University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

Month upon month rolled away, quiet succeeded to the alarm and commotion
of war, hostilities between Great Britain and America ceased, and the
country both east and west now began to look up from the depression and
gloom which had pervaded it during its long and sanguinary struggle for independence.
In Kentucky the effect was really invigorating; and the settlers,
who for a year past had been driven from their homes in terror and
dismay—who had quitted their peaceable farming implements for the destructive
weapons of strife and bloodshed—now ventured to return to their
desolate firesides, and renew their honest occupations of tilling the soil.
Some, however, more predisposed to financeering than their neighbors,
sought only speculation; in consequence whereof the Land Offices of the
Virginia Commissioners—which opened in November, after the return of the
troops under Clark—were daily thronged with applicants for the best locations;
whereby was laid the first grand corner-stone of subsequent litigation,
disaffection, and civil discord among the pioneers. But with these, further
than to mention the facts as connected with the history of the time, we have
nothing to do; and shall now forthwith pass on to the finale of our story.

Month upon month, as we said before, had rolled away, spring had come, and
with it had departed many of those who had occupied Bryan's Station during
the siege of August; but still, besides the regular garrison and their families, a
few of the individuals who had sought refuge therein, yet remained; among
whom we may mention Mrs. Younker, Ella, Isaac and his wife, and so forth.
Algernon, too—by the entreaty of his friends, and contrary to his previous
calculations, and what he considered his duty—had been induced to defer
his departure until the opening of spring. Possibly there might have been a
secret power, stronger than the mere entreaties of others, which had prevailed
over his resolution to depart; but further the records say not. Be that as
it may, the extreme limit of time which he had set for remaining, was now
nearly expired; and he was, at the moment when we again present him to the
reader, engaged in conversation with Ella on the painful subject. Suddenly
he was startled by the information that a stranger in the court desired to
speak with him.

“A stranger!” exclaimed Algernon, in surprise; and as he spoke, his face
became very pale, his lips quivered, and his hands trembled. Turning upon
Ella a look of agony, which seemed to say, “I am an arrested fellon,” he
wheeled upon his heel, and followed the messenger in silence; while she,
knowing the cause of his agitation, and fearful of the worst, sank almost
lifeless upon a seat.

As Algernon passed out of the cottage, he beheld in the center of the common,
a well-dressed, good-looking individual, who was standing on the ground
and holding by the bridle a horse, which, as well as the rider himself, appeared
both travel-stained and weary. Approaching the stranger with a firm
step, but with a pale countenance and throbbing heart, he said:

“I understand, sir, you have business with me.”

“Your name, then,” returned the other, quietly, “I presume to be Algernon
Reynolds.”

“The same.”

“You are, too, I infer, a native of — Connecticut, and son to Albert
Reynolds of that place.”

“Again right,” answered Algernon, in a voice which, despite of himself,
was a little tremulous.

“Then, sir,” rejoined the stranger, with a satisfied air, “I may say that I
have business with you, and of vast importance. A long chase you have led
me, i' faith; and weeks of travel have you cost me; so you may rest assured
that I am happy in finding you at last.”

“Proceed!” said Algernon, compressing his lips, as one whose mind is
made up for the worst. “Proceed, sir. I know your mission.”

“The deuce you do!” replied the other, in astonishment; “then you
must have a very remarkable faculty for divining secrets. I rather guess
you are mistaken though,” he added, as he drew forth a couple of letters
from a side pocket; “but these will inform you whether you are or not.”

Seizing the proffered letters with trembling eagerness, Algernon hastily
glanced at their superscription; then, breaking the seals, he devoured their
contents with the utmost avidity; while the stranger stood noting the varying
expressions of his handsome countenance, with a quiet smile. At first
his pale features seemed flushed with surprise—then became radiant with
joy—and then gradually saddened with sorrow; yet a certain cheerfulness
prevailed over all—such as he had not exhibited for many a long month.
As he finished a hasty perusal of the epistles, he turned to the stranger,
grasped his hand, and, shaking it heartily, while tears of joy filled his eyes,
exclaimed:

“I was mistaken, sir—God be thanked! God bless you too, sir! for being
the messenger of peace between myself and conscience. Excuse me. Tarry
a moment, sir, and I will send some one to take charge of your weary beast,
and show yourself a place of rest and refreshment.”

As he spoke, Algernon darted away toward the cottage. Observing Isaac,
he ran to and caught him by the hand.

“Isaac,” he said, in a gay tone, while his eyes sparkled with delight, “wish
me joy! I have good news. I—but stay; I forgot; you know nothing of the
matter. Oblige me, though, by showing yonder gentleman and his beast due
hospitality,” and wringing his hand, he sprang into the apartment where Ella
was sitting alone, leaving Isaac staring after him with open mouth, and wondering
whether he were in his right senses or not.

“Ella!” he exclaimed, wildly, as he suddenly appeared before her with a
flushed countenance: “Ella, God bless you! Listen. I—I am free! I am
no longer a criminal, thank God! These, Ella—these!” and he held aloft
the letters with one hand, and tapped them nervously with the other. The
next moment his features grew pale, his whole frame quivered, and he sank
upon a seat, completely overcome by the nervous excitement produced by
the sudden transition from despair to hope and freedom.

