CONTENTS
PROLOGUE--THE BEGINNING
CHAPTER
I SHELTER FOR THE NIGHT
II THE STRANGE YOUNG WOMAN
III SOMETHING ABOUT CLOTHES, AND MEN, AND CATS
IV VIOLA GWYN
V REFLECTIONS AND AN ENCOUNTER
VI BARRY LAPELLE
VII THE END OF THE LONG ROAD
VIII RACHEL CARTER
IX BROTHER AND SISTER
X MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
XI A ROADSIDE MEETING
XII ISAAC STAIN APPEARS BY NIGHT
XIII THE GRACIOUS ENEMY
XIV A MAN FROM DOWN THE RIVER
XV THE LANDING OF THE "PAUL REVERE"
XVI CONCERNING TEMPESTS AND INDIANS
XVII REVELATIONS
XVIII RACHEL DELIVERS A MESSAGE
XIX LAPELLE SHOWS HIS TEETH
XX THE BLOW
XXI THE AFFAIR AT HAWK'S CABIN
XXII THE PRISONERS
XXIII CHALLENGE AND RETORT
XXIV IN AN UPSTAIRS ROOM
XXV MINDA CARTER
XXVI THE FLIGHT OF MARTIN HAWK
XXVII THE TRIAL OF MOLL HAWK
XXVIII THE TRYSTING PLACE OF THOUGHTS
XXIX THE ENDING
PROLOGUE
THE BEGINNING
Kenneth Gwynne was five years old when his father ran away with
Rachel Carter, a widow. This was in the spring of 1812, and in
the fall his mother died. His grandparents brought him up to hate
Rachel Carter, an evil woman.
She was his mother's friend and she had slain her with the viper's
tooth. From the day that his questioning intelligence seized upon
the truth that had been so carefully withheld from him by his
broken-hearted mother and those who spoke behind the hand when
he was near,--from that day he hated Rachel Carter with all his
hot and outraged heart. He came to think of her as the embodiment
of all that was evil,--for those were the days when there was
no middle-ground for sin and women were either white or scarlet.
He rejoiced in the belief that in good time Rachel Carter would
come to roast in the everlasting fires of hell, grovelling and
wailing at the feet of Satan, the while his lovely mother looked
down upon her in pity,--even then he wondered if such a thing
were possible,--from her seat beside God in His Heaven. He had
no doubts about this. Hell and heaven were real to him, and all
sinners went below. On the other hand, his father would be permitted
to repent and would instantly go to heaven. It was inconceivable
that his big, strong, well-beloved father should go to the bad
place. But Mrs. Carter would! Nothing could save her! God would
not pay any attention to her if she tried to repent; He would
know it was only "make-believe" if she got down on her
knees and prayed for forgiveness. He was convinced that Rachel
Carter could not fool God. Besides, would not his mother be there
to remind Him in case He could not exactly remember what Rachel
Carter had done? And were there not dozens of good, honest people
in the village who would probably be in Heaven by that time and
ready to stand before the throne and bear witness that she was
a bad woman?
No, Rachel Carter could never get into Heaven. He was glad. No
matter if the Scriptures did say all that about the sinner who
repents, he did not believe that God would let her in. He supported
this belief by the profoundly childish contention that if God
let EVERYBODY in, then there would be no use having a hell at
all. What was the use of being good all your life if the bad people
could get into Heaven at the last minute by telling God they were
sorry and never would do anything bad again as long as they lived?
And was not God the wisest Being in all the world? He knew EVERYTHING!
He knew all about Rachel Carter. She would go to the bad place
and stay there forever, even after the "resurrection"
and the end of the world by fire in 1883, a calamity to which
he looked forward with grave concern and no little trepidation
at the thoughtful age of six.
