DONALD McELROY
SCOTCH IRISHMAN
by
W. W. CALDWELL
Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill
PhiladelphiaGeorge W. Jacobs & CompanyPublishers
Copyright, 1918, byGeorge W. Jacobs & Company
All rights reservedPrinted in U. S. A.
NELLY STOOD READY TO RECEIVE THE GENERAL.]
ILLUSTRATIONS
Nelly stood ready to receive the General
I laid the floral wreath carefully upon the bright curls
"You have evidently mistaken me for a villain"
"Cousin Donald! Colonel Clark!" she called sharply
CHAPTER I
The life story of most men, who have lived earnest and active lives,would doubtless be worth the hearing, if the various influences and themany vicissitudes which compose it could be separated and skillfullyrearranged into some well wrought design. As I look back upon my ownlife, it seems to me full of interest and instruction, yet I suppose notmore so than that of many another; wherefore, were personal experiencesand conclusions the sum of it, I should hesitate to write them down,lest those events and struggles which to me have seemed notable andsignificant, should prove in the telling of them to have been butcommonplace incidents to which all are liable. Because of the accidentof my birth in the year 1754, however, I have lived through a periodwhich will be ever memorable in the history of the world--a period socrowded with worthy deeds and great men, especially on this continent,that there is small danger its interest will be soon exhausted. Do notconclude that I intend to venture upon a tale of the AmericanRevolution; only a master's hand can fill in with due skill andproportion so wide a canvas, and that story waits. Where my own life'sstory has been entangled with some of the events of that struggle I musttouch upon them, and the real purpose of my narrative--which is tochronicle for future generations the noble part played in the greatdrama of the nation's making by a certain worthy people--will require meto review briefly a few of the battles and campaigns of our war againstautocracy.
The Scotch Irish of America, through the commendable habit of that race,so it be not carried too far, to put their strength into deeds ratherthan into words, have missed their meed of credit for the important workthey did in our struggle for liberty. Now, our honored fellow-countrymenand co-patriots, the Puritans, have not made this mistake; they tooktheir part in action nobly, and also they have taken care to record inhistory, song, and story the might and glory of their deeds. The "BostonTea Party" and the "Boston Massacre" will go down emblazoned on the pageof history, but the fight at Alamance, and the vehement petitions urgingresistance to tyranny sent up to state conventions, and the firstCongress, by the Scotch Irish counties of Virginia, North Carolina, andPennsylvania have scarcely been heard of.
It is my hope not only to show what the Scotch Irish have done for thecause of liberty, but also to give a just idea of the character of thispeople, a true picture of their home life, and a correct estimate ofthat religion which is so dear to them, and which has had so much to dowith making them the freedom-loving, and withal broad-minded patriotsthey are. Few men, I flatter myself, are better equipped to tell aScotch Irish story than I, Donald McElroy, who in blood am pure blueScotch Irish, who have been instructed by Scotch Irish divines in thingstemporal and spiritual, have fought under Scotch Irish leaders, andlived all my life among them: yet I think I may promise that my storyshall not be a mere idyl--a panegyric of a people, all whose virtueswill be exaggerated, all whose faults will be slurred, or kept out ofsight. I have seen too much of life not to know that for each heightthere is a shadow, that every noble trait of character is closelyattended by a special weakness. I know the faults of my people as I knowtheir virtues, and through one dearer to me than all else the worldholds, I have suffered much from that narrowness of view andstubbornness of purpose peculiar to some of them.
My boyhood was spent within the bounds of our own plantation, in thevalley of Virginia. Rarely was I allowed to venture beyond sight of thehouse unless in company with my father, or some of the negro slaves;then only to the plow lands, or the harvest fields, until I had learnedthe use of rifle, knife and tomahawk. After that I was permitted to huntin the forest, being solemnly charged each time by my mother that Ishould not go more than a few hundred yards into the woods in anydirection, nor be lured by deer or squirrel into the thickets. Theremight be Indians lurking in the bushes any day, and the youthfulness ofa scalp did not impair its value. Later, when I could ride and run likean Indian, and shoot a bounding deer through the heart, at a distance ofthree hundred feet, I was not admonished so frequently, and used oftento hunt alone the day long, coming home at twilight, my horse strunground with many kinds of game.
All this time with my uncle's eldest son, Thomas, I was being taughtEnglish, Greek, Latin and Mathematics by an old Scotchman, who hadbecome one of my grandfather's household before the family leftPennsylvania. He was a fellow of Edinburgh University, and but for thedisabilities of encroaching age was well fitted to bestow upon us allthe education we could imbibe.
