Early in October Wilkinson's duties required him to visit the town of
Genevive, some fifty miles south of St. Louis. The best cabin in a
keelboat had been furnished in sumptuous style for the accommodation
of the self-indulgent chief. Such was the attractiveness of this cosy
retreat that the general preferred it to his official quarters on the
shore and he occasionally spent a whole afternoon reading, writing or
dozing there in undisturbed privacy.
On the day before that fixed for his departure he prolonged his stay
in the cabin to a late hour, for reasons partly physical, partly
mental. His robust health and ebullient spirits were suffering an
unwonted depression. Even his strong constitution could not withstand
the "miasmatic" vapor of the lowlands near the Western watercourses.
The malarial poison had entered his blood, causing low fever, dull
headache and general hypochondria. Copious doses of Peruvian bark
bitters aggravated the unpleasant symptoms. Moreover, the weather had
turned unseasonably raw and gusty. The characteristic mildness of
October gave way to gloomy inclemency. The month was not like its
usual self, and Wilkinson partook of its exceptional harsh melancholy.
Appropriate for a season so dreary was the sad name of Fall--Fall,
the period of decline, decay and death. For the first time in his life
Wilkinson "heard the voice which tells men they are old," though he
was not old.
The general sat holding in his hand a short letter, in cipher. The
last sentence did not please him. "God bless you and grant you a safe
deliverance from factions and factious men." These words Wilkinson
read over and over. To him, in his dejected mood, with nerves unstrung
and head swimming in quinine bitters, the blessing sounded ironical; a
mocking face seemed concealed behind the mask of considerate
friendliness. The tone of the communication struck him as patronizing,
perhaps unconsciously made so, but the more offensive on that account.
One suspicious fancy engenders another; it now occurred to the general
that his former comrade and late guest, in more than one unguarded
speech, had arrogated superiority, and that he had presumed, without
sufficient warrant, on the subserviency of men greater than himself.
"Does he think I am committed to him, body and soul? Does he take it
for granted that I am a tool and a fool? Burr should consider his own
position and mine. I have had too much experience in the world to be
caught by this shrewd contriver, or by any man."
Wilkinson put the letter away, and taking a book, threw himself on his
bed. The volume he had chosen was a fine copy of the _Sentimental
Journey_, his favorite reading. The italicised wit and glossy
licentiousness of Yorick did not fix attention. Neither the "Dead
Ass," nor the "Starling," nor the fair "Fille de chambre," had now a
charm to steal the reader from his petty miseries of head and heart.
Casting the book aside, he again arose, paced nervously up and down
the cramped cabin, and once more sought comfort in the cushioned seat.
Prudence bade him seek home before nightfall, but the inertia of
despondency kept him from going. The gathering darkness, the whining
wind, the sound of restless water lapping and sucking around the keel,
suggested superstitious forebodings and called up dismal images. To
every mood there is a season; this was Wilkinson's hour of
self-examination. He looked backward on his deeds and inward on his
motives. He mistrusted the future. If he were sure that Burr's rainbow
dipped its gorgeous ends in gold, no accusing ghost of the past would
deter him from chasing the yellow temptation over mountains or through
bogs. He was not given to brooding over bygone failures, nor was he
much afraid that his buried sins would arise to find him out. He began
to think better of his friend's message. Burr was certainly a deep man
and bold; he had genius; he had perseverance, enthusiasm, resource,
resolution. Taking him all in all, he was a masterful spirit, a fit
partner, nay, even a leader for James Wilkinson.
To dispel mental gloom, the general summoned his familiar, the nimble
spirit of alcohol. One dram proved so enlivening, by going "straight
to the spot," that another was tossed off, from a sense of gratitude.
Evidently the best ingredient in the bitters was the solvent, not the
Peruvian bark. Wilkinson placed the bottle in a cupboard, and was
preparing to leave the cabin, when the door opened and in walked
Palafox. The commander-in-chief, whom fever and quinine had rendered
hot-headed, stared angrily.
"What does this mean? Didn't I warn you never again to come to me
unless sent for? You sneak in without so much as knocking! Your
effrontery deserves a horsewhip! Begone!"
Instead of going, the intruding boatman pulled off his slouch hat and
made a humble bow: "I beg your pardon, general, but I used to come and
go, you recollect, by your order, informally, like a kind of private
secretary, and I can't get rid of the familiar habit."
"Familiar! I should say so! You are brazen! I doubt you are drunk or
you would not have the audacity to invade my privacy and speak as you
do."
"Well, governor, what if I am drunk? You don't see anything
disgraceful in that, do you?"
The insolence of this personal thrust enraged Wilkinson beyond
endurance. In his indignation he snatched a sheathed sword from the
wall and struck Palafox a rash blow. The ruffian recoiled, staggering,
and clutched at the hilt of a dirk in his belt.
"Is that enough for you?" cried the furious general.
The Spaniard, livid and trembling, checked the impulse to draw his
dirk, and slowly raising his hand to the bleeding welt on his
forehead, said with sullen irony:
"It's now more'n three months since I invaded your privacy, as you
call it. I came all the way from Natchez for money, not for abuse. You
owe me, and if you are a man of your word you'll pay me. I want to
leave this part of the country, and won't bother you any more after
you've paid what's coming to me, unless you want to hear some facts
concerning your own good that I've picked up for you."
