PROLOGUE
I
KIDNAPPED
The hot sun of the South was sinking in red glow through the giant tree-tops of a Mississippi forest beyond the village of Woodville. A slender girl stood in the pathway watching a boy of seven trudge manfully away beside his stalwart brother.
Her lips trembled and eyes filled with tears.
"Wait--wait!" she cried.
With a sudden bound she snatched him to her heart.
"Don't, Polly--you hurt!" the little fellow faltered, looking at her with a feeling of sudden fear. "Why did you squeeze me so hard?"
"You shouldn't have done that, honey," the big brother frowned.
"I know," the sister pleaded, "but I couldn't help it."
"What are you crying about?" the boy questioned.
Again the girl's arm stole around his neck.
"What's the matter with her, Big Brother?" he asked with a brave attempt at scorn.
The man slowly loosened the sister's arms.
"I'm just going home with you, ain't I?" the child went on, with a quiver in his voice.
The older brother led him to a fallen log, sat down, and held his hands.
"No, Boy," he said quietly. "I'd as well tell you the truth now. I'm going to send you to Kentucky to a wonderful school, taught by learned men from the Old World--wise monks who know everything. You want to go to a real school, don't you?"
"But my Mamma don't know--"
"That's just it, Boy. We can't tell her. She wouldn't let you go."
"Why?"
"Well, she's a good Baptist, and it's a long, long way to the St. Thomas monastery."
"How far?"
"A thousand miles, through these big woods--"
The blue eyes dimmed.
"I want to see my Mamma before I go--" his voice broke. The man shook his head.
"No, Boy; it won't do. You're her baby--"
The dark head sank with a cry.
"I want to see her!"
"Come, come, Jeff Davis, you're going to be a soldier. Remember you're the son of a soldier who fought under General Washington and won our freedom. You're named after Thomas Jefferson, the great President. Your three brothers have just come home from New Orleans. Under Old Hickory we drove the British back into their ships and sent 'em flying home to England. The son of a soldier--the brother of soldiers--can't cry--"
"I will if I want to!"
"All right!" the man laughed--"I'll hold my hat and you can cry it full--"
He removed his hat and held it smilingly under the boy's firm little chin. The childish lips tightened and the cheeks flushed with anger. His bare toes began to dig holes in the soft rich earth. The appeal to his soldier blood had struck into the pride of his heart and the insult of a hat full of tears had hurt.
At last, he found his tongue:
"Does Pa know I'm goin'?"
"Yes. He thinks you're a very small boy to go so far, but knows it's for the best."
"That's why he kissed me when I left?"
"Yes."
"I thought it was funny," he murmured with a half sob; "he never kissed me before--"
"He's quiet and reserved, Boy, but he's wise and good and loves you. He's had a hard time out here in the wilderness fighting his way with a wife and ten children. He never had a chance to get an education and the children didn't either. Some of us are too old now. There's time for you. We're going to stand aside and let you pass. You're our baby brother, and we love you."
The child's hand slowly stole into the rough one of the man. "And I love you, Big Brother--" the little voice faltered, "and all the others, too, and that's-why-I'm-not-goin'!"
"I'm so glad!" The girl clapped her hands and laughed.
"Polly!--"
"Well, I am, and I don't care what you say. He's too little to go so far and you know he is--"
The man grasped her hand and whispered:
"Hush!"
The brother slipped his arm around the Boy and drew him on his knee. He waited a moment until the hard lines at the corners of the firm mouth had relaxed under the pressure of his caress, pushed the tangled hair back from his forehead and looked into the fine blue-gray eyes. His voice was tender and his speech slow.
