Produced by Avinash Kothare, Juliet Sutherland, Charles
Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
ANNETTE, THE METIS SPY:
A HEROINE OF THE N.W. REBELLION.
BY
EDMUND COLLINS.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I
LE CHEF FALLS IN LOVE WITH THE HALF-BREED MAIDEN.
CHAPTER II
ANNETTE FORMS AN HEROIC RESOLVE.
CHAPTER III.
THE LITTLE MAIDEN'S BRAVERY.
CHAPTER IV.
ANNETTE'S LOVER IN DANGER.
CHAPTER V.
DIVERS ADVENTURES FOR OUR HEROINE.
CHAPTER VI.
A DARING ESCAPE.
CHAPTER VII.
A FIGHT; A CAPTURE; AND THE GUARDIAN SWAN.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE STARS ARE KINDLY TO LE CHEF.
CHAPTER IX.
THE STARS TAKE A NEW COURSE.
NOTES.
ADDENDUM.
NANCY, THE LIGHT-KEEPER'S DAUGHTER.
ANNETTE;
THE METIS SPY.
A HEROINE OF THE N.W. REBELLION.
CHAPTER I.
LE CHEF FALLS IN LOVE WITH THE HALF-BREED MAIDEN.
The sun was hanging low in the clear blue over the prairie, as two
riders hurried their ponies along a blind trail toward a distant
range of purple hills that lay like sleepy watchers along the banks
of the Red River.
The beasts must have ridden far, for their flanks were white with
foam, and their riders were splashed with froth and mud.
"The day is nearly done, mon ami," said one, stretching out his arm
and measuring the height of the sun from the horizon. "How red it is;
and mark these blood-stains upon its face! It gives warning to the
tyrants who oppress these fair plains; but they cannot read the
signs."
There was not a motion anywhere in all the heavens, and the only
sound that broke the stillness was the dull trample of the ponies'
hoofs upon the sod. On either side was the wide level prairie,
covered with thick, tall grass, through which blazed the purple,
crimson and garnet blooms, of vetch and wild pease. The tiger lily,
too, rose here and there like a sturdy queen of beauty with its great
terra cotta petals, specked with umber-brown. Here and there, also,
upon the mellow level, stood a clump of poplars or white oaks--prim
like virgins without suitors, with their robes drawn close about
them; but when over the unmeasured plain the wind blew, they bowed
their heads gracefully, as a company of eastern girls when the king
commands.
As the two horsemen rode silently around one of these clumps, there
suddenly came through the hush the sound of a girl's voice singing.
The song was exquisitely worded and touching, and the singer's voice
was sweet and limpid as the notes of a bobolink. They marvelled much
who the singer might be, and proposed that both should leave the path
and join the unknown fair one. Dismounting, they fastened their
horses in the shelter of the poplars, and proceeded on foot toward
the point whence the singing came. A few minutes walk brought the two
beyond a small poplar grove, and there, upon a fallen tree-bole, in
the delicious cool of the afternoon, they saw the songstress sitting.
She was a maiden of about eighteen years, and her soft, silky, dark
hair was over her shoulders. In girlish fancy she had woven for
herself a crown of flowers out of marigolds and daisies, and put it
upon her head.
She did not hear the footsteps of the men upon the soft prairie, and
they did not at once reveal themselves, but stood a little way back
listening to her. She had ceased her song, and was gazing beyond
intently. On the naked limb of a desolate, thunder-riven tree that
stood apart from its lush, green-boughed neighbours, sat a thrush in
a most melancholy attitude. Every few seconds he would utter a note
of song, sometimes low and sorrowful, then in a louder key, and more
plaintive, as if he were calling for some responsive voice from far
away over the prairie.
"Dear bird, you have lost your mate, and are crying for her," the
girl said, stretching out her little brown hand compassionately
toward the crouching songster. "Your companions have gone to the
South, and you wait here, trusting that your mate will come back, and
not journey to summer lands without you. Is not that so, my poor
bird? Ah, would that I could go with you where there are always
flowers, and ever can be heard the ripple of little brooks. Here the
leaves will soon fall, ah, me! and the daisies wither; and, instead
of the delight of summer, we shall have only the cry of hungry
wolves, and the bellowing of bitter winds above the lonesome plains.
But could I go to the South, there is no one who would sing over my
absence one lamenting note, as you sing, my bird, for the mate with
whom you had so many hours of sweet love-making in these prairie
thickets. Nobody loves me, woos me, cares for me, or sings about me.
