IN WHICH JEANNE BOWS HER HEAD.
General Anthony Wayne was a busy man for the next few weeks, though he
was full of tireless activity to his finger tips. There was much to be
done in the town that was old already and had seen three different
regimes. English people were packing their worldly goods and starting
for Canada. Some of the French were going to the farther western
settlements. Barracks were overhauled, the palisades strengthened, the
Fort put in a better state of defense. For there were threats that the
English might return. There were roving bands of Indians to the north
and west, ready to be roused to an attack by disaffected French or
English.
But the industrious inhabitants plied their vocations unmindful of
change of rulers. Boat loads of emigrants came in. Stores of all kinds
were dumped upon the wharf. The red painted windmills flew like great
birds in the air, though some of the habitans kept to their little home
hand mill, whose two revolving stones needed a great expenditure of
strength and ground but coarsely. You saw women spinning in doorways
that they might nod to passers-by or chat with a neighbor who had time
to spare.
The children played about largely on the outside of the palisade. There
were waving fields of maize that farmers had watched with fear and
trembling and now surveyed with pride. Other grains were being
cultivated. Estates were staked out, new log houses were erected, some
much more pretentious ones with great stone chimneys.
Yet people found time for pleasure. There were canoe loads of merry
girls going down or up the river, adroitly keeping out of the way of the
larger craft and sending laughing replies to the chaff of the boatmen.
And the evenings were mostly devoted to pleasure, with much music and
singing. For it was not all work then.
Jeanne roamed at her own wayward will, oftenest within the inclosure
with Pani by the hand. The repairs going on interested her. The new
soldiers in their Continental blue and buff, most of it soiled and worn,
presented quite a contrast to the red and gold of the English to which
their eyes had become so accustomed. Now and then some one spoke
respectfully to her; there was much outward deference paid to women even
if the men were some of them tyrants within.
And Jeanne asked questions in her own fearless fashion. She had picked
up some English and by dint of both languages could make herself
understood.
"Well?" exclaimed a young lieutenant who had been overseeing some work
and cleaning up at the barracks, turning a smiling and amused face
towards her, "well, Mademoiselle, how do you like us--your new
masters?"
"Are you going to be masters here for long? Are you sure the English
will not come back?"
She raised her head proudly and her eyes flashed.
"It looks as if we might stay," he answered.
"You will not be everybody's master. You will not be mine."
"Why, no. What I meant was the government. Individuals you know have
always a certain liberty."
She wondered a little what individuals were. Ah, if one could know a
good deal! Something was stirring within her and it gave her a sort of
pain, perplexing her as well.
What a bright curious face it was with the big eyes that looked out so
straightforwardly!
"You are French, Mam'selle, or--"
"Am I like an Indian?"
She stood up straight and seemed two or three inches taller. He turned a
sudden scarlet as he studied the mop of black curling hair, the long
lashes, through which her eyes glittered, the brown skin that was sun
kissed rather than of a copper tint, the shapely figure, and small hands
that looked as if they might grasp and hold on.
"No, Mam'selle, I think you are not." Then he looked at Pani. "You live
here?"
"Oh, not far away. Pani is my--oh, I do not know what you call
it--guard, nurse, but I am a big girl now and do not need a nurse.
Monsieur, I think I am French. But I dropped from the clouds one evening
and I can't remember the land before that."
The soldier stared, but not impertinently.
"Mam'selle, I hope you will like us, since we have come to stay."
"Ah, do not feel too sure. The French drove out the Indians, the English
conquered the French, and they went away--many of them. And you have
driven out the English. Where will the next people come from?"
"The next people?" in surprise.
"The people to drive you out." She laughed softly.
"We will not be driven out."
"Are you as strong as that?"
"Mam'selle, we have conquered the English from Maine to the Carolinas,
and to the Mississippi river. We shall do all the rest sometime."
"I think I shall be an American. I like people who are strong and can
never be beaten."
"Of course you will have to be an American. And you must learn to speak
English well."
"Monsieur," with much dignity, "if you are so grand why do you not have
a language of your own?"
"Because"--he was about to say--"we were English in the beginning," but
the sharp, satirical curves lurking around her mouth checked him. What
an odd, piquant creature she was!
"Come away," and Pani pulled her hand. "You talk too much to people and
make M'sieu idle."
"O Pani!" She gave an exultant cry and sprang away, then stopped short.
For it was not only her friend, but a number of gentlemen in military
attire and mounted on horses with gay trappings.
Monsieur St. Armand waved his hand to her. She shrank back and caught
Pani's gown.
