A SWORD AND A HORSE PISTOL
We hear much about the "days that tried men's souls"; but what about
the souls of women in those same days? Sitting in the liberal geniality
of the nineteenth century's sunset glow, we insist upon having our
grumble at the times and the manners of our generation; but if we had
to exchange places, periods and experiences with the people who lived
in America through the last quarter of the eighteenth century, there
would be good ground for despairing ululations. And if our men could
not bear it, if it would try their souls too poignantly, let us imagine
the effect upon our women. No, let us not imagine it; but rather let us
give full credit to the heroic souls of the mothers and the maidens who
did actually bear up in the center of that terrible struggle and
unflinchingly help win for us not only freedom, but the vast empire
which at this moment is at once the master of the world and the model
toward which all the nations of the earth are slowly but surely tending.
If Alice was an extraordinary girl, she was not aware of it; nor had
she ever understood that her life was being shaped by extraordinary
conditions. Of course it could not but be plain to her that she knew
more and felt more than the girls of her narrow acquaintance; that her
accomplishments were greater; that she nursed splendid dreams of which
they could have no proper comprehension, but until now she had never
even dimly realized that she was probably capable of being something
more than a mere creole lass, the foster daughter of Gaspard
Roussillon, trader in pelts and furs. Even her most romantic visions
had never taken the form of personal desire, or ambition in its most
nebulous stage; they had simply pleased her fresh and natural fancy and
served to gild the hardness and crudeness of her life,--that was all.
Her experiences had been almost too terrible for belief, viewed at our
distance from them; she had passed through scenes of incredible horror
and suffering, but her nature had not been chilled, stunted or
hardened. In body and in temper her development had been sound and
beautiful. It was even thus that our great-grandmothers triumphed over
adversity, hardship, indescribable danger. We cannot say that the
strong, lithe, happy-hearted Alice of old Vincennes was the only one of
her kind. Few of us who have inherited the faded portraits of our
revolutionary forbears can doubt that beauty, wit and great lovableness
flourished in the cabins of pioneers all the way from the Edisto to the
Licking, from the Connecticut to the Wabash.
Beverley's advent could not fail to mean a great deal in the life of a
girl like Alice; a new era, as it were, would naturally begin for her
the moment that his personal influence touched her imagination; but it
is well not to measure her too strictly by the standard of our present
taste and the specialized forms of our social and moral code. She was a
true child of the wilderness, a girl who grew, as the wild prairie rose
grew, not on account of innumerable exigencies, accidents and
hardships, but in spite of them. She had blushed unseen, and had wasted
divine sweets upon a more than desert air. But when Beverley came near
her, at first carelessly droning his masculine monotonies, as the
wandering bee to the lonely and lovely rose, and presently striking her
soul as with the wings of Love, there fell a change into her heart of
hearts, and lo! her haunting and elusive dreams began to condense and
take on forms that startled her with their wonderful splendor and
beauty. These she saw all the time, sleeping or waking; they made
bright summer of the frozen stream and snapping gale, the snowdrifts
and the sleet. In her brave young heart, swelled the ineffable
song--the music never yet caught by syrinx or flute or violin, the
words no tongue can speak.
Ah, here may be the secret of that vigorous, brave, sweet life of our
pioneer maids, wives, and mothers. It was love that gave those tender
hearts the iron strength and heroic persistence at which the world must
forever wonder. And do we appreciate those women? Let the Old World
boast its crowned kings, its mailed knights, its ladies of the court
and castle; but we of the New World, we of the powerful West, let us
brim our cups with the wine of undying devotion, and drink to the
memory of the Women of the Revolution,--to the humble but good and
marvelously brave and faithful women like those of old Vincennes.
But if Alice was being radically influenced by Beverley, he in turn
found a new light suffusing his nature, and he was not unaware that it
came out of her eyes, her face, her smiles, her voice, her soul. It was
the old, well-known, inexplicable, mutual magnetism, which from the
first has been the same on the highest mountain-top and in the lowest
valley. The queen and the milkmaid, the king and the hind may come
together only to find the king walking off with the lowly beauty and
her fragrant pail, while away stalks the lusty rustic, to be lord and
master of the queen. Love is love, and it thrives in all climes, under
all conditions.
