As soon as Colonel Clark's commands were delivered to Captain Bowman at Cahokia, I obtained permission for Thomas and myself to return to Kaskaskia, that we might await there the issue of Ellen's illness. We took turns of watching upon the porch of the commandant's house to be in readiness for any instant service it was in our power to render. Meantime Madame Rocheblave and Angélique nursed Ellen assiduously and tenderly, and her physicians gave her faithful attention. This was my first acquaintance with people of French blood, and their unfailing cheerfulness and sympathy were a revelation to me. In truth the French Americans of the Northwest were the most simple natured and warm hearted race I have ever known—they had not, however, the hardier qualities of my own people.
For seven days we had always the same answer to our questions given by the little doctor, with cheery air, and sympathetic expression—"C'est impossible à dire, Monsieur, il faut avoir la patience."
Late on the eighth night, Father Gibault came to me, his gentle face beaming with pleasure, to announce that the crisis had been favorably passed, and that with no relapse, Ellen would soon be as strong or stronger than before.
The most hazardous part of our enterprise lay yet before us—the taking of Vincennes, the real key to the Northwest, without which we could not long hold our position at Kaskaskia and Cahokia. And every day the English commandant, Abbott, might return from Detroit with reënforcements for the fort, which was far stronger and better equipped than the almost abandoned one at Kaskaskia. Moreover we could not hope so easily to overawe and win the larger and more mixed population of the town of Vincennes, which had fallen more directly under British influence.
Colonel Clark had conceived that his best hope was to make the Kaskaskians believe his riflemen the most formidable of warriors, and to lead them to think that he could summon from our recently established forts on the Ohio any number of reënforcements he might need. So we drilled and mustered the men and made pretense of sending couriers to our forts, till the Kaskaskians imagined us to be but the vanguard of an army. Their fears were aroused for friends and relatives at Vincennes, and Father Gibault himself offered to proceed to that town under an escort of Colonel Clark's troops, to counsel submission and alliance. Clark accepted his offer with apparent indifference, but secret joy, put me in command of Father Gibault's escort, and bade me gather all the information possible, in regard to the condition of the fort, the feeling of the people toward the English, and everything I thought might be useful in case we should have to storm or besiege the place.
Still our amazing good luck attended us. The logic of Father Gibault, and the natural preference of the people for peace—which made a change of masters a matter of secondary importance—proved irresistible. The citizens assembled willingly in the church, swore allegiance to Virginia, elected a town officer favorable to our interests, and allowed us to garrison the fort, and raise our standards over it. Father Gibault carried the news of our third bloodless victory back to Clark, and a week later Captain Helm arrived to take command of the garrison of five Americans, and about a score of French recruits. Colonel Clark had given him the large sounding title of "Governor-General of Indian affairs on the Wabash," and had charged him with a characteristic answer to Tabac—the head chief of the Piankeshaws, who had visited us at Vincennes, and arrogantly commanded us to convey a defiant message to the chief of the Long-Knives.
"Take your choice," was Clark's answer—by the mouth of the interpreter Givens—"between the British and the Big-Knives. Choose peace or war with the Long Knives and you will—but whichever you select, remember it is final and prepare to stand firmly by your choice. We are fighters by trade, we object not to war, yet we have no present quarrel with the red men, and seek none. We prefer to save our strength to make war upon the British king"—and then the ground of our quarrel with Great Britain was explained as well as Givens was able to do it by the use of such figures of speech as the Indians could understand.
The negotiations lasted several days, nor could we gather from the stolid faces of Tabac and his warriors what their decision would be. At last Tabac announced that he had made up his mind,—then sat in Sphinx-like silence for half an hour, smoking solemnly and looking straight before him into the dense smoke made by the pine knots, burning in the midst of our circle. His warriors did likewise. Instructed by Givens, we showed neither curiosity nor impatience, but remained as impassive as they.
Meantime, partially to rest my eyes from the smoke and flame of the pine logs, I gazed long and curiously at Tabac. How crafty and subtle the expression about the thin close-lipped mouth, and long half-shut eyes! How savage the narrow sloping forehead, and the high fleshless cheek bones, smeared with fantastic daubs of paint, and surmounted with suggestive scalp lock, conspicuously adorned with gay feathers and stiff quills. The noble red man indeed! I have no patience with this absurd sentiment of admiration and pity for the Indian—which seems now to be coming into fashion. The generation of pioneers, and frontiersmen not long past, realize as others never can the inherent savagery of the Indians. Either we should never have come to America, or we must exterminate the savages. Indians and civilization repel each other like the opposite poles of a magnet.
When Tabac arose deliberately to his feet at last, his eyes roved around the circle, and were fixed upon me with an expression of defiance, rather than upon Captain Helm, at whose left I sat, showing that he had felt, and resented my scrutiny.
