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Alice of Old Vincennes
by
Maurice Thompson
PREFACE
To M. PLACIDE VALCOUR
M. D., Ph D., LL. D.
MY DEAR DR. VALCOUR: You gave me the Inspiration which made this story
haunt me until I wrote it. Gaspard Roussillon's letter, a mildewed
relic of the year 1788, which you so kindly permitted me to copy, as
far as it remained legible, was the point from which my imagination,
accompanied by my curiosity, set out upon a long and delightful quest.
You laughed at me when I became enthusiastic regarding the possible
historical importance at that ancient find, alas! fragmentary epistle;
but the old saying about the beatitude of him whose cachinations are
latest comes handy to me just now, and I must remind you that "I told
you so." True enough, it was history pure and simple that I had in mind
while enjoying the large hospitality of your gulf-side home. Gaspard
Roussillon's letter then appealed to my greed for materials which would
help along the making of my little book "The Story of Louisiana."
Later, however, as my frequent calls upon you for both documents and
suggestions have informed you, I fell to strumming a different guitar.
And now to you I dedicate this historical romance of old Vincennes, as
a very appropriate, however slight, recognition of your scholarly
attainments, your distinguished career in a noble profession, and your
descent from one of the earliest French families (if not the very
earliest) long resident at that strange little post on the Wabash, now
one of the most beautiful cities between the greet river and the ocean.
Following, with ever tantalized expectancy, the broken and breezy hints
in the Roussillon letter, I pursued a will-o'-the-wisp, here, there,
yonder, until by slowly arriving increments I gathered up a large
amount of valuable facts, which when I came to compare them with the
history of Clark's conquest of the Wabash Valley, fitted amazingly well
into certain spaces heretofore left open in that important yet sadly
imperfect record.
You will find that I was not so wrong in suspecting that Emile Jazon,
mentioned in the Roussillon letter, was a brother of Jean Jazon and a
famous scout in the time of Boone and Clark. He was, therefore, a
kinsman of yours on the maternal side, and I congratulate you. Another
thing may please you, the success which attended my long and patient
research with a view to clearing up the connection between Alice
Roussillon's romantic life, as brokenly sketched in M. Roussillon's
letter, and the capture of Vincennes by Colonel George Rogers Clark.
Accept, then, this book, which to those who care only for history will
seem but an idle romance, while to the lovers of romance it may look
strangely like the mustiest history. In my mind, and in yours I hope,
it will always be connected with a breezy summer-house on a headland of
the Louisiana gulf coast, the rustling of palmetto leaves, the fine
flash of roses, a tumult of mocking-bird voices, the soft lilt of
Creole patois, and the endless dash and roar of a fragrant sea over
which the gulls and pelicans never ceased their flight, and beside
which you smoked while I dreamed.
MAURICE THOMPSON.
JULY, 1900.
Contents
I. Under the Cherry Tree
II. A Letter from Afar
III. The Rape of the Demijohn
IV. The First Mayor of Vincennes
V. Father Gibault
VI. A Fencing Bout
VII. The Mayor's Party
VIII. The Dilemma of Captain Helm
IX. The Honors of War
X. M. Roussillon Entertains Colonel Hamilton
XI. A Sword and a Horse Pistol
XII. Manon Lescaut, and a Rapier-Thrust
XIII. A Meeting in the Wilderness
XIV. A Prisoner of Love
XV. Virtue in a Locket
XVI. Father Beret's Old Battle
XVII. A March through Cold Water
XVIII. A Duel by Moonlight
XIX. The Attack
XX. Alice's Flag
XXI. Some Transactions in Scalps
XXII. Clark Advises Alice
XXIII. And So It Ended
Alice of Old Vincennes
CHAPTER I
UNDER THE CHERRY TREE
Up to the days of Indiana's early statehood, probably as late as 1825,
there stood, in what is now the beautiful little city of Vincennes on
the Wabash, the decaying remnant of an old and curiously gnarled cherry
tree, known as the Roussillon tree, le cerisier de Monsieur Roussillon,
as the French inhabitants called it, which as long as it lived bore
fruit remarkable for richness of flavor and peculiar dark ruby depth of
color. The exact spot where this noble old seedling from la belle
France flourished, declined, and died cannot be certainly pointed out;
for in the rapid and happy growth of Vincennes many land-marks once
notable, among them le cerisier de Monsieur Roussillon, have been
destroyed and the spots where they stood, once familiar to every eye in
old Vincennes, are now lost in the pleasant confusion of the new town.
