CHAPTER
XII
MANON LESCAUT. AND A RAPIER-THRUST
Beverley's absence was not noticed by Hamilton until late on the
following day, and even then he scouted Helm's suggestion that the
young man was possibly carrying out his threat to disregard his
parole.
"He would be quite justified in doing it; you know that very
well," said Helm with a laugh, "and he's just the man
to undertake what is impossible. Of course, however, he'll get scalped
for his trouble, and that will cost you something, I'm happy to
say."
"It's a matter of small importance," Hamilton replied;
"but I'll wager you the next toddy that he's not at the present
moment a half-mile from this spot. He may be a fool, I readily grant
that he is, but even a fool is not going to set out alone in this
kind of weather to go to where your rebel friends are probably toasting
their shins by a fire of green logs and half starving over yonder
on the Mississippi."
"Joking aside, you are doubtless right. Beverley is hot-headed,
and if he could he'd get even with you devilish quick; but he hasn't
left Vincennes, I think. Miss Roussillon would keep him here if
the place were on fire!"
Hamilton laughed dryly. He had thought just what Helm was saying.
Beverley's attentions to Alice had not escaped his notice.
"Speaking of that girl," he remarked after a moment's
silence, "what am I do to do with her? There's no place to
keep her, and Farnsworth insists that she wasn't to blame."
He chuckled again and added:
"It's true as gospel. He's in love with her, too. Seems to
be glad she shot him. Says he's ashamed of himself for ever suspecting
her of anything but being a genuine angel. Why, he's got as flabby
as a rabbit and mumbles like a fool!"
"Same as you or I at his age," said Helm, taking a chew
of tobacco. "She IS a pretty thing. Beverley don't know his
foot from his shoulder-blade when she's anywhere near him. Boys
are boys. I'm a sort of a boy myself."
"If she'd give up that flag he'd let her go," said Hamilton.
"I hate like the devil to confine her; it looks brutal, and
makes me feel like a tyrant."
"Have you ever happened to notice the obvious fact, Governor
Hamilton, that Alice Roussillon and Father Beret are not all the
French in Vincennes?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I don't for a moment believe that either the girl
or the priest knows a thing about where that flag is. They are both
as truthful and honorable as people ever get to be. I know them.
Somebody else got that flag from under the priest's floor. You may
depend upon that. If Miss Roussillon knew where it is she'd say
so, and then dare you to make her tell where it's hidden."
"Oh, the whole devilish town is rotten with treason; that's
very clear. There's not a loyal soul in it outside of my forces."
"Thank you for not including me among the loyalists."
"Humph, I spoke of these French people; they pretend to be
true; but I believe they are all traitors,"
"You can manage them if you try. A little jolly kindness goes
a long way with 'em. _I_ had no trouble while _I_ held the town."
Hamilton bit his lip and was silent. Helm was exasperatingly good
tempered, and his jocularity was irresistible. While he was yet
speaking a guard came up followed by Jean, the hunchback, and saluting
said to Hamilton:
"The lad wants to see the young lady, sir."
Hamilton gazed quizzically at Jean, who planted himself in his habitual
attitude before him and stared up into his face with the grotesque
expression which seems to be characteristic of hunchbacks and unfledged
birds--the look of an embodied and hideous joke.
"Well, sir, what will you have?" the Governor demanded.
"I want to see Alice, if you please."
"What for?"
"I want to give her a book to read."
"Ah, indeed. Where is it? Let me see it"
Jean took from the breast of his loose jerkin a small volume, dog-
eared and mildewed, and handed it to Hamilton. Meantime he stood
first on one foot, then the other, gnawing his thumb-nail and blinking
rapidly.
"Well, Helm, just look here!"
"What?"
"Manon Lescaut."
"And what's that?"
"Haven't you ever read it?"
"Read what?"
"This novel--Manon Lescaut."
"Never read a novel in my life. Never expect to."
Hamilton laughed freely at Helm's expense, then turned to Jean and
gave him back the book.
It would have been quite military, had he taken the precaution to
examine between the pages for something hidden there, but he did
not.
"Go, give it to her," he said, "and tell her I send
my compliments, with great admiration of her taste in literature."