At first they told him his father had gone off as a soldier to
fight against the Indians and the British. He knew that a war
was going on. Men with guns were drilling in the pasture up beyond
his grandfather's house, and there was talk of Indian "massacrees,"
and Simon Girty's warriors, and British red-coats, and the awful
things that happened to little boys who disobeyed their elders
and went swimming, or berrying, or told even the teeniest kind
of fibs. He overheard his grandfather and the neighbours discussing
a battle on Lake Erie, and rejoiced with them over the report
of a great victory for "our side." Vaguely he had grasped
the news of a horrible battle on the Tippecanoe River, far away
in the wilderness to the north and west, in which millions of
Indians were slain, and he wondered how many of them his father
had killed with his rifle,--a weapon so big and long that he came
less than half way up the barrel when he stood beside it.
His father was a great shot. Everybody said so. He could kill
wild turkeys a million miles away as easy as rolling off a log,
and deer, and catamounts, and squirrels, and herons, and everything.
So his father must have killed heaps of Indians and red-coats
and renegades.
He put this daily question to his mother: "How many do you
s'pose Pa has killed by this time, Ma?"
And then, in the fall, his mother went away and left him. They
did not tell him she had gone to the war. He would not have believed
them if they had, for she was too sick to go. She had been in
bed for a long, long time; the doctor came to see her every day,
and finally the preacher. He hated both of them, especially the
latter, who prayed so loudly and so vehemently that his mother
must have been terribly disturbed. Why should every one caution
him to be quiet and not make a noise because it disturbed mother,
and yet say nothing when that old preacher went right into her
room and yelled same as he always did in church? He was very bitter
about it, and longed for his father to come home with his rifle
and shoot everybody, including his grandfather who had "switched"
him severely and unjustly because he threw stones at Parson Hook's
saddle horse while the good man was offering up petitions from
the sick room.
He went to the "burying," and was more impressed by
the fact that nearly all of the men who rode or drove to the graveyard
down in the "hollow" carried rifles and pistols than
he was by the strange solemnity of the occasion, for, while he
realized in a vague, mistrustful way that his mother was to be
put under the ground, his trust clung resolutely to God's promise,
accepted in its most literal sense, that the dead shall rise again
and that "ye shall be born again." That was what the
preacher said,--and he had cried a little when the streaming-eyed
clergyman took him on his knee and whispered that all was well
with his dear mother and that he would meet her one day in that
beautiful land beyond the River.
He was very lonely after that. His "granny" tucked him
in his big feather bed every night, and listened to his little
prayer, but she was not the same as mother. She did not kiss him
in the same way, nor did her hand feel like mother's when she
smoothed his rumpled hair or buttoned his flannel nightgown about
his neck or closed his eyes playfully with her fingers before
she went away with the candle. Yet he adored her. She was sweet
and gentle, she told such wonderful fairy tales to him, and she
always smiled at him. He wondered a great deal. Why was it that
she did not FEEL the same as mother? He was deeply puzzled. Was
it because her hair was grey?
His grandfather lived in the biggest house in town. It had an
"upstairs,"--a real "upstairs,"--not just
an attic. And his grandfather was a very important person. Everybody
called him "Squire"; sometimes they said "your
honour"; most people touched their hats to him. When his
father went off to the war, he and his mother came to live at
"grandpa's house." The cabin in which he was born was
at the other end of the street, fully half-a-mile away, out beyond
the grist mill. It had but three rooms and no "upstairs"
at all except the place under the roof where they kept the dried
apples, and the walnuts and hickory nuts, some old saddle-bags
and boxes, and his discarded cradle. You had to climb up a ladder
and through a square hole in the ceiling to get into this place,
and you would have to be very careful not to stand up straight
or you would bump your head,--unless you were exactly in the middle,
where the ridge-pole was.
He remembered that it was a very long walk to "grandpa's
house"; he used to get very tired and his father would lift
him up and place him on his shoulder; from this lofty, even perilous,
height he could look down upon the top of his mother's bonnet,--a
most astonishing view and one that filled him with glee.
His father was the biggest man in all the world, there could be
no doubt about that. Why, he was bigger even than grandpa, or
Doctor Flint, or the parson, or Mr. Carter, who lived in the cabin
next door and was Minda's father. For the matter of that, he was,
himself, a great deal bigger than Minda, who was only two years
old and could not say anywhere near as many words as he could
say--and did not know her ABC's, or the Golden Rule, or who George
Washington was.
