But it puzzled Jackson to understand how this man, a gentleman born and bred, could have left the solid comforts of his home at Newmarket in the beautiful valley of the Shenandoah, thrust behind him positive assurances of great political advancement, cast off the social prominence he so naturally graced and bring his Bonnie Kate to the lonely country of the Nolichucky. Jackson’s material mind had taught him that one fought Indians because one must, not from choice. A beautiful and devoted wife and ample fortune appealed to the young ranger as being the goal in life. It never entered his process of reasoning that Destiny transplants men to obtain results, just as Nature supplies seeds with methods of locomotion so that new regions may be fructified. The vital incentive for Jackson’s admiration for the man was not his sacrifices but rather his knowledge that Chucky Jack had invented a new style of forest-fighting. He could not know that in his lifetime a certain Corsican would utilize the same tactics in overrunning Europe: namely, the hurling of a small force with irresistible momentum and the achieving of greater results thereby than by the leisurely employment of large bodies of soldiery. The border already rang with the victories of Chucky Jack, who was to fight thirty-odd battles with the red men and never suffer a defeat; whose coming to the Watauga country marked the passing of defensive warfare and instituted the offensive. “Yes, it’s natural that you should try to think leniently of Major Tonpit,” murmured Sevier without raising his eyes from the petition. Jackson flushed and coldly replied: “I am a Virginian, first and last. I have nothing to do with the Spanish King.” “We soon must begin to call ourselves Americans—if we wouldn’t bend the knee to Spain,” gently corrected Sevier with a whimsical smile. “Of course,” agreed Jackson. “We’re all Americans now. But first we are Virginians, I take it.” Sevier rose and stood at the window and stared thoughtfully across the valley and spoke as one repeating articles of faith in the privacy of his chamber: “Virginians when we were colonials, but now Americans first and last—if this republic is to endure. If this union of States is to last, we must forget our former identity; we must be merged in one compact body and be known as Americans. Well, well. It will all come some day, please God!” He broke off and leaned from the window and called out: “Ho, Major Hubbard! Step here a minute.” Jackson saw a tall figure in forest dress turn in the trail leading to the woods. As the man came toward the court-house, he beheld a dark, gloomy face, a countenance he could never imagine as being lighted with a smile. Hubbard came up to the window, and Sevier said: “Mr. Jackson, step here, please. Meet Major James Hubbard. Major, this is Kirk Jackson, fresh from the Shawnee country and come to live with us.” Hubbard’s face glowed with passion, and he clutched Jackson’s hand fiercely and cried: