University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

I admire a man of independence. Had it been otherwise
with Captain Wilson, this day would have been
a day of perplexity to us all. There is as much difference
between the poor, pitiful, mean-spirited wretch,
who is subject to his wife, and the man who nobly maintains
his own prerogative, as there is between the reptile
that creeps on the ground, and the noble Lion.

Henry rode in the van in silence; the old man and
myself rode side by side, while Ned brought up the rear.
I roused Wilson from his profound meditation, by asking
him “how he came on?”

“Oh he'll do well enough, now he's got clear of the
old woman; no danger of Henry,” said his father.

“Oh, curse the stuff—I'm sick as death and almost
drunk,” said Henry.

I observed “if he went on as he had to-day, we would
be taken for worse than drunk—we would be taken for
mad people.”

Captain Wilson, who had served in the revolutionary
war, entered upon a detail of his former exploits, and of
those brave men who were associated with him. I dare
say he did justice to those heroes of our nation—but I
remember but very little about it, for the trees began to
dance before me, and my head ached violently. We soon
took up more company; three gentleman, two elderly,
and a spruce looking young beau. I was glad of it, as
it relieved me from attending to Captain Wilson's long
stories. I fell back, and Wilson told me he was very
sick, and wanted some water badly. Neither he nor I
had indulged in the practice of drinking any thing, excepting
perhaps a bottle of porter, or a little wine occasionally.
It therefore was no wonder that it had a different
effect on us, to what it had on the old man, who was
proof against accidents of this nature.

As we now had an opportunity, Wilson enquired how

I happened to succeed so effectually, in bringing the old
man over, to consent so readily as he did to our journey?

I repeated to him the conversation which took place
between his father and me, adding that when I left him,
I was not so confident of success.

He said that his father after my departure called his
mother to him, and desired her to have the boys' clothes
ready that night, that they were compelled to set out
early in the morning.

“Indeed my dear, Henry must not leave me so soon.”

“Leave the d—l, I say their clothes shall be got ready.
Do you think I would be outdone by the generosity of the
boy's uncle, that let him come so far to guard my son?
No—I'm not so selfish as all that, and gave him such a
handsome present too, because he was the friend of his
nephew? Zucks, I am a great mind to go with him myself,
to thank his uncle in person for his noble behaviour
to my son. No, no, they shall go—no shufffing in
ranks.”

Henry said there was no more objecting on the part of
his mother.

At this moment Captain Wilson called to Ned to produce
the bottle and cup, adding “here is the finest spring
in Tennessee.”

This was agreeable news—but I had no idea of this
providential precaution of the old man, in bringing his
friend Redstone with him; nor had I the least inclination
to renew my acquaintance with this old friend of his.

“Gentlemen,” said he to the strangers, “here is some
as genuine Monongahela as ever came down the river.
It was warranted ten years old.”

By this time we had all dismounted—the strangers accepted
the invitation, but no entreaty could prevail on
Wilson or me to join them—we chose rather a draught
of pure water. So soon as the strangers had done honour
to our fellow-traveller, the dram-bottle, one of them
stepped to his saddle bags and pulled out a Spanish bottle,
[1] observing to our old friend, “that his Redstone

was very good it was true, but he thought he had some
equally as good,” and invited him to drink.

The old man tasted it, shook the bottle to observe the
bead; tasted it again, “faith I believe it is the best;
well, curse them fellows, they sold it to me for ten years
old.” I thought he seemed a little mortified that he failed
to excel.

We mounted our horses again and pursued our journey.
Calling at a house that stood near the spring to enquire
the distance to our stand: we were told it was eight
miles. The sun was low, however, the draught of cold
water and the coolness of the evening, tended very much
to relieve our sickness, and enabled us to keep up with
the company, who rode merrily on before, Wilson and I
bringing up the rear, by which means we lost the pleasure
of hearing the history of the spring, which Captain
Wilson commenced just as he mounted his horse, after
refreshing himself with a draught of its waters. All that
struck my ear respecting the subject was “that the first
time he saw it was seventeen years since; that he and
three others were on a visit to look at the country, and
being tired, thirsty, and hungry, they stopped to rest
themselves under the shade of the trees that surrounded
the spring. Having buiscuit, neats-tongue and cheese,
(and I dare say a bottle of the comfortable, though it escaped
my ear) they made a sumptuous meal.

The old gentleman having the advantage of a fresh
spur in the head, it was with difficulty we could keep up
with old Tory. It was laughable to witness his progress
between a pace and a gallop, which proved that he
was perfectly aware how matters stood with his master.

Wilson reproved me for laughing—“when you know
without a miracle, your sister must ere this have fallen
a sacrifice either to want or ill treatment.”

“Oh don't be prophesying ill,” said I—“bad news
will come soon enough; keep a good heart; our luck has
turned; I expect Mary is alive and well, and grieving
will do no good; it is useless to afflict ourselves till we
know for what.”

With such conversation as this, we passed off the time
until we arrived at the inn, where we found a good fire,

which proved very agreeable. It appeared that one of
our fellow-travellers was likewise an old revolutionary
soldier, and by birth was a South Carolinian. Captain
Wilson was soon in the height of his glory. They had
both served in the southern department, and under the
same commanders; all their battles were revived again.
The conversation, however, had not enough of interest
in it to engage my attention, until I was roused by an
oath from the Captain, execrating a black woman who
had jerked up the candle without ceremony and disappeared
with it, just as he had the line of battle completed
at Camden. The two armies, however, could not engage
for want of a light. I remonstrated with the old gentleman
for using such harsh language to one of the fair sex.
She soon, however, returned with the candle.

