THE SECRET OF LAFAYETTE
THE STORY OF THE WHITE HORSE
Lafayette was born on September 6, 1757, in the province of Auvergne,
now Cantal, Puy-de-Dôme, and Haute-Loire. His birthplace was the
Château de Chavagnac, situated some six miles from ancient Brionde.
Auvergne was celebrated for men of character and honor rather than
wealth and distinction――men who deserved to outlive kings, and whose
jewels were virtues. It became a proverb that the men of Auvergne knew
no stain, and hence the ensigns and escutcheons of the rugged soldiers
of the mountain towns were associated with the motto, “Auvergne sans
tache.”
These soldiers kept this motto of their mountain homes ever in view;
they would die rather than violate the spirit of it.
Lafayette was of noble family, and appeared at court when a boy. But
the gay court did not repress the spirit of Auvergne which lived in
him, and grew. He was of noble family, and his father fell at the
battle of Minden. The battery that caused his father’s death was
commanded by General Phillips, against whom Lafayette fought in the
great Virginia campaign.
At the age of sixteen, the spirit of the mountaineers of Auvergne rose
within him. He became an ardent advocate of the liberties of men, and
he seemed to see the star of liberty rising in the Western world, and
he was restless to follow it. He heard of the American Congress as
an assembly of heroes of a new era――the new Senate of God and human
rights. Princes, after his view, should not violate the law of the
people.
The heart of the King of France, while France at first professed
neutrality in the American struggle, was with the patriots; so was
the sympathy of the gay French court. The boy Lafayette knew this; he
longed to carry this secret news to America.
He came to America, as we have described, with this secret in his heart.
The capture of Burgoyne in October, 1777, delighted France. The clock
of liberty had struck; it only needed the aid of France to give
independence to the Americans.
Lafayette became more restless. He had married into a noble family,
but the companionship of a beautiful and true woman could not stifle
this patriotic restlessness. He saw that he might be an influence in
bringing France to the aid of America. To do this became his life.
The Queen espoused the cause of America; let us ever remember this,
notwithstanding that there are so many unpleasant things about her to
remember. Then the American cause seemed to fail in the Jerseys and
France to lose her interest in it.
Young Lafayette’s heart was true to America in these dark hours. He
knew that France could be aroused to action. He espoused the cause of
America in her darkness, and doubtless dreamed of being able to convey
to Washington a secret, that few other men so clearly saw. France would
espouse the cause of America when events should open the way.
Never such a secret crossed the sea as young Lafayette bore in his
bosom to Washington. It came, as it were, out of Auvergne; it was
borne against every allurement of luxury and self; it was an inborn
imperative. When a new world was to be revealed, Columbus had to sail;
when liberty was to be established among men, Lafayette, the child
of destiny, had to face the west; where was there another race of
liberty-loving men like those of the Connecticut farmers? In Auvergne.
Who of all men could represent this spirit of liberty in America?
Lafayette.
He won the heart of America; even the British respected him. His true
sympathy was the cause of his great popularity; his heart won all
hearts.
In the terrible winter of 1778 the American army with Washington and
Lafayette were at Valley Forge; the British were in Philadelphia,
spending a gay winter reveling.
No pen can describe the destitution and suffering of the 5,000 or
more patriots at Valley Forge. The white snows of that winter in the
wilderness were stained with the blood of naked feet. Famine came with
the cold.
The men were “hutted” in log cabins. “The general’s apartment is very
small,” wrote Mrs. Washington; “he has a log cabin built to dine in,
which has made our quarters much more tolerable than they were at
first.”
There was no fresh meat there; no sufficient salted provisions. There
were no cattle in the neighboring towns or States that could be spared
for the army.
But they suffered in silence. They went half-clothed and hungry, but
they did not desert.
“Nothing can equal their sufferings,” wrote one of an examining
committee. Even the cannon was frozen in, and bitten by the frost were
the limbs of those who were commissioned to handle them.
