demanding the final, the absolute human sympathy and gratitude. No matter what deeds Long-Hair had committed that were evil beyond forgiveness, he had done for her the all-atoning thing. He had saved Beverley and sent him back to her.
With a start and a chill of dread, she thought: “What if it is already too late!”
But her nature could not hesitate. To feel the demand of an exigency was to act. She snatched a wrap from its peg on the wall and ran as fast as she could to the fort. People who met her flying along wondered, staring after her, what could be urging her so that she saw nobody, checked herself for nothing, ran splashing through the puddles in the street, gazing ahead of her, as if pursuing some flying object from which she dared not turn her eyes.
And there was, indeed, a call for her utmost power of flight, if she would be of any assistance to Long-Hair, who even then stood bound to a stake in the fort’s area, while a platoon of riflemen, those unerring shots from Kentucky and Virginia, were ready to make a target of him at a range of but twenty yards.
Beverley, greatly handicapped by the fact that the fresh scalp of a white man hung at Long-Hair’s belt, had exhausted every possible argument to avert or mitigate the sentence promptly spoken by the court martial of which Colonel Clark was the ruling spirit. He had succeeded barely to the extent of turning the mode of execution from tomahawking to shooting. All the officers in the fort approved killing the prisoner, and it was difficult for Colonel Clark to prevent the men from making outrageous assaults upon him, so exasperated were they at sight of the scalp.
Oncle Jazon proved to be one of the most refractory among those who demanded tomahawking and scalping as the only treatment due Long-Hair. The repulsive savage stood up before them stolid, resolute, defiant, proudly flaunting the badge which testified to his horrible efficiency as an emissary of Hamilton’s. It had been left in his belt by Clark’s order, as the best justification of his doom.
“L’ me hack ‘is damned head,” Oncle Jazon pleaded. “I jes’ hankers to chop a hole inter it. An’ besides I want ‘is scelp to hang up wi’ mine an’ that’n o’ the Injun what scelped me. He kicked me in the ribs, the stinkin’ varmint”
Beverley pleaded eloquently and well, but even the genial Major Helm laughed at his sentiment of gratitude to a savage who at best but relented at the last moment, for Alice’s sake, and concluded not to sell him to Hamilton. It is due to the British commander to record here that he most positively and with what appeared to be high sincerity, denied the charge of having offered rewards for the taking of human scalps. He declared that his purposes and practices were humane, and that while he did use the Indians as military allies, his orders to them were that they must forego cruel modes of warfare and refrain from savage outrage upon prisoners. Certainly the weight of contemporary testimony seems overwhelmingly against him, but we enter his denial. Long-Hair himself, however, taunted him with accusations of unfaithfulness in carrying out some very inhuman contracts, and to add a terrible sting, volunteered the statement that poor Barlow’s scalp had served his turn in the place of Beverley’s.
With conditions so hideous to contend against, Beverley, of course, had no possible means of succoring the condemned savage.
“Him a kickin’ yer ribs clean inter ye, an’ a makin’ ye run the ga’ntlet, an’ here ye air a tryin’ to save ‘is life!” whined Oncle Jazon, “W’y man, I thought ye hed some senterments! Dast ‘is Injin liver, I kin feel them kicks what he guv me till yit. Ventrebleu! que diable voulez-vous?”
Clark simply pushed Beverley’s pleadings aside as not worth a moment’s consideration. He easily felt the fine bit of gratitude at the bottom of it all; but there was too much in the other side of the balance; justice, the discipline and confidence of his little army, and the claim of the women and children on the frontier demanded firmness in dealing with a case like Long- Hair’s.
“No, no,” he said to Beverley, “I would do anything in the world for you, Fitz, except to swerve an inch from duty to my country and the defenceless people down yonder in Kentucky, I can’t do it. There’s no use to press the matter further. The die is cast. That brute’s got to be killed, and killed dead. Look at him–look at that scalp! I’d have him killed if I dropped dead for it the next instant.”
Beverley shuddered. The argument was horribly convincing, and yet, somehow, the desire to save Long-Hair overbore everything else in his mind. He could not cease his efforts; it seemed to him as if he were pleading for Alice herself. Captain Farnsworth, strange to say, was the only man in the fort who leaned to Beverley’s side; but he was reticent, doubtless feeling that his position as a British prisoner gave him no right to speak, especially when every lip around him was muttering something about “infamous scalp- buyers and Indian partisans,” with whom he was prominently counted by the speakers.
