II
_THE CLARK HOME_
"What do you see, William?"
A red-headed boy was standing at the door of a farmhouse on the roadbetween Fredericksburg and Richmond, in the valley of theRappahannock.
"The soldiers, mother, the soldiers!"
Excitedly the little four-year-old flew down under the mulberry treesto greet his tall and handsome brother, George Rogers Clark, returningfrom the Dunmore war.
Busy, sewing ruffles on her husband's shirt and darning his long silkstockings, the mother sat, when suddenly she heard the voice of herson with his elder brother.
"I tell you, Jonathan, there is a storm brewing. But I cannot take anoath of allegiance to the King that my duty to my country may requireme to disregard. The Governor has been good to me, I admit that. Icannot fight him--and I will not fight my own people. Heigh-ho, forthe Kentucky country."
Dropping her work, Mrs. Clark, Ann Rogers, a descendant of the martyrof Smithfield, and heir through generations of "iron in the blood andgranite in the backbone," looked into the approaching, luminous eyes.
"I hope my son has been a credit to his country?"
"A credit?" exclaimed Jonathan. "Why, mother, Lord Dunmore has offeredhim a commission in the British army!"
"But I cannot take it," rejoined George Rogers, bending to press akiss on the cheek of his brown-eyed little mother. "Lord Dunmore meansright, but he is misunderstood. And he swears by the King."
"And do we not all swear by the King?" almost wrathfully exclaimedJohn Clark, the father, entering the opposite door at this moment.
"Who has suffered more for the King than we self-same Cavaliers, wewho have given Virginia her most honourable name--'The Old Dominion'?Let the King but recognise us as Britons, entitled to the rights ofEnglishmen, and we will swear by him to the end."
It was a long speech for John Clark, a man of few words and intenselyloyal, the feudal patriarch of this family, and grandson of a Cavalierwho came to Virginia after the execution of Charles I. But his soulhad been stirred to the centre, by the same wrongs that had kindledPatrick Henry and Thomas Jefferson. These were his friends, hisneighbours, who had the same interests at stake, and the same highlove of liberty.
"If the King would have us loyal, aye, then, let him be loyal to us,his most loyal subjects. Did not Patrick Henry's father drink theKing's health at the head of his regiment? Did not Thomas Jefferson'sgrandsires sit in the first House of Burgesses in the old church atJamestown, more than a century before the passage of the Stamp Act?And who swore better by the King? None of us came over here fromchoice! We came because we loved our King and would not bide hisenemies."
George Rogers Clark looked approvingly at his father, and yet, he owedfealty to Lord Dunmore. Even as a stripling he had been singled outfor favours.
"I see the storm gathering," he said. "If I choose, it must be with mypeople. But I need not choose,--I will go to Kentucky."
It was the selfsame thought of Daniel Boone.
"But here are the children!"
Nine-year-old Lucy danced to her brother, William still clung to hishand, and their bright locks intermingled.
"Three red-headed Clarks," laughed the teasing Jonathan.
More than a century since, the first John Clark settled on the James,a bachelor and tobacco planter. But one day Mary Byrd of Westovertangled his heart in her auburn curls. In every generation since, thatred hair had re-appeared.
"A strain of heroic benevolence runs through the red-headed Clarks,"said an old dame who knew the family. "They win the world and give itaway."
But the dark-haired Clarks, they were the moneymakers. AlreadyJonathan, the eldest, had served as Clerk in the Spottsylvania Courtat Fredericksburg, where he often met Colonel George Washington. Threeyounger brothers, John, Richard, and Edmund, lads from twelve toseventeen, listened not less eagerly than Ann, Elizabeth, Lucy, andFanny, the sisters of this heroic family.
But George was the adventurer. When he came home friends, neighbours,acquaintances, gathered to listen. The border wars had kindledmilitary ardour with deeds to fire a thousand tales of romance andfireside narrative. Moreover, George was a good talker. But he seemeduncommonly depressed this night,--the choice of life lay before him.
At sixteen George Rogers Clark had set out as a land surveyor, likeWashington and Boone and Wayne, penetrating and mapping the westernwilds.