I am not even as the wild rose here, though it seems to be alone, and
is forbidden to take its walk; for it holds up its bright face and
can see its lover; and he breathes back upon the kind, willing,
breeze-puffs, through all the summer, sweet-scented love messages,
tidings of a matrimony as delicious as that of the angels."
She stood up, and raised her arms above her head yearningly. The
autumn wind was cooing in her hair, and softly swaying its silken
meshes.
"Farewell, my desolate one; may your poor little heart be gladder
soon. Could I but be a bird, and you would have me for a companion,
your lamenting should not be for long. We should journey, loitering
and love-making all the long sweet way, from here to the South, and
have no repining."
Turning around, she perceived two men standing close beside her. She
became very confused, and clutched for her robe to cover her face,
but she had strayed away among the flowers without it. Very deeply
she blushed that the strangers should have heard her; and she spake
not.
"Bonjour, ma belle fille." It was the tall commanding one who had
addressed her. He drew closer, and she, in a very low voice, her
olive face stained with a faint flush of crimson, answered,
"Bonjour, Monsieur."
"Be not abashed. We heard what you were saying to the bird, and I
think the sentiments were very pretty."
This but confused the little prairie beauty all the more. But the
gallant stranger took no heed of her embarrassment.
"With part of your declaration I cannot agree. A maiden with such
charms as yours is not left long to sigh for a lover. Believe me, I
should like to be that bird, to whom you said you would, if you
could, offer love and companionship."
The stranger made no disguise of his admiration for the beautiful
girl of the plains. He stepped up by her side, and was about to take
her hand after delivering himself of this gallant speech, but she
quickly drew it away. Then, turning to his companion,
"We must sup before leaving this settlement, and we shall accompany
this bonny maiden home. Go you and fetch the horses; Mademoiselle and
myself shall walk together." The other did as he was directed, and
the stranger and the songstress took their way along a little grassy
path. The ravishing beauty of the girl was more than the
amorously-disposed stranger could resist, and suddenly stretching
out his arms, he sought to kiss her. But the soft-eyed fawn of the
desert soon showed herself in the guise of a petit bete sauvage. With
an angry scream, she bounded away from his grasp.
"How do you dare take this liberty with me, Monsieur," she said, her
eyes kindled with anger and hurt pride. "You first meanly come and
intrude upon my privacy; next you must turn what knowledge you gain
by acting spy and eavesdropper, into a means of offering me insult.
You have heard me say that I had no lover to sigh for me. I spoke the
truth: I _have_ no such lover. But you I will not accept as one." And
turning with flushed cheek and gleaming eyes, she entered a cosy,
clean-kept cottage. But she soon reflected that she had been guilty of
an inhospitable act in not asking the strangers to enter. Suddenly
turning, she walked rapidly back, and overtook the crest-fallen wooer
and his companion, and said in a voice from which every trace of her
late anger had disappeared.
"Entrez, Messieurs."
The man's countenance speedily lost its gloom, and, respectfully
touching his hat, he said:
"Oui, Mademoiselle, avec le plus grand plaisir." Tripping lightly
ahead she announced the two strangers, and then returned, going to
the bars where the cows were lowing, waiting to be milked. The
persistent stranger had not, by any means, made up his mind to desist
in his wooing.
"The colt shies," he murmured, "when she first sees the halter.
Presently, she becomes tractable enough." Then, while he sat waiting
for the evening meal, blithely through the hush of the exquisite
evening came the voice of the girl. She was singing from _La Claire
Fontaine_.
"A la claire fontaine
Je m'allais promener,
J'ai trouve l'eau si belle
Que je me suis baigne"
Her song ended with her work, and as she passed the strangers with
her two flowing pails of yellow milk, Riel whispered softly, as he
touched her sweet little hand:
"Ah, ma petite amie!"
The same flash came in her eyes, the same proud blood appeared red
through the dusk of her cheek, but she restrained herself. He was a
guest under her father's roof, and she would suffer the offence to
pass. The persistent gallant was more crest-fallen by this last
silent rebuke than by the first with its angry words. The first, in
his vanity, he had deemed an outburst of petulance, instead of an
expression of personal dislike, especially as the girl had so
suddenly calmed herself, and extended hospitalities.
He gnashed his teeth that a half-breed girl, in an obscure village,
should resent his advances; he for whom, if his own understanding was
to be trusted, so many bright eyes were languishing. At the evening
meal he received courteous, kindly attention from Annette; but this
was all. He related with much eloquence all that he had seen in the
big world in the East, during his school days, and took good care
that his hosts should know how important a person he was in the
colony of Red River. To his mortification, he frequently observed in
the midst of one of his most self-glorifying speeches that the girl's
eyes were abstracted. He was certain that she was not interested in
him, or in his exploits.
