"...I would have you know of what I am and whence I came, though I
have given you glimpses in the past. That done, I will make plain
why I am charged with this that puts my life in danger, which would
make you blush that you ever knew me if it were true. And I will
show you first a picture as it runs before me, sitting here, the
corn of my dungeon garden twining in my fingers:--
"A multiplying width of green grass spotted with white flowers, an
upland where sheep browsed on a carpet of purple and gold and green,
a tall rock on a hill where birds perched and fluttered, a blue
sky arching over all. There, sprawling in a garden, a child pulled
at long blades of grass, as he watched the birds flitting about
the rocks, and heard a low voice coming down the wind. Here in my
dungeon I can hear the voice as I have not heard it since that day
in the year 1730--that voice stilled so long ago. The air and the
words come floating down (for the words I knew years afterwards):
'Did ye see the white cloud in the glint o' the sun?
That's the brow and the eye o' my bairnie.
Did ye ken the red bloom at the bend o' the crag?
That's the rose in the cheek o' my bairnie.
Did ye hear the gay lilt o' the lark by the burn?
That's the voice of my bairnie, my dearie.
Did ye smell the wild scent in the green o' the wood?
That's the breath o' my ain, o' my bairnie.
Sae I'll gang awa' hame, to the shine o' the fire,
To the cot where I lie wi' my bairnie.'
"These words came crooning over the grass of that little garden at
Balmore which was by my mother's home. There I was born one day in
June, though I was reared in the busy streets of Glasgow, where my
father was a prosperous merchant and famous for his parts and
honesty.
"I see myself, a little child of no great strength, for I was,
indeed, the only one of my family who lived past infancy, and
my mother feared she should never bring me up. She, too, is in
that picture, tall, delicate, kind yet firm of face, but with a
strong brow, under which shone grave gray eyes, and a manner so
distinguished that none might dispute her kinship to the renowned
Montrose, who was lifted so high in dying, though his gallows was
but thirty feet, that all the world has seen him there. There was
one other in that picture, standing near my mother, and looking at
me, who often used to speak of our great ancestor--my grandfather,
John Mitchell, the Gentleman of Balmore, as he was called, out of
regard for his ancestry and his rare merits.
"I have him well in mind: his black silk breeches and white
stockings and gold seals, and two eyes that twinkled with great
humour when, as he stooped over me, I ran my head between his calves
and held him tight. I recall how my mother said, 'I doubt that I
shall ever bring him up,' and how he replied (the words seem to
come through great distances to me), 'He'll live to be Montrose the
second, rascal laddie! Four seasons at the breast? Tut, tut! what
o' that? 'Tis but his foolery, his scampishness! Nae, nae! his
epitaph's no for writing till you and I are tucked i' the sod,
my Jeanie. Then, like Montrose's, it will be--
'Tull Edinburrow they led him thair,
And on a gallows hong;
They hong him high abone the rest,
He was so trim a boy.'
"I can hear his laugh this minute, as he gave an accent to the words
by stirring me with his stick, and I caught the gold head of it and
carried it off, trailing it through the garden, till I heard my
mother calling, and then forced her to give me chase, as I pushed
open a little gate and posted away into that wide world of green,
coming quickly to the river, where I paused and stood at bay. I can
see my mother's anxious face now, as she caught me to her arms; and
yet I know she had a kind of pride, too, when my grandfather said,
on our return, 'The rascal's at it early. Next time he'll ford the
stream and skirl at ye, Jeanie, from yonder bank.'
"This is the first of my life that I remember. It may seem strange
to you that I thus suddenly recall not only it, but the words then
spoken too. It is strange to me, also. But here it comes to me all
on a sudden in this silence, as if another self of me were speaking
from far places. At first all is in patches and confused, and then
it folds out--if not clearly, still so I can understand--and the
words I repeat come as if filtered through many brains to mine. I
do not say that it is true--it may be dreams; and yet, as I say, it
is firmly in my mind.
