THE SURPRISE
There was, it is true, a side not so simple and wholesome, and this had
been gathering slowly since the advent of the governor. More drunken men
were seen about the levee. There was talk of regular orgies taking place
at the government house, and the more thoughtful men, like the
Chouteaus, the Guerins, the Guions, and the Lestourniers, had to work
hard to get the fortifications in any shape, and the improvements made
were mostly done by private citizens.
Of course there were many rumors, but old St. Louis rested securely on
her past record. What the people about her were losing or gaining did
not seem to trouble her. Now and then a river pirate was caught, or
there was some one tripped up and punished who had traded unlawfully.
This had been the case with a French Canadian named Ducharme, who had
been caught violating the treaty law, trading with Indians in Spanish
territory, and giving them liberal supplies of rum in order to make
better bargains with furs. His goods were seized and confiscated, but he
was allowed to go his way, breathing threats of retaliation.
France had recognized the independence of the colonies, which had
stirred up resentment in the minds of many of the English in northern
Michigan. It was said an English officer at Michilimackinac had formed a
plan of seizing or destroying some of the western towns and stations
where there was likely to be found booty enough to reward them. Ducharme
joined the scheme eagerly and gathered roving bands of Ojibways.
Winnebagoes and Sioux, and by keeping well to the eastern side of the
Mississippi marched down nearly opposite Gabaret Island, and crossed
over to attack the town.
Corpus Christi was a great festival day of the church. Falling late in
May, on the 25th, it was an out-of-doors entertainment. After mass had
been said in the morning, women and children, youths and maidens, and
husbands who could be spared from business, went out for a whole day’s
pleasure with baskets and bags of provisions.
The day was magnificent. The fragrance of spruce and fir, the breath of
the newly grown grasses, the bloom of trees and flowers, was like the
most exhilarating perfume, and stirred all the senses.
Spies had crept down the woods to reconnoitre and assure themselves
their arrival had not been suspected. It seemed indeed an opportune
moment. It was now mid-afternoon. There had been dancing and merriment,
the children had run and played, gathered wild strawberries and flowers,
and some of the more careful ones had collected their little children
and started homeward.
To the westward was Cardinal Spring, owned by a man of that name, but
considered free property. He and another hunter had been shooting game,
and as he stooped for a drink his companion espied an Indian cautiously
creeping through the trees.
“Indians! Indians!” he shouted, and fired.
Cardinal snatched up his gun, but a storm of bullets felled him. Rivière
was captured. A young Frenchman, catching sight of the body of Indians,
gave the alarm.
“Run for your lives! Fly to the fort!” he shouted.
There were men working in the fields, and nearly every one took his gun,
as much for the chance at game as any real fear of Indians. They covered
the retreat a little, and as this was a reconnoitring party, the main
body was at some distance.
“Fly! Fly!” Men who had no weapons caught little ones in their arms and
ran toward the fort. All was wild alarm.
“What is it?” cried Colonel Chouteau, who had been busy with some papers
of importance.
“The Indians! The Indians!” shouted his brother.
“Call out the militia! Where is the Governor?”
“In his own house, drunk as usual,” cried Pierre indignantly, and he ran
to summon the soldiers.
There had been a small body of troops under the command of Captain
Cartabona, a Spaniard sent from Ste. Genevieve at the urgent request of
the chief citizens, but it being a holiday they were away, some canoeing
down the river or fishing, and of the few to be found most of them were
panic stricken. The captain had been having a carouse with the Governor.
“Then we must be our own leaders. To arms! to arms! every citizen! It is
for your wives and children!” was the inspiriting cry.
“You shall be our leader!” was shouted in one voice almost before the
Colonel had ceased. For Colonel Chouteau was not only admired for his
friendliness and good comradeship, but trusted to the last degree.
Every man rushed for his gun and ran to the rescue, hardly knowing what
had happened save that the long-feared attack had come upon them
unawares. They poured out of the fort, but the flying women and children
were in the advance with the Indians back of them.
Colonel Chouteau marshalled his little force in a circuitous movement,
and opened a volley that took the Indians by surprise. They fell back
brandishing their arms and shouting to their companions to come on. Then
the Colonel saw that it was no mere casual attack, but a premeditated
onslaught. Already bodies were lying on the ground struggling in death
agonies.
The aim was so good that the assailants halted, then fell back to wait
for their companions. This gave most of the flying and terrified throng
an opportunity to reach the fort. For the wounded nothing could be done
at present.
Now the streets were alive with men who had no time to pick out their
own families, but ran, musket or rifle in hand, to man the fort. Colonel
Chouteau and his brother Pierre were experienced artillerists, and
stationed themselves at the cannon.
The Indians held a brief colloquy with the advancing body. Then it was
seen that an attack was determined upon. They approached the fort,
headed by several white leaders, and opened an irregular fire on the
place.
