THE “Maison Bondie” consisted of two square buildings of the blockhouse
type, set thirty or forty feet apart and connected by a single roof
that turned the intervening space into a commodious shed, beneath which
was a well and a rack with half a dozen basins that plainly comprised
the toilet arrangements of the hotel. Both buildings were built of
logs, roughly squared and strongly notched together at the corners. The
doorways, which opened on the covered space, were small, and the doors
themselves were massive. The windows were few and were provided with
stout inside shutters that could be swung into place and fastened at a
moment’s notice. Loopholes were so placed as to command all sides of
the building. The place looked as if built to withstand an attack, and,
in fact, had withstood more than one in its ten-years’ history.
Back of the buildings were half a dozen wagons, each fronted by a pair
of horses or mules, which were contentedly munching corn from the heavy
troughs that had been removed from the rear and placed athwart the
tongue of the wagon.
Yielding to Madame Fantine’s insistence the newcomers turned toward the
entrance to the hotel. But before he had taken a dozen steps Major
Stickney halted. “Hold on!” he exclaimed. “I’ve got to go in a minute.
I’ll be back tonight, Mr. Telfair--but I want to know something before
I go. Tell me, Peter, and you too, Madame Fantine, did you not come
from France to Gallipolis in 1790?”
The Bondies stopped short. Madame Fantine’s startled eyes sprang to
Alagwa’s face, then dropped away. “But yes, Monsieur,” she cried.
“But yes! Ah! It was dreadful. The company have defraud us. They have
promised us the rich lands and the pleasant climate and the fine
country and the game most abundant. And when we come we find it is all
covered with the great forests. There is no land to grow the crops
until we cut away the trees. Figure to yourself, messieurs, was it not
the wicked thing to bring from Paris to such a spot men who know not to
cut trees?”
Stickney nodded. “It was pretty bad,” he admitted. “There’s no doubt
about that, though the company wasn’t altogether to blame, I believe.
But what I wanted to ask was whether a gentleman, M. Delaroche Telfair,
was on your ship.”
“M. Delaroche! You know M. Delaroche?” Madame Fantine’s eyes grew big
and the color faded from her cheeks. “But yes, monsieur, he was on
the ship. And he was with us before. We knew him well. Is it not so,
Pierre?”
Peter Bondie nodded. “All the life we have known M. Delaroche,” he
said. “We were born on the estate of his father, the old count. Later
we have come with him to America. Ah! But he was the great man! When he
married Mademoiselle Delawar at Marietta, Fantine go to her as maid.
Later she nurse la bebée. And then Madame Telfair die, and M. Delaroche
is all, what you call, broke up. He take la bebée and he go away into
the woods and I see him never again. But I hear that he is dead and
that la bebée grows up with the Indians.”
“She did!” Major Stickney struck in. “She was with them till the other
day. Now she has disappeared. I thought, perhaps, you might know
something of her. Mr. Telfair here has come to Ohio to find her.”
The French woman’s beady eyes jumped to Jack’s face. “This monsieur!”
she gasped. “Is he of the family Telfair?”
“Yes, of the American branch. His people have lived in Alabama for a
hundred years!”
“And he seeks the Lady Estelle?” Wonder spoke in the woman’s tones.
Stickney nodded impatiently. “Yes! Of course,” he reiterated. “The old
Count Telfair is dead and his estates all belong to the daughter of
M. Delaroche. The title descends to the English branch, to Mr. Brito
Telfair----”
“M. Brito!” Fantine and Pierre looked at each other. “Ah! that is what
bring him to Canada,” they cried, together.
“You knew that he was in Canada?” It was Jack who asked the question.
Fantine answered. “But, yes, monsieur,” she said. “We have friends at
Malden that send us word. I know not then why he come, but now it is
very clear. He want to marry the Lady Estelle and get her property to
pay his debts. Ah! Le scelerat!”
“You seem to know him?” Jack was curious.
“Non, monsieur. I know him not. But I know of him. And I know his
house. M. Delaroche has hated it always.”
“He warned Tecumseh against him before he died, and when Brito turned
up and asked for Miss Estelle, as he did two or three months ago,
Tecumseh put him off and sent a messenger to me asking me to come and
take charge of her. I am a member of the Panther clan of the Shawnees,
you know; Tecumseh’s mother raised me up a member when I was a boy, ten
years ago. Perhaps it was because of Delaroche that she did so. I came
on at once but when I got to Girty’s Town I found that the girl had
disappeared.”