Among the incidents of my boyhood, two stand out with peculiardistinctness. Both were fraught with terrible danger, and yet, as theycome back to me, I realize with something of astonishment that exceptfor one brief moment, on each occasion, I felt only a sensation ofexhilarating excitement and grim determination. By living in the midstof hourly peril, we pioneers were dulled to the sense of it. Our onethought when peril overtook us was to do our utmost, in the fullassurance that the God of our fathers, who miraculously had preserved usthrough so many dangers, would again interpose for our deliverance. Insuch faith, and naught else could have served them, my mother wentsinging about her work, and my father stood guard, alone, over hisslaves, day after day, as they felled the timber on the hill slopes, insight of the mountain pass through which the Indians were accustomed toraid our valley, without cause or warning.
This Saturday afternoon, in the fall of the year, I had gone huntingafoot. In hot pursuit after a deer, I penetrated a thicket deep in theforest, there to lose track of my game. But in making my way out, camefull upon a panther's burrow, and so much admired the one striped andmottled cub curled therein, that the fancy seized me to carry it homeand attempt to tame it. Hearing no sound of the parent beast, I put thesleeping cub into my game bag, and started homeward. Scarcely half amile had been covered when there came from the thicket behind me thatnerve-shaking cry of the panther, resembling nothing else so much as thescream of a child in mortal terror. My steady gait quickened into a run.A second screech came from the pursuing panther. Knowledge of my dangerlent wings to my limbs, but the beast gained on me with long leaps ofher agile body. Louder and louder sounded her oft repeated cries, andthe cub in my bag answered with pitiable whines. I could hear her deep,swift panting, and the soft thud of her feet upon the leafy ground. Theopen field was gained but a few yards in advance of her, and turning toface my foe a sudden panic seized me. To my amazement she paused at theedge of the forest, and, after turning a scornful glance in mydirection, fixed a meditative eye upon a sunset more gorgeous thanusual. With that alertness of observation, and acuteness ofconsciousness which most persons experience in moments of high tension,I remember noting the rich coloring of the tan and brown rings on thecreature's sleek and mottled skin, and of thinking what a fine, softcover it would make for my mother's rocking chair.
Suddenly the panther turned toward me, uttering a still moreblood-curdling cry, and crouched for a spring. My ball met her as sherose, but only to sting her, and make her the more furious. Her bodycame against mine with the force of a cannon ball, and I went down underit, my unloaded rifle being hurled from my hand. Fastened by theanim
al's claws, together we rolled over and over in the dry, mattedgrass of the meadow, struggling desperately.
The confused, doubtful struggle was presently over and not only was Ialive and fully conscious, but could even move my mangled arm, and standupon my feet. The hilt of my knife stuck straight upward in the long furupon the creature's breast, and I pulled it out, wiped it upon thegrass, and sheathed it, thinking I would not use it again, but keep itfor remembrance.
Again I was struck by the thickness and beauty of the panther's skin,and wished to have it for my mother's chair. It was my custom to carry aleathern thong in the outer pouch of my game bag; one end of it I nowfastened about the beast's body, the other about my own, and so draggedthe carcass after me across the level field. Slow and painful was myprogress, for my lacerated shoulder and arm smarted maddeningly, andevery few yards I was forced to drop upon the ground to rest.
The full moon was two hours high, when, at last, I came to the barn yardstile, on which my father leaned, scanning the fields anxiously.
"Well, son, I'm glad you've come," said my father, "your mother is halfdead with anxiety."
I showed my trophy and told my story.
"You did a foolish thing, Don, when you stole the cub, but your motherneed have, I think, little further anxiety about you; you are as able totake care of yourself as any seasoned woodsman."
The glow of pride my father's words gave me changed to a feeling ofremorse when I saw my mother's blanched face and trembling hands. Shewould not consent to let me tame the cub. "Our lives were already closeenough to savagery," she said, "with Indians and wild beasts likely tofall upon us at any moment; we do not want the sweet peace of our homebroken by any savage sight or sound." She kept the skin, though, used iton her winter rocking chair, and prized it highly. Indeed I have morethan once overheard her tell how she came by it.
The second incident of my youth most vividly stamped upon my memoryhappened just ten months after I killed the panther.