As Clark had said, the die was cast. Long-Hair, bound to a stake, the scalp still dangling at his side, grimly faced his executioners, who were eager to fire. He appeared to be proud of the fact that he was going to be killed.
“One thing I can say of him,” Helm remarked to Beverley; “he’s the grandest specimen of the animal–I might say the brute–man that I ever saw, red, white or black. Just look at his body and limbs! Those muscles are perfectly marvelous.”
“He saved my life, and I must stand here and see him murdered,” the young man replied with intense bitterness. It was all that he could think, all that he could say. He felt inefficient and dejected, almost desperate.
Clark himself, not willing to cast responsibility upon a subordinate, made ready to give the fatal order. Turning to Long- Hair first, he demanded of him as well as he could in the Indian dialect of which he had a smattering, what he had to say at his last moment.
The Indian straightened his already upright form, and, by a strong bulging of his muscles, snapped the thongs that bound him. Evidently he had not tried thus to free himself; it was rather a spasmodic expression of savage dignity and pride. One arm and both his legs still were partially confined by the bonds, but his right hand he lifted, with a gesture of immense self-satisfaction, and pointed at Hamilton.
“Indian brave; white man coward,” he said, scowling scornfully. “Long-Hair tell truth; white man lie, damn!”
Hamilton’s countenance did not change its calm, cold expression. Long-Hair gazed at him fixedly for a long moment, his eyes flashing most concentrated hate and contempt. Then he tore the scalp from his belt and flung it with great force straight toward the captive Governor’s face. It fell short, but the look that went with it did not, and Hamilton recoiled.
At that moment Alice arrived. Her coming was just in time to interrupt Clark, who had turned to the waiting platoon with the order of death on his lips. She made no noise, save the fluttering of her skirts, and her loud and rapid panting on account of her long, hard run. She sprang before Long-Hair and faced the platoon.
“You cannot, you shall not kill this man!” she cried in a voice loaded with excitement. “Put away those guns!”
Woman never looked more thrillingly beautiful to man than she did just then to all those rough, stern backwoodsmen. During her flight her hair had fallen down, and it glimmered like soft sunlight around her face. Something compelling flashed out of her eyes, an expression between a triumphant smile and a ray of irresistible beseechment. It took Colonel Clark’s breath when he turned and saw her standing there, and heard her words.
“This man saved Lieutenant Beverley’s life,” she presently added, getting better control of her voice, and sending into it a thrilling timbre; “you shall not harm him–you must not do it!”
Beverley was astounded when he saw her, the thing was so unexpected, so daring, and done with such high, imperious force; still it was but a realization of what he had imagined she would be upon occasion. He stood gazing at her, as did all the rest, while she faced Clark and the platoon of riflemen. To hear his own name pass her quivering lips, in that tone and in that connection, seemed to him a consecration.
“Would you be more savage than your Indian prisoner?” she went on, “less grateful than he for a life saved? I did him a small, a very small, service once, and in memory of that he saved Lieutenant Beverley’s life, because–because–” she faltered for a single breath, then added clearly and with magnetic sweetness–“because Lieutenant Beverley loved me, and because I loved him. This Indian Long-Hair showed a gratitude that could overcome his strongest passion. You white men should be ashamed to fall below his standard.”
Her words went home. It was as if the beauty of her face, the magnetism of her lissome and symmetrical form, the sweet fire of her eyes and the passionate appeal of her voice gave what she said a new and irresistible force of truth. When she spoke of Beverley’s love for her, and declared her love for him, there was not a manly heart in all the garrison that did not suddenly beat quicker and feel a strange, sweet waft of tenderness. A mother, somewhere, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a sweetheart, called through that voice of absolute womanhood.
“Beverley, what can I do?” muttered Clark, his bronze face as pale as it could possibly become.
“Do!” thundered Beverley, “do! you cannot murder that man. Hamilton is the man you should shoot! He offered large rewards, he inflamed the passions and fed the love of rum and the cupidity of poor wild men like the one standing yonder. Yet you take him prisoner and treat him with distinguished consideration. Hamilton offered a large sum for me taken alive, a smaller one for my scalp. Long-Hair saved me. You let Hamilton stand yonder in perfect safety while you shoot the Indian. Shame on you, Colonel Clark! shame on you, if you do it.”
