FATHER GIBAULT
Great movements in the affairs of men are like tides of the seas which
reach and affect the remotest and quietest nooks and inlets, imparting
a thrill and a swell of the general motion. Father Gibault brought the
wave of the American Revolution to Vincennes. He was a simple
missionary; but he was, besides, a man of great worldly knowledge and
personal force. Colonel George Rogers Clark made Father Gibault's
acquaintance at Kaskaskia, when the fort and its garrison surrendered
to his command, and, quickly discerning the fine qualities of the
priest's character, sent him to the post on the Wabash to win over its
people to the cause of freedom and independence. Nor was the task
assumed a hard one, as Father Gibault probably well knew before he
undertook it.
A few of the leading men of Vincennes, presided over by Gaspard
Roussillon, held a consultation at the river house, and it was agreed
that a mass meeting should be called bringing all of the inhabitants
together in the church for the purpose of considering the course to be
taken under the circumstances made known by Father Gibault. Oncle Jazon
constituted himself an executive committee of one to stir up a noise
for the occasion.
It was a great day for Vincennes. The volatile temperament of the
French frontiersmen bubbled over with enthusiasm at the first hint of
something new, and revolutionary in which they might be expected to
take part. Without knowing in the least what it was that Father Gibault
and Oncle Jazon wanted of them, they were all in favor of it at a
venture.
Rene de Ronville, being an active and intelligent young man, was sent
about through the town to let everybody know of the meeting. In passing
he stepped into the cabin of Father Beret, who was sitting on the loose
puncheon floor, with his back turned toward the entrance and so
absorbed in trying to put together a great number of small paper
fragments that he did not hear or look up.
"Are you not going to the meeting, Father?" Rene bluntly demanded. In
the hurry that was on him he did not remember to be formally polite, as
was his habit.
The old priest looked up with a startled face. At the same time he
swept the fragments of paper together and clutched them hard in his
right hand. "Yes, yes, my son--yes I am going, but the time has not yet
come for it, has it?" he stammered. "Is it late?"
He sprang to his feet and appeared confused, as if caught in doing
something very improper.
Rene wondered at this unusual behavior, but merely said:
"I beg pardon, Father Beret, I did not mean to disturb you," and went
his way.
Father Beret stood for some minutes as if dazed, then squeezed the
paper fragments into a tight ball, just as they were when he took them
from under the floor some time before Rene came in, and put it in his
pocket. A little later he was kneeling, as we have seen him once
before, in silent yet fervent prayer, his clasped hands lifted toward
the crucifix on the wall.
"Jesus, give me strength to hold on and do my work," he murmured
beseechingly, "and oh, free thy poor servant from bitter temptation."
Father Gibault had come prepared to use his eloquence upon the
excitable Creoles, and with considerable cunning he addressed a motley
audience at the church, telling them that an American force had taken
Kaskaskia and would henceforth hold it; that France had joined hands
with the Americans against the British, and that it was the duty of all
Frenchmen to help uphold the cause of freedom and independence.
"I come," said he, "directly from Colonel George Rogers Clark, a noble
and brave officer of the American army, who told me the news that I
have brought to you. He sent me here to say to you that if you will
give allegiance to his government you shall be protected against all
enemies and have the full freedom of citizens. I think you should do
this without a moment's hesitation, as I and my people at Kaskaskia
have already done. But perhaps you would like to have a word from your
distinguished fellow-citizen, Monsieur Gaspard Roussillon. Speak to
your friends, my son, they will be glad to take counsel of your wisdom."
There was a stir and a craning of necks. M. Roussillon presently
appeared near the little chancel, his great form towering majestically.
He bowed and waved his hand with the air of one who accepts distinction
as a matter of course; then he took his big silver watch and looked at
it. He was the only man in Vincennes who owned a watch, and so the
incident was impressive. Father Gibault looked pleased, and already a
murmur of applause went through the audience. M. Roussillon stroked the
bulging crystal of the time-piece with a circular motion of his thumb
and bowed again, clearing his throat resonantly, his face growing
purplish above his beard.
"Good friends," he said, "what France does all high-class Frenchmen
applaud." He paused for a shout of approbation, and was not
disappointed. "The other name for France is glory," he added, "and all
true Frenchmen love both names. I am a true Frenchman!" and he struck
his breast a resounding blow with the hand that still held the watch. A
huge horn button on his buckskin jerkin came in contact with the
crystal, and there was a smash, followed by a scattered tinkling of
glass fragments.