Had General Howe, whose army was dissipating at Philadelphia, led out
his troops against the famine-stricken army in the Valley, what might
have been the fate of the American cause?
The dissipations of the English army was one cause of its overthrow.
That army had been reveling when surprised at Trenton.
With his men wasting and dying around him, shoeless, coatless,
foodless, what was Washington to do?
At one of the dismal councils of his generals there came a counsel that
made the hearts all quicken.
“Send to Connecticut for cattle. Let us appeal to Brother Jonathan
again; he has never failed us.”
“I never made an appeal to Brother Jonathan but to receive help,” said
the great commander.
The appeal was made. In his letter to Governor Trumbull, Washington
said:
“What is still more distressing, I am assured by Colonel Blaine, deputy
purchasing commissary for the middle district, comprehending the
States of New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Maryland, that they are nearly
exhausted, and the most vigorous and active exertions on his part will
not procure more than sufficient to supply the army during this month,
if so long. This being the case, and as any relief that can be obtained
from the more southern States will be but partial, trifling, and of
a day, we must turn our eyes to the eastward, and lay our account
of support from thence. Without it, we can not but disband. I must,
therefore, sir, entreat you in the most earnest terms, and by that zeal
which has eminently distinguished your character in the present arduous
struggle, to give every countenance to the person or persons employed
in the purchasing line in your State, and to urge them to the most
vigorous efforts to forward supplies of cattle from time to time, and
thereby prevent such a melancholy and alarming catastrophe.”
Read these words twice: “Without it the army must disband.”
As soon as Governor Trumbull had received the letter he called together
the Council of Safety. He read it to them. They wept.
“An army of cattle might save the cause,” said one.
“Our suffering brothers shall have the army of cattle,” said Brother
Jonathan.
He at once aroused the farmers of Connecticut. Horsemen dashed hither
and thither, away from Hartford and from the war office to the hillside
farms.
“Cattle! cattle!” they cried. “Our army is perishing. Washington has
appealed to Brother Jonathan!”
At the head of these alarmists rode Dennis O’Hay, awakening the
villages with his resonant brogue:
“It is cattle, an army of cattle, that Washington must have now! His
men are going barefooted in the snow. Oh, the shame of it! His men have
no meat to warm their veins in the cold. Oh, the shame of it! They
fever, they wither, they are buried in clumps and clods. Oh, the shame
of it! Arouse, or the heavens will fall down on you! Cattle! Cattle!”
The thrifty hillside farmers had made many sacrifices already, but they
responded.
An army of cattle began to form. It increased. Nearly every farm could
spare one or more beeves, armed with fat flesh and warm hides.
So it started, armed, as it were, with horns, Dennis leading them under
officers.
Three hundred miles it marched, gathering force along the way.
It entered at last the dreary wilderness of the suffering camp. The men
saw it coming. There went up a great shout, which ran along the camp,
and went up from even the hospital huts:
“The Lord bless Brother Jonathan!”
The officers hailed the cattle-drivers.
“Should we win our independence,” said an officer, “what will we not
owe to Brother Jonathan and his army of cattle from the provision
State!”
Dennis froze with the others that winter.
In the spring he returned, moneyless, fameless. Half of his face was
black, and one hand had gone. The explosion of a powder-wagon which
he had been forcing on toward Washington’s army had caused the change
in his appearance, but it was rugged work that Dennis O’Hay had done
during that past winter for the army.
The Governor heard his story.
“Dennis O’Hay,” said he, “when America achieves her liberty, and her
true history shall be written, the inspired historian will see in
such as you the cause of the mighty event. It is men who are willing
to suffer and be forgotten that advance the welfare of mankind; it is
not wealth or fame that lifts the world: it is sacrifice, sacrifice,
sacrifice! That means you, Dennis O’Hay.
“Dennis, did you know that they once offered me the place of the
colonial agent to London? They did, and I refused for the good of my
own people at home. That is a sweet thing for me to remember. The only
thing that a man can have in this world to last is righteous life. This
is true, Dennis: that the private soldier who seeks all for his cause
and nothing for himself is the noblest man in the annals of war, unless
it be a Washington.”