He motioned the soldier to show Jean to Alice. "It's a beastly
French story," he added, addressing Helm; "immoral enough
to make a pirate blush. That's the sort of girl Mademoiselle Roussillon
is!"
"I don't care what kind of a book she reads," blurted
Helm, "she's a fine, pure, good girl. Everybody likes her.
She's the good angel of this miserable frog-hole of a town. You'd
like her yourself, if you'd straighten up and quit burning tow in
your brain all the time. You're always so furious about something
that you never have a chance to be just to yourself, or pleasant
to anybody else."
Hamilton turned fiercely on Helm, but a glimpse of the Captain's
broad good-humored face heartily smiling, dispelled his anger. There
was no ground upon which to maintain a quarrel with a person so
persistently genial and so absurdly frank. And in fact Hamilton
was not half so bad as his choleric manifestations seemed to make
him out. Besides, Helm knew just how far to go, just when to stop.
"If I had got furious at you every time there was overwhelming
provocation for it," Hamilton said, "you'd have been long
since hanged or shot. I fancy that I have shown angelic forbearance.
I've given you somewhat more than a prisoner's freedom."
"So you have, so you have," assented Helm. "I've
often been surprised at your generous partiality in my case. Let's
have some hot water with something else in it, what do you say?
I won't give you any more advice for five minutes by your watch."
"But I want some advice at once."
"What about?"
"That girl."
"Turn her loose. That's easy and reputable."
"I'll have to, I presume; but she ought to be punished."
"If you'll think less about punishment, revenge and getting
even with everybody and everything, you'll soon begin to prosper."
Hamilton winced, but smiled as one quite sure of himself.
Jean followed the soldier to a rickety log pen on the farther side
of the stockade, where he found the prisoner restlessly moving about
like a bird in a rustic cage. It had no comforts, that gloomy little
room. There was no fireplace, the roof leaked, and the only furniture
consisted of a bench to sit on and a pile of skins for bed. Alice
looked charmingly forlorn peeping out of the wraps in which she
was bundled against the cold, her hair fluffed and rimpled in shining
disorder around her face.
The guard let Jean in and closed the door, himself staying outside.
Alice was as glad to see the poor lad as if they had been parted
for a year. She hugged him and kissed his drawn little face.
"You dear, good Jean!" she murmured, "you did not
forget me."
"I brought you something," he whispered, producing the
book.
Alice snatched it, looked at it, and then at Jean.
"Why, what did you bring this for? you silly Jean! I didn't
want this. I don't like this book at all. It's hateful. I despise
it. Take it back."
"There's something in it for you, a paper with writing on it;
Lieutenant Beverley wrote it on there. It's shut up between the
leaves about the middle."
"Sh-s-sh! not so loud, the guard'll hear you," Alice breathlessly
whispered, her whole manner changing instantly. She was trembling,
and the color had been whisked from her face, as the flame from
a candle in a sudden draught.
She found the note and read it a dozen times without a pause, her
eyes leaping along the lines back and forth with pathetic eagerness
and concentration. Presently she sat down on the bench and covered
her face with her hands. A tremor first, then a convulsive sobbing,
shook her collapsed form. Jean regarded her with a drolly sympathetic
grimace, elevating his long chin and letting his head settle back
between his shoulders.
"Oh, Jean, Jean!" she cried at last, looking up and reaching
out her arms; "O Jean, he is gone, gone, gone!"
Jean stepped closer to her while she sobbed again like a little
child.
She pulled him to her and held him tightly against her breast while
she once more read the note through blinding tears. The words were
few, but to her they bore the message of desolation and despair.
A great, haunting, hollow voice in her heart repeated them until
they echoed from vague distance to distance.
It was written with a bit of lead on the half of a mildewed fly-
leaf torn from the book:
"Dear Alice:
"I am going away. When you read this, think of me as hurrying
through the wilderness to reach our army and bring it here. Be brave,
as you always have been; be good, as you cannot help being; wait
and watch for me; love me, as I love you. I will come. Do not doubt
it, I will come, and I will crush Hamilton and his command. Courage,
Alice dear; courage, and wait for me. "Faithfully ever, "Beverley."
She kissed the paper with passionate fervor, pouring her tears upon
it in April showers between which the light of her eyes played almost
fiercely, so poignant was her sense of a despair which bordered
upon desperation. "Gone, gone!" It was all she could think
or say. "Gone, gone."