Alice stood looking at the stalwart commander while Beverley was pouring forth his torrent of scathing reference to Hamilton, and she quickly saw that Clark was moved. The moment was ripe for the finishing stroke. They say it is genius that avails itself of opportunity. Beverley knew the fight was won when he saw what followed. Alice suddenly left Long-Hair and ran to Colonel Clark, who felt her warm, strong arms loop round him for a single point of time never to be effaced from his memory; then he saw her kneeling at his feet, her hands upstretched, her face a glorious prayer, while she pleaded the Indian’s cause and won it.
Doubtless, while we all rather feel that Clark was weak to be thus swayed by a girl, we cannot quite blame him. Alice’s flag was over him; he had heard her history from Beverley’s cunning lips; he actually believed that Hamilton was the real culprit, and besides he felt not a little nauseated with executing Indians. A good excuse to have an end of it all did not go begging.
But Long-Hair was barely gone over the horizon from the fort, as free and as villainous a savage as ever trod the earth, when a discovery made by Oncle Jazon caused Clark to hate himself for what he had done.
The old scout picked up the scalp, which Long-Hair had flung at Hamilton, and examined it with odious curiosity. He had lingered on the spot with no other purpose than to get possession of that ghastly relic. Since losing his own scalp the subject of crownlocks had grown upon his mind until its fascination was irresistible. He studied the hair of every person he saw, as a physiognomist studies faces. He held the gruesome thing up before him, scrutinizing it with the expression of a connoisseur who has discovered, on a grimy canvas, the signature of an old master.
“Sac’ bleu!” he presently broke forth. “Well I’ll be–Look’ee yer, George Clark! Come yer an’ look. Ye’ve been sold ag’in. Take a squint, ef ye please!”
Colonel Clark, with his hands crossed behind him, his face thoughtfully contracted, was walking slowly to and fro a little way off. He turned about when Oncle Jazon spoke.
“What now, Jazon?”
“A mighty heap right now, that’s what; come yer an’ let me show ye. Yer a fine sort o’ eejit, now ain’t ye!”
The two men walked toward each other and met. Oncle Jazon held up the scalp with one hand, pointing at it with the index finger of the other.
“This here scalp come off’n Rene de Ronville’s head.”
“And who is he?”
“Who’s he? Ye may well ax thet. He wuz a Frenchman. He wuz a fine young feller o’ this town. He killed a Corp’ral o’ Hamilton’s an’ tuck ter the woods a month or two ago. Hamilton offered a lot o’ money for ‘im or ‘is scalp, an’ Long-Hair went in fer gittin’ it. Now ye knows the whole racket. An’ ye lets that Injun go. An’ thet same Injun he mighty nigh kicked my ribs inter my stomach!”
Oncle Jazon’s feelings were visible and audible; but Clark could not resent the contempt of the old man’s looks and words. He felt that he deserved far more than he was receiving. Nor was Oncle Jazon wrong. Rene de Ronville never came back to little Adrienne Bourcier, although, being kept entirely ignorant of her lover’s fate, she waited and dreamed and hoped throughout more than two years, after which there is no further record of her life.
Clark, Beverley and Oncle Jazon consulted together and agreed among themselves that they would hold profoundly secret the story of the scalp. To have made it public would have exasperated the creoles and set them violently against Clark, a thing heavy with disaster for all his future plans. As it was, the release of Long- Hair caused a great deal of dissatisfaction and mutinous talk. Even Beverley now felt that the execution ordered by the commander ought to have been sternly carried out.
A day or two later, however, the whole dark affair was closed forever by a bit of confidence on the part of Oncle Jazon when Beverley dropped into his hut one evening to have a smoke with him.
The rain was over, the sky shone like one vast luminary, with a nearly full moon and a thousand stars reinforcing it. Up from the south poured one of those balmy, accidental wind floods, sometimes due in February on the Wabash, full of tropical dream-hints, yet edged with a winter chill that smacks of treachery. Oncle Jazon was unusually talkative; he may have had a deep draught of liquor; at all events Beverley had little room for a word.
“Well, bein’ as it’s twixt us, as is bosom frien’s,” the old fellow presently said, “I’ll jes’ show ye somepin poorty.”
He pricked the wick of a lamp and took down his bunch of scalps.
“I hev been a addin’ one more to keep company o’ mine an’ the tothers.”
He separated the latest acquisition from the rest of the wisp and added, with a heinous chuckle:
“This’n’s Long-Hair’s!”
And so it was. Beverley knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose to go.