“And you, Governor Trumbull.”
Dennis took off his hat and bowed low.
The Governor also took off his hat and bowed twice, and the people who
had gathered around took off their hats and shouted.
“The stars will hear ye when ye shout for Brother Jonathan,” said
Dennis O’Hay. “I have brought home a secret with me.”
“What may it be?” asked many.
“It would not be a secret were I to tell it.”
Dennis, after driving his army of cattle, with underdrivers, had
entered lustily the place of the halted army of desolation. He had
remained there until spring. He was greeted there one day by two men,
one a tower of majestic manhood, the other a glittering young man of
warm heart and enthusiasm; they were Washington and Lafayette.
“Your army will save us, my good friend,” said the man of majestic
presence.
“This army will save the cause,” said the younger officer.
There was a look of hope in his face that revealed to Dennis that he
had some secret ground for this confidence.
Washington moved away to his marquee.
Dennis, hat in hand, said to Lafayette:
“May I detain you a moment, your Honor?”
“Yes, my honest man; what would you have? I hope that it may be
something that I can grant.”
“Do you remember that day when you spoke of a body of men as the bugles
of Auvergne?”
“Yes, my good friend, and how do those words impress you?”
“I can never tell. They are words within words. What I want to ask
of you is――pardon my bluntness, I was not bred in courts, as you
see――couldn’t you induce those men who blow the bugles of Ovan to come
here and give us a lift? My heart tells me that they would be just the
men we would need. I don’t so much hear words as the spirit of things,
and the heart knows its own.”
“I will think of these things, my good friend of the honest heart. I do
think of them now. I will entrust you, a stranger, with a secret. Will
you never tell it until the day that makes it clear arrives?”
“Never, never, never――oh, my heart dances when I hear good things
of the cause of these people struggling so mightily for their
liberties――no, no, the tail goes with the kite; I will never tell.”
“I am now writing to the court of France. If I get good news, I will
ask for the French mountaineers whose banner is _Auvergne sans tache_!”
“May the heavens all take off their hats to ye and the evil one never
get ye. I can see them coming now, a kind o’ vision, with their banners
flying. I have second sight, and see good things. Why do not people see
good things now, like the prophets of old, and not witches and ghosts?
To Dennis O’Hay the passing clouds are angels’ chariots. Oh, I will
never forget you, and I would deem it an honor above honors if you will
not forget Dennis O’Hay.”
“One thing more, good Dennis, I have to say to you before we part. If a
French ship should come to Norwich from Lyons, you may learn more about
Auvergne, which is the Connecticut of France.”
“Then you must be like the Governor, who is so all wrapped up in the
cause that he has forgotten to grow old.”
The young French officer drew his cloak about him, and touched his hat
and went to the marquee.
Dennis laid down to rest among some wasted men of the army by a fire
of fagots. He dreamed, and he saw French ships sailing in the air. He
had read the success of the cause amid all these miseries in the heart
of young Lafayette.
“That boy general has the vision of it all,” said he.
The Irishman as a bearer of despatches from Governor Trumbull was not
without importance.
Dennis lingered to rest by the marquees of the officers under the moon
and stars. He listened for words of hope. One night Lafayette talked.
He engaged all ears.
“I was born at Auvergne, in the mountain district of France,” said
he, “and the soldiers of Auvergne are sons of liberty. They are
mountaineers. I would that I could induce France to send an army of
those mountaineers to America. They are rugged men; they believe in
justice, and equal rights, and equal laws, and for this cause they are
willing to die. They have a grand motto, to which they have always been
true. It is ‘Auvergne sans tache’――Auvergne without a stain. I love a
soldier of Auvergne, a mountaineer of the glorious air in which I was
born.”
His mind seemed to wander back to the past.
“‘Auvergne sans tache,’” said he. “‘Auvergne sans tache’――these words
command me, they have entered into my soul. Would these men were here,
and that I could lead them to victory!”