"Warriors of the Big-Knife," he began in slow, measured tones, that made an impression of rude eloquence, though we understood not a word he said until Givens had translated his speech; "I have reflected long—have taken counsel of my warriors, and of the Great Spirit himself. I have made my choice. I have reached a last decision. And when Tabac, chief of the brave and noble tribe of the Piankeshaws decides, it is the end—there is no more hesitation with him, nor with his people. We are friends to the Big-Knife, and his warriors. We make alliance with the tribes of Virginia. We, too, are Big-Knives, we stand or fall with our pale face brethren from the rising sun."
Captain Helm made gracious answer to this language, interspersed with much flattery of Tabac and his tribe, for their alliance was, really, of the greatest importance to us, and our apparent indifference but a part of the big game of bluff Clark was playing. Then the peace pipe was passed around, presents interchanged, and after bidding our new allies an elaborate farewell, we returned to the fort.
Just before he had sent me to Vincennes, Colonel Clark, as I neglected to mention at the proper time, had raised me to my old rank of Captain, and given me a place on his staff, as special attaché to himself—as the moving executive, so to speak, of the central authority. Clark remained at Kaskaskia, where one Indian deputation after another flocked to him to make treaties of peace or alliance, while I moved up the river to Cahokia, or across the prairies and marshes to Vincennes, carrying his orders, making reports, and gathering information.
Upon my return to Kaskaskia after my first trip to Vincennes, I found Ellen more than convalescent. Her vigorous youth had quickly vanquished the disease after the first crisis was safely passed, and she had made such rapid recovery as caused Madame Rocheblave to lift her hands, elevate her eyebrows, and exclaim over the marvelous physical powers of "zeze so veery strong Ameerikans."
I found Ellen not only bright-eyed, but plump and rosy, as she had never been before, and even gay among her new friends. They had already taken her to their hearts, partly, I suppose, because she was so devout a Catholic, partly because they had been called upon to befriend and care for her, and partly too, as any one must recognize, for her own charming personality. No wonder Thomas had been so infatuated! The thin, awkward, shy girl, I remembered, with the beautiful blue eyes, set in a slim, pale face, was become an indescribable compound of girlish roundness, bloom, and sparkle, of maidenly softness and brightness. Her new woman's clothes, constructed by Angelique's deft fingers of the delicate hued soft stuffs of the place, which were woven of home grown flax, or of buffalo wool, and dyed with native roots, hung about her in long, graceful folds, that made her figure look statuesque in its poses of natural grace. But even more than her beauty, her manner astonished me—its graciousness, piquancy, gayety, and ease. Not Nelly Buford herself, nor Miss Shippen, reigned with more charming assurance over her circle of admirers, than did Ellen over the court of adorers which soon gathered about her.
She had been enrolled as "John Givens" in Captain Dillard's company, and they laid now special claim to her; every one of the officers making himself the slave of her caprices, and vying one with another to flatter and to spoil her. Dr. Lafonte and young Legère, a distant kinsman of the commandant, promptly surrendered, and, presently, Colonel Clark enrolled himself among her devoted admirers. There were a dozen fresh faced, sweet voiced French girls of the peasant class in the village, but Ellen alone had qualities to attract men like Dillard, Clark, Thomas and me, who demanded more than rounded outlines, bright eyes, and soft skin.
If once I had patronized Ellen, it was her turn now, and she queened it over me ruthlessly. At our very first interview she proved her power. I had sought to see her alone, that I might give her in plain words my opinion of her late rashness, and insist that in future she take no step without consulting Thomas, or me, in lieu of closer kinsman, with better right to advise her. It seemed my duty to do this, since Thomas' infatuation made him dumb in her presence, and would allow him to recognize no fault in her.
After keeping me waiting a good fifteen minutes, she came, trailing a pale yellow robe behind her, and bearing herself like a princess.
"Is this really Ellen O'Niel?" I asked, involuntarily, meeting her half way down the long room, and taking both her hands in cousinly greeting.
"None other than the forlorn little Irish lass you used to be kind to," and she flashed upon me an irradiating smile, and drew her hands out of mine with an air of gentle dignity that somehow embarrassed me. "But you did not know me in riflemen's uniform—my heart need not have fluttered so that day in the forest when you planted yourself before me, and looked me straight in the eye."
"It makes me tremble even yet, Ellen," I answered, "to think of your rash conduct during the last few months."
