78. CHAPTER LXXVIII.
GENERAL EFFINGHAM IS CARRIED OFF BY A CHARIOT.
On the morning after the nocturnal meeting, and about
ten o'clock, a company of youths, some twenty or thirty in
number, were assembled in a glade of the forest, not far
from Banks' cross-roads.
A huge oak stretched its wide arms over their heads, and
a hamper, containing a variety of eatables, was reposing on
the mossy roots of the oak.
It was the spot where in former times the old Cornstalk
regiment had paraded, and pic-niced—where the noble soldiers
had been cheered by the presence of the fair—where
Mr. Crow gamboled—where the drum-head court martial
had been rapidly dispersed by the inspiriting notes of the
Bowling Green banjo.
That was a peaceful parade, however, and the only fatal
weapons were the eyes of Kate Effingham and her friends—
the only victims, Master Willie, and his rival, Tom Alston.
But, since the good year of '65, many things had taken
place, and now the great Cornstalk regiment assembled
anew, with far other designs than peaceful festivals.
Master Paul Effingham stood upon a stump and harangued
his followers. His remarks were to the effect that at last
the day of liberty had dawned, that Virginians would never
be slaves, and to prevent this result he besought his associates
to enter into the war with vigor.
A cheer greeted these observations, and the youthful followers
of the young patriot rallied round him, and declared
that they were ready.
They were of all ages under fifteen and above eight, and
were armed with old guns, which were far too heavy for
them, and should have been left at home for their fathers,
from whom the weapons had been filched.
Captain Effingham formed his men into a line, and then
separated this line into companies of three.
Then the order was given to march—upon the hamper.
The soldiers obeyed this order, acquiescing, apparently, in
the opinion of their chief, that before they joined the forces
marching on Williamsburg, nature would call for refreshment.
Guns were therefore abandoned, hats cast on the ground,
and the Cornstalk regiment attacked the hamper with great
valor.
In fifteen minutes the basket was emptied, and turned
with its top upon the ground.
Captain Effingham finished a bun with dignity, and ordered
his men to their arms. The ranks were immediately
formed, Captain Effingham made another speech, and then
the noble regiment, full of ardor and patriotism, set forward,
at a quick step, toward Banks' cross-roads.
But alas! for the designs of the patriots. They had just
reached the highway, and were marching in fine order,
when a chariot rolled toward them, and this chariot, when
it reached a point just abreast of them, suddenly paused.
Captain Paul gave the order to present arms, which was
obeyed with soldierly precision.
But alas!
From the window of the chariot, a fair head was thrust,
and Master Paul recognized his mother.
The young patriot's countenance fell, and his chin subsided
on his breast. Arrested, thus, in his march, the regiment
trod upon his heels.
“Oh, Paul!” said Madame Clare, “where in the world
are you going?”
“To fight the enemy, mamma,” returned Paul, with a
groan. “We are going to Banks' cross-roads, the place of
meeting.”
“Oh, my son, what an idea!” said his mother. “How
could you?”
“A patriot must do his duty, mamma,” said Paul, ruefully.
“Yes, my son,” said his mother; “but you are much
too young. You distress me very much by these freaks,
Paul! Come, now, and do not make me feel badly. Come
into the carriage, and go home, my son.”
It was long before Paul would consent to this, and more
than one “noble tear,” as says the poet, bedewed his youthful
eyes at his disappointment. Had the command come
from any other than his own mother, it is probable that
Captain Paul would have summoned his men to the rescue;
but it was the voice of a beloved parent which besought
him; it was the wish of one to whom he had ever paid obedience
which arrested him. He turned a last look of agony
on his soldiers, and obeyed.
“About, face! my friends,” said Captain Paul, with dignity.
“The commands of our superiors must be obeyed.
It is proper that, as your captain, I should set you the example
of obedience, and I must leave. Tom Jones, you can
march the regiment back,” with which words Captain Paul
slowly entered the carriage, and, we regret to say, cried as
it drove away.
Once deprived of their noble and courageous—once left
alone without him who was the soul of their action—once
paralyzed thus, and left desolate—the Cornstalk regiment
no longer aspired; they no longer had the heart to march
forward; they disbanded, broke into groups, and went off
to play at something else than “soldiering.”
The battle was not to have them in its tumult.
I have paused thus, our worthy author says, on the very
brink of great events to relate this little comedy of the past.
Why not? It is not only in the immense events of history
that the thoughtful mind looks to see the picture of the
times. The coloring of the bud is often brighter and more
delicate than that of the flower. What I aim at in my
chronicle is a picture of the minds of men in old days; the
movements of boys even arrest and absorb me. What
I've told is a veritable incident, and I think it is worthy of
our notice. The child is the germ of the man, and, just as
the character of the seed determines the plant, so does the
character of the boy make the gray bread's. The children
whom we have seen thus ardently on their march were
those who nursed the young republic in its infancy—who
braced their arms around it in the storm which came across
the seas to shake it. They stood around its cradle like a
phalanx of steel-clad warriors, and some of them fought for
it at Yorktown. At sixteen, my friend Judge B—[1]
was
captain of a company; and almost before the beard of manhood
decked his face, our noble Washington was in charge
of the whole border. The mind ripened quickly in those
days, and bloomed early; it was a noble, and chivalrous,
and high nature which thus filled the breasts of children.
The roar of revolution made them old; they were educated
by Henry and Washington! For myself, there is nothing
connected with that period void of interest. I listen to
the great voices in council; I listen to the voices of the
striplings, too. I see the great look on the stern brow of
the warrior; I see, also, the flush on the cheeks of the boys.
In the great panorama of the revolutionary story there is no
figure unworthy of attention.
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