"It is General Wayne," said the lieutenant, and paid him something more
than the demands of superior rank, for admiration was in his eyes and
Jeanne noticed it.
"My little friend," said St. Armand, leaning down toward Jeanne, "I am
glad to see you again." He turned a trifle. The general and his aids
were on a tour of inspection, and now the brave soldier leaped from the
saddle, giving the child a glance.
"I have been coming to find you," began Monsieur. "I have many things to
say to your attendant. Especially as in a few days I go away."
"O Monsieur, is it because you do not like--" her eyes followed the
general's suite.
"It is because I like them so well. I go to their capital on some
business, and then to France. But I shall return in a year, perhaps. A
year is not very long."
"Just a winter and a summer. There are many of them to life?"
"To some lives, yes. I hope there will be to yours, happy ones."
"I am always happy when I can run about or sail on the river. There are
so many delightful things when no one bothers you."
"And the bothers are, I suppose, when some one considers your way not
the best for you. We all meet with such things in life."
"My own way is the best," she replied, willfully, a daring light
shining in her eyes. "Do I not know what gives me the most pleasure? If
I want to go out and sing with the birds or run mad races with the dogs,
or play with the children outside, that is the thing which gives me joy
and makes my blood rush warm and bright in my veins. Monsieur, I told
you I did not like to be shut up."
"Well, well. Remain in your little cottage this afternoon, and let me
come and talk to you. I think I will not make you unhappy."
"Your voice is so sweet, Monsieur, but if you say disagreeable things,
if you want me to learn to sew and to read--and to spin--the De Bers
have just had a spinning wheel come. It is a queer thing and hums
strangely. And Marie will learn to spin, her mother says. Then she will
never be able to go in the woods for wild grapes and nuts. No, I cannot
spend my time being so busy. And I do not care for stockings. Leggings
are best for winter. And Touchas makes me moccasins."
Her feet and ankles were bare now. Dainty and shapely they were, and
would have done for models.
"Monsieur, the soft grass and the warm sand is so pleasant to one's
feet. I am glad I am not a grand lady to wear clumsy shoes. Why, I could
not run."
St. Armand laughed. He had never seen such a free, wild, human thing
rejoicing exultantly in its liberty. It seemed almost a shame to capture
her--like caging a bird. But she could not always be a child.
General Wayne had made his round and given some orders, and now he
reappeared.
"I want to present you to this little girl of Detroit," began M. St.
Armand, "so that in years to come, when she hears of all your exploits,
she will be proud that she had the honor. Jeanne Angelot is the small
maid's name. And this is our brave General Wayne, who has persuaded the
Indians to peace and amity, and taught the English to keep their word.
But he can fight as well as talk."
"Monsieur, when they gave you welcome, I did not think you looked grand
enough for a great general. But when I come near by I see you are brave
and strong and determined. I honor you, Monsieur. I am glad you are to
rule Detroit."
"Thank you, my little maid. I hope Detroit will become a great city, and
that you may live many years in it, and be very happy."
She made a courtesy with free, exquisite grace. General Wayne leaped
into his saddle and waved his hand.
"What an odd and charming child," he remarked to St. Armand. "No woman
of society could have been more graceful and less abashed, and few would
own up change of opinion with such naive sweetness. Of course she is a
child of the people?"
"I am interested in learning who she really is;" and St. Armand repeated
what he knew of her story.
"Her mother may have been killed by the Indians. There will be many a
sad romance linked in with our early history, Sieur St. Armand."
As for Jeanne Angelot, many a time in after years she recalled her
meeting with the brave general, and no one dreamed then that his
brilliant career was to end so soon. Until November he held the post,
repairing fortifications, promulgating new laws, redressing abuses,
soothing the disaffected and, as far as he could, studying the best
interests of the town. In November he started for the East, but at
Presque Isle was seized with a fatal malady which ended his useful and
energetic career, and proved a great loss to the country.
Monsieur St. Armand was late in keeping his word. There had been many
things pressing on his attention and consideration. Jeanne had been very
restless. A hundred desires flew to her mind like birds on the wing.
Never had there seemed so many charms outside of the walls. She ran down
to see Marie at the new spinning wheel. Madame De Ber had not used one
in a long time and was a little awkward.
"When I have Marie well trained I think I will take thee in hand," she
said, rather severely. "Thou wilt soon be a big girl and then a maiden
who should be laying by some garments and blankets and household gear.
And thou canst not even knit."
"But why should I? There are no brothers and sisters, and Wenonah is
glad to make garments for me. Though I think M. Bellestre's money pays
for them. And Touchas sends such nice fur things."
