ONE NIGHT IN MAY
Alaine found herself comfortably lodged, with Trynje’s little negro
maid in attendance on the two girls. Before long they were nestled in
an immense feather-bed which billowed up around them and almost hid
them from sight. Alaine, however, did not sleep. She listened to the
soft breathing of Trynje, who was not many minutes in dropping off
into slumber; she listened to the gentle whisper of the new leaves
and the trickle of a little stream not far away. Into her feeling of
quiet resignation every now and then would burst the recollection of
the wild joy she had experienced at seeing her lover, now lying in a
room so near her. Perhaps he did not sleep. Perhaps Jeanne had found an
opportunity of speaking to him and was even now telling him that though
she loved him she must leave him.
At last, after tossing restlessly on the big feather-bed for an hour,
she softly arose and went to the window to look out upon the beautiful
quiet night. The moon, now on the wane, had not set, but hung low in
the sky, a luminous crescent of misty silver. The garrison of the
little fort, like herself, were watching, and the thought of this took
away her feeling of loneliness. It was not the first time that she
had been received under the roof of a stranger, she reflected. Many
unlooked-for things had befallen her, and any day might bring a new
danger. She was so young and so weary. Was there safety anywhere under
that sky’s broad canopy? Was there rest anywhere under those twinkling
stars?
Hark! She started to her feet. Suddenly upon the midnight air came
the horrible war-cry of the Indians. It seemed to fill the air with a
wild prophecy of death and torture and captivity. In an instant every
one in the fort was awake. There were sounds of stern orders given,
of tramping feet, of the click of triggers, of the rasp of a sword
dropped into its scabbard. Hastily throwing on their clothes, the women
and children, shaking with apprehension, weeping with terror, flocked
together in the blockhouse, Alaine with the rest.
“We are none too well garrisoned,” said a man as he passed her. “Here,
boy, can you shoot?”
Alaine turned. “Try me,” she replied, laconically.
“All right, then; come on.”
For an instant Alaine’s fears gave place to an exultant feeling. If she
must die it would be by the side of Lendert. She heard a shot ring out,
and the cries of the women and children grew fainter as she followed
the covered way which led to the fort from the blockhouse.
Watchful men were stationed at the loopholes, a stern and determined
look upon each face. Alaine looked around her. Where was Lendert?
“Go, my daughter,” whispered some one at her side. “Your place is not
here.”
“I was ordered to remain,” Alaine answered, “and I shall stay. Am I so
poor a shot that I must be denied the right to protect myself? Is not
this as much my place as yours, Jeanne Crepin?”
Jeanne smiled grimly. “Very well, then we will both remain. We may be
privileged to die fighting. Come, we are needed, every man of us.” She
smiled again.
The savages now were rushing violently at the palisades to be met by
a deadly fire from those within. Each time the besiegers fell back to
devise a new method of attack. Once came a glare of torches flaring
up into the night and hurled like fiery rockets at the palisades, but
one after another fell harmlessly to the ground, feebly flickered a
moment and then went out, as the spark of life likewise fled from their
bearers stretched on the ground by the unerring shots from the little
fort.
Alaine had discovered Lendert and had crept to his side. He did not
see her; he was mechanically loading and reloading his musket. On the
other side of the girl Joachim stationed himself to see her do as good
service as any. At last the foe retreated for a brief rest, and Lendert
withdrew his gaze from the loophole to see Alaine standing by him.
“Here? Why are you not safe in the blockhouse, Alaine?”
“I am of more use here,” she replied, “and I would rather be with
Jeanne and--you.” She whispered the last word. “I thought, perhaps God
would let us die together, Lendert. That would be a happier fate than
if I were taken into captivity. See, the east begins to warm into a
rosy color; it will soon be day. Will they leave us then, do you think?”
He folded her hand in his own. “Alaine, so brave thou art. No, they
will not, I think. They are not all Indians.”
The gray light was beginning to steal over the earth, and they could
dimly distinguish the faces of their enemies. In the party were
included a number of coureurs de bois and a few adventurous young
Frenchmen. Alaine looking out upon them as they held their parley,
grasped Jeanne’s arm with a quick exclamation. “He is there! Ah, me!
