University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

It was toward night of a hot sultry day, in the month of August, that Ella
Barnwell was seated by the door of a cabin, within the walls of Bryan's Station,
gazing forth, with what seemed a vacant stare, upon a group of individuals,
who were standing near the center of the common before spoken o
engaged in a very animated conversation. Her features perhaps were no

paler than when we saw her last; but there was a tender, melancholy expression
on her sweet countenance, of deep abiding grief, and a look of
mournfulness in her beautiful eyes, that touched involuntarily the hearts of
all who met her gaze.

Since we last beheld her, days of anxious solicitude, and sleepless nights,
had been apportioned Ella; for memory—all potent memory—had kept constantly
before her mind's eye the images of those who were gone, and mourned
as forever lost to the living; and her imagination had a thousand times traced
them to the awful stake, seen their terrible tortures, heard their agonizing
dying groans, and her heart had bled for them in secret, and tears of anguish,
at their untimely fate, had often dimmed her eyes. Even now, as she apparently
gazed upon that group of individuals, whom she saw not, and whose
voices, sounding in her ear, she heard not, her mind was occupied with the
probable fate of her uncle and Algernon, the still all absorbing theme of
her soul.

While seated thus, Mrs. Younker approached Ella from behind, unperceived
by the latter, and now stood gazing upon her, with a sorrowful
look. The countenance of the good dame had altered less, perhaps, than
Ella's, owing to her strong masculine spirit; but still there was an expression
of anxiety and sadness thereon, which, until of late, had never been visible,
not even when on her march to what, as she then believed, was her final
doom—the excitement whereof, and the many events that occurred on the
route, having been sufficient to occupy her mind in a different manner from
what it had been in brooding over the fate of her husband for months in
secret, and in a place of comparative safety. At length a remark, in a loud
voice, of one of the individuals of the group before alluded to, arrested the
attention of both Mrs. Younker and Ella.

“I tell you,” said the speaker, who was evidently much excited, “it was
that infernal cut-throat Girty's doings, and no mistake. Heaven's curses on
him for a villain!—and I don't think he'll more nor meet his just dues, to
suffer them hell fires of torment, hereafter, that he's kindled so often around
his victims on earth.”

At these words, Ella started to her feet, and exclaiming wildly:

“Who are they—who are Girty's victims?” sprang swiftly towards the
group, followed by Mrs. Younker.

All eyes, from all quarters, were now turned upon her, as, like a spirit, she
glided noiselessly forward, her sweet countenance radiant with the flush of
excitement, her eyes dilated and sparkling, and her glossy ringlets floating in
the breeze. Curiosity could no longer remain unsatisfied; and by one spontaneous
movement, from every point of compass, women and children now
hurried toward the center of the common, to gather the tidings.

The quiet, modest, melancholy air of Ella, had, one time with another,
since her first appearance in the Station, attracted the attention, and won the
regard of its inmates, most of whom had made inquiries concerning her,
and learned the cause of her sadness; and now, as she gained the crowd,
each gazed upon her with a look of respect; and at once moving aside to
let her pass, she presently stood the central attraction of an excited multitude
of both sexes, all ages and sizes.

“Who are they?” cried she again, turning from one to the other, rapidly,
with an anxious look: “who are the victims of the renegade Girty?”

“We were speaking, Miss Barnwell,” answered a youth, of genteel appearance,
doffing his hat, and making at the same time a polite and respectful
bow: “We were speaking of the defeat, capture, and burning of Colonel
Crawford, by the Indians, in their own country, in which the notorious

Simon Girty is said to have taken an active part [1] —news whereof has just
reached us.”

At the mention of the name of Crawford, so different from the one she
was expecting to hear, the momentary insanity, or delusion of Ella, vanished;
she saw her position at a glance, the hundred eyes that were upon her, and
instantly her face became suffused with blushes, while she shrunk back,
with a sense of maidenly shame and bashful timidity, almost overpowering
to herself and really painful for others to behold. She now strove to speak—
to give an excuse for her singular conduct—but her tongue failed her, and
she would have sunk to the earth, only for the support of Mrs. Younker,
who at this moment gained her side.

“Never mind it, Miss Barnwell—it don't need any excuse—we understand
your feelings for lost friends,” were some of the remarks from the crowd,
as the throng again made a passage for her to depart.

