“I but tell a tale to Annette, who will go now to bed.” Kissing her
fondly good night, he whispered in her ear,—
“Remember to tell not a word, Annette, and lest I do not see you alone
again, I say farewell, till we put the hated Spaniard where he will do
no further harm.”
Although Annette crept to bed, her eyes for a long time stared into the
darkness. She feared, not for the success of her father’s mission, but
lest in some way he be hurt. She saw, as he described it, Don Ulloa
safely confined in the dreaded Belize, and she rejoiced in her childish
heart over the grand part her father was to take in keeping Louisiana
for the French.
When the next night came, she peeped cautiously out from between the
casements, and saw dark figures take their places in the pirogues drawn
up at the landing and silently paddle down the Bayou.
She saw her father in the leading boat, and with him were several of
their own men, and in the flaring light of the single torch she saw the
gleaming of the guns.
In a silent adieu she waved her hand, even though she knew that her
father could not see her, and confiding on his belief and assurance of
success, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, and over the whole
plantation rested an absolute quiet.
But her father—Ah, the sadness of that night trip!
The few men who had started with him from the plantation in the hope
that they would be joined by many more of wealth and power were cruelly
disabused of their beliefs. There was but a handful more; but in the
small group was the spirit of an army, and it was hoped that Don Ulloa
could be surprised just before dawn, and with the first successful blow
many would hasten to join the victorious party.
It was the old story of a forlorn hope.
In some way Don Ulloa had been apprised of the uprising, and the party
had barely set foot on the levee at New Orleans before they were
surrounded and taken prisoners by a strong party of Spanish soldiers.
Monsieur Valvier, as the leader, was not detained in the city, but sent
up the Bayou to Fort St. John, a desolate spot on the shores of Lake
Pontchartrain, at the head of Bayou St. John.
During the first two days of his imprisonment Monsieur Valvier was
stunned. He seemed incapable of realising the misfortune which had
befallen not himself alone, but the little family at home. Too late he
saw that the lukewarm policy of the others whom he had tried to induce
to join him was not all selfish, and as happens so often to the
enthusiast, he saw too late the folly of his actions.
It was the stinging thought of these helpless sufferers at home which at
last aroused him, and spurred him on to see if their welfare could not
be in some way assured. The intendant in charge of the fort was hard and
cold, but, as Monsieur Valvier soon learned, was not averse to accepting
a ransom.
Indeed, he informed Monsieur Valvier of this fact himself, and allowed
him to send a letter home telling of his personal safety, and that his
liberty could be bought. Till this letter arrived the plantation on the
Bayou Gentilly had been a sad place.
When, as one day after another passed and Monsieur Valvier did not
return, Annette, not knowing what to do, told her mother of the
uprising, and Madame Valvier, with health already undermined, became so
seriously ill that poor Annette knew not which way to turn.
One or two of the slaves had strayed home, and from them Annette had
learned that at least her father was alive, and at last came the letter
which told that he could be ransomed if a sufficient sum of money could
be raised. The letter ended,—
“Alas, dear child, I know too well that there is naught left which may
be turned into money to procure my freedom. I see too late that I have
been led away from my duties to my little ones and their mother. God
grant that they may be kept in safety; as for me my heart is breaking!”
Madame Valvier was too ill to give Annette any counsel. All day long the
child kept saying to herself,—
“My father must be ransomed, but how? Where shall I get the gold? Oh,
mamma, if you could but help me!”
At last, passing through the children’s room while waiting on her
mother, Annette’s eyes fell upon the boards which concealed the
leaden-lined box containing the papers and necklace.
“The pearl necklace,” she cried softly to herself, “why have I not
thought of it before?” Removing the cover, she felt hurriedly within the
enclosure to assure herself that it was safe.
The rest of that day, as she went about her duties, her one thought was
of the way to get it to her father, and at last she decided that she
must go with it herself. There was no one whom she could trust with this
price of her father’s freedom, and her heart was full of the thought of
saving him, so that there was no room for fear.