There is an inevitable and curious protest that comes up unbidden
between lovers; it takes many forms in accordance with particular
circumstances. It is the demand for equality and perfection. Love
itself is without degrees--it is perfect--but when shall it see the
perfect object? It does see it, and it does not see it, in every
beloved being. Beverley found his mind turning, as on a pivot, round
and round upon the thought that Alice might be impossible to him. The
mystery of her life seemed to force her below the line of his
aristocratic vision, so that he could not fairly consider her, and yet
with all his heart he loved her. Alice, on the other hand, had her
bookish ideal to reckon with, despite the fact that she daily dashed it
contemptuously down. She was different from Adrienne Bourcier, who
bewailed the absence of her un-tamable lover; she wished that Beverley
had not, as she somehow viewed it, weakly surrendered to Hamilton. His
apparently complacent acceptance of idle captivity did not comport with
her dream of knighthood and heroism. She had been all the time half
expecting him to do something that would stamp him a hero.
Counter protests of this sort are never sufficiently vigorous to take a
fall out of Love; they merely serve to worry his temper by lightly
hindering his feet. And it is surprising how Love does delight himself
with being entangled.
Both Beverley and Alice day by day felt the cord tightening which drew
their hearts together--each acknowledged it secretly, but strove not to
evince it openly. Meantime both were as happy and as restlessly
dissatisfied as love and uncertainty could make them.
Amid the activities in which Hamilton was engaged--his dealings with
the Indians and the work of reconstructing the fort--he found time to
worry his temper about the purloined flag. Like every other man in the
world, he was superstitious, and it had come into his head that to
insure himself and his plans against disaster, he must have the banner
of his captives as a badge of his victory. It was a small matter; but
it magnified itself as he dwelt upon it. He suspected that Alice had
deceived him. He sharply questioned Father Beret, only to be half
convinced that the good priest told the truth when he said that he knew
nothing whatever on the subject beyond the fact that the banner had
mysteriously disappeared from under his floor.
Captain Farnsworth scarcely sympathized with his chief about the flag,
but he was nothing if not anxious to gain Hamilton's highest
confidence. His military zeal knew no bounds, and he never let pass
even the slightest opportunity to show it. Hence his persistent search
for a clue to the missing banner. He was no respecter of persons. He
frankly suspected both Alice and Father Beret of lying. He would
himself have lied under the existing circumstances, and he considered
himself as truthful and trustworthy as priest or maiden.
"I'll get that flag for you," he said to Hamilton, "if I have to put
every man, woman and child in this town on the rack. It lies, I think,
between Miss Roussillon and the priest, although both insistently deny
it. I've thought it over in every way, and I can't see how they can
both be ignorant of where it is, or at least who got it."
Hamilton, since being treated to that wonderful blow on the jaw, was
apt to fall into a spasm of anger whenever the name Roussillon was
spoken in his hearing. Involuntarily he would put his hand to his
cheek, and grimace reminiscently.
"If it's that girl, make her tell," he savagely commanded. "Let's have
no trifling about it. If it's the priest, then make him tell, or tie
him up by the thumbs. Get that flag, or show some good reason for your
failure. I'm not going to be baffled."
The Captain's adventure with Father Beret came just in time to make it
count against that courageous and bellicose missionary in more ways
than one. Farnsworth did not tell Hamilton or any other person about
what the priest had done to him, but nursed his sore ribs and his
wrath, waiting patiently for the revenge that he meant soon to take.
Alice heard from Adrienne the story of Farnsworth's conduct and his
humiliating discomfiture at the hands of Father Beret. She was both
indignant and delighted, sympathizing with Adrienne and glorying in the
priest's vigorous pugilistic achievement.
"Well," she remarked, with one of her infectious trills of laughter,
"so far the French have the best of it, anyway! Papa Roussillon knocked
the Governor's cheek nearly off, then Rene cracked the Irish Corporal's
head, and now Father Beret has taught Captain Farnsworth a lesson in
fisticuffs that he'll not soon forget! If the good work can only go on
a little longer we shall see every English soldier in Vincennes wearing
the mark of a Frenchman's blow." Then her mood suddenly changed from
smiling lightness to almost fierce gravity, and she added:
"Adrienne Bourcier, if Captain Farnsworth ever offers to treat me as he
did you, mark my words, I'll kill him--kill him, indeed I will! You
ought to see me!"
