"These greenhorns are not nice to play with," he said. "They're like some guns—loaded when you don't expect it. We 've had enough skylarking."
And when the sick man came out of hospital he went to the guard-house.
After we had shown our mettle the general always had a good word for D'ri and me, and he put us to the front in every difficult enterprise.
We had been four months in Ogdensburg, waiting vainly for some provocation to fight. Our own drilling was the only sign of war we could see on either side of the river. At first many moved out of the village, but the mill was kept running, and after a little they began to come back. The farms on each side of the river looked as peaceful as they had ever looked. The command had grown rapidly. Thurst Miles of my own neighborhood had come to enlist shortly after D'ri and I enlisted, and was now in my company.
In September, General Brown was ordered to the Western frontier, and Captain Forsyth came to command us. Early in the morning of October 2, a man came galloping up the shore with a warning, saying that the river was black with boats a little way down. Some of us climbed to the barracks roof, from which we could see and count them. There were forty, with two gunboats. Cannonading began before the town was fairly awake. First a big ball went over the house-tops, hitting a cupola on a church roof and sending bell and timbers with a crash into somebody's dooryard. Then all over the village hens began to cackle and children to wail. People came running out of doors half dressed. A woman, gathering chips in her dooryard, dropped them, lifted her dress above her head, and ran for the house. Unable to see her way, she went around in a wide circle for a minute or two, while the soldiers were laughing. Another ball hit a big water-tank on top of the lead-works. It hurled broken staves and a big slop of water upon the housetops, and rolled a great iron hoop over roofs into the street below, where it rolled on, chasing a group of men, who ran for their lives before it. The attack was an odd sort of comedy all through, for nobody was hurt, and all were frightened save those of us who were amused. Our cannon gave quick reply, and soon the British stopped firing and drew near. We knew that they would try to force a landing, and were ready for them. We drove them back, when they put off, and that was the end of it.
Next came the fight on the ice in February—a thing not highly creditable to us, albeit we were then but a handful and they were many. But D'ri and I had no cause for shame of our part in it. We wallowed to our waists in the snow, and it was red enough in front of us. But the others gave way there on the edge of the river, and we had to follow. We knew when it was time to run; we were never in the rear rank even then. We made off with the others, although a sabre's point had raked me in the temple, and the blood had frozen on me, and I was a sight to scare a trooper. Everybody ran that day, and the British took the village, holding it only twenty-four hours. For our part in it D'ri got the rank of corporal and I was raised from lieutenant to captain. We made our way to Sackett's Harbor, where I went into hospital for a month.
Then came a galling time of idleness. In June we went with General Brown—D'ri and I and Thurst Miles and Seth Alexander and half a dozen others—down the river to the scene of our first fighting at Ogdensburg, camping well back in the woods. It was the evening of the 27th of June that the general sent for me. He was at the mansion of Mr. Parish, where he had been dining. He was sitting in his dress-suit. His dark side-whiskers and hair were brushed carefully forward. His handsome face turned toward me with a kindly look.
"Bell," said he, "I wish to send you on very important business. You have all the qualities of a good scout. You know the woods. You have courage and skill and tact. I wish you to start immediately, go along the river to Morristown, then cut over into the Black River country and deliver this letter to the Comte de Chaumont, at the Chateau Le Ray, in Leraysville. If you see any signs of the enemy, send a report to me at once. I shall be here three days. Take Alexander, Olin, and Miles with you; they are all good men. When your letter is delivered, report at the Harbor as soon as possible."
I was on the road with my party in half an hour. We were all good horsemen. D'ri knew the shortest way out of the woods in any part of the north country. Thurst had travelled the forest from Albany to Sackett's Harbor, and was the best hunter that ever trod a trail in my time. The night was dark, but we rode at a gallop until we had left the town far behind us. We were at Morristown before midnight, pounding on the door of the Red Tavern. The landlord stuck his head out of an upper window, peering down at us by the light of a candle.
"Everything quiet?" I asked.
"Everything quiet," said he. "Crossed the river yesterday. Folks go back 'n' forth 'bout the same as ever. Wife's in Elizabethtown now, visiting."
We asked about the west roads and went on our way. Long before daylight we were climbing the steep road at Rossie to the inn of the Travellers' Rest—a tavern famous in its time, that stood half up the hill, with a store, a smithy, and a few houses grouped about it, We came up at a silent walk on a road cushioned with sawdust. D'ri rapped on the door until I thought he had roused the whole village. At last a man came to the upper window. He, too, inspected us with a candle. Then he opened the door and gave us a hearty welcome. We put up our horses for a bite, and came into the bar.
"Anything new?" I inquired.
"They say the British are camped this side of the river, north of us," said he, "with a big tribe of Injuns. Some of their cavalry came within three miles of us to-day. Everybody scairt t' death."
He began to set out a row of glasses.
"What 'll ye hev?" he inquired.
"Guess I 'll tip a little blue ruin int' me," said D'ri, with a shiver; "'s a col' night."
Seth and I called for the same.
"An' you?" said the landlord, turning to Thurst.
"Wal," said the latter, as he stroked his thin beard, "when I tuk the pledge I swore et I hoped t' drop dead 'fore I see myself tek another drink. I 'm jest goin' t' shet my eyes 'n' hold out my glass. I don' care what ye gi' me s' long es it's somethin' powerful."
We ate crackers and cheese while the landlord was telling of the west roads and the probable location of the British. He stopped suddenly, peered over my shoulder, and blew out the candle. We could hear a horse neighing in the yard.
"Some one et the window," he whispered. Then he ran to the door and drew the bolt. "Ain' much idee who 't is," he added, peering out of the window. "By gosh! more 'n a dozen folks out here, soldiers tew, most uv 'em on horseback. Come quick."
We followed him upstairs, in the dark, as they began to pound the door. From the yard a light flashed up. They were evidently building a fire so that they would have better shooting if we came out.
"May set the house afire," said the landlord.
He quickly unwound a big hose that ran up to a tank in the peak above us.
"Plenty o' water?" D'ri whispered.
"Rivers uv it," said the landlord. "Tank's connected with the reservoir o' the lead-works on the hill up there. Big wooden pipe comes in the gable-end."
"Turn 'er on," said D'ri, quickly, "an' let me hev thet air hose."
The landlord ran up a ladder. D'ri stuck the hose out of the window. The stream shot away with a loud hiss. I stood by and saw the jet of water leap forth as big as a pikestaff. A man went off his horse, sprawling as if he had been hit with a club. The jet leaped quickly from one to another, roaring on man and beast. There was a mighty scurry. Horses went headlong down the hill, some dragging their riders. In the silence of the night, bedlam had broken loose. The shouting men, the plunging horses, the stream of water roaring on rock and road, woke the village. Men came running from behind the house to see what had happened, then rushed after their horses. Some fell cursing as the water hit them. The landlord put his mouth to my ear.
"Mek fer yer hosses," he hissed.