She determined to start that night, and, used from infancy to the
management of a boat, she did not hesitate as to the means of
travelling.
But her mother—how to leave her?
She called the woman from the kitchen, an old slave but a faithful one,
and bade her sleep within the next room, so that if Madame called she
should hear her.
“For,” said Annette, “see, Tignon, I must go on a message for my father.
When my mother wakens, tell her that I shall soon return,—remember,
Tignon, soon return.”
As soon as it was dark, Annette took from its hiding-place the necklace,
and as the cool, milky globes slipped through her fingers, she kissed
them, saying,—
“Dear father, to think that these may save thy life. I remember my
mother said that they were never to be parted with save ‘for life or
honour.’ Perhaps this time it may be both, but I cannot tell.”
For a moment she was at a loss how to carry them, and then putting them
about her neck she snapped the clasp securely and drew over them the
waist of her gown, which was fashioned to come high in the neck.
“’Tis the easiest and the simplest way, and certainly none would think
that such a thing lay beneath my calico frock.”
She kissed the little brothers and sister, and bade Pierre take good
care of them till she should return, whispering in his ear,—
“I go for father, but tell of this to no one till I return.”
And Pierre, with his wide-staring eyes fixed on her face, could only
say,—
“I will promise.”
At the landing Annette chose the smallest and lightest pirogue, and,
with the caution one would have expected from an older and wiser head,
put in the bottom an extra paddle and a small basket of food. She pushed
off the little dug-out, and turning its head down stream looked back
with confidence, saying in her brave young heart,—
“Shortly I shall return, and with my father.”
All night the child floated and paddled down the silent and lonely
Bayou, often terrified by the strange night sounds which came from the
swamps, and occasionally cheered by the light glimmering in the window
of some of the planters’ homes on the shore. When she was most alarmed,
she would reassure her little trembling heart by putting her hand on the
breast of her frock, beneath which lay the necklace, and by whispering
to herself the beloved name of “father.”
The rising sun saw her heading her boat into the small channel which led
into Bayou St. John, and it was late afternoon when the weary Annette
saw frowning before her the rough palisades which enclosed Fort St.
John.
The soldier on duty could scarcely believe his eyes when the little
pirogue came alongside the quay, and was still more astonished when with
trembling voice Annette said,—
“Sir, may I please see the Governor?”
“The Governor! why, what should the Governor do here? Who are you, and
what would you with the Governor?”
“I have business with the Governor, sir.”
At this reply the man laughed long and loud, and poor Annette was ready
to weep with disappointment and fatigue. Then remembering that at any
rate her father was within those walls, she plucked up courage and began
again.
“If Monsieur the Governor is not here, is there any great general here?”
The soldier laughed again, and said below his breath,—
“Great general—no; but the great Sir Intendant is here, if you can do
your business with him”; and there was another burst of laughter as the
burly man looked at the slender form standing before him.
“Take me to him, please,” said she, and she gave one touch to the frock
below which lay the precious heirloom as the soldier turned to lead the
way within the enclosure.
“Ho, Roget!” he called, “this lady comes on business with Monsieur the
Intendant”; and poor frightened Annette was passed along mid the rude
jests of the soldiers, till she reached an ante-room to which was
attached the small office of the Intendant. At last a voice said,—
“You may enter”; and Annette, who between fright and fatigue was ready
to weep, found herself standing before a man with flashing eyes and a
brilliant scarlet and gold uniform, who was looking at her with
unconcealed interest.
“Well, child, what would you with me?” and Annette, raising her head,
bravely answered,—
“I come to ransom my father, Monsieur Valvier.”
The Intendant frowned; and surely the pale child before him, in a simple
calico gown, with empty hands and eyes full of unshed tears, hardly
seemed able to ransom a bird, much less a political prisoner.