The security of certain land titles may have largely depended upon the
disappearance of old, fixed objects here and there. Early records were
loosely kept, indeed, scarcely kept at all; many were destroyed by
designing land speculators, while those most carefully preserved often
failed to give even a shadowy trace of the actual boundaries of the
estates held thereby; so that the position of a house or tree not
infrequently settled an important question of property rights left open
by a primitive deed. At all events the Roussillon cherry tree
disappeared long ago, nobody living knows how, and with it also
vanished, quite as mysteriously, all traces of the once important
Roussillon estate. Not a record of the name even can be found, it is
said, in church or county books.
The old, twisted, gum-embossed cherry tree survived every other
distinguishing feature of what was once the most picturesque and
romantic place in Vincennes. Just north of it stood, in the early
French days, a low, rambling cabin surrounded by rude verandas
overgrown with grapevines. This was the Roussillon place, the most
pretentious home in all the Wabash country. Its owner was Gaspard
Roussillon, a successful trader with the Indians. He was rich, for the
time and the place, influential to a degree, a man of some education,
who had brought with him to the wilderness a bundle of books and a
taste for reading.
From faded letters and dimly remembered talk of those who once clung
fondly to the legends and traditions of old Vincennes, it is drawn that
the Roussillon cherry tree stood not very far away from the present
site of the Catholic church, on a slight swell of ground overlooking a
wide marshy flat and the silver current of the Wabash. If the tree grew
there, then there too stood the Roussillon house with its cosy log
rooms, its clay-daubed chimneys and its grapevine-mantled verandas,
while some distance away and nearer the river the rude fort with its
huddled officers' quarters seemed to fling out over the wild landscape,
through its squinting and lopsided port-holes, a gaze of stubborn
defiance.
Not far off was the little log church, where one good Father Beret, or
as named by the Indians, who all loved him, Father Blackrobe, performed
the services of his sacred calling; and scattered all around were the
cabins of traders, soldiers and woodsmen forming a queer little town,
the like of which cannot now be seen anywhere on the earth.
It is not known just when Vincennes was first founded; but most
historians make the probable date very early in the eighteenth century,
somewhere between 1710 and 1730. In 1810 the Roussillon cherry tree was
thought by a distinguished botanical letter-writer to be at least fifty
years old, which would make the date of its planting about 1760.
Certainly as shown by the time-stained family records upon which this
story of ours is based, it was a flourishing and wide-topped tree in
early summer of 1778, its branches loaded to drooping with luscious
fruit. So low did the dark red clusters hang at one point that a tall
young girl standing on the ground easily reached the best ones and made
her lips purple with their juice while she ate them.
That was long ago, measured by what has come to pass on the gentle
swell of rich country from which Vincennes overlooks the Wabash. The
new town flourishes notably and its appearance marks the latest limit
of progress. Electric cars in its streets, electric lights in its
beautiful homes, the roar of railway trains coming and going in all
directions, bicycles whirling hither and thither, the most fashionable
styles of equipages, from brougham to pony-phaeton, make the days of
flint-lock guns and buckskin trousers seem ages down the past; and yet
we are looking back over but a little more than a hundred and twenty
years to see Alice Roussillon standing under the cherry tree and
holding high a tempting cluster of fruit, while a very short,
hump-backed youth looks up with longing eyes and vainly reaches for it.
The tableau is not merely rustic, it is primitive. "Jump!" the girl is
saying in French, "jump, Jean; jump high!"
