RAISING THE NEW FLAG.
Old Detroit had seemed roomy enough when Monsieur Cadillac planted the
lilies of France and flung out the royal standard. And the hardy men
slept cheerfully on their beds of fir twigs with blankets drawn over
them, and the sky for a canopy, until the stockade was built and the
rude fort made a place of shelter. But before the women came it had been
rendered habitable and more secure; streets were laid out, the chapel of
St. Anne's built, and many houses put up inside the palisades. And there
was gay, cheerful life, too, for French spirits and vivacity could not
droop long in such exhilarating air.
Canoes and row boats went up and down the river with merry crews. And in
May there was a pole put in what was to be the military garden, and from
it floated the white flag of France. On the green there was a great
concourse and much merriment and dancing, and not a little love making.
For if a soldier asked a pretty Indian maid in marriage, the Commandant
winked at it, and she soon acquired French and danced with the gayest of
them.
Then there was a gala time when the furs came in and the sales were
made, and the boats loaded and sent on to Montreal to be shipped across
the sea; or the Dutch merchants came from the Mohawk valley or New
Amsterdam to trade. The rollicking _coureurs des bois_, who came to be
almost a race by themselves, added their jollity and often carried it
too far, ending in fighting and arrests.
But it was not all gayety. Up to this time there had been two terrible
attacks on the fort, and many minor ones. Attempts had been made to burn
it; sometimes the garrison almost starved in bad seasons. France, in all
her seventy years of possession, never struck the secret of colonizing.
The thrifty emigrant in want of a home where he could breathe a freer
air than on his native soil was at once refused. The Jesuit rule was
strict as to religion; the King of France would allow no laws but his
own, and looked upon his colonies as sources of revenue if any could be
squeezed out of them, sources of glory if not.
The downfall of Canada had been a sad blow. The French colonist felt it
more keenly than the people thousands of miles away, occupied with many
other things. And the bitterest of all protests was made by the Jesuits
and the Church. They had been fervent and heroic laborers, and many a
life had been bravely sacrificed for the furtherance of the work among
the Indians.
True, there had not been a cordial sympathy between the Jesuits and the
Recollets, but the latter had proved the greater favorites in Detroit.
There was now the Recollet house near the church, where they were
training young girls and teaching the catechism and the rules of the
Church, as often orally as by book, as few could read. Here were some
Indian girls from tribes that had been almost decimated in the savage
wars, some of whom were bound out afterward as servants. There were
slaves, mostly of the old Pawnee tribe, some very old, indeed; others
had married, but their children were under the ban of their parents.
With the coming of the English there was a wider liberty, a new
atmosphere, and though the French protested bitterly and could not but
believe the mother country would make some strenuous effort to recover
the territory as they temporized with the Indians and held out vague
hopes, yet, as the years passed on, they found themselves insensibly
yielding to the sway, and compelled now and then to fight for their
homes against a treacherous enemy. Mayor Gladwyn had been a hero to them
in his bravery and perseverance.
There came in a wealthier class of citizens to settle, and officials
were not wanting in showy attire. Black silk breeches and hose, enormous
shoe buckles, stiff stocks, velvet and satin coats and beaver hats were
often seen. Ladies rejoiced in new importations, and in winter went
decked in costly furs. Even the French damsels relaxed their plain
attire and made pictures with their bright kerchiefs tied coquettishly
over curling hair, and they often smiled back at the garrison soldiers
or the troops on parade. The military gardens were improved and became
places of resort on pleasant afternoons, and the two hundred houses
inside the pickets increased a little, encroaching more and more on the
narrow streets. The officers' houses were a little grander; some of the
traders indulged in more show and their wives put on greater airs and
finer gowns and gave parties. The Campeau house was venerable even then,
built as it was on the site of Cadillac's headquarters and abounding in
many strange legends, and there were rude pictures of the Canoe with
Madame Cadillac, who had made the rough voyage with her ladies and come
to a savage wilderness out of love for her husband; and the old, long,
low Cass house that had sheltered so many in the Pontiac war, and the
Governor's house on St. Anne's street, quite grand with its two stories
and peaked roof, with the English colors always flying.