“Wen they kicks yer Oncle Jazon’s ribs,” the old man added, “they’d jes’ as well lay down an’ give up, for he’s goin’ to salervate ’em.”
Then, after Beverley had passed out of the cabin, Oncle Jazon chirruped after him:
“Mebbe ye’d better not tell leetle Alice. The pore leetle gal hev hed worry ‘nough.”
CHAPTER XXII
CLARK ADVISES ALICE
A few days after the surrender of Hamilton, a large boat, the Willing, arrived from Kaskaskia. It was well manned and heavily armed. Clark fitted it out before beginning his march and expected it to be of great assistance to him in the reduction of the fort, but the high waters and the floating driftwood delayed its progress, so that its disappointed crew saw Alice’s flag floating bright and high when their eyes first looked upon the dull little town from far down the swollen river. There was much rejoicing, however, when they came ashore and were enthusiastically greeted by the garrison and populace. A courier whom they picked up on the Ohio came with them. He bore dispatches from Governor Henry of Virginia to Clark and a letter for Beverley from his father. With them appeared also Simon Kenton, greatly to the delight of Oncle Jazon, who had worried much about his friend since their latest fredaine–as he called it–with the Indians. Meantime an expedition under Captain Helm had been sent up the river with the purpose of capturing a British flotilla from Detroit.
Gaspard Roussillon, immediately after Clark’s victory, thought he saw a good opening favorable to festivity at the river house, for which he soon began to make some of his most ostentatious preparations. Fate, however, as usual in his case, interfered. Fate seemed to like pulling the big Frenchman’s ear now and again, as if to remind him of the fact–which he was apt to forget–that he lacked somewhat of omnipotence.
“Ziff! Je vais donner un banquet a tout le moonde, moi!” he cried, hustling and bustling hither and thither.
A scout from up the river announced the approach of Philip Dejean with his flotilla richly laden, and what little interest may have been gathering in the direction of M. Roussillon’s festal proposition vanished like the flame of a lamp in a puff of wind when this news reached Colonel Clark and became known in the town.
Beverley and Alice sat together in the main room of the Roussillon cabin–you could scarcely find them separated during those happy days–and Alice was singing to the soft tinkle of a guitar, a Creole ditty with a merry smack in its scarcely intelligible nonsense. She knew nothing about music beyond what M. Roussillon, a jack of all trades, had been able to teach her,–a few simple chords to accompany her songs, picked up at hap-hazard. But her voice, like her face and form, irradiated witchery. It was sweet, firm, deep, with something haunting in it–the tone of a hermit thrush, marvelously pure and clear, carried through a gay strain like the mocking-bird’s. Of course Beverley thought it divine; and when a message came from Colonel Clark bidding him report for duty at once, he felt an impulse toward mutiny of the rankest sort. He did not dream that a military expedition could be on hand; but upon reaching headquarters, the first thing he heard was:
“Report to Captain Helm. You are to go with him up the river and intercept a British force. Move lively, Helm is waiting for you, probably.”
There was no time for explanations. Evidently Clark expected neither questions nor delay. Beverley’s love of adventure and his patriotic desire to serve his country came to his aid vigorously enough; still, with Alice’s love-song ringing in his heart, there was a cord pulling him back from duty to the sweetest of all life’s joys.
Helm was already at the landing, where a little fleet of boats was being prepared. A thousand things had to be done in short order. All hands were stimulated to highest exertion with the thought of another fight. Swivels were mounted in boats, ammunition and provisions stored abundantly, flags hoisted and oars dipped. Never was an expedition of so great importance more swiftly organized and set in motion, nor did one ever have a more prosperous voyage or completer triumph. Philip Dejean, Justice of Detroit, with his men, boats and rich cargo, was captured easily, with not a shot fired, nor a drop of blood spilled in doing it.
If Alice could have known all this before it happened, she would probably have saved herself from the mortification of a rebuke administered very kindly, but not the less thoroughly, by Colonel Clark.
The rumor came to her–a brilliant creole rumor, duly inflated– that an overwhelming British force was descending the river, and that Beverley with a few men, not sufficient to base the expedition on a respectable forlorn hope, would be sent to meet them. Her nature, as was its wont, flared into high indignation. What right had Colonel Clark to send her lover away to be killed just at the time when he was all the whole world to her? Nothing could be more outrageous. She would not suffer it to be done; not she!