"But he won't dare touch you," said Adrienne, looking at her friend
with round, admiring eyes. "He knows very well that you are not little
and timid like me. He'd be afraid of you."
"I wish he would try it. How I would love to shoot him into pieces, the
hateful wretch! I wish he would."
The French inhabitants all, or nearly all, felt as Alice did; but at
present they were helpless and dared not say or do anything against the
English. Nor was this feeling confined to the Creoles of Vincennes; it
had spread to most of the points where trading posts existed. Hamilton
found this out too late to mend some of his mistakes; but he set
himself on the alert and organized scouting bodies of Indians under
white officers to keep him informed as to the American movements in
Kentucky and along the Ohio. One of these bands brought in as captive
Colonel Francis Vigo, of St. Louis, a Spaniard by birth, an American by
adoption, a patriot to the core, who had large influence over both
Indians and Creoles in the Illinois country.
Colonel Vigo was not long held a prisoner. Hamilton dared not
exasperate the Creoles beyond their endurance, for he knew that the
savages would closely sympathize with their friends of long standing,
and this might lead to revolt and coalition against him,--a very
dangerous possibility. Indeed, at least one of the great Indian
chieftains had already frankly informed him that he and his tribe were
loyal to the Americans. Here was a dilemma requiring consummate
diplomacy. Hamilton saw it, but he was not of a diplomatic temper or
character. With the Indians he used a demoralizing system of bribery,
while toward the whites he was too often gruff, imperious, repellant.
Helm understood the whole situation and was quick to take advantage of
it. His personal relations with Hamilton were easy and familiar, so
that he did not hesitate to give advice upon all occasions. Here his
jovial disposition helped him.
"You'd better let Vigo return to St. Louis," he said. They had a bowl
of something hot steaming between them. "I know him. He's harmless if
you don't rub him too hard the wrong way. He'll go back, if you treat
him well, and tell Clark how strong you are here and how foolish it
would be to think of attacking you. Clark has but a handful of men,
poorly supplied and tired with long, hard marches. If you'll think a
moment you cannot fail to understand that you'd better be friends with
this man Vigo. He and Father Gibault and this old priest here, Beret,
carry these Frenchmen in their pockets. I'm not on your side,
understand, I'm an American, and I'd blow the whole of you to kingdom
come in a minute, if I could; but common sense is common sense all the
same. There's no good to you and no harm to Clark in mistreating, or
even holding this prisoner. What harm can he do you by going back to
Clark and telling him the whole truth? Clark knew everything long
before Vigo reached here. Old Jazon, my best scout, left here the day
you took possession, and you may bet he got to Kaskaskia in short
order. He never fails. But he'll tell Clark to stay where he is, and
Vigo can do no more."
What effect Helm's bold and apparently artless talk had upon Hamilton's
mind is not recorded; but the meager historical facts at command show
that Vigo was released and permitted to return under promise that he
would give no information to the enemy ON HIS WAY to Kaskaskia.
Doubtless this bit of careless diplomacy on the Governor's part did
have a somewhat soothing effect upon a large class of Frenchmen at
Vincennes; but Farnsworth quickly neutralized it to a serious extent by
a foolish act while slightly under the influence of liquor.
He met Father Beret near Roussillon place, and feeling his ribs squirm
at sight of the priest, he accosted him insolently, demanding
information as to the whereabouts of the missing flag.
A priest may be good and true--Father Beret certainly was--and yet have
the strongest characteristics of a worldly man. This thing of being
bullied day after day, as had recently been the rule, generated nothing
to aid in removing a refractory desire from the priest's heart--the
worldly desire to repeat with great increment of force the punch
against Famsworth's lower ribs.
"I order you, sir, to produce that rebel flag," said Farnsworth. "You
will obey forthwith or take the consequences. I am no longer in the
humor to be trifled with. Do you understand?"
"I might be forced to obey you, if I could," said the priest, drawing
his robe about him; "but, as I have often told you, my son, I do not
know where the flag is or who took it. I do not even suspect any person
of taking it. All that I know about it is the simple fact that it is
gone."
