“...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!”