“Let them approach nearer,” commanded the Colonel. The walls of the
stockade and the roofs of the nearest houses were manned with the
residents of the town. A shower of arrows fell among them. Surprised at
no retaliation, the enemy ventured boldly, headed by Ducharme.
Then the cannons poured out their volley, which swept down the foremost.
From the roofs muskets and guns and even pistols made a continuing
chorus. Ducharme fell. Two of the white leaders were wounded also. Then
another discharge from the cannons and the red foes fell back. The plan
had been to wait until almost dusk for the attack, but the incident at
the spring had hastened it.
Ducharme had not counted on the strength of the fort, and he knew the
town was but poorly supplied with soldiers, so he had persuaded the
Indians it would fall an easy prey and give them abundant pillage. But
the roar and the execution of the cannon dismayed them, and many of them
fled at once. Others marched slowly, helping some of the wounded.
General Cartabona came out quite sobered by the fierceness of the
attack.
“Would it not be well to order a pursuit?” he questioned.
“And perhaps fall into a trap!” returned Colonel Chouteau with a touch
of scorn. “No, no; let us bring in the wounded as we can.”
Gaspard Denys had been among the first to rush to the defence of the
town. Marchand had gone out with the party, and Mère Lunde was to care
for Renée. He had not stopped to look or inquire. He saw Madame Renaud.
“Oh, thank heaven my children are safe! But Barbe! I cannot find Barbe!”
she cried.
“And Renée?” his voice was husky.
“She was with the Marchands. They were going to the woods. Oh, M’sieu
Denys, what a horrible thing! And we felt so safe. The Indians have been
so friendly. But can you trust them?”
He was off to look after the wounded. A number were lying dead on the
field. No, Renée was not among them. They carried the wounded in gently,
the dead reverently. The good priest proffered his services, and Dr.
Montcrevier left his beloved experiments to come and minister to them.
The dead were taken to the church and the priest’s house.
All was confusion, however. Darkness fell before families were reunited.
Children hid away in corners crying, and were too terrified to come out
even at the summons of friendly voices. Colonel Chouteau and his brother
were comforting, aiding, exhorting, and manning the fort anew. General
Cartabona set guards at the gates and towers, for no one knew what might
happen before morning.
Denys had hurried home as soon as he could be released. “Renée!” he
called. “Mère Lunde!” but no one replied. He searched every nook and
corner. He asked the Pichous. No one had seen them. A great pang rent
his heart. And yet—they might have hidden in the forest. Ah, God send
that they might not be taken prisoners! But Marchand was with them. He
knew the man’s courage well. He would fight to the death for them.
“I must go out and search,” he said in a desperate tone. “Who will
accompany me?”
A dozen volunteered. They were well armed, and carried a rude lantern
made of tin with a glass in one side only. They saw now that their fire
had done good execution among their red foes. The trampled ground showed
which way the party had gone, and they were no longer in sight.
“Let us try the woods. They came by the way of the spring,” said one of
the party.
They found the body of Cardinal and that of an old man, both dead. They
plunged into the woods, and, though aware of the danger, Denys shouted
now and then, but no human voice replied. Here, there, examining some
thicket, peering behind a clump of trees, startling the denizen of the
woods, or a shrill-voiced nighthawk, and then all was silence again.
They left the woods and crossed the strip of prairie. Here lay something
in the grass—a body. Denys turned it over.
“My God!” he exclaimed in a voice of anguish. “It is François Marchand.”
He dropped on the ground overwhelmed. If he was dead, then the others
were prisoners. There was no use to search farther to-night. To-morrow a
scouting party might go out.
They made a litter of the men’s arms and carried Marchand back to the
fort, to find that he was not dead, though he had a broken leg and had
received a tremendous blow on the head.
A sad morning dawned over St. Louis, where yesterday all had been joy.
True, it might have been much worse. In all about a dozen had been
killed, but the wounded and those who had fallen and been crushed in the
flight counted up many more. And some were missing. What would be their
fate? And oh, what would happen to Wawataysee if some roving Indian
should recognize her! As for Renée, if he had not wholly understood
before, he knew now how the child had twined herself about his heart,
how she had become a part of his life.
Marchand’s blow was a dangerous one. The Garreaus insisted upon nursing
and caring for him, but Madame Garreau was wild about the beautiful
Wawataysee. She knew the Indian character too well to think they would
show her any mercy, if she was recognized by any of the tribe. And
Renée, what would be her fate?
General Cartabona was most anxious to make amends for past negligence.
The militia was called to a strict account and recruited as rapidly as
possible, and the fortifications made more secure. He took counsel with
Colonel Chouteau, who had the best interests of the town at heart.
“We must make an appeal for the Governor’s removal,” insisted the
Colonel. “It is not only this cowardly episode, but he is narrow-minded
and avaricious, incompetent in every respect, and drunk most of the
time. He cares nothing for the welfare of the town, he takes no interest
in its advancement. After such men as Piernas and Cruzat he is most
despicable. Any Frenchman born would serve Spain better.”