"Can she have a lover?" he asked himself, a keen arrow of jealousy
entering at his heart, and vibrating through his veins. "No, this
cannot be. She said in her musings on the prairie, that she had
nobody who would sing a sad song if she were to go to the South.
Stop! She may love, and not find her passion requited. I shall stay
here until the morrow, and let the great cause wait. Through the
evening I shall reveal who I am, and then see what is in the wind."
During the course of the evening the audacious stranger was somewhat
confounded to learn that the father of his fair hostess was none
other than Colonel Marton, an ex-officer of the Hudson Bay Company, a
man of wide influence among all the Metis people, and one of the most
sturdy champions of the half-breed cause. Indeed he was aware that
Colonel Marton was at this very time about preaching resistance to
the people, organising forces, and preparing to strike a blow at the
authority of the Government in the North-West.
"It is discourteous, perhaps, Mademoiselle, that I should not
disclose to you who I am, even though the safety of my present
undertaking demands that I should remain unknown."
"If Monsieur has good reasons, or any reasons, for withholding his
name, I pray that he will not consider himself under any obligation
to reveal it."
"It would be absurd to keep such a secret, Ma petite Brighteye, from
the beautiful daughter of a man so prominent in our holy cause as
Colonel Marton. You this evening entertain, Mademoiselle, none other
than Louis Riel, the Metis chief."
"Monsieur Riel," exclaimed the girl in astonishment, and somewhat in
awe. "Why, we thought that Monsieur was far beyond the prairie,
providing ammunition for the troops."
"I have been there Mademoiselle, and seen every trusty Metis armed,
and ready to follow when the leaders cry Allons!"
Paul, the girl's brother, believed that there had never lived a hero
so brave and so mighty as the man now under his father's roof. As for
poor Annette, she bethought of her outburst of temper and lack of
respect toward the chief; and she trembled to think that she might
have given offense to a man so illustrious, and one who was the head
of the sacred cause of her father and of her people.
"But why should he address a poor simple girl like me?" she mused;
and then as she reflected that the leader had a wife and children in
Montana, and if report spoke true, a half-breed bride in a prairie
village besides, a round red spot came into each cheek and burned
there like a little fire.
The chief watched the changing colour in the maiden's face, and saw
also in the great dark, velvety eyes, the reflection of her thoughts
as they came and went, plainly as you may see the shadows upon an
autumn day chase each other over the prairie meadows.
Paul went out for a little; the chief's companion had retired to his
couch; and Riel was left alone with the girl.
"Mademoiselle must not shrink from me; she is too beautiful to be
unkind. Ah ma petite Amie, those adorable lips of yours are made to
kiss and kiss, not to pout and cry a lover nay. Through this wide
land there is many a maid who would glory in the love, my beautiful
girl, that I offer you." He advanced towards the maid, trembling with
his passion, and dropped upon his knee.
"You would not let me kiss your lovely lips; pray sweet lady of my
heart, let me take your sweet little hand."
The girl was trembling like a bird when the eagle's wings hover over
its nest. "O, why does a great hero like Monsieur address such words
to me? I am only a simple girl, living here upon the plains; besides,
if I could give the brave leader my heart, it would be wrong to do
so, for he is already wedded."
"Do not speak of the ceremonies which men have muttered, binding man
and woman, when the _heart_ cries out. Do not deny me your love my sweet
girl," and the villain once more seized the maiden's waist, and sought
to kiss her lips. But she screamed, and struggled from his embrace.
"Paul, Paul, mon frere, come to me." Her cries speedily brought her
brother. But Monsieur Riel had taken his seat, and he lowered upon
the girl who sat like a frightened fawn upon her chair, her great
eyes glimmering with starting tears.
"What is wrong Annette?" the boy asked, leaning affectionately over
his sister.
"She is not brave Paul. A shadow passed the window which was nothing
more than my own, and she believed it to be that of a hostile Indian."
"What a silly girl you are, Annette," her brother said, softly
smiting her cheek with his finger-tips.
The maiden did not make any explanation, but in a very wretched and
embarrassed way arose and said, "Good night."
Nothing was said about the matter in the morning, and as the girl
passed on her way to milk the cows Riel murmured,
"Mademoiselle will not say anything of the cause of her out-cry last
night?"