Dennis caught the atmosphere.
“And sure, your Honor, people find what they seek, and all good dreams
come true sometime, and you will bring them here some day. I seem to
feel it in my soul.”
The officers shouted.
“And it is from Connecticut I am.”
The young Frenchman may never have heard of the place before.
“And brought despatches to General Putnam from Brother Jonathan.
“May I ask what were these words of the French mountaineers who are
just like us――‘Auvergne sans tache’? I wonder if this poor head can
carry those words back to Lebanon green――_Ovan-saan-tarche_! The words
ring true, like a bell that rings for the future. I somehow feel that I
will hear them again somewhere. _Ovan-saan-tarche, Ovan-saan-tarche!_
I will go now. I must tell the Governor and all the people about it
on the green――_Ovan-saan-tarche_! What shall I tell the people of the
cedars?”
“Tell the people of the cedars that there is a young French officer in
the camp here that thinks that he carries in his heart a secret that
will give liberty to America; that aid will come from a district in
France that grows men like the cedars.”
Now the secret of Lafayette haunted the mind of Dennis.
“A spandy-dandy boy told me something strange,” said he to the
Governor, on his return. “He was a Frenchman, with a shelving forehead
and red hair, and Washington seemed to be hugging his company, as it
were; the General saw something in him that others did not see. I think
he has what you would call a discerning of spirits. I thought I saw the
same thing.”
“Washington, it is likely, relies on this officer, because the young
Frenchman believes in him and in the cause,” said the Governor.
“Washington is human, and he must have a lonesome heart, and he must
like to have near him those who believe in him and in the cause. That
is natural.”
There was to be a corn-roast in the cedars――a popular gathering where
green corn was roasted on the ear by a great fire and distributed among
the people.
Had Lebanon been nearer the sea there would have been a clambake, as
the occasion of bringing together the people, instead of a corn-roast.
At the clambakes bivalves and fish were roasted on heated stones under
rock-weed, sea-weed, and a covering of sail-cloth, the latter to keep
down the steam.
The people gathered for the corn-roast, bringing luscious corn in
the green husks, new potatoes, apples, and fruit. The women brought
pandowdy, or pot-pies, made of apples baked in dough, which candied in
baking, and also brown bread, and rye and Indian bread, and perhaps “no
cake,” all of which was to be eaten on the carpet of the dry needles of
the great pines that mingled among the cedars.
This was to be a lively gathering, for a report had gone abroad that
Dennis had seen a prophet and had received great news from a young
French officer, and that he would tell his story among the speeches on
that day.
It was in the serene and sunny days of September. The locusts made a
silvery, continuous music in the trees. The birds were gathering for
migrations. The fields were full of goldenrod and wild asters, and the
oaks by the wayside were here and there loaded with purple grapes.
The people came to the cedar grove from near and from far, and every
one seemed interested in Dennis.
The Irishman towered above them all, bringing deadwood for the fires.
The feast was eaten on the ground, and the people were merry, all
wondering what story Dennis, who had been to the army and seen the
great Washington himself, would have to tell.
The people watched him as he brought great logs on his shoulders to
feed the fire where the corn was roasted.
Brother Jonathan and his good wife came to the goodly gathering. The
people arose to greet him, and the children gathered around him, and
looked up to him as a patriarch. He was then some sixty-seven years old.
After the feast he lifted his hands and spoke to the people. The cedar
birds gathered around him in the trees, and one adventurous crow came
near and cawed. Dennis threw a stick at the crow, and said:
“Be civil now, and listen to the Governor!”
After the Governor had spoken, “Elder” Williams spoke. But it was from
Dennis that the people most wished to hear.
They called upon the village esquire to speak.
He was a portly man. He arose and said:
“I will not detain you long. It is Dennis for whom you are waiting.”
He said a few words, and then called:
“Dennis? Dennis O’Hay?”
“At your service,” said Dennis, drawing near, hat in hand.
“Dennis, they say that you met a prophet in the army.”