"I should be ashamed to have other people work while I climbed trees and
ran about with Indian children. Though it is half suspected they are
kin to thee. But the French part should rule."
Jeanne threw up her head with a proud gesture.
"I should not mind. I often feel that they must be. They like liberty,
so do I. We are like birds and wild deer."
Then the child ran back before any reply could be made. Yet she was not
as indifferent as she seemed. She had not minded it until lately, but
now when it came in this sort of taunt she could not tell why a
remembrance of Louis Marsac should rise before her. After all, what did
a little Indian blood matter? Many a girl smiled on Louis Marsac, for
they knew his father was a rich fur trader. Was it the riches that
counted?
"He will not come," she said half angrily to Pani. "The big ladies are
very proud to have him. They wear fine clothes that come from France,
and they can smile and Madame Fleury has a harp her daughters play upon.
But they might be content with the young men."
"It is not late yet," trying to console her darling.
"Pani, I shall go outside the gates. I am so tired. I want to run races
to get my breath. It stops just as it does when the fog is in the air."
"No, child, stay here a little longer. It would be sad to miss him. And
he is going away."
"Let him go. I think all men are a great trouble! You wait and wait for
them. Then, if you go away they are sure to come."
Pani laughed. The child was brimming over with unreason. Yet her eyes
were like stars, and in an uncomprehended way the woman felt the charm
of her beauty. No, she would never part with her.
"O Pani!" The child sprang up and executed a _pas seul_ worthy of a
larger audience. Her first impulse was to run to meet him. Then she
suddenly subsided from some inexplicable cause, and a flush came to her
cheek as she dropped down on a seat beside the doorway, made of the
round of a log, and folded her hands demurely, looking out to the
barracks.
Of course she turned when she heard the steps. There was a grave
expression on her face, charming innocence that would have led anyone
astray.
Pani rose and made an obeisance, and brought forward a chair.
"Or would Monsieur rather go in doors?" she inquired.
"O no. Little one--" he held out his hand.
"I thought you had forgotten. It is late," she said plaintively.
"I am a busy man, my child. I could wish for a little of the freedom
that you rejoice in so exuberantly, though I dare say I shall have
enough on my journey."
What a companion this gay, chattering child would be, going through new
scenes!
"Mademoiselle, are you ever serious? Or are you too young to take
thought of to-morrow?"
"I am always planning for to-morrow, am I not, Pani? And if it rains I
do not mind, but go the same, except that it is not always safe on the
river, which sometimes seems as if the giant monster of the deep was
sailing about in it."
"There is another kind of seriousness, my child, and a thought of the
future that is not mere pleasure. You will outgrow this gay childhood.
You may even find it necessary to go to some other country. There may be
friends awaiting you that you know nothing of now. You would no doubt
like to have them pleased with you, proud of you. And for this and true
living you need some training. You must learn to read, to speak English,
and you will find great pleasure in it. Then you will enjoy talking to
older people. You see you will be older yourself."
His eyes were fixed steadily on hers and would not allow them to waver.
She felt the power of the stronger mind.
"I have been talking with M. Bellestre's notary. He thinks you should go
to school. There are to be some schools started as soon as the autumn
opens. You know you wanted to learn why the world was round, and about
the great continent of Europe and a hundred interesting subjects."
"But, Monsieur, it is mostly prayers. I do not so much mind Sunday, for
then there are people to see. But to have it every day--and the same
things over and over--"
She gave a yawn that was half ridiculous grimace.
"Prayers, are very good, Mam'selle. While I am away I want you to pray
for me that sometime God will bring me back safe and allow me to see
you again. And I shall say when I see the sun rising on the other side
of the world, 'It is night now in old Detroit and there is a little girl
praying for me.'"
"O Monsieur, would you be glad?" Her eyes were suffused with a mistlike
joy. "Then I will pray for you. That is so different from praying for
people you don't know anything about, and to--to saints. I don't know
them either. I feel as if they sat in long rows and just nodded to you."
"Pray to the good God, my child," he returned gravely. "And if you learn
to read and write you might send me a letter."
Her eyes opened wide in amazement. "Oh, I could never learn enough for
that!" she cried despairingly.
"Yes, you can, you will. M. Loisel will arrange it for you. And twice a
week you will go to the sisters, I have promised Father Rameau. There
will be plenty of time to run and play besides."
Jeanne Angelot looked steadily down on the ground. A caterpillar was
dragging its length along and she touched it with her foot.
