CHAPTER VIII
THE DILEMMA OF CAPTAIN HELM
Oncle Jazon, feeling like a fish returned to the water after a
long and torturing captivity in the open air, plunged into the
forest with anticipations of lively adventure and made his way
toward the Wea plains. It was his purpose to get a boat at the
village of Ouiatenon and pull thence up the Wabash until he could
find out what the English were doing. He chose for his companions
on this dangerous expedition two expert coureurs de bois, Dutremble
and Jacques Bailoup. Fifty miles up the river they fell in with
some friendly Indians, well known to them all, who were returning
from the portage.
The savages informed them that there were no signs of an English
advance in that quarter. Some of them had been as far as the St.
Joseph river and to within a short distance of Detroit without
seeing a white man or hearing of any suspicious movements on the
part of Hamilton. So back came Oncle Jazon with his pleasing report,
much disappointed that he had not been able to stir up some sort
of trouble.
It was Helm's turn to laugh.
"What did I tell you?" he cried, in a jolly mood, slapping
Beverley on the shoulder. "I knew mighty well that it was
all a big story with nothing in it. What on earth would the English
be thinking about to march an army away off down here only to
capture a rotten stockade and a lot of gabbling parly-voos?"
Beverley, while he did not feel quite as confident as his chief,
was not sorry that things looked a little brighter than he had
feared they would turn out to be. Secretly, and without acknowledging
it to himself, he was delighted with the life he was living. The
Arcadian atmosphere of Vincennes clothed him in its mists and
dreams. No matter what way the weather blew its breath, cold or
warm, cloudy or fair, rain or snow, the peace in his soul changed
not. His nature seemed to hold all of its sterner and fiercer
traits in abeyance while he domiciled himself absolutely within
his narrow and monotonous environment. Since the dance at the
river house a new content, like a soft and diffused sweetness,
had crept through his blood with a vague, tingling sense of joy.
He began to like walking about rather aimlessly in the town's
narrow streets, with the mud-daubed cabins on either hand. This
simple life under low, thatched roofs had a charm. When a door
was opened he could see a fire of logs on the ample hearth shooting
its yellow tongues up the sooty chimney-throat. Soft creole voices
murmured and sang, or jangled their petty domestic discords. Women
in scant petticoats, leggings and moccasins swept snow from the
squat verandas, or fed the pigs in little sties behind the cabins.
Everybody cried cheerily: "Bon jour, Monsieur, comment allez-
vous?" as he went by, always accompanying the verbal salute
with a graceful wave of the hand.
When he walked early in the morning a waft of broiling game and
browning corn scones was abroad. Pots and kettles occupied the
hearths with glowing coals heaped around and under. Shaggy dogs
whined at the doors until the mensal remnants were tossed out
to them in the front yard.
But it was always a glimpse of Alice that must count for everything
in Beverley's reckonings, albeit he would have strenuously denied
it. True he went to Roussillon place almost every day, it being
a fixed part of his well ordered habit, and had a talk with her.
Sometimes, when Dame Roussillon was very busy and so quite off
her guard, they read together in a novel, or in certain parts
of the odd volume of Montaigne. This was done more for the sweetness
of disobedience than to enjoy the already familiar pages.
Now and again they repeated their fencing bout; but never with
the result which followed the first. Beverley soon mastered Alice's
tricks and showed her that, after all, masculine muscle is not
to be discounted at its own game by even the most wonderful womanly
strength and suppleness. She struggled bravely to hold her vantage
ground once gained so easily, but the inevitable was not to be
avoided. At last, one howling winter day, he disarmed her by the
very trick that she had shown him. That ended the play and they
ran shivering into the house.
"Ah," she cried, "it isn't fair. You are so much
bigger than I; you have so much longer arms; so much more weight
and power. It all counts against me! You ought to be ashamed of
yourself!" She was rosy with the exhilarating exercise and
the biting of the frosty breeze. Her beauty gave forth a new ray.
Deep in her heart she was pleased to have him master her so superbly;
but as the days passed she never said so, never gave over trying
to make him feel the touch of her foil. She did not know that
her eyes were getting through his guard, that her dimples were
stabbing his heart to its middle.
"You have other advantages," he replied, "which
far overbalance my greater stature and stronger muscles."