“Goodness, gracious, marcy on me alive! what a splurge you did make
on't, darling!” said Mrs. Younker to Ella, as they moved away by themselves.
“Why you jest kind o' started up, for all the world like a skeered
deer, and afore I could get my hands on ye, you war off like an Injen's arrow.
Well, thar, thar, poor girl—never mind it!” added the good dame,
consolingly, as Ella turned towards her a painful, imploring look; “we all
knows your feelings, darling, and so never mind it. Mistakes will happen in
the best o' families, as the Rev. Mr. Allprayer used to say, when any body
accused him o' doing any thing he hadn't oughter a done.”

“Mother,” said Ella, feebly, “I feel faint; this shock, I fear, may be too
much for my nervous system.”

“Oh! my child, darling, don't mind it!—every body knows your feelings—
and nobody'll think any thing strange on't. In course you war thinking
o' your friends—as war nateral you should—and so war I; and when I heerd
the name o' that ripscallious renegade, it jest set my hull blood to biling,
like it war hot water, and I felt orful revengeful. But the Lord's will be
done, child. He knows what's best; and let us pray to Him, that of our
friends is among the land of the living, they may be restored to us, or taken
straight away to His presence.” As Mrs. Younker said this, she and Ella
entered the cottage.

“Poor girl!” said a voice among the crowd, as soon as Ella was out of
hearing; “they do say as how she eats but little now, and scarcely takes
any rest at all lately, on account of the trouble of her mind. Poor girl!
she's not long for this world;” and the speaker shook his head sadly.

“But what is it?—what is it, as troubles her so?” inquired an old woman,
in a voice tremulous with age, who, being somewhat of a new-comer, had not
heard the oft repeated story.

“I'll tell it ye—I'll tell it ye,” answered another gossipping crone, standing
beside the querist, who, fearful of being forestalled, now eagerly began
her scandalous narration.

Meantime, the male portion of the crowd had resumed their conversation,
concerning the unfortunate campaign of Crawford, during which manifold
invectives were bestowed upon the savages, and the renegade Girty.
Some of the more reckless among them were for raising another army, as soon
as possible, to pursue the Indians, even to the death, and spare none that fell
into their hands, neither the aged, women, nor children; but these propositions
were speedily overruled by cooler and wiser heads, who stated that Kentucky
had scarcely fighting men enough to protect one another on their own

ground, much less to march into the enemy's country, and leave their wives
and children exposed to certain destruction.

While these discussions were in progress, the attention of each was suddenly
arrested by the cry of some person from the right hand block-house,
looking toward the south, announcing that a single horseman was approaching
with a speed which betokened evil tidings. These were times of excitement,
when news of disaster and death was borne on almost every breeze, and
consequently all now sprang rapidly to the southern pickets, where, through
loop-holes and crevices in the partially decayed pallisades, they perceived an
individual riding as if for life.

“How he rides!—Who is it?—What can have happened?” were some
of the remarks now rapidly uttered, as the horseman was seen bounding
forward on his foaming steed. Instantly the nearest gate was thrown open,
and in less than two minutes, horse and rider stood within the enclosure,
surrounded by a breathless multitude, eager for his intelligence.

“Arm!” cried the horseman, a good looking youth of eighteen; “Arm!—
all that can be spared—and on to the rescue!”

“What's happened, Dick Allison?” asked one who had recognised the
rider.

“I have it on the best authority,” answered Dick, “that Hoy's Station
has just been attacked, by a large body of Indians, and Captain Holder and
and his men defeated.”

“But whar d'ye get your news?” inquired another voice, while a
look of alarm and resolute determination to avenge the fallen, could be seen
depicted on the upturned countenances of the assemblage.

“I was riding in that direction, when I met a messenger on his way to
Lexington for assistance; and turning my horse, I spurred hither with all
speed.”

“Have the red devils got possession of the fort?” inquired another.

“I am not certain, for I did not wait to hear particulars; but I'm under
the impression they have not, and that Holder was defeated outside the
walls.”

“Well, they must have assistance, and that as soon as it can be got to
'em,” rejoined a white-haired veteran, one of the head men of the garrison,
whose countenance was remarkable for its noble, benevolent expression, and
who, from love and veneration, was generally called Father Albach. “It's
too late in the day, though, to muster and march thar to-night,” continued
the old man; “but we'll have our horses got up and put in here to-night,
and our guns cleaned, and every thing fixed for to start at daylight to-morrow.
Eh! my gallant lads—what say ye?” and he glanced playfully around
upon the by-standers.