Father Beret's manner and voice were very mild, but there must have
been a hint of sturdy defiance somewhere in them. At all events
Farnsworth was exasperated and fell into a white rage. Perhaps it was
the liquor he had been drinking that made him suddenly desperate.
"You canting old fool!" he cried, "don't lie to me any longer; I won't
have it. Don't stand there grinning at me. Get that flag, or I'll make
you."
"What is impossible, my son, is possible to God alone. Apud homines hoc
impossible est, apud Deum autem omnia possibilia sunt."
"None of your Jesuit Latin or logic to me--I am not here to argue, but
to command. Get that flag. Be in a hurry about it, sir."
He whipped out his sword, and in his half drunken eyes there gathered
the dull film of murderous passion.
"Put up your weapon, Captain; you will not attack an unarmed priest.
You are a soldier, and will not dare strike an old, defenceless man."
"But I will strike a black-robed and black-hearted French rebel. Get
that flag, you grinning fool!"
The two men stood facing each other. Father Beret's eyes did not stir
from their direct, fearless gaze. What Farnsworth had called a grin was
a peculiar smile, not of merriment, a grayish flicker and a slight
backward wrinkling of the cheeks. The old man's arms were loosely
crossed upon his sturdy breast.
"Strike if you must," he said very gently, very firmly. "I never yet
have seen the man that could make me afraid." His speech was slightly
sing-song in tone, as it would have been during a prayer or a blessing.
"Get the flag then!" raged Farnsworth, in whose veins the heat of
liquor was aided by an unreasoning choler.
"I cannot," said Father Beret.
"Then take the consequences!"
Farnsworth lifted his sword, not to thrust, but to strike with its flat
side, and down it flashed with a noisy whack. Father Beret flung out an
arm and deftly turned the blow aside. It was done so easily that
Farnsworth sprang back glaring and surprised.
"You old fool!" he cried, leveling his weapon for a direct lunge. "You
devilish hypocrite!"
It was then that Father Beret turned deadly pale and swiftly crossed
himself. His face looked as if he saw something startling just beyond
his adversary. Possibly this sudden change of expression caused
Farnsworth to hesitate for a mere point of time. Then there was the
swish of a woman's skirts; a light step pattered on the frozen ground,
and Alice sprang between the men, facing Farnsworth. As she did this
something small and yellow,--the locket at her throat,--fell and rolled
under her feet. Nobody saw it.
In her hand she held an immense horse pistol, which she leveled in the
Captain's face, its flaring, bugle-shaped muzzle gaping not a yard from
his nose. The heavy tube was as steady as if in a vise.
"Drop that sword!"
That was all she said; but her finger was pressing the trigger, and the
flint in the backward slanting hammer was ready to click against the
steel. The leaden slugs were on the point of leaping forth.
"Drop that sword!"
The repetition seemed to close the opportunity for delay.
Farnsworth was on his guard in a twinkling. He set his jaw and uttered
an ugly oath; then quick as lightning he struck sidewise at the pistol
with his blade. It was a move which might have taken a less alert
person than Alice unawares; but her training in sword-play was ready in
her wrist and hand. An involuntary turn, the slightest imaginable, set
the heavy barrel of her weapon strongly against the blow, partly
stopping it, and then the gaping muzzle spat its load of balls and
slugs with a bellow that awoke the drowsy old village.
Farnsworth staggered backward, letting fall his sword. There was a rent
in the clothing of his left shoulder. He reeled; the blood spun out;
but he did not fall, although he grew white.
Alice stood gazing at him with a look on her face he would never
forget. It was a look that changed by wonderful swift gradations from
terrible hate to something like sweet pity. The instant she saw him
hurt and bleeding, his countenance relaxing and pale, her heart failed
her. She took a step toward him, her hand opened, and with a thud the
heavy old pistol fell upon the ground beside her.
Father Beret sprang nimbly to sustain Farnsworth, snatching up the
pistol as he passed around Alice.
"You are hurt, my son," he gently said, "let me help you." He passed
his arm firmly under that of Farnsworth, seeing that the Captain was
unsteady on his feet.
"Lean upon me. Come with me, Alice, my child, I will take him into the
house."