Again, again! Jeanne, Lendert, do you see him? It is François Dupont!”
“Ah-h!” came a savage growl from Lendert, as he patted his musket
softly. “So, then, I have double need to fight.”
“It will be my dead body alone that he possesses,” said Alaine,
resolutely.
“And it will be over my dead body that he treads to reach yours,”
returned Lendert.
And now Joachim van der Deen strode up. “We have very little water,” he
said. “The attack was a surprise and the supply was short. It has given
out before we knew it.”
Some one presently touched Alaine on the shoulder. It was Jeanne. She
drew her aside. “I shall make the effort to get water. Yonder I see
Ricard Le Nez. If I can escape unhurt at first, I can make myself
known to him and the others. They will not hurt me, once they see I am
French.”
“Jeanne, Jeanne!” Alaine caught her firm, hard hand, “you must not go.”
“I shall go.”
Alaine stood for a moment gazing at her, then she rushed to the
blockhouse and found Trynje. “Give me one of your petticoats!” she
exclaimed. Trynje looked at her in surprise, but obediently slipped off
her upper skirt, which Alaine hastily put on and ran back. “If I see
that she is taken I shall go forth myself,” she said. “François will
not let them torture me, and so----” She went to the nearest loophole
and looked out. Jeanne had just crept from the enclosure and was
stealthily moving toward the spring. If she could go and return in this
gray of morning all would be well. Alaine watched her breathlessly. So
far she was safe.
But presently beyond there, coming down the road from the woods on
the other side, she saw a figure on horseback followed by several men
on foot. She watched eagerly, and presently with a smothered cry she
turned to the man standing by her side. “Lendert, Lendert, it is your
mother, and she does not know!”
A groan escaped Lendert’s lips as he looked out upon the approaching
rider.
“See, see,” Alaine whispered, hoarsely, “she comes perhaps to ask your
forgiveness; she comes to seek you. Lendert, Lendert, I must save her.
No, no, hold me not; I tell you it is I who must go. Do you not see
that one of those out there is François Dupont? Another is Ricard. I
shall not fall into the hands of enemies, for they will recognize that
I am French and will think me here a prisoner. I must go. Lendert, if
you love me, let me go!”
“I cannot. I will not see you killed before my very eyes. They will
fire before they understand.”
“But thy mother, thy mother!”
“Whom I must try to save.”
“No, no; do you not see for you is the danger, for me not so much?”
“I see only that I will go, and that I cannot let you run the risk for
my mother, who ill used thee.”
“No matter, no matter. She has come to seek us. It is too horrible to
see them coming nearer, nearer. Do you not see that for me is only
possible danger, and that for you it is sure death? If you go, I will
surely follow.”
“Then we go together.”
She would have pushed him from her as she tried to escape from the
place, but he held her hand firmly. “We die together,” he groaned.
Still hand in hand they crept from the fort. “Quick, run to your
mother, while I distract their attention; it is the only safe way for
either of us,” Alaine whispered.
But at this moment Jeanne, on her way from the spring, spied the
figure approaching. With head bent low, she dropped her bucket and ran
swiftly toward the path at the end of which awaited such danger for the
unconscious rider.
Lendert, taken off his guard for a second, gazed after her half dazed,
and in this moment Alaine sprang from him and ran, but in an opposite
direction from that which Jeanne was taking. She reached a little mound
and stood there in plain view of the enemy. “I am here, I, Alaine
Hervieu!” she called out in her native French. “I am here, François
Dupont!” At the first instant of her appearance a dozen bullets whizzed
through the air, but none touched her, then from the group parleying
there at the edge of the wood rushed two figures.
Not daring to turn her gaze from them lest their attention be drawn
to Madam De Vries, Alaine stood with face to foe. “She is of us! She
is French!” passed from one to another. “She is perhaps an escaped
prisoner,” and they awaited results.
Meanwhile, Lendert, in an agony of mind over the safety of his mother
and of Alaine, stood, gun in hand, ready to defend either or both.