Ella was alarmed; and springing to him, she exclaimed:

“For God's sake! Algernon, what is the matter?—what has happened?—
are you in your senses? Speak!—speak!”

“Read,” answered he, faintly, placing the letters in her hand: “Read,
Ella—read!”

Ella hesitated a moment on the propriety of complying with his request,
but a moment only; and the next she turned to one of the epistles. It was
from the father of Algernon, and ran as follows:

The other epistle was from a lawyer, informing Reynolds of his acquisition
to a large amount of property, by a will of his late cousin; and that he, the
said lawyer, being executor thereof, required the presence of him, the said
Reynolds, or his proxy forthwith.

“I knew it: I felt that all would yet be well: I told you to hope for the
best!” cried Ella, as she concluded the letter, her eyes moist with tears, and
her face beaming like the sun through a summer shower.

“God bless you, dearest Ella—you did indeed!” exclaimed Reynolds,
suddenly, bounding from his seat and clasping her in his arms. “You did
indeed tell me to hope—and you told me truly;” and he pressed kiss after
kiss, again and again, upon her sweet lips, with all the wild, trembling, rapturous
feelings of a lover in his first ecstacy of bliss, when he has surmounted
all obstacles and gained the heart of the being he loves.

“Now, dearest Ella,” continued Algernon, when the excitement of the
moment had been succeeded by a calmer, though not less blissful mood: “Now,
dearest Ella, I am free—my sacred oath binds me no longer—and now can
I say, with propriety, that I deeply, solemnly, and devotedly love you, and
you alone. I am not rich; but I have enough of this world's goods to live
in ease, if not in splendor. Will you share with me, and be partner of my
lot, be it for good or ill, through life? My heart you have had long—my
hand I now offer you. Say, dearest, will you be mine?”

Ella did not speak—she could not; but she looked up into his face, with a
sweet, modest, affectionate smile; and her dark, soft, beautiful eyes, suffused
with tears, wherein a soul of love lay mirrored, gave answer, with a heartfelt
eloquence surpassing words.

“I understand you, Ella,” said Algernon, with emotion. “You are mine
—mine forever!” and he strained her trembling form to his heart in silence—a
deep, joyful and holy silence—that had in it more of Heaven than
earth.

It was a mild, lovely day in the spring of 1783. Earth had donned her
green mantle, and decorated it with flowers of every hue and variety. The
trees were in leaf and in bloom, among whose soft, waving branches, gay
birds from the sunny south sang most sweetly, and nature seemed every
where to rejoice. In the court of Bryan's Station was a large concourse of
people—many of whom were from a distance—and all assembled there to
witness the solemn ceremony which was to unite Algernon Reynolds and
Ella Barnwell forever; for who shall say the holy marriage rite is not eternally
binding in the great Hereafter. There were congregated both sexes

and all ages, from the infant to the hoary headed veteran of eighty winters.
There were assembled youth and manhood, whose names have since graced
the historic page, and whose deeds have stamped them benefactors of their
race and nation. All were in order, and silent, and the scene was most
solemnly impressive. On the right and left of the bride and groom and their
attendants, stood, promiscuously, the general spectators of both sexes. In
front was drawn up the garrison, in three platoons, under arms, in compliment
to the noble bravery of our here at the battle of Blue Licks.

Never did Algernon appear more noble than now—never did Ella look
more beautiful; as, pale and trembling, she seemed to cling to his arm for
support. The ceremony was at length begun and ended, amid a deep and
breathless silence. As the last solemn words, “I pronounce you man and
wife,” died away upon the air, the first platoon advanced a pace and fired a
volley—the second and third followed—and then arose a soft bewitching
strain of music, during which the friends of the newly married pair came
forward to offer their congratulations, and wishes for their long life and
happiness.

Among the party present was Colonel Boone; and approaching Algernon
and Ella—who were now sealed where the solemn rite had taken place—he
took the hand of each, and said, in a voice of some emotion:

“My children—for ye seem to me as such—may you both live long and
be happy. You've both o' ye had a deal o' trouble since I first saw ye—and
that's but a little while ago—but I hope it's now over. Don't think I want
to flatter, sir, when I say I think you're a brave and honorable young man,
and that you've got a wife every way worthy of ye—and she a husband
worthy o' her—and that's saying much. God bless ye both! and of you eveneed
a friend, call on Daniel Boone.” With this he shook their hands
heartily, and strode away.