We were below-stairs and out of the door in a jiffy. Two men fled before us at the stable, scrambled over the fence, and went tumbling downhill. We bridled our horses with all speed, leaped upon them, and went rushing down the steep road, our swords in hand, like an avalanche. They tried to stop us at the foot of the hill, but fell away as we came near. I could hear the snap of their triggers in passing. Only one pistol-shot came after us, and that went high.
"Guess their ammunition 's a leetle wet," said D'ri, with a shout that turned into laughter as we left the British behind us.
A party of four or five mounted and gave chase; but our powder was a bit drier than theirs, and for a time we raked the road with our bullets. What befell them I know not, I only know that they held up and fell out of hearing.
Crossing a small river at daylight, we took the bed of it, making our way slowly for half a mile or so into the woods. There we built a fire, and gave the horses half the feed in our saddle-bags, and ate our mess on a flat rock.
"Never hed no sech joemightyful time es thet afore," said D'ri, as he sat down, laughing, and shook his head. "Jerushy Jane! Did n't we come down thet air hill! Luk slidin' on a greased pole."
"Comin' so luk the devil they did n't dast git 'n er way," saidThurst.
"We wus all rippin' th' air 'ith them air joemightyful big sabres, tew," D'ri went on. "Hed a purty middlin' sharp edge on us. Stuck out luk a haystack right 'n' left."
He began bringing wood as he sang the chorus of his favorite ballad:—
Li toorul I oorul I oorul I ay, etc.
Thurst knew a trail that crossed the river near by and met the Caraway Pike a few miles beyond. Having eaten, I wrote a despatch to be taken back by Thurst as soon as we reached the pike. Past ten o'clock we turned into a rough road, where the three of us went one way and Thurst another.
I rode slowly, for the horses were nearly fagged. I gave them an hour's rest when we put up for dinner. Then we pushed on, coming in sight of the Chateau Le Ray at sundown. A splendid place it was, the castle of gray stone fronting a fair stretch of wooded lawn, cut by a brook that went splashing over rocks near by, and sent its velvet voice through wood and field. A road of fine gravel led through groves of beech and oak and pine to a grassy terrace under the castle walls. A servant in livery came to meet us at the door, and went to call his master. Presently a tall, handsome man, with black eyes and iron-gray hair and mustache, came down a path, clapping his hands.
"Welcome, gentlemen! It is the Captain Bell?" said he, with a marked accent, as he came to me, his hand extended. "You come from Monsieur the General Brown, do you not?"
"I do," said I, handing him my message.
He broke the seal and read it carefully.
"I am glad to see you—ver' glad to see you!" said he, laying his hands upon my shoulders and giving me a little shake.
Two servants went away with D'ri and Seth and the horses.
"Come, captain," said my host, as he led the way. "You are in good time for dinner."
We entered a great triangular hall, lighted by wide windows above the door, and candelabra of shining brass that hung from its high ceiling. There were sliding doors of polished wood on each side of it. A great stairway filled the point of the triangle. I was shown to my room, which was as big as a ball-room, it seemed to me, and grandly furnished; no castle of my dreams had been quite so fine. The valet of the count looked after me, with offers of new linen and more things than I could see use for. He could not speak English, I remember, and I addressed him in the good French my mother had taught me.
The kind of life I saw in this grand home was not wholly new to me, for both my mother and father had known good living in their youth, and I had heard much of it. I should have been glad of a new uniform; but after I had had my bath and put on the new shirt and collar the valet had brought me, I stood before the long pier-glass and saw no poor figure of a man.
The great dining-hall of the count was lighted with many candles when we came in to dinner. It had a big fireplace, where logs were blazing, for the night had turned cool, and a long table with a big epergne of wrought silver, filled with roses, in its centre. A great silken rug lay under the table, on a polished floor, and the walls were hung with tapestry. I sat beside the count, and opposite me was the daughter of the Sieur Louis Francois de Saint-Michel, king's forester under Louis XVI. Therese, the handsome daughter of the count, sat facing him at the farther end of the table, and beside her was the young Marquis de Gonvello. M. Pidgeon, the celebrated French astronomer, Moss Kent, brother of the since famous chancellor, the Sieur Michel, and the Baroness de Ferre, with her two wards, the Misses Louise and Louison de Lambert, were also at dinner. These young ladies were the most remarkable of the company; their beauty was so brilliant, so fascinating, it kindled a great fire in me the moment I saw it. They said little, but seemed to have much interest in all the talk of the table. I looked at them more than was polite, I am sure, but they looked at me quite as often. They had big, beautiful brown eyes, and dark hair fastened high with jewelled pins, and profiles like those of the fair ladies of Sir Peter Lely, so finely were they cut. One had a form a bit fuller and stronger than the other's, but they were both as tall and trim as a young beech, with lips cherry-red and cheeks where one could see faintly the glow of their young blood. Their gowns were cut low, showing the graceful lines of neck and shoulder and full bosom. I had seen pretty girls, many of them, but few high-bred, beautiful young women. The moment I saw these two some new and mighty force came into me. There were wine and wit a-plenty at the count's table, and other things that were also new to me, and for which I retained perhaps too great a fondness.
The count asked me to tell of our journey, and I told the story with all the spirit I could put into my words. I am happy to say it did seem to hit the mark, for I was no sooner done with our adventure than the ladies began to clap their hands, and the Misses de Lambert had much delight in their faces when the baroness retold my story in French.
Dinner over, the count invited me to the smoking-room, where, in a corner by ourselves, I had some talk with him. He told me of his father—that he had been a friend of Franklin, that he had given a ship and a cargo of gunpowder to our navy in '76. Like others I had met under his roof, the count had seen the coming of the Reign of Terror in France, and had fled with his great fortune. He had invested much of it there in the wild country. He loved America, and had given freely to equip the army for war. He was, therefore, a man of much influence in the campaign of the North, and no doubt those in authority there were instructed, while the war was on, to take special care of his property.
"And will you please tell me," I said at length, "who are theMisses de Lambert?"
"Daughters of a friend in Paris," said the count. "He is a great physician. He wishes not for them to marry until they are twenty-one. Mon Dieu! it was a matter of some difficulty. They were beautiful."
"Very beautiful!" I echoed.
"They were admired," he went on. "The young men they began to make trouble. My friend he send them here, with the baroness, to study—to finish their education. It is healthy, it is quiet, and—well, there are no young gentlemen. They go to bed early; they are up at daylight; they have the horse; they have boats; they amuse themselves ver' much. But they are impatient; they long for Paris—the salon, the theatre, the opera. They are like prisoners: they cannot make themselves to be contented. The baroness she has her villa on a lake back in the woods, and, mon ame! it is beautiful there—so still, so cool, so delightful! At present they have a great fear of the British. They lie awake; they listen; they expect to be carried off; they hear a sound in the night, and, mon Dieu! it is the soldiers coming."