Colonel Clark greeted her pleasantly, when she came somewhat abruptly to him, where he was directing a squad of men at work making some repairs in the picketing of the fort. He did not observe her excitement until she began to speak, and then it was noticeable only, and not very strongly, in her tone. She forgot to speak English, and her French was Greek to him.
“I am glad to see you, Mademoiselle,” he said, rather inconsequently, lifting his hat and bowing with rough grace, while he extended his right hand cordially. “You have something to say to me? Come with me to my office.”
She barely touched his fingers.
“Yes, I have something to say to you. I can tell it here,” she said, speaking English now with softest Creole accent. “I wanted– I came to–” It was not so easy as she had imagined it would be to utter what she had in mind. Clark’s steadfast, inscrutable eyes, kindly yet not altogether sympathetic, met her own and beat them down. Her voice failed.
He offered her his arm and gravely said:
“We will go to my office. I see that you have some important communication to make. There are too many ears here.”
Of a sudden she felt like running home. Somehow the situation broke upon her with a most embarrassing effect. She did not take Clark’s arm, and she began to tremble. He appeared unconscious of this, and probably was, for his mind had a fine tangle of great schemes in it just then; but he turned toward his office, and bidding her follow him, walked away in that direction.
She was helpless. Not the slightest trace of her usual brilliant self-assertion was at her command. Saving the squad of men sawing and hacking, digging and hammering, the fort appeared as deserted as her mind. She stood gazing after Clark. He did not look back, but strode right on. If she would speak with him, she must follow. It was a surprise to her, for heretofore she had always had her own way, even if she found it necessary to use force. And where was Beverley? Where was the garrison? Colonel Clark did not seem to be at all concerned about the approach of the British–and yet those repairs–perhaps he was making ready for a desperate resistance! She did not move until he reached the door of his office where he stopped and stepped aside, as if to let her pass in first; he even lifted his hat, then looked a trifle surprised when he saw that she was not near him, frowned slightly, changed the frown to a smile and said, lifting his voice so that she felt a certain imperative meaning in it:
“Did I walk too fast for you? I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle.”
He stood waiting for her, as a father waits for a lagging, wilful child.
“Come, please,” he added, “if you have something to say to me; my time just now is precious–I have a great deal to do.”
She was not of a nature to retreat under fire, and yet the panic in her breast came very near mastering her will. Clark saw a look in her face which made him speak again:
“I assure you, Mademoiselle, that you need not feel embarrassed. You can rely upon me to–“
She made a gesture that interrupted him; at the same time she almost ran toward him, gathering in breath, as one does who is about to force out a desperately resisting and riotous thought. The strong, grave man looked at her with a full sense of her fascination, and at the same time he felt a vague wish to get away from her, as if she were about to cast unwelcome responsibility upon him.
“Where is Lieutenant Beverley?” she demanded, now close to Clark, face to face, and gazing straight into his eyes. “I want to see him.” Her tone suggested intensest excitement. She was trembling visibly.
Clark’s face changed its expression. He suddenly recalled to mind Alice’s rapturous public greeting of Beverley on the day of the surrender. He was a cavalier, and it did not agree with his sense of high propriety for girls to kiss their lovers out in the open air before a gazing army. True enough, he himself had been hoodwinked by Alice’s beauty and boldness in the matter of Long- Hair. He confessed this to himself mentally, which may have strengthened his present disapproval of her personal inquiry about Beverley. At all events he thought she ought not to be coming into the stockade on such an errand.
“Lieutenant Beverley is absent acting under my orders he said, with perfect respectfulness, yet in a tone suggesting military finality. He meant to set an indefinite yet effective rebuke in his words.
“Absent?” she echoed. “Gone? You sent him away to be killed! You had no right–you–“
“Miss Roussillon,” said Clark, becoming almost stern, “you had better go home and stay there; young girls oughtn’t to run around hunting men in places like this.”
His blunt severity of speech was accompanied by a slight frown and a gesture of impatience.
Alice’s face blazed red to the roots of her sunny hair; the color ebbed, giving place to a pallor like death. She began to tremble, and her lips quivered pitifully, but she braced herself and tried to force back the choking sensation in her throat.
“You must not misconstrue my words,” Clark quickly added; “I simply mean that men will not rightly understand you. They will form impressions very harmful to you. Even Lieutenant Beverley might not see you in the right light.”
“What–what do you mean?” she gasped, shrinking from him, a burning spot reappearing under the dimpled skin of each cheek.