Yes, that was very long ago, in the days when women lightly braved what
the strongest men would shrink from now.
Alice Roussillon was tall, lithe, strongly knit, with an almost perfect
figure, judging by what the master sculptors carved for the form of
Venus, and her face was comely and winning, if not absolutely
beautiful; but the time and the place were vigorously indicated by her
dress, which was of coarse stuff and simply designed. Plainly she was a
child of the American wilderness, a daughter of old Vincennes on the
Wabash in the time that tried men's souls.
"Jump, Jean!" she cried, her face laughing with a show of
cheek-dimples, an arching of finely sketched brows and the twinkling of
large blue-gray eyes.
"Jump high and get them!"
While she waved her sun-browned hand holding the cherries aloft, the
breeze blowing fresh from the southwest tossed her hair so that some
loose strands shone like rimpled flames. The sturdy little hunchback
did leap with surprising activity; but the treacherous brown hand went
higher, so high that the combined altitude of his jump and the reach of
his unnaturally long arms was overcome. Again and again he sprang
vainly into the air comically, like a long-legged, squat-bodied frog.
"And you brag of your agility and strength, Jean," she laughingly
remarked; "but you can't take cherries when they are offered to you.
What a clumsy bungler you are."
"I can climb and get some," he said with a hideously happy grin, and
immediately embraced the bole of the tree, up which he began scrambling
almost as fast as a squirrel.
When he had mounted high enough to be extending a hand for a hold on a
crotch, Alice grasped his leg near the foot and pulled him down,
despite his clinging and struggling, until his hands clawed in the soft
earth at the tree's root, while she held his captive leg almost
vertically erect.
It was a show of great strength; but Alice looked quite unconscious of
it, laughing merrily, the dimples deepening in her plump cheeks, her
forearm, now bared to the elbow, gleaming white and shapely while its
muscles rippled on account of the jerking and kicking of Jean.
All the time she was holding the cherries high in her other hand,
shaking them by the twig to which their slender stems attached them,
and saying in a sweetly tantalizing tone:
"What makes you climb downward after cherries. Jean? What a foolish
fellow you are, indeed, trying to grabble cherries out of the ground,
as you do potatoes! I'm sure I didn't suppose that you knew so little
as that."
Her French was colloquial, but quite good, showing here and there what
we often notice in the speech of those who have been educated in
isolated places far from that babel of polite energies which we call
the world; something that may be described as a bookish cast appearing
oddly in the midst of phrasing distinctly rustic and local,--a
peculiarity not easy to transfer from one language to another.
Jean the hunchback was a muscular little deformity and a wonder of good
nature. His head looked unnaturally large, nestling grotesquely between
the points of his lifted and distorted shoulders, like a shaggy black
animal in the fork of a broken tree. He was bellicose in his amiable
way and never knew just when to acknowledge defeat. How long he might
have kept up the hopeless struggle with the girl's invincible grip
would be hard to guess. His release was caused by the approach of a
third person, who wore the robe of a Catholic priest and the
countenance of a man who had lived and suffered a long time without
much loss of physical strength and endurance.
This was Pere Beret, grizzly, short, compact, his face deeply lined,
his mouth decidedly aslant on account of some lost teeth, and his eyes
set deep under gray, shaggy brows. Looking at him when his features
were in repose a first impression might not have been favorable; but
seeing him smile or hearing him speak changed everything. His voice was
sweetness itself and his smile won you on the instant. Something like a
pervading sorrow always seemed to be close behind his eyes and under
his speech; yet he was a genial, sometimes almost jolly, man, very
prone to join in the lighter amusements of his people.
"Children, children, my children," he called out as he approached along
a little pathway leading up from the direction of the church, "what are
you doing now? Bah there, Alice, will you pull Jean's leg off?"
At first they did not hear him, they were so nearly deafened by their
own vocal discords.
"Why are you standing on your head with your feet so high in air,
Jean?" he added. "It's not a polite attitude in the presence of a young
lady. Are you a pig, that you poke your nose in the dirt?"