"It was once a butterfly. It will spin itself up in a web and hang
somewhere all winter, and in the spring turn to a butterfly again."
"That ugly thing!" in intense surprise.
"And how the trees drop their leaves in the autumn and their buds are
done up in a brown sheath until the spring sunshine softens it and the
tiny green leaf comes out, and why the birds go to warmer countries,
because they cannot stand snow and sleet, and return again; why the bee
shuts himself up in the hollow tree and sleeps, and a hundred beautiful
things. And when I come back we will talk them over."
"O Monsieur!" Her rose lips quivered and the dimple in her chin deepened
as she drew a long breath that stirred every pulse of her being.
He had touched the right chord, awakened a new life within her. There
was a struggle, yet he liked her the better for not giving up her
individuality in a moment.
"Monsieur," she exclaimed with a new humility, "I will try--indeed I
will."
"That is a brave girl. M. Loisel will attend to the matter. And you will
be very happy after a while. It will come hard at first, but you must be
courageous and persevering. And now I must say good-by for a long while.
Pani I know will take excellent care of you."
He rose and shook hands with the woman, whose eyes were full of love for
the child of her adoption. Then he took both of Jeanne's little brown
hands in his and pressed them warmly.
She watched him as he threaded his way through the narrow street and
turned the corner. Then she rushed into the house and threw herself on
the small pallet, sobbing as if her heart would break. No one for whom
she cared had ever gone out of her life before. With Pani there was
complete ownership, but Monsieur St. Armand was a new experience.
Neither had she really loved her playmates, she had found them all so
different from herself. Next to Pani stood Wenonah and the grave
brown-faced babies who tumbled about the floor when they were not
fastened to their birch bark canoe cradle with a flat end balancing it
against the wall. She sometimes kissed them, they were so quaint and
funny.
"_Ma mie, ma mie_, let me take thee to my bosom," Pani pleaded. "He will
return again as he said, for he keeps his word. And thou wilt be a big
girl and know many things, and he will be proud of thee. And M.
Bellestre may come."
Jeanne's sobs grew less. She had been thrust so suddenly into a new
world of tender emotion that she was frightened. She did not want to go
out again, and sat watching Pani as she made some delicious broth out of
fresh green corn, that was always a great treat to the child.
It was true there was a new stir in the atmosphere of old Detroit. For
General Wayne with the prescience of an able and far-sighted patriot had
said, "To make good citizens they must learn the English language and
there must be schools. Education will be the corner stone of this new
country."
Governor St. Clair had a wide territory to look after. There were many
unsettled questions about land and boundaries and proper laws. New
settlements were projected, but Detroit was left to adjust many
questions for itself. A school was organized where English and various
simple branches should be taught. It was opposed by Father Gilbert, who
insisted that all the French Catholics should be sent to the Recollet
house, and trained in Church lore exclusively. But the wider knowledge
was necessary since there were so many who could not read, and the laws
and courts would be English.
The school session was half a day. The better class people had a few
select schools, and sometimes several families joined and had their
children taught at the house of some parent and shared expenses.
Jeanne felt like a wild thing caught and thrust into a cage. There were
disputes and quarrels, but she soon established a standing for herself.
The boys called her Indian, and a name that had been flung at her more
than once--tiger cat.
"You will see that I can scratch," she rejoined, threateningly.
"I will learn English, Pani, and no one shall interfere. M. Loisel said
if I went to the sisters on Wednesday and Friday afternoons that Father
Rameau would be satisfied. He is nice and kindly, but I hate Father
Gilbert. And," laughingly, "I think they are all afraid of M. Bellestre.
Do you suppose he will take me home with him when he comes? I do not
want to leave Detroit."
Pani sighed. She liked the old town as well.
Jeanne flew to the woods when school was over. She did envy the Indian
girls their freedom for they were not trained in useful arts as were the
French girls. Oh, the frolics in the woods, the hunting of berries and
grapes, the loads of beautiful birch and ash bark, the wild flowers that
bloomed until frost came! and the fields turning golden with the
ripening corn, secure from Indian raids! The thrifty French farmers
watched it with delight.
Marie De Ber had been kept very busy since the spinning began. Madame
thought schooling shortsighted business except for boys who would be
traders by and by, and must learn how to reckon correctly and do a
little writing.
They went after the last gleaning of berries one afternoon, when the
autumn sunshine turned all to gold.
"O Marie," cried Jeanne, "here is a harvest! Come at once, and if you
want them don't shout to anyone."
"O Jeanne, how good you are! For you might have called Susanne, who goes
to school, and I have thought you liked her better than you do me."