Many of the houses were plastered over the rough hewn cedar lath, others
were just of the smaller size trees split in two and the interstices
filled in. Many were lined with birch bark, with borders of beautiful
ash and silver birch. Chimneys were used now, great wide spaces at one
end filled in with seats. In winter furs were hung about and often
dropped over the windows at night, which were always closed with tight
board shutters as soon as dusk set in, which gave the streets a gloomy
aspect and in nowise assisted a prowling enemy. A great solid oaken
door, divided in the middle with locks and bars that bristled with
resistance, was at the front.
But inside they were comfortable and full of cheer. Wooden benches and
chairs, some of the former with an arm and a cushion of spruce twigs
covered with a bear or wolf skin, though in the finer houses there were
rush bottoms and curiously stained splints with much ornamental Indian
work. A dresser in the living room displayed not only Queen's ware, but
such silver and pewter as the early colonists possessed, and there were
pictures curiously framed, ornaments of wampum and shells and fine bead
work. The family usually gathered here, and the large table standing in
the middle of the floor had a hospitable look heightened by the savory
smells which at that day seemed to offend no one.
The farms all lay without and stretched down the river and westward. The
population outside had increased much faster, for there was room to
grow. There were little settlements of French, others of half-breeds,
and not a few Indian wigwams. The squaws loved to shelter themselves
under the wing of the Fort and the whites. Business of all kinds had
increased since the coming of the English.
But now there had occurred another overturn. Detroit had been an
important post during the Revolution, and though General Washington,
Jefferson, and Clark had planned expeditions for its attack, it was, at
the last, a bloodless capture, being included in the boundaries named in
the Quebec Act. But the British counted on recapture, and the Indians
were elated with false hopes until the splendid victories of General
Wayne in northern Illinois against both Indians and English. By his
eloquence and the announcement of the kindly intentions of the United
States, the Chippewa nation made gifts of large tracts of land and
relinquished all claims to Detroit and Mackinaw.
The States had now two rather disaffected peoples. Many of the English
prepared to return to Canada with the military companies. The French had
grown accustomed to the rule and still believed in kings and state and
various titles. But the majority of the poor scarcely cared, and would
have grumbled at any rule.
For weeks Detroit was in a ferment with the moving out. There were
sorrowful farewells. Many a damsel missed the lover to whom she had
pinned her faith, many an irregular marriage was abruptly terminated.
The good Recollet fathers had tried to impress the sacredness of family
ties upon their flock, but since the coming of the English, the liberty
allowed every one, and the Protestant form of worship, there had grown a
certain laxness even in the town.
"It is going to be a great day!" declared Jeanne, as she sprang out of
her little pallet. There were two beds in the room, a great, high-post
carved bedstead of the Bellestre grandeur, and the cot Jacques Pallent,
the carpenter, had made, which was four sawed posts, with a frame nailed
to the top of them. It was placed in the corner, and so, out of sight,
Pani felt that her charge was always safe. In the morning Jeanne
generally turned a somersault that took her over to the edge of the big
bed, from whence she slid down.
The English had abolished slavery in name, but most of the Pani servants
remained. They seldom had any other than their tribal name. Since the
departure of the Bellestres Jeanne's guardian had taken on a new
dignity. She was a tall, grave woman, and much respected by all. No one
would have thought of interfering with her authority over the child.
"Hear the cannon at the Fort and the bells. And everybody will be out!
Pani, give me some breakfast and let me go."
"Nay, nay, child. You cannot go alone in such a crowd as this will be.
And I must set the house straight."
"But Marie De Ber and Pierre are to go. We planned it last night. Pierre
is a big, strong boy, and he can pick his way through a crowd with his
elbows. His mother says he always punches holes through his sleeves."
Jeanne laughed gayly. Pierre was a big, raw-boned fellow, a good guard
anywhere.