The count laughed, lifting his shoulders with a gesture of both hands. Then he puffed thoughtfully at his cigarette.
"Indeed," he went on presently, "I think the invasion is not far away. They tell me the woods in the north are alive with British cavalry. I am not able to tell how many, but, Dieu! it is enough. The army should inform itself immediately. I think it is better that you penetrate to the river to-morrow, if you are not afraid, to see what is between, and to return by the woods. I shall trouble you to take a letter to the General Brown. It will be ready at any hour."
"At six?" I inquired.
"At six, certainly, if you desire to start then," he replied.
He rose and took my arm affectionately and conducted me to the big drawing-room. Two of the ladies were singing as one played the guitar. I looked in vain for the Misses de Lambert. The others were all there, but they had gone. I felt a singular depression at their absence and went to my room shortly to get my rest, for I had to be off early in the morning. Before going to bed, however, I sat down to think and do some writing. But I could not for the life of me put away the thought of the young ladies. They looked alike, and yet I felt sure they were very different. Somehow I could not recall in what particular they differed. I sat a time thinking over it. Suddenly I heard low voices, those of women speaking in French; I could not tell from where they came.
"I do wish she would die, the hateful thing!" said one. (It must be understood these words are more violent in English than they seem in French.)
"The colonel is severe to-night," said another.
"The colonel—a fine baroness indeed—vieille tyran! I cannot love her. Lord! I once tried to love a monkey and had better luck. The colonel keeps all the men to herself. Whom have I seen for a year? Dieu! women, grandpapas, greasy guides! Not a young man since we left Paris."
"My dear Louison!" said the other, "there are many things better than men."
"Au nom de Dieu! But I should like to know what they are. I have never seen them."
"But often men are false and evil," said the other, in a sweet, low voice.
"Nonsense!" said the first, impatiently. "I had rather elope with a one-legged hostler than always live in these woods."
"Louison! You ought to cross yourself and repeat a Hail Mary."
"Thanks! I have tried prayer. It is n't what I need. I am no nun like you. My dear sister, don't you ever long for the love of a man—a big, handsome, hearty fellow who could take you up in his arms and squeeze the life out of you?"
"Eh bien," said the other, with a sigh, "I suppose it is very nice.I do not dare to think of it."
"Nice! It is heaven, Louise! And to see a man like that and not be permitted to—to speak to him! Think of it! A young and handsome man—the first I have seen for a year! Honestly I could poison the colonel."
"My dear, it is the count as much as the colonel. She is under his orders, and he has an eagle eye."
"The old monkey! He enrages me! I could rend him limb from limb!"
I could not help hearing what they said, but I did not think it quite fair to share their confidence any further, so I went to one of the windows and closed a shutter noisily. The voices must have come from a little balcony just under my room.
"My dear sister, you are very terrible," said one of them, and then the shutter came to, and I heard no more.
A full moon lighted the darkness. A little lake gleamed like silver between the tree-tops. Worn out with hard travel, I fell into bed shortly, and lay a long time thinking of those young ladies, of the past, of to-morrow and its perils, and of the farther future. A new life had begun for me.
The sun was lifting above the tree-tops when the count's valet called me that morning at the Chateau Le Ray. Robins were calling under my windows, and the groves rang with tournaments of happy song. Of that dinner-party only the count was at breakfast with me. We ate hurriedly, and when we had risen the horses were at the door. As to my own, a tall chestnut thoroughbred that Mr. Parish had brought over from England, I never saw him in finer fettle. I started Seth by Caraway Pike for Ogdensburg with the count's message.
Mine host laid hold of my elbow and gave it a good shake as I left him, with D'ri, taking a trail that led north by west in the deep woods. They had stuffed our saddle-bags with a plenty for man and horse.
I could not be done thinking of the young ladies. It put my heart in a flutter when I looked back at the castle from the wood's edge and saw one of them waving her handkerchief in a window. I lifted my hat, and put my spurs to the flank with such a pang in me I dared not look again. Save for that one thing, I never felt better. The trail was smooth, and we galloped along in silence for a mile or so. Then it narrowed to a stony path, where one had enough to do with slow going to take care of his head, there were so many boughs in the way.
"Jerushy Jane!" exclaimed D'ri, as he slowed down. "Thet air's a gran' place. Never hed my karkiss in no sech bed as they gin me las' night—softer 'n wind, an' hed springs on like them new wagins ye see over 'n Vermont. Jerushy! Dreamed I was flyin'."
I had been thinking of what to do if we met the enemy and were hard pressed. We discussed it freely, and made up our minds that if there came any great peril of capture we would separate, each to take his own way out of the difficulty.
We halted by a small brook at midday, feeding the horses and ourselves out of the saddle-bags.
"Ain't jest eggzac'ly used t' this kind uv a sickle," said D'ri, as he felt the edge of his sabre, "but I 'll be dummed ef it don't seem es ef I 'd orter be ruther dang'rous with thet air 'n my hand."
He knew a little about rough fighting with a sabre. He had seen my father and me go at each other hammer and tongs there in our door-yard every day of good weather. Stormy days he had always stood by in the kitchen, roaring with laughter, as the good steel rang and the house trembled. He had been slow to come to it, but had had his try with us, and had learned to take an attack without flinching. I went at him hard for a final lesson that day in the woods—a great folly, I was soon to know. We got warm and made more noise than I had any thought of. My horse took alarm and pulled away, running into a thicket. I turned to catch him.
"Judas Priest!" said D'ri.
There, within ten feet of us, I saw what made me, ever after, a more prudent man. It was an English officer leaning on his sword, a tall and handsome fellow of some forty years, in shiny top-hoots and scarlet blouse and gauntlets of brown kid.
"You are quite clever," said he, touching his gray mustache.
I made no answer, but stood pulling myself together.
"You will learn," he added, smiling, with a tone of encouragement."Let me show you a trick."
He was most polite in his manner, like a play-hero, and came toward me as he spoke. Then I saw four other Britishers coming out to close in upon us from behind trees.
He came at me quickly, and I met him. He seemed to think it would be no trick to unhand my weapon. Like a flash, with a whip of his sabre, he tried to wrench it away. D'ri had begun to shoot, dodging between trees, and a redcoat had tumbled over. I bore in upon my man, but he came back at me with surprising vigor. On my word, he was the quickest swordsman I ever had the honor of facing.
But he had a mean way of saying "Ha!" as he turned my point. He soon angered me, whereupon I lost a bit of caution, with some blood, for he was at me like a flash, and grazed me on the hip before I could get my head again. It was no parlor play, I can tell you. We were fighting for life, and both knew it. We fought up and down through brakes and bushes and over stones—a perilous footing. I could feel his hand weakening. I put all my speed to the steel then, knowing well that, barring accident, I should win. I could hear somebody coming up behind me.
"Keep away there," my adversary shouted, with a fairness I admire when I think of it. "I can handle him. Get the other fellow."
I went at him to make an end of it.