Jean took the offending novel back home with him, hidden under his
jerkin; but Beverley's note lay upon Alice's heart, a sweet comfort
and a crushing weight, when an hour later Hamilton sent for her
and she was taken before him. Her face was stained with tears and
she looked pitifully distressed and disheveled; yet despite all
this her beauty asserted itself with subtle force.
Hamilton felt ashamed looking at her, but put on sternness and spoke
without apparent sympathy:
"Miss Roussillon, you came near committing a great crime. As
it is, you have done badly enough; but I wish not to be unreasonably
severe. I hope you are sorry for your act, and feel like doing better
hereafter."
She was trembling, but her eyes looked steadily straight into his.
They were eyes of baby innocence, yet they irradiated a strong womanly
spirit just touched with the old perverse, mischievous light which
she could neither banish nor control. When she did not make reply,
Hamilton continued:
"You may go home now, and I shall expect to have no more trouble
on your account." He made a gesture indicative of dismissal;
then, as she turned from him, he added, somewhat raising his voice:
"And further, Miss Roussillon, that flag you took from here
must positively be returned. See that it is done."
She lifted her head high and walked away, not deigning to give him
a word.
"Humph! what do you think now of your fine young lady?"
he demanded, turning to Helm with a sneering curl of his mouth.
"She gives thanks copiously for a kindness, don't you think?"
"Poor girl, she was scared nearly out of her life," said
Helm. "She got away from you, like a wounded bird from a snare.
I never saw a face more pitiful than hers."
"Much pity she needs, and greatly like a wounded bird she acts,
I must say; but good riddance if she'll keep her place hereafter.
I despise myself when I have to be hard with a woman, especially
a pretty one. That girl's a saucy and fascinating minx, and as dangerous
as twenty men. I'll keep a watch on her movements from this on,
and if she gets into mischief again I'll transport her to Detroit,
or give her away to the Indians, She must stop her high- handed
foolishness."
Helm saw that Hamilton was talking mere wind, VOX ET PRAETEREA NIHIL,
and he furthermore felt that his babbling signified no harm to Alice;
but Hamilton surprised him presently by saying:
"I have just learned that Lieutenant Beverley is actually gone.
Did you know of his departure?" "What are you saying,
sir?"
Helm jumped to his feet, not angry, but excited.
"Keep cool, you need not answer if you prefer silence or evasion.
You may want to go yourself soon."
Helm burst out laughing, but quickly growing serious said:
"Has Beverley been such a driveling fool as that? Are you in
earnest?"
"He killed two of my scouts, wounded another, and crossed the
Wabash in their canoe. He is going straight towards Kaskaskia."
"The idiot! Hurrah for him! If you catch your hare you may
roast him, but catch him first, Governor!"
"You'll joke out of the other corner of your mouth, Captain
Helm, if I find out that you gave him aid or countenance in breaking
his parole."
"Aid or countenance! I never saw him after he walked out of
this room. You gave him a devil of a sight more aid and countenance
than I did. What are you talking about! Broke his parole! He did
no such thing. He returned it to you fairly, as you well know. He
told you he was going."
"Well, I've sent twenty of my swiftest Indians after him to
bring him back. I'll let you see him shot. That ought to please
you."
"They'll never get him, Governor. I'll bet high on him against
your twenty scalp-lifters any day. Fitzhugh Beverley is the best
Indian fighter, Daniel Boone and Simon Kenton excepted, in the American
colonies."
On her way home Alice met Father Beret, who turned and walked beside
her. He was so overjoyed at her release that he could scarcely speak;
but held her hand and stroked it gently while she told him her story.
It was beginning to rain, a steady, cold shower, when they reached
the house, and for many days and nights thereafter the downfall
continued almost incessantly.
"Dear child," said Father Beret, stopping at the gate
and looking beseechingly into Alice's face, "you must stay
at home now--stay in the house--it will be horribly dangerous for
you to pass about in the village after your--after what has happened."
"Do not fear, Father, I will be careful. Aren't you coming
in? I'll find you a cake and a glass of wine."
"No, child, not now."
