University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

When young Reynolds again regained his senses, it was some minutes
before he could sufficiently recover from the confusion of ideas consequent

upon his mishap, to follow up the train of events that had occured to place
him in his present position. His first recollection was of the attack made
upon him by the Indians; and it required considerable argument with himself,
to prove conclusively, in his own mind, that he was not even now a captive
to the savage foe. Gradually, one by one, each event recured to his mind,
until he had traced himself to the moment of his swooning in the arms of a
tall, ungainly young man, called Isaac; but of what had taken place since—
where he now was—or what length of time had intervened—he had not
the remotest idea. He was lying on his back, upon a rude, though by no
means uncomfortable bed, and, to the best of his judgement, within the four
walls of some cabin,—though to him but two of the walls were visible, owing
to the quantity of skins of the buffaloe, bear and deer, which were suspended
around the foot and front of his pallet. He was undressed, and, as he
judged upon applying his hand to the wounded part, had been treated with
care, for it came in contact with a nicely arranged bandage of cloth, which
was even now moist with some spirituous liquid. But what perplexed him
most, was the peculiar light, with the aid of which, though dim, he could discern
every object so distinctly. It could not proceed from a candle—it was
too strong and generally diffused; nor from the fire—it was too gray, and
did not flicker; nor from the moon—it was not silvery enough: from what
then did it proceed? It appeared the most like daylight; but this it could
not be, he reasoned, from the fact that he was wounded just before nightfall
—unless—and the idea seemed to startle him—unless he had lain in a senseless
state for many hours, and it was indeed again morning. Determined,
however, to satisfy himself on this point, he attempted to rise for the purpose,
but found, to his no small surprise and regret, that he had not even
strength sufficient to lift his body from the bed; and, therefore, no alternative
was left him, but to surmise whatever he chose, until some one should
appear to dissolve the riddle, which, he doubted not, would be ere long.

While these thoughts and surmises were rapidly passing through the mind
of our hero—for such we must acknowledge him to be—he had heard no
sound indicating the immediate vicinity of any other human being; and
turning his thoughts upon this latter, he was begining to doubt whether, at
the moment, he was not the only individual beneath the roof, when he heard
a step, as of some one entering another apartment, and directly following, a
female voice addressed to some person within.

“Have ye looked to the stranger agin, Ella, and moisted his bandage?”

“I have, mother,” was the answer, in a sweet and silvery voice, which
caused our wounded hero to start with a thrill of pleasing astonishment.

“And how appeared he, Ella?” continued the first speaker.

“Why, I thought a little better,” answered the same soft musical voice;
“he seemed asleep, and entirely tranquil.”

“God send it, gal, for he's had a tougher, sartin. Three days, now, nater's
bin tugging away for him, and I'd hate to see him die now, arter all,
and being the colonel's recommend, too; for Isaac says the colonel injuncted
him strongly to take car o' him, and I'd do any thing to oblige sech a
man as him. He didn't appear to have his senses, I reckon?”

“I judged not,” answered Ella; “though from his tranquil sleep, I argued
favorably of his case.”

“Well,” rejoined the other, “it's my opine the crisis is at hand; and that
he'll ayther come out o' this lethargick—as they calls it—a rational, or
die straight off. 'Spose you look at him agin, Ella; or, stay, I'll look myself.
Poor feller! how he did rave and run on 'bout his troubles at home,
that's away off, until I all but cried, in reckoning how I'd feel ef it war Isaac

as war going on so.” As the speaker concluded, she advanced to where the
object of her remarks was lying, and drawing aside, in a gentle manner, some
of the skins near his head, gazed upon him.

As will be surmised by the reader, not a syllable of the foregoing colloquy
had been lost upon Reynolds, who heard with unbounded astonishment.
of his narrow escape from that dark valley whence none who enter again
return, and that three days had clapsed since he had fallen in to an unconscious
state. He learned, too, with regret, that he had been communicating
matters—to what extent he knew not—to others, which he wished safely
locked in his own breast; and judging it best, in the present instance, to disemble
a little, that his informant might not be aware of his having overheard
her, he feigned to be asleep on her approach.