"Nay, child, I shall go, too. It will not be long. And here is a choice
bit of bread browned over the coals that you like so much, and the corn
mush of last night fried to a turn."
"Let me run and see Marie a moment--"
"With that head looking as if thou hadst tumbled among the burrs, or
some hen had scratched it up for a nest! And eyes full of dew webs that
are spun in the grass by the spirits of night."
"Look, they are wide open!" She buried her face in a pail of water and
splashed it around as a huge bird might, as she raised her beautiful
laughing orbs, blue now as the midnight sky. And then she carelessly
combed the tangled curls that fell about her like the spray of a
waterfall.
"Thou must have a coif like other French girls, Jeanne. Berthe Campeau
puts up her hair."
"Berthe goes to the Recollets and prays and counts beads, and will run
no more or shout, and sings only dreary things that take the life and
gayety out of you. She will go to Montreal, where her aunt is in a
convent, and her mother cries about it. If I had a mother I would not
want to make her cry. Pani, what do you suppose happened to my mother?
Sometimes I think I can remember her a little."
The face so gay and willful a moment before was suddenly touched with a
sweet and tender gravity.
"She is dead this long time, _petite_. Children may leave their mothers,
but mothers never give up their children unless they are taken from
them."
"Pani, what if the Indian woman had stolen me?"
"But she said you had no mother. Come, little one, and eat your
breakfast."
Jeanne was such a creature of moods and changes that she forgot her
errand to Marie. She clasped her hands together and murmured her French
blessing in a soft, reverent tone.
Maize was a staple production in the new world, when the fields were not
destroyed by marauding parties. There were windmills that ground it
coarsely and both cakes and porridge were made of it. The Indian women
cracked and pounded it in a stone mortar and boiled it with fish or
venison. The French brought in many new ways of cooking.
"Oh, hear the bells and the music from the Fort! Come, hurry, Pani, if
you are going with us. Pani, are people slow when they get old?"
"Much slower, little one."
"Then I don't want to be old. I want to run and jump and climb and swim.
Marie knits, she has so many brothers and sisters. But I like leggings
better in the winter. And they sew at the Recollet house."
"And thou must learn to sew, little one."
"Wait until I am big and old and have to sit in the chimney corner.
There are no little ones--sometimes I am glad, sometimes sorry, but if
they are not here one does not have to work for them."
She gave a bright laugh and was off like a flash. The Pani woman sighed.
She wondered sometimes whether it would not have been better to give her
up to the good father who took such an interest in her. But she was all
the poor woman had to love. True she could be a servant in the house,
but to have her wild, free darling bound down to rigid rules and made
unhappy was more than she could stand. And had not Mr. Bellestre
provided this home for them?
The woman had hardly put away the dishes, which were almost as much of
an idol to her as the child, when Jeanne came flying back.
"Yes, hurry, hurry, Pani! They are all ready. And Madame De Ber said
Marie should not go out on such a day unless you went too. She called me
feather headed! As if I were an Indian chief with a great crown of
feathers!"
The child laughed gayly. It was as natural to her as singing to a bird.
Pani gathered up a few last things and looked to see that the fire was
put out.
Already the streets were being crowded and presented a picturesque
aspect. Inside the stockade the _chemin du ronde_ extended nearly around
the town and this had been widened by the necessity of military
operations. Soldiers were pouring out of the Citadel and the Fort but
the colonial costume looked queer to eyes accustomed to the white
trimmings of the French and the red of the British. The latter had made
a grander show many a time, both in numbers and attire. There were the
old French habitans, gay under every new dispensation, in tanned
leathern small clothes, made mostly of deer skin, and blue blouses, blue
cap, with a red feather, some disporting themselves in unwonted finery
kept for holiday occasions; pretty laughing demoiselles with bright
kerchiefs or a scarf of open, knitted lace-like stuff with beads that
sparkled with every coquettish turn of the head; there were Indians with
belted tomahawks and much ornamented garments, gorgets and collars of
rudely beaten copper or silver if they could afford to barter furs for
them, half-breed dandies who were gorgeous in scarlet and jewelry of all
sorts, squaws wrapped in blankets, looking on wonderingly, and the new
possessors of Detroit who were at home everywhere.