“That is true. I will head a petition of ejectment, and make it strong
enough to be heeded.”
The dead were buried, the living cared for. Even the fallen enemies had
been given decent sepulture outside the town. And Gaspard Denys felt
that he must start on his journey of rescue, if indeed that was
possible.
He chose two trusty young fellows, after shutting his house securely,
providing his party with ammunition, and provisions for a part of their
journey, as much as they could carry. He found the Indians had boats in
waiting on the Illinois River, and after proceeding some distance they
had separated in two parties, going in different directions. Some of the
prisoners had been left here, as they did not care to be bothered with
them.
The one party kept on up the river. They learned there were some women
with them, and were mostly Indians. It was not an easy trail to follow.
There had been a quarrel and another separation, a drunken debauch, part
stopping at an Indian village. And here Denys heard what caused him
almost a heart-break.
They had fallen in with some Hurons who had bought two of the captives.
An old woman was set free with two men and sent down the river. The
others were going up north.
“It is as I feared, Jaques,” he said. “They will carry Madame Marchand
to her old home as a great prize. Ah, if François were only well! But I
shall go on for life or death. I will not ask you to share my perils.
Wawataysee came from somewhere up by the straits. She ran away with
Marchand. She was to be married to an old Indian against her will. And
no doubt he will be wild with gratification at getting her back, and
will treat her cruelly. The child is mine and I must save her from a
like fate. But you and Pierre may return. I will not hold you bound by
any promises.”
“I am in for the adventure,” and Pierre laughed, showing his white
teeth. “I am not a coward nor a man to eat one’s words. I am fond of
adventure. I will go on.”
“I, too,” responded Jaques briefly.
“You are good fellows, both of you. I shall pray for your safe return,”
Denys said, much moved by their devotion.
“And we have no sweethearts,” subjoined Pierre with a touch of mirth.
“But if I could find one as beautiful and sweet as Madame Marchand I
should be paid for a journey up to Green Bay.”
“It might be dangerous,” said Denys sadly.
He wondered if it was really Mère Lunde they had set free. It would be
against her will, he was sure, and it would leave the two quite
defenceless. A thousand remembrances haunted him day and night. He could
see Renée’s soft brown eyes in the dusk, he could hear her sweet voice
in the gentle zephyrs, that changed and had no end of fascinating tones.
All her arch, pretty moods came up before him, her little piquant
jealousies, her pretty assumptions of dignity and power, her dainty,
authoritative ways. Oh, he could not give her up, his little darling.
There was sorrow in more than one household in old St. Louis, but time
softened and healed it. And now the inhabitants congratulated themselves
on their freedom heretofore from raids like these. Towns had been
destroyed, prisoners had been treated to almost every barbarity. Giving
up their lives had not been the worst.
But the summer came on gloriously, and Colonel Chouteau made many plans
for the advancement of the town. He was repairing the old house where
his friend had lived, and improving the grounds, and everyone felt that
in him they had a true friend.
One July day three worn and weary people came in at the northern gate,
and after the guards had looked sharply at them there was a shout of
joy. Pierre Duchesne, whose family had lived on a faint hope, young
Normand Fleurey, and Mère Lunde, looking a decade older and more
wrinkled than ever.
She sat down on a stone and wept while the sounds of joy and
congratulation were all about her.
Who could give her any comfort? She suffered Gaspard Denys’s pain as
well as her own. And though there had been adventures and hiding from
roving Indians, living on barks and roots, she could not tell them over
while her heart was so sore.
She went to the old house, where the three had known so much content.
“He will come back some day,” she said, “but the child—” and her voice
would break at that.
She heard Marchand had been very ill with a fever, beside the wounds. He
had come near to losing his leg, and was still a little lame, and very
weak and heartbroken. His wife had been torn from his arms when an
Indian had given him the blow on his head with a club, and there memory
had stopped. Though Mère Lunde would talk to no one else, to him she
told the sad story. And he had been lying helpless all the time
Wawataysee had been in such danger! Yes, he knew what would happen to
her now, but presently he would go up to the strait and never rest until
he had killed all who worked her ill. Oh, if she had fallen into the
hands of her old tribe!
That thought was madness. But he understood what the courage of her
despair would be. She would not suffer any degradation, death would be a
boon instead. Ah, if he could have joined Denys! He knew the cruelty and
treachery of those whose hands she had fallen into. And the child!
But it would be useless to start disabled as he was, although his anger
was fierce enough, and Denys was well on the journey. Yet it was
terrible to wait with awful visions before his eyes. He had seen both
men and women tortured, and the agonies prolonged with fiendish delight.
Mère Lunde opened the house and cleared up the dust and disorder. The
garden was overgrown with weeds and everything was running riot.
Marchand insisted upon lending a helping hand here. Many an evening they
sat in the doorway wondering, hoping and despairing.