Alice picked up the Captain's sword and led the way.
It was all done so quickly that Farnsworth, in his half dazed
condition, scarcely realized what was going on until he found himself
on a couch in the Roussillon home, his wound (a jagged furrow plowed
out by slugs that the sword's blade had first intercepted) neatly
dressed and bandaged, while Alice and the priest hovered over him busy
with their careful ministrations.
Hamilton and Helm were, as usual, playing cards at the former's
quarters when a guard announced that Mademoiselle Roussillon wished an
audience with the Governor.
"Bring the girl in," said Hamilton, throwing down his cards and
scowling darkly.
"Now you'd better be wise as a serpent and gentle as a dove," remarked
Helm. "There is something up, and that gun-shot we heard awhile ago may
have a good deal to do with it. At any rate, you'll find kindness your
best card to play with Alice Roussillon just at the present stage of
the game."
Of course they knew nothing of what had happened to Farnsworth; but
they had been discussing the strained relations between the garrison
and the French inhabitants when the roar of Alice's big-mouthed pistol
startled them. Helm was slyly beating about to try to make Hamilton
lose sight of the danger from Clark's direction. To do this he artfully
magnified the insidious work that might be done by the French and their
Indian friends should they be driven to desperation by oppressive or
exasperating action on the part of the English.
Hamilton felt the dangerous uncertainty upon which the situation
rested; but, like many another vigorously self-reliant man, he could
not subordinate his passions to the dictates of policy. When Alice was
conducted into his presence he instantly swelled with anger. It was her
father who had struck him and escaped, it was she who had carried off
the rebel flag at the moment of victory.
"Well, Miss, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?" he demanded
with a supercilious air, bending a card between his thumb and finger on
the rude table.
She stood before him tall and straight, well bundled in furs. She was
not pale; her blood was too rich and brilliant for that; but despite a
half-smile and the inextinguishable dimples, there was a touch of
something appealingly pathetic in the lines of her mouth. She did not
waver or hesitate, however, but spoke promptly and distinctly.
"I have come, Monsieur, to tell you that I have hurt Captain
Farnsworth. He was about to kill Father Beret, and I shot him. He is in
our house and well cared for. I don't think his wound is bad. And--"
here she hesitated at last and let her gaze fall,--"so here I am." Then
she lifted her eyes again and made an inimitable French gesture with
her shoulders and arms. "You will do as you please, Monsieur, I am at
your mercy."
Hamilton was astounded. Helm sat staring phlegmatically. Meantime
Beverley entered the room and stopped hat in hand behind Alice. He was
flushed and evidently excited; in fact, he had heard of the trouble
with Farnsworth, and seeing Alice enter the floor of Hamilton's
quarters he followed her in, his heart stirred by no slight emotion. He
met the Governor's glare and parried it with one of equal haughtiness.
The veins on his forehead swelled and turned dark. He was in a mood to
do whatever desperate act should suggest itself.
When Hamilton fairly comprehended the message so graphically presented
by Alice, he rose from his seat by the fire.
"What's this you tell me?" he blurted. "You say you've shot Captain
Farnsworth?"
"Oui, Monsieur."
He stared a moment, then his features beamed with hate.
"And I'll have you shot for it, Miss, as sure as you stand there in
your silly impudence ogling me so brazenly!"
He leaned toward her as he spoke and sent with the words a shock of
coarse, passionate energy from which she recoiled as if expecting a
blow to follow it.
An irresistible impulse swept Beverley to Alice's side, and his
attitude was that of a protector. Helm sprang up.
A Lieutenant came in and respectfully, but with evident over-haste,
reported that Captain Farnsworth had been shot and was at Roussillon
place in care of the surgeon.
"Take this girl into custody. Confine her and put a strong guard over
her."
In giving the order Hamilton jerked his thumb contemptuously toward
Alice, and at the same time gave Beverley a look of supreme defiance
and hatred. When Helm began to speak he turned fiercely upon him and
stopped him with:
"None of your advice, sir. I have had all I want of it. Keep your place
or I'll make you."
Then to Beverley:
"Retire, sir. When I wish to see you I'll send for you. At present you
are not needed here."
The English Lieutenant saluted his commander, bowed respectfully to
Alice and said:
"Come with me, Miss, please."