"You must make up your mind to go, Boy. I don't want to force you. I like to see your eyes flash when you say you _won't_ go. You've got the stuff in you that real men are made of. That's why it's worth while to send you. I've seen that since you could toddle about the house and stamp your feet when things didn't suit you. Now, listen to me. I've made a vow to God that you shall have as good a chance as any man to make your way to the top. We're going to be the greatest nation in the world. I saw it in the red flash of guns that day at New Orleans as I lay there in the trench and watched the long lines of Red Coats go down before us. Just a lot of raw recruits with old flintlocks! The men who charged us, the picked veterans of England's grand army. But we cut 'em to pieces, Boy! I fired a cannon loaded with grape shot that mowed a lane straight through 'em. It must have killed two hundred men. They burned our Capitol at Washington and the Federalist traitors at Hartford were firin' on us in the rear, but Old Hickory showed the world that we could lick England with one hand tied behind our back. And we did it. We drove 'em like sheep--drove 'em into the sea.
"There's but one name on every lip in this country now, Boy, and that's Old Hickory. He'd be President next time--but for one thing,--just one thing--he didn't have a chance to learn when he was a boy. He's not educated."
The brother paused, and a dreamy look came into his eyes. "We may make him President anyhow. But if he'd been educated--there wouldn't be any if or and about it. Washington and Jefferson and Madison belong to the rich and powerful class. Jackson is a yeoman like your father. But he'd be President. Boy, if he'd been educated! Nothing could stop him. Don't you see this is your country? This is a poor man's world. All you have to do is to train your mind. You've got to do this--you understand--you've got to do it--"
The man paused suddenly and looked into the Boy's wondering eyes. He had forgotten the child's rebellion. The young pioneer of the wilderness was talking to himself. Again he had seen a vision.
He seized the Boy's arms:
"Don't you see, Boy, don't you?"
The child's mouth hardened again:
"No, I don't. I'm just a little boy. I love my Mamma. She's good and sweet to me and I'm not going to leave her--"
Again Polly laughed.
A smile slowly played about the brother's lips and eyes. He must show his trump card.
"But you don't know what I've got for you--"
"What?"
"Something you've always wanted to have for your own--"
"A pony?"
The man slowly rose:
"Come out to the big road--"
The Boy seized his sister's hand:
"Polly, let's see!"
The girl's eyes grew dim:
"Oh, Jeff, I know you're goin'!"
"No--we'll just see what it is--come on!"
In five minutes they emerged from the deep woods into the clearing around a cabin. Beside the roadway stood a horse and pony, both bridled and saddled.
The swift feet of the Boy flew across the opening, the sister wide-eyed and trembling, close on his heels. He threw his arms around the pony's neck and stroked his head with gentle touch. The pony pressed his mouth against the Boy's cheek in friendly response.
"Did you see him kiss me, Polly?" he cried tremblingly.
"Yes, I saw him," was the solemn response.
"Isn't he a beauty? Look, Polly--he's got a white spot on every foot and one in his forehead and black as a coal all over--and Oh--what a saddle--a red belt and red martingales!"
He touched the saddle lovingly and circled the pony's neck with his arms.
The brother smiled again:
"Well, what do you think of that?"
The Boy was trembling now from head to foot, his heart in his throat as he slowly asked:
"You mean that--you'll--give--him--to me--for--all my own?"
"If you'll be a good boy, go to school and work hard--yes."
"All right, Big Brother," was the quick answer, "I'll go. Help me on him quick, and let me try him!"
The Boy lifted his bare foot into the strong hand, sprang into the saddle, bounded down the road, wheeled, flew back and leaped to the ground.
"He's a dandy!"
Polly dropped her head and started home, making a brave fight to keep back the tears. Half way across the clearing she gave up in a long pitiful wail.
The Boy, busy with his pony, had not missed her. In a moment he was by her side, his arms about her neck.
"Don't cry, Polly honey, I'll be back before long," he pleaded.
The only answer was a sob:
"Good-by, Jeff--"
Her hands slowly slipped through his.
"Good-by, Polly--"
He watched her go with quivering lips, and as the little figure slowly faded into the shadows of the woods he called in broken accents:
"Kiss Mamma for me--and tell her I wanted to go back and say good-by--but Joe wouldn't let me!"
"Yes, honey!"
"And you--watch out for that old drunk man we saw once in the woods, Polly!"
"Yes!"
"Don't let him get you--"
"No--I won't--good--good-by!"