“That I did, sir, and I mind me the secret of the skies is in his
heart.”
“How did he look?”
“Oh, he was a skit of a man, with a slanting roof to his forehead,
and lean-to at the back of it. He was all covered with spangles and
bangles, and he followed the great Washington here and there, like as
if he was his own son. That is how it was, sir.”
The people wondered. This was not the kind of a prophet that Elder
Williams had preached about in the Lebanon pulpit for twoscore years.
The elder stood up, and said: “Be reverent, my young man.”
“That I am, sir. I answered the esquire after the truth, sir.”
“And what made you think that such a frivolous-looking man as that
could be a prophet? Prophets are elderly men, and plain in their dress
and habits, and grave in face. Why did you think that this gay young
man was a prophet?”
“Because, your reverence, I could see that Washington believed in
him――the great Washington, and the man prophesied, too.”
“To whom did he prophesy?”
“To me, to your humble servant, sir.”
The people laughed in a suppressive way, but wondered more than ever.
“What did he say, Dennis?”
“That I can never tell, sir. He has a woman’s heart, sir, and she has
a man’s heart, sir, and both have the people’s heart, sir; and one day
there will be fleets on the sea, sir, and strange armies will appear
on our shores, sir. They may come here, sir, and encamp in the cedars,
sir. Oh, I am an honest man, and seem to see it all, sir.”
“How old is your prophet, Dennis?”
“I would think that he might be twenty, sir; no, a hundred; no, as old
as liberty, sir, with all his bangles and spangles.”
“That is very strange,” said the esquire. “I fear that you may have
wheels in your head, Dennis――were any of your people ever a little
touched in mind?”
“No, never; they had clear heads. An’ why do I believe that this young
man carries a secret in his heart that will deliver America? Because
he has the heart of the mountaineers of God. He belongs to the sons of
liberty in France, and little he cares for his bangles and spangles.”
“But he is too young.”
“No, no; pardon me, sir, he has an ardent heart, that he has. It is all
on fire. Wasn’t David young when he took up a little pebbly rock and
sent the giant sprawling? Wasn’t King Alfred young when he put down his
foot and planted England? Wasn’t Samuel young when he heard a voice?”
The people began to cheer Dennis.
“The true heart knows its own. Washington’s heart does.
“You may laugh, but I have met a prophet. The gold lace on him does not
spoil his heart. He comes out of the past, he is going into the future;
he loves everybody, and everybody that meets him loves him. Laugh if
you will, but Dennis O’Hay has seen a prophet, and you will see what is
in his heart some day.
“He has a motto. What is his motto, do you ask? _Ovan-saan-tarche_!――Ovan
without a stain. That is the motto of the soldiers of the place where he
was born. That place is like this place, I mind me. He says: ‘America
will be free when she shall hear the bugles of Ovan.’”
“What is his name?” asked the esquire.
“His name? Bother me if I can remember it now. It is the same as the
boy said. But you will come to know it some day, now heed you this
word in the cedars. Lafayette――yes, Lafayette――that is his name. It is
written in the stars, but bother me, it flies away from me now like a
bird from a wicker-cage. But, but, hear me, ye good folks all, receive
it, Governor, believe it, esquire――that young man’s heart holds the
secret of America. There are helpers invisible in this world, and the
heavens elect men for their work, not from any outward appearance, but
from the heart. This is the way God elected David of old.”
A blue jay had been listening on a long cedar bough stretched out like
an arm.
She archly turned her head, raised her crown and gave a trumpet-call,
and flew over the people.
The men shouted, and the women and children cheered Dennis, and the
grave Governor said:
“Life is self-revealing, time makes clear all things, and if our good
man Dennis has indeed discovered a prophet, it will all be revealed to
us some day. Elder Williams, pray!”
The old man stood up under the cedars; the women bowed. Then the people
went home to talk of the strange tidings that Dennis had brought them.
Was there, indeed, some hidden secret of personal power in the heart of
this young companion of Washington, who had made honor his motto and
liberty his star?