"I'll make you squint, you young cub," he hissed, lunging at me.
He ripped my blouse at the shoulder, and, gods of war! we made the sparks fly. Then he went down, wriggling; I had caught him in the side, poor fellow! Like a flash I was off in a thicket. One of the enemy got out of my way and sent a bullet after me. I could feel it rip and sting in the muscle as it rubbed my ribs. I kept foot and made for my horse. He had caught his reins, and I was on him and off in the bush, between bullets that came ripping the leaves about me, before they could give chase.
Drums were beating the call to arms somewhere. I struck the trail in a minute, and, leaning low in the saddle, went bounding over logs and rocks and down a steep hillside as if the devil were after me. I looked back, and was nearly raked off by a bough. I could hear horses coming in the trail behind with quick and heavy jumps. But I was up to rough riding and had little fear they would get a sight of me. However, crossing a long stretch of burnt timber, they must have seen me. I heard a crack of pistols far behind; a whiz of bullets over my head. I shook out the reins and let the horse go, urging with cluck and spur, never slacking for rock or hill or swale. It was a wilder ride than any I have known since or shall again, I can promise you, for, God knows, I have been hurt too often. Fast riding over a new trail is leaping in the dark and worse than treason to one's self. Add to it a saddle wet with your own blood, then you have something to give you a turn of the stomach thinking of it.
When I was near tumbling with a kind of rib-ache and could hear no pursuer, I pulled up. There was silence about me, save the sound of a light breeze in the tree-tops. I rolled off my horse, and hooked my elbow in the reins, and lay on my belly, grunting with pain. I felt better, having got my breath, and a rod of beech to bite upon—a good thing if one has been badly stung and has a journey to make. In five minutes I was up and off at a slow jog, for I knew I was near safety.
I thought much of poor D'ri and how he might be faring. The last I had seen of him, he was making good use of pistol and legs, running from tree to tree. He was a dead shot, little given to wasting lead. The drums were what worried me, for they indicated a big camp, and unless he got to the stirrups in short order, he must have been taken by overwhelming odds. It was near sundown when I came to a brook and falls I could not remember passing. I looked about me. Somewhere I had gone off the old trail—everything was new to me. It widened, as I rode on, up a steep hill. Where the tree-tops opened, the hill was covered with mossy turf, and there were fragrant ferns on each side of me. The ground was clear of brush and dead timber. Suddenly I heard a voice singing—a sweet girl voice that thrilled me, I do not know why, save that I always longed for the touch of a woman if badly hurt. But then I have felt that way having the pain of neither lead nor steel. The voice rang in the silent woods, but I could see no one nor any sign of human habitation. Shortly I came out upon a smooth roadway carpeted with sawdust. It led through a grove, and following it, I came suddenly upon a big green mansion among the trees, with Doric pillars and a great portico where hammocks hung with soft cushions in them, and easy-chairs of old mahogany stood empty. I have said as little as possible of my aching wound: I have always thought it bad enough for one to suffer his own pain. But I must say I was never so tried to keep my head above me as when I came to that door. Two figures in white came out to meet me. At first I did not observe—I had enough to do keeping my eyes open—that they were the Mlles. de Lambert.
"God save us!" I heard one of them say. "He is hurt; he is pale.See the blood running off his boot-leg."
Then, as one took the bit, the other eased me down from my saddle, calling loudly for help. She took her handkerchief—that had a perfume I have not yet forgotten—as she supported me, and wiped the sweat and dust from my face. Then I saw they were the splendid young ladies I had seen at the count's table. The discovery put new life in me; it was like a dash of water in the face. I lifted my hat and bowed to them.
"Ladies, my thanks to you," I said in as good French as I knew. "I have been shot. May I ask you to send for a doctor?"
A butler ran down the steps; a gardener and a stable-boy hurried out of the grove.
"To the big room—the Louis-Quinze," said one of the girls, excitedly, as the men came to my help.
The fat butler went puffing upstairs, and they followed, on each side of me.
"Go for a doctor, quick," said one of them to the gardener, who was coming behind—a Frenchman who prayed to a saint as he saw my blood.
They led me across a great green rug in a large hall above-stairs to a chamber of which I saw little then save its size and the wealth of its appointments. The young ladies set me down, bidding one to take off my boots, and sending another for hot water. They asked me where I was hurt. Then they took off my blouse and waistcoat.
"Mon Dieu!" said one to the other. "What can we do? Shall we cut the shirt?"
"Certainly. Cut the shirt," said the other. "We must help him.We cannot let him die."
"God forbid!" was the answer. "See the blood. Poor fellow! It is terrible!"
They spoke very tenderly as they cut my shirt with scissors, and bared my back, and washed my wound with warm water. I never felt a touch so caressing as that of their light fingers, but, gods of war! it did hurt me. The bathing done, they bound me big with bandages and left the room until the butler had helped me into bed. They came soon with spirits and bathed my face and hands. One leaned over me, whispering, and asking what I would like to eat. Directly a team of horses came prancing to the door.
"The colonel!" one of them whispered, listening.
"The colonel, upon my soul!" said the other, that sprightlyLouison, as she tiptoed to the window. They used to call her"Tiptoes" at the Hermitage.
The colonel! I remembered she was none other than the Baroness de Ferre; and thinking of her and of the grateful feeling of the sheets of soft linen, I fell asleep.
The doctor came that night, and took out of my back a piece of flattened lead. It had gone under the flesh, quite half round my body, next to the ribs, without doing worse than to rake the bone here and there and weaken me with a loss of blood. I woke awhile before he came. The baroness and the fat butler were sitting beside me. She was a big, stout woman of some forty years, with dark hair and gray eyes, and teeth of remarkable whiteness and symmetry. That evening, I remember, she was in full dress.
"My poor boy!" said she, in English and in a sympathetic tone, as she bent over me.
Indeed, my own mother could not have been kinder than that good woman. She was one that had a heart and a hand for the sick-room. I told her how I had been hurt and of my ride. She heard me through with a glow in her eyes.
"What a story!" said she. "What a daredevil! I do not see how it has been possible for you to live."
She spoke to me always in English of quaint wording and quainter accent. She seemed not to know that I could speak French.
An impressive French tutor—a fine old fellow, obsequious and bald-headed—sat by me all night to give me medicine. In the morning I felt as if I had a new heart in me, and was planning to mount my horse. I thought I ought to go on about my business, but I fear I thought more of the young ladies and the possibility of my seeing them again. The baroness came in after I had a bite to eat. I told her I felt able to ride,
"You are not able, my child. You cannot ride the horse now," said she, feeling my brow; "maybe not for a ver' long time. I have a large house, plenty servant, plenty food. Parbleu! be content. We shall take good care of you. If there is one message to go to your chief, you know I shall send it."
I wrote a brief report of my adventure with the British, locating the scene as carefully as might be, and she sent it by mounted messenger to "the Burg."
