CHAPTER
XIV
A PRISONER OF LOVE
Alice put on her warmest clothes and followed Captain Farnsworth
to the fort, realizing that no pleasant experience awaited her.
The wind and rain still prevailed when they were ready to set forth,
and, although it was not extremely cold, a searching chill went
with every throb that marked the storm's waves. No lights shone
in the village houses. Overhead a gray gloom covered stars and sky,
making the darkness in the watery streets seem densely black. Farnsworth
offered Alice his arm, but she did not accept it.
"I know the way better than you do," she said. "Come
on, and don't be afraid that I am going to run. I shall not play
any trick on you."
"Very well, Mademoiselle, as you like. I trust you."
He followed her from the house. He was so filled with the bitterness
of what he was doing that he carried her sword in his hand all the
way to the fort, quite unaware that its point often touched her
dress so that she plainly felt it. Indeed, she thought he was using
that ruffianly and dangerous means of keeping pace with her. He
had sent the patrol on its rounds, taking upon himself the responsibility
of delivering her to Hamilton. She almost ran, urged by the strange
excitement that burned in her heart, and he followed somewhat awkwardly,
stumbling over the unfamiliar way in the rain and darkness.
At every step he was wishing that she would escape from him. Coarse
as his nature was and distorted by hardening experiences, it was
rooted in good English honesty and imbued with a chivalric spirit.
When, as happened too often, he fell under the influence of liquor,
the bad in him promptly came uppermost; but at all other times his
better traits made him a good fellow to meet, genial, polite, generous,
and inclined to recognize the finer sentiments of manliness. To
march into his commander's presence with Alice as his prisoner lacked
everything of agreeing with his taste; yet he had not been willing
to give her over into the hands of the patrol. If his regard for
military obligation had not been exceptionally strong, even for
an English soldier, he would have given way to the temptation of
taking her to some place of hiding and safety, instead of brutally
subjecting her to Hamilton's harsh judgment. He anticipated a trying
experience for her on account of this new transgression.
They hastened along until a lantern in the fort shot a hazy gleam
upon them.
"Stop a moment, Mademoiselle," Farnsworth called. "I
say, Miss Roussillon, stop a moment, please."
Alice halted and turned facing him so short and so suddenly that
the rapier in his hand pricked through her wraps and slightly scratched
her arm.
"What do you mean, sir?" she demanded, thinking that he
had thrust purposely. "Do I deserve this brutality?"
"You mistake me, Miss Roussillon. I cannot be brutal to you
now. Do not fear me; I only had a word to say."
"Oh, you deem it very polite and gentle to jab me with your
sword, do you? If I had one in my hand you would not dare try such
a thing, and you know it very well."
He was amazed, not knowing that the sword-point had touched her.
He could not see her face, but there was a flash in her voice that
startled him with its indignant contempt and resentment.
"What are you saying, Miss Roussillon? I don't understand you.
When did I ever--when did I jab you with my sword? I never thought
of such a thing."
"This moment, sir, you did, and you know you did. My arm is
bleeding now."
She spoke rapidly in French; but he caught her meaning, and for
the first became aware of the rapier in his hand. Even then its
point was toward her and very near her breast. He lowered it instantly
while the truth rushed into his mind.
"Forgive me," he murmured, his words barely audible in
the tumult of wind and rain, but charged with the intensest feeling.
"Forgive me; I did not know--it was an accident--I could not
do such a thing purposely. Believe me, believe me, Miss Roussillon.
I did not mean it."
She stood facing him, trying to look right into his eyes. A quality
in his voice had checked her hot anger. She could only see his dim
outlines in the dull gleam from the fort's lantern. He seemed to
be forlornly wretched.
"I should like to believe you," she presently said, "but
I cannot. You English are all, all despicable, mean, vile!"
She was remembering the young officer who had assaulted her with
his sword in the house a while ago. And (what a strange thing the
human brain is!) she at the same time comforted herself with the
further thought that Beverley would never, never, be guilty of rudeness
to a woman.
"Some time you shall not say that," Farnsworth responded.
"I asked you to stop a moment that I might beg you to believe
how wretchedly sorry I am for what I am doing. But you cannot understand
me now. Are you really hurt, Miss Roussillon? I assure you that
it was purely accidental."
"My hurt is nothing," she said.
"I am very glad."
"Well, then, shall we go on to the fort?"
"You may go where you please, Mademoiselle."