Madam De Vries had reined in her horse at Jeanne’s approach, had
gathered her little body-guard around her, and as yet was not seen by
the attacking party.
Alaine waited quietly till the two men came up. “You have been
prisoner here?” cried Ricard. “How happens this? She is of us!” he
shouted. “Not a hair of her head must be touched. It is Alaine in
petticoats. You remember, Henri, you, Robert, M. Bisset and his
companion? Well, then, here is one of them,” he called to his comrades.
At this instant François caught sight of Lendert standing at the
entrance of the path to the woods. He gnashed his teeth and shouted.
“Again, villain! At last on equal grounds, face to face and foe to foe.
Take him, you there, Ricard!”
Like a flash Alaine ran from her little hillock and stood before her
lover, who laid about him valiantly while the girl cried, “Again,
monsieur, I am a shield!” But this time the supple body was no defence,
for a dozen hands tore him from her, and he was marched off in triumph.
Then shot after shot came ringing from the fort as well as from the
little company hidden in the woods. The air seemed full of flying
bullets. François was struck down at Alaine’s feet, his hold upon her
gone, so that she was free to run to Ricard, crying, “Save him, save
him, your prisoner there! I beg, I entreat, Ricard, Henri, you who
know me, I fall upon my knees to implore you to spare him and take me
instead! Where is Jeanne? Where is Jeanne?”
Her friend was not far off. “I will do what I can,” she whispered, as
she dragged the distracted girl with her to a place of retreat behind
a huge tree. “Do you not see that you must save yourself? I will do
what I can, I promise you. For yourself, if you would escape, pretend
to have fallen; assume death, now, at once.” Alaine staggered and fell.
Jeanne bent over her and wrung her hands. “Remain here,” she whispered.
“Lie perfectly still and you shall not be harmed.”
Lying flat on the ground behind the big tree, the bullets flying around
her, Alaine, faint with suspense, waited, putting her trust in Jeanne,
who, she believed, would find a way to set Lendert at liberty and would
then return to her.
The moments passed, and at last the sound of firing ceased. The
Indians, believing that those in the fort had received re-enforcements
on account of the furious firing from the party in the woods, and
finding their number was fast decreasing, began a retreat. They were
followed so closely by a sortie from the fort that with yells and howls
they took themselves off, leaving their leader for dead and taking with
them their one unhappy prisoner.
At last Alaine ventured to raise her head. The glory of the May morning
showed the woods gold-green; the rill, which formed the outlet of
the spring, went tinkling on its way as merrily as if its waters,
were unstained by the life-blood of those who lay dead at its banks.
Overhead the birds, startled into stillness by the din of battle, now
began a timid warbling. Under Alaine’s hand frail anemones peeped, and
around her the springing grasses grew. So had it been spring after
spring. Nature, impassive and lovely, smiles upon the agony of earth’s
children and will not tell them the secret of her peace. Alaine sat up
and pushed back the hair from her eyes. Beyond her lay the bodies of
the fallen foe, among them François Dupont. She turned her head and
shuddered. “Lendert,” she said, piteously, “Lendert, where are you?
Jeanne, you said you would come.”
She looked around and listened. There was no answer to her call.
Then she wailed, “He is gone, gone, and I am here!” She stood up and
stretched her hands toward the sky. “Thou God, whom I implored to let
us die together, I am here and he is not. Thou hast forsaken me!”
A kind hand was laid upon her shoulder. “My child,” said Joachim van
der Deen, “why are you here alone? God has not forsaken you.”
Alaine dropped her head on the good man’s arm. “I am desolate,
desolate,” she moaned. “If we had but died together; but now, this
moment, he may be enduring tortures such as I never dreamed of. Ah-h!”
she shrieked in her despair and fell to the ground, hiding her face,
as if she would shut out the frightful possibilities that her misery
suggested to her.
Joachim knelt beside her. “God does not despise the affliction of the
afflicted, my child,” he said, gently. “Trust thou in him, and thou
shalt yet praise him.”