“And you can not find her?” Fantine’s bright eyes were darting from
Jack’s face to Alagwa’s and back again. “You have search--and you can
not find her?”
“Well! I haven’t searched very much!” Jack laughed ruefully. “I haven’t
been able.” He went on and told of his adventures with Williams.
Fantine listened in seeming amazement, with many exclamations and
shrugs of her mighty shoulders. When Jack tried to slur over his
picking up of the boy, as being, to his mind, not pertinent to the
subject, she broke in and insisted on hearing the tale in full.
Alagwa listened with swimming brain. She was sure, sure, that this
fiendishly clever French woman had penetrated her sex at a glance and
that she had almost as swiftly guessed her identity with the missing
girl. Exposure stared her in the face. Her plans rocked and crashed
about her.
In the last three days Alagwa had come to think her disguise perfect
and had built on it in many ways. By it she had hoped to carry out
her pledge to Tecumseh. With her detection her mission must fail or,
at least, be sharply circumscribed. She had known Jack for three days
only, but she was very sure that, once he knew who she was, he would
insist on taking her south with him to Alabama. She could not serve
Tecumseh in Alabama. Moreover--her heart fluttered at the thought--Jack
would no longer treat her with the same frank, free comradeship that
had grown so dear to her. She did not know how he would treat her, but
she was sure it would be different. And she did not want it to be
different.
Desperately she sought for some way to ward off the threatened
disclosure. The French woman seemed in no haste to speak; perhaps she
might be induced to be silent. Alagwa remembered the roll of gold coins
that Tecumseh had given her. Perhaps----
Suddenly she remembered that this woman had been her nurse when she
was small. For the moment she had failed to realize this fact or to
guess what it might mean. Now, that she did so, hope sprang up in her
heart. If Fantine kept silence till she could speak to her alone she
would throw herself on her mercy, tell her all that she had not already
guessed, and beg for silence. Surely her old nurse might grant her that
much. She did not know, she could not know, that her wishes would be
law to one like Fantine, born on the estates of the great house from
which she was descended.
Jack’s tale drew to a close. “That’s all, I reckon,” he ended. “Can you
suggest anything, madame?”
Fantine’s lips twitched. Again she looked at Alagwa and then met
Jack’s eyes squarely. “Non, Monsieur! I can suggest nothing, me!” she
assented, deliberately. “But, monsieur, I make you very welcome to the
house of Bondie. Is this”--she jerked her head toward Alagwa--“is this
the boy you have rescue?” Her eyes bored into his.
Jack grinned. He was beginning to like the big French woman immensely.
“I wouldn’t call it rescue, exactly,” he said. “But this is the boy.”
“Ah! la, la,” the French woman burst out. “Le pauvre garcon! But he is
tired, yes, one can see that, and I am the big fool that I keep him
and you standing. Ah, la, la, but we all are of blindness. Ah! yes but
of a blindness. Entrez, entrez, messieurs! Peter will show the black
monsieur where to put the horses. Entrez!”
Jack turned obediently toward the entrance, but Stickney halted.
Plainly he was disappointed at Fantine’s lack of information. “Well!
I’m off,” he declared. “I’ll be back later to go over things with you,
Mr. Telfair.”
He strode away, and Jack and Alagwa followed Madame Fantine beneath the
shed. Cato and Peter led the horses away.
The smaller of the two buildings evidently served as a store. No white
men were visible about its entrance, but through the open door the
newcomers could see an Indian woman behind the counter and a dozen
blanketed Indians patiently waiting their turn to trade. At the door of
the larger building, several white men were sitting, and inside, in the
great bar room, Jack could see a dozen more eating at a table made of
roughly-hewn planks set on homemade trestles.
Close to the door Madame Fantine paused. “You will want to wash, yes?”
she questioned, waving her hands toward the basins.
Jack nodded. “Glad to!” he declared.
“It is all yours, monsieur. It is not what you are accustomed to, but
on the frontier--What would you, monsieur? For the table--ah! but,
messieurs, there you shall live well. I go to prepare for you the
dishes of la belle France.”
She turned away, then stopped. “Ah! But I forget!” she exclaimed. “Le
pauvre garcon has the fatigue, yes,” she turned to Alagwa. “Come with
me, jeune monsieur,” she said; “and you shall rest. Oh! but it is that
you remind me of my own son, he who has gone to the blessed angels.