He resumed—“I held a Captain's commission, and
one of my men began to cry, and says to me, `Oh, Captain,
we'll all be killed—don't you see the British? look
at their cannon, pointing right towards us.' `You d—n
son of a b—h,' says I, drawing my sword, `if you don't
hush, I'll run you through—where the d—l do you think
they would point them, then?' It was a capital mistake
in Gates, absolutely to be sure, to order militia to charge
with bayonets at the month of the British cannon. I
could freely have seen him shot. However, the North
Carolinians broke and run like the d—l, and the Virginia
line began to give ground.”

“I think you all run, father,” said Henry.

“Faith, I covered the retreat,” said the old man, being
unwilling to meet the question.

“The Marylanders, oh they were fine fellows! I
could hear them firing at the advance of the British. O,
how I wanted to go back and help them.”

In all likelyhood he would have protracted his retreat
to an hour's length, had he not, with the rest of us, been
called to supper. Happening to sit opposite to him at
table, the remark of the negro woman popped into his
head.

“What was that? I wish I could think of it, about the
woman's taking away the candle.”

Some of the party reminded him—

“Oh, yes, and Hal too about our running at Gates'
defeat, a sly dog; this morning it was nothing but whining
and lamenting. I have a great mind to tell on you
both my lads; I haven't forgot the spree; I'll see if we
can't have John Anderson after supper. Landlord,
make a gallon of toddy, and do your best upon it; it aint
every night we'll be together, and God knows maybe we'll
never meet again—his will be done; and as for this Mr.
Charles with his fair sex, and all that sort o' thing we'll
see if he can't sing as well as he used to do.”

All this was a sad blow to my hopes, as Wilson and I
had made it up to slip off to bed as soon as we arose
from the table; but it was all over with us now.

Supper being over the cloth was removed, and the toddy-glasses,
&c. placed on the table, the landlord was invited
to join with us. Wilson sighed deeply; for my
own part I submitted with as much grace as I could command,
knowing that remonstrance was vain.

Having all drank round I had to begin the first song,
and gave them John Anderson my jo. Wilson eyed me
with evident signs of displeasure, as (of course) he would
have to follow. My performance was received with
great applause. Henry escaped however this time, and
our young fellow guest gave us the Legacy, quite in
taste. All must drink again.

“Now Hal,” said his father, “let them gentlemen
hear that you can sing too; let me see, what song is that
he used to charm his mother with—”

I asked him if it was not Kitty of the Clyde.

“Oh, yes, that's the very thing.”

Poor Henry had to comply; when he was done I observed
it was the old gentleman's turn next. The Captain
began, “when I was a young man stout and brave,”
without any hesitation. When he had done we must all
drink again—I had much rather have sung all night.—
The two elder of the guests were called on next, one declared
off, saying he never sung in his life. I said he
must tell a story then; it occurred to me that if I could
get a story afloat it would be the means of drawing the
old man into one of his long stories, and by that means
we might find an opportunity of making our escape.

He compromised by agreeing to tell a story after his
friend had favoured us with a song. He gave us “the
loss of Paddy's Mill,” a song of Allan Ramsey's composition;
when this was ended, the other told us the story
of Kate Snyder, which every body knows; but he told
it to admiration.

After him I told one very similar to it—this put an
end to the singing. As I had foreseen, Captain Wilson
began one of his hour long stories; I made a sign to Henry
to retire, choosing to stay a little longer, to make an
excuse for for him, should he be missed The young
gentleman soon followed him, and I remained but a short
time behind, when I also withdrew, leaving the old man
to finish his story and toddy together.

We soon fell asleep, and slept sound until I was awaked
by Captain Wilson, who came into our chamber and
called to us to get up, saying our fellow travellers were
up an hour ago, and were ready to ride, adding that he
had a foaming egg'nog ready, and a julep as good as ever
was drank.

We jumped up, and after dressing and washing, took
a glass of julep, the egg'nog looking rather too lucious
for our stomachs. I was well pleased, however, that
our fellow travellers joined the Captain in partaking
with him, in the egg'nog.

All having drank, and our horses ready, I proposed
to ride, to which the guests assented. Captain Wilson
had settled our bills—nothing therefore remained but to
bid him adieu. Going up to him I told him the best of
friends must part; he shook me cordially by the hand—
wishing me all the success in the world; he walked a
short distance with us before taking leave of his son, and
here a violent contest took place, between the old man
and Henry; Captain Wilson was endeavouring to force
a purse of money on him, which Henry as peremptorily
refused.

At length he came to me and sorrowfully entreated
me to take it —“My dear sir,” said I, “we do not want
it indeed; I have a much greater quantity now than is,
perhaps, safe to travel with; do excuse us—you know
sir that if I wanted that or any other favour from you,
I would use no ceremony.

He semed to be somewhat satisfied, but observed that,
“some accident might befal us.”

“And if there should sir,” I rejoined, “we have another
father where we are going, therefore it is quite unnecessary,
and even dangerous.”

This called up all of the good old man's tenderness—
the big tear trembled in his eye.

“Take care of yourselves my boys,” said he, as I
squeezed his hand for the last time, and then rode forward
to overtake my companions, who had all moved
on.

“Give my kind respects to your uncle,” said Captain
Wilson, as I parted from him—“bring him with you if
possible.”

In three days we reached Knoxville, where with much
regret we parted with our fellow travellers; they pursuing
their journey on horseback, while we took the
stage; sending Ned back with the horses, with many
kind compliments to Captain Wilson and his lady.

In seven days we arrived in Philadelphia, without
meeting with any thing worthy of notice.