“Yes—yes—yes—father!” cried a score of voices, in a breath; and the
next moment a long, loud cheer, attested the popularity of the old man's
decision.

“Another cheer for Father Albach, and three more for licking the ripscallious
varmints clean to death!” cried our old acquaintance, Isaac Yonker, who,
having been otherwise occupied during the discussion concerning Crawford's
defeat, had joined the mass on the arrival of the messenger.

“Good for Ike,” shouted one: “Hurray!” and four lusty cheers followed.

All now became bustle and confusion, as each set himself to preparing for
the morrow's expedition. Guns were brought out and cleaned, locks
examined, new flints put in place of old ones, bullets cast, powder-horns
replenished, horses driven within the enclosure, saddles and bridles overhauled,
and, in fact, every thing requisite for the journey was made ready
as fast as possible.

Isaac, on the present occasion was by no means indolent; for having
examined his rifle, and found it in a good condition, he immediately brought
fourth an old saddle and bridle, somewhat the worse for wear, and set himself
down to repairing them, wherever needed, by thongs of deerskin.
While engaged in this laudable occupation, a young lad came running to,
and informed him, that there was a stranger down by the gate who wished
to speak with him immediately.

“A stranger!” replied Isaac, looking up in surprise. “Why what in the
name o' all creation can a stranger be wanting with me? Why don't he come
and see me, if he wants to see me, and not put me to all this here trouble,
jest when I'm gitting ready to go and lick some o' them red heathen like all
nater?”

“Don't know, sir,” answered the lad, “what his reasons be for not coming,
any more nor you; but he said to the man as opened the gate for him,
`Is Isaac Younker in the fort?' and the man said, `Yes;'—and then he said to
me, `Run my little lad, and tell him to come here, and I'll gin you something;'
and that's all I knows about it.”

“Well, I 'spose I'll have to go,” rejoined Isaac, rising to his feet; “but I
don't think much o' the feller as puts a gentleman to all this here trouble,
jest for nothing at all, as one may say, when a fellers in a hurry too. Howsomever,”
continued he, soliloquising, as he walked forward in the proper
direction, “I 'spect it's some chap as wants to hoax me, or else he's putting
on the extras; ef so, I'll fix him, so he won't want to do it agin right immediately,
I reckon.”

Thus muttering to himself, Isaac drew near the front gate, against which,
within the pallisades, the stranger in question was leaning, with his hat
pressed down over his forehead, as though he desired concealment. His
habilliments, after the fashion of the day, were originally of a superior
quality to those generally worn on the frontiers, but soiled and torn in several
places, as from the wear and tear of a long fatiguing journey. His
features, what portion of them could be seen under his hat, were pale and
haggard, denoting one who had experienced many and severe vicissitudes.
As Isaac approached, he raised his eyes from the ground, turned them full
upon him, and then taking a step forward, said, in a voice tremulous with
emotion:

“Thank God! Isaac Younker, I am able to behold you once again.”

As a distinct view of his features fell upon the curious gaze of the latter,
and his voice sounded in his ear, Isaac paused for a moment, as one stupified
with amazement; the next, he staggered back a pace or two, dropped his
hands upon his knees, in a stooping posture, as if to peer more closely into
the face of the stranger; and then bounding from the earth, he uttered a
wild yell of delight, threw his hat upon the ground in a transport of joy, and
rushed into the extended arms of Algernon Reynolds, where he wept like a
child upon his neck, neither of them able to utter a syllable for something like
a minute.

“The Lord be praised!” were the first articulate words of Isaac, in a voice
choked with emotion. “God bless you! Mr. Reynolds;” and again the tears
of joy fell fast and long. “Is it you?” resumed he, again starting back and
gazing wildly upon the other, as if fearful of some mistake. “Yes! yes!
it's you—there's no mistaking that thar face—the dead's come to life agin,
for sartin;” and once more he sprang upon the other's neck, with all the
apparent delight of a mother meeting with a lost child.