"The next that I remember was climbing upon a chair to reach for my
grandfather's musket, which hung across the chimney. I got at last
upon the mantelshelf, and my hands were on the weapon, when the
door opened, and my grandfather and my father entered. I was so
busy I did not hear them till I was caught by the legs and swung
to a shoulder, where I sat kicking. 'You see his tastes, William,'
said my grandfather to my father; 'he's white o' face and slim o'
body, but he'll no carry on your hopes.' And more he said to the
point, though what it was I knew not. But I think it to have been
suggestion (I heard him say it later) that I would bring Glasgow up
to London by the sword (good doting soul!) as my father brought it
by manufactures, gaining honour thereby.
"However that may be, I would not rest till my grandfather had put
the musket into my arms. I could scarcely lift it, but from the
first it had a charm for me, and now and then, in spite of my
mother's protests, I was let to handle it, to learn its parts, to
burnish it, and by-and-bye--I could not have been more than six
years old--to rest it on a rock and fire it off. It kicked my
shoulder roughly in firing, but I know I did not wink as I pulled
the trigger. Then I got a wild hunger to fire it at all times; so
much so, indeed, that powder and shot were locked up, and the musket
was put away in my grandfather's chest. But now and again it was
taken out, and I made war upon the unresisting hillside, to the
dismay of our neighbours in Balmore. Feeding the fever in my veins,
my grandfather taught me soldiers' exercises and the handling of
arms: to my dear mother's sorrow, for she ever fancied me as leading
a merchant's quiet life like my father's, hugging the hearthstone,
and finding joy in small civic duties, while she and my dear father
sat peacefully watching me in their decline of years.
"I have told you of that river which flowed near my father's house.
At this time most of my hours were spent by it in good weather, for
at last my mother came to trust me alone there, having found her
alert fears of little use. But she would very often come with me and
watch me as I played there. I loved to fancy myself a miller, and my
little mill-wheel, made by my own hands, did duty here and there on
the stream, and many drives of logs did I, in fancy, saw into piles
of lumber, and loads of flour sent away to the City of Desire. Then,
again, I made bridges, and drove mimic armies across them; and if
they were enemies, craftily let them partly cross, to tumble them in
at the moment when part of the forces were on one side of the stream
and part on the other, and at the mercy of my men.
"My grandfather taught me how to build forts and breastworks, and
I lay in ambush for the beadle, who was my good friend, for my
grandfather, and for half a dozen other village folk, who took no
offense at my sport, but made believe to be bitterly afraid when I
surrounded them and drove them, shackled, to my fort by the river.
Little by little the fort grew, until it was a goodly pile; for
now and then a village youth helped me, or again an old man, whose
heart, maybe, rejoiced to play at being child again with me. Years
after, whenever I went back to Balmore, there stood the fort, for
no one ever meddled with it, nor tore it down.
"And I will tell you one reason why this was, and you will think it
strange that it should have played such a part in the history of
the village, as in my own life. You must know that people living in
secluded places are mostly superstitious. Well, when my fort was
built to such proportions that a small ladder must be used to fix
new mud and mortar in place upon it, something happened.
"Once a year there came to Balmore--and he had done so for a
generation--one of those beings called The Men, who are given to
prayer, fasting, and prophesying, who preach the word of warning
ever, calling even the ministers of the Lord sharply to account.
One day this Man came past my fort, folk with him, looking for
preaching or prophesy from him. Suddenly turning he came inside my
fort, and, standing upon the ladder against the wall, spoke to them
fervently. His last words became a legend in Balmore, and spread
even to Glasgow and beyond.
"'Hear me!' cried he. 'As I stand looking at ye from this wall,
calling on ye in your natural bodies to take refuge in the Fort of
God, the Angel of Death is looking ower the battlements of heaven,
choosing ye out, the sheep frae the goats; calling the one to
burning flames, and the other into peaceable habitations. I hear the
voice now,' cried he, 'and some soul among us goeth forth. Flee ye
to the Fort of Refuge.' I can see him now, his pale face shining,
his eyes burning, his beard blowing in the wind, his grizzled hair
shaking on his forehead. I had stood within the fort watching him.