Come!” Without waiting for comment the big French woman threw her arm
around Alagwa’s shoulders and hurried her into the house, past the
eating men, who regarded her not at all, and on into another room.
There she turned on the girl, holding out her arms. “Ah! Ma petite
fille!” she cried. “Think you Fantine did not know you when you looked
at her out of the face of that dear, dead Monsieur Delaroche. Have I
hold you in my arms when you were the one small bebée to forget you
now. Ah! non! non! non! Ah! But the men are of a blindness. The wise
young man he search, search, and not know he have found already.”
Alagwa’s heart melted. Suddenly she realized the strain under which she
had been for the last four days. With a sob of relief she slipped into
the French woman’s arms and wept her heart out on the latter’s motherly
bosom.
The latter soothed her gently. “There! There! Pauvre bebée,” she
murmured. “Fear not! All will be right. But what has happened that you
are thus?” She glanced at the girl’s masculine attire. “Ah! But it must
be the great tale. Tell Fantine about it. Tell your old nurse, who
adores you!”
Between sobs Alagwa obeyed, pouring out the tale of all that had
befallen her since the day when Captain Brito had sought her out.
She held back only the real object with which she had come into the
American lines. “Tecumseh sent me to find the young white chief from
the far south,” she ended.
“But, ma cherie,” the French woman interrupted. “Have you not found
him? Why do you not tell him who you are?”
The girl shook her head in panic. “Oh! No! No!” she cried. “He must not
know.”
“But why not?”
“Because--because”--Alagwa cast about desperately for an excuse. “He
would be ashamed of me,” she said. “I am so different from the women he
has known.”
Fantine’s eyes twinkled. Emphatically she nodded. “Different? Yes,
truly, you are different,” she cried, scanning the dark, oval face, the
scarlet lips, the rich hair that tangled about the broad brow. “Ah!
But yes, of a truth you are different! In a few months you will be very
different. But, monsieur the wise young man will not complain.”
Alagwa’s eyes widened. “You--you think I will be pretty like--like the
white women he has known?” she asked, shyly.
“Pretty! Mother of God! She asks whether she will be pretty? Ah! Rascal
that you are; to jest with your old nurse so. But--but it is not proper
that you should be clothed thus--” again Fantine glanced rebukingly at
the girl’s nether limbs--“or that you should travel alone with a young
man. That becomes not a demoiselle of France.”
The terror in the girl’s eyes came back. “But I must,” she cried.
“Please--please----”
“But why?”
A deep red stained the girl’s cheeks. “Oh,” she cried. “I must know why
he seeks me. The Captain Brito want to marry me for what has come to
me. This one--this one--Is he, too, base? Does he, too, seek me because
I have great possessions? If he finds out who I am I shall never learn.
If he does not find out----”
The French woman chuckled. “And the wise young man does not guess that
you are a woman!” she cried, holding up her hands. “Ah! Quelle bétise.
Eh! bien, I see well it is too late to talk of chaperones now. Have no
fear, ma petite! I will not tell him. He seems a good young man--as men
go. I read it in his eyes. But truly he is a great fool.”
But at this the girl grew suddenly angry. “He is no fool,” she cried.
“He is----”
“All men are fools,” quoth the French woman, sagely. “You will find it
so in time. Go your way, cherie! Fantine Loire will not betray you.
And, remember, her house is ever open to you. Come back to her when you
will. Tonight you will sleep here, in this room of my own son, now with
the blessed saints. And now--Mother of God! I must fly or M. Jack will
be mad with the hunger. And, cherie, remember this! Men are not well to
deal with when they are hungry. Feed them, ma cherie! Feed them!” She
rushed away, leaving Alagwa alone.
How the girl got through dinner she never knew. After it, when Major
Stickney returned, bringing Captain Wells, a tall, grave man, she
pleaded fatigue and left him and Jack to talk with each other and with
the men in the hotel, while she slipped away to the room that Madame
Fantine had prepared for her. Till late that night she and the kindly
French woman sat up and talked.
Even when left alone the girl did not sleep. Her duty to Tecumseh lay
heavy on her soul. She must send him the information in her possession
or she must confess herself a coward and a traitor to her people.