“He's sleeping yit, poor creater,” continued the hostess, as she bent over
the bed of our hero, until he felt her breath upon his face. “I hope it arn't
a going to be his final sleep—so young, and so handsome too! but, O dear,
thar's no telling what them Injen bullets will do, for folks does say as how
they have a knack o' pizening them, that's orful to tell on! O Lord o' marey,
Ella, child, do come here!” cried the dame suddenly. “I do believe
he's coming to, for sartin.”

This latter speech was occasioned by a movement of the pretended sleeper,
and the gradual opening of his eyes, with the rude stare of bewildered surprise
natural to one in his supposed situation, and such as he would have
exhibited without feigning, had the hostess been present some ten minutes
sooner. Discovering, as already intimated, a returning consciousness on
the part of her guest, the good woman drew back her head, but still kept
her position by the bed, and her eyes fixed upon him, with an expression
which betrayed a fear lest her hopes of this important event should prove
entirely fallacious. Behind her, with a timid step, stole up Ella, and, peeping
over her shoulders, encountered the eyes of the young man beaming upon
her, with a look which her acute perception advised her was any thing but
insane; and instantly starting back, the blood rushed upward, crimsoning
her neck and face with a beautiful glow. As for Reynolds, in whom, as already
stated, the voice of Ella alone was sufficient to awaken a thrill of
pleasure, no sooner did he behold her, though but for an instant, than he
felt that thrill revived with a sensation, which, in spite of himself, he knew
was expressed in his own countenance; and he hastoned to speak, in order
as much as possible to conceal it.

“Will you have the goodness, madam, to inform me where I am?”

“Thar, thar, Ella, child!” exclaimed the matron, joyously; “I told ye
so—I know'd it—he's come to, for sartin—the Lord be praised!” Then
addressing herself to Reynolds, she continued: “Whar are you, stranger,
do you ax? Why you're in the cabin o' Ben Younker—as honest a man as
ever shot a painter—whose my husband, and father of Isaac Younker, what
brought ye here, according to the directions of Colonel Boone, arter you
war shot by the Injens—the varmints—three days ago; and uncle of Ella
Barnwell here, as I calls daughter, 'cause her parents is dead, poor creaters,
and she hadn't a home to go to, but come'd to live with us, that are fetching
her up in a dutiful way;” and the good woman concluded her lucid
account of family matters with a sound that much resembled a person taking
breath after some laborious exertion.

“And is it possible,” answered Reynolds, who hastened to reply, in order
to conceal a strong inclination he felt for laughing, “that I have lain here
three whole days?”

“Three days, and four nights, and part o' another day, jest as true as

buffaloes run in cane-brakes, and Injen varmints shoot white folks whensomever
they git a chance,” replied Mrs. Younker, with great volubility.
“And Ella, the darling, has tended on ye like you war her own nateral
born brother; and Isaac, and Ben, and, myself ha' tended on ye too, while
you war raving and running on at an orful rate—though you've had the
best bed, and best o' every thing we've got in the house.”

“For all of which I am at a loss for terms to express my gratitude,”
returned Reynolds, coloring slightly as he thought of the assiduous attentions
he had unconsciously received from Ella Barnwell, who already began
to be an object in his eyes of no little importance.

“Don't mention about gratitude,” rejoined the kind hearted Mrs. Younker;
“don't talk about gratitude, for a lettle favor, sech as every body's got a
right to, what comes into this country and gits shot by savages. We havn't
done no more for you than we'd a done for any body else in like carcumstance;
and, Lord, sir, the pleasure o' knowing you're a going to git
well agin, arter being shot by Injen's pizen bullets,[1] is enough to pay us
twenty times over—Eh! Ella, child,—don't you say so?”