“Pray, Miss, do not get excited. There is nothing to make you cry.” He saw tears shining in her eyes. “Beverley is not in the slightest danger. All will be well, and he’ll come back in a few days. The expedition will be but a pleasure trip. Now you go home. Lieutenant Beverley is amply able to take care of himself. And let me tell you, if you expect a good man to have great confidence in you, stay home and let him hunt you up instead of you hunting him. A man likes that better.”
It would be impossible to describe Alice’s feelings, as they just then rose like a whirling storm in her heart. She was humiliated, she was indignant, she was abashed; she wanted to break forth with a tempest of denial, self-vindication, resentment; she wanted to cry with her face hidden in her hands. What she did was to stand helplessly gazing at Clark, with two or three bright tears on either cheek, her hands clenched, her eyes flashing. She was going to say some wild thing; but she did not; her voice lodged fast in her throat. She moved her lips, unable to make a sound.
Two of Clark’s officers relieved the situation by coming up to get orders about some matter of town government, and Alice scarcely knew how she made her way home. Every vein in her body was humming like a bee when she entered the house and flung herself into a chair.
She heard Madame Roussillon and Father Beret chatting in the kitchen, whence came a fragrance of broiling buffalo steak besprinkled with garlic. It was Father Beret’s favorite dish, wherefore his tongue ran freely–almost as freely as that of his hostess, and when he heard Alice come in, he called gayly to her through the kitchen door:
“Come here, ma fille, and lend us old folks your appetite; nous avons une tranche a la Bordelaise!”
“I am not hungry,” she managed to say, “you can eat it without me.”
The old man’s quick ears caught the quaver of trouble in her voice, much as she tried to hide it. A moment later he was standing beside her with his hand on her head.
“What is the matter now, little one?” he tenderly demanded. “Tell your old Father.”
She began to cry, laying her face in her crossed arms, the tears gushing, her whole frame aquiver, and heaving great sobs. She seemed to shrink like a trodden flower. It touched Father Beret deeply.
He suspected that Beverley’s departure might be the cause of her trouble; but when presently she told him what had taken place in the fort, he shook his head gravely and frowned.
“Colonel Clark was right, my daughter,” he said after a short silence, “and it is time for you to ponder well upon the significance of his words. You can’t always be a wilful, headstrong little girl, running everywhere and doing just as you please. You have grown to be a woman in stature–you must be one in fact. You know I told you at first to be careful how you acted with–“
“Father, dear old Father!” she cried, springing from her seat and throwing her arms around his neck. “Have I appeared forward and unwomanly? Tell me, Father, tell me! I did not mean to do anything–“
“Quietly, my child, don’t give way to excitement.” He gently put her from him and crossed himself–a habit of his when suddenly perplexed–then added:
“You have done no evil; but there are proprieties which a young woman must not overstep. You are impulsive, too impulsive; and it will not do to let a young man see that you–that you–“
“Father, I understand,” she interrupted, and her face grew very pale.
Madame Roussillon came to the door, flushed with stooping over the fire, and announced that the steak was ready.
“Bring the wine, Alice,” she added, “a bottle of Bordeaux.”
She stood for a breath of two, her red hands on her hips, looking first at Father Beret, then at Alice.
“Quarreling again about the romances?” she inquired. “She’s been at it again?–she’s found ’em again?”
“Yes,” said Father Beret, with a queer, dry smile, “more romance. Yes, she’s been at it again! Now fetch the Bordeaux, little one.”
The following days were cycles of torture to Alice. She groveled in the shadow of a great dread. It seemed to her that Beverley could not love her, could not help looking upon her as a poor, wild, foolish girl, unworthy of consideration. She magnified her faults and crudities, she paraded before her inner vision her fecent improprieties, as they had been disclosed to her, until she saw herself a sort of monstrosity at which all mankind was gazing with disgust. Life seemed dry and shriveled, a mere jaundiced shadow, while her love for Beverley took on a new growth, luxuriant, all-embracing, uncontrollable. The ferment of spirit going on in her breast was the inevitable process of self- recognition which follows the terrible unfolding of the passion- flower, in a nature almost absolutely simple and unsophisticated.
Vincennes held its breath while waiting for news from Helm’s expedition. Every day had its nimble, yet wholly imaginary account of what had happened, skipping from mouth to mouth, and from cabin to cabin. The French folk ran hither and thither in the persistent rain, industriously improving the dramatic interest of each groundless report. Alice’s disturbed imagination reveled in the kaleidoscopic terrors conjured up by these swift changes of the form and color of the stories “from the front,” all of them more or less tragic. To-day the party is reported as having been surprised and massacred to a man–to-morrow there has been a great fight, many killed, the result in doubt–next day the British are defeated, and so on. The volatile spirit of the Creoles fairly surpassed itself in ringing the changes on stirring rumors.