And his father was ever so much taller than his mother. He was
tall enough to be her father or her grandfather; why, she did
not come up to his shoulder when she walked beside him. He was
a million times bigger than she was. He was bigger than anybody
else in all the world.
The little border town in Kentucky, despite its population of
less than a thousand, was the biggest city in the world. There
was no doubt about that either in Kenneth's loyal little mind.
It was bigger than Philadelphia--(he called it Fil-LEF-ily),--where
his mother used to live when she was a little girl, or Massashooshoo,
where Minda's father and mother comed from.
He was secretly distressed by the superior physical proportions
of his "Auntie" Rachel. There was no denying the fact
that she was a great deal taller than his mother. He had an abiding
faith, however, that some day his mother would grow up and be
lots taller than Minda's mother. He challenged his toddling playmate
to deny that his mother would be as big as hers some day, a lofty
taunt that left Minda quite unmoved.
Nevertheless, he was very fond of "Auntie" Rachel. She
was good to him. She gave him cakes and crullers and spread maple
sugar on many a surreptitious piece of bread and butter, and she
had a jolly way of laughing, and she never told him to wash his
hands or face, no matter how dirty they were. In that one respect,
at least, she was much nicer than his mother. He liked Mr. Carter,
too. In fact, he liked everybody except old Boose, the tin pedlar,
who took little boys out into the woods and left them for the
wolves to eat if they were not very, very good.
He was four when they brought Mr. Carter home in a wagon one day.
Some men carried him into the house, and Aunt Rachel cried, and
his mother went over and stayed a long, long time with her, and
his father got on his horse and rode off as fast as he could go
for Doctor Flint, and he was not allowed to go outside the house
all day,--or old Boose would get him.
Then, one day, he saw "Auntie" Rachel all dressed in
black, and he was frightened. He ran away crying. She looked so
tall and scary,---like the witches Biddy Shay whispered about
when his grandma was not around,--the witches and hags that flew
up to the sky on broomsticks and never came out except at night.
His father did the "chores" for '"Auntie"
Rachel for a long time, because Mr. Carter was not there to attend
to them.
There came a day when the buds were fresh on the twigs, and the
grass was very green, and the birds that had been gone for a long
time were singing again in the trees, and it was not raining.
So he went down the road to play in Minda's yard. He called to
her, but she did not appear. No one appeared. The house was silent.
"Auntie" Rachel was not there. Even the dogs were gone,
and Mr. Carter's horses and his wagon. He could not understand.
Only yesterday he had played in the barn with Minda.
Then his grandma came hurrying through the trees from his own
home, where she had been with grandpa and Uncle Fred and Uncle
Dan since breakfast time. She took him up in her arms and told
him that Minda was gone. He had never seen his grandma look so
stern and angry. Biddy Shay had been there all morning too, and
several of the neighbours. He wondered if it could be the Sabbath,
and yet that did not seem possible, because it was only two days
since he went to Sunday school, and yesterday his mother had done
the washing. She always washed on Monday and ironed on Tuesday.
This must be Tuesday, but maybe he was wrong about that. She was
not ironing, so it could not be Tuesday. He was very much bewildered.
His mother was in the bedroom with grandpa and Aunt Hettie, and
he was not allowed to go in to see her. Uncle Fred and Uncle Dan
were very solemn and scowling so terribly that he was afraid to
go near them.
He remembered that his mother had cried while she was cooking
breakfast, and sat down a great many times to rest her head on
her arms. She had cried a good deal lately, because of the headache,
she always said. And right after breakfast she had put on her
bonnet and shawl, telling him to stay in the house till she came
back from grandpa's. Then she had gone away, leaving him all alone
until Biddy Shay came, all out of breath, and began to clear the
table and wash the dishes, all the while talking to herself in
a way that he was sure God would not like, and probably would
send her to the bad place for it when she died.
After a while all of the men went out to the barn-lot, where their
horses were tethered. Uncle Fred and Uncle Dan had their rifles.
He stood at the kitchen window and watched them with wide, excited
eyes. Were they going off to kill Indians, or bears, or cattymunks?
