortable in Master Nickâs clothes. But as I was going out of the door, Breed hailed me. âMarse Dave,â--it was the first time I had been called that,--âMarse Dave, you ainât gwineter tell?â âTell what?â I asked. âBoutân de boat, and Marsa agwine away nights.â âNo,â said I, indignantly. âI knowed you wahnât,â said Breed. âYou donâ look as if youâd tell anything.â We found the master pacing the lower gallery. At first he barely glanced at me, and nodded. After a while he stopped, and began to put to me many questions about my life: when and how I had lived. And to some of my answers he exclaimed, âGood God!â That was all. He was a handsome man, with hands like a womanâs, well set off by the lace at his sleeves. He had fine-cut features, and the white linen he wore was most becoming. âDavid,â said he, at length, and I noted that he lowered his voice, âDavid, you seem a discreet lad. Pay attention to what I tell you. And mark! if you disobey me, you will be well whipped. You have this house and garden to play in, but you are by no means to go out at the front of the house. And whatever you may see or hear, you are to tell no one. Do you understand?â âYes, sir,â I said. âFor the rest,â said he, âBreed will give you food, and look out for your welfare.â And so he dismissed me. They were lonely days after that for a boy used to activity, and only the damp garden paths and lawns to run on. The creek at the back of the garden was stagnant and marshy when the water fell, and overhung by leafy boughs. On each side of the garden was a high brick wall. And though I was often tempted to climb it, I felt that disobedience was disloyalty to my father. Then there was the great house, dark and lonely in its magnificence, over which I roamed until I knew every corner of it. I was most interested of all in the pictures of men and women in quaint, old-time costumes, and I used during the great heat of the day to sit in the drawing-room and study these, and wonder who they were and when they lived. Another amusement I had was to climb into the deep windows and peer through the blinds across the front garden into the street. Sometimes men stopped and talked loudly there, and again a rattle of drums would send me running to see the soldiers. I recall that I had a poor enough notion of what the fighting was all about. And no wonder. But I remember chiefly my insatiable longing to escape from this prison, as the great house soon became for me. And I yearned with a yearning I cannot express for our cabin in the hills and the old life there. I caught glimpses of the master on occasions only, and then I avoided him; for I knew he had no wish to see me. Sometimes he would be seated in the gallery, tapping his foot on the floor, and sometimes pacing the garden walks with his hands opening and shutting. And one night I awoke with a start, and lay for a while listening until I heard something like a splash, and the scraping of the bottom-boards of a boat. Irresistibly I jumped out of bed, and running to the gallery rail I saw two dark figures moving among the leaves below. The next morning I came suddenly on a strange gentleman in the gallery. He wore a flowered dressing-gown like the one I had seen on the master, and he had a jolly, round face. I stopped and stared. âWho the devil are you?â said he, but not unkindly. âMy name is David Trimble,â said I, âand I come from the mountains.â He laughed. âMr. David Trimble-from-the-mountains, who the devil am I?â âI donât know, sir,â and I started to go away, not wishing to disturb him. âAvast!â he cried. âStand fast. See that you remember that.â âIâm not here of my free will, sir, but because my father wishes it. And Iâll betray nothing.â Then he stared at me. âHow old did you say you were?â he demanded. âI didnât say,â said I. âAnd you are of Scotch descent?â said he. âI didnât say so, sir.â âYouâre a rum one,â said he, laughing again, and he disappeared into the house. That day, when Breed brought me my dinner on my gallery, he did not speak of a visitor. You may be sure I did not mention the circumstance. But Breed always told me the outside news. âDeyâs gittinâ ready foâ a big fight, Marse Dave,â said he. âMister Moultrie in the foât in de bay, anâ Marse Genâl Lee tryinâ for to boss him. Deyâs Rebels. Anâ Marse Admiral Parker anâ de Kingâs regâments fixinâ foâ to tek de foât, anâ den Charlestoân. Dey say Mister Moultrie ainât got no moâ chance dan a treed âpossum.â âWhy, Breed?â I asked. I had heard my father talk of Englandâs power and might, and Mister Moultrie seemed to me a very brave man in his little fort. âWhy!â exclaimed the old negro. âYou ainât neber read no histâry books. I knows some of de gentlemen wid Mister Moultrie. Dey ainât no soldiers. Some is fine gentlemen, to be suah, but itâs jist foolishness to fight dat fleet anâ army. Marse Genâl Lee hisself, he done sesso. I heerd him.â âAnd heâs on Mister Moultrieâs side?â I asked. âSholy,â said Breed. âHeâs de Rebel genâl.â âThen heâs a knave and a coward!â I cried with a boyâs indignation. âWhere did you hear him say that?â I demanded, incredulous of some of Breedâs talk. âRight heah in dis house,â he answered, and quickly clapped his hand to his mouth, and showed the whites of his eyes. âYou ainât agwineter tell dat, Marse Dave?â âOf course not,â said I. And then: âI wish I could see Mister Moultrie in his fort, and the fleet.â âWhy, honey, so you kin,â said Breed. The good-natured negro dropped his work and led the way upstairs, I following expectant, to the attic. A rickety ladder rose to a kind of tower (cupola, I suppose it would be called), whence the bay spread out before me like a picture, the white islands edged with the whiter lacing of the waves. There, indeed, was the fleet, but far away, like toy ships on the water, and the bit of a fort perched on the sandy edge of an island. I spent most of that day there, watching anxiously for some movement. But none came. That night I was again awakened. And running into the gallery, I heard quick footsteps in the garden. Then there was a lanternâs flash, a smothered oath, and all was dark again. But in the flash I had seen distinctly three figures. One was Breed, and he held the lantern; another was the master; and the third, a stout one muffled in a cloak, I made no doubt was my jolly friend. I lay long awake, with a boyâs curiosity, until presently the dawn broke, and I arose and dressed, and began to wander about the house. No Breed was sweeping the gallery, nor was there any
{'title': 'The Crossing by Winston Churchill', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}