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A VOLUNTEER WITH PIKE
_The True Narrative of One Dr. John Robinson and
of His Love for the Fair Senorita Vallois_
BY ROBERT AMES BENNET
AUTHOR OF "FOR THE WHITE CHRIST," "INTO THE PRIMITIVE," ETC.
_With four Illustrations in color by_
CHARLOTTE WEBER-DITZLER
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1909
COPYRIGHT
BY A. C. MCCLURG & CO.
1909
Published October 2, 1909
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
_All rights reserved_
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
TO ONE
WHO FOLLOWED AFTER PIKE TO
THE GRAND PEAK
HALF A CENTURY LATER
MY FATHER
[Illustration: "'We go in now, senorita,' I said, offering her my arm"]
_Contents_
I. THE ROSE IN THE MIRE
II. PLAIN THOMAS JEFFERSON
III. AT THE PRESIDENT'S HOUSE
IV. SENORITA ALISANDA
V. GULF AND BARRIER
VI. THE WEB OF THE PLOTTER
VII. SHIP AND CREW
VIII. THE HOSPITABLE BLENNERHASSETTS
IX. MY INDIAN TALE
X. THE FATHER OF WATERS
XI. GENERAL WILKINSON
XII. AU REVOIR
XIII. AGAINST THE CURRENT
XIV. THE LURE
XV. THE PAWNEE PERIL
XVI. THE BARRIER OF ROCK
XVII. THE GRAND PEAK
XVIII. FAMINE AND FROST
XIX. BEYOND THE BARRIER
XX. A MESSAGE TO MY LADY
XXI. HO FOR CHIHUAHUA!
XXII. GLIMPSES OF FATE
XXIII. THE HOUSE OF VALLOIS
XXIV. THE SERENADE
XXV. A VICTORY
XXVI. A DEFEAT
XXVII. HEART TO HEART
XXVIII. A SPANISH BALL
XXIX. THE INSULT
XXX. THE DUEL
XXXI. MY CROSS
XXXII. THE MESSAGE
XXXIII. IMPRESSED
XXXIV. SHAME
XXXV. UNDER THE LASH
XXXVI. ACROSS THE GULF
_Illustrations_
"'We go in now, senorita,' I said, offering her my arm"
"We swung out into the current and drifted swiftly away"
"'The Grand Peak!' I shouted. 'We'll name it for you'"
"He fell like a steer: my sword blade broke clean off, a span beyond the
hilt"
_A Volunteer with Pike_
_The True Narrative of One Dr. John Robinson and of His Love for the
Fair Senorita Vallois_
CHAPTER I
THE ROSE IN THE MIRE
The first time I was blessed with a sight of the senorita was on the day
of my arrival in the Federal City,--in fact, it was upon my arrival. An
inquiry in the neighborhood of the President's House for my sole
acquaintance in the city, Senator Adair of Kentucky, had resulted in my
being directed to Conrad's boarding house on the Capitol Hill.
In the Fall of 1805 Indian Summer had lingered on through the month of
November. As a consequence, so I had been informed, Pennsylvania Avenue
was in a state of unprecedented passableness for the season. Yet as,
weary and travel-begrimed, I urged my jaded nag along the broad way of
yellow mud toward the majestic Capitol on its lofty hill, I observed
more than one coach and chariot in trouble from the chuck-holes of
semi-liquid clay.
It was midway of the avenue that I came upon _her_ coach, fast as a
grounded flatboat, both of the forewheels being mired to the hub. The
driver, a blear-eyed fellow, sat tugging at the reins and alternately
plying the whip and swearing villanously. I have ever been a lover of
horseflesh, and it cut me to see the sleek-coated, spirited pair plunge
and strain at the harness, in their brave efforts to perform a task
utterly beyond them.
I drew rein alongside. The driver stopped his cursing to stare at me,
purple-faced.
"Are you blind drunk?" I demanded. "They'll never make it without a lift
to the wheels."
"Lift!" he spluttered--"lift! Git along, ye greasy cooncap!"
He raised his whip as if to strike me. I reined my horse within
arm's-length.
"Put down that whip, or I'll put you down under the wheel," I said
cheerfully. He looked me in the eye for a moment; then he dropped his
gaze, and thrust the whipstock into its socket. "Good! You are well
advised. Now keep your mouth shut, and get off your coat."
Again I smiled, and again he obeyed. We Western men have a reputation on
the seaboard. It may have been this, or it may have been the fact that
my buckskin shirt draped a pair of lean shoulders quite a bit broader
than the average. At the least, the fellow kept his mouth closed and
started to strip off his coat.
I rode over to the nearest fence and borrowed two of the top rails.