All Vincennes stood breathless, contemplating the irreparable accident.
M. Roussillon had lost the effect of a great period in his speech, but
he was quick. Lifting the watch to his ear, he listened a moment with
superb dignity, then slowly elevating his head and spreading his free
hand over his heart he said:
"The faithful time-piece still tells off the seconds, and the loyal
heart of its owner still throbs with patriotism."
Oncle Jazon, who stood in front of the speaker, swung his shapeless cap
as high as he could and yelled like a savage. Then the crowd went wild
for a time.
"Vive la France! A bas l' Angleterre!" Everybody shouted at the top of
his voice.
"What France does we all do," continued M. Roussillon, when the noise
subsided. "France has clasped hands with George Washington and his
brave compatriots; so do we."
"Vive Zhorzh Vasinton!" shrieked Oncle Jazon in a piercing treble,
tiptoeing and shaking his cap recklessly under M. Roussillon's nose.
The orator winced and jerked his head back, but nobody saw it, save
perhaps Father Gibault, who laughed heartily.
Great sayings come suddenly, unannounced and unexpected. They have the
mysterious force of prophetic accident combined with happy economy of
phrasing. The southern blood in M. Roussillon's veins was effervescing
upon his brain; his tongue had caught the fine freedom and abandon of
inspired oratory. He towered and glowed; words fell melodiously from
his lips; his gestures were compelling, his visage magnetic. In
conclusion he said:
"Frenchmen, America is the garden-spot of the world and will one day
rule it, as did Rome of old. Where freedom makes her home, there is the
centre of power!"
It was in a little log church on the verge of a hummock overlooking a
marshy wild meadow. Westward for two thousand miles stretched the
unbroken prairies, woods, mountains, deserts reaching to the Pacific;
southward for a thousand miles rolled the green billows of the
wilderness to the warm Gulf shore; northward to the pole and eastward
to the thin fringe of settlements beyond the mountains, all was
houseless solitude.
If the reader should go to Vincennes to-day and walk southward along
Second Street to its intersection with Church Street, the spot then
under foot would be probably very near where M. Roussillon stood while
uttering his great sentence. Mind you, the present writer does not
pretend to know the exact site of old Saint Xavier church. If it could
be fixed beyond doubt the spot should have an imperishable monument of
Indiana stone.
When M, Roussillon ceased speaking the audience again exhausted its
vocal resources; and then Father Gibault called upon each man to come
forward and solemnly pledge his loyalty to the American cause. Not one
of them hesitated.
Meantime a woman was doing her part in the transformation of Post
Vincennes from a French-English picket to a full-fledged American fort
and town. Madame Godere, finding out what was about to happen, fell to
work making a flag in imitation of that under which George Washington
was fighting. Alice chanced to be in the Godere home at the time and
joined enthusiastically in the sewing. It was an exciting task. Their
fingers trembled while they worked, and the thread, heavily coated with
beeswax, squeaked as they drew it through the cloth.
"We shall not be in time," said Madame Godere; "I know we shall not.
Everything hinders me. My thread breaks or gets tangled and my needle's
so rusty I can hardly stick it through the cloth. O dear!"
Alice encouraged her with both words and work, and they had almost
finished when Rene came with a staff which he had brought from the fort.
"Mon dieu, but we have had a great meeting!" he cried. He was
perspiring with excitement and fast walking; leaning on the staff he
mopped his face with a blue handkerchief.
"We heard much shouting and noise," said Madame Godere, "M.
Roussillon's voice rose loud above the rest. He roared like a lion."
"Ah, he was speaking to us; he was very eloquent," Rene replied. "But
now they are waiting at the fort for the new flag. I have come for it."
"It is ready," said Madame Godere.
With flying fingers Alice sewed it to the staff.
"Voici!" she cried, "vive la republique Americaine!" She lifted the
staff and let the flag droop over her from head to foot.
"Give it to me," said Rene, holding forth a hand for it, "and I'll run
to the fort with it."
"No," said Alice, her face suddenly lighting up with resolve. "No, I am
going to take it myself," and without a moment's delay off she went.
Rene was so caught by surprise that he stood gazing after her until she
passed behind a house, where the way turned, the shining flag rippling
around her, and her moccasins twinkling as she ran.