But now that it seemed certain the enemy had departed, from the fort
came trooping the garrison, and then followed the company of women,
little Trynje running ahead. “Alaine, Alaine!” she called; “are you
hurt, Alaine, Alaine?”
She saw her father approaching carrying in his arms the drooping
figure, and she made haste to reach him. “She is not dead, not dead?”
“No, but happily unconscious, poor child!” And in Joachim van der
Deen’s strong arms Alaine was borne indoors, Trynje following,
solicitous and helpful.
Meantime, from out of the woods had issued the little company, whose
coming had served the garrison well and Lendert so badly, Madam De
Vries riding ahead. She was followed by a dozen of her retainers, who
in the shelter of the wood from behind trees had done good execution.
“Though,” said Joachim van der Deen, bluntly, “they would all be
roasting now but for the timely warning of that good Jeanne, whose
bravery would have it seem that we have been entertaining an angel
unawares. Where is she, by the way?” he asked of Trynje, who was
bending over Alaine’s unconscious form. But this no one could tell.
Jeanne had vanished as completely as the enemy. At this report Joachim
looked grave; this might be the performance of a spy, but since there
was no help for it, there was nothing to be done. “Where is Madam De
Vries?” he asked his daughter.
“Gone to find my mother. Heaven knows how she must feel with her only
son a captive.”
Her father shook his head. “She has herself to thank for it. He and
the girl ran to her rescue, though that big Jeanne could have managed
it alone. I must leave this lass to your tender mercies, for there are
others in need of me. She is a brave creature. I shall not soon forget
how I felt to see her standing there facing that horde.”
After Alaine had been carried in and left to the ministrations of the
women, Joachim returned to find his wife among the wounded on the
ground. She was bending over a figure lying motionless upon the tender
young grass. “He lives, Joachim,” she said, looking up, “but I think it
is a desperate case. God have mercy on him.”
“Who is it?” her husband asked, gazing at the waxen face.
“I do not know. I judge he must have been the leader of that company of
Frenchmen by his dress.”
“And our prisoner,” returned Joachim, grimly. “We will take him in with
the rest and see what can be done for him. Here, boys, gently; he is
pretty badly hurt, we shall hardly be able to save him, but we will
do our duty as Christians.” He watched them bear the man away. “Madam
De Vries expressed a wish to see you, Johanna, but you can offer her
little consolation, I fear.”
Johanna van der Deen stood looking after the men who bore François
Dupont to the fort. She was a very religious woman, and one who never
failed to press home her pious truths. She and Madam De Vries had
never been the best of friends, for the former’s lack of seriousness
was not approved by the good Johanna. Moreover, she had heard repeated
a remark of Madam De Vries, a remark which ridiculed her neighbor’s
pious attitude. This was quite enough to determine Madam van der
Deen not to encourage Madam De Vries in her overtures in a matter
of marriage for her son. “Daughter of mine shall not marry a son of
Arianie De Vries,” she had told her husband.
“Lendert is a good young man,” Joachim had answered between puffs of
his pipe.
“There are others quite as good whose mothers are better,” Johanna had
made reply, and Joachim had agreed. Nevertheless, they had allowed
Trynje to visit Madam De Vries, wisely believing that in time she
would see for herself that Madam could be very disagreeable and that
her daughter-in-law might expect to have a stormy time. Thinking of
all this and of how it had come according to their expectations, Madam
van der Deen shook her head. “I will go to her. Poor soul, I fear I
cannot persuade her that she should kiss the rod. It is hard for one
who has desired her own way to find that our ways are not the Lord’s
ways and that we are but as the grass of the field, which to-day is and
to-morrow shall be cast into the oven. Look to that poor creature they
have carried in, and I will come to him later.” And she moved toward
the fort, passing on to enter the blockhouse, where Madam De Vries
sat, cold and tearless.
“My son is captive,” were the words that greeted Johanna van der Deen,
“and I have that girl to thank for it. But for her he would have been
safe at home. Therefore I owe your daughter small thanks for bringing
him here. That is all I wish to say.” She dismissed Madam van der Deen
with a wave of her hand, and she, without a word, went back to the fort
where François Dupont lay motionless, save but for a barely perceptible
flutter of his breast.
