Alice of Old Vincennes

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE DILEMMA OF CAPTAIN HELM

  Oncle Jazon, feeling like a fish returned to the water after a long andtorturing captivity in the open air, plunged into the forest withanticipations of lively adventure and made his way toward the Weaplains. It was his purpose to get a boat at the village of Ouiatenonand pull thence up the Wabash until he could find out what the Englishwere doing. He chose for his companions on this dangerous expeditiontwo expert coureurs de bois, Dutremble and Jacques Bailoup. Fifty milesup the river they fell in with some friendly Indians, well known tothem all, who were returning from the portage.

  The savages informed them that there were no signs of an Englishadvance in that quarter. Some of them had been as far as the St. Josephriver and to within a short distance of Detroit without seeing a whiteman or hearing of any suspicious movements on the part of Hamilton. Soback came Oncle Jazon with his pleasing report, much disappointed thathe 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 onthe shoulder. "I knew mighty well that it was all a big story withnothing in it. What on earth would the English be thinking about tomarch an army away off down here only to capture a rotten stockade anda lot of gabbling parly-voos?"

  Beverley, while he did not feel quite as confident as his chief, wasnot sorry that things looked a little brighter than he had feared theywould turn out to be. Secretly, and without acknowledging it tohimself, he was delighted with the life he was living. The Arcadianatmosphere of Vincennes clothed him in its mists and dreams. No matterwhat 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 tohold all of its sterner and fiercer traits in abeyance while hedomiciled himself absolutely within his narrow and monotonousenvironment. Since the dance at the river house a new content, like asoft 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 narrowstreets, with the mud-daubed cabins on either hand. This simple lifeunder low, thatched roofs had a charm. When a door was opened he couldsee a fire of logs on the ample hearth shooting its yellow tongues upthe sooty chimney-throat. Soft creole voices murmured and sang, orjangled their petty domestic discords. Women in scant petticoats,leggings and moccasins swept snow from the squat verandas, or fed thepigs in little sties behind the cabins. Everybody cried cheerily: "Bonjour, Monsieur, comment allez-vous?" as he went by, always accompanyingthe verbal salute with a graceful wave of the hand.

  When he walked early in the morning a waft of broiling game andbrowning corn scones was abroad. Pots and kettles occupied the hearthswith glowing coals heaped around and under. Shaggy dogs whined at thedoors until the mensal remnants were tossed out to them in the frontyard.

  But it was always a glimpse of Alice that must count for everything inBeverley's reckonings, albeit he would have strenuously denied it. Truehe went to Roussillon place almost every day, it being a fixed part ofhis well ordered habit, and had a talk with her. Sometimes, when DameRoussillon was very busy and so quite off her guard, they read togetherin a novel, or in certain parts of the odd volume of Montaigne. Thiswas done more for the sweetness of disobedience than to enjoy thealready familiar pages.

  Now and again they repeated their fencing bout; but never with theresult which followed the first. Beverley soon mastered Alice's tricksand showed her that, after all, masculine muscle is not to bediscounted at its own game by even the most wonderful womanly strengthand suppleness. She struggled bravely to hold her vantage ground oncegained 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 hadshown 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; youhave so much longer arms; so much more weight and power. It all countsagainst me! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" She was rosy with theexhilarating exercise and the biting of the frosty breeze. Her beautygave 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 tomake him feel the touch of her foil. She did not know that her eyeswere getting through his guard, that her dimples were stabbing hisheart to its middle.

  "You have other advantages," he replied, "which far overbalance mygreater 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 shemade a quick little move like that of a restless bird.

  "You are beautiful and that makes my eyes and my hand uncertain," hewent on. "Were I fencing with a man there would be no glamour."

  He spoke in English, which he did not often do in conversation withher. It was a sign that he was somewhat wrought upon. She followed hisrapid words with difficulty; but she caught from them a new note offeeling. He saw a little pale flare shoot across her face and thoughtshe was angry.

  "You should not use your dimples to distract my vision," he quicklyadded, with a light laugh. "It would be no worse for me to throw my hatin your face!"

  His attempt at levity was obviously weak; she looked straight into hiseyes, with the steady gaze of a simple, earnest nature shocked by acurrent quite strange to it. She did not understand him, and she did.Her fine intuition gathered swiftly together a hundred shreds ofimpression received from him during their recent growing intimacy. Hewas a patrician, as she vaguely made him out, a man of wealth, whosefamily was great. He belonged among people of gentle birth and highattainments. She magnified him so that he was diffused in herimagination, as difficult to comprehend as a mist in the morningair--and as beautiful.

