Rodney, the Ranger Part 20

"I shall be most happy to call on the morrow if I may be permitted,"

was Rodney's response, and he was really surprised at his ready reply.

"We ought to ride as far as Roscomes' with him," said Lisbeth, and, because of the dusk, they could not see how pale and drawn was her face.

"Those villains will have no stomach for further trouble, I reckon, and I'm sure you need Aunt Betty and the bandages more than I do the escort. I hope to see you in the morning, none the worse for to-night's experience. Good night," saying which, he rode on to Roscome's. His mind was in a whirl and, now the danger and excitement were past, he felt very weak, and trembled when he thought of Lisbeth's peril; yet he was conscious that he had borne himself well.

Then he fell to wondering who young Enderwood might be. Rodney had only seen in the dim light that he was young, not much older than himself, and apparently a gentleman. Enderwood? Why, he must be Squire Enderwood's son, from Norfolk. If so, he had both family and fortune, and somehow the idea didn't please Rodney, though why should he begrudge young Enderwood such an inheritance?

The following morning Rodney set out for "The Hall." He felt he could ill spare the time but nevertheless was glad of the opportunity, though he dreaded the meeting with the squire. His father might be alive at that moment but for the injustice of Lisbeth's father.

The sun shone brightly but the air was clear and cold. From a light rain of the previous night icicles had formed on the trees and gleamed like so many jewels. It seemed to the boy as though he had dreamed a long dream of wild forests, peopled with Indians, and was now awake and at home.

When Rodney arrived at "The Hall" he was met by the squire, who came to him with outstretched hands, saying, "My boy, you are a brave lad, and have placed me under greater obligations than I can ever hope to repay. I will write your father and tell him how grateful I am, and how proud he should be of you."

"My father is dead, sir; he was killed in the battle at Point Pleasant."

"You--you--er--I'm astounded! I hadn't heard a word. Why, only the other day I was thinking of him."

The unmistakable signs of grief in the squire's face somewhat softened Rodney's feelings. "You know Charlottesville did not afford father the opportunity to provide for his family as he wished and so he went over the mountains to take up land. When I was on my way to him I was captured by the Indians and held for a year. Meanwhile father, thinking I was dead, joined the army under General Lewis."

"I never should have let him go away. I've wished him back every day since he went away," and then the squire turned and walked to the window, where Mogridge had watched the effect of his plot and seen David Allison turn his back and walk away never to return.

At this moment Enderwood came into the room. He was a fine looking fellow of nearly twenty, straight and rather tall, with dark hair and eyes, and had an air of breeding. Greeting Rodney cordially, as he looked at him keenly, he said, "Aunt Betty requested me to tell you that Lisbeth cannot leave her room. I fear her ankle is badly sprained and she was much shaken. She will regret not seeing you this morning."

"Yes," said the squire, turning from the window, "my little girl suffered more than was thought at the time, but I hope she will be up in a few days. Meanwhile you are to make 'The Hall' your home. I'm sure that you and Lawrence will find plenty with which to amuse yourselves."

"Thank you, Squire Danesford; but I must go on. I came out of my way for the sake of riding through Pryndale and have already lost a day. I feared your daughter was hurt more than she would admit. She had an awful experience. I thought she would be dashed to pieces before her horse could be stopped."

"Don't speak of it, please. I haven't slept for the night. But, surely, your business isn't so urgent that you must away at once. I want to hear about your mother. You know she and I lived on adjoining plantations when we were children and were playmates. Now, my boy, I want you to bring your mother back to Pryndale. You should never have left it."

"It was leave or starve," were the words on Rodney's tongue; but he did not speak them, and ever after was glad that he hadn't. Instead he said, "I will tell her of your kind invitation. She was very fond of her home here. You are very kind. Please give my regards to Lisbeth and say that I regret not seeing her and hope for her speedy recovery."

And so, despite the squire's urging that he remain, Rodney set out on his journey home, less satisfied with himself and the promises for his future than he had been the night before.