“No one, save the gentleman himself, or his dearest friends, can be more
rejoiced at his favorable symptoms than myself,” responded Ella, timidly, in
a voice so low, sweet and touching, that Reynolds, who heard without seeing
her—for she kept the rude curtain of skins between them—felt his heart
beat strangely, while his eyes involuntarily grew moist.

“That's truly said, gat,—truly said, I do believe,” rejoined Mrs. Younker;
“for she's hung over you, sir, (turning to the wounded man) night and day,
like a mother over her child, until we've had to use right smart authority
to make her go to bed, for fear as how she'd be sick too.”

“And if I live,” answered Reynolds, in a voice that trembled with emotion,
“and it is ever in my power to repay such disinterested attention and kindness,
I will do it, even to the sacrificing that life which she, together with
you and your family, good woman, has been the means, under God, of
preserving.”

“Under God,” repeated the matron, “that's true; I like the way you said
that, stranger; it sounds reverential—it's just—and it raises my respect for
you a good deal; for all our doings is under God's permit;” and she turned
her eyes upward, with a devout look, in which position she remained several
seconds, while Ella, with her fair hands clasped, followed her example, and
seemed, with her moving lips, engaged in prayer.

“But come,” resumed the dame, “it won't do for you, stranger, to be
disturbed too much jest now; for you arn't any too strong, I reckon; and
so you'll jest take my advice, and go to sleep awhile, and you'll feel all the
better for't agin Ben and Isaac come home, which 'll be in two or three
hours.”

Saying thus, Mrs. Younker again disposed the curtains so as to conceal
from Reynolds all external objects, and, together with Ella, withdrew, leaving
him to repose. Whether he profited by her advice immediately, or
whether he meditated for some time on other matters, not excluding Ella,
we shall leave to the imagination of the reader, while we proceed, by way
of episode, to give a general, though brief account, of the Younker family.

Benjamin Younker was a man about fifty-five years of age—tall—rawboned—very
muscular—and although now passed the prime, even the meridian
of life, was still possessed of uncommon strength. His form, never

handsome, even in youth, was how disfigured by a stoop in the shoulders,
caused by hard labor and rheumatism. His face corresponded to his body—
being long and thin, with hollow cheeks, and high cheek bones,—his eyes
were small and gray, with heavy eye-brows—his nose long and pointed—
his mouth large and homely, though expressive,—and his forehead medium.
surmounted by a sprinkling of brown-gray hair. In speech he was deliberate,
generally pointed, and seldom spoke when not absolutely necessary.
He was a good farmer—such being his occupation; a keen hunter, whenever
he chose to amuse himself in that way; a sure marksman; and, although
ignorant in book learning, possessed a sound judgment, and a common sense
understanding on all subjects of general utility. He was a native of Eastern
Virginia, where the greater portion of his life had been spent in hunting
and agricultural pursuits—where he was married and had been blessed with
two children—a son and a daughter—of whom the former only was now living,
and has already been introduced to the reader as Isaac—and whence, at the
instance of his wife and son, he removed, in the spring of 1779, into the
borders of Kentucky—finally purchased and settled where he now resided,
and where, although somewhat exposed, he and his family had thus far
remained unmolested.

The dame, Mrs. Younker, was a large, corpulent woman of forty-five,
with features rather coarse and masculine, yet expressive of shrewdness and
courage, and, withal, a goodly share of benevolence. She was one of that
peculiar class of females, who, if there is any thing to be said, always claim
the privilege of saying it; in other words, an inveterate talker; and who,
if we may be allowed the phrase; managed her husband, and all around her,
with the length of her tongue. In the country where she was brought up
and known, to say of another, that he or she could compete with Ben Younker's
wife in talking, was considered the extreme of comparison; and it is
not recorded that any individual ever presumed on the credulity of the
public sufficient to assert that the vocal powers of the said Mrs. Younker
were ever surpassed. Unlike most great talkers, she was rarely heard to
speak ill of any, and then only such as were really deserving of consure;
while her rough kind of piety—if we may so term it—and her genuine goodness
of heart, known to all with whom she came in contact, served to procure
her a long list of friends. She possessed, as the reader has doubtless
judged from the specimen we have given, little or no education; but this
deficiency, in her eyes, as well as in most of those who lived on the frontiers,
was of minor consequence—the knowledge of hunting, farming, spinning
and weaving, being considered by far the more necessary, and, at the same
time, fully sufficient qualifications for discharging the social duties of life.