At the blockhouse, awaiting the moment when the symbol of freedom
should rise like a star over old Vincennes the crowd had picturesquely
broken into scattered groups. Alice entered through a rent in the
stockade, as that happened to be a shorter route than through the gate,
and appeared suddenly almost in their midst.
It was a happy surprise, a pretty and catching spectacular apparition
of a sort to be thoroughly appreciated by the lively French fancy of
the audience. The caught the girl's spirit, or it caught them, and they
made haste to be noisy.
"V'la! V'la! l'p'tite Alice et la bannlere de Zhorzh Vasinton! (Look,
look, little Alice and George Washington's flag!)" shouted Oncle Jazon.
He put his wiry little legs through a sort of pas de zephyr and winked
at himself with concentrated approval.
All the men danced around and yelled till they were hoarse.
By this time Rene had reached Alice's side; but she did not see him;
she ran into the blockhouse and climbed up a rude ladder-way; then she
appeared on the roof, still accompanied by Rene, and planted the staff
in a crack of the slabs, where it stood bravely up, the colors floating
free.
She looked down and saw M. Roussillon, Father Gibault and Father Beret
grouped in the centre of the area. They were waving their hands aloft
at her, while a bedlam of voices sent up applause which went through
her blood like strong wine. She smiled radiantly, and a sweet flush
glowed in her cheeks.
No one of all that wild crowd could ever forget the picture sketched so
boldly at that moment when, after planting the staff, Alice stepped
back a space and stood strong and beautiful against the soft blue sky.
She glanced down first, then looked up, her arms folded across her
bosom. It was a pose as unconsciously taken as that of a bird, and the
grace of it went straight to the hearts of those below.
She turned about to descend, and for the first time saw that Rene had
followed her. His face was beaming.
"What a girl you are!" he exclaimed, in a tone of exultant admiration.
"Never was there another like you!"
Alice walked quickly past him without speaking; for down in the space
where some women were huddled aside from the crowd, looking on, she had
seen little Adrienne Bourcier. She made haste to descend. Now that her
impulsively chosen enterprise was completed her boldness deserted her
and she slipped out through a dilapidated postern opposite the crowd.
On her right was the river, while southward before her lay a great flat
plain, beyond which rose some hillocks covered with forest. The sun
blazed between masses of slowly drifting clouds that trailed creeping
fantastic shadows across the marshy waste.
Alice walked along under cover of the slight landswell which then, more
plainly marked than it is now, formed the contour line of hummock upon
which the fort and village stood. A watery swale grown full of tall
aquatic weeds meandered parallel with the bluff, so to call it, and
there was a soft melancholy whispering of wind among the long blades
and stems. She passed the church and Father Beret's hut and continued
for some distance in the direction of that pretty knoll upon which the
cemetery is at present so tastefully kept. She felt shy now, as if to
run away and hide would be a great relief. Indeed, so relaxed were her
nerves that a slight movement in the grass and cat-tail flags near by
startled her painfully, making her jump like a fawn.
"Little friend not be 'fraid," said a guttural voice in broken French.
"Little friend not make noise."
At a glance she recognized Long-Hair, the Indian, rising out of the
matted marsh growth. It was a hideous vision of embodied cunning,
soullessness and murderous cruelty.
"Not tell white man you see me?" he grunted interrogatively, stepping
close to her. He looked so wicked that she recoiled and lifted her
hands defensively.
She trembled from head to foot, and her voice failed her; but she made
a negative sign and smiled at him, turning as white as her tanned face
could become.
In his left hand he held his bow, while in his right he half lifted a
murderous looking tomahawk.
"What new flag mean?" he demanded, waving the bow's end toward the fort
and bending his head down close to hers. "Who yonder?"
"The great American Father has taken us under his protection," she
explained. "We are big-knives now." It almost choked her to speak.
"Ugh! heap damn fools," he said with a dark scowl. "Little friend much
damn fool."
He straightened up his tall form and stood leering at her for some
seconds, then added:
"Little friend get killed, scalped, maybe."
The indescribable nobility of animal largeness, symmetry and strength
showed in his form and attitude, but the expression of his countenance
was absolutely repulsive--cold, hard, beastly.
He did not speak again, but turned quickly, and stooping low,
disappeared like a great brownish red serpent in the high grass, which
scarcely stirred as he moved through it.