Then after a pause he added: "After all a girl must be a
girl."
Something in his face, something in her heart, startled her so
that she made a quick little move like that of a restless bird.
"You are beautiful and that makes my eyes and my hand uncertain,"
he went on. "Were I fencing with a man there would be no
glamour."
He spoke in English, which he did not often do in conversation
with her. It was a sign that he was somewhat wrought upon. She
followed his rapid words with difficulty; but she caught from
them a new note of feeling. He saw a little pale flare shoot across
her face and thought she was angry.
"You should not use your dimples to distract my vision,"
he quickly added, with a light laugh. "It would be no worse
for me to throw my hat in your face!"
His attempt at levity was obviously weak; she looked straight
into his eyes, with the steady gaze of a simple, earnest nature
shocked by a current quite strange to it. She did not understand
him, and she did. Her fine intuition gathered swiftly together
a hundred shreds of impression received from him during their
recent growing intimacy. He was a patrician, as she vaguely made
him out, a man of wealth, whose family was great. He belonged
among people of gentle birth and high attainments. She magnified
him so that he was diffused in her imagination, as difficult to
comprehend as a mist in the morning air--and as beautiful.
"You make fun of me," she said, very deliberately, letting
her eyes droop; then she looked up again suddenly and continued,
with a certain naive expression of disappointment gathering in
her face. "I have been too free with you. Father Beret told
me not to forget my dignity when in your company. He told me you
might misunderstand me. I don't care; I shall not fence with you
again." She laughed, but there was no joyous freedom in the
sound.
"Why, Alice--my dear Miss Roussillon, you do me a wrong;
I beg a thousand pardons if I've hurt you," he cried, stepping
nearer to her, "and I can never forgive myself. You have
somehow misunderstood me, I know you have!"
On his part it was exaggerating a mere contact of mutual feelings
into a dangerous collision. He was as much self-deceived as was
she, and he made more noise about it.
"It is you who have misunderstood me," she replied,
smiling brightly now, but with just a faint, pitiful touch of
regret, or self-blame lingering in her voice. "Father Beret
said you would. I did not believe him; but--"
"And you shall not believe him," said Beverley. "I
have not misunderstood you. There has been nothing. You have treated
me kindly and with beautiful friendliness. You have not done or
said a thing that Father Beret or anybody else could criticise.
And if I have said or done the least thing to trouble you I repudiate
it-- I did not mean it. Now you believe me, don't you, Miss Roussillon?"
He seemed to be falling into the habit of speaking to her in English.
She understood it somewhat imperfectly, especially when in an
earnest moment he rushed his words together as if they had been
soldiers he was leading at the charge-step against an enemy. His
manner convinced her, even though his diction fell short.
"Then we'll talk about something else," she said, laughing
naturally now, and retreating to a chair by the hearthside. "I
want you to tell me all about yourself and your family, your home
and everything."
She seated herself with an air of conscious aplomb and motioned
him to take a distant stool.
There was a great heap of dry logs in the fireplace, with pointed
flames shooting out of its crevices and leaping into the gloomy,
cave-like throat of the flue. Outside a wind passed heavily across
the roof and bellowed in the chimney-top.
Beverley drew the stool near Alice, who, with a charred stick,
used as a poker, was thrusting at the glowing crevices and sending
showers of sparks aloft.
"Why, there wouldn't be much to tell," he said, glad
to feel secure again. "Our home is a big old mansion named
Beverley Hall on a hill among trees, and half surrounded with
slave cabins. It overlooks the plantation in the valley where
a little river goes wandering on its way." He was speaking
French and she followed him easily now, her eyes beginning to
fling out again their natural sunny beams of interest. "I
was born there twenty-six years ago and haven't done much of anything
since. You see before you, Mademoiselle, a very undistinguished
young man, who has signally failed to accomplish the dream of
his boyhood, which was to be a great artist like Raphael or Angelo.
Instead of being famous I am but a poor Lieutenant in the forces
of Virginia."
"You have a mother, father, brothers and sisters?" she
interrogated. She did not understand his allusion to the great
artists of whom she knew nothing. She had never before heard of
them. She leaned the poker against the chimney jamb and turned
her face toward him.