The procession formed at the parade in front of the Fort. Some of the
aristocracy of the place were out also, staid middle-aged men with
powdered queues and velvet coats, elegant ladies in crimson silk
petticoats and skirts drawn back, the train fastened up with a ribbon
or chain which they carried on their arms as they minced along on their
high heeled slippers, carrying enormous fans that were parasols as well,
and wearing an immense bonnet, the fashion in France a dozen years
before.
"What is it all about?" asked one and another.
"They are to put up a new flag."
"For how long?" in derision. "The British will be back again in no
time."
"Are there any more conquerors to come? We turn our coats at every one's
bidding it seems."
The detachment was from General Wayne's command and great was the
disappointment that the hero himself was not on hand to celebrate the
occasion; but he had given orders that possession of the place should be
signalized without him. Indeed, he did not reach Detroit until a month
later.
On July 11, 1796, the American flag was raised above Detroit, and many
who had never seen it gazed stupidly at it, as its red and white stripes
waved on the summer air, and its blue field and white stars shone
proudly from the flag staff, blown about triumphantly on the radiant air
shimmering with golden sunshine.
Shouts went up like volleys. All the Michigan settlements were now a
part of the United Colonies, that had so bravely won their freedom and
were extending their borders over the cherished possessions of France
and England.
The post was formally delivered up to the governor of the territory.
Another flag was raised on the Citadel, which was for the accommodation
of the general and his suite at present and whoever was commandant. It
was quite spacious, with an esplanade in front, now filled by soldiers.
There were the almost deafening salutes and the blare of the band.
"Why it looks like heaven at night!" cried Jeanne rapturously. "I shall
be an American,--I like the stars better than the lilies of France, and
the red cross is hateful. For stars _are_ of heaven, you know, you
cannot make them grow on earth."
A kindly, smiling, elderly man turned and caught sight of the eager,
rosy face.
"And which, I wonder, is the brave General Wayne?"
"He is not here to-day unfortunately and cannot taste the sweets of his
many victories. But he is well worth seeing, and quite as sorry not to
be here as you are to miss him. But he is coming presently."
"Then it is not the man who is making a speech?--and see what a
beautiful horse he has!"
"That is the governor, Major General St. Clair."
"And General Wayne, is he an American?"
The man gave an encouraging smile to the child's eager inquiry.
"An American? yes. But look you, child. The only proper Americans would
be the Indians."
She frowned and looked puzzled.
"A little way back we came from England and France and Holland and Spain
and Italy. We are so diverse that it is a wonder we can be harmonized.
Only there seems something in this grand air, these mighty forests,
these immense lakes and rivers, that nurtures liberty and independence
and breadth of thought and action. Who would have dreamed that clashing
interests could have been united in that one aim, liberty, and that it
could spread itself from the little nucleus, north, south, east, and
west! The young generation will see a great country. And I suppose we
will always be Americans."
He turned to the young man beside him, who seemed amused at the
enthusiasm that rang in his voice and shone in his eyes of light, clear
blue as he had smiled down on the child who scarcely understood, but
took in the general trend and was moved by the warmth and glow.
"Monsieur, there are many countries beside England and France," she said
thoughtfully.
"O yes, a world full of them. Countries on the other side of the globe
of which we know very little."
"The other side?" Her eyes opened wide in surprise, and a little crease
deepened in the sunny brow as she flung the curls aside. She wore no hat
of any kind in summer.
"Yes, it is a round world with seas and oceans and land on both sides.
And it keeps going round."
"But, Monsieur," as he made a motion with his hand to describe it, "why
does not the water spill out and the ground slide off? What makes
it--oh, how can it stick?" with a laugh of incredulity.