Somehow that day made itself strangely memorable to Alice. She had been
accustomed to stirring scenes and sudden changes of conditions; but
this was the first time that she had ever joined actively in a public
movement of importance. Then, too, Long-Hair's picturesque and rudely
dramatic reappearance affected her imagination with an indescribable
force. Moreover, the pathetic situation in the love affair between Rene
and Adrienne had taken hold of her conscience with a disturbing grip.
But the shadowy sense of impending events, of which she could form no
idea, was behind it all. She had not heard of Brandywine, or Bunker
Hill, or Lexington, or Concord; but something like a waft of their
significance had blown through her mind. A great change was coming into
her idyllic life. She was indistinctly aware of it, as we sometimes are
of an approaching storm, while yet the sky is sweetly blue and serene.
When she reached home the house was full of people to whom M.
Roussillon, in the gayest of moods, was dispensing wine and brandy.
"Vive Zhorzh Vasinton!" shouted Oncle Jazon as soon as he saw her.
And then they all talked at once, saying flattering things about her.
Madame Roussillon tried to scold as usual; but the lively chattering of
the guests drowned her voice.
"I suppose the American commander will send a garrison here," some one
said to Father Gibault, "and repair the fort."
"Probably," the priest replied, "in a very few weeks. Meantime we will
garrison it ourselves."
"And we will have M. Roussillon for commander," spoke up Rene de
Ronville, who was standing by.
"A good suggestion," assented Father Gibault; "let us organize at once."
Immediately the word was passed that there would be a meeting at the
fort that evening for the purpose of choosing a garrison and a
commander. Everybody went promptly at the hour set. M. Roussillon was
elected Captain by acclamation, with Rene de Ronville as his
Lieutenant. It was observed that Oncle Jazon had resumed his dignity,
and that he looked into his cap several times without speaking.
Meantime certain citizens, who had been in close relations with
Governor Abbott during his stay, quietly slipped out of town, manned a
batteau and went up the river, probably to Ouiatenon first and then to
Detroit. Doubtless they suspected that things might soon grow too warm
for their comfort.
It was thus that Vincennes and Fort Sackville first acknowledged the
American Government and hoisted the flag which, as long as it floated
over the blockhouse, was lightly and lovingly called by everyone la
banniere d'Alice Roussillon.
Father Gibault returned to Fort Kaskaskia and a little later Captain
Leonard Helm, a jovial man, but past the prime of life, arrived at
Vincennes with a commission from Col. Clark authorizing him to
supersede M. Roussillon as commander, and to act as Indian agent for
the American Government in the Department of the Wabash. He was
welcomed by the villagers, and at once made himself very pleasing to
them by adapting himself to their ways and entering heartily into their
social activities.
M. Roussillon was absent when Captain Helm and his party came. Rene de
Ronville, nominally in command of the fort, but actually enjoying some
excellent grouse shooting with a bell-mouthed old fowling piece on a
distant prairie, could not be present to deliver up the post; and as
there was no garrison just then visible, Helm took possession, without
any formalities.
"I think, Lieutenant, that you'd better look around through the village
and see if you can scare up this Captain what's-his-name," said the new
commander to a stalwart young officer who had come with him. "I can't
think of these French names without getting my brain in a twist. Do you
happen to recollect the Captain's name, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir; Gaspard Roussillon it reads in Colonel Clark's order; but I
am told that he's away on a trading tour," said the young man.
"You may be told anything by these hair-tongued parlyvoos," Helm
remarked. "It won't hurt, anyway, to find out where he lives and make a
formal call, just for appearance sake, and to enquire about his health.
I wish you would try it, sir, and let me know the result."
The Lieutenant felt that this was a peremptory order and turned about
to obey promptly.
"And I say, Beverley, come back sober, if you possibly can," Helm added
in his most genial tone, thinking it a great piece of humor to suggest
sobriety to a man whose marked difference from men generally, of that
time, was his total abstinence from intoxicating drinks.
Lieutenant Fitzhugh Beverley was a Virginian of Virginians. His family
had long been prominent in colonial affairs and boasted a record of
great achievements both in peace and in war. He was the only son of his
parents and heir to a fine estate consisting of lands and slaves; but,
like many another of the restless young cavaliers of the Old Dominion,
he had come in search of adventure over into Kentucky, along the path
blazed by Daniel Boone; and when Clark organized his little army, the
young man's patriotic and chivalrous nature leaped at the opportunity
to serve his country under so gallant a commander.
Beverley was not a mere youth, although yet somewhat under thirty.