"All has turned out beautifully, Cousin Donald, and I would do it all over again," and she spoke gaily, but with more seriousness, as she added: "Are you not risking all for freedom; and is not liberty as dear to a woman as to a man? I took the risk and I have won. Had I died in the attempt 'twould have been better than the life of slavery and persecution. Besides, cousin, though your narrow Protestantism may find it hard to grant such grace to Catholics, we, too, have faith in an overruling Providence, believe in a power that can protect the helpless, and guide the orphan. I rode away from my Uncle Thomas' house that night, unguarded by man, but guided by the holy Christ and the gentle Virgin,"—Ellen's face shone with uplifted rapture as she spoke thus—"By them I have been brought in safety to this peaceful village of kindly, cheerful people, to the care of holy Father Gibault, kind Madame Rocheblave, and faithful Angélique. I shall not again lack friends nor suffer persecution for my religion. You are a distant kinsman, 'tis true, Cousin Donald, and I hold you in grateful affection for past kindnesses—but I will not be scolded nor upbraided. I am done with that, for always. Nor have I any apologies to make to any one. I was driven to what I did by those who were called to give me a home and affection. I repeat I would do over again what I have done. If you wish to treat me with a kinsman's kindness upon these terms I shall be glad—otherwise you must say farewell, and leave me to my new found friends."
Never was I so completely cowed by speech from the lips of any one, as by these quiet words from Ellen, as she sat before me in calm dignity. Scattered like summer smoke was my intent to reprimand her once for all, and set before her the suffering she had caused us.
"Did you not promise, the night we said good night at the spring, to be my friend and comrade always?" I answered, "and have not friends and comrades the right to speak the truth to one another? Once for all, Ellen, I must say I think you acted rashly, and beg that you will never again act upon impulse without taking counsel of Thomas or me who are your loyal kinsmen, and would risk our lives for you. I speak not to disapprove, but to warn; the dangers, the risks your independent, confident spirit may lead you into, frighten me. And, Ellen," I went on rapidly, lest I should never again be able to summon up the needful courage to say it—"you must not include Uncle Thomas, nor my mother, in your just condemnation of Aunt Martha; both are sincerely grieved, and Uncle Thomas half distracted with apprehension and remorse; neither had a thought that you were so very unhappy."
"Uncle Thomas had not the courage to take my side, nor your mother to offer me a refuge—both preferred family peace, and their own comfort to my salvation; they left no other course open to me than that I took. Not even Cousin Thomas, though he wished to befriend me, had the bravery to make a stand on my side against his mother; he, too, was cowed by her domineering spirit—were I a man, I would cringe to no one, not even to the woman that I love."
That last sentence I remembered, and afterwards it helped me to hold my own a little better against Ellen's growing power over me.
"You were most unkindly treated, Ellen, and it will always be a reproach upon us, something for which we must all hang our heads in shame,—but will you not try to forgive them? They have bitterly atoned for the wrong they did you, if unhappiness, and self reproach, can atone."
"Father Gibault says I must freely forgive them ere he can absolve me from the wrong thoughts, and actions of which I too have been guilty," answered Ellen—that catch in her voice, which so often I had recalled to mind, and had never heard in any other woman's—"but I find no consolation in their remorse. In you, Cousin Donald, I have nothing to forgive, you have always been good to me. I am still your friend and comrade, if you wish—though already you are a great and noble man, as I foresaw you would be," and again she gave me that flashing smile which made my head swim.
"And you will go home with Thomas and me when this business is ended?"
"I can never go back to that dreary, solemn valley, where people think of nothing but hard work, and long doleful prayers. As yet I have heard mass but twice, and only once have I been to confession; it seemed to me that the spirit of my dead parents were with me, and it brought me such joy and peace as you cannot conceive. I can never be separated again from the exercise of my religion. In truth I have a solemn and holy purpose set before me, of which I shall tell you, some day. Meantime let us not talk upon this painful subject, Cousin Donald,—life is so good to me now, so full of pure joy, and perfect happiness that I like not to recall the past five years."
During the months of August and September, Clark was kept busy receiving the Indian deputations which came weekly to Kaskaskia to sue for peace and alliance, with the famed Big-Knives and his warriors. Each visit was an affair of state, and must be received with due ceremony. Did the deputation consist only of the chief of some petty sub-tribe, and two or three warriors, they must have audience at the fort with Colonel Clark himself, surrounded by an armed body-guard; speeches, presents, and wampum belts must be ceremoniously exchanged, and the peace pipe smoked solemnly, after which Clark must tender them a feast.