At last he turned, and, seeing me intent, stooped, caught me by the
arms, and lifted me upon the wall. 'See you,' said he, 'yesterday's
babe a warrior to-day. Have done, have done, ye quarrelsome hearts.
Ye that build forts here shall lie in darksome prisons; there is no
fort but the Fort of God. The call comes frae the white ramparts.
Hush!' he added solemnly, raising a finger. 'One of us goeth hence
this day; are ye ready to walk i' the fearsome valley?'
"I have heard my mother speak these words over often, and they were,
as I said, like an old song in Balmore and Glasgow. He set me down,
and then walked away, waving the frightened people back; and there
was none of them that slept that night.
"Now comes the stranger thing. In the morning The Man was found
dead in my little fort, at the foot of the wall. Henceforth the
spot was sacred, and I am sure it stands there as when last I saw
it twelve years ago, but worn away by rains and winds.
"Again and again my mother said over to me his words, 'Ye that build
forts here shall lie in darksome prisons'; for always she had fear
of the soldier's life, and she was moved by signs and dreams.
"But this is how the thing came to shape my life:
"About a year after The Man died, there came to my grandfather's
house, my mother and I being present, a gentleman, by name Sir
John Godric, and he would have my mother tell the whole story of
The Man. That being done, he said that The Man was his brother, who
had been bad and wild in youth, a soldier; but repenting had gone
as far the other way, giving up place and property, and cutting off
from all his kin.
"This gentleman took much notice of me and said that he should
be glad to see more of me. And so he did, for in the years that
followed he would visit at our home in Glasgow when I was at
school, or at Balmore until my grandfather died.
"My father liked Sir John greatly, and they grew exceedingly
friendly, walking forth in the streets of Glasgow, Sir John's
hand upon my father's arm. One day they came to the school in High
Street, where I learned Latin and other accomplishments, together
with fencing from an excellent master, Sergeant Dowie of the One
Hundredth Foot. They found me with my regiment at drill; for I
had got full thirty of my school-fellows under arms, and spent
all leisure hours in mustering, marching, and drum-beating, and
practising all manner of discipline and evolution which I had been
taught by my grandfather and Sergeant Dowie.
"Those were the days soon after which came Dettingen and Fontenoy
and Charles Edward the Pretender, and the ardour of arms ran high.
Sir John was a follower of the Stuarts, and this was the one point
at which he and my father paused in their good friendship. When
Sir John saw me with my thirty lads marching in fine order, all
fired with the little sport of battle--for to me it was all real,
and our sham fights often saw broken heads and bruised shoulders--he
stamped his cane upon the ground, and said in a big voice, 'Well
done! well done! For that you shall have a hundred pounds next
birthday, and as fine a suit of scarlet as you please, and a sword
from London too.'
"Then he came to me and caught me by both shoulders. 'But alack,
alack! there needs some blood and flesh here, Robert Moray,' said
he. 'You have more heart than muscle.'
"This was true. I had ever been more eager than my strength--thank
God, that day is gone!--and sometimes, after Latin and the drill of
my Lightfoots, as I called them, I could have cried for weakness
and weariness, had I been a girl and not a proud lad. And Sir John
kept his word, liking me better from that day forth, and coming
now and again to see me at the school,--though he was much abroad
in France--giving many a pound to my Lightfoots, who were no worse
soldiers for that. His eye ran us over sharply, and his head nodded,
as we marched past him; and once I heard him say, 'If they had had
but ten years each on their heads, my Prince!'
"About this time my father died--that is, when I was fourteen years
old. Sir John became one of the executors with my mother, and
at my wish, a year afterwards, I was sent to the university, where
at least fifteen of my Lightfoots went also; and there I formed a
new battalion of them, though we were watched at first, and even
held in suspicion, because of the known friendship of Sir John for
me; and he himself had twice been under arrest for his friendship
to the Stuart cause. That he helped Prince Charles was clear: his
estates were mortgaged to the hilt.