"Good-by--"
The last good-by stuck in the Boy's throat, but he lifted his blue eyes, saw his pony and smiled through the tears.
II
THE WILDERNESS
A journey of a thousand miles through the unbroken wilderness--the home of the Choctaw and Chickasaw Indian Nations and all on his own beautiful pony! It was no time for tears.
The Boy's soul leaped for joy.
The party was a delightful one. Major Hinds, a veteran of General Jackson's campaign, the commander of the famous Mississippi Dragoons at the battle of New Orleans, was the leader, accompanied by his wife, her sister and niece, and best of all a boy his own age, the Major's little son Howell.
Howell also was riding a pony. He was a nice enough pony, of course, as ponies went, but couldn't compare with his own. He made up his mind to race the first chance they got, and show those pretty white heels to his rival. He was just dying to tell him how fast they could beat the ground--but he'd wait and surprise the party.
A negro maid accompanied the ladies and a stalwart black man rode a pack-mule laden with tents, blankets and a cooking outfit. They stopped at houses when one could be reached at nightfall. If not, they camped in the woods beneath the towering trees. There was no need of the tents unless it rained. So dense was the foliage that only here and there a bright star peeped through, or a moonbeam shot its silvery thread to the ground. The Indians were all friendly. It was the boast of the Choctaws that no man of their breed had ever shed the blood of a white man.
For days they followed the course of the majestic river rolling its yellow flood to the sea and watched the lazy flat and keel boats drift slowly down to New Orleans bearing the wealth of the new Western World. The men who had manned these rude craft were slowly tramping on foot back to their homes in the North. Their boats could not stem the tide for the return trip. Every day they passed these weary walkers. The Boy was sorry they couldn't ride. His pony's step was so firm and quick and strong.
He raced with Howell the first day and beat him so far there was no fun in it. He never challenged his rival again. He was the guest of Major Hinds on this trip. It would be rude. But he slipped out in the dark that night, and hugged his pony:
"You're the finest horse that ever was!" he whispered.
"Of course I am!" the pony laughed.
"I love you--"
"And I love you," was the quick response as the warm nose touched his cheek.
In the second week, they reached the first stand, "Folsoms'," on the border of the Choctaw Nation. These stands were log cabins occupied by squaw men--whites who had married Indian women. They must pass three more of these stands the Major said--the "Leflores," known as the first and second French camps, and the one at the crossing of the Tennessee River, which had the unusual distinction of being kept by a half-breed Chickasaw Indian.
Here, weary, footsore travelers stopped to rest and refresh themselves--and many dropped and died miles from those they loved. The little graveyard with its rude, wooden-marked mounds the Boy saw with a dull ache in his heart.
And then the first bitter pang of homesickness came. He wondered if his sweet mother were well. He wondered what she said when they told her he had gone. He knew she had cried. What if she were dead and he could never see her again? He sat down on a log, buried his face in his hands and tried to cry the ache out of his heart. He felt that he must turn back or die. But it wouldn't do. He had promised his Big Brother. He rose, brushed the tears away, fed and watered his pony and tenderly rubbed down every inch of his beautiful black skin. He forgot the ache in his new-found love and the strength which had come into his boy's soul from the sense of kinship with Nature which this beautiful dumb four-footed friend had brought him. No man could be friendless or forsaken who possessed the love of a horse. His horse knew and loved him. He said it in a hundred ways. His wide, deep, lustrous eyes, shining with intelligence, had told him! So had the touch of his big warm mouth in many a friendly pony kiss. His pony could laugh, too. He had seen the smiles flicker about his mouth and eyes as he pretended to bite his bare legs. How could any human being be cruel or mean to a horse! His pony had given him new courage and conscious power. He was the master of Nature now when they flew along the trail through the deep woods. His horse had given him wings.
He looked up into the star-sown sky, and promised God to be kind and gentle to all the dumb world for the love of the beautiful friend He had given.
III
THE HERMITAGE
At the last stand on the banks of the winding Tennessee, the Major sat up late in eager discussion about Old Hickory with an enthusiastic Tennesseean. The ladies had retired, and the Boy listened with quiet eagerness to the talk.
