As soon as Colonel Clark's commands were delivered to Captain Bowman at
Cahokia, I obtained permission for Thomas and myself to return to
Kaskaskia, that we might await there the issue of Ellen's illness. We
took turns of watching upon the porch of the commandant's house to be in
readiness for any instant service it was in our power to render.
Meantime Madame Rocheblave and Angelique nursed Ellen assiduously and
tenderly, and her physicians gave her faithful attention. This was my
first acquaintance with people of French blood, and their unfailing
cheerfulness and sympathy were a revelation to me. In truth the French
Americans of the Northwest were the most simple natured and warm hearted
race I have ever known--they had not, however, the hardier qualities of
my own people.
For seven days we had always the same answer to our questions given by
the little doctor, with cheery air, and sympathetic expression--"C'est
impossible a dire, Monsieur, il faut avoir la patience."
Late on the eighth night, Father Gibault came to me, his gentle face
beaming with pleasure, to announce that the crisis had been favorably
passed, and that with no relapse, Ellen would soon be as strong or
stronger than before.
* * * * *
The most hazardous part of our enterprise lay yet before us--the taking
of Vincennes, the real key to the Northwest, without which we could not
long hold our position at Kaskaskia and Cahokia. And every day the
English commandant, Abbott, might return from Detroit with
reenforcements for the fort, which was far stronger and better equipped
than the almost abandoned one at Kaskaskia. Moreover we could not hope
so easily to overawe and win the larger and more mixed population of the
town of Vincennes, which had fallen more directly under British
influence.
Colonel Clark had conceived that his best hope was to make the
Kaskaskians believe his riflemen the most formidable of warriors, and to
lead them to think that he could summon from our recently established
forts on the Ohio any number of reenforcements he might need. So we
drilled and mustered the men and made pretense of sending couriers to
our forts, till the Kaskaskians imagined us to be but the vanguard of an
army. Their fears were aroused for friends and relatives at Vincennes,
and Father Gibault himself offered to proceed to that town under an
escort of Colonel Clark's troops, to counsel submission and alliance.
Clark accepted his offer with apparent indifference, but secret joy, put
me in command of Father Gibault's escort, and bade me gather all the
information possible, in regard to the condition of the fort, the
feeling of the people toward the English, and everything I thought might
be useful in case we should have to storm or besiege the place.
Still our amazing good luck attended us. The logic of Father Gibault,
and the natural preference of the people for peace--which made a change
of masters a matter of secondary importance--proved irresistible. The
citizens assembled willingly in the church, swore allegiance to
Virginia, elected a town officer favorable to our interests, and allowed
us to garrison the fort, and raise our standards over it. Father Gibault
carried the news of our third bloodless victory back to Clark, and a
week later Captain Helm arrived to take command of the garrison of five
Americans, and about a score of French recruits. Colonel Clark had given
him the large sounding title of "Governor-General of Indian affairs on
the Wabash," and had charged him with a characteristic answer to
Tabac--the head chief of the Piankeshaws, who had visited us at
Vincennes, and arrogantly commanded us to convey a defiant message to
the chief of the Long-Knives.
"Take your choice," was Clark's answer--by the mouth of the interpreter
Givens--"between the British and the Big-Knives. Choose peace or war
with the Long Knives and you will--but whichever you select, remember it
is final and prepare to stand firmly by your choice. We are fighters by
trade, we object not to war, yet we have no present quarrel with the red
men, and seek none. We prefer to save our strength to make war upon the
British king"--and then the ground of our quarrel with Great Britain was
explained as well as Givens was able to do it by the use of such figures
of speech as the Indians could understand.
The negotiations lasted several days, nor could we gather from the
stolid faces of Tabac and his warriors what their decision would be. At
last Tabac announced that he had made up his mind,--then sat in
Sphinx-like silence for half an hour, smoking solemnly and looking
straight before him into the dense smoke made by the pine knots, burning
in the midst of our circle. His warriors did likewise. Instructed by
Givens, we showed neither curiosity nor impatience, but remained as
impassive as they.
Meantime, partially to rest my eyes from the smoke and flame of the pine
logs, I gazed long and curiously at Tabac. How crafty and subtle the
expression about the thin close-lipped mouth, and long half-shut eyes!
How savage the narrow sloping forehead, and the high fleshless cheek
bones, smeared with fantastic daubs of paint, and surmounted with
suggestive scalp lock, conspicuously adorned with gay feathers and stiff
quills. The noble red man indeed! I have no patience with this absurd
sentiment of admiration and pity for the Indian--which seems now to be
coming into fashion. The generation of pioneers, and frontiersmen not
long past, realize as others never can the inherent savagery of the
Indians. Either we should never have come to America, or we must
exterminate the savages. Indians and civilization repel each other like
the opposite poles of a magnet.