"Then good-bye, good-bye," she said, turning from him
to run into the house. "Come soon, I shall be so lonesome."
On the veranda she suddenly stopped, running her fingers about her
neck and into her bosom.
"Oh, Father, Father Beret, I've lost my locket!" she cried.
"See if I dropped it there."
She went back to the gate, searching the ground with her eyes. Of
course she did not find the locket. It was miles and miles away
close to the heart of her lover. If she could but have known this,
it would have comforted her. Beverley had intended to leave it with
Jean, but in his haste and excitement he forgot; writing the note
distracted his attention; and so he bore Alice's picture on his
breast and in his heart while pursuing his long and perilous journey.
Four of Hamilton's scouts came upon Beverley twenty miles south
of Vincennes, but having the advantage of them, he killed two almost
immediately, and after a running fight, the other two attempted
escape in a canoe on the Wabash. Here, firing from a bluff, he wounded
a third. Both then plunged head-foremost into the water, and by
keeping below the surface, got away. The adventure gave Beverley
new spirit and self-reliance; he felt that he could accomplish anything
necessary to his undertaking. In the captured pirogue he crossed
the river, and, to make his trail hard to find, sent the little
craft adrift down the current.
Then alone, in the dead of winter, he took his bearings and struck
across the dreary, houseless plain toward St. Louis.
As soon as Hamilton's discomfited scouts reported to him, he sent
Long-Hair with twenty picked savages, armed and supplied for continuous
and rapid marching, in pursuit of Beverley. There was a large reward
for bringing him in alive, a smaller one for his scalp.
When Alice heard of all this, her buoyant and happy nature seemed
entirely to desert her for a time. She was proud to find out that
Beverley had shown himself brave and capable; it touched her love
of heroism; but she knew too much about Indian warfare to hope that
he could hold his own against Long-Hair, the wiliest and boldest
of scalp-hunters, and twenty of the most experienced braves in Hamilton's
forces. He would almost certainly be killed and scalped, or captured
and brought back to be shot or hanged in Vincennes. The thought
chilled and curdled her blood.
Both Helm and Father Beret tried to encourage and comfort her by
representing the probabilities in the fairest light.
"It's like hunting for a needle in a haystack, going out to
find a man in that wilderness," said Helm with optimistic cheerfulness;
"and besides Beverley is no easy dose for twenty red niggers
to take. I've seen him tried at worse odds than that, and he got
out with a whole skin, too. Don't you fret about him, Miss Roussillon."
Little help came to her from attempts of this sort. She might brighten
up for a while, but the dark dread, and the terrible gnawing at
her heart, the sinking and despairing in her soul, could not be
cured.
What added immeasurably to her distress was the attention of Farnsworth,
whose wound troubled him but a short time. He seemed to have had
a revelation and a change of spirit since the unfortunate rencounter
and the subsequent nursing at Alice's hands. He was grave, earnest,
kindly, evidently striving to play a gentle and honorable part.
She could feel that he carried a load of regret, that he wanted
to pay a full price in good for the evil that he had done; his sturdy
English heart was righting itself nobly, yet she but half understood
him, until his actions and words began to betray his love; and then
she hated him unreasonably. Realizing this, Farnsworth bore himself
more like a faithful dog than in the manner hitherto habitual to
him. He simply shadowed Alice and would not be rebuffed.
There can be nothing more painful to a finely sympathetic nature
than regret for having done a kindness. Alice experienced this to
the fullest degree. She had nursed Farnsworth but a little while,
yet it was a while of sweet influence. Her tender woman nature felt
the blessedness of doing good to her enemy lying helpless in her
house and hurt by her own hand. But now she hated the man, and with
all her soul she was sorry that she had been kind to him; for out
of her kindness he had drawn the spell of a love under which he
lived a new life, and all for her. Yet deep down in her consciousness
the pity and the pathos of the thing hovered gloomily and would
not be driven out.