Yet she shrank from it. Not for the sake of the men in the fort! She
hated them all, she told herself. Gladly would she slay them all. And
not for the sake of the Bondies. She had learned enough that night
to feel sure that they would be safe from any Indian attack. No! Her
hesitation came from another cause.
What would Jack say when he knew that she was a spy? Insistently the
question drummed into her ears. What would he say? What would he do?
She pressed her fingers to her hot eyeballs, but the pressure did not
dim the vision of his eyes, stricken blank with anger and with shame.
And yet she must send Tecumseh word. She must! She had promised to keep
the faith, to do her duty regardless of consequences to herself. She
had visioned death as her punishment and had been ready to face it. She
had not visioned the torture of Jack’s hurt eyes. For a moment they
seemed to her harder to face than the stake and the flame. But should
she stop for this--stop because the penalty was heavier than she had
thought? Never.
One crumb of comfort came to her. One thing at least she could do; one
small recompense she could exact. She could demand Jack’s safety. She
could send a message to Tecumseh that would make the lad’s comings and
goings safe. She knew he would hate her for it. But he would hate her
anyway. She would not stop for that. She would make him safe. And when
it was all over and he knew, she would die as an Indian maid should die.
Noiselessly--as noiselessly as she had moved through the
forests--Alagwa rose from her bed and slipped to the door. Inch by
inch she opened it and looked out. The house was black and silent; its
inmates slept. Slowly she crept to the entrance to the big bar room.
The night was hot and the windows and the door stood wide open, letting
in a faint glimmer from moon and stars. In its light the sleeping
forms of men on the floor loomed black. Side by side they lay, so
close together that Alagwa could see no clear passageway between them.
Suppose they waked as she tried to pass!
It did not occur to her that her going out would surprise no one--that
no one would dream of questioning her. Her conscience made a coward of
her and made her think that to be seen was to be suspected. Desperately
she caught her breath and looked about her, seeking Jack’s form, but
failing to find it. He was indistinguishable among the blanket-wrapped
forms.
Long she stood at the door, peering into the room, her heart hammering
in unsteady rhythm. At last she stepped forward gingerly, threading
her way, inch by inch, catching her breath as some sleeper stirred
uneasily, expecting every moment to hear the ringing out of a fierce
challenge. Foot by foot she pressed onward till the door was at her
hand. Through it she stepped out beneath the midnight sky.
The night was very still. High overhead the slim crescent of the moon
peered through swift-flying clouds. Round about, the great stars,
scarcely dimmed, flared like far-off candles. The broad shallow river
ran away to the east, a silver whiplash laid across the darkened
prairie. Beyond, the huddle of huts that marked the Indian village
stood out against the horizon. To the left, nearer at hand, rose the
black quadrilateral of the fort.
All around rose the voices of the night. A screech owl hooted from a
near-by tree. A fox barked in the long grass. Nearer at hand restless
horses and mules stamped at their fastenings. Over all rose the bellow
of bullfrogs, the lapping of the river against its banks, and the
ceaseless, strident calls of the crickets.
Once more Alagwa’s hot eyes sought the fort. Within it were the men
of the race she hated--the men who had derided and had threatened the
young white chief. There, too, the murderer of Wilwiloway slept safe
and snug, pardoned--yes, even commended--for his crime. And should she
withhold her hand? Never! She would take revenge upon them all.
Swiftly she slipped through the grass to the shadow of a near-by tree.
Then, raising her head, she gave the soft cry of the whip-poor-will.
Long she waited, but no answer came. Again she called and yet again,
till at last an answering call came softly to her ears. A moment more
and the form of the runner shaped itself out of the night.
Eagerly she leaned forward. “Bear word to the great chief,” she
said, in the Shawnee tongue, “that the fort here is almost without
ammunition. Let the great chief come quickly and it will fall into his
hands like a ripe persimmon. But let him have a care for the lives
of the agent, Major Stickney, and for those of Peter Bondie and his
family. They are the friends of Alagwa.”
The runner nodded. “Alagwa need not fear,” he promised. “They are also
the friends of the Indian. Is there more to be said.”
“Yes!” Alagwa nodded. “Tell the great chief that I have found the young
white chief from the south, and that through him I hope to learn many
things that, without him, I could not learn. Say to him that Alagwa
demands that he give warning to all his warriors not to touch the white
chief. For on him Alagwa’s success depends. I have spoken. Go.”