When Tabac arose deliberately to his feet at last, his eyes roved around
the circle, and were fixed upon me with an expression of defiance,
rather than upon Captain Helm, at whose left I sat, showing that he had
felt, and resented my scrutiny.
"Warriors of the Big-Knife," he began in slow, measured tones, that made
an impression of rude eloquence, though we understood not a word he said
until Givens had translated his speech; "I have reflected long--have
taken counsel of my warriors, and of the Great Spirit himself. I have
made my choice. I have reached a last decision. And when Tabac, chief of
the brave and noble tribe of the Piankeshaws decides, it is the
end--there is no more hesitation with him, nor with his people. We are
friends to the Big-Knife, and his warriors. We make alliance with the
tribes of Virginia. We, too, are Big-Knives, we stand or fall with our
pale face brethren from the rising sun."
Captain Helm made gracious answer to this language, interspersed with
much flattery of Tabac and his tribe, for their alliance was, really, of
the greatest importance to us, and our apparent indifference but a part
of the big game of bluff Clark was playing. Then the peace pipe was
passed around, presents interchanged, and after bidding our new allies
an elaborate farewell, we returned to the fort.
Just before he had sent me to Vincennes, Colonel Clark, as I neglected
to mention at the proper time, had raised me to my old rank of Captain,
and given me a place on his staff, as special attache to himself--as the
moving executive, so to speak, of the central authority. Clark remained
at Kaskaskia, where one Indian deputation after another flocked to him
to make treaties of peace or alliance, while I moved up the river to
Cahokia, or across the prairies and marshes to Vincennes, carrying his
orders, making reports, and gathering information.
Upon my return to Kaskaskia after my first trip to Vincennes, I found
Ellen more than convalescent. Her vigorous youth had quickly vanquished
the disease after the first crisis was safely passed, and she had made
such rapid recovery as caused Madame Rocheblave to lift her hands,
elevate her eyebrows, and exclaim over the marvelous physical powers of
"zeze so veery strong Ameerikans."
I found Ellen not only bright-eyed, but plump and rosy, as she had never
been before, and even gay among her new friends. They had already taken
her to their hearts, partly, I suppose, because she was so devout a
Catholic, partly because they had been called upon to befriend and care
for her, and partly too, as any one must recognize, for her own charming
personality. No wonder Thomas had been so infatuated! The thin, awkward,
shy girl, I remembered, with the beautiful blue eyes, set in a slim,
pale face, was become an indescribable compound of girlish roundness,
bloom, and sparkle, of maidenly softness and brightness. Her new woman's
clothes, constructed by Angelique's deft fingers of the delicate hued
soft stuffs of the place, which were woven of home grown flax, or of
buffalo wool, and dyed with native roots, hung about her in long,
graceful folds, that made her figure look statuesque in its poses of
natural grace. But even more than her beauty, her manner astonished
me--its graciousness, piquancy, gayety, and ease. Not Nelly Buford
herself, nor Miss Shippen, reigned with more charming assurance over her
circle of admirers, than did Ellen over the court of adorers which soon
gathered about her.
She had been enrolled as "John Givens" in Captain Dillard's company, and
they laid now special claim to her; every one of the officers making
himself the slave of her caprices, and vying one with another to flatter
and to spoil her. Dr. Lafonte and young Legere, a distant kinsman of the
commandant, promptly surrendered, and, presently, Colonel Clark enrolled
himself among her devoted admirers. There were a dozen fresh faced,
sweet voiced French girls of the peasant class in the village, but Ellen
alone had qualities to attract men like Dillard, Clark, Thomas and me,
who demanded more than rounded outlines, bright eyes, and soft skin.
If once I had patronized Ellen, it was her turn now, and she queened it
over me ruthlessly. At our very first interview she proved her power. I
had sought to see her alone, that I might give her in plain words my
opinion of her late rashness, and insist that in future she take no step
without consulting Thomas, or me, in lieu of closer kinsman, with better
right to advise her. It seemed my duty to do this, since Thomas'
infatuation made him dumb in her presence, and would allow him to
recognize no fault in her.
After keeping me waiting a good fifteen minutes, she came, trailing a
pale yellow robe behind her, and bearing herself like a princess.
"Is this really Ellen O'Niel?" I asked, involuntarily, meeting her half
way down the long room, and taking both her hands in cousinly greeting.