  "You make fun of me," she said, very deliberately, letting her eyesdroop; then she looked up again suddenly and continued, with a certainnaive expression of disappointment gathering in her face. "I have beentoo free with you. Father Beret told me not to forget my dignity whenin your company. He told me you might misunderstand me. I don't care; Ishall not fence with you again." She laughed, but there was no joyousfreedom in the sound.

  "Why, Alice--my dear Miss Roussillon, you do me a wrong; I beg athousand pardons if I've hurt you," he cried, stepping nearer to her,"and I can never forgive myself. You have somehow misunderstood me, Iknow you have!"

  On his part it was exaggerating a mere contact of mutual feelings intoa dangerous collision. He was as much self-deceived as was she, and hemade more noise about it.

  "It is you who have misunderstood me," she replied, smiling brightlynow, but with just a faint, pitiful touch of regret, or self-blamelingering in her voice. "Father Beret said you would. I did not believehim; but--"

  "And you shall not believe him," said Beverley. "I have notmisunderstood you. There has been nothing. You have treated me kindlyand with beautiful friendliness. You have not done or said a thing thatFather Beret or anybody else could criticise. And if I have said ordone 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 earnestmoment he rushed his words together as if they had been soldiers he wasleading 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 naturallynow, and retreating to a chair by the hearthside. "I want you to tellme all about yourself and your family, your home and everything."

  She seated herself with an air of conscious aplomb and motioned him totake a distant stool.

  There was a great heap of dry logs in the fireplace, with pointedflames shooting out of its crevices and leaping into the gloomy,cave-like throat of the flue. Outside a wind passed heavily across theroof and bellowed in the chimney-to
p.

  Beverley drew the stool near Alice, who, with a charred stick, used asa poker, was thrusting at the glowing crevices and sending showers ofsparks aloft.

  "Why, there wouldn't be much to tell," he said, glad to feel secureagain. "Our home is a big old mansion named Beverley Hall on a hillamong trees, and half surrounded with slave cabins. It overlooks theplantation in the valley where a little river goes wandering on itsway." He was speaking French and she followed him easily now, her eyesbeginning to fling out again their natural sunny beams of interest. "Iwas born there twenty-six years ago and haven't done much of anythingsince. You see before you, Mademoiselle, a very undistinguished youngman, who has signally failed to accomplish the dream of his boyhood,which was to be a great artist like Raphael or Angelo. Instead of beingfamous 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 sheknew nothing. She had never before heard of them. She leaned the pokeragainst the chimney jamb and turned her face toward him.

  "Mother, father, and one sister," he said, "no brothers. We were ahappy little group. But my sister married and lives in Baltimore. I amhere. Father and mother are alone in the old house. Sometimes I amterribly homesick." He was silent a moment, then added: "But you areselfish, you make me do all the telling. Now I want you to give me alittle of your story, Mademoiselle, beginning as I did, at the first."

  "But I can't," she replied with childlike frankness, "for I don't knowwhere I was born, nor my parents' names, nor who I am. You see howdifferent it is with me. I am called Alice Roussillon, but I supposethat my name is Alice Tarleton; it is not certain, however. There isvery little to help out the theory. Here is all the proof there is. Idon'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 thefine lines of her face. But in a moment he was interested.

  "Tarleton, Tarleton," he repeated. Then he turned the little disc ofgold over and saw the enameled drawing on the back,--a crest clearlyoutlined.

  He started. The crest was quite familiar.

  "Where did you get this?" he demanded in English, and with such bluntsuddenness 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 tohimself than addressing her. He looked from the miniature to the crestand back to the miniature again, then at Alice. "I tell you this isstrange," he repeated with emphasis. "It is exceedingly strange."

  Her cheeks flushed quickly under their soft brown and her eyes flashedwith 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 agreat deal."

  "Alice Tarleton; that is right; Alice is a name of the family. LadyAlice Tarleton was the mother of the first Sir Garnett Tarleton whocame over in the time of Yardley. It's a great family. One of theoldest and best in Virginia." He looked at her now with a gaze ofconcentrated interest, under which her eyes fell. "Why, this isromantic!" he exclaimed, "absolutely romantic. And you don't know howyou came by this locket? You don't know who was your father, yourmother?"