Madam van der Deen stood looking at him. Here was an end to human
hopes, ambitions, and all revenge. Even resentment must fade into pity
before this awful shadow which seemed to be hovering over the helpless
man. She sent for a stoup of wine. “It will be of little use, yet one
must try to give him time for repentance,” she murmured. She went
away for bandages and returned to see Madam De Vries bending over the
pallet. There were tears in her eyes. “Some one’s son,” she whispered,
as if to herself; “young and handsome, yet he has the privilege of
death in this way, while my boy----” she shuddered and hid her face in
her hands. “Give me the wine,” she said presently. “I will nurse this
man.” She did not seem to notice that it was Madam van der Deen to whom
she spoke. She moistened the pale lips and stanched the wounds, and at
last the dark eyes opened to look upon the pitying face of a woman.
“This is well,” whispered François. “I am glad you have come, mother. I
think I am dying, and I wanted to die at home in France. I am glad you
are here.”
“Yes, I know,” returned Madam De Vries, soothingly.
“I cannot remember all,” he went on, in a weak whisper, “but they fled
from the British that time in Quebec. Father Bisset took Alaine and
fled. They must have been taken prisoners somehow. I stayed there to
fight for France, for France. You would not have had me do otherwise,
mother.” He closed his eyes, but after a time opened them again. “Where
is the Dutch pig?” he asked. “It was to save him she threw herself
between. Once more she made a shield of her sweet body.”
“Sh!” warned Madam van der Deen, glancing at Madam De Vries, but
François wandered on.
“Is she dead? I did not love her, poor little Alaine, but listen, this
is my confession. I wish to confess. I am dying, you know, and you are
my mother.” He was quiet again.
After a moment he began anew. “It was the Dutchman she loved, I know
that now. I did not think so at first; but, though I did not love her,
I hated him.”
“Madam,” said Johanna, in a low voice, “this is something it were
better you did not hear. Will you go away?” The pity lingered in
Madam’s eyes; as yet she did not understand, and she remained.
“The Dutch pig,” repeated François, “that Verplanck. You are safe now,
Monsieur Le Bœuf.”
Madam De Vries recoiled, all the softness in her face giving place to
horror. “Beast!” she cried. “Beast! And I have pitied you.”
“He may be dying, madam,” said Madam van der Deen, quietly. “Will you
leave us?”
Madam De Vries opened her lips as if to speak, but without another word
she walked away.
François kept up his whispering talk. “Poor little Alaine. I liked
the girl. I would have been kind to her. You who know me, mother, you
believe that. Say that you believe that.”
“Yes.” Madam van der Deen saw that he waited for a reply.
François closed his eyes; he did not seem to hear; his voice was very
weak. “I stayed there in Quebec for France, for France. I have lied for
her, I have suffered for her, and now I die for her. For France.” His
voice died away and he could say no more. He lay very still, and Madam
van der Deen by his side watched him all day. Once or twice Trynje came
to bring word of Alaine, who tossed in fever and babbled incessantly.
Night came, and still François lived. “It would almost seem as if he
might recover,” Madam van der Deen said to her husband as they examined
him.
“He may rally a little, but I think he will never rise from his bed,”
was the reply. “We will do all we can for him, enemy though he is. He
may not be so bad a man, and he is suffering.”
“And he has made others suffer,” returned his wife.
“That is true. Blindness and egotism will always do that.”
Madam van der Deen said nothing. Her narrow religious view made her
behold only a pit of fire for such as François.
Yet the dawn of another day saw him still alive, and so it continued
day after day, a little better, a little worse, while above Alaine,
exhausted by fever, was watched over by faithful little Trynje and her
mother.
Madam De Vries did not tarry long, but took her aching heart back to
her home. “I am a lonely, childless old woman,” she told Trynje, “and I
care not how soon I leave this wretched world. It is woe and misery on
every side.” And when she disappeared into the forest with her little
retinue, Trynje watched her with eyes full of tears. She still gave her
some love and much pity.