"None other than the forlorn little Irish lass you used to be kind to,"
and she flashed upon me an irradiating smile, and drew her hands out of
mine with an air of gentle dignity that somehow embarrassed me. "But you
did not know me in riflemen's uniform--my heart need not have fluttered
so that day in the forest when you planted yourself before me, and
looked me straight in the eye."
"It makes me tremble even yet, Ellen," I answered, "to think of your
rash conduct during the last few months."
"All has turned out beautifully, Cousin Donald, and I would do it all
over again," and she spoke gaily, but with more seriousness, as she
added: "Are you not risking all for freedom; and is not liberty as dear
to a woman as to a man? I took the risk and I have won. Had I died in
the attempt 'twould have been better than the life of slavery and
persecution. Besides, cousin, though your narrow Protestantism may find
it hard to grant such grace to Catholics, we, too, have faith in an
overruling Providence, believe in a power that can protect the helpless,
and guide the orphan. I rode away from my Uncle Thomas' house that
night, unguarded by man, but guided by the holy Christ and the gentle
Virgin,"--Ellen's face shone with uplifted rapture as she spoke
thus--"By them I have been brought in safety to this peaceful village of
kindly, cheerful people, to the care of holy Father Gibault, kind Madame
Rocheblave, and faithful Angelique. I shall not again lack friends nor
suffer persecution for my religion. You are a distant kinsman, 'tis
true, Cousin Donald, and I hold you in grateful affection for past
kindnesses--but I will not be scolded nor upbraided. I am done with
that, for always. Nor have I any apologies to make to any one. I was
driven to what I did by those who were called to give me a home and
affection. I repeat I would do over again what I have done. If you wish
to treat me with a kinsman's kindness upon these terms I shall be
glad--otherwise you must say farewell, and leave me to my new found
friends."
Never was I so completely cowed by speech from the lips of any one, as
by these quiet words from Ellen, as she sat before me in calm dignity.
Scattered like summer smoke was my intent to reprimand her once for all,
and set before her the suffering she had caused us.
"Did you not promise, the night we said good night at the spring, to be
my friend and comrade always?" I answered, "and have not friends and
comrades the right to speak the truth to one another? Once for all,
Ellen, I must say I think you acted rashly, and beg that you will never
again act upon impulse without taking counsel of Thomas or me who are
your loyal kinsmen, and would risk our lives for you. I speak not to
disapprove, but to warn; the dangers, the risks your independent,
confident spirit may lead you into, frighten me. And, Ellen," I went on
rapidly, lest I should never again be able to summon up the needful
courage to say it--"you must not include Uncle Thomas, nor my mother, in
your just condemnation of Aunt Martha; both are sincerely grieved, and
Uncle Thomas half distracted with apprehension and remorse; neither had
a thought that you were so very unhappy."
"Uncle Thomas had not the courage to take my side, nor your mother to
offer me a refuge--both preferred family peace, and their own comfort to
my salvation; they left no other course open to me than that I took. Not
even Cousin Thomas, though he wished to befriend me, had the bravery to
make a stand on my side against his mother; he, too, was cowed by her
domineering spirit--were I a man, I would cringe to no one, not even to
the woman that I love."
That last sentence I remembered, and afterwards it helped me to hold my
own a little better against Ellen's growing power over me.
"You were most unkindly treated, Ellen, and it will always be a reproach
upon us, something for which we must all hang our heads in shame,--but
will you not try to forgive them? They have bitterly atoned for the
wrong they did you, if unhappiness, and self reproach, can atone."
"Father Gibault says I must freely forgive them ere he can absolve me
from the wrong thoughts, and actions of which I too have been guilty,"
answered Ellen--that catch in her voice, which so often I had recalled
to mind, and had never heard in any other woman's--"but I find no
consolation in their remorse. In you, Cousin Donald, I have nothing to
forgive, you have always been good to me. I am still your friend and
comrade, if you wish--though already you are a great and noble man, as I
foresaw you would be," and again she gave me that flashing smile which
made my head swim.
"And you will go home with Thomas and me when this business is ended?"
"I can never go back to that dreary, solemn valley, where people think
of nothing but hard work, and long doleful prayers. As yet I have heard
mass but twice, and only once have I been to confession; it seemed to me
that the spirit of my dead parents were with me, and it brought me such
joy and peace as you cannot conceive. I can never be separated again
from the exercise of my religion. In truth I have a solemn and holy
purpose set before me, of which I shall tell you, some day. Meantime let
us not talk upon this painful subject, Cousin Donald,--life is so good
to me now, so full of pure joy, and perfect happiness that I like not to
recall the past five years."