She turned her back upon him and without an answering word walked
straight to the lantern that hung by the gate of the stockade, where
a sentinel tramped to and fro. A few moments later Captain Farnsworth
presented her to Hamilton, who had been called from his bed when
the news of the trouble at Roussillon place reached the fort.
"So you've been raising hell again, have you, Miss?" he
growled, with an ugly frown darkening his face.
"I beg your pardon," said Farnsworth, "Miss Roussillon
was not to blame for--"
"In your eyes she'd not be to blame, sir, if she burned up
the fort and all of us in it," Hamilton gruffly interrupted.
"Miss, what have you been doing? What are you here for? Captain
Farnsworth, you will please state the particulars of the trouble
that I have just heard about. And I may as well notify you that
I wish to hear no special lover's pleading in this girl's behalf."
Farnsworth's face whitened with anger; he bit his lip and a shiver
ran through his frame; but he had to conquer the passion. In a few
words, blunt and direct as musket-balls, he told all the circumstances
of what had taken place, making no concealments to favor Alice,
but boldly blaming the officer of the patrol, Lieutenant Barlow,
for losing his head and attacking a young girl in her own home.
"I will hear from Barlow," said Hamilton, after listening
attentively to the story. "But take this girl and confine her.
Show her no favors. I hold you responsible for her until to-morrow
morning. You can retire."
There was no room for discussion. Farnsworth saluted and turned
to Alice.
"Come with me," he gently said.
Hamilton looked after them as they went out of his room, a curious
smile playing around his firmly set lips.
"She's the most beautiful vixen that I ever saw," he thought.
"She doesn't look to be a French girl, either--decidedly English."
He shrugged his shoulders, then laughed dryly. "Farnsworth's
as crazy as can be, the beggar; in love with her so deep that he
can't see out. By Jove, she IS a beauty! Never saw such eyes. And
plucky to beat the devil. I'll bet my head Barlow'll be daft about
her next!"
Still, notwithstanding the lightness of his inward comments, Hamilton
regarded the incident as rather serious. He knew that the French
inhabitants were secretly his bitter enemies, yet probably willing,
if he would humor their peculiar social, domestic and commercial
prejudices, to refrain from active hostilities, and even to aid
him in furnishing his garrison with a large amount of needed supplies.
The danger just now was twofold; his Indian allies were deserting
him, and a flotilla loaded with provisions and ammunition from Detroit
had failed to arrive. He might, if the French rose against him and
were joined by the Indians, have great difficulty defending the
fort. It was clear that M. Roussillon had more influence with both
creoles and savages than any other person save Father Beret. Urgent
policy dictated that these two men should somehow be won over. But
to do this it would be necessary to treat Alice in such a way that
her arrest would aid, instead of operating against the desired result,--a
thing not easy to manage.
Hamilton was not a man of fine scruples, but he may have been, probably
was, better than our American historians have made him appear. His
besetting weakness, which, as a matter of course, he regarded as
the highest flower of efficiency, was an uncontrollable temper,
a lack of fine human sympathy and an inability to forgive. In his
calmest moments, when prudence appealed to him, he would resolve
to use diplomatic means; but no sooner was his opinion questioned
or his purpose opposed than anger and the thirst for revenge overpowered
every gentler consideration. He returned to his bed that night fully
resolved upon a pleasant and successful interview with Alice next
morning.
Captain Farnsworth took his fair prisoner straight-way from Hamilton's
presence to a small room connected with a considerable structure
in a distant angle of the stockade. Neither he nor Alice spoke on
the way. With a huge wooden key he unlocked the door and stepped
aside for her to enter. A dim lamp was burning within, its yellowish
light flickering over the scant furniture, which consisted of a
comfortable bed, a table with some books on it, three chairs, a
small looking-glass on the wall, a guitar and some articles of men's
clothing hanging here and there. A heap of dull embers smouldered
in the fireplace. Alice did not falter at the threshold, but promptly
entered her prison.
"I hope you can be comfortable," said Farnsworth in a
low tone. "It's the best I can give you."
"Thank you," was the answer spoken quite as if he had
handed her a glass of water or picked up her handkerchief.
He held the door a moment, while she stopped, with her back toward
him, in the middle of the room; then she heard him close and lock
it. The air was almost too warm after her exposure to the biting
wind and cold dashes of rain. She cast off her outer wraps and stood
by the fireplace. At a glance she comprehended that the place was
not the one she had formerly occupied as a prisoner, and that it
belonged to a man. A long rifle stood in a corner, a bullet-pouch
and powder-horn hanging on a projecting hickory ramrod; a heavy
fur top-coat lay across one of the chairs.