  "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 howhe 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 tookme, eight years ago. I had been having a hard life, and but for him Imust have died. I was a captive among the Indians. He took me and hascared for me and taught me. He has been very, very good to me. I lovehim dearly."

  "And don't you remember anything at all about when, where, how theIndians got you?"

  "No." She shook her head and seemed to be trying to recollectsomething. "No, I just can't remember; and yet there has always beensomething 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 whotaught me to pray like this: 'Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed beThy name.'"

  And Alice went on through the beautiful and perfect prayer, which sherepeated in English with infinite sweetness and solemnity, her eyesuplifted, her hands clasped before her. Beverley could have sworn thatshe was a shining saint, and that he saw an aureole.

  "I know," she continued, "that sometime, somewhere, to a very dearperson I promised that I never, never, never would pray any prayer butthat. And I remember almost nothing else about that other life, whichis 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 lookingat her without speaking. She, too, was pensive and silent, while thefire sputtered and sang, the great logs slowly melting, the flamestossing wisps of smoke into the chimney still booming to the wind.

  "I know, too, that I am not French," she presently resumed, "but Idon'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 dimmesthalf recollections of the old days are of a large, white house, and asoft-voiced black woman, who sang to me in that language the verysweetest songs in the world."

  It must be borne in mind that all this was told by Alice in her creoleFrench, half bookish, half patois, of which no translation can give anyfair impression.

  Beverley listened, as one who hears a clever reader intoning a strangeand captivating poem. He was charmed. His imagination welcomed thestory and furnished it with all that it lacked of picturesquecompleteness. In those days it was no uncommon thing for a white childto be found among the Indians with not a trace left by which to restoreit to its people. He had often heard of such a case. But here was Aliceright before him, the most beautiful girl that he had ever seen,telling him the strangest story of all. To his mind it was clear thatshe belonged to the Tarleton family of Virginia. Youth always concludesa matter at once. He knew some of the Tarletons; but it was a widelyscattered family, its members living in almost every colony in America.The crest he recognized at a glance by the dragon on the helmet withthree stars. It was not for a woman to bear; but doubtless it had beenenameled on the locket merely as a family mark, as was often done inAmerica.

  "The black woman was your nurse, your mammy," he said. "I know by thatand by your prayer in English, as well as by your locket, that you areof a good old family."

  Like most Southerners, he had strong faith in genealogy, and he held athis tongue's tip the names of all the old families. The Carters, theBlairs, the Fitzhughs, the Hansons, the Randolphs, the Lees, theLudwells, the Joneses, the Beverleys, the Tarletons--a whole catalogueof them stretched back in his memory. He knew the coat of armsdisplayed by each house. He could repeat their legends.

  "I wish you could tell me more," he went on. "Can't you recollectanything further about your early childhood, your firstimpressions--the house, the woman who taught you to pray, the old blackmammy? Any little thing might be of priceless value as evidence."

  Alice shrugged her shoulders after the creole fashion with something ofher habitual levity of manner, and laughed. His earnestness seemeddisproportioned to the subject, as she fancied he must view it,although to her it had always been something to dream over. It wasimpossible for her to realize, as he did, the importance of details insolving a problem like that involved in her past history. Nor could shefeel the pathos and almost tragic fascination with which her story hadtouched him.

  "There is absolutely nothing more to tell," she said. "All my life Ihave tried to remember more, but it's impossible; I can't get anyfurther back or ca
ll up another thing. There's no use trying. It's alllike a dream--probably it is one. I do have such dreams. In my sleep Ican lift myself into the air, just as easy, and fly back to the samebig white house that I seem to remember. When you told me about yourhome it was like something that I had often seen before. I shall bedreaming about it next!"

  Beverley cross-questioned her from every possible point of view; he wasfascinated with the mystery; but she gave him nothing out of which theleast further light could be drawn. A half-breed woman, it seemed, hadbeen her Indian foster-mother; a silent, grave, watchful guardian fromwhom not a hint of disclosure ever fell. She was, moreover, a Christianwoman, had received her conversion from an English-speaking Protestantmissionary. She prayed with Alice, thus keeping in the child's mind aperfect memory of the Lord's prayer.