Alice scarcely left the house during the whole period of excitement and suspense. Like a wounded bird, she withdrew herself from the light and noisy chatter of her friends, seeking only solitude and crepuscular nooks in which to suffer silently. Jean brought her every picturesque bit of the ghastly gossip, thus heaping coals on the fire of her torture. But she did not grow pale and thin. Not a dimple fled from cheek or chin, not a ray of saucy sweetness vanished from her eyes. Her riant health was unalterable. Indeed, the only change in her was a sudden ripening and mellowing of her beauty, by which its colors, its lines, its subtle undercurrents of expression were spiritualized, as if by some powerful clarifying process.
Tremendous is the effect of a soul surprised by passion and brought hard up against an opposing force which dashes it back upon itself with a flare and explosion of self-revealment. Nor shall we ever be able to foretell just how small a circumstance, just how slight an exigency, will suffice to bring on the great change. The shifting of a smile to the gloom of a frown, the snap of a string on the lute of our imagination, just at the point when a rich melody is culminating; the waving of a hand, a vanishing face–any eclipse of tender, joyous expectation–dashes a nameless sense of despair into the soul. And a young girl’s soul–who shall uncover its sacred depths of sensitiveness, or analyze its capacity for suffering under such a stroke?
On the fifth day of March, back came the victorious Helm, having surrounded and captured seven boats, richly loaded with provisions and goods, and Dejean’s whole force. Then again the little Creole town went wild with rejoicing. Alice heard the news and the noise; but somehow there was no response in her heart. She dreaded to meet Beverley; indeed, she did not expect him to come to her. Why should he?
M. Roussillon, who had volunteered to accompany Helm, arrived in a mood of unlimited proportions, so far as expressing self- admiration and abounding delight was concerned. You would have been sure that he had done the whole deed single-handed, and brought the flotilla and captives to town on his back. But Oncle Jazon for once held his tongue, being too disgusted for words at not having been permitted to fire a single shot. What was the use of going to fight and simply meeting and escorting down the river a lot of non-combatants?
There is something inscrutably delightful about a girl’s way of thinking one thing and doing another. Perversity, thy name is maidenhood; and maidenhood, thy name is delicious inconsequence! When Alice heard that Beverley had come back, safe, victorious, to be greeted as one of the heroes of an important adventure, she immediately ran to her room frightened and full of vague, shadowy dread, to hide from him, yet feeling sure that he would not come! Moreover, she busied herself with the preposterous task of putting on her most attractive gown–the buff brocade which she wore that evening at the river house–how long ago it seemed!–when Beverley thought her the queenliest beauty in the world. And she was putting it on so as to look her prettiest while hiding from him!
It is a toss-up where happiness will make its nest. The palace, the hut, the great lady’s garden, the wild lass’s bower,–skip here, alight there,–the secret of it may never be told. And love and beauty find lodgment, by the same inexplicable route, in the same extremes of circumstances. The wind bloweth where it listeth, finding many a matchless flower and many a ravishing fragrance in the wildest nooks of the world.
No sooner did Beverley land at the little wharf than, rushing to his quarters, he made a hasty exchange of water-soaked apparel for something more comfortable, and then bolted in the direction of Roussillon place.
Now Alice knew by the beating of her heart that he was coming. In spite of all she could do, trying to hold on hard and fast to her doubt and gloom, a tide of rich sweetness began to course through her heart and break in splendid expectation from her eyes, as they looked through the little unglazed window toward the fort. Nor had she long to wait. He came up the narrow wet street, striding like a tall actor in the height of a melodrama, his powerful figure erect as an Indian’s, and his face glowing with the joy of a genuine, impatient lover, who is proud of himself because of the image he bears in his heart.
When Alice flung wide the door (which was before Beverley could cross the veranda), she had quite forgotten how she had gowned and bedecked herself; and so, without a trace of self-consciousness, she flashed upon him a full-blown flower–to his eyes the loveliest that ever opened under heaven.
Gaspard Roussillon, still overflowing with the importance of his part in the capture of Dejean, came puffing homeward just in time to see a man at the door holding Alice a-tiptoe in his arms.