Alice felt her situation bitterly enough; but she was not of the
stuff that turns to water at the touch of misfortune. Pioneer women
took hardships as a matter of course, and met calamity with admirable
fortitude. There was no wringing of hands, no frantic wailing, no
hollow, despairing groan. While life lasted hope flourished, even
in most tragic surroundings; and not unfrequently succor came, at
the last verge of destruction, as the fitting reward of unconquerable
courage. A girl like Alice must be accepted in the spirit of her
time and surroundings. She was born amid experiences scarcely credible
now, and bred in an area and an atmosphere of incomparable dangers.
Naturally she accepted conditions of terrible import with a sang
froid scarcely possible to a girl of our day. She did not cry, she
did not sink down helpless when she found herself once more imprisoned
with some uncertain trial before her; but simply knelt and repeated
the Lord's prayer, then went to bed and slept; even dreamed the
dream of a maid's first love.
Meantime Farnsworth, who had given Alice his own apartment, took
what rest he could on the cold ground under a leaky shed hard by.
His wound, not yet altogether healed, was not benefited by the exposure.
In due time next morning Hamilton ordered Alice brought to his office,
and when she appeared he was smiling with as near an approach to
affability as his disposition would permit. He rose and bowed like
a courtier.
"I hope you rested well, Mademoiselle," he said in his
best French. He imagined that the use of her language would be agreeable
to begin with.
The moment that Alice saw him wearing that shallow veneering of
pleasantness on his never prepossessing visage, she felt a mood
of perversity come over her. She, too. smiled, and he mistook her
expression for one of reciprocal amenity. She noticed that her sword
was on his table.
"I am sorry, Monsieur, that I cannot say as much to you,"
she glibly responded. "If you lay upon a bed of needles the
whole night through, your rest was better than you deserved. My
own sleep was quite refreshing, thank you."
Instantly Hamilton's choler rose. He tried to suppress it at first;
but when he saw Alice actually laughing, and Farnsworth (who had
brought her in) biting his lip furiously to keep from adding an
uproarious guffaw, he lost all hold of himself. He unconsciously
picked up the rapier and shook it till its blade swished.
"I might have known better than to expect decency from a wench
of your character," he said. "I hoped to do you a favor;
but I see that you are not capable of accepting kindness politely."
"I am sure, Monsieur, that I have but spoken the truth plainly
to you. You would not have me do otherwise, I hope."
Her voice, absolutely witching in its softness, freshness and suavity,
helped the assault of her eyes, while her dimples twinkled and her
hair shone. Hamilton felt his heart move strangely; but he could
not forbear saying in English:
"If you are so devilish truthful, Miss, you will probably tell
me where the flag is that you stole and hid."
It was always the missing banner that came to mind when he saw her.
"Indeed I will do nothing of the sort," she promptly replied.
"When you see that flag again you will be a prisoner and I
will wave it high over your head."
She lifted a hand as she spoke and made the motion of shaking a
banner above him. It was exasperation sweetened almost to delight
that took hold of the sturdy Briton. He liked pluck, especially
in a woman; all the more if she was beautiful. Yet the very fact
that he felt her charm falling upon him set him hard against her,
not as Hamilton the man, but as Hamilton the commander at Vincennes.
"You think to fling yourself upon me as you have upon Captain
Farnsworth," he said, with an insulting leer and in a tone
of prurient innuendo. "I am not susceptible, my dear."
This more for Farnsworth's benefit than to insult her, albeit he
was not in a mood to care.
"You are a coward and a liar!" she exclaimed, her face
flushing with hot shame. "You stand here," she quickly
added, turning fiercely upon Farnsworth, "and quietly listen
to such words! You, too, are a coward if you do not make him retract!
Oh, you English are low brutes!"
Hamilton laughed; but Farnsworth looked dark and troubled, his glance
going back and forth from Alice to his commander, as if another
word would cause him to do something terrible.
"I rather think I've heard all that I care to hear from you,
Miss," Hamilton presently said. "Captain Farnsworth, you
will see that the prisoner is confined in the proper place, which,
I suggest to you, is not your sleeping quarters, sir."
"Colonel Hamilton," said Farnsworth in a husky voice,
"I slept on the ground under a shed last night in order that
Miss Roussillon might be somewhat comfortable."
"Humph! Well, see that you do not do it again. This girl is
guilty of harboring a spy and resisting a lawful attempt of my guards
to capture him. Confine her in the place prepared for prisoners
and see that she stays there until I am ready to fix her punishment."