"Waal, we're goin' ter make Andrew Jackson President anyhow, Major!" the Tennesseean drawled.
"I'm afraid they'll beat us," the Major answered, with a shake of his head.
"How'll they beat us when we git ready ter make the fight?"
"Old Hickory says himself, he ain't fit--"
"I reckon we know more about that than he does," persisted the man from Tennessee.
"The aristocrats don't think so--"
"What t'ell they got agin him? Ain't he the biggest man in this country to-day? Didn't he lick Spain and England both at Pensacola and didn't he finish the Red Coats at New Orleans--"
"They say his education's poor--" "He knowed enough to make this country cock o' the walk--what more do they want--damn 'em!"
"They say he swears--"
The Tennesseean roared:
"Waal, if all the cussin' men vote fur him--he'll sho be elected!"
"The real trouble--" the Major said thoughtfully, "is what the scandal-mongers keep saying about his wife--"
"He's killed one son-of-a-gun about that already, an' they better let him alone--"
"That's just it, my friend: he killed that skunk in a duel and it's not the only one he has fought either. Old Hickory's got the temper of the devil."
"Waal, thar ain't nothin' in them lies about his wife--"
The Major lifted his hand and moved closer:
"There's just enough truth at the bottom of it all to give the liars the chance they need to talk forever--"
"I never knowed thar wuz ary grain er truth in hit, at all--"
"There is, though," the Major interrupted, "and that's where we're going to have a big fight on our hands when it comes to the rub. This Lewis Robards, her first husband, was a quarrelsome cuss. Every man that looked at his wife, he swore was after her, and if she lifted her eyes, he was sure she was guilty. There was no divorce law in Virginia and Robards petitioned the Legislature to pass an Act of Divorce in his favor. The dog swore in this petition that his wife had deserted him and was living with Andrew Jackson. He _was_ boarding with her mother, the widow Donelson. The Legislature passed the Act, but it only authorized the Courts of the Territory of Kentucky to try the case, and grant the divorce if the facts were proven.
"Robards never went to Court with it for over two years, and Jackson, under the impression that the Legislature had given the divorce, married Rachel Robards at Natchez in August, 1791.
"Two years later, the skunk slips into Court and gets his divorce!
"As quick as Old Hickory heard this, he married her over again. There was a mighty hullabaloo kicked up about it by the politicians. They tried to run Jackson out of the country--the little pups who were afraid of him. He challenged the leader of this pack of hounds, and shot him dead--"
"Served him right, too," broke in the Tennesseean, removing his pipe, with a nod of his shaggy head.
"But it don't help him on the way to Washington!" The Major grunted, suddenly rising and dismissing the subject for the night.
The Boy's curiosity was kindled to see the great man whose name had filled the world.
The distance to Nashville was quickly covered. The Major pressed straight through the town without pause and drew rein at the General's gate.
The welcome they received from their distinguished host was so simple, so genuine, so real, the Boy's heart went out in loyal admiration.
The house was a big rambling structure of logs, in front of which stood a stately grove of magnificent forest trees. Behind it stretched the grain and cotton fields.
Nothing could surpass the unaffected and perfect courtesy with which the General welcomed his guests. The tall, stately figure, moving with the unconscious grace of perfect manhood, needed no rules of a dancing master for his guidance. He had sprung from the common people, but he was a born leader and ruler of men.
The Boy listened with keen ears to hear him rip out one of those terrible oaths of which so much had been said. His speech was gentle and kind, and he asked a blessing at every meal exactly as his own quiet, dignified father at home. In all the three weeks they remained his guests not an oath or an ugly word fell from his lips. The Boy wondered how people could tell such lies.
The General liked boys, too. It was easy to see that. He gave hours of his time to the games and sports of his adopted son, Andrew Jackson, Jr., and his two little guests. He got up contests of all sorts. They raced their ponies. They ran and jumped. They played marbles. They followed the hounds. And always with them as friend and counselor, the General, gentle, kind, considerate. The only thing he prohibited was wrestling.