  "Well," said Beverley at last, "you are more of a mystery to me, thelonger 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 thisinscrutable maiden whose life seemed to him at once so full of idyllichappiness and so enshrouded in tantalizing doubt. At the firstopportunity he frankly questioned M. Roussillon, with no helpfulresult. The big Frenchman told the same meager story. The woman wasdying 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 herancestry or previous life. That was all.

  A wise old man, when he finds himself in a blind alley, no soonertouches the terminal wall than he faces about and goes back the way hecame. Under like circumstances a young man must needs try to batter thewall down with his head. Beverley endeavored to break through the webof mystery by sheer force. It seemed to him that a vigorous attemptcould not fail to succeed; but, like the fly in the spider's lines, hebecame more hopelessly bound at every move he made. Moreover againsthis will he was realizing that he could no longer deceive himself aboutAlice. He loved her, and the love was mastering him body and soul. Sucha confession carries with it into an honest masculine heart a sense ofcontending responsibilities. In Beverley's case the clash wasprofoundly disturbing. And now he clutched the thought that Alice wasnot a mere child of the woods, but a daughter of an old family ofcavaliers!

  With coat buttoned close against the driving wind, he strode toward thefort in one of those melodramatic moods to which youth in all climesand times is subject. It was like a slap in the face when Captain Helmmet 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 themildest tone.

  "I mean, sir, that I've been hunting you for an hour and more, over thewhole of this damned town. The English and Indians are upon us, andthere's no time for fooling. Where are all the men?"

  Beverley comprehended the situation in a second. Helm's face wascongested with excitement. Some scouts had come in with the news thatGovernor Hamilton, at the head of five or six hundred soldiers andIndians, 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 excitedcaptain.

  "You might go to hell and see," Beverley suggested, and they bothlaughed in sheer masculine contempt of a predicament too grave foranything but grim mirth.

  What could they do? Even Oncle Jazon and Rene de Ronville were off withthe hunters. Helm sent for M. Roussillon in the desperate hope that hecould suggest something; but he lost his head and hustled off to hidehis money and valuables. Indeed the French people all felt that, so faras they were concerned, the chief thing was to save what they had. Theywell knew that it mattered little which of the two masters held overthem--they must shift for themselves. In their hearts they were true toFrance and America; but France and America could not now protect themagainst Hamilton; therefore it would be like suicide to magnifypatriotism or any other sentiment objectionable to the English. So theyacted upon M. Roussillon's advice and offered no resistance when thenew army approached.

  "My poor people are not disloyal to your flag and your cause," saidgood Father Beret next morning to Captain Helm, "but they arepowerless. Winter is upon us. What would you have us do? This ricketyfort is not available for defense; the men are nearly all far away onthe plains. Isn't it the part of prudence and common sense to make thebest of a desperate situation? Should we resist, the British and theirsavage allies would destroy the town and commit outrages too horribleto think about. In this case diplomacy promises much more than ahopeless fight against an overwhelming force."

  "I'll fight 'em," Helm ground out between his teeth, "if I have to doit single-handed and alone! I'll fight 'em till hell freezes over!"

  Father Beret smiled grimly, as if he, too, would enjoy a livelyskirmish on the ice of Tophet, and said:

  "I admire your courage, my son. Fighting is perfectly proper upon fairoccasion. But think of the poor women and children. These old eyes ofmine have seen some terrible things done by enraged savages. Men candie fighting; but their poor wives and daughters--ah, I have seen, Ihave seen!"

  Beverley felt a pang of terror shoot through his heart as FatherBeret's simple words made him think of Alice in connection with anIndian massacre.

  "Of course, of course it's horrible to think of," said Helm; "but myduty is clear, and that flag," he pointed to where la banniere d'AliceRoussillon was almost blowing away in the cold wind, "that flag shallnot come down save in full honor."

  His speech sounded preposterously boastful and hollow; but he wasmanfully in earnest; every word came from his brave heart.

  Father Beret's grim smile returned, lighting up his strongly markedface 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 afierce stare upon Father Beret. "Don't stand there objecting toeverything, with not a suggestion of your own to offer."

  "I know what is best for my people," the old man replied softly, stillsmiling, "I have advised them to stay inside their houses and take nopart in the military event. It is the only hope of averting anindiscriminate massacre, and things worse."

  The curt phrase, "things worse," went like a bullet-stroke throughBeverley's heart. It flashed an awful picture upon his vision. FatherBeret saw his face whiten and his lips set themselves to resist a greatemotion.

