"They made a man of me, my parents. My father played false with the
Rebels and fled to England for his reward. A year after he went I was
left alone at Temple Bow to the tender mercies of the niggers. Mr. Mason
came back and snatched what was left of me. He was a good man; he saved
me an annuity out of the estate, he took me abroad after the war on a
grand tour, and died of a fever in Rome. I made my way back to
Charlestown, and there I learned to gamble, to hold liquor like a
gentleman, to run horses and fight like a gentleman. We were speaking of
Darnley," he said.
"Yes, of Darnley," I repeated.
"The devil of a man," said Nick; "do you remember him, with the cracked
voice and fat calves?"
At any other time I should have laughed at the recollection.
"Darnley turned Whig, became a Continental colonel, and got a grant out
here in the Cumberland country of three thousand acres. And now I own
it."
"You own it!" I exclaimed.
"Rattle-and-snap," said Nick; "I played him for the land at the ordinary
one night, and won it. It is out here near a place called Nashboro,
where this wild, long-faced Mr. Jackson says he is going soon. I crossed
the mountains to have a look at it, fell in with Nollichucky Jack, and
went off with him for a summer campaign. There's a man for you, Davy,"
he cried, "a man to follow through hell-fire.
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