"No, I do not like her now. She pinched little Jacques Moet until he
cried out and then she laid it to Pierre Dessau, who was well thrashed
for it, and I called her a coward. I am afraid girls are not brave."
"Come nearer and let us hide in this thicket. For if I do not get a big
lot of berries mother will send Rose next time, she threatened."
"You can have some of mine. Pani will not care; for she never scolds at
such a thing."
"Pani is very good to you. Mother complains that she spoils you and that
you are being brought up like a rich girl."
Jeanne laughed. "Pani never struck me in my life. She isn't quite like a
mother, you see, but she loves me, loves me!" with emphasis.
"There are so many for mother to love," and the girl sighed.
"Jeanne," she began presently, "I want to tell you something. Mother
said I must not mention it until it was quite settled. There is--some
one--he has been at father's shop and--and is coming on Sunday to see
mother--"
Jeanne stood up suddenly. "It is Martin Lavosse," she said. "You danced
with him. He is so gay. O Marie!" and her face was alight.
"No, it is not Martin. I would not mind if it were. But he is so young,
only eighteen."
"You are young, too."
Marie sighed again. "You have not seen him. It is Antoine Beeson. He is
a boat builder, and has been buying some of the newly surveyed land down
at the southern end. Father has known him quite a long while. His sister
has married and gone to Frenchtown. He is lonely and wants a wife."
"But there are many girls looking for husbands," hesitated Jeanne, not
knowing whether to approve or oppose; and Marie's husband was such a new
idea.
"So father says. And we have five girls, you know. Rose is as tall as I
and has a prettier face and dances like a sprite. And there are so many
of the fur hunters and traders who drink and spend their money, and
sometimes beat their wives. Margot Beeson picked out a wife for him, but
he said she was too old. It was Lise Moet."
Jeanne laughed. "I should not want to live with her, her voice goes
through your head like a knife. She is little Jacques' aunt and the
children are all afraid of her. How old is Antoine?"
"Twenty-eight!" in a low, protesting tone.
"Just twice as old as you!" said Jeanne with a little calculation.
"Yes, I can't help but think of it. And when I am thirty he will be an
old man sixty years old, bent down and wrinkled and cross, maybe."
"O no, Marie," cried Jeanne, eagerly. "It is not that way one reckons.
Everything does not double up so fast. He is fourteen years older than
you, and when you are thirty he can only be fourteen years older than
you. Count up on your ten fingers--that makes forty, and four more, he
will be forty-four."
Marie's mouth and eyes opened in surprise. "Are you quite sure?" with an
indrawn breath.
"O yes, sure as that the river runs to the lake. It is what they teach
at school. And though it is a great trouble to make yourself remember,
and you wonder what it is all about, then at other times you can use the
knowledge and are happy and glad over it. There are so many queer
things," smiling a little. "And they are not in the catechism or the
prayers. The sisters shake their heads over them."
"But can they be quite right?" asked Marie in a kind of awesome tone.
"Why they seem right for the men to know," laughed Jeanne. "How else
could they be bartering and counting money? And it is said that Madame
Ganeau goes over her husband's books every week since they found Jules
Froment was a thief, and kept wrong accounts, putting the money in his
own pocket."
Jeanne raised her voice triumphantly.
"Oh, here they are!" cried Cecile followed by a string of girls. "And
look, they have found a harvest, their pails are almost full. You mean,
selfish things!"
"Why you had the same right to be hunting everywhere," declared Jeanne
stoutly. "We found a good place and we picked--that is all there is of
it."
"But you might have called us."
Jeanne laughed in a tantalizing manner.
"O Jeanne Angelot, you think yourself some great things because you live
inside the stockade and go to a school where they teach all manner of
lies to the children. Your place is out in some Indian wigwam. You're
half Indian, anyhow."
"Look at us!" Jeanne made a sudden bound and placed herself beside
Cecile, whose complexion was swarthy, her hair straight, black, and
rather coarse, and her dark eyes had a yellowish tinge, even to the
whites. "Perhaps I am the descendant of some Indian princess--I should
be proud of it, for the Indians once held all this great new world; and
the French and English could not hold it."
There was a titter among the girls. Never had Jeanne looked prouder or
handsomer, and Cecile's broad nose distended with anger while her lips
were purple. She was larger but she did not dare attack Jeanne, for she
knew the nature and the prowess of the tiger cat.
"Let us go home; it gets late," cried one of the girls, turning her
companion about.
"O Jeanne," whispered Marie, "how splendid you are! No husband would
ever dare beat you."
"I should tear out his eyes if he did."