Educated abroad and naturally of a thoughtful and studious turn, he had
enriched his mind far beyond the usual limit among young Americans of
the very best class in that time; and so he appeared older than he
really was: an effect helped out by his large and powerful form and
grave dignity of bearing. Clark, who found him useful in emergencies,
cool, intrepid, daring to a fault and possessed of excellent judgement,
sent him with Helm, hoping that he would offset with his orderly
attention to details the somewhat go-as-you-please disposition of that
excellent officer.
Beverley set out in search of the French commander's house, impressed
with no particular respect for him or his office. Somehow Americans of
Anglo-Saxon blood were slow to recognize any good qualities whatever in
the Latin Creoles of the West and South. It seemed to them that the
Frenchman and the Spaniard were much too apt to equalize themselves
socially and matrimonially with Indians and negroes. The very fact that
for a century, while Anglo-Americans had been in constant bloody
warfare with savages, Frenchmen had managed to keep on easy and highly
profitable trading terms with them, tended to confirm the worst
implication. "Eat frogs and save your scalp," was a bit of contemptuous
frontier humor indicative of what sober judgement held in reserve on
the subject.
Intent upon his formal mission, Lieutenant Beverley stalked boldly into
the inclosure at Roussillon place and was met on the gallery by Madame
Roussillon in one of her worst moods. She glared at him with her hands
on her hips, her mouth set irritably aslant upward, her eyebrows
gathered into a dark knot over her nose. It would be hard to imagine a
more forbidding countenance; and for supplementary effect out popped
hunchback Jean to stand behind her, with his big head lying back in the
hollow of his shoulders and his long chin elevated, while he gawped
intently up into Beverley's face.
"Bon jour, Madame," said the Lieutenant, lifting his hat and speaking
with a pleasant accent. "Would it be agreeable to Captain Roussillon
for me to see him a moment?"
Despite Beverley's cleverness in using the French language, he had a
decided brusqueness of manner and a curt turn of voice not in the least
Gallic. True, the soft Virginian intonation marked every word, and his
obeisance was as low as if Madame Roussillon had been a queen; but the
light French grace was wholly lacking.
"What do you want of my husband?" Madame Roussillon demanded.
"Nothing unpleasant, I assure you, Madame," said Beverley.
"Well, he's not at home, Mo'sieu; he's up the river for a few days."
She relaxed her stare, untied her eyebrows, and even let fall her hands
from her shelf-like hips.
"Thank you, Madame," said Beverley, bowing again, "I am sorry not to
have seen him."
As he was turning to go a shimmer of brown hair streaked with gold
struck upon his vision from just within the door. He paused, as if in
response to a military command, while a pair of gray eyes met his with
a flash. The cabin room was ill lighted; but the crepuscular dimness
did not seem to hinder his sight. Beyond the girl's figure, a pair of
slender swords hung crossed aslant on the wall opposite the low door.
Beverley had seen, in the old world galleries, pictures in which the
shadowy and somewhat uncertain background thus forced into strongest
projection the main figure, yet without clearly defining it. The rough
frame of the doorway gave just the rustic setting suited to Alice's
costume, the most striking part of which was a grayish short gown
ending just above her fringed buckskin moccasins. Around her head she
had bound a blue kerchief, a wide corner of which lay over her crown
like a loose cap. Her bright hair hung free upon her shoulders in
tumbled half curls. As a picture, the figure and its entourage might
have been artistically effective; but as Beverley saw it in actual life
the first impression was rather embarrassing. Somehow he felt almost
irresistibly invited to laugh, though he had never been much given to
risibility. The blending, or rather the juxtaposition, of extremes--a
face, a form immediately witching, and a costume odd to
grotesquery--had made an assault upon his comprehension at once so
sudden and so direct that his dignity came near being disastrously
broken up. A splendidly beautiful child comically clad would have made
much the same half delightful, half displeasing impression.
Beverley could not stare at the girl, and no sooner had he turned his
back upon her than the picture in his mind changed like a scene in a
kaleidoscope. He now saw a tall, finely developed figure and a face
delicately oval, with a low, wide forehead, arched brows, a straight,
slightly tip-tilted nose, a mouth sweet and full, dimpled cheeks, and a
strong chin set above a faultless throat. His imagination, in casting
off its first impression, was inclined to exaggerate Alice's beauty and
to dwell upon its picturesqueness. He smiled as he walked back to the
fort, and even found himself whistling gayly a snatch from a rollicking
fiddle-tune that he had heard when a boy.