University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

We are apt when dwelling in the sunshine of peace,
to look upon the season of war as one of unmitigated
horror. We forget that man is powerless effectually to
mar the fair face of nature, or intercept the smiles of
Heaven. We forget that the fields still are verdant,
the streams still sparkling, the sun-lit canopy by day,
and the starry firmament at night, still beautiful and
sublime, amidst all the puny tempests of human strife.
The mind, too, buoyant and elastic with hope, and containing
within itself the secret springs of joy, bids defiance
at times, to every peril, and often seems least
desponding, when dangers and trials are the most numerous
and severe.

The twilight had gradually disappeared, and the
moon, riding high in the heavens, was illuminating the
landscape, as Dudley pursued his homeward way. Hill,
dale and stream, bathed in a flood of silvery light, lay
spread around him far as the eye could reach, and for
a while engrossed his undivided attention. But sadder
themes soon pressed upon his mind. The massacre at
Shell's Bush, of which Waldon had so unfeelingly spoken,
was one of similar deeds to those which had been
already perpetrated in the valley of the Mohawk.
They were the work of savages, aided and instigated
by some of the lowest and vilest of the white inhabitants,
who, having declared in favor of the royal cause,
made it a cover for the perpetration of every enormity
which either private revenge or the most sordid cupidity
could dictate. Although these atrocities usually occurred
and were most to be dreaded in the darker nights,

they were by no means confined to such seasons, the
full light of the moon, and the broad glare of day, affording
no protection to the peaceable inhabitants when
the war spirit of their savage foes was fully aroused.
On again viewing the sky, Dudley beheld a belt of
dense clouds skirting the western horizon, from which,
detached fragments were occasionally ascending zenith-ward,
threatening ere long to obscure the whole firmament;
and he shuddered as he thought that perhaps
some fearful tragedy might be enacted upon that very
night.

Nor were these apprehensions his only source of disquiet.
Other griefs of a private and more selfish nature
also engaged his attention. The claim made by
Waldon on the affections of Miss Welles, although little
worthy of credit, was not without its effect upon his
mind. It had revealed to him the state of his own feelings,
of which he had before scarcely been conscious,
and at the same time had conjured up phantoms of obstacles
to his hopes, which, with all a lover's variableness
of feeling, at one moment seemed shadowy, and at
the next, insuperable. Ellen Welles was a lady well
calculated to inspire affection in such a heart as Dudley's.
The ordinary charms of youth and beauty were
enhanced in her person, by a natural grace of manner,
and an unalloyed sweetness of temper. If a judgment,
just and discriminating, was necessary to prevent such a
character from degenerating into insipidity, that gift
also was Ellen's. Her father was a military man, and
had held a Captain's commission under Sir William
Johnson in the war of 1756. He had purchased at the
close of that contest, a large estate in Tryon county,
which the advancing settlement of the country had rendered
highly valuable, and at the period now spoken of

was what, in more modern parlance, would be termed
a large landed proprietor.

It was no matter of surprise to Dudley that Captain
Welles should have again offered his services to the
crown; but he wondered much what provisions he had
made for the security of Ellen, who was an only child,
and who had long before been deprived of her other
parent. But had he been so disposed, he might have
solved his curiosity by a direct appeal to the object of
it; for Ellen Welles at that moment stood before him.
She was accompanied by a single domestic, who bore a
few articles of value in his hands; and her deportment
gave token of alarm and agitation. Her answers to his
busy inquiries were exactly what he had expected to
hear. Her father was absent from home; there were
rumors of expected attacks from the Indians, and she
was hastening to place herself under the protection of a
neighboring family; for although Captain Welles was
well known to be loyal in his sentiments, his house was
too secluded, and presented too many temptations to
the plunderers, to be a safe abode for an unprotected
female. That Dudley at once became her escort, that
he strove in every way to soothe her alarm, although far
from considering it unfounded, and that he promised
such protection as he could give, were quite matters of
course. On arriving at the house which Ellen had selected
for refuge, its inmates were found to be in a state
of alarm nearly equal to her own. The intelligence of
the expected attack had spread like wild-fire through
the little community, where the merciless character of
these onsloughts was well understood. The owner of
the house, Mr. Lee, who was a well-known patriot, was,
together with his sons, busily engaged in making such
hasty preparations for defense, as time allowed. Doors

and windows were barricaded, ammunition prepared,
and weapons put in order with all that bustling activity
which such an emergency might well be supposed to
create.

The panic in the vicinity had become general, and
several other of the immediate neighbors, whose houses
were considered less defensible than Lee's, were soon
seen flocking to his little fort, with their arms and ammunition
and such of their more valuable effects as they
could conveniently transport. Lee's reputation as a
bold and resolute man, contributed not a little to produce
this result, although it might be considered a very
questionable prudence which sought shelter under a roof
rendered, by the very reputation of its owner, so prominent
an object of hostility. The work of defense now
went more rapidly forward. A breastwork of logs was
soon thrown up in front of the house, and another opposite
the postern door; and upon the roof of the building,
blankets, saturated with water, were spread as a
protection from that most formidable engine of Indian
warfare—the fire-brand.

Dudley having become convinced of the reality of the
danger, hastened to summon to Lee's, such other of the
neighbors as did not choose rather to seek the shelter of
the forest, being conscious that their chief hope of safety
must consist in thus consolidating their strength.
He had no immediate relatives in the vicinity to awaken
his solicitude, and was able to act the more efficiently
for the whole. With many injunctions to regard his
personal safety, and one from a voice which he fondly
fancied to be Ellen's, he departed on his mission. He
found the neighborhood everywhere alarmed. Some
were secreting their effects, preparatory to flight; some
were barricading their premises, determined to die, if

necessary, on their hearth-stones; and others, in small
bands, were fleeing to the forests, bearing their children
in their arms, and upholding the tottering steps of the
sick and the aged. The scene was one to draw tears
from the stoutest heart, but the necessity for speedy action,
left little room for contemplation. Dudley had a
word of encouragement and hope for all, and although
numbers gladly accepted his proposal, and hastened to
accompany him, the majority preferred to trust to the
hiding-places of the wilderness. He was more successful,
however, in gaining refugees than recruits. Women
and children would add but little to the effective
force of the garrison, and he was, therefore, not a
little delighted at the accession to his numbers of four or
five members of the half-organized band, bearing the
imposing title of the Life Guard. These were all
young men, well-armed, and, by the presence and peril
of those most near and dear to them, furnished them
with the loftiest incentives to action.