"He died suddenly on that day of January when Culloden was fought,
before he knew of the defeat of the Prince. I was with him at the
last. After some most serious business, which I shall come to
by-and-bye, 'Robert,' said he, 'I wish thou hadst been with my
Prince. When thou becomest a soldier, fight where thou hast heart to
fight; but if thou hast conscience for it, let it be with a Stuart.
I thought to leave thee a good moiety of my fortune, Robert, but
little that's free is left for giving. Yet thou hast something
from thy father, and down in Virginia, where my friend Dinwiddie is
Governor, there's a plantation for thee, and a purse of gold, which
was for me in case I should have cause to flee this troubled realm.
But I need it not; I go for refuge to my Father's house. The little
vineyard and the purse of gold are for thee, Robert. If thou
thinkest well of it, leave this sick land for that new one. Build
thyself a name in that great young country, wear thy sword honourably
and bravely, use thy gifts in council and debate--for Dinwiddie will
be thy friend--and think of me as one who would have been a father
to thee if he could. Give thy good mother my loving farewells....
Forget not to wear my sword--it has come from the first King Charles
himself, Robert.'
"After which he raised himself upon his elbow and said, 'Life--life,
is it so hard to untie the knot?' Then a twinge of agony crossed
over his face, and afterwards came a great clearing and peace, and
he was gone.
"King George's soldiers entered with a warrant for him even as he
died, and the same moment dropped their hands upon my shoulder. I
was kept in durance for many days, and was not even at the funeral
of my benefactor; but through the efforts of the provost of the
university and some good friends who could vouch for my loyal
principles, I was released. But my pride had got a setback, and
I listened with patience to my mother's prayers that I would not
join the King's men. With the anger of a youth, I now blamed his
Majesty for the acts of Sir John Godric's enemies. And though I
was a good soldier of the King at heart, I would not serve him
henceforth. We threshed matters back and forth, and presently it
was thought I should sail to Virginia to take over my estate. My
mother urged it, too, for she thought if I were weaned from my old
comrades, military fame would no longer charm. So she urged me,
and go I did, with a commission from some merchants of Glasgow, to
give my visit to the colony more weight.
"It was great pain to leave my mother, but she bore the parting
bravely, and away I set in a good ship. Arrived in Virginia, I was
treated with great courtesy in Williamsburg, and the Governor gave
me welcome to his home for the sake of his old friend; and yet a
little for my own, I think, for we were of one temper, though he
was old and I young. We were both full of impulse and proud, and
given to daring hard things, and my military spirit suited him.
"In Virginia I spent a gay and busy year, and came off very well
with the rough but gentlemanly cavaliers, who rode through the wide,
sandy streets of the capital on excellent horses, or in English
coaches, with a rusty sort of show and splendour, but always with
great gallantry. The freedom of the life charmed me, and with
rumours of war with the French there seemed enough to do, whether
with the sword or in the House of Burgesses, where Governor
Dinwiddie said his say with more force than complaisance. So taken
was I with the life--my first excursion into the wide working
world--that I delayed my going back to Glasgow, the more so that
some matters touching my property called for action by the House
of Burgesses, and I had to drive the affair to the end. Sir John
had done better by me than he thought, and I thanked him over and
over again for his good gifts.
"Presently I got a letter from my father's old partner to say that
my dear mother was ill. I got back to Glasgow only in time--but
how glad I was of that!--to hear her last words. When my mother
was gone I turned towards Virginia with longing, for I could not
so soon go against her wishes and join the King's army on the
Continent, and less desire had I to be a Glasgow merchant. Gentlemen
merchants had better times in Virginia. So there was a winding-up
of the estate, not greatly to my pleasure; for it was found that by
unwise ventures my father's partner had perilled the whole, and lost
part of the property. But as it was, I had a competence and several
houses in Glasgow, and I set forth to Virginia with a goodly sum
of money and a shipload of merchandise, which I should sell to
merchants, if it chanced I should become a planter only. I was
warmly welcomed by old friends and by the Governor and his family,
and I soon set up an establishment of my own in Williamsburg,
joining with a merchant there in business, while my land was worked
by a neighbouring planter.