"Because a wisdom greater than all of earth rules it. Are there no
schools in Detroit?"
"The English have some and there is the Recollet house and the sisters.
But they make you sit still, and presently you go to Montreal or Quebec
and are a nun, and wear a long, black gown, and have your head tied up.
Why, I should smother and I could not hear! That is so you cannot hear
wicked talk and the drunken songs, but I love the birds and the wind
blowing and the trees rustling and the river rushing and beating up in a
foam. And I am not afraid of the Indians nor the _shil loups_," but she
lowered her tone a trifle.
"Do not put too much trust in the Indians, Mam'selle. And there is the
_loup garou_--"
"But I have seen real wolves, Monsieur, and when they bring in the furs
there are so many beautiful ones. Madame De Ber says there is no such
thing as a _loup garou_, that a person cannot be a man and a wolf at the
same time. When the wolves and the panthers and the bears howl at night
one's blood runs chilly. But we are safe in the stockade."
"There is much for thee to learn, little one," he said, after a pause.
"There must be schools in the new country so that all shall not grow up
in ignorance. Where is thy father?"
Jeanne Angelot stared straight before her seeing nothing. Her father?
The De Bers had a father, many children had, she remembered. And her
mother was dead.
The address ended and there was a thundering roll of drums, while
cheers went up here and there. Cautious French habitans and traders
thought it wiser to wait and see how long this standard of stripes and
stars would wave over them. They were used to battles and conquering and
defeated armies, and this peace they could hardly understand. The
English were rather sullen over it. Was this stripling of newfound
liberty to possess the very earth?
The crowd surged about. Pani caught the arm of her young charge and drew
her aside. She was alarmed at the steady scrutiny the young man had
given her, though it was chiefly as to some strange specimen.
"Thou art overbold, Jeanne, smiling up in a young man's face and
puckering thy brows like some maid coquetting for a lover."
"A young man!" Jeanne laughed heartily. "Why he had a snowy beard like a
white bear in winter. Where were your eyes, Pani? And he told me such
curious things. Is the world round, Pani? And there are lands and lands
and strange people--"
"It is a brave show," exclaimed Louis Marsac joining them. "I wonder how
long it will last. There are to be some new treaties I hear about the
fur trade. That man from the town called New York, a German or some such
thing, gets more power every month. A messenger came this morning and I
am to return to my father at once. Jeanne, I wish thou and Pani wert
going to the upper lakes with me. If thou wert older--"
She turned away suddenly. Marie De Ber had a group of older girls about
her and she plunged into them, as if she might be spirited away.
Monsieur St. Armand had looked after his little friend but missed her in
the crowd, and a shade of disappointment deepened his blue eyes.
"_Mon pere_," began the young man beside him, "evidently thou wert born
for a missionary to the young. I dare say you discovered untold
possibilities in that saucy child who knows well how to flirt her curls
and arch her eyebrows. She amused me. Was that half-breed her brother, I
wonder!"
"She was not a half-breed, Laurent. There are curious things in this
world, and something about her suggested--or puzzled. She has no Indian
eyes, but the rarest dark blue I ever saw. And did Indian blood ever
break out in curly hair?"
"I only noticed her swarthy skin. And there is such a mixed-up crew in
this town! Come, the grand show is about over and now we are all reborn
Americans up to the shores of Lake Superior. But we will presently be
due at the Montdesert House. Are we to have no more titles and French
nobility be on a level with the plainest, just Sieur and Madame?" with a
little curl of the lips. The elder smiled good naturedly, nay, even
indulgently.
"The demoiselles are more to thee than that splendid flag waving over a
free country. Thou canst return--"
"But the dinner?"
"Ah, yes, then we will go together," he assented.
"If we can pick our way through this crowd. What beggarly narrow
streets. Faugh! One can hardly get his breath. Our wilds are to be
preferred."
By much turning in and out they reached the upper end of St. Louis
street, which at that period was quite an elevation and overlooked the
river.