The lad was, however, to have little time in the succeeding months for reflections, pleasant or otherwise. No sooner had he delivered the dispatches he was carrying to Mr. Jefferson than he was off again on similar missions.

In that early spring of 1775 Virginia was in a ferment. Most of the leading men believed that war was coming, and bent their energies to planning and so shaping affairs that the colony might be ready for it.

Of this Rodney learned enough in his travels to appreciate the gravity of the situation, and the importance of vigilance and faithfulness on his part. He received many compliments from his employer and deserved them.

The position of those who favoured the king became daily more unpleasant. Not only had they lost influence, but were made to feel that they were marked men, looked on by even their old neighbours with suspicion. Soon they were to be called traitors to their faces and to know that their lives were in peril, for always those may be found in times of excitement to seek excuse for wreaking vengeance on enemies, doing it in the name of the cause that is popular.

When the choleric royal governor, Lord Dunmore, dissolved the House of Burgesses he accomplished nothing save to increase the bitterness already existing. The Virginia representatives met and chose delegates to the General Congress to meet in Philadelphia, and now Virginia was to have a convention of its own, and hold it at Richmond, then a village of not more than nine hundred white inhabitants, and there, in the fire of his eloquence, Patrick Henry was to fuse the differing views into one grand purpose and arouse the people to the fact that war was indeed approaching.

Rodney Allison, whose duties, much to his delight, had taken him to the convention, was one of the spectators of that memorable scene when Patrick Henry spoke. Ten years before, in the House of Burgesses, Henry had told the awestruck delegates what he thought of the infamous Stamp Act, and that, if what he said were treason, they could make the most of it. Now, he favoured raising volunteer soldiers in each county, such as the Minute Men who had done such valiant work in Ma.s.sachusetts.

The opposition to these resolutions aroused him, and he rose to reply, and his words seared his views upon the minds of the delegates, who sat motionless like men in a trance. It seemed to Rodney, when the last word was spoken, as though he had not breathed from the moment the orator began. The speaker's face seemed to become luminous and his eyes blazed and the boy s.h.i.+vered as though with a chill. Certain of the immortal sentences he never forgot and as they were spoken he saw them in his excited imagination as though written in letters of fire: "Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed by a kiss," referring to the king's promises. "In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of reconciliation." "There is no longer any room for hope." "The war is inevitable! and let it come!" "The next gale that sweeps from the North will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms!" At the close came those words as from a prophet with a face of flame: "Give me liberty or give me death!" and when he sat down his listeners were ready to rise and declare war on the instant.

Not all, for among those who heard were some who, while they sat as though under a spell, nevertheless were resolved past conversion to stand by their king. Among them Rodney saw Squire Danesford elbowing his way through the door, his face purple with rage, and, once outside, he mounted his horse and rode away at a mad gallop, followed by Black Tom.

The convention over, the delegates went to their homes to make ready for the impending conflict. The war spirit was abroad throughout the Old Dominion, and young Allison found Nat unequal to the riding he was required to do and was furnished with another horse. Volunteers, with such arms as they could procure, drilled daily and some among them were eager for the fray to begin; but, when once it was begun, not a few lost much of their ardour.

As Patrick Henry had predicted, the next gale sweeping from the North was to bring to the waiting ears of the Virginians the clash of resounding arms, of the shots fired by the farmers in homespun from behind stone walls and fences, all the way from Lexington to Boston, into the ranks of panic-stricken British soldiers. The day after that event, April 20th, though before the news of Lexington reached Virginia, the minute men of the Old Dominion were to shoulder their guns in defiance of British authority.

CHAPTER XX

RALLYING VIRGINIA'S MINUTE MEN

The evening after Rodney returned to Charlottesville, Angus rode over on a raw-boned steed that evidently had outlived his day for leaping fences and following the hounds.

"What d'ye think of him, Rod?"