"No, boys," he said with a frown. "That's not a good sport for high spirited youth. To feel the hand of a rival on your body may lead to a fight."
The deep set eyes flashed with the memory of his own hot blooded boyhood and young manhood.
The General's wife won the Boy's whole heart from the moment he saw her.
"How could they tell such lies!" he kept repeating with boyish indignation. Pure and sweet as the face of his own mother was hers. Loving, unselfish, tender and thoughtful, she moved through her house with the gentle step of a ministering angel. The knightly deference with which the General attended her slightest wish, stirred the Boy's imagination. He could see him standing erect, pistol in hand, in the gray dawn of the morning on which he faced the enemy who had slandered her. He could see the big firm hand grip the pistol's handle in a clasp of steel as he waited the signal of Death. He wondered what sort of wound Dickenson's bullet had made in the General's breast. Anyhow, it had not been fatal. His enemy lived but a few hours.
He set his lips firmly, and repeated the Tennesseean's verdict:
"Served him right, too."
The Boy left the Hermitage under the spell of Old Hickory's personality for life. He had seen a great man.
IV
THE MONASTERY BELLS
The journey from Nashville to Springfield, Kentucky, was quick and uneventful. Long before the spire of St. Thomas' church loomed on the horizon, they passed through the wide, fertile fields of the Dominican monks. The grim figure of a black friar was directing the harvest of a sea of golden-yellow wheat. His workmen were sleek negro slaves. Herds of fat cattle grazed on the hills. A flock of a thousand sheep were nipping the fresh sweet grass in the valley. They passed a big flour mill, whose lazy wheel swung in rhythmic unison with the laughing waters of the creek that watered the rich valley. The monks were vowed to poverty and self-denial. But their Order was rich in slaves and land, in mills and herds and flocks and generous harvests.
As the sun sank in a smother of purple and red behind the hills, they saw the church and monastery. The bells were chanting their call to evening prayer.
The Boy held his breath in silent ecstasy. He had never heard anything like it before. It was wonderful--those sweet notes echoing over hill and valley in the solemn hush of the gathering twilight.
They waited for the priests to emerge from the chapel before making their presence known. Through the open windows the deep solemn throb of the organ pealed. The soul of the Boy rose enchanted on new wings whose power he had never dreamed. Hidden depths were sounded of whose existence he could not know. There was no organ in the little bare log church the Baptists had built near his father's farm in Mississippi. His father and mother were Baptists and of course he was going to be a Baptist some day. But why didn't they have stained glass windows like those through which he saw the light now streaming--wonderful flashing lights, whose colors seemed to pour from the soul of the organ. And why didn't they have a great organ?
He was going to like these Roman Catholics. He wondered what his mother would say to that?
It all seemed so familiar, too. Where had he heard those bells? Where had he heard the peal of that organ and seen the flash of those gorgeous lights? In the sky at sunset perhaps, and in the rumble of the storm. Maybe in dreams--and now they had come true.
In a few months, he found himself the only Protestant boy in school and the smallest of all the scholars. The monks were kind. They seemed somehow to love him better than the others. Father Wallace reminded him of his big brother. He was so gentle.
The Boy made up his mind to join the Catholic Church and went straight to Father Wilson, the venerable head of the college.
The old man smiled pleasantly:
"And why do you wish this, my son?"
"Oh, it's so much more beautiful than the Baptist Church. Besides it's so much easier--"
"Indeed?"
"Yes, sir. The Baptists have such a hard time getting religion. They seek and mourn so long--"
"Really?"
"Indeed they do--yes, sir--I've seen stubborn sinners mourn all summer in three protracted meetings and then not come through!"
"And you don't like that sort of penance?"
"No, sir. I've always dreaded it. And the worst thing is the new converts have to stand right up in church before all the crowd and tell their experience out loud. I'd hate that--"
"And you like our ways better?"
"A great deal better. The Catholics manage things so nicely. All you have to do is to go to church, learn the catechism and the good priests do all the rest--"
"Oh--I see!"
"Yes, sir."