"Those were hearty days, wherein I made little money, but had
much pleasure in the giving and taking of civilities, in throwing
my doors open to acquaintances, and with my young friend, Mr.
Washington, laying the foundation for a Virginian army, by drill and
yearly duty in camp, with occasional excursions against the Indians.
I saw very well what the end of our troubles with the French would
be, and I waited for the time when I should put to keen use the
sword Sir John Godric had given me. Life beat high then, for I was
in the first flush of manhood, and the spirit of a rich new land
was waking in us all, while in our vanity we held to and cherished
forms and customs that one would have thought to see left behind in
London streets and drawing-rooms. These things, these functions in
a small place, kept us a little vain and proud, but, I also hope it
gave us some sense of civic duty.
"And now I come to that which will, comrade of my heart, bring home
to your understanding what lies behind the charges against me:
"Trouble came between Canada and Virginia. Major Washington, one
Captain Mackaye, and myself marched out to the Great Meadows, where
at Fort Necessity we surrendered, after hard fighting, to a force
three times our number. I, with one Captain Van Braam, became a
hostage. Monsieur Coulon Villiers, the French commander, gave his
bond that we should be delivered up when an officer and two cadets,
who were prisoners with us, should be sent on. It was a choice
between Mr. Mackaye of the Regulars and Mr. Washington, or Mr. Van
Braam and myself. I thought of what would be best for the country;
and besides, Monsieur Coulon Villiers pitched upon my name at
once, and held to it. So I gave up my sword to Charles Bedford, my
lieutenant, with more regret than I can tell, for it was sheathed
in memories, charging him to keep it safe--that he would use it
worthily I knew. And so, sorrowfully bidding my friends good-by,
away we went upon the sorry trail of captivity, arriving in due time
at Fort Du Quesne, at the junction of the Ohio and the Monongahela,
where I was courteously treated. There I bettered my French and made
the acquaintance of some ladies from Quebec city, who took pains to
help me with their language.
"Now, there was one lady to whom I talked with some freedom of my
early life and of Sir John Godric. She was interested in all, but
when I named Sir John she became at once much impressed, and I told
her of his great attachment to Prince Charles. More than once she
returned to the subject, begging me to tell her more; and so I
did, still, however, saying nothing of certain papers Sir John
had placed in my care. A few weeks after the first occasion of my
speaking, there was a new arrival at the fort. It was--can you
guess?--Monsieur Doltaire. The night after he came he visited me
in my quarters, and after courteous passages, of which I need
not speak, he suddenly said, 'You have the papers of Sir John
Godric--those bearing on Prince Charles's invasion of England?'
"I was stunned by the question, for I could not guess his drift or
purpose, though presently it dawned upon me.--Among the papers were
many letters from a great lady in France, a growing rival with La
Pompadour in the counsels and favour of the King. She it was who had
a secret passion for Prince Charles, and these letters to Sir John,
who had been with the Pretender at Versailles, must prove her ruin
if produced. I had promised Sir John most solemnly that no one
should ever have them while I lived, except the great lady herself,
and that I would give them to her some time, or destroy them. It
was Doltaire's mission to get these letters, and he had projected
a visit to Williamsburg to see me, having just arrived in Canada,
after a search for me in Scotland, when word came from the lady
gossip at Fort Du Quesne (with whom he had been on most familiar
terms in Quebec) that I was there.
"When I said I had the papers, he asked me lightly for 'those
compromising letters,' remarking that a good price would be paid,
and adding my liberty as a pleasant gift. I instantly refused, and
told him I would not be the weapon of La Pompadour against her
rival. With cool persistence he begged me to think again, for much
depended on my answer.