To survey meant to command. Watched by red men over the hills, doggedby savages in the brakes, scalped by demons in the wood, the frontiersurveyor must be ready at any instant to drop chain and compass forthe rifle and the knife.
Like Wayne and Washington, Clark had drilled boy troops when he andMadison were pupils together under the old Scotch dominie, DonaldRobertson, in Albemarle.
While still in his teens George and a few others, resolute young men,crossed the Alleghanies, went over Braddock's route, and examined FortNecessity where Washington had been. They floated down the Monongahelato Fort Pitt. In the angle of the rivers, overlooking the flood,mouldered the remains of old Fort Du Quesne, blown up by the Frenchwhen captured by the English. The mound, the moat, the angles andbastions yet remained, but overgrown with grass, and cattle grazedwhere once an attempt had been made to plant mediaeval institutions onthe sod of North America. As if born for battles, Clark studied theground plans.
"Two log gates swung on hinges here," explained the Colonel from FortPitt, "one opening on the water and one on the land side with amediaeval drawbridge. Every night they hauled up the ponderous bridge,leaving only a dim dark pit down deep to the water."
With comprehensive glance George Rogers Clark took in the mechanism ofintrenchments, noted the convenient interior, with magazine,bake-house, and well in the middle.
"So shall I build my forts." Pencil in hand the young surveyor had thewhole scheme instantly sketched. The surprised Colonel took a secondlook. Seldom before had he met so intelligent a study offortifications.
"Are you an officer?"
"I am Major of Virginia militia under Lord Dunmore."
With a missionary to the Indians, Clark slid down the wild Ohio andtook up a claim beyond the farthest. Here for a year he lived as didBoone, beating his corn on a hominy block and drying his venisonbefore his solitary evening fire. Then he journeyed over into theScioto.
So, when the Dunmore war broke out, here was a scout ready at hand forthe Governor. Major Clark knew every inch of the Braddock route andevery trail to the Shawnee towns. When a fort was needed, it was theskilled hand and fertile brain of George Rogers Clark that planned thebastioned stockade that became the nucleus of the future city ofWheeling.
Then Dunmore came by. Like a war-horse, Clark scented the battle ofPoint Pleasant afar off.
"And I not there to participate!" he groaned. But Dunmore held him athis own side, with Morgan, Boone, and Kenton, picked scouts of theborder. When back across the Ohio the Mingoes came flying, Clark wild,eager, restless, was pacing before Dunmore's camp.
Beaten beyond precedent by the mighty valour of Andrew Lewis,Cornstalk and his warriors came pleading for peace.
"Why did you go to war?" asked Dunmore.
"Long, long ago there was a great battle between the red Indians andthe white ones," said Cornstalk, "and the red Indians won. This nervedus to try again against the whites."
But Logan refused to come.
"Go," said Lord Dunmore, to George Rogers Clark and another, "go tothe camp of the sullen chief and see what he has to say."
They went. The great Mingo gave a vehement talk. They took it down inpencil and, rolled in a string of wampum, carried it back to the campof Lord Dunmore.
In the council Clark unrolled and read the message. Like the wail ofan old Roman it rang in the woods of Ohio.
"I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin and hegave him not meat; if he ever came cold and naked and he clothed himnot. During the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remainedidle in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Suc
h was my love for thewhites, that my countrymen pointed as they passed and said, 'Logan isthe friend of the white man.' I had even thought to have lived withyou but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, last Spring, incold blood and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan, noteven sparing my women and children. There runs not a drop of my bloodin the veins of any living creature. This drove me to revenge. I havesought it; I have killed many; I have fully glutted my vengeance; formy country I rejoice at the beams of peace. But do not harbour athought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He willnot turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn forLogan? Not one."
One by one, half a dozen of Clark's army comrades had dropped inaround the hickory flame, while the substance of Logan's taleunfolded.
"And was Cresap guilty?"
"No," answered George Rogers Clark, "I perceived he was angry to hearit read so before the army and I rallied him. I told him he must be avery great man since the Indians shouldered him with everything thathappened."
Little William had fallen asleep, sitting in the lap of his elderbrother, but, fixed forever, his earliest memory was of the Dunmorewar. There was a silence as they looked at the sleeping child. Alittle negro boy crouched on the rug and slumbered, too. His name wasYork.