"Mother, father, and one sister," he said, "no
brothers. We were a happy little group. But my sister married
and lives in Baltimore. I am here. Father and mother are alone
in the old house. Sometimes I am terribly homesick." He was
silent a moment, then added: "But you are selfish, you make
me do all the telling. Now I want you to give me a little of your
story, Mademoiselle, beginning as I did, at the first."
"But I can't," she replied with childlike frankness,
"for I don't know where I was born, nor my parents' names,
nor who I am. You see how different it is with me. I am called
Alice Roussillon, but I suppose that my name is Alice Tarleton;
it is not certain, however. There is very little to help out the
theory. Here is all the proof there is. I don't know that it is
worth anything."
She took off her locket and handed it to him.
He handled it rather indifferently, for he was just then studying
the fine lines of her face. But in a moment he was interested.
"Tarleton, Tarleton," he repeated. Then he turned the
little disc of gold over and saw the enameled drawing on the back,--a
crest clearly outlined.
He started. The crest was quite familiar.
"Where did you get this?" he demanded in English, and
with such blunt suddenness that she was startled. "Where
did it come from?"
"I have always had it."
"Always? It's the Tarleton crest. Do you belong to that family?"
"Indeed I do not know. Papa Roussillon says he thinks I do."
"Well, this is strange and interesting," said Beverley,
rather to himself than addressing her. He looked from the miniature
to the crest and back to the miniature again, then at Alice. "I
tell you this is strange," he repeated with emphasis. "It
is exceedingly strange."
Her cheeks flushed quickly under their soft brown and her eyes
flashed with excitement.
"Yes, I know." Her voice fluttered; her hands were clasped
in her lap. She leaned toward him eagerly. "It is strange.
I've thought about it a great deal."
"Alice Tarleton; that is right; Alice is a name of the family.
Lady Alice Tarleton was the mother of the first Sir Garnett Tarleton
who came over in the time of Yardley. It's a great family. One
of the oldest and best in Virginia." He looked at her now
with a gaze of concentrated interest, under which her eyes fell.
"Why, this is romantic!" he exclaimed, "absolutely
romantic. And you don't know how you came by this locket? You
don't know who was your father, your mother?"
"I do not know anything."
"And what does Monsieur Roussillon know?"
"Just as little."
"But how came he to be taking you and caring for you? He
must know how he got you, where he got you, of whom he got you?
Surely he knows--"
"Oh, I know all that. I was twelve years old when Papa Roussillon
took me, eight years ago. I had been having a hard life, and but
for him I must have died. I was a captive among the Indians. He
took me and has cared for me and taught me. He has been very,
very good to me. I love him dearly."
"And don't you remember anything at all about when, where,
how the Indians got you?"
"No." She shook her head and seemed to be trying to
recollect something. "No, I just can't remember; and yet
there has always been something like a dream in my mind, which
I could not quite get hold of. I know that I am not a Catholic.
I vaguely remember a sweet woman who taught me to pray like this:
'Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.'"
And Alice went on through the beautiful and perfect prayer, which
she repeated in English with infinite sweetness and solemnity,
her eyes uplifted, her hands clasped before her. Beverley could
have sworn that she was a shining saint, and that he saw an aureole.
"I know," she continued, "that sometime, somewhere,
to a very dear person I promised that I never, never, never would
pray any prayer but that. And I remember almost nothing else about
that other life, which is far off back yonder in the past, I don't
know where,--sweet, peaceful, shadowy; a dream that I have all
but lost from my mind."
Beverley's sympathy was deeply moved. He sat for some minutes
looking at her without speaking. She, too, was pensive and silent,
while the fire sputtered and sang, the great logs slowly melting,
the flames tossing wisps of smoke into the chimney still booming
to the wind.
"I know, too, that I am not French," she presently resumed,
"but I don't know just how I know it. My first words must
have been English, for I have always dreamed of talking in that
language, and my dimmest half recollections of the old days are
of a large, white house, and a soft-voiced black woman, who sang
to me in that language the very sweetest songs in the world."
It must be borne in mind that all this was told by Alice in her
creole French, half bookish, half patois, of which no translation
can give any fair impression.