They all talked at once, especially his uncles,--and they swore,
too. Then his grandpa stood in front of them and spoke very loudly,
pointing his finger at them. He heard him say, over and over again:
"Let them go, I say! I tell you, let them go!"
He wondered why his father was not there, if there was any fighting
to be done. His father was a great fighter. He was the bestest
shot in all the world. He could kill an Injin a million miles
away, or a squirrel, or a groundhog. So he asked Biddy Shay.
"Ast me no questions and I'll tell ye no lies," was
all the answer he got from Biddy.
The next day he went up to grandpa's with his mother to stay,
and Uncle Fred told him that his pa had gone off to the war. He
believed this, for were not the rifle, the powder horn and the
shot flask missing from the pegs over the fireplace, and was not
Bob, the very fastest horse in all the world, gone from the barn?
He was vastly thrilled. His father would shoot millions and millions
of Injins, and they would have a house full of scalps and tommyhawks
and bows and arrers.
But he was troubled about Minda. Uncle Fred, driven to corner
by persistent inquiry, finally confessed that Minda also had gone
to the war, and at last report had killed several extremely ferocious
redskins. Despite this very notable achievement, Kenneth was troubled.
In the first place, Minda was a baby, and always screamed when
she heard a gun go off; in the second place, she always fell down
when she tried to run and squalled like everything if he did not
wait for her; in the third place, Injins always beat little girls'
heads off against a tree if they caught 'em.
Moreover, Uncle Dan, upon being consulted, declared that a good-sized
Injin could swaller Minda in one gulp if he happened to be 'specially
hungry,--or in a hurry. Uncle Dan also appeared to be very much
surprised when he heard that she had gone off to the war. He said
that Uncle Fred ought to be ashamed of himself; and the next time
he asked Uncle Fred about Minda he was considerably relieved to
hear that his little playmate had given up fighting altogether
and was living quite peaceably in a house made of a pumpkin over
yonder where the sun went down at night.
It was not until sometime after his mother went away,--after the
long-to-be-remembered "fooneral," with its hymns, and
weeping, and praying,--that he heard the grown-ups talking about
the war being over. The redcoats were thrashed and there was much
boasting and bragging among the men of the settlement. Strange
men appeared on the street, and other men slapped their backs
and shook hands with them and shouted loudly and happily at them.
In time, he came to understand that these were the citizens who
had gone off to fight in the war and were now home again, all
safe and sound. He began to watch for his father. He would know
him a million miles off, he was so big, and he had the biggest
rifle in the world.
"Do you s'pose Pa will know how to find me, grandma?"
he would inquire. "'Cause, you see, I don't live where I
used to."
And his grandmother, beset with this and similar questions from
one day's end to the other, would become very busy over what she
was doing at the time and tell him not to pester her. He did not
like to ask his grandfather. He was so stern,--even when he was
sitting all alone on the porch and was not busy at all.
Then one day he saw his grandparents talking together on the porch.
Aunt Hettie was with them, but she was not talking. She was just
looking at him as he played down by the watering trough. He distinctly
heard his grandma say:
"I think he ought to be told, Richard. It's a sin to let
him go on thinking---" The rest of the sentence was lost
to him when she suddenly lowered her voice. They were all looking
at him.
Presently his grandfather called to him, and beckoned with his
finger. He marched up to the porch with his little bow and arrow.
Grandma turned to go into the house, and Aunt Hettie hurried away.
"Don't be afraid, Granny," he sang out. "I won't
shoot you. 'Sides, I've only got one arrer, Aunt Hettie."
His grandfather took him on his knee, and then and there told
him the truth about his father. He spoke very slowly and did not
say any of those great big words that he always used when he was
with grown-up people, or even with the darkies.
"Now, pay strict attention, Kenneth. You must understand
everything I say to you. Do you hear? Your father is never coming
home. We told you he had gone to the war. We thought it was best
to let you think so. It is time for you to know the truth. You
are always asking questions about him. After this, when you want
to know about your father, you must come to me. I will tell you.
Do not bother your grandma. You make her unhappy when you ask
questions. You see, your Ma was once her little girl and mine.