"The young ladies they wish to see you," said the baroness. "They are kind-hearted; they would like to do what they can. But I tell them no; they will make you to be very tired."
"On the contrary, it will rest me. Let them come," I said.
"But I warn you," said she, lifting her finger as she left the room, "do not fall in love. They are full of mischief. They do not study. They do not care. You know they make much fun all day."
The young ladies came in presently. They wore gray gowns admirably fitted to their fine figures. They brought big bouquets and set them, with a handsome courtesy, on the table beside me. They took chairs and sat solemn-faced, without a word, as if it were a Quaker meeting they had come to. I never saw better models of sympathetic propriety. I was about to speak. One of them shook her head, a finger on her lips.
"Do not say one word," she said solemnly in English. "It will make you ver' sick."
It was the first effort of either of them to address me in English. As I soon knew, the warning had exhausted her vocabulary. The baroness went below in a moment. Then the one who had spoken came over and sat near me, smiling.
"She does not know you can speak French," said she, whispering and addressing me in her native tongue, as the other tiptoed to the door. "On your life, do not let her know. She will never permit us to see you. She will keep us under lock and key. She knows we cannot speak English, so she thinks we cannot talk with you. It is a great lark. Are you better?"
What was I to do under orders from such authority? As they bade me, I hope you will say, for that is what I did. I had no easy conscience about it, I must own. Day after day I took my part in the little comedy. They came in Quaker-faced if the baroness were at hand, never speaking, except to her, until she had gone. Then—well, such animation, such wit, such bright eyes, such brilliancy, I have never seen or heard.
My wound was healing. War and stern duty were as things of the far past. The grand passion had hold of me. I tried to fight it down, to shake it off, but somehow it had the claws of a tiger. There was an odd thing about it all: I could not for the life of me tell which of the two charming girls I loved the better. It may seem incredible; I could not understand it myself. They looked alike, and yet they were quite different. Louison was a year older and of stouter build. She had more animation also, and always a quicker and perhaps a brighter answer. The other had a face more serious, albeit no less beautiful, and a slower tongue. She had little to say, but her silence had much in it to admire, and, indeed, to remember. They appealed to different men in me with equal force, I did not then know why. A perplexing problem it was, and I had to think and suffer much before I saw the end of it, and really came to know what love is and what it is not.
[Illustration: "I could not for the life of me tell which of the two charming girls I loved the better."]
Shortly I was near the end of this delightful season of illness. I had been out of bed a week. The baroness had read to me every day, and had been so kind that I felt a great shame for my part in our deception. Every afternoon she was off in a boat or in her caleche, and had promised to take me with her as soon as I was able to go.
"You know," said she, "I am going to make you to stay here a full month. I have the consent of the general."
I had begun to move about a little and enjoy the splendor of that forest home. There were, indeed, many rare and priceless things in it that came out of her chateau in France. She had some curious old clocks, tokens of ancestral taste and friendship. There was one her grandfather had got from the land of Louis XIV.—Le Grand Monarque, of whom my mother had begun to tell me as soon as I could hear with understanding. Another came from the bedchamber of Philip II of Spain—a grand high clock that had tolled the hours in that great hall beyond my door. A little thing, in a case of carved ivory, that ticked on a table near my bed, Moliere had given to one of her ancestors, and there were many others of equal interest.
Her walls were adorned with art treasures of the value of which I had little appreciation those days. But I remember there were canvases of Correggio and Rembrandt and Sir Joshua Reynolds. She was, indeed, a woman of fine taste, who had brought her best to America; for no one had a doubt, in the time of which I am writing, that the settlement of the Compagnie de New York would grow into a great colony, with towns and cities and fine roadways, and the full complement of high living. She had built the Hermitage,—that was the name of the mansion,—fine and splendid as it was, for a mere temporary shelter pending the arrival of those better days.
She had a curious fad, this hermit baroness of the big woods. She loved nature and was a naturalist of no poor attainments. Wasps and hornets were the special study of this remarkable woman. There were at least a score of their nests on her front portico—big and little, and some of them oddly shaped. She hunted them in wood and field. When she found a nest she had it moved carefully after nightfall, under a bit of netting, and fastened somewhere about the gables. Around the Hermitage there were many withered boughs and briers holding cones of wrought fibre, each a citadel of these uniformed soldiers of the air and the poisoned arrow. They were assembled in colonies of yellow, white, blue, and black wasps, and white-faced hornets. She had no fear of them, and, indeed, no one of the household was ever stung to my knowledge. I have seen her stand in front of her door and feed them out of a saucer. There were special favorites that would light upon her palm, overrunning its pink hollow and gorging at the honey-drop.
"They will never sting," she would say, "if one does not declare the war. To strike, to make any quick motion, it gives them anger. Then, mon cher ami! it is terrible. They cause you to burn, to ache, to make a great noise, and even to lie down upon the ground. If people come to see me, if I get a new servant, I say: 'Make to them no attention, and they will not harm you.'"
In the house I have seen her catch one by the wings on a window and, holding it carefully ask me to watch her captive—sometimes a a great daredevil hornet, lion-maned—as he lay stabbing with his poison-dagger.
"Now," said she, "he is angry; he will remember. If I release him he will sting me when I come near him again. So I do not permit him to live—I kill him."
Then she would impale him and invite me to look at him with the microscope.
One day the baroness went away to town with the young ladies. I was quite alone with the servants. Father Joulin of the chateau came over and sat awhile with me, and told me how he had escaped the Parisian mob, a night in the Reign of Terror. Late in the afternoon I walked awhile in the grove with him. When he left I went slowly down the trail over which I had ridden. My strength was coming fast. I felt like an idle man, shirking the saddle, when I should be serving my country. I must to my horse and make an end to dallying. With thoughts like these for company, I went farther than I intended. Returning over the bushy trail I came suddenly upon—Louison! She was neatly gowned in pink and white.
"Le diable!" said she. "You surprise me. I thought you went another way."
"Or you would not have taken this one," I said.
"Of course not," said she. "One does not wish to find men if she is hunting for—for—" she hesitated a moment, blushing—"mon Dieu! for bears," she added.
I thought then, as her beautiful eyes looked up at me smiling, that she was incomparable, that I loved her above all others—I felt sure of it.
"And why do you hunt bears?" I inquired.
"I do not know. I think it is because they are so—so beautiful, so amiable!" she answered.
"And such good companions."
"Yes; they never embarrass you," she went on. "You never feel at loss for a word."
"I fear you do not know bears."
"Dieu! better than men. Voila!" she exclaimed, touching me with the end of her parasol. "You are not so terrible. I do not think you would bite."
"No; I have never bitten anything but—but bread and doughnuts, or something of that sort."
"Come, I desire to intimidate you. Won't you please be afraid of me? Indeed, I can be very terrible. See! I have sharp teeth."
She turned with a playful growl, and parting her crimson lips, showed them to me—white and shapely, and as even as if they had been wrought of ivory. She knew they were beautiful, the vixen.