Beverley listened, as one who hears a clever reader intoning a
strange and captivating poem. He was charmed. His imagination
welcomed the story and furnished it with all that it lacked of
picturesque completeness. In those days it was no uncommon thing
for a white child to be found among the Indians with not a trace
left by which to restore it to its people. He had often heard
of such a case. But here was Alice right before him, the most
beautiful girl that he had ever seen, telling him the strangest
story of all. To his mind it was clear that she belonged to the
Tarleton family of Virginia. Youth always concludes a matter at
once. He knew some of the Tarletons; but it was a widely scattered
family, its members living in almost every colony in America.
The crest he recognized at a glance by the dragon on the helmet
with three stars. It was not for a woman to bear; but doubtless
it had been enameled on the locket merely as a family mark, as
was often done in America.
"The black woman was your nurse, your mammy," he said.
"I know by that and by your prayer in English, as well as
by your locket, that you are of a good old family."
Like most Southerners, he had strong faith in genealogy, and he
held at his tongue's tip the names of all the old families. The
Carters, the Blairs, the Fitzhughs, the Hansons, the Randolphs,
the Lees, the Ludwells, the Joneses, the Beverleys, the Tarletons--
a whole catalogue of them stretched back in his memory. He knew
the coat of arms displayed by each house. He could repeat their
legends.
"I wish you could tell me more," he went on. "Can't
you recollect anything further about your early childhood, your
first impressions--the house, the woman who taught you to pray,
the old black mammy? Any little thing might be of priceless value
as evidence."
Alice shrugged her shoulders after the creole fashion with something
of her habitual levity of manner, and laughed. His earnestness
seemed disproportioned to the subject, as she fancied he must
view it, although to her it had always been something to dream
over. It was impossible for her to realize, as he did, the importance
of details in solving a problem like that involved in her past
history. Nor could she feel the pathos and almost tragic fascination
with which her story had touched him.
"There is absolutely nothing more to tell," she said.
"All my life I have tried to remember more, but it's impossible;
I can't get any further back or call up another thing. There's
no use trying. It's all like a dream--probably it is one. I do
have such dreams. In my sleep I can lift myself into the air,
just as easy, and fly back to the same big white house that I
seem to remember. When you told me about your home it was like
something that I had often seen before. I shall be dreaming about
it next!"
Beverley cross-questioned her from every possible point of view;
he was fascinated with the mystery; but she gave him nothing out
of which the least further light could be drawn. A half-breed
woman, it seemed, had been her Indian foster-mother; a silent,
grave, watchful guardian from whom not a hint of disclosure ever
fell. She was, moreover, a Christian woman, had received her conversion
from an English-speaking Protestant missionary. She prayed with
Alice, thus keeping in the child's mind a perfect memory of the
Lord's prayer.
"Well," said Beverley at last, "you are more of
a mystery to me, the longer I know you."
"Then I must grow every day more distasteful to you."
"No, I love mystery."
He went away feeling a new web of interest binding him to this
inscrutable maiden whose life seemed to him at once so full of
idyllic happiness and so enshrouded in tantalizing doubt. At the
first opportunity he frankly questioned M. Roussillon, with no
helpful result. The big Frenchman told the same meager story.
The woman was dying in the time of a great epidemic, which killed
most of her tribe. She gave Alice to M. Roussillon, but told him
not a word about her ancestry or previous life. That was all.
A wise old man, when he finds himself in a blind alley, no sooner
touches the terminal wall than he faces about and goes back the
way he came. Under like circumstances a young man must needs try
to batter the wall down with his head. Beverley endeavored to
break through the web of mystery by sheer force. It seemed to
him that a vigorous attempt could not fail to succeed; but, like
the fly in the spider's lines, he became more hopelessly bound
at every move he made. Moreover against his will he was realizing
that he could no longer deceive himself about Alice. He loved
her, and the love was mastering him body and soul. Such a confession
carries with it into an honest masculine heart a sense of contending
responsibilities. In Beverley's case the clash was profoundly
disturbing. And now he clutched the thought that Alice was not
a mere child of the woods, but a daughter of an old family of
cavaliers!
With coat buttoned close against the driving wind, he strode toward
the fort in one of those melodramatic moods to which youth in
all climes and times is subject. It was like a slap in the face
when Captain Helm met him at the stockade gate and said:
"Well, sir, you are good at hiding."
"Hiding! what do you mean, Captain Helm?" he demanded,
not in the mildest tone.
