HISTORY OF THE BEAUCAIRES
The first two days and nights of the journey southward were devoid of
any special interest or adventure. The lonely river, wrapped in the
silence of the wilderness, brought to me many a picture of loveliness,
yet finally the monotony of it all left the mind drowsy with
repetition. Around each tree-crowned bend we swept, skirting shores so
similar as to scarcely enable us to realize our progress. In spite of
the fact that the staunch little _Warrior_ was proceeding down stream,
progress was slow because of the unmarked channel, and the ever-present
danger of encountering snags. The intense darkness and fog of the
first night compelled tying up for several hours. The banks were low,
densely covered with shrubbery, and nothing broke the sameness of the
river scene, except the occasional sight of an Indian canoe skimming
across its surface. Towns there were none, and seldom even a sign of a
settlement greeted the eye on either shore. The only landings were
made at Yellow Banks, where there was a squalid group of log huts, and
Fort Madison, where I spent a pleasant hour with the officers of the
garrison. Occasionally the boat warped in against the bank to
replenish its exhausted supply of wood, the crew attacking the
surrounding trees with axes, while the wearied passengers exercised
their cramped limbs ashore. Once, with some hours at our disposal, we
organized a hunt, returning with a variety of wild game. But most of
the time I idled the hours away alone.
No one aboard really attracted my companionship. The lead miners were
a rough set, boasting and quarrelsome, spending the greater part of
their time at the bar. They had several fights, in one of which a man
was seriously stabbed, so that he had to be left in care of the
post-surgeon at Madison. After the first day Kirby withdrew all
attention from me, and ceased in his endeavor to cultivate my
acquaintance, convinced of my disinclination to indulge in cards. This
I did not regret, although Beaucaire rather interested me, but, as the
gambler seldom permitted the Judge out of his sight, our intimacy grew
very slowly. Thockmorton, being his own pilot, seldom left the
wheelhouse, and consequently I passed many hours on the bench beside
him, gazing out on the wide expanse of river, and listening to his
reminiscences of early steam-boating days. He was an intelligent man,
with a fund of anecdote, acquainted with every landmark, every
whispered tale of the great stream from New Orleans to Prairie du
Chien. At one time or another he had met the famous characters along
the river banks, and through continual questioning I thus finally
became possessed of the story of the house of Beaucaire.
In the main it contained no unusual features. Through the personal
influence of D'Iberville at Louis' court, Alphonse de Beaucaire had
originally received a royal grant of ten thousand acres of land
bordering the west bank of the Mississippi a few miles above St. Louis.
When his master returned to France leaving him unemployed, Beaucaire,
possessing ample means of his own, had preferred to remain in America.
In flatboats, propelled by _voyageurs_, and accompanied by a
considerable retinue of slaves, he, with his family, had ascended the
river, and finally settled on his princely estate. Here he erected
what, for those early days, was a stately mansion, and devoted himself
to cultivating the land. Twenty years later, when his death occurred,
he possessed the finest property along the upper river, was shipping
heavily to the New Orleans market, and was probably the most
influential man in all that section. His home was considered a palace,
always open to frontier hospitality, the number of his slaves had
increased, a large proportion of his land was utilized, and his name
was a familiar one the length of the river.
His only son, Felipe, succeeded him, but was not so successful in
administration, seriously lacking in business judgment, and being
decidedly indolent by nature. Felipe married into one of the oldest
and most respectable families of St. Louis, and, as a result of that
union, had one son, Lucius, who grew up reckless of restraint, and
preferred to spend his time in New Orleans, rather than upon the
plantation. Lucius was a young man of twenty-six, unsettled in habits
when the father died, and, against his inclination, was compelled to
return to Missouri and assume control of the property. He found
matters in rather bad condition, and his was not at all the type of
mind to remedy them. Much of the land had been already irretrievably
lost through speculation, and, when his father's obligations had been
met, and his own gambling debts paid, the estate, once so princely and
magnificent, was reduced to barely five hundred acres, together with a
comparatively small amount of cash. This condition sufficed to sober
Lucius for a few years, and he married a Menard, of Cape Girardeau, of
excellent family but not great wealth, and earnestly endeavored to
rebuild his fortunes. Unfortunately his reform did not last. The evil
influences of the past soon proved too strong for one of his
temperament. A small town, redolent of all the vices of the river,
grew up about the Landing, while friends of other days sought his
hospitality. The plantation house became in time a rendezvous for all
the wild spirits of that neighborhood, and stories of fierce drinking
bouts and mad gambling were current in St. Louis.