"You terrify me. I have a mind to run," I said, backing off,
"Please do not run," she answered quickly. "I should be afraid that—that—"
She hesitated a moment, stirring the moss with one dainty foot.
"That you might not return," she added, smiling as she looked up at me.
"Then—then perhaps it will do as well if I climb a tree."
"No, no; I wish to talk with you."
"Ma'm'selle, you honor me," I said.
"And dishonor myself, I presume, with so much boldness," she went on. "It is only that I have something to say; and you know when a woman has something to—to say—"
"It is a fool that does not listen if she be as fair as you," I put in.
"You are—well, I shall not say what I think of you, for fear—for fear of giving offence," said she, blushing as she spoke. "Do you like the life of a soldier?"
"Very much, and especially when I am wounded, with such excellent care and company."
"But your side—it was so horribly torn. I did feel very sorry—indeed I did. You will go again to the war?"
"Unless—unless—Ah, yes, ma'm'selle, I shall go again to the war," I stammered, going to the brink of confession, only to back away from it, as the blood came hot to my cheeks.
She broke a tiny bough and began stripping its leaves.
"Tell me, do you love the baroness?" she inquired as she whipped a swaying bush of brier.
The question amazed me. I laughed nervously.
"I respect, I admire the good woman—she would make an excellent mother," was my answer.
"Well spoken!" she said, clapping her hands. "I thought you were a fool. I did not know whether you were to blame or—or the Creator."
"Or the baroness," I added, laughing.
"Well," said she, with a pretty shrug, "is there not a man for every woman? The baroness she thinks she is irresistible. She has money. She would like to buy you for a plaything—to marry you. But I say beware. She is more terrible than the keeper of the Bastile. And you—you are too young!"
"My dear girl," said I, in a voice of pleading, "it is terrible.Save me! Save me, I pray you!"
"Pooh! I do not care!"—with a gesture of indifference, "I am trying to save myself, that is all."
"From what?"
"Another relative. Parbleu! I have enough." She stamped her foot impatiently as she spoke. "I should be very terrible to you. I should say the meanest things. I should call you grandpapa and give you a new cane every Christmas."
"And if you gave me also a smile, I should be content."
More than once I was near declaring myself that day, but I had a mighty fear she was playing with me, and held my tongue. There was an odd light in her eyes. I knew not, then, what it meant.
"You are easily satisfied," was her answer.
"I am to leave soon," I said. "May I not see you here to-morrow?"
"Alas! I do not think you can," was her answer.
"And why not?"
"Because it would not be proper," said she, smiling as she looked up at me.
"Not proper! I should like to know why."
"It would make me break another engagement," she went on, laughing. "I am to go with the baroness to meet the count if he comes—she has commanded. The day after, in the morning, at ten o'clock, by the cascade—will that do? Good! I must leave you now. I must not return with you. Remember!" she commanded, pointing at me with her tapered forefinger. "Remember—ten o'clock in the morning."
Then she took a bypath and went out of sight. I returned to the mansion as deep in love as a man could be. I went to dinner with the rest that evening. Louison came in after we were all seated.
"You are late, my dear," said the baroness.
"Yes; I went away walking and lost something, and was not able to find it again."
Next morning the baroness went away in her glittering caleche with Louison. Each shining spoke and golden turret flashed the sunlight back at me as I looked after them at the edge of the wood. The baroness had asked me to go with her, but I thought the journey too long. Louise came out and sat by me awhile as I lay in the hammock. She was all in white. A trifle taller and a bit more slender than her sister, I have sometimes thought her beauty was statelier, also, and more statuesque. The sight of her seemed to kindle in me the spirit of old chivalry. I would have fought and died for her with my best lance and plume. In all my life I had not seen a woman of sweeter graces of speech and manner, and, in truth, I have met some of the best born of her sex.
She had callers presently—the Sieur Michel and his daughter. I went away, then, for a walk, and, after a time, strolled into the north trail. Crossing a mossy glade, in a circle of fragrant cedar, I sat down to rest. The sound of falling water came to my ear through thickets of hazel and shadberry. Suddenly I heard a sweet voice singing a love-song of Provence—the same voice, the same song, I had heard the day I came half fainting on my horse. Somebody was coming near. In a moment I saw Louise before me.
"What, ma'm'selle!" I said; "alone in the woods!"
"Not so," said she. "I knew you were here—somewhere, and—and—well, I thought you might be lonely."
"You are a good angel," I said, "always trying to make others happy."
"Eh bien," said she, sitting beside me, "I was lonely myself. I cannot read or study. I have neglected my lessons; I have insulted the tutor—threw my book at him, and walked away, for he sputtered at me. I do not know what is the matter. I know I am very wicked. Perhaps—ah me! perhaps it is the devil."
"Ma'm'selle, it is appalling!" I said. "You may have injured the poor man. You must be very bad. Let me see your palm."
I held her dainty fingers in mine, that were still hard and brown, peering into the pink hollow of her hand. She looked up curiously.
"A quick temper and a heart of gold," I said. "If the devil has it, he is lucky, and—well, I should like to be in his confidence."
"Ah, m'sieur," said she, seriously, a little tremor on her lips, "I have much trouble—you do not know. I have to fight with myself."
"You have, then, a formidable enemy," I answered.
"But I am not quarrelsome," said she, thoughtfully. "I am only weary of the life here. I should like to go away and be of some use in the world. I suppose it is wicked, for my papa wishes me to stay. And bah! it is a prison—a Hopital de Salpetriere!"
"Ma'm'selle," I exclaimed, "if you talk like that I shall take you on my horse and fly with you. I shall come as your knight, as your deliverer, some day."
"Alas!" said she, with a sigh, "you would find me very heavy. One has nothing to do here but grow lazy and—ciel!—fat."
If my meeting with her sister had not made it impossible and absurd, I should have offered my heart to this fair young lady then and there. Now I could not make it seem the part of honor and decency. I could not help adoring her simplicity, her frankness, her beautiful form and face.
"It is no prison for me," I said. "I do not long for deliverance. I cannot tell you how happy I have been to stay—how unhappy I shall be to leave."
"Captain," she said quickly, "you are not strong; you are no soldier yet."
"Yes; I must be off to the wars."
"And that suggests an idea," said she, thoughtfully, her chin upon her hand.
"Which is?"
"That my wealth is ill-fortune," she went on, with a sigh. "Men and women are fighting and toiling and bleeding and dying to make the world better, and I—I am just a lady, fussing, primping, peering into a looking-glass! I should like to do something, but they think I am too good—too holy."
"But it is a hard business—the labors and quarrels of the great world," I suggested.
"Well—it is God's business," she continued. "And am I not one of his children, and 'wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business?' It was not too good for the man who said that."
"But what would you do?"
"I do not know. I suppose I can do nothing because—alas! because my father has bought my obedience with a million francs. Do you not see that I am in bondage?"