"I mean, sir, that I've been hunting you for an hour and
more, over the whole of this damned town. The English and Indians
are upon us, and there's no time for fooling. Where are all the
men?"
Beverley comprehended the situation in a second. Helm's face was
congested with excitement. Some scouts had come in with the news
that Governor Hamilton, at the head of five or six hundred soldiers
and Indians, was only three or four miles up the river.
"Where are all the men?" Helm repeated.
"Buffalo hunting, most of them," said Beverley.
"What in hell are they off hunting buffaloes for?" raged
the excited captain.
"You might go to hell and see," Beverley suggested,
and they both laughed in sheer masculine contempt of a predicament
too grave for anything but grim mirth.
What could they do? Even Oncle Jazon and Rene de Ronville were
off with the hunters. Helm sent for M. Roussillon in the desperate
hope that he could suggest something; but he lost his head and
hustled off to hide his money and valuables. Indeed the French
people all felt that, so far as they were concerned, the chief
thing was to save what they had. They well knew that it mattered
little which of the two masters held over them--they must shift
for themselves. In their hearts they were true to France and America;
but France and America could not now protect them against Hamilton;
therefore it would be like suicide to magnify patriotism or any
other sentiment objectionable to the English. So they acted upon
M. Roussillon's advice and offered no resistance when the new
army approached.
"My poor people are not disloyal to your flag and your cause,"
said good Father Beret next morning to Captain Helm, "but
they are powerless. Winter is upon us. What would you have us
do? This rickety fort is not available for defense; the men are
nearly all far away on the plains. Isn't it the part of prudence
and common sense to make the best of a desperate situation? Should
we resist, the British and their savage allies would destroy the
town and commit outrages too horrible to think about. In this
case diplomacy promises much more than a hopeless fight against
an overwhelming force."
"I'll fight 'em," Helm ground out between his teeth,
"if I have to do it single-handed and alone! I'll fight 'em
till hell freezes over!"
Father Beret smiled grimly, as if he, too, would enjoy a lively
skirmish on the ice of Tophet, and said:
"I admire your courage, my son. Fighting is perfectly proper
upon fair occasion. But think of the poor women and children.
These old eyes of mine have seen some terrible things done by
enraged savages. Men can die fighting; but their poor wives and
daughters-- ah, I have seen, I have seen!"
Beverley felt a pang of terror shoot through his heart as Father
Beret's simple words made him think of Alice in connection with
an Indian massacre.
"Of course, of course it's horrible to think of," said
Helm; "but my duty is clear, and that flag," he pointed
to where la banniere d'Alice Roussillon was almost blowing away
in the cold wind, "that flag shall not come down save in
full honor."
His speech sounded preposterously boastful and hollow; but he
was manfully in earnest; every word came from his brave heart.
Father Beret's grim smile returned, lighting up his strongly marked
face with the strangest expression imaginable.
"We will get all the women inside the fort," Helm began
to say.
"Where the Indians will find them ready penned up and at
their mercy," quickly interpolated the priest "That
will not do."
"Well, then, what can be done?" Beverley demanded, turning
with a fierce stare upon Father Beret. "Don't stand there
objecting to everything, with not a suggestion of your own to
offer."
"I know what is best for my people," the old man replied
softly, still smiling, "I have advised them to stay inside
their houses and take no part in the military event. It is the
only hope of averting an indiscriminate massacre, and things worse."
The curt phrase, "things worse," went like a bullet-stroke
through Beverley's heart. It flashed an awful picture upon his
vision. Father Beret saw his face whiten and his lips set themselves
to resist a great emotion.
"Do not be angry with me, my son," he said, laying a
hand on the young man's arm. "I may be wrong, but I act upon
long and convincing experience."
"Experience or no experience," Helm exclaimed with an
oath, "this fort must be manned and defended. I am commanding
here!"
"Yes, I recognize your authority," responded the priest
in a firm yet deferential tone, "and I heartily wish you
had a garrison; but where is your command, Captain Helm?"
Then it was that the doughty Captain let loose the accumulated
profanity with which he had been for some time well-nigh bursting.
He tiptoed in order to curse with extremest violence. His gestures
were threatening. He shook his fists at Father Beret, without
really meaning offence.
"Where is my garrison, you ask! Yes, and I can tell you.