"'See, monsieur le capitaine,' said he, 'this little affair at Fort
Necessity, at which you became a hostage, shall or shall not be a
war between England and France as you shall dispose.' When I asked
him how that was, he said, 'First, will you swear that you will not,
to aid yourself, disclose what I tell you? You can see that matters
will be where they were an hour ago in any case.'
"I agreed, for I could act even if I might not speak. So I gave my
word. Then he told me that if those letters were not put into his
hands, La Pompadour would be enraged, and fretful and hesitating
now, would join Austria against England, since in this provincial
war was convenient cue for battle. If I gave the letters up, she
would not stir, and the disputed territory between us should be by
articles conceded by the French.
"I thought much and long, during which he sat smoking and humming,
and seeming to care little how my answer went. At last I turned
on him, and told him I would not give up the letters, and if a war
must hang on a whim of malice, then, by God's help, the rightness of
our cause would be our strong weapon to bring France to her knees.
"'That is your final answer?' asked he, rising, fingering his lace,
and viewing himself in a looking-glass upon the wall.
"'I will not change it now or ever,' answered I.
"'Ever is a long time,' retorted he, as one might speak to a wilful
child. 'You shall have time to think and space for reverie. For
if you do not grant this trifle you shall no more see your dear
Virginia; and when the time is ripe you shall go forth to a better
land, as the Grande Marquise shall give you carriage.'
"'The Articles of Capitulation!' I broke out protestingly.
"He waved his fingers at me. 'Ah, that,' he rejoined--'that is a
matter for conning. You are a hostage. Well, we need not take any
wastrel or nobody the English offer in exchange for you. Indeed,
why should we be content with less than a royal duke? For you are
worth more to us just now than any prince we have; at least so
says the Grande Marquise. Is your mind quite firm to refuse?' he
added, nodding his head in a bored sort of way.
"'Entirely,' said I. 'I will not part with those letters.'
"'But think once again,' he urged; 'the gain of territory to
Virginia, the peace between our countries!'
"'Folly!' returned I. 'I know well you overstate the case. You turn
a small intrigue into a game of nations. Yours is a schoolboy's
tale, Monsieur Doltaire.'
"'You are something of an ass,' he mused, and took a pinch of snuff.
"'And you--you have no name,' retorted I.
"I did not know, when I spoke, how this might strike home in two
ways or I should not have said it. I had not meant, of course, that
he was King Louis's illegitimate son.
"'There is some truth in that,' he replied patiently, though a red
spot flamed high on his cheeks. 'But some men need no christening
for their distinction, and others win their names with proper
weapons. I am not here to quarrel with you. I am acting in a large
affair, not in a small intrigue; a century of fate may hang on this.
Come with me,' he added. 'You doubt my power, maybe.'
"He opened the door of the cell, and I followed him out, past the
storehouse and the officers' apartments, to the drawbridge. Standing
in the shadow by the gate, he took keys from his pocket. 'Here,'
said he, 'are what will set you free. This fort is all mine: I act
for France. Will you care to free yourself? You shall have escort
to your own people. You see I am most serious,' he added, laughing
lightly. 'It is not my way to sweat or worry. You and I hold war and
peace in our hands. Which shall it be? In this trouble France or
England will be mangled. It tires one to think of it when life can
be so easy. Now, for the last time,' he urged, holding out the keys.
'Your word of honour that the letters shall be mine--eh?'
"'Never,' I concluded. 'England and France are in greater hands than
yours or mine. The God of battles still stands beside the balances.'
"He shrugged a shoulder. 'Oh well,' said he, 'that ends it. It will
be interesting to watch the way of the God of battles. Meanwhile you
travel to Quebec. Remember that however free you may appear you will
have watchers, that when you seem safe you will be in most danger,
that in the end we will have those letters or your life; that
meanwhile the war will go on, that you shall have no share in it,
and that the whole power of England will not be enough to set her
hostage free. That is all there is to say, I think.... Will you have
a glass of wine with me?' he added courteously, waving a hand
towards the commander's quarters.