"Be patient; the life of a rich demoiselle is not barren of opportunity."
"To be gay—oh! one might as well be a peacock; to say pretty things, one might better be a well-trained parrot; to grace the court or the salon, I had as soon be a statue in the corner—it has more comfort, more security; to be admired, to hear fine compliments—well, you know that is the part of a pet poodle. I say, captain, to be happy one must be free to do."
I looked into her big eyes, that were full of their new discovery.
"I should like to be among the wounded soldiers," said she, her face brightening. "It did make me very happy to sit by your bedside and do for you."
There was a very tender look in her eyes then.
She started to rise. A brier, stirring in the breeze, had fallen across her hair. She let me loose the thorns, and, doing so, I kissed her forehead—I could not help it.
"M'sieur!" she exclaimed in a whisper. Then she turned quickly away and stood tearing a leaf in her fingers.
"Forgive me!" I pleaded, for I saw she was crying. "It was the impulse of a moment. Pray forgive me!"
She stood motionless and made no answer, I never felt such a stir in me, for I had a fear, a terrible fear, that I had lost what I might never have again.
"It was honorable admiration," I continued, rising to my full height beside her. "Tell me, ma'm'selle, have I hurt you?"
"No," said she, in a voice that trembled. "I am thinking—I am thinking of somebody else."
The words, spoken so slowly, so sweetly, seemed, nevertheless, to fly at me. "Of somebody else!" Whom could she mean? Had her sister told her? Did she know of my meeting with Louison? I was about to confess how deeply, how tenderly, I loved her. I had spoken the first word when this thought flashed upon me, and I halted. I could not go on.
"Ma'm'selle," I said, "I—I—if it is I of whom you are thinking, give me only your pity, and I can be content. Sometime, perhaps, I may deserve more. If I can be of any service to you, send for me—command me. You shall see I am not ungrateful. Ah, ma'm'selle," I continued, as I stood to my full height, and felt a mighty uplift in my heart that seemed to toss the words out of me, "I have a strong arm and a good sword, and the love of honor and fair women."
She wiped her eyes, and turned and looked up at me. I was no longer a sick soldier.
"It is like a beautiful story," she said thoughtfully; "and you—you are like a knight of old. We must go home. It is long past luncheon hour. We must hurry."
She gave me her arm up the hill, and we walked without speaking.
"I am very well to-day," I remarked as we came to the road. "If you will wait here until I get to the big birch, I shall go around to see if I can beat you to the door."
"It is not necessary," said she, smiling, "and—and, m'sieur, I am not ashamed of you or of what I have done."
The baroness and Louison had not yet returned. M. Pidgeon was at luncheon with us in the big dining room, and had much to say of the mighty Napoleon and the coalition he was then fighting.
The great monsieur stayed through the afternoon, as the baroness had planned a big houseparty for the night, in celebration of the count's return. My best clothes had come by messenger from the Harbor, and I could put myself in good fettle. The baroness and the count and Louison came early, and we sat long together under the trees.
The dinner was at seven. There were more than a dozen guests, among whom were a number I had seen at the chateau—Mr. David Parish of Ogdensburg, who arrived late in a big, two-wheeled cart drawn by four horses that came galloping to the door, and General Wilkinson, our new commander in the North, a stout, smooth-faced man, who came with Mr. Parish in citizen's dress.
At dinner the count had much to say of scenes of excitement in Albany, where he had lately been. The baroness and her wards were resplendent in old lace and sparkling jewels. Great haunches of venison were served from a long sideboard; there was a free flow of old Madeira and Burgundy and champagne and cognac. Mr. Parish and the count and the general and Moss Kent and M. Pidgeon sat long at the table, with cigars and coffee, after the rest of us had gone to the parlors, and the big room rang with their laughter. The young Marquis de Gonvello and Mr. Marc Isambert Brunel of the Compagnie, who, afterward founded the great machine-shops of the Royal Navy Yard at Portsmouth and became engineer of the Thames tunnel, and Pierre Chassinis, Jr., and I waltzed with the ladies. Presently I sat down near the baroness, who was talking in French with Therese Le Ray, the count's daughter.
"Pardon my using French," said the baroness, turning to me, "for I believe you do not use it, and, my friend, it is a misfortune, for you miss knowing what good company is the Ma'm'selle Le Ray."
"And I miss much pleasure and mayhap a duel with the marquis," I said, laughing; "but I beg you to proceed with your talk. I have learned many words since I came here, and I love the sound of it."
"We saw British soldiers to-day," she continued to Ma'm'selle LeRay, in French. "They crossed the road near us on their horses."
Louison came over and sat by them.
"They were not in uniform," the baroness continued, "but I knew they were English; you cannot mistake them."
"And what do you think ?" said Louison, eagerly. "One of them threatened to kiss me."
"Indeed, that was terrible," said Ma'm'selle Le Ray. "You must have been afraid."
"Yes," said she, smiling, "afraid he wouldn't. They were a good-looking lot."
"I do not think he was speaking of you at all," said the baroness."He was looking at me when—"
"Ciel!" exclaimed Louison, laughing. "That is why they turned suddenly and fled into the fields."
I fled, too,—perhaps as suddenly as the Britishers,—to save myself the disgrace of laughter.
The great clock in the hall above-stairs tolled the hour of two. The ladies had all gone to bed save the baroness. The butler had started upstairs, a candelabrum in his hand. Following him were the count and Mr. Parish, supporting the general between them. The able soldier had overrated his capacity. All had risen to go to their rooms. Of a sudden we were startled by a loud rap on the front door. A servant opened it, and immediately I heard the familiar voice of D'ri.
"Is they anybody here by the name o' Mister Bell?" he asked.
I ran to the door, and there stood D'ri, his clothes wet, his boots muddy, for it had been raining. Before he could speak I had my arms around him, and he sank to his knees in my embrace. He was breathing heavily.
"Tired out—thet's whut's the matter," he muttered, leaning over on one hand. "Come through the woods t' save yer life, I did, an' they was tight up t' me all the way."
"Poor fellow!" said the baroness, who stood at the door. "Help him in at once and give him a sip of brandy."
"Tuk me prisoner over there 'n the woods thet day," said he, sinking into a chair and leaning forward, his head on his hands. "They tuk 'n' they toted me over t' Canady, an' I tuk 'n' got away, 'n' they efter me. Killed one on 'em thet was chasin' uv me over 'n the Beaver medders on the bog trail. Hoss got t' wallerin' so he hed t' come down. Riz up out o' the grass 'n' ketched holt uv 'im 'fore he c'u'd pull a weepon. Tuk this out uv his pocket, an' I tried to git the boss out o' the mire, but didn't hev time."
He sat erect and proudly handed me a sheet of paper. I opened it, and read as follows:—
"To CAPTAIN ELIAS WILKINS,Royal Fusiliers.