The unabashed, persistent importunity of Palafox, astounded Wilkinson.
There was an accent of admiration in his exclamation, "You
dare-devil!"
"I'm not daring you, general, and if I was, you are not a devil, only
a debtor."
The dignity of Wilkinson could not suffer further saucy retort or
question.
"This farce must end. I cannot bandy words with such as you. Not
another dollar shall you receive from me--not a penny. You had my
final word at Massac, last Spring. Quit this boat instantly, and leave
St. Louis. If I see you again, or hear of your hanging around the
garrison, I'll settle your account in short order."
"I don't belong to the army."
"No!" answered the chief, sternly, "but I _do_; and I have civil
authority also. If you had justice, Palafox, you would hang. I am
ashamed of myself to speak to you further. Now, go."
"Yes, I'll go; I'll go in a minute; but I've got a scrap of paper I
want to read to you. Will you hear it?"
Not unwilling to learn what might be the purport of the writing so
dramatically introduced, and in order to get rid of Palafox without
further violence, Wilkinson consented to listen.
With his back to the door, the lowering Spaniard read the following:
"It is not necessary to suggest to a gentleman of your experience and
knowledge of the world, that man, throughout the world, is governed by
private interest, however variously modified it may be. Some men are
avaricious, some are vain, others are ambitious. To detect the
prevailing passion, to lay hold of and to make most of it is the
profoundest secret of political science."
Pausing, he asked sarcastically:
"Are those your sentiments? Folks say you wrote this to Gardoqui, in
January, 1789. That was before your plot with the Spanish Minister,
Carondelet. Liars say, and say in print, that you hatched up a plan to
split the West from the East, and to put the West under Spanish
control. They say, these malicious liars do, that Tom Power brought
ten thousand dollars bribe money, packed in barrels of sugar and bags
of coffee, from New Madrid to Louisville, and that Philip Nolan
conveyed the sweetened lucre to Fort Washington."
Wilkinson laughed. "You do not believe such absurdities, do you
Palafox?"
"Why should I disbelieve? Carondelet's plan seems excellent to me, a
Spaniard. We have been talking about events that happened ten years
since. I was in your service nearly twenty years ago; you sent
correspondence down the river when I was a boy, but I was a good,
careful boy, and always tried to act with intelligence. I've saved
lots of nice letters. I'm fond of good reading."
Whether it was owing to illness or quinine or conscience, a slight
dizziness came over Wilkinson; his head swam; he leaned far back in
his chair, and endeavored to steady his thoughts. Palafox cast on him
a sidelong malicious glance and continued his monologue:
"Yes, I've got lots of fine sentiments in my archives. Here's an
original. It's tolerable old, you see, stained and worn." This he said
displaying a soiled paper, which he drew carefully from a large
leathern pocket-book. "Let's see. Yes, this is the original of a fine
letter, a copy of which I delivered to Governor Miro."
"Miro!" exclaimed Wilkinson.
"Yes; Miro, that's the name--Don Estevan Miro, Spanish governor of
Louisiana, before Carondelet's day."
Wilkinson rose menacingly. Palafox did not flinch, but leering
significantly, read these words:
"My situation is mortally painful because, whilst I abhor all
duplicity, I am obliged to dissemble. This makes me extremely desirous
of resorting to some contrivance that will put me in a position in
which I flatter myself to be able to profess myself publicly the
vassal of his Catholic majesty, and, therefore, claim his protection,
in whatever public or private measures I may devise to promote the
interests of the crown."
"There, general, I should say this might be valuable property for you
to possess, and damaging to you if it falls under the eye of the
public," remarked Palafox, thrusting the letters into his pocket. "It
bears your signature. I deciphered every secret letter that touched my
hand from you to Miro and Carondelet, and from them to you. Now,
hadn't you better buy the whole damned correspondence?"
"Buy?" sneered Wilkinson, trembling with passion. "So this is all the
desperate attempt of a felon to levy blackmail upon his benefactor!"
The boatman turned to lift the latch.
"You won't buy, then?"
No reply was vouchsafed the desperado.
"I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll throw in a spice of Aaron Burr
pepper that he happened to spill in my sight. You and Aaron appear to
be thick. He and I are chums, too. He is one of us. The colonel is a
lovely mole, very smooth and shiny, but he don't always tunnel deep
enough to hide his track."
"Begone!"
"O, I'm going. If you won't buy, I'll keep. Good-bye, general."
He deliberately put on his slouch hat and backed out through the
narrow doorway. As a parting salute he touched with his finger the red
contusion on his forehead. Wilkinson stood a few seconds, in rigid
silence, then stepped to the open door and called aloud:
"Palafox! Comeback!"
No answer was returned to the cry, nor did the vanished figure
reappear. Not even the sound of his retreating footfalls could be
heard. A dense fog had risen, shrouding the river and crawling over
cottage and chapel and fort. Alone, in the boat's cabin, by the dim
light of a flickering lamp, the general waited and waited, anxious to
soothe and conciliate the malignant underling, once his minion, now an
unscrupulous enemy, too dangerous to be despised. The proud officer
listened for a returning step or a relenting voice, but heard no other
noise than that made by the whining winds, and by the waters of the
Mississippi fretting and swirling around the keel of his solitary
boat.