The occasion was the last Indian raid into our valley. Fortunately wehad two days' warning, and in that time the women and children weregathered within the recently completed stockade around the church, withprovisions enough for a week's siege. Meanwhile the men took theirrifles and marched to the mountain pass through which the Indians wereexpected to enter the valley, hoping to turn the savages back with abloody lesson such as would last them a while, and insure us some moreyears of peace.
Much exalted in my own opinion by my recent exploit with the panther, Ibegged to go with the men, and took it somewhat sullenly that I shouldbe left behind with the rest of the youths, under the captaincy of theparson, to guard a church full of women and children. About half an hourbefore sunset on the second day I was descending the hill behind thechurch to the spring, a piggin in either hand, and my ever present rifleunder my arm, when I saw on the crest of the opposite hill a file ofIndians, their painted bodies and feather crested heads standing outagainst the glowing sky, as distinctly as a picture on a white leaf.Back I flew to the church, with the alarm hot on my lips, and found thatParson Craig had assembled all within for evening worship. In aninstant, Bible and Psalm book laid aside, the doors of the church werebarricaded, and we youths, each with rifle or musket loaded and primed,stood close about our parson, awaiting orders.
"Lads," he said, in tones that rang as they did when he preached one ofhis famous sermons of warning to sinners, and dropping in a Scotch wordhere and there, as he was apt to when excited, "keep cool and firecarefully when ye ha'e taken good aim. We ha'e nae bullets to spare andeach ain maun hold himself responsible for half a dozen savages.Remember, lads, ye are fightin' for your maithers, your sisters, yourkirk an' your hames, for a' that true men hauld dear, and if ye maun gieyour verra lives to save these dearer things count not the price, butpay like brave men, and like brothers o' that dear Christ wha gladlygi'ed His life a sacrifice for us a'. Fear not death, my lads--'tis butthe beginning of life, but fear for your maithers' and your sisters'torture and dishonor."
Hardly had the brave pastor spoken the last word, when the stockade wassurrounded by whooping red skins, brandishing tomahawks and war clubs,and yelling to each other unintelligible words of command orexhortation. In another instant they were flying a shower of arrows andbullets over the top of the stockade, and several savage faces appearedabove the wall.
A second, third and fourth attempt to scale the stockade was made. For awhile, however, I could render little assistance in checking our enemiesfrom without, for I was engaged in a hand to hand death grapple with oneof the three Indians who at the first rush succeeded in getting withinour enclosure. Never, before or since, had I so mighty a wrestle for mylife, and but for my superior height, and the strength of my strongarms, my reader would have been spared this personal narrative.
The next half hour--it seems thrice as long--stays in my mind as an ideaof what Hell might well be like. Row after row of hideous, paintstreaked, savage faces rose about our wall; the crack of rifles, thewhizz of arrows, the yell of the red demons, the shrieks of the wounded,the groans of the dying, mingled in a hideous clamor, and above all rosethe wailing of frightened children, and the moans of terrified women.The one harmonious note amidst this frightful discord was the ringing,cheerful tone of Parson Craig's voice, as he encouraged his lads betweenthe quickly succeeding shots of his own musket.
Again and again I fired my good rifle, and whenever a savage face fellbackward from the top of the stockade, I experienced a heart bound offierce joy. Not until there was almost complete silence about us and nota living Indian in sight, did we boys cease the almost mechanical actionof loading and firing, and turn to look about us.
The ground both within and without the enclosure, was strewn with deadand dying Indians, half a score of them at least, and some of the ladswere carrying our own injured, six in all, into the church, where tenderhands waited to dress their wounds. Presently I discovered clotted bloodupon my sleeve, and realized for the first time that a bullet hadpierced my leathern shirt and the flesh of my left arm between shoulderand elbow.
Next day the militiamen joined us, and we learned that the Indians hadevaded them by seeking another pass higher up the range; also that theyhad devastated all the valley, except our end of it. We had stoppedeffectually the war party detailed against us, and had saved our homesand crops, as well as the lives of our women and children. The valleyrang with praise of "the fighting lads," and my father's face beamedwith pride and tenderness as he shook my hand.
"I shall call you boy no longer, Donald," he said; "you have noblyearned your majority; my advice is always at your service, sir, but nolonger I give you commands." I think I never had a promotion or an honorthat so pleasured me; and doubtless my father was shrewd enough to knowthat by thus expressing his pride and confidence in me, he was fixingupon me a sense of uplifting responsibility, as one from whom only nobledeeds were expected, which would prove a restraint stronger than anywhich the most respected authority could impose--an obligation to rightand duty neither to be shirked, nor forgotten.
Donald McElroy, Scotch Irishman Page 1