"There is no place fit for a young girl to stay in," Farnsworth
ventured. "She can have no comfort or--"
"Take her along, sir; any place is good enough for her so long
as she behaves like a--"
"Very well," Farnsworth bluntly interrupted, thus saving
Alice the stroke of a vile comparison. "Come with me, please,
Miss Roussillon."
He pulled her toward the door, then dropped the arm he had grasped
and murmured an apology.
She followed him out, holding her head high. No one looking on would
have suspected that a sinking sensation in her heart made it difficult
for her to walk, or that her eyes, shining like stars, were so inwardly
clouded with distress that she saw her way but dimly.
It was a relief to Hamilton when Helm a few minutes later entered
the room with something breezy to say.
"What's up now, if I may ask?" the jolly American demanded.
"What's this I hear about trouble with the French women? Have
they begun a revolution?"
"That elephant, Gaspard Roussillon, came back into town last
night," said Hamilton sulkily.
"Well, he went out again, didn't he?"
"Yes, but--"
"Stepped on somebody's toe first, eh?"
"The guard tried to capture him, and that girl of his wounded
Lieutenant Barlow in the neck with a sword. Roussillon fought like
a tiger and the men swear that the devil himself appeared on the
scene to help the Frenchman out."
"Moral: Be generous in your dealings with Frenchmen and Frenchwomen
and so get the devil on your side."
"I've got the girl a prisoner, and I swear to you that I'll
have her shot this time if--"
"Why not shoot her yourself? You oughtn't to shirk a dirty
job like that and force it upon your men."
Hamilton laughed and elevated his shoulders as if to shake off an
annoying load. Just then a young officer with a white bandage around
his neck entered and saluted. He was a small, soft-haired, blue-eyed
man of reckless bearing, with marks of dissipation sharply cut into
his face. He saluted, smiling self-consciously.
"Well, Barlow," said Hamilton, "the kitten scratched
you, did she?"
"Yes, slightly, and I don't think I've been treated fairly
in the matter, sir."
"How so?"
"I stood the brunt and now Captain Farnsworth gets the prize."
He twisted his mouth in mock expression of maudlin disappointment.
"I'm always cheated out of the sweets. I never get anything
for gallant conduct on the field."
"Poor boy! It is a shame. But I say, Lieutenant, has Roussillon
really escaped, or is he hidden somewhere in town? Have you been
careful?"
"Oh, it's the Indians. They all swear by these Frenchmen. You
can't get any help from them against a fellow like Roussillon. In
fact they aid him; he's among them now."
"Moral again," Helm interposed; "keep on the good
side of the French!"
"That's sensible talk, sir," assented Barlow.
"Bah!" exclaimed Hamilton. "You might as well talk
of keeping on the good side of the American traitors--a bloody murrain
seize the whole race!"
"That's what I say," chimed in the Lieutenant, with a
sly look at Helm.
"They have been telling me a cock-and-bull story concerning
the affair at the Roussillon cabin," Hamilton said, changing
his manner. "What is this about a disguised and wonderful man
who rushed in and upset the whole of you. I want no romancing; give
me the facts."
Barlow's dissolute countenance became troubled.
"The facts," he said, speaking with serious deliberation,
"are not clear. It was like a clap of thunder, the way that
man performed. As you say, he did fling the whole squad all of a
heap, and it was done that quickly," he snapped his thumb and
finger demonstratively with a sharp report; "nobody could understand
it."
Hamilton looked at his subaltern with a smile of unlimited contempt
and said:
"A pretty officer of His Majesty's army, you are, Lieutenant
Barlow! First a slip of a girl shows herself your superior with
the sword and wounds you, then a single man wipes up the floor of
a house with you and your guard, depriving you at the same time
of both vision and memory, so that you cannot even describe your
assailant!"
"He was dressed like a priest," muttered Barlow, evidently
frightened at his commander's scathing comment. "That was all
there was to see."
"A priest! Some of the men say the devil. I wonder--"
Hamilton hesitated and looked at the floor.
"This Father Beret, he is too old for such a thing, isn't he?"
"I have thought of him--it was like him--but he is, as you
say, very old to be so tremendously strong and active. Why, I tell
you that men went from his hands against the walls and floor as
if shot out of a mortar. It was the strangest and most astounding
thing I ever heard of."
A little later Barlow seized a favorable opportunity and withdrew.
The conversation was not to his liking.