“Yes, yes, Isaac, thank God! it is myself you really behold—one who
never expected to see you again in this world,” rejoined Algernon, affected

himself to tears, by the noble, heart-touching, affectionate manner of his
companion. “But—but Isaac—our friends here—are they—all—all well,
Isaac?” This was said in a voice, which, despite of the speaker's efforts to
be calm, trembled from emotion, anxiety and apprehension.

“Why,” answered Isaac, in a somewhat hesitating manner, “I don't know's
thar's any body exactly sick—but—”

“But what, Isaac?” interrupted Algernon, with a start.

“Why, Ella, you know—”

“Yes, yes, Isaac—what of her?” and grasping him by the arm, Algernon
gazed upon the other's features with a look of alarm.

“Now don't be skeered, Mr. Reynolds—thar han't nothing happened—
only I 'spect she's bin a thinking o' you, who every body thought war dead,
and she's kind o' grown thin and pale on't, and we war gitting afeared it
might end badly; but as you've come now, I know as how it'll all be right agin.”

Algernon released the speaker's arm, and for some moments gazed abstractedly
upon the ground, while over his countenance swept one of those
painful expressions of the deep workings of the soul, to which, from causes
known to the reader, he was subject. At length he said, with a sigh:

“Well, Isaac, I have come to behold her once again, and then—” He
paused, apparently overpowered by some latent feeling.

“And then!” said Isaac, repeating the words, with a look of surprise: “I
reckon you arn't a going to leave us agin soon, Mr. Reynolds?”

“There are circumstances, unknown to you, friend Isaac, which I fear
will compel me so to do.”

“What!” cried the other, “start off agin, and put your scalp into the
hands of the infernal, ripscallious, painted Injens? No, by thunder! you
shan't do it, Mr. Reynolds; for sting me with a nest o' hornets, ef I don't
hang to ye like a tick to a sheep. No, no, Mr. Reynolds; don't—don't
think o' sech a thing. But come, go in and see Ella—she'd be crazy ef
she knew you war here.”

“Ay,” answered Algernon, sadly, “that is what I fear. I dare not meet
her suddenly, Isaac—the shock might be too much for her nerves. I have
sent for you to go first and communicate intelligence of my arrival, in a way
to surprise her as little as possible.”

“I'll do it, Mr. Reynolds; but—(here Isaac's voice trembled, his features
grew pale as death, and his whole frame quivered with intense emotion)—but
—but my—my father—what—” He could say no more—his voice had
completely failed him.

“Alas! Isaac,” replied Algernon, deeply affected, and turning away his
face; “think the worst.”

“Oh God! groaned Isaac, covering his face with his hands, and endeavoring
to master his feelings. But—but—he's dead, Mr. Reynolds?”

“He is.”

For a few moments Isaac sobbed grievously; then withdrawing his hands,
and raising himself to an erect posture, with a look of resignation, he said:

“I—I can bear it now—for I know he's in Heaven. Stay here, Mr.
Reynolds, till I come back;” and he turned abruptly away.

In a few minutes Isaac returned—his features calm, but very pale—and
silently motioned the other to follow him. On their way to the cottage, they
had to cross the common, where their progress was greatly impeded by a
crowd of persons, who, having heard of Algernon's arrival, were deeply
anxious to gather what tidings he might have concerning the movements of
the Indians. In reply, he informed them of the threats made by Girty to him
while a captive; and that, having since been a prisoner of the British at

Detroit, he had learned, from reliable sources, that a grand army of the Indians
was forming to march upon the frontiers, attack some strong hold, and,
if possible, desolate the entire country of Kentucky; and that he believed
they were already on their way.

“More'n that, they're already here,” cried a voice; “for it's them,
I 'spect, as has attacked Hoy's Station, of which we've just got news, and
are gitting ready to march at daylight and attack them in turn. Arm,
boys, arm! Don't let us dally here, and be lagging when the time comes to
march and fight!”

With this the speaker turned away, and the crowd instantly dispersed to
resume their occupations of preparing for the coming expedition, while our
hero and Isaac pressed forward to the cottage of Mrs. Younker. At the door
they were met by the good dame herself, who, with eyes wet with tears,
caught the proffered hand of Reynolds in both of hers, pressed it warmly in
silence, and led him into the house. Ella, who was seated at a short distance,
on the entrance of Algernon, rose to her feet, took a step forward, staggered
back, and the next moment her insensible form was caught in the arms of the
being she loved, but had long mourned as dead.