The rain in mid-winter gave every prospect a sad, cold, sodden gray
appearance. The ground was soaked, little rills ran in the narrow
streets, the small streams became great rivers, the Wabash overflowed
its banks and made a sea of all the lowlands on either side. It
was hard on the poor dwellers in the thatched and mostly floorless
cabins, for the grass roofs gradually let the water through and
puddles formed on the ground inside. Fuel was distant and had to
be hauled in the pouring rain; provisions were scarce and hunting
almost impossible. Many people, especially children, were taken
ill with colds and fever. Alice found some relief from her trouble
in going from cabin to cabin and waiting upon the sufferers; but
even here Farnsworth could not be got rid of; he followed her night
and day. Never was a good soldier, for he was that from head to
foot, more lovelorn and love-docile. The maiden had completely subdued
the man.
About this time, deep in a rainy and pitch-black night, Gaspard
Roussillon came home. He tapped on the door again and again. Alice
heard, but she hesitated to speak or move. Was she growing cowardly?
Her heart beat like a drum. There was but one person in all the
world that she could think of--it was not M. Roussillon. Ah, no,
she had well-nigh forgotten her gigantic foster father.
"It is I, ma cherie, it is Gaspard, my love, open the door,"
came in a booming half-whisper from without. "Alice, Jean,
it is your Papa Roussillon, my dears. Let me in."
Alice was at the door in a minute, unbarring it. M. Roussillon entered,
armed to the teeth, the water dribbling from his buckskin clothes.
"Pouf!" he exclaimed, "my throat is like dust."
His thoughts were diving into the stores under the floor. "I
am famished. Dear children, dear little ones! They are glad to see
papa! Where is your mama?"
He had Alice in his arms and Jean clung to his legs. Madame Roussillon,
to be sure of no mistake, lighted a lamp with a brand that smoldered
on the hearth and held it up, then, satisfied as to her husband's
identity, set it on a shelf and flung herself into the affectionate
group with clumsy abandon, making a great noise.
"Oh, my dear Gaspard!" she cried as she lunged forward.
"Gaspard, Gaspard!" Her voice fairly lifted the roof;
her great weight, hurled with such force, overturned everybody,
and all of them tumbled in a heap, the rotund and solid dame sitting
on top.
"Ouf! not so impetuous, my dear, "puffed M. Roussillon,
freeing himself from her unpleasant pressure and scrambling to his
feet. "Really you must have fared well in my absence, Madame,
you are much heavier." He laughed and lifted her up as if she
had been a child, kissing her resonantly.
His gun had fallen with a great clatter. He took it from the floor
and examined it to see if it had been injured, then set it in a
corner.
"I am afraid we have been making too much noise," said
Alice, speaking very low. "There is a patrol guard every night
now. If they should hear you--"
"Shh!" whispered M. Roussillon, "we will be very
still. Alice, is there something to eat and a drop of wine handy?
I have come many miles; I am tired, hungry, thirsty,--ziff!"
Alice brought some cold roast venison, a loaf, and a bottle of claret.
These she set before him on a little table.
"Ah, this is comfort," he said after he had gulped a full
cup. "Have you all been well?"
Then he began to tell where he had been, what he had seen, and the
many things he had done. A Frenchman must babble while he eats and
drinks. A little wine makes him eloquent. He talks with his hands,
shoulders, eyes. Madame Roussillon, Alice and Jean, wrapped in furs,
huddled around him to hear. He was very entertaining, and they forgot
the patrol until a noise startled them. It was the low of a cow.
They laughed and the master of the house softened his voice.
M. Roussillon had been the guest of a great Indian chieftain, who
was called the "Gate of the Wabash," because he controlled
the river. The chief was an old acquaintance and treated him well.
"But I wanted to see you all," Gaspard said. "I was
afraid something might have happened to you. So I came back just
to peep in. I can't stay, of course; Hamilton would kill me as if
I were a wolf. I can remain but an hour and then slip out of town
again before daylight conies. The rain and darkness are my friends."
He had seen Simon Kenton, who said he had been in the neighborhood
of Vincennes acting as a scout and spy for Clark. Presently and
quite casually he added:
"And I saw Lieutenant Beverley, too. I suppose you know that
he has escaped from Hamilton, and--" Here a big mouthful of
venison interfered.
Alice leaned toward him white and breathless, her heart standing
still.
Then the door, which had been left unbarred, was flung open and,
along with a great rush of wind and rain, the patrol guard, five
in number, sprang in.