She used to be as little as you are. Your Pa was her husband.
You know what a husband is, don't you?"
"Yes, sir," said Kenneth, wide-eyed. "It's a boy's
father."
"You are nearly six years old. Quite a man, my lad."
He paused to look searchingly into the child's face, his bushy
eyebrows meeting in a frown.
"The devil of it is," he burst out, "you are the
living image of your father. You are going to grow up to look
like him." He groaned audibly, spat viciously over his shoulder,
and went on in a strange, hard voice. "Do you know what it
is to steal? It means taking something that belongs to somebody
else."
"Yes, sir. 'Thou shalt not steal.' It's in the Bible."
"Well, you know that Indians and gipsies steal little boys,
don't you? It is the very worst kind of stealing, because it breaks
the boy's mother's heart. It sometimes kills them. Now, suppose
that somebody stole a husband. A husband is a boy's father, as
you say. Your father was a husband. He was your dear mother's
husband. You loved your mother very, very much, didn't you? Don't
cry, lad,--there, there, now! Be a little man. Now, listen. Somebody
stole your mother's husband. She loved him better than anything
in the world. She loved him, I guess, even better than she loved
you, Kenneth. She just couldn't live without him. Do you see?
That is why she died and went away. She is in Heaven now. Now,
let me hear you say this after me: My mother died because somebody
stole her husband away from her."
"'My mother died because somebody stoled her husband away
from her,'" repeated the boy, slowly.
"You will never forget that, will you?"
"No,--sir."
"Say this: My mother's heart was broken and so she died."
"'My mother's heart was broken and she--and so she died.'"
"You will never forget that either, will you, Kenneth?"
"No, sir."
"Now, I am going to tell you who stole your mother's husband
away from her. You know who your mother's husband was, don't you?"
"Yes, sir. My Pa."
"One night,--the night before you came up here to live--your
Auntie Rachel,--that is what you called her, isn't it? Well, she
was not your real aunt. She was your neighbour,--just as Mr. Collins
over there is my neighbour,--and she was your mother's friend.
Well, that night she stole your Pa from your Ma, and took him
away with her,--far, far away, and she never let him come back
again. She took him away in the night, away from your mother and
you forever and forever. She---" "But Pa was bigger'n
she was," interrupted Kenneth, frowning. "Why didn't
he kill her and get away?"
The old Squire was silent for a moment. "It is not fair for
me to put all the blame on Rachel Carter. Your father was willing
to go. He did not kill Rachel Carter. Together he and Rachel Carter
killed your mother. But Rachel Carter was more guilty than he
was. She was a woman and she stole what belonged in the sight
of God to another woman. She was a bad woman. If she had been
a good woman she would not have stolen your father away from your
mother. So now you know that your Pa did not go to the war. He
went away with Rachel Carter and left your mother to die of a
broken heart. He went off into the wilderness with that bad, evil
woman. Your mother was unhappy. She died. She is under the ground
up in the graveyard, all alone. Rachel Carter put her there, Kenneth.
I cannot ask you to hate your father. It would not be right. He
is your father in spite of everything. You know what the Good
Book says? 'Honour thy father and--' how does the rest of it go,
my lad?"
"'Honour thy father and thy mother that thou days may be
long upon thou earth,'" murmured Kenneth, bravely.
"When you are a little older you will realize that your father
did not honour his father and mother, and then you may understand
more than you do now. But you may hate Rachel Carter. You MUST
hate her. She killed your mother. She stole your father. She made
an orphan of you. She destroyed the home where you used to live.
As you grow older I will try to tell you how she did all these
things. You would not understand now. There is one of the Ten
Commandments that you do not understand,--I mean one in particular.
It is enough for you to know the meaning of the one that says
'Thou shalt not steal.' You must not be unhappy over what I have
told you. Everything will be all right with you. You will be safe
here with granny and me. But you must no longer believe that your
father went to the war like other men in the village. If he were
MY son, I would---"
"Don't say it, Richard," cried Kenneth's grandma, from
the doorway behind them. "Don't ever say that to him."