Born to administer large affairs, Colonel Clark showed in his pacification of the Northwest Indians, a remarkable shrewdness, and knowledge of human nature. He used much the same tactics as those found so successful in dealing with the French:—he over-awed them by dauntlessness of spirit, and a show of far greater strength than he really possessed. When the desired impression had been made upon them, and they had offered alliance, he would adroitly win them to his purposes by friendliness and flattery. He could meet them with a counter stoicism and subtlety that confounded them, and sent them back to their tribes to tell marvelous stories of the great white warrior chief, the redoubtable Big-Knife, whose course of conquest had started at the rising sun, and would be stopped only by the big river towards the sun's lodge. One edict of Colonel Clark well serves to illustrate his far-seeing wisdom, and the extent of his power. He forbade any soldier, any citizen of Kaskaskia, or trader on the river, to sell or to give a single gill of liquor to an Indian within so many miles of the town and fort, under heavy penalties; and the few infringements of this rule were severely punished. Ceremony, presents and feasting were dealt out generously to the savages, but their expectations of fire-water were invariably disappointed. Some of them went away sullen, but there was no rioting in Kaskaskia, and no more bloody fights such as had been customary between panins and Indians.
Between these and other duties, Colonel Clark found some leisure for diversion, and sought it usually in the long room of the Commandant's house, where Ellen held her court with a constantly increasing number of subjects. Madame Rocheblave had left Kaskaskia soon after Ellen's recovery, to visit friends in Detroit, while awaiting the release of M. Rocheblave, who had been sent to Virginia with several other prisoners. But Angélique had consented to accept services as Ellen's maid, and was in constant attendance upon her.
Among Ellen's admirers the most indefatigable and determined were Monsieur Légère, Colonel Clark, Thomas and I; and for each of us she had a special course of treatment that kept us hovering between hope and despair. Monsieur Légère's manner of attack was nightly to serenade Ellen with voice and guitar, and daily to present her with passionate love poems, hidden in bunches of gorgeous wild flowers, which he had gathered at risk of limb and life from the most inaccessible spurs of the bluff across the river. These offerings she would receive with just enough appearance of pleasure, and expression of appreciation to prevent that emotional youth from committing suicide. Thomas, she treated as she would a brother, took him to mass with her, and alternately commanded, scolded, and coaxed him. He alone failed to see that there was naught but cousinly regard, and a degree of gratitude and pity in her heart for him.
Colonel Clark sued, as he did everything else, masterfully. It was plain, too, that this had a certain effect upon Ellen, who moreover, could not fail to be attracted by his handsome person and winning manners. That personal charm felt so strongly by men, even by savages and foreigners must produce a more sure effect upon the feelings of the woman whom he condescended to woo. Yet Ellen did not acknowledge his power, but rather took pleasure in making him yield to her. There was almost daily warfare of words between them. She would be starting to vespers with Thomas perhaps, just as Clark would be mounting the porch steps.
"You are not going this afternoon, Miss Ellen," in his firm tone of command; "I want you to stay and talk to me."
"But I always go to vespers, Colonel Clark."
"Except when I come to see you."
"No matter who comes to see me."
"You need make exception in my case only; I have many duties, and can not choose my hours of recreation; you can say your prayers all day, if you wish."
"Vesper hour is sacred; I cannot profane it by staying away from service to amuse evenyou, Colonel Clark. Moreover I am neither Frenchman, Indian, nor soldier; I do not take orders from the Long-Knives," and she would flash upon him a look of smiling defiance, and pass on.
"You are as cruel as fair, Miss Ellen," in hurt, gentle tones; "you cannot guess how weary, and heart-hungry I am, or you would be more merciful. Are you not the one bit of home, and comfort, and cheer we soldiers have in this wilderness? Now, after a day of toil, with the prospect of an hour of delight with you as my only recompense, you leave me thus without a word of regret."
"I must to vespers, Colonel Clark, but I shall hasten back; you can wait here for me."
And Clark would wait impatiently, Ellen returning promptly, as she had promised, to put forth for him, during the rest of the evening, the utmost of her powers of fascination.
Her treatment of me was less flattering, I thought, than that she accorded any of the others. I was no more her best friend, her openly favored comrade. On the contrary, she treated me with alternate indifference, haughtiness and patronage; she would seem to seek occasions of difference, and then, when I was lashed into answering her, would flaunt me angrily, or mock me with sarcasms. Afterwards she would repent her rudeness, and beg my pardon with the sweetest humility and gentleness. But this playing hot and cold on her part kept me in a sort of inward fever, and made me what I had never been in my life before, irritable and quarrelsome. To the men under me, I was peremptory; I was testy with Thomas, and often almost rude with Clark. In truth I was half frenzied with jealousy. A score of times in the day, I would compare myself with Clark—set my appearance and qualities over against his, and cast up the balance between us; but, with all my leaning to my own side, I could not blind myself that neither in manner, person, nor gifts could I rival him. There could be little doubt as to which one of us Ellen would choose when a final choice was forced upon her.
The wild grape vintage was a customary festival with the Kaskaskians. The woods along the river were wreathed