"My dear Captain: You will proceed at once across the river with a detail of five men mounted and three days' rations, and, if possible, capture the prisoner who escaped early this morning, making a thorough search of the woods in Jefferson County. He has information of value to the enemy, and I regard his death or capture of high and immediate importance. I am informed that the young desperado who murdered my Lord of Pickford in the forest below Clayton June 29, escaping, although badly wounded, is lying at the country-seat of the Baroness de Ferre, a Frenchwoman, at Leraysville, Jefferson County, New York. It would gratify me if you could accomplish one or both captures. With respect, I am,
"Your Obedient Servant,"R. SHEAFFER,General Commanding."
"They 'll be here," said D'ri. "They 'll be here jest es sure esGod—'fore daylight, mebbe. But I can't fight er dew nothin' tillI 've tied some vittles."
"You shall have supper," said the baroness, who, without delay, went to the kitchen herself with a servant to look after it. The butler brought a pair of slippers and a dry coat, while I drew off the boots of my good friend. Then I gave him my arm as he limped to the kitchen beside me. The baroness and I sat near him as he ate.
"Go upstairs and call the gentlemen," said she to the butler, "Do not make any disturbance, but say I should like to speak with them in the dining room."
"Is thet air hired man o' yours a Britisher?" D'ri inquired as soon as the butler was gone.
"He is—from Liverpool," said she.
"Thet's the hole 'n the fence," said he. "Thet's where the goose got away."
"The goose! The geese!" said the baroness, thoughtfully. "I do not understand you."
"Went 'n' blabbed, thet's whut he done," said D'ri. "Mebbe wrote 'em a letter, gol-dum his pictur'."
"Oh, I perceive! I understand," said she; "and I send him away to-morrow."
"Neck's broke with hunger," said D'ri. "Never threw no vittles 'n my basket with sech a splendid taste tew 'em es these hev."
The baroness looked at him with some show of worry.
"I beg your pardon," said she, "did you say the neck of you was broken?"
I explained the idiom.
"Ain't hed nothin' t' eat since day 'fore yistiddy," said D'ri."Judas Priest! I 'm all et up with hunger."
With old Burgundy and biscuit and venison and hot coffee he was rapidly reviving.
"I 'm wondering where I will hide you both," said the baroness, thoughtfully.
"Hed n't orter hev no rumpus here, 'n' go t' shootin' 'n' mebbe spile yer house 'n' furnicher," said D'ri. "'T ain't decent er 't ain't nice. We 'd better mek tracks an' put a mild er tew 'twixt us 'n' here 'fore we hev any trouble. 'T ain't a-goin' t' be no Sunday School. Ef they can, they 're a-goin't' tek us dead er 'live. Ef they ever tuk us we would n't be wuth shucks, nuther on us, efter court martial."
"I shall not permit you to go," said the baroness. "They may be here now, about the house in the dark. They would shoot you, they would stab you, they would cause you to die as you went. No, I shall permit you not to go, There are four of them? Very well, we shall fight here, we shall conquer. We have a general, a count, a millionnaire, a marquis, a lawyer, an astronomer, a scout, and," she added, patting me on the shoulder, "le brave capitaine! I have four guns and three pistols, and M'sieur Bell has arms also. We shall conquer. We shall make them to bite the dust."
"Guns; did ye say? Jerushy Jane! Le' 's hev 'em," said D'ri.
"What did he call me? Mon Dieu! Jerushy Jane! It is not I," said the baroness.
Again I explained the difficulty.
"Ain't very proper-spoke," said D'ri, apologetically. "Jest wan't' say et them 'air guns er likely t' come handy here 'most any minute. Give us guns, 'n' we 'll sock it to 'em."
"We shall sock it to them, we shall indeed," said she, hurrying out of the room. "We shall make them to run for their lives."
They were all in the dining room—the men of the party—save the general, who could not he awakened. Guns and pistols were loaded. I made a novel plan of defence that was unanimously approved. I posted a watch at every window. A little after dawn the baroness, from behind a curtain, saw a squad of horsemen coming through the grove.
"Ici! they have come!" said she, in a loud whisper. "There are not four; there are many."
I took my detail of six men above-stairs. Each had a strip of lumber we had found in the shop, and each carefully raised a window, waiting the signal. I knew my peril, but I was never so cool in my life. If I had been wiser, possibly I should have felt it the more. The horsemen promptly deployed, covering every side of the mansion. They stood close, mounted, pistol and sabre ready. Suddenly I gave the signal. Then each of us thrust out the strip of lumber stealthily, prodding the big drab cones on every side. Hornets and wasps, a great swarm of them, sprang thick as seeds from the hand of a sower. It was my part to unhouse a colony of the long, white-faced hornets. Goaded by the ruin of their nests, they saw the nodding heads below them, and darted at man and horse like a night of arrows. They put their hot spurs into flank and face and neck. I saw them strike and fall; they do hit hard, those big-wingedVespae. It was terrible, the swift charge of that winged battalion of the air. I heard howls of pain below me, and the thunder of rushing feet. The horses were rearing and plunging, the men striking with their hats.
I heard D'ri shouting and laughing at his window.
"Give 'em hell, ye little blue devils!" he yelled; and there was all evidence that they understood him.
Then, again, every man of us opened his window and fired a volley at the scurrying mass.
One horse, rearing and leaping on his hind legs, came down across the back of another, and the two fell heavily in a rolling, convulsive heap. One, as if blinded, bumped a tree, going over on his withers, all fours flashing in the air. Some tore off in the thickets, as unmanageable as the wild moose. More than half threw their riders. Not a man of them pulled a trigger: they were busy enough, God knows. Not one of them could have hit the sky with any certainty. I never saw such a torrent of horsehair and red caps.
"Whut! Been on the back o' one o' 'em hosses?" said D'ri, telling of it a long time after. "'D ruther o' been shet up 'n a barrel with a lot o' cats 'n' rolled downhill. Good deal better fer my health, an' I 'd 'a' luked more like a human bein' when I come out. Them fellers—they did n't luk fit t' 'sociate with nuthin' er nobody when we led 'em up t' the house—nut one on 'em."
Only one Britisher was brought down by our bullets, and he had been the mark of D'ri: with him a rifle was never a plaything. Five others lay writhing in the grass, bereft of horse, deserted by their comrades. The smudges were ready, and the nets. D'ri and I put on the latter and ran out, placing a smudge row on every side of the Hermitage. The winged fighters were quickly driven away. Of the helpless enemy one had staggered off in the brush; the others lay groaning, their faces lumpy and one-sided. A big sergeant had a nose of the look and diameter of a goose-egg; one carried a cheek as large and protuberant as the jowl of a porker's head; and one had ears that stuck out like a puffed bladder. They were helpless. We disarmed them and brought them in, doing all we could for their comfort with blue clay and bruised plantain. It was hard on them, I have often thought, but it saved an ugly fight among ladies, and, no doubt, many lives. I know, if they had taken us, D'ri and I would never have got back.