M. Roussillon reached his gun with one hand, with the other swung
a tremendous blow as he leaped against the intruders. Madame Roussillon
blew out the light. No cave in the depth of earth was ever darker
than that room. The patrolmen could not see one another or know
what to do; but M. Roussillon laid about him with the strength of
a giant. His blows sounded as if they smashed bones. Men fell heavily
thumping on the floor where he rushed along. Some one fired a pistol
and by its flash they all saw him; but instantly the darkness closed
again, and before they could get their bearings he was out and gone,
his great hulking form making its way easily over familiar ground
where his would-be captors could have proceeded but slowly, even
with a light to guide them. There was furious cursing among the
patrolmen as they tumbled about in the room, the unhurt ones trampling
their prostrate companions and striking wildly at each other in
their blindness and confusion. At last one of them bethought him
to open a dark lantern with which the night guards were furnished.
Its flame was fluttering and gave forth a pale red light that danced
weirdly on the floors and walls.
Alice had snatched down one of her rapiers when the guards first
entered. They now saw her facing them with her slender blade leveled,
her back to the wall, her eyes shining dangerously. Madame Roussillon
had fled into the adjoining room. Jean had also disappeared. The
officer, a subaltern, in charge of the guard, seeing Alice, and
not quickly able to make out that it was a woman thus defying him,
crossed swords with her. There was small space for action; moreover
the officer being not in the least a swordsman, played awkwardly,
and quick as a flash his point was down. The rapier entered just
below his thread with a dull chucking stab. He leaped backward,
feeling at the same time a pair of arms clasp his legs. It was Jean,
and the Lieutenant, thus unexpectedly tangled, fell to the floor,
breaking but not extinguishing the guard's lantern as he went down.
The little remaining oil spread and flamed up brilliantly, as if
eager for conflagration, sputtering along the uneven boards.
"Kill that devil!" cried the Lieutenant, in a strangling
voice, while trying to regain his feet. "Shoot! Bayonet!"
In his pain, rage and haste, he inadvertently set his hand in the
midst of the blazing oil, which clung to the flesh with a seething
grip.
"Hell!" he screamed, "fire, fire!"
Two or three bayonets were leveled upon Alice. Some one kicked Jean
clean across the room, and he lay there curled up in his hairy night-wrap
looking like an enormous porcupine.
At this point a new performer came upon the stage, a dark-robed
thing, so active that its outlines changed elusively, giving it
no recognizable features. It might have been the devil himself,
or some terrible unknown wild animal clad somewhat to resemble a
man, so far as the startled guards could make out. It clawed right
and left, hurled one of them against the wall, dashed another through
the door into Madame Roussillon's room, where the good woman was
wailing at the top of her voice, and felled a third with a stroke
like that of a bear's paw.
Consternation was at high tide when Farnsworth, who always slept
with an ear open, reached Roussillon place and quickly quieted things.
He was troubled beyond expression when he found out the true state
of the affair, for there was nothing that he could do but arrest
Alice and take her to Hamilton. It made his heart sink. He would
have thought little of ordering a file of soldiers to shoot a man
under the same conditions; but to subject her again to the Governor's
stern cruelty--how could he do it? This time there would be no hope
for her.
Alice stood before him flushed, disheveled, defiant, sword in hand,
beautiful and terrible as an angel. The black figure, man or devil,
had disappeared as strangely as it had come. The sub- Lieutenant
was having his slight wound bandaged. Men were raging and cursing
under their breath, rubbing their bruised heads and limbs.
"Alice--Mademoiselle Roussillon, I am so sorry for this,"
said Captain Farnsworth. "It is painful, terrible--"
He could not go on, but stood before her unmanned. In the feeble
light his face was wan and his hurt shoulder, still in bandages,
drooped perceptibly.
"I surrender to you," she presently said in French, extending
the hilt of her rapier to him. "I had to defend myself when
attacked by your Lieutenant there. If an officer finds it necessary
to set upon a girl with his sword, may not the girl guard her life
if she can?"
She was short of breath, so that her voice palpitated with a touching
plangency that shook the man's heart.
Farnsworth accepted the sword; he could do nothing less. His duty
admitted of no doubtful consideration; yet he hesitated, feeling
around in his mind for a phrase with which to evade the inevitable.
"It will be safer for you at the fort, Mademoiselle; let me
take you there." |