Helm and Beverley exchanged a look of helpless and enquiring rage. It
was as if they had said: "What can we do? Must we bear it?" Certainly
they could do nothing. Any interference on their part would be sure to
increase Alice's danger, and at the same time add to the weight of
their own humiliation.
Alice silently followed the officer out of the room. She did not even
glance toward Beverley, who moved as if to interfere and was promptly
motioned back by the guard. His better judgement returning held him
from a rash and futile act, until Hamilton spoke again, saying loudly
as Alice passed through the door:
"I'll see who's master of this town if I have to shoot every French
hoyden in it!"
"Women and children may well fear you, Colonel Hamilton," said
Beverley. "That young lady is your superior."
"You say that to me, sir!"
"It is the best I could possibly say of you."
"I will send you along with the wench if you do not guard your
language. A prisoner on parole has no license to be a blackguard."
"I return you my parole, sir, I shall no longer regard it as binding,"
said Beverley, by a great effort, holding back a blow; "I will not keep
faith with a scoundrel who does not know how to be decent in the
presence of a young girl. You had better have me arrested and confined.
I will escape at the first opportunity and bring a force here to reckon
with you for your villainy. And if you dare hurt Alice Roussillon I
will have you hanged like a dog!"
Hamilton looked at him scornfully, smiling as one who feels safe in his
authority and means to have his own way with his victim. Naturally he
regarded Beverley's words as the merest vaporings of a helpless and
exasperated young man. He saw very clearly that love was having a hand
in the affair, and he chuckled inwardly, thinking what a fool Beverley
was.
"I thought I ordered you to leave this room," he said with an air and
tone of lofty superiority, "and I certainly mean to be obeyed. Go, sir,
and if you attempt to escape, or in any way break your parole, I'll
have you shot."
"I have already broken it. From this moment I shall not regard it. You
have heard my statement. I shall not repeat it. Govern yourself
accordingly."
With these words Beverley turned and strode out of the house, quite
beside himself, his whole frame quivering.
Hamilton laughed derisively, then looked at Helm and said:
"Helm, I like you; I don't wish to be unkind to you; but positively you
must quit breaking in upon my affairs with your ready-made advice. I've
given you and Lieutenant Beverley too much latitude, perhaps. If that
young fool don't look sharp he'll get himself into a beastly lot of
trouble. You'd better give him a talk. He's in a way to need it just
now."
"I think so myself," said Helm, glad to get back upon fair footing with
the irascible Governor. "I'll wait until he cools off somewhat, and
then I can manage him. Leave him to me."
"Well, come walk with me to see what has really happened to Farnsworth.
He's probably not much hurt, and deserves what he's got. That girl has
turned his head. I think I understand the whole affair. A little love,
a little wine, some foolishness, and the wench shot him."
Helm genially assented; but they were delayed for some time by an
officer who came in to consult with Hamilton on some pressing Indian
affairs. When they reached Roussillon place they met Beverley coming
out; but he did not look at them. He was scarcely aware of them. A
little way outside the gate, on going in, he had picked up Alice's
locket and broken chain, which he mechanically put into his pocket. It
was all like a dream to him, and yet he had a clear purpose. He was
going away from Vincennes, or at least he would try, and woe be to
Hamilton on his coming back. It was so easy for an excited young mind
to plan great things and to expect success under apparently impossible
conditions. Beverley gave Jean a note for Alice; it was this that took
him to Roussillon place; and no sooner fell the night than he
shouldered a gun furnished him by Madame Godere, and guided by the
woodsman's fine craft, stole away southward, thinking to swim the icy
Wabash some miles below, and then strike across the plains of Illinois
to Kaskaskia.
It was a desperate undertaking; but in those days desperate
undertakings were rather the rule than the exception. Moreover, love
was the leader and Beverley the blind follower. Nothing could daunt him
or turn him back, until he found an army to lead against Hamilton. It
seems but a romantic burst of indignation, as we look back at it,
hopelessly foolish, with no possible end but death in the wilderness.
Still there was a method in love's madness, and Beverley, with his
superb physique, his knowledge of the wilderness and his indomitable
self-reliance, was by no means without his fighting chance for success.