The next who advanced to them was Captain Patterson—the officer, it will
be remembered, whose life Algernon so generously saved at the risk of his
own. After the usual congratulations, he took our hero by the hand, and
said, with deep feeling:

“Sir! I feel that to you, for risking your own life to save mine, I owe a
debt I can never cancel; and an attempt to express to you in words my
sense of obligation for the noble act, would be worse than vain: therefore
accept this, as a slight testimonial of the gratitude of one who will ever remember
you in his prayers, and wear your image in his heart.” As he
concluded, Captain Patterson placed in the hands of Algernon a sealed packet,
and moved away.[1]

“Well, it's all over,” said Mrs. Younker, coming up in turn to wish the
young couple joy. “I al'ays 'spected as how it 'ud come to this here.
Goodness, gracious, marsy on me alive! what a flustration they has made
about ye—sure enough, for sartin—han't they? I never seed the like on't
afore in all my born days. Why it's like you war governor's folks, sure
enough. And my own Ella, too; and the stranger as com'd to my house all
bleeding to death like! My! my!—what strange doings Providence does!
Well, it's to be hoped you'll al'ays git bread enough to keep from starving,
and that you won't fight nor quarrel more nor is necessitous—as the Reverend
Preacher All prayer said, when he married me and Ben together. Ah! poor
Ben!—poor Ben!—I'm a lone widder now. Well, the Lord's will be done!”
And the good dame moved sadly away, to make room for others, and console

herself by recounting her afflictions to some patient listener, together with
the virtues of her deceased and living friends.

“I don't 'spect it's o' much account my telling you I wish ye joy,” said
Isaac, “when every body's doing the same thing; but it comes from the
heart and I can't help it. Well, you'll be happy I know; for thar's nothing
like married life; and I speak from experience. I'm sorry you've got to
leave us so soon; but you won't git far from me, for I've got you both
here;” and placing his hand upon his heart, he bowed, smiled, and passed
on.

As soon as the congratulations were over, Algernon and Ella were escorted
into the cottage occupied by Mrs. Younker, where a sumptuous dinner
was already prepared for them, their relatives, and a few select friends, among
whom was Colonel Boone and Captain Patterson. For the remainder, long
tables were ranged around the common, where the greatest conviviality prevailed;
and toasts were drank; and songs were sung, and all were merry.
After dinner there were music and dancing, on the common and in the cabins;
and the coming night shut in a scene of festivity, such as was but seldom
witnessed even in those early times; and which was remembered and spoken of
long, long years after, when many of those who were then actors in the scene
had sunk beneath the clods of the valley.

Years have rolled away to the dark and unapproachable past, since the
transpiring of those events which we have chronicled, and vast mutations
have marked the steps of all conquering time. Our beloved country, which
then weak and oppressed was struggling for her independence against the
most powerful nation on the globe, has since nobly won a name and place
among the mighty ones of earth, and planted her stars and stripes from the
Atlantic to the Pacific, and built cities and towns amid dark and mighty
forests, where then roved in freedom the wild, untutored aboriginees of
America.

Kentucky, too, has since become a rich, populous, and powerful state;
and her noble sons, by their courage and generosity, have well maintained
that name and fame which was won for them by their fathers, and which
shall go down to future ages all green and unfading. Bryan's Station—the
theatre of many a scene of gay frolic and sanguinary strife—of festivity and
mourning—has long since sunk to ruin and dust; and on its site now stands
the private dwelling of a gentleman of fortune. But where are they who
once inhabited it? Those hoary headed veterans—those middle aged men
—or those fiery and impetuous youth, ever ready for either love or war?
Where are they now? Gone! Passed away like moving shadows that
leave no trace behind. Gone out, one by one, as lights in the late deserted hall
of revelry, or stars at the dawn of day. But very few—and those mere
striplings then—now remain to tell the tale; of whom it may with truth be
said, “The places which know them now shall soon know them no more
forever.”

Reader, a word or two more and we have done; and in your hands we
leave the decision, as to whether our task has been faithfully fulfilled or
not.

Shortly after their marriage, Algernon and Ella bid farewell to their
friends in the west, and returned to the east, where a long and happy career
awaited them; and where they lived to recount to their children and grandchildren
the thrilling narratives of their captivity, and their wild and romantic
adventures while pioneers on the borders of Kentucky.

Isaac returned to the farm of his father—rebuilt the cottage destroyed by
the Indians—and there, with his dear Peggy, lived happily to a green old

age, beloved and respected by all who knew him; and there his posterity
still continue to multiply the name of Younker. With him the good dame,
his mother, sojourned for several years, as industrious and talkative as ever;
and at last passed quietly from among the living, even while in the act of
making a sublime quotation on the subject of dying, from her favorite, the immortal
Preacher Allprayer.

Boone continued a resident of Kentucky, until he fancied it too populous
for his comfort, when he removed with his family to Missouri, where he
spent much of his time in fishing and hunting, and where he finally died
at an advanced age. From thence his remains were conveyed to Frankfort,
the capital of Kentucky, where they now repose; and where a rough slab,
with a few half intelligible characters thereon, points out to the curious
stranger the last earthly resting place of the noblest, the most daring and
famous hunter and pioneer the world has ever produced.

The fate of little Rosetta Millbanks, the captive, we may perchance detail
in a subsequent work, should such a one be called for.

Girty, notwithstanding his outrageous crimes against humanity, continued
to live among the Indians for a great number of years, the inveterate and
barbarous foe of his race. In the celebrated battle of the Thames, a desperate
white man led on a band of savages, who fought with great fury, but
were at length overpowered and their leader cut to pieces by Colonel Johnson's
mounted men. The mangled corse of this leader was afterwards recognized
as the notorious and once dreaded Simon Girty—The Renegade.