"I will not Monsieur; if you will promise not to address any words
of love-making to me again."
"I promise nothing, foolish maiden; but I have to ask that you will
not make of Louis Riel an enemy."
When breakfast was ended he perceived Annette rush to the window,
and then hastily and with a dainty coyness withdraw her head from the
pane; and at the same moment he heard a sprightly tune whistle'd.
Looking down the meadow he saw a tall, well-formed young white man, a
gun on his back, and a dog at his heels, walking along the little
path toward the cottage.
"This is the lover," he muttered; "curses upon him." From that
moment he hated with all the bitterness of his nature the man now
striding carelessly up towards the cottage door.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle et messieurs" the newcomer said in cheery
tones, as he entered, making a low bow.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Stephens, was the reply. Louis Riel, intently
watching, saw the girl's colour come and go as she spoke to the
visitor. The young man stayed only for a few moments, and the chief
observed that everybody in the house treated him as if in some way he
had been the benefactor of all. When he arose to go, Paul, who knew
of every widgeon in the mere beyond the cottonwood grove, and where
the last flock of quail had been seen to alight, followed him out of
the door, and very secretly communicated his knowledge. Annette had
seen a large flock of turkeys upon the prairie a few moments walk
south of the poplar grove, and perhaps they had not yet gone away.
"When did you see them, ma chere demoiselle?" enquired Stephens. "You
know turkeys do not settle down like immigrants on one spot, and wait
till we inhabitants of the plains come out and shoot them. Was it
last week, or only the day before yesterday?" There was a very merry
twinkle in his eye as he went on with this banter. Annette affected
to pout, but she answered.
"This morning, while the dew was shining upon the grass, and you, I
doubt not, were sleeping soundly, I was abroad on the plains for the
cows. It was then I saw them. I am glad, however, that you have
pointed out the difference between turkeys and immigrants. I did not
know it before." He handed her a sun-flower which he had plucked on
the way, saying,
"There, for your valuable information, I give you that. Next time I
come, if you are able to tell me where I can find several flocks, I
shall bring you some coppers." With a world of mischief in his eyes,
he disappeared, and Annette, in spite of herself, could not conceal
from everybody in the house a quick little sigh at his departure.
"It seems to me this Monsieur Stephens is a great favourite with
you folk?" said M. Riel, when the young man had left the cottage.
"Now had I come for sport, no pretty eyes would have seen any flocks
to reserve for me." And he gave a somewhat sneering glance at poor
Annette, who was pretending to be engaged in examining the petals of
the sun-flower, although she was all the while thinking of the
mischievous, manly, sunny-hearted lad who had given it to her. M.
Riel's words and the sneer were lost, so far as she was concerned.
Her ears were where her heart was, out on the plain beyond the
cottonwood, where she could see the tall, straight, lithe figure of
young Stephens, and his dog at his heels.
"Oui, Monsieur," returned Paul, "Monsieur Stephens is a very great
favourite with our family. We are under an obligation to him that it
will be difficult ever to repay."
"Whence comes this benefactor," queried M. Riel, with an ugly sneer,
"and how has he placed you under such an obligation?" Then,
reflecting that he was showing a bitterness respecting the young man
which he could neither explain nor justify, he said:
'"Mais, pardonnez-moi. Think me not rude for asking these questions.
When pretty eyes are employed to see, and pretty lips to tell of,
game for one sportsman in preference to another, the neglected one
might be excused for seeking to know in what way fortune has been
kind with his rival."
"Shall I tell the whole story, Annette" enquired Paul, "or will you
do so?"
"O, I know that you will not leave anything out that can show the
bravery of Mr. Stephens," replied the girl.
"Well, last spring, Annette was spending some days with her aunt, a
few miles up Red River. It was the flood time, and as you remember,
the river was swollen to a point higher than it had ever reached
within the memory of any body in the settlement. Annette is
venturesome, and since a child has shown a keen delight in going upon
boats, or paddling a canoe; so, one day, during the visit which I
have mentioned, she went into a birch that swung in a little pond,
formed behind her uncle's premises by the over-flowing of the
stream's channel. Untying the canoe, she seized the blade and began
to paddle about in the lazy water. Presently she reached the eddies,
which, since a child, she has always called the 'rings of the
water-witches,' wherever she learned that term. Her cousin Violette was
standing in the doorway as she saw Annette move off, and she cried
out to her to beware of the eddies; but my sister, wayward and
reckless as it is her habit to be in such matters, merely replied
with a laugh; and then as the canoe began to turn round and round in
the gurgling circles she cried out.