Of Isaac, with whom the reader is already slightly acquainted, we shall
not now speak—other than to say, he could barely read and write—rather
prefering that he develop his character in his own peculiar way. But there
is another, and though last, we trust will not prove least in point of interest
to the reader, with whom we shall close this episodical history—namely—
Ella Barnwell.

The mother of Ella—a half sister to the elder Younker—died when she
was very young, leaving her to the care of a kind and indulgent father, who,
having no other child, lavished on her his whole affections. At the
demise of his wife, Barnwell was a prosperous, if not wealthy merchant, in
one of the eastern cities of Virginia; and knowing the instability of wealth,
together with his desire to fit his daughter for any station in society, he
spared no expense necessary to educate her in all the different branches of
English usually studied by a female. To this was added drawing, needle

work, music and dancing; and as Ella proved by no means a backward
scholar in whatever she undertook, she was, at the age of fifteen, to use a
familiar phrase, turned out an accomplished young lady. But alas! she had
been qualified for a station which fate seemed determined not to let her
occupy; for just at this important period of her life, her father became
involved in an unfortunate speculation, that ended in ruin, dishonor, and his
own bodily confinement in prison for debts he could never discharge. Naturally
high spirited and proud, this misfortune and persecution proved too
much for his philosophy—and what was more, his reason—and in a state of
mental derangement, he one night hung himself to the bars of his prison
window—leaving his daughter at the age we have named, a poor, unprotected,
we might almost add friendless, orphan; for moneyless and friendless
are too often synonymous terms, as poor Ella soon learned to her mortification
and sorrow.

Ella Barnwell the young, the beautiful and accomplished heiress, was a
very different personage from poor Ella Barnwell the bankrupt's daughter;
and those who had fawned around and flattered and courted the one, now
saw proper to pass the other by in silent contempt. It was a hard, a very
hard lesson for one at the tender age of Ella, who had been petted and
pampered all her life, and taught by her own simplicity of heart to look
upon all pretenders as real friends—it was a hard lesson, we say, for one of
her years, to be forced at one bold stroke to learn the world, and see her
happy artless dreams vanish like froth from the foaming cup; but if hard,
it was salutary—at least with her—and instead of blasting in the bud, as it
might have done a frailer flower, it set her reason to work, destroyed the
romantic sentimentalism usually attached to females of that excitable age,
taught her to rely more upon herself and less upon others, more upon
actions and less upon words, and, in short, made a strong minded woman of
her at once. Yet this was not accomplished without many a heart rending
pang, as the briny tears of chagrin, disappointment, and almost hopeless
destitution, that nightly chased each other down the pale cheeks of Ella
Barnwell to the pillow which supported her feverish head, for weeks, and
even months, after the death of her father, could well attest.

The father of Ella was an Englishman, who had emigrated to this country
a few years previous to his marriage; and as noue of his near relations
had seen proper to follow his example, Ella, on his side, was left entirely
destitute of any to whom she could apply for assistance and protection. On
her mother's side, she knew of none who would be likely to assist her so
readily as her half uncle, Benjamin Younker, whom she remembered as
having seen at the funeral of her mother, and who then, taking her in his
brawny arms, while the tears dimmed his eyes, in a solemn, impressive
manner told her, that in the ups and downs of life, should she ever stand in
need of another's strong arm or purse, to call on him, and that while blest
with either himself, she should not want. This at the time had made a
deep impression on her youthful mind, but latterly had been nearly or quite
obliterated, until retouched by feeling the want of that aid then so solemly
and generously tendered. Accordingly, after trying some of her supposed
true-hearted friends,—who had more than once been sharers in her generosity,
and who, in return, had professed the most devoted attachment—but
who now, in her distress, unkindly treated her urgent requests with cold
neglect,—Ella hastened to make her situation known to her uncle; the
result of which had been her adoption into a family, who, if not graced with
that refinement and education to which she had been accustomed, at least