"I assented, for why, thought I, should there be a personal quarrel
between us? We talked on many things for an hour or more, and his
I found the keenest mind that ever I have met. There was in him a
dispassionateness, a breadth, which seemed most strange in a trifler
of the Court, in an exquisite--for such he was. I sometimes think
that his elegance and flippancy were deliberate, lest he should be
taking himself or life too seriously. His intelligence charmed me,
held me, and, later, as we travelled up to Quebec, I found my journey
one long feast of interest. He was never dull, and his cynicism had
an admirable grace and cordiality. A born intriguer, he still was
above intrigue, justifying it on the basis that life was all sport.
In logic a leveller, praising the moles, as he called them, the
champion of the peasant, the apologist for the bourgeois--who
always, he said, had civic virtues--he nevertheless held that what
was was best, that it could not be altered, and that it was all
interesting. 'I never repent,' he said to me one day. 'I have done
after my nature, in the sway and impulse of our time, and as the
King has said, After us the deluge. What a pity it is we shall see
neither the flood nor the ark! And so, when all is done, we shall
miss the most interesting thing of all: ourselves dead and the gap
and ruin we leave behind us. By that, from my standpoint,' he would
add, 'life is a failure as a spectacle.'
"Talking in this fashion and in a hundred other ways, we came to
Quebec. And you know in general what happened. I met your honoured
father, whose life I had saved on the Ohio some years before, and
he worked for my comfort in my bondage. You know how exchange after
exchange was refused, and that for near three years I have been
here, fretting my soul out, eager to be fighting in our cause,
yet tied hand and foot, wasting time and losing heart, idle in an
enemy's country. As Doltaire said, war was declared, but not till he
had made here in Quebec last efforts to get those letters. I do not
complain so bitterly of these lost years, since they have brought me
the best gift of my life, your love and friendship; but my enemies
here, commanded from France, have bided their time, till an accident
has given them a cue to dispose of me without openly breaking the
accepted law of nations. They could not decently hang a hostage, for
whom they had signed articles; but they have got their chance, as
they think, to try me for a spy.
"Here is the case. When I found that they were determined and had
ever determined to violate their articles, that they never intended
to set me free, I felt absolved from my duty as an officer on
parole, and I therefore secretly sent to Mr. Washington in Virginia
a plan of Fort Du Quesne and one of Quebec. I knew that I was
risking my life by so doing, but that did not deter me. By my
promise to Doltaire, I could not tell of the matter between us, and
whatever he has done in other ways, he has preserved my life; for it
would have been easy to have me dropped off by a stray bullet, or
to have accidentally drowned me in the St. Lawrence. I believe this
matter of the letters to be between myself and him and Bigot--and
perhaps not even Bigot, though he must know that La Pompadour has
some peculiar reason for interesting herself in a poor captain of
provincials. You now can see another motive for the duel which was
brought about between your brother and myself.
"My plans and letters were given by Mr. Washington to General
Braddock, and the sequel you know: they have fallen into the hands
of my enemies, copies have gone to France, and I am to be tried for
my life. Preserving faith with my enemy Doltaire, I can not plead
the real cause of my long detention; I can only urge that they had
not kept to their articles, and that I, therefore, was free from the
obligations of parole. I am sure they have no intention of giving
me the benefit of any doubt. My real hope lies in escape and the
intervention of England, though my country, alas! has not concerned
herself about me, as if indeed she resented the non-delivery of
those letters to Doltaire, since they were addressed to one she
looked on as a traitor, and held by one whom she had unjustly put
under suspicion.
"So, dear Alixe, from that little fort on the banks of the river
Kelvin have come these strange twistings of my life, and I can date
this dismal fortune of a dungeon from that day The Man made his
prophecy from the wall of my mud fort.
"Whatever comes now, if you have this record, you will know the
private history of my life.... I have told all, with unpractised
tongue, but with a wish to be understood, and to set forth a story
of which the letter should be as true as the spirit. Friend beyond
all price to me, some day this tale will reach your hands, and I ask
you to house it in your heart, and, whatever comes, let it be for my
remembrance. God be with you, and farewell!"