“Ziff!” he cried, as he pushed open the little front gate of the yard, “en voila assez, vogue la galere!”
The two forms disappeared within the house, as if moved by his roaring voice.
The letter to Beverley from his father was somewhat disturbing. It bore the tidings of his mother’s failing health. This made it easier for the young Lieutenant to accept from Clark the assignment to duty with a party detailed for the purpose of escorting Hamilton, Farnsworth and several other British officers to Williamsburg, Virginia. It also gave him a most powerful assistance in persuading Alice to marry him at once, so as to go with him on what proved to be a delightful wedding journey through the great wilderness to the Old Dominion. Spring’s verdure burst abroad on the sunny hills as they slowly went their way; the mating birds sang in every blooming brake and grove by which they passed, and in their joyous hearts they heard the bubbling of love’s eternal fountain.
CHAPTER XXIII
AND SO IT ENDED
Our story must end here, because at this point its current flows away forever from old Vincennes; and it was only of the post on the Wabash that we set out to make a record. What befell Alice and Beverley after they went to Virginia we could go on to tell; but that would be another story. Suffice it to say, they lived happily ever after, or at least somewhat beyond three score and ten, and left behind them a good name and numerous descendants.
How Alice found out her family in Virginia, we are not informed; but after a lapse of some years from the date of her marriage, there appears in one of her letters a reference to an estate inherited from her Tarleton ancestors, and her name appears in old records signed in full, Alice Tarleton Beverley. A descendant of hers still treasures the locket, with its broken miniature and battered crest, which won Beverley’s life from Long-Hair, the savage. Beside it, as carefully guarded, is the Indian charm-stone that stopped Hamilton’s bullet over Alice’s heart The rapiers have somehow disappeared, and there is a tradition in the Tarleton family that they were given by Alice to Gaspard Roussillon, who, after Madame Roussillon’s death in 1790, went to New Orleans, where he stayed a year or two before embarking for France, whither he took with him the beautiful pair of colechemardes and Jean the hunchback.
Oncle Jazon lived in Vincennes many years after the war was over; but he died at Natchez, Mississippi, when ninety-three years old. He said, with almost his last breath, that he couldn’t shoot very well, even in his best days; but that he had, upon various occasions, “jes’ kind o’ happened to hit a Injun in the lef’ eye.” They used to tell a story, as late as General Harrison’s stay in Vincennes, about how Oncle Jazon buried his collection of scalps, with great funeral solemnity, as his part of the celebration of peace and independence about the year 1784.
Good old Father Beret died suddenly soon after Alice’s marriage and departure for Virginia. He was found lying face downward on the floor of his cabin. Near him, on a smooth part of a puncheon, were the mildewed fragments of a letter, which he had been arranging, as if to read its contents. Doubtless it was the same letter brought to him by Rene de Ronville, as recorded in an early chapter of our story. The fragments were gathered up and buried with him. His dust lies under the present Church of St. Xavier,– the dust of as noble a man and as true a priest as ever sacrificed himself for the good of humanity.
In after years Simon Kenton visited Beverley and Alice in their Virginia home. To his dying day he was fond of describing their happy and hospitable welcome and the luxuries to which they introduced him. They lived in a stately white mansion on a hill overlooking a vast tobacco plantation, where hundreds of negro slaves worked and sang by day and frolicked by night. Their oldest child was named Fitzhugh Gaspard. Kenton died in 1836.
There remains but one little fact worth recording before we close the book. In the year 1800, on the fourth of July, a certain leading French family of Vincennes held a patriotic reunion, during which a little old flag was produced and its story told. Some one happily proposed that it be sent to Mrs. Alice Tarleton Beverley with a letter of explanation, and in profound recognition of the glorious circumstances which made it the true flag of the great Northwest,
And so it happened that Alice’s little banner went to Virginia and is still preserved in an old mansion not very far from Monticello; but it seems likely that the Wabash Valley will soon again possess the precious relic. The marriage engagement of Miss Alice Beverley to a young Indiana officer, distinguished for his patriotism and military ardor, has been announced at the old Beverley homestead on the hill, and the high contracting parties have planned that the wedding ceremony shall take place under the famous little flag, on the anniversary of dark’s capture of Post Vincennes. When the bride shall be brought to her new home on the banks of the Wabash, the flag will come with her; but Oncle Jazon will not be on hand with his falsetto shout: “VIVE LA BANNIERE D’ALICE ROUSSILLON! VIVE ZHORZZH VASINTON!”