Common as such tales as these were in those early days of the West, I
still remained boy enough in heart to feel a fascination in
Thockmorton's narrative. Besides, there was at the time so little else
to occupy my mind that it inevitably drifted back to the same topic.
"Have you ever been at Beaucaire, Captain?" I asked, eager for more
intimate details.
"We always stop at the Landing, but I have only once been up the bluff
to where the house stands. It must have been a beautiful place in its
day; it is imposing even now, but showing signs of neglect and abuse.
The Judge was away from home--in St. Louis, I believe--the day of my
visit. He had sold me some timber, and I went out with the family
lawyer, a man named Haines living at the Landing, to look it over."
"The house was closed?"
"No; it is never closed. The housekeeper was there, and also the two
daughters."
"Daughters?"
"Certainly; hadn't I told you about them? Both girls are accepted as
his daughters; but, if all I have heard is true, one must be a
granddaughter." He paused reminiscently, his eyes on the river. "To
all appearances they are about of the same age, but differing rather
widely in looks and character. Both are attractive girls I judge,
although I only had a glimpse of them, and at the time knew nothing of
the difference in relationship. I naturally supposed them to be
sisters, until Haines and I got to talking about the matter on the way
back. Pshaw, Knox, you've got me gossiping like an old woman."
I glanced aside at his face.
"This, then, is not common river talk? the truth is not generally
known?"
"No; I have never heard it mentioned elsewhere, nor have I previously
repeated the story. However, now that the suggestion has slipped out,
perhaps I had better go ahead and explain." He puffed at his pipe, and
I waited, seemingly intent on the scene without. The captain was a
minute or two in deciding how far he would venture. "Haines told me a
number of strange things about that family I had never heard before,"
he admitted at last. "You see he has known them for years, and
attended to most of Beaucaire's legal business. I don't know why he
chanced to take me into his confidence, only he had been drinking some,
and, I reckon, was a bit lonely for companionship; then those two girls
interested me, and I asked quite a few questions about them. At first
Haines was close as a clam, but finally loosened up, and this is about
how the story runs, as he told it. It wasn't generally known, but it
seems that Lucius Beaucaire has been married twice--the first time to a
Creole girl in New Orleans when he was scarcely more than a boy.
Nobody now living probably knows what ever became of her, but likely
she died early; anyway she never came north, or has since been heard
from. The important part is that she gave birth to a son, who remained
in New Orleans, probably in her care, until he was fourteen or fifteen
years old. Then some occurrence, possibly his mother's death, caused
the Judge to send for the lad, whose name was Adelbert, and had him
brought to Missouri. All this happened before Haines settled at the
Landing, and previous to Beaucaire's second marriage to Mademoiselle
Menard. Bert, as the boy was called, grew up wild, and father and son
quarreled so continuously that finally, and before he was twenty, the
latter ran away, and has never been heard of since. All they ever
learned was that he drifted down the river on a flatboat."
"And he never came back?"
"Not even a letter. He simply disappeared, and no one knows to this
day whether he is alive or dead. At least if Judge Beaucaire ever
received any word from him he never confessed as much to Haines.
However, the boy left behind tangible evidence of his existence."
"You mean--"
"In the form of a child, born to a quadroon slave girl named Delia.
The mother, it seems, was able in some way to convince the Judge of the
child's parentage. All this happened shortly before Beaucaire's second
marriage, and previous to the time when Haines came to the Landing.
Exactly what occurred is not clear, or what explanation was made to the
bride. The affair must have cut Beaucaire's pride deeply, but he had
to face the conditions. It ended in his making the girl Delia his
housekeeper, while her child--the offspring of Adelbert Beaucaire--was
brought up as a daughter. A year or so later, the second wife gave
birth to a female child, and those two girls have grown up together
exactly as though they were sisters. Haines insists that neither of
them knows to this day otherwise."
"But that would be simply impossible," I insisted. "The mother would
never permit."
"The mother! which mother? The slave mother could gain nothing by
confession; and the Judge's wife died when her baby was less than two
years old. Delia practically mothered the both of them, and is still
in complete charge of the house."
"You met her?"
"She was pointed out to me--a gray-haired, dignified woman, so nearly
white as scarcely to be suspected of negro blood."
"Yet still a slave?"