possessed virtues that many of the refined and learned were strangers to—
namely—truth, honesty, benevolence and fidelity.

Ella, in her new situation, with her altered views of society in general,
soon grew to love her benefactor and his family, and take that sincere
pleasure in their rude ways, which, at one time, she would have considered
as next to impossible. With a happy faculty belonging only to the few, she
managed to work herself into their affections, by little and little, almost
imperceptibly, until ere they were aware of the fact themselves, she was
looked upon rather as a daughter and sister, than a more distant relation.
In sooth, the former appellation the reader has already seen applied to her,
during the recorded conversation of the voluble Mrs. Younker—an appellation
which Ella ever took good care to acknowledge by the corresponding
title of mother.

About a year from the period of Ella's becoming a member of the family,
the Younkers had removed, as already stated, to what was then considered
the “Far West,” and had finally purchased and settled where we find them
in the opening of our story. In this expedition, Ella—though somewhat
reluctantly—had accompanied them—had remained with them ever since—
and was now—notwithstanding her former lady-like mode of life—by the
prime tuition of Mrs. Younker—regularly installed into all the mysteries
of milking, churning, sewing, baking, spinning and weaving. With this
brief outline of her past history, we shall proceed to describe her personal
appearance, at the time of her introduction to the reader, and then leave
her to speak and act for herself, during the progress of this drama of life.

Eighteen years of sunshine and cloud, had served to mould the form of
Ella Barnwell into one of peculiar beauty and grace. In height she was
a little above five feet, had a full round bust, and limbs of that beautiful and
airy symetry, which ever give to their possessor an appearance of etherial
lightness. Her complexion was sufficiently dark to entitle her to the appellation
of brunette, though by many it would have been thought too light,
perhaps, owing to the soft rich transparency of her skin, through which,
by a crimson tint, could be traced the “tell-tale-blood,” on the slightest provocation
tending to excitement. Her features, if examined closely, could
not be put down as entirely regular, owing to a very slight defect in the
mouth, which otherwise was very handsome, and graced with two plump,
pretty, half pouting lips. This defect, however, was only apparent when
the countenance was in stern repose; and, as this was but seldom, when in
company with others, it was of course but seldom observed. The remainder
of her features were decidedly good, and, seen in profile, really beautiful.
Her eye was a full, soft, animated hazel, that could beam tenderly
with love, sparkle brilliantly with wit, or flash scornfully with anger; but
inclining more to the first and second qualities than the last. Her eye-brows
were well defined, and just sufficiently arched to correspond with the
eyes themselves. Her forehead was prominent, of a noble cast, and added
dignity to her whole appearance. Her hair was a rich, dark brown—fine
and glossy—and although neatly arranged about the head, evidently required
but little training to enable it to fall gracefully about her neck in beautiful
ringlets. The general expression of her face, was a soft bewitching
playfulness, that, combined with the half timid, benevolent look, beaming
from her large, mild, hazel eye, invariably won upon the beholder at the
first glance, and increased upon acquaintance. Her voice we have already
spoken of as possessing a silvery sweetness; and if one could be moved at
merely seeing her, it only required this addition to complete the charm.
To all of the foregoing, let us add an ardent temperament—capable of the

most tender, lasting and devoted attachment, when once the affections were
placed on an object—a sweet disposition, modest deportment, and graceful
manners, and you have the portrait in full of Ella Barnwell, the orphan, the
model of her sex, and the admiration of all who knew her.