"Why, he's some horse, looks like a blooded one," replied Rodney, speaking as favourably as he could, for he liked Angus and knew the boy had been a little envious of late. "Where did you get him?"

"He's one Squire Herndon got down on the Pamunkey. Reckon I made a good trade, fer I found he was blind in one eye an' the squire took him fer a bad debt an' already had more hosses than he could feed."

"You ought to trade him off and make a good thing."

"Don't reckon I want to trade right away. I 'low after plantin' I'm goin' to ride round a bit. Thar's a heap o' things a feller can learn by travellin' around. You know that."

"I suppose so. Tell you what, Angus; I've got to go to Williamsburg next week. Let's go together. I've never been there. It's the capital of the Old Dominion and, when the Burgesses are in session, one can see more of the aristocracy in Williamsburg than in any other place.

Besides, the famous William and Mary College is there. You know many of our greatest men went there, the Byrds, the Lees and Randolphs, and Thomas Jefferson, he was a student there. I've heard that he would like to have a college right here in Charlottesville run according to a plan of his own. I'll wager if he wants it he'll get it if he lives.

Yes, we'll ride down there and have a fine time."

"That we will fer sure, if we go. Reckon I can fix it. Think we can see Patrick Henry? I want to see him. They do say he can talk the birds right out o' the trees."

"You never heard anything like it. He isn't much to look at, but when he speaks he can make the hair in the back of your neck stand out straight like the ruff of a c.o.c.kerel in a fight."

"I hear the fellers talkin'. They'd march right to Joppa if he'd lead 'em."

"Don't believe he's much of a soldier, but he surely is an orator."

Angus rode home whistling.

That evening Mrs. Allison received the following letter in which the reader may be interested, as was Rodney:

"PRYNDALE, Va., March 28th, 1775.

"DEAR AUNT HARRIET:--I threw away my crutches this morning, and tried to celebrate by dancing a jig. I'm sure I should have succeeded to my later sorrow but for Aunt Betty's horrified look, whereupon I sat down to write you instead.

"Lawrence Enderwood thought Pryndale prosy and I had begun to believe him when lo, two highwaymen set upon us; a knight errant mounted on a splendid steed rides to the rescue; Firefly takes fright and runs away with a helpless maiden hanging by one foot to the stirrup, and both hands in the mane, expecting every moment to be dashed in pieces and actually thinking of every wicked thing she ever did; my, but it was an awful panorama! A snorting steed is heard in pursuit, the knight errant spurs him on and seizes the bridle of the running horse, rescues the hapless maiden, who has discovered that she is so wicked she wants to live, and then, _mirabile dictu!_ the knight errant is discovered to be no less a personage than one Rodney Allison. Excuse me, Auntie, if I express the opinion that you've not brought him up right; he's too shy and actually had to be urged to call on his old playmate. Seriously, I would have seen him before he fled, had I known he was there. Aunt Betty didn't tell me. You don't know what a shock it was to papa and me, the news Rodney brought of the death of Uncle David. I turned my face to the wall and cried, which as you may know I'm not in the habit of doing. Not till after he had left Pryndale did I realize what I owed to him. He was much superior to any teacher I had in London and he was so patient and kindly with us, imps that we were.

"Since you left Pryndale things seem much changed and for the worse.

Papa is all out of sorts with what he terms the disloyalty of the people. He insists we are being driven into a wicked war by a few hot-headed men together with those who are so ambitious they would sacrifice their country. I wish I knew the right of it. People who used to be friendly now look the other way. Only the other day Gobber's urchins were playing by the road when I rode past their cabin and the dirty imps made faces and cried out, 'Tory, I hate Tories.'

"Next month papa and I are going to Philadelphia and he may later sail for London. Somehow, it seems to me as if I weren't coming back. I suppose being shut up in the house with my sprained ankle makes me spleeny. Write me in the Quaker city, won't you, and address care of my uncle, Jacob Derwent. Now don't forget.