"I cannot answer that. Haines himself did not know. If manumission
papers had ever been executed it was done early, before he took charge
of Beaucaire's legal affairs. The matter never came to his attention."
"But surely he must at some time have discussed this with the Judge?"
"No; at least not directly. Beaucaire is not a man to approach easily.
He is excessively proud, and possesses a fiery temper. Once, Haines
told me, he ventured a hint, but was rebuffed so fiercely as never to
make a second attempt. It was his opinion the Judge actually hated the
sight of his son's child, and only harbored her in the house because he
was compelled to do so. All Haines really knew about these conditions
had been told him secretly by an old negro slave, probably the only one
left on the estate knowing the facts."
"But, Captain," I exclaimed, "do you realize what this might mean? If
Judge Beaucaire has not issued papers of freedom, this woman Delia is
still a slave."
"Certainly."
"And under the law her child was born into slavery?"
"No doubt of that."
"But the unspeakable horror of it--this young woman brought up as free,
educated and refined, suddenly to discover herself to be a negro under
the law, and a slave. Why, suppose Beaucaire should die, or lose his
property suddenly, she could be sold to the cotton fields, into bondage
to anyone who would pay the price for her."
Thockmorton knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
"Of course," he admitted slowly. "There is no question as to the law,
but I have little doubt but what Beaucaire has attended to this matter
long ago. If he dies, the papers will be found hidden away somewhere.
It is beyond conception that he could ever leave the girl to such a
fate."
I shook my head, obsessed with a shadow of doubt.
"A mistake men often make--the putting off to the last moment doing the
disagreeable task. How many, expecting to live, delay the making of a
will until too late. In this case I am unable to conceive why, if
Beaucaire has ever signed papers of freedom, for these two, the fact
remains unknown even to his lawyer. One fact is certain, nothing
bearing upon the case has been recorded, or Haines would know of it."
"There is nothing on record, Haines assured himself as to that some
years ago. The fact is, Knox, that while I hope this provision has
been made, there remains a doubt in my mind. Beaucaire has traveled on
my boat several times, but he's an unsociable fellow; I don't like him;
he's not my kind. If he still harbors hatred toward that run-away
son--and to my notion he is exactly that sort--he will never feel any
too kindly toward Delia, or her child. If he has not freed them, that
will be the reason--no neglect, but a contemptible revenue."
"What are the two girls named?"
"Rene, and Eloise."
"Which one is the daughter?"
"Really, Lieutenant, I do not know. You see I was never introduced,
but merely gained a glimpse of them in the garden. I doubt if I would
recognize the one from the other now. You see all this story was told
me later."
I sat there a long while, after he had gone below, the taciturn mate at
the wheel. The low, wooded shores swept past in changing panorama, yet
I could not divorce my mind from this perplexing problem. Totally
unknown to me as these two mysterious girls were, their strange story
fascinated my imagination. What possible tragedy lay before them in
the years? what horrible revelation to wrench them asunder? to change
in a single instant the quiet current of their lives? About them,
unseen as yet, lurked a grim specter, waiting only the opportunity to
grip them both in the fingers of disgrace, and make instant mock of all
their plans. In spite of every effort, every lurking hope, some way I
could not rid myself of the thought that Beaucaire--either through
sheer neglect, or some instinct of bitter hatred--had failed to meet
the requirements of his duty. Even as I sat there, struggling vainly
against this suspicion, the Judge himself came forth upon the lower
deck, and began pacing back and forth restlessly beside the rail. It
was a struggle for me not to join him; the impetuousity of youth urging
me even to brave his anger in my eagerness to ascertain the whole
truth. Yet I possessed sense enough, or discretion, to refrain,
realizing dimly that, not even in the remotest degree, had I any excuse
for such action. This was no affair of mine. Nor, indeed, would I
have found much opportunity for private conversation, for, only a
moment or two later, Kirby joined him, and the two remained together,
talking earnestly, until the gong called us all to supper.
Across the long table, bare of cloth, the coarse food served in pewter
dishes, I was struck by the drawn, ghastly look in Beaucaire's face.
He had aged perceptibly in the last few hours, and during the meal
scarcely exchanged a word with anyone, eating silently, his eyes
downcast. Kirby, however, was the life of the company, and the miners
roared at his humorous stories, and anecdotes of adventure--while
outside it grew dark, and the little _Warrior_ struggled cautiously
through the waters, seeking the channel in the gloom.