Father Wilson laid his wrinkled hand tenderly on the Boy's head:
"You are very, very young, my son, and you are growing rapidly. What you really need is good Catholic food. Sit down and have a piece of bread and cheese with me."
The Boy sat down and ate the offered bread and cheese in silence.
"I can't join, Father Wilson?" he asked at last.
The priest smiled again:
"No, my son."
"You don't like me, Father?" the boy asked wistfully.
"We like you very much, sir. But we are responsible for the trust your father and mother have put in us. In God's own time when you are older and know the full meaning of your act, I should be glad--but not this way."
The Boy was so small, in fact, that a fine old priest in pity for his tender years had a little bed put in his own room for him to watch the light and shadows in eager young eyes when homesickness threatened. And then he talked of the wonders and glory of Rome on her seven hills by the Tiber, of the Coliseum, the death of Christian martyrs in the arena--of the splendors of St. Peter's, beside whose glory all other churches pale into insignificance. He lifted the curtain of history and gave the child's mind flashes of the Old World whose pageants stretch down the ages into the mists of eternity.
Of books, the Boy learned little--but the monks kindled a light in his soul the years could not dim.
To the other students the old man was not so gentle. They were tougher and he set their tasks accordingly. They rebelled at last and decided on revenge. The plot was hatched and all in readiness for its execution. The only problem was how to put the light out in his room. The Boy held the key to the citadel. He was on the inside. He could blow the candle out and the thing was done. He refused at first, but the rebels crowded around him and appealed to his sense of loyalty.
"They can force you to sleep in his room," pleaded the ringleader, "but, by Gimminy, that don't make you a monk, does it?"
"No, of course not--"
"You're one of _us_--stand by us. You didn't ask to sleep in his old room, did you?"
"No."
"Well, you're there--the right man in the right place, in the nick of time. _Will_ you stand by us?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"Just blow out the candle--that's all--we'll do the rest. Will you do it?"
The Boy hesitated, smiled and said:
"Yes--when everything's quiet."
The old man had gone to bed and began to snore. The Boy rose noiselessly and blew the candle out.
Instantly from the darkness without, poured a volley of cabbage heads, squashes, potatoes and biscuits. Not a word was spoken, but the charge of the light brigade was swift and terrible.
The Boy pulled the cover over his head and waited for the storm to pass.
When the light was lit and search made, not a culprit could be found. They were all in bed sound asleep. The only one awake was the Boy in the little bed on which lay scattered potatoes, biscuits and cabbage.
The priest drew him from under the cover. His face was stern--the firm mouth rigid with anger.
"Did you know they were going to do that, sir?" he asked.
The Boy trembled but held his tongue.
"Answer me, sir!"
"I didn't know just what they were going to do--" "You knew they were up to something?"
"Yes!"
"And you didn't tell me?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I couldn't be a traitor, sir."
"To those young rascals--no--but you could betray me--"
"I'm not a monk, Father--"
"Tell me what you know at once, sir, before I thrash you."
"I don't know much," the Boy slowly answered, "and I can't tell you that."
There was a final ring in the tones with which he ended the sentence. The culprit must be punished. It was out of the question that he should whip him--this quiet, gentle, bright little fellow he had grown to love. He was turned over to another--an old monk of fine face and voice full of persuasive music.
He took the Boy by the hand and led him up the last flight of stairs to the top of the house and into a tiny bare room. The only piece of furniture was an ominous looking cot in the middle of the floor. The Boy had not read the history of the Spanish Inquisition, but it required no great learning in history or philosophy to guess the use of that machine.
There was no terror in the blue eyes. Their light grew hard with resolution. The monk to whom he had been delivered for punishment was the one of all the monastery who had the kindliest, gentlest face. The Boy had always thought him one of his best friends.
Yet, without a word, he laid the culprit face downward on the strange leather couch and drew the straps around his slim body. He had dreamed of mercy, but all hope vanished now. He held his breath and set his lips to receive the blow--the first he had ever felt.
The monk took the switch in his hand and hesitated. He loved the bright, handsome lad. The task was harder than he thought.
He knelt beside the cot and put his hand on the dark little head:
"I hate to