It's where you might expect a gang of dad blasted jabbering French
good-for-nothings to be, off high-gannicking around shooting buffaloes
instead of staying here and defending their wives, children, homes
and country, damn their everlasting souls! The few I have in the
fort will sneak off, I suppose."
"The French gave you this post on easy terms, Captain,"
blandly retorted Father Beret.
"Yes, and they'll hand it over to Hamilton, you think, on
the same basis," cried Helm, "but I'll show you! I'll
show you, Mr. Priest!"
"Pardon me, Captain, the French are loyal to you and to the
flag yonder. They have sworn it. Time will prove it. But in the
present desperate dilemma we must choose the safer horn."
Saying this Father Beret turned about and went his way. He was
chuckling heartily as he passed out of the gate.
"He is right," said Beverley after a few moments of
reflection, during which he was wholly occupied with Alice, whose
terrified face in his anticipation appealed to him from the midst
of howling savages, smoking cabins and mangled victims of lust
and massacre. His imagination painted the scene with a merciless
realism that chilled his blood. All the sweet romance fell away
from Vincennes.
"Well, sir, right or wrong, your, duty is to obey orders,"
said Helm with brutal severity.
"We had better not quarrel, Captain," Beverley replied.
"I have not signified any unwillingness to obey your commands.
Give them, and you will have no cause to grumble."
"Forgive me, old fellow," cried the impulsive commander.
"I know you are true as steel. I s'pose I'm wound up too
tight to be polite. But the time is come to do something. Here
we are with but five or six men--"
He was interrupted by the arrival of two more half-breed scouts.
Only three miles away was a large flotilla of boats and canoes
with cannon, a force of Indians on land and the British flag flying,--that
was the report.
"They are moving rapidly," said the spokesman, "and
will be here very soon. They are at least six hundred strong,
all well armed."
"Push that gun to the gate, and load it to the muzzle, Lieutenant
Beverley," Helm ordered with admirable firmness, the purple
flush in his face giving way to a grayish pallor. "We are
going to die right here, or have the honors of war."
Beverley obeyed without a word. He even loaded two guns instead
of one--charging each so heavily that the last wad looked as if
ready to leap from the grimy mouth.
Helm had already begun, on receiving the first report, a hasty
letter to Colonel Clark at Kaskaskia. He now added a few words
and at the last moment sent it out by a trusted man, who was promptly
captured by Hamilton's advance guard. The missive, evidently written
in installments during the slow approach of the British, is still
in the Canadian archives, and runs thus:
"Dear Sir--At this time there is an army within three miles
of this place; I heard of their coming several days beforehand.
I sent spies to find the certainty--the spies being taken prisoner
I never got intelligence till they got within three miles of town.
As I had called the militia and had all assurances of their integrity
I ordered at the firing of a cannon every man to appear, but I
saw but few. Captain Buseron behaved much to his honor and credit,
but I doubt the conduct of a certain gent. Excuse haste, as the
army is in sight. My determination is to defend the garrison,
(sic) though I have but twenty-one men but what has left me. I
refer you to Mr. Wmes (sic) for the rest. The army is within three
hundred yards of the village. You must think how I feel; not four
men that I really depend upon; but am determined to act brave--think
of my condition. I know it is out of my power to defend the town,
as not one of the militia will take arms, though before sight
of the army no braver men. There is a flag at a small distance,
I must conclude.
"Your humble servant,
"Leo'd Helm. Must stop."
"To Colonel Clark."
Having completed this task, the letter shows under what a nervous
strain, Helm turned to his lieutenant and said:
"Fire a swivel with a blank charge. We'll give these weak-kneed
parly-voos one more call to duty. Of course not a frog-eater of
them all will come. But I said that a gun should be the signal.
Possibly they didn't hear the first one, the damned, deaf, cowardly
hounds!"
Beverley wheeled forth the swivel and rammed a charge of powder
home. But when he fired it, the effect was far from what it should
have been. Instead of calling in a fresh body of militia, it actually
drove out the few who up to that moment had remained as a garrison;
so that Captain Helm and his Lieutenant found themselves quite
alone in the fort, while out before the gate, deployed in fine
open order, a strong line of British soldiers approached with
sturdy steps, led by a tall, erect, ruddy-faced young officer.