"I am in the rings of the water-witches. C'est bon! bon! C'est
magnifique! O I wish you were with me, Violette, ma chere. It is so
delightful to go round and round." A little way beyond, not more than
twice the canoe's length, rushed by roaring, the full tide of the
river.
"Beware, Annette, beware, for the love of heaven, of the river. If
you get a little further out, and these eddies must drag you out, you
will be in the mad current, and no arm can paddle the canoe to land
out of the flood. Then, dear, there is the fall below, and the fans
of the mill. Come back, won't you! But my sister heeded not the
words. She only laughed, and began dipping water from the eddies with
the paddle-blade, as if it were a spoon she had in her hand. 'I am
dipping water from the witches-rings,' she cried. 'How the drops
sparkle! Every one is a glittering jewel. I wish you were here with
me, Violette!' Suddenly and in an altered tone, she cried, 'Mon Dieu!
My paddle is gone.' The paddle had no sooner glided out into the
rushing, turbulent waters than the canoe followed it, and Annette saw
herself drifting on to her doom. Half a mile below was the fall, and
at the side of the fall, went ever and ever around with tremendous
violence, the rending fans of the water-mill. Annette knew full well
that any drift boat, or log, or raft, carried down the river at
freshet-flow, was always swept into the toils of the inexorable
wheels. Yet, if she were reckless and without heed a few minutes
before, I am told that now she was calm. Violette gave the alarm that
Annette was adrift in the river without a paddle, and in a few
seconds every body living near had turned out, and was running down
the shore. Several brought paddies, but it took hard running to keep
up with the canoe, for the flood was racing at a speed of eight miles
an hour. When they did get up in line each one flung out a paddle.
But one fell too far out, and another not far enough. About fifteen
men were along the banks in violent excitement, and every one of them
saw nothing but doom for Annette. As the canoe neared a point about
two hundred yards above the falls, a young white-man--all the rest
were bois-brules--rushed out upon the bank, with a paddle in his
hand, and without a word sprang into the mad waters. With a few
strokes he was at the side of the canoe, and put the paddle into
Annette's hand. 'Here;' he said, 'Keep away from the mill; that is
your only danger; and steer sheer over the falls, getting as close as
possible to the left bank.' The height of the fall, as you are aware,
was not more than fifteen or eighteen feet, and there was plenty of
water below, with not very much danger from rocks. 'Go you on shore
now and I will meet my doom, or achieve my safety,' my sister said;
but the young man answered, 'Nay, I will go over the fall too: I can
then be of some service to you.' So he swam along by the canoe's side
directing my sister, and shaping the course of the prow on the very
brink of the fall. Then all shot over together. The canoe and
Annette, and the young man were buried far under the terrible mass of
water, but they soon came to the surface again, when the heroic
stranger seized my sister, and through the fury of the mad churning
flood, landed her unhurt upon the bank. That young man was Philip
Edmund Stephens, whom you saw here this morning. Is it any wonder,
think you, Monsieur, that when Annette sees wild turkeys upon the
prairie, she keeps the knowledge of it to herself till she gets the
ear of her deliverer?
"A very brave act, indeed, on the part of this young man," replied
the swarthy M. Riel. "He has excellent judgment, I perceive, or he
would not so readily have calculated that no harm could come to any
one who could swim well, by being carried over the Falls."
Annette's eyes flashed a little at this cold blooded discounting of
the generous, uncalculating bravery of her young preserver; but she
made no reply.
"This Monsieur Stephens is, if I mistake not, Mademoiselle, a very
zealous servant of Government, and his chief duty now is to keep
watch over the assemblies held by the Half-breed people. I cannot
suppose that Colonel Marton is aware of the intimacy between a deadly
enemy of our cause and the members of his household."
"Indeed, Monsieur, there is no intimacy more than what you have
seen," the girl replied, the roses now out of her cheek. "Thrice,
since rescuing me, Mr. Stephens has been at our home, and I believe
that, henceforth, his duty will take him to a distant part of the
territory." As she said these words her eyes fell, and her bosom
heaved a little.
Riel was upon his feet. "If I find this young spy anywhere about
this settlement again, I shall see that he is cared for." Then as
Paul and his companion went out, he drew himself to his full height
and continued:
"Annette, get your heart away from this young man; such love can
only bring you ruin. From me you shall hear again, and hear soon.
Farewell." As the girl put out her hand, he drew her suddenly into
his arms, and before she could cry or struggle, kissed her upon the
mouth.
Then he was gone.