Returning, I found the fellow in his shirt-sleeves. Yet he seemed not
over-willing to jump down into the mud. One more smile fetched him. He
took his rail and descended on the far side, muttering, while I swung
off at the head of his lathered team and stroked them. Once they had
been soothed and quieted, I dropped back, took the reins in hand, and
thrust my rail beneath the hub of the wheel. I heard the driver do the
same on his side.
"Ready?" I called.
"Ready, sir!" he answered.
A voice came from over my shoulder "_Por Dios!_ It is not possible,
senor, to lift. First I will descend."
The knowledge that I had put my shoulder to the wheel for a Spaniard
caused my tightening muscles to relax in disgust. But the don had spoken
courteously, his one thought being to relieve us of his weight, at the
risk of ruining his aristocratic boots.
"Sit still. _Quien sabe?_" I replied, without looking about, and bore up
on the rail. "Heave away!"
The rails bowed under the strain, but the clay held tenaciously to the
embedded wheels. I drew the reins well in and called to the willing
team. They put their weight against the breast bands steadily and
gallantly. The wheels rose a little, the coach gave forward.
"Heave!" I called. The wheels drew up and forward. "Steady! steady,
boys! Pull away!"
Out came the forewheels; in went the rear. We caught them on the turn.
One last gallant tug, and all was clear. The driver plodded around by
the rear, a hand at his forelock.
"Return the rails," I said. "I'll hold them."
He took my rail with his own and toiled over to the roadside. I called
up my horse and swung into the saddle, little the worse for my descent
into the midst of the redoubtable avenue, for my legs had already been
smeared and spattered to the thigh before I entered the bounds of the
city.
Again I heard the voice at the coach window: "_Muchas gracias_, senor! A
thousand thanks--and this."
He proved to be what I had surmised,--a long-faced Spanish don. What I
had not expected to see was the hand extended with the piece of silver.
There was more than mere politeness in his smile. It was evident he
meant well. None the less, I was of the West, where, in common opinion,
Spaniards are rated with the "varmints." I took the coin and dropped it
into the mire. He stared at me, astonished.
"Your pardon, senor," I said, "I am not a _Spanish_ gentleman."
The shot hit, as I could see by the quick change in the nature of his
smile.
"It is I who should ask pardon," he replied with the haughtiness of your
true Spanish hidalgo. "Yet the senor will admit that his appearance--to
a foreigner--"
"Few riders wear frills on the long road from Pittsburgh," I replied.
He bowed grandly and withdrew his head into the coach's dark interior. I
was about to turn around, when I heard a liquid murmuring of Spanish in
a lady's voice, followed by a protest from the don: "_Nada_, Alisanda!
There is no need. He is but an Anglo-American."
The voice riveted my gaze to the coach window in eager anticipation. Nor
was I disappointed. In a moment the cherry-wood of the opening framed a
face which caused me to snatch the coonskin cap from my wigless yellow
curls.
After four years of social life among the Spanish and French of St.
Louis and New Orleans, I had thought myself well versed in all the
possibilities of Latin beauty. The Senorita Alisanda was to all those
creole belles as a queen to kitchen maids. Eyes of velvety black, full
of pride and fire and languor; silky hair, not of the hard, glossy hue
of the raven's wing, but soft and warming to chestnut where the sun
shone through a straying lock; face oval and of that clear, warm pallor
unknown to women of Northern blood; a straight nose with well-opened,
sensitive nostrils; a scarlet-lipped mouth, whose kiss would have
thrilled a dying man. But he is a fool who seeks to set down beauty in a
catalogue. It was not at her eyes or hair or face that I gazed; it was
at her, at the radiant spirit which shone out through that lovely mask
of flesh.
She met my gaze with a directness which showed English training, as did
also the slightness of her accent. Her manner was most gracious, without
a trace of condescension, yet with an underlying note of haughtiness,
forgotten in the liquid melody of her voice.
"Senor, I trust that you will pardon the error of my kinsman,--my
uncle,--and that you will accept our thanks for the service."
"I am repaid,--a thousand times,--senorita!" I stammered, the while my
dazzled eyes drank in her radiant beauty.
She bowed composedly and withdrew into the gloom of the coach. That was
all. But it left me half dazed. Not until the driver trudged back and
reached for the reins did it come upon me that I was staring blankly in
through the empty window at the outline of the don's shoulder. The best
I can say is that I did not find my mouth agape.
A touch of my heel and a hint at the bit sent my nag jogging on toward
the Capitol, leaving the rescued coach to flounder along its opposite
way as best it could, through the avenue already famous for its two
miles of length, its hundred yards of width, and its two feet of depth.
Wearied as I was by the last of many days' hard riding from the Ohio, I
was the lighter for carrying with me a scarlet-lipped vision with eyes
like sloes.