  "Do not be angry with me, my son," he said, laying a hand on the youngman's arm. "I may be wrong, but I act upon long and convincingexperience."

  "Experience or no experience," Helm exclaimed with an oath, "this fortmust be manned and defended. I am commanding here!"

  "Yes, I recognize your authority," responded the priest in a firm yetdeferential tone, "and I heartily wish you had a garrison; but where isyour command, Captain Helm?" Then it was that the doughty Captain letloose the accumulated profanity with which he had been for some timewell-nigh bursting. He tiptoed in order to curse with extremestviolence. His gestures were threatening. He shook his fists at FatherBeret, without really meaning offence.

  "Where is my garrison, you ask! Yes, and I can tell you. It's where youmight expect a gang of dad blasted jabbering French good-for-nothingsto be, off high-gannicking around shooting buffaloes instead of stayinghere and defending their wives, children, homes and country, damn theireverlasting souls! The few I have in the fort will sneak off, Isuppose."

  "The French gave you this post on easy terms, Captain," blandlyretorted Father Beret.

  "Yes, and they'll hand it over to Hamilton, you think, on the samebasis," 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 flagyonder. They have sworn it. Time will
prove it. But in the presentdesperate dilemma we must choose the safer horn."

  Saying this Father Beret turned about and went his way. He waschuckling heartily as he passed out of the gate.

  "He is right," said Beverley after a few moments of reflection, duringwhich he was wholly occupied with Alice, whose terrified face in hisanticipation appealed to him from the midst of howling savages, smokingcabins and mangled victims of lust and massacre. His imaginationpainted the scene with a merciless realism that chilled his blood. Allthe sweet romance fell away from Vincennes.

  "Well, sir, right or wrong, your, duty is to obey orders," said Helmwith brutal severity.

  "We had better not quarrel, Captain," Beverley replied. "I have notsignified any unwillingness to obey your commands. Give them, and youwill have no cause to grumble."

  "Forgive me, old fellow," cried the impulsive commander. "I know youare true as steel. I s'pose I'm wound up too tight to be polite. Butthe time is come to do something. Here we are with but five or sixmen--"

  He was interrupted by the arrival of two more half-breed scouts.

  Only three miles away was a large flotilla of boats and canoes withcannon, a force of Indians on land and the British flag flying,--thatwas the report.

  "They are moving rapidly," said the spokesman, "and will be here verysoon. They are at least six hundred strong, all well armed."

  "Push that gun to the gate, and load it to the muzzle, LieutenantBeverley," Helm ordered with admirable firmness, the purple flush inhis face giving way to a grayish pallor. "We are going to die righthere, or have the honors of war."

  Beverley obeyed without a word. He even loaded two guns instead ofone--charging each so heavily that the last wad looked as if ready toleap from the grimy mouth.

  Helm had already begun, on receiving the first report, a hasty letterto Colonel Clark at Kaskaskia. He now added a few words and at the lastmoment sent it out by a trusted man, who was promptly captured byHamilton's advance guard. The missive, evidently written ininstallments during the slow approach of the British, is still in theCanadian archives, and runs thus:

  "Dear Sir--At this time there is an army within three miles of thisplace; I heard of their coming several days beforehand. I sent spies tofind the certainty--the spies being taken prisoner I never gotintelligence till they got within three miles of town. As I had calledthe militia and had all assurances of their integrity I ordered at thefiring of a cannon every man to appear, but I saw but few. CaptainBuseron behaved much to his honor and credit, but I doubt the conductof a certain gent. Excuse haste, as the army is in sight. Mydetermination is to defend the garrison, (sic) though I have buttwenty-one men but what has left me. I refer you to Mr. Wmes (sic) forthe rest. The army is within three hundred yards of the village. Youmust think how I feel; not four men that I really depend upon; but amdetermined to act brave--think of my condition. I know it is out of mypower 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 asmall 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 nervousstrain, Helm turned to his lieutenant and said:

  "Fire a swivel with a blank charge. We'll give these weak-kneedparly-voos one more call to duty. Of course not a frog-eater of themall will come. But I said that a gun should be the signal. Possiblythey 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 outthe few who up to that moment had remained as a garrison; so thatCaptain Helm and his Lieutenant found themselves quite alone in thefort, while out before the gate, deployed in fine open order, a strongline of British soldiers approached with sturdy steps, led by a tall,erect, ruddy-faced young officer.