Alice now turned her bright head and gave Pere Beret a look of frank
welcome, which at the same time shot a beam of willful self-assertion.
"My daughter, are you trying to help Jean up the tree feet foremost?"
the priest added, standing where he had halted just outside of the
straggling yard fence.
He had his hands on his hips and was quietly chuckling at the scene
before him, as one who, although old, sympathized with the natural and
harmless sportiveness of young people and would as lief as not join in
a prank or two.
"You see what I'm doing, Father Beret," said Alice, "I am preventing a
great damage to you. You will maybe lose a good many cherry pies and
dumplings if I let Jean go. He was climbing the tree to pilfer the
fruit; so I pulled him down, you understand."
"Ta, ta!" exclaimed the good man, shaking his gray head; "we must
reason with the child. Let go his leg, daughter, I will vouch for him;
eh, Jean?"
Alice released the hunchback, then laughed gayly and tossed the cluster
of cherries into his hand, whereupon he began munching them voraciously
and talking at the same time.
"I knew I could get them," he boasted; "and see, I have them now." He
hopped around, looking like a species of ill-formed monkey.
Pere Beret came and leaned on the low fence close to Alice. She was
almost as tall as he.
"The sun scorches to-day," he said, beginning to mop his furrowed face
with a red-flowered cotton handkerchief; "and from the look of the sky
yonder," pointing southward, "it is going to bring on a storm. How is
Madame Roussillon to-day?"
"She is complaining as she usually does when she feels extremely well,"
said Alice; "that's why I had to take her place at the oven and bake
pies. I got hot and came out to catch a bit of this breeze. Oh, but you
needn't smile and look greedy, Pere Beret, the pies are not for your
teeth!"
"My daughter, I am not a glutton, I hope; I had meat not two hours
since--some broiled young squirrels with cress, sent me by Rene de
Ronville. He never forgets his old father."
"Oh, I never forget you either, mon pere; I thought of you to-day every
time I spread a crust and filled it with cherries; and when I took out
a pie all brown and hot, the red juice bubbling out of it so good
smelling and tempting, do you know what I said to myself?"
"How could I know, my child?"
"Well, I thought this: 'Not a single bite of that pie does Father Beret
get.'"
"Why so, daughter?"
"Because you said it was bad of me to read novels and told Mother
Roussillon to hide them from me. I've had any amount of trouble about
it."
"Ta, ta! read the good books that I gave you. They will soon kill the
taste for these silly romances."
"I tried," said Alice; "I tried very hard, and it's no use; your books
are dull and stupidly heavy. What do I care about something that a
queer lot of saints did hundreds of years ago in times of plague and
famine? Saints must have been poky people, and it is poky people who
care to read about them, I think. I like reading about brave, heroic
men and beautiful women, and war and love."
Pere Beret looked away with a curious expression in his face, his eyes
half closed.
"And I'll tell you now, Father Beret," Alice went on after a pause, "no
more claret and pies do you get until I can have my own sort of books
back again to read as I please." She stamped her moccasin-shod foot
with decided energy.
The good priest broke into a hearty laugh, and taking off his cap of
grass-straw mechanically scratched his bald head. He looked at the
tall, strong girl before him for a moment or two, and it would have
been hard for the best physiognomist to decide just how much of
approval and how much of disapproval that look really signified.
Although, as Father Beret had said, the sun's heat was violent, causing
that gentle soul to pass his bundled handkerchief with a wiping
circular motion over his bald and bedewed pate, the wind was momently
freshening, while up from behind the trees on the horizon beyond the
river, a cloud was rising blue-black, tumbled, and grim against the sky.
"Well," said the priest, evidently trying hard to exchange his laugh
for a look of regretful resignation, "you will have your own way, my
child, and--"
"Then you will have pies galore and no end of claret!" she interrupted,
at the same time stepping to the withe-tied and peg-latched gate of the
yard and opening it. "Come in, you dear, good Father, before the rain
shall begin, and sit with me on the gallery" (the creole word for
veranda) "till the storm is over."