Hamilton sent for Father Beret and had a long talk with him, but
the old man looked so childishly inoffensive in spirit and so collapsed
physically that it seemed worse than foolishness to accuse him of
the exploit over which the entire garrison was wondering. Farnsworth
sat by during the interview. He looked the good priest curiously
and critically over from head to foot, remembering, but not mentioning,
the most unclerical punch in the side received from that energetic
right arm now lying so flabbily across the old man's lap.
When the talk ended and Father Beret humbly took his leave, Hamilton
turned to Farnsworth and said:
"What do you think of this affair? I have cross-questioned
all the men who took part in it, and every one of them says simply
priest or devil. I think old Beret is both; but plainly he couldn't
hurt a chicken, you can see that at a glance."
Farnsworth smiled, rubbing his side reminiscently; but he shook
his head.
"I'm sure it's puzzling, indeed."
Hamilton sat in thoughtful silence for a while, then abruptly changed
the subject.
"I think, Captain, that you had better send out Lieutenant
Barlow and some of the best woodsmen to kill some game. We need
fresh venison, and, by George! I'm not going to depend upon these
French traitors any longer. I have set my foot down; they've got
to do better or take the consequences." He paused for a breath,
then added: "That girl has done too much to escape severest
punishment. The garrison will be demoralized if this thing goes
on without an example of authority rigidly enforced. I am resolved
that there shall be a startling and effective public display of
my power to punish. She shot you; you seem to be glad of it, but
it was a grave offence. She has stabbed Barlow; that is another
serious crime; but worst of all she aided a spy and resisted arrest.
She must be punished."
Farnsworth knew Hamilton's nature, and he now saw that Alice was
in dreadful danger of death or something even worse. Whenever his
chief talked of discipline and the need of maintaining his authority,
there was little hope of softening his decisions. Moreover, the
provocation to apply extreme measures really seemed sufficient,
regarded from a military point of view, and Captain Farnsworth was
himself, under ordinary circumstances, a disciplinarian of the strictest
class. The fascination, however, by which Alice held him overbore
every other influence, and his devotion to her loosened every other
tie and obligation to a most dangerous extent. No sooner had he
left headquarters and given Barlow his instructions touching the
hunting expedition, than his mind began to wander amid visions and
schemes by no means consistent with his military obligations. In
order to reflect undisturbed he went forth into the dreary, lane-like
streets of Vincennes and walked aimlessly here and there until he
met Father Beret.
Farnsworth saluted the old man, and was passing him by, when seeing
a sword in his hand, half hidden in the folds of his worn and faded
cassock, he turned and addressed him.
"Why are you armed this morning, Father?" he demanded
very pleasantly. "Who is to suffer now?"
"I am not on the war-path, my son," replied the priest.
"It is but a rapier that I am going to clean of rust spots
that are gathering on its blade."
"Is it yours, Father? Let me see it." He held out his
hand.
"No, not mine."
Father Beret seemed not to notice Farnsworth's desire to handle
the weapon, and the young man, instead of repeating his words, reached
farther, nearly grasping the scabbard.
"I cannot let you take it, my son," said Father Beret
"You have its mate, that should satisfy you."
"No, Colonel Hamilton took it," Farnsworth quickly replied.
"If I could I would gladly return it to its owner. I am not
a thief, Father, and I am ashamed of--of--what I did when I was
drunk."
The priest looked sharply into Farnsworth's eyes and read there
something that reassured him. His long experience had rendered him
adept at taking a man's value at a glance. He slightly lifted his
face and said: "Ah, but the poor little girl! why do you persecute
her? She really does not deserve it. She is a noble child. Give
her back to her home and her people. Do not soil and spoil her sweet
life."
It was the sing-song voice used by Father Beret in his sermons and
prayers; but something went with it indescribably touching. Farnsworth
felt a lump rise in his throat and his eyes were ready to show tears.
"Father," he said, with difficulty making his words distinct,
"I would not harm Miss Roussillon to save my own life, and
I would do anything--" he paused slightly, then added with
passionate force; "I would do anything, no matter what, to
save her from the terrible thing that now threatens her."
Father Beret's countenance changed curiously as he gazed at the
young man and said:
"If you really mean what you say, you can easily save her,
my son."
"Father, by all that is holy, I mean just what I say."
"Swear not at all, my son, but give me your hand."
The two men stood with a tight grip between them and exchanged a
long, steady, searching gaze.
A drizzling rain had begun to fall again, with a raw wind creeping
from the west.
"Come with me to my house, my son," Father Beret presently
added; and together they went, the priest covering Alice's sword
from the rain with the folds of his cassock. |