Father Beret seemed not loath to enter, albeit he offered a weak
protest against delaying some task he had in hand. Alice reached forth
and pulled him in, then reclosed the queer little gate and pegged it.
She caressingly passed her arm through his and looked into his
weather-stained old face with childlike affection.
There was not a photographer's camera to be had in those days; but what
if a tourist with one in hand could have been there to take a snapshot
at the priest and the maiden as they walked arm in arm to that squat
little veranda! The picture to-day would be worth its weight in a
first-water diamond. It would include the cabin, the cherry-tree, a
glimpse of the raw, wild background and a sharp portrait-group of Pere
Beret, Alice, and Jean the hunchback. To compare it with a photograph
of the same spot now would give a perfect impression of the historic
atmosphere, color and conditions which cannot be set in words. But we
must not belittle the power of verbal description. What if a thoroughly
trained newspaper reporter had been given the freedom of old Vincennes
on the Wabash during the first week of June, 1778, and we now had his
printed story! What a supplement to the photographer's pictures! Well,
we have neither photographs nor graphic report; yet there they are
before us, the gowned and straw-capped priest, the fresh-faced,
coarsely-clad and vigorous girl, the grotesque little hunchback, all
just as real as life itself. Each of us can see them, even with closed
eyes. Led by that wonderful guide, Imagination, we step back a century
and more to look over a scene at once strangely attractive and
unspeakably forlorn.
What was it that drew people away from the old countries, from the
cities, the villages and the vineyards of beautiful France, for
example, to dwell in the wilderness, amid wild beasts and wilder savage
Indians, with a rude cabin for a home and the exposures and hardships
of pioneer life for their daily experience?
Men like Gaspard Roussillon are of a distinct stamp. Take him as he
was. Born in France, on the banks of the Rhone near Avignon, he came as
a youth to Canada, whence he drifted on the tide of adventure this way
and that, until at last he found himself, with a wife, at Post
Vincennes, that lonely picket of religion and trade, which was to
become the center of civilizing energy for the great Northwestern
Territory. M. Roussillon had no children of his own; so his kind heart
opened freely to two fatherless and motherless waifs. These were Alice,
now called Alice Roussillon, and the hunchback, Jean. The former was
twelve years old, when he adopted her, a child of Protestant parents,
while Jean had been taken, when a mere babe, after his parents had been
killed and scalped by Indians. Madame Roussillon, a professed invalid,
whose appetite never failed and whose motherly kindness expressed
itself most often through strains of monotonous falsetto scolding, was
a woman of little education and no refinement; while her husband clung
tenaciously to his love of books, especially to the romances most in
vogue when he took leave of France.
M. Roussillon had been, in a way, Alice's teacher, though not greatly
inclined to abet Father Beret in his kindly efforts to make a Catholic
of the girl, and most treacherously disposed toward the good priest in
the matter of his well-meant attempts to prevent her from reading and
re-reading the aforesaid romances. But for many weeks past Gaspard
Roussillon had been absent from home, looking after his trading schemes
with the Indians; and Pere Beret acting on the suggestion of the
proverb about the absent cat and the playing mouse, had formed an
alliance offensive and defensive with Madame Roussillon, in which it
was strictly stipulated that all novels and romances were to be
forcibly taken and securely hidden away from Mademoiselle Alice; which,
to the best of Madame Roussillon's ability, had accordingly been done.
Now, while the wind strengthened and the softly booming summer shower
came on apace, the heavy cloud lifting as it advanced and showing under
it the dark gray sheet of the rain, Pere Beret and Alice sat under the
clapboard roof behind the vines of the veranda and discussed, what was
generally uppermost in the priest's mind upon such occasions, the good
of Alice's immortal soul,--a subject not absorbingly interesting to her
at any time.
It was a standing grief to the good old priest, this strange perversity
of the girl in the matter of religious duty, as he saw it. True she had
a faithful guardian in Gaspard Roussillon; but, much as he had done to
aid the church's work in general, for he was always vigorous and
liberal, he could not be looked upon as a very good Catholic; and of
course his influence was not effective in the right direction. But then
Pere Beret saw no reason why, in due time and with patient work, aided
by Madame Roussillon and notwithstanding Gaspard's treachery, he might
not safely lead Alice, whom he loved as a dear child, into the arms of
the Holy Church, to serve which faithfully, at all hazards and in all
places, was his highest aim.
"Ah, my child," he was saying, "you are a sweet, good girl, after all,
much better than you make yourself out to be. Your duty will control
you; you do it nobly at last, my child."
"True enough, Father Beret, true enough!" she responded, laughing,
"your perception is most excellent, which I will prove to you
immediately."
She rose while speaking and went into the house.
"I'll return in a minute or two," she called back from a region which
Pere Beret well knew was that of the pantry; "don't get impatient and
go away!"
Pere Beret laughed softly at the preposterous suggestion that he would
even dream of going out in the rain, which was now roaring heavily on
the loose board roof, and miss a cut of cherry pie--a cherry pie of
Alice's making! And the Roussillon claret, too, was always excellent.
"Ah, child," he thought, "your old Father is not going away."
She presently returned, bearing on a wooden tray a ruby-stained pie and
a short, stout bottle flanked by two glasses.
"Of course I'm better than I sometimes appear to be," she said, almost
humbly, but with mischief still in her voice and eyes, "and I shall get
to be very good when I have grown old. The sweetness of my present
nature is in this pie."
She set the tray on a three-legged stool which she pushed close to him.
"There now," she said, "let the rain come, you'll be happy, rain or
shine, while the pie and wine last, I'll be bound."
Pere Beret fell to eating right heartily, meantime handing Jean a
liberal piece of the luscious pie.
"It is good, my daughter, very good, indeed," the priest remarked with
his mouth full. "Madame Roussillon has not neglected your culinary
education." Alice filled a glass for him. It was Bordeaux and very
fragrant. The bouquet reminded him of his sunny boyhood in France, of
his journey up to Paris and of his careless, joy-brimmed youth in the
gay city. How far away, how misty, yet how thrillingly sweet it all
was! He sat with half closed eyes awhile, sipping and dreaming.
The rain lasted nearly two hours; but the sun was out again when Pere
Beret took leave of his young friend. They had been having another
good-natured quarrel over the novels, and Madame Roussillon had come
out on the veranda to join in.
"I've hidden every book of them," said Madame, a stout and swarthy
woman whose pearl-white teeth were her only mark of beauty. Her voice
indicated great stubbornness.
"Good, good, you have done your very duty, Madame," said Pere Beret,
with immense approval in his charming voice.
"But, Father, you said awhile ago that I should have my own way about
this," Alice spoke up with spirit; "and on the strength of that remark
of yours I gave you the pie and wine. You've eaten my pie and swigged
the wine, and now--"
Pere Beret put on his straw cap, adjusting it carefully over the
shining dome out of which had come so many thoughts of wisdom, kindness
and human sympathy. This done, he gently laid a hand on Alice's bright
crown of hair and said:
"Bless you, my child. I will pray to the Prince of Peace for you as
long as I live, and I will never cease to beg the Holy Virgin to
intercede for you and lead you to the Holy Church."
He turned and went away; but when he was no farther than the gate,
Alice called out:
"O Father Beret, I forgot to show you something!"
She ran forth to him and added in a low tone:
"You know that Madame Roussillon has hidden all the novels from me."
She was fumbling to get something out of the loose front of her dress.
"Well, just take a glance at this, will you?" and she showed him a
little leather bound volume, much cracked along the hinges of the back.
It was Manon Lescaut, that dreadful romance by the famous Abbe Prevost.
Pere Beret frowned and went his way shaking his head; but before he
reached his little hut near the church he was laughing in spite of
himself.
"She's not so bad, not so bad," he thought aloud, "it's only her young,
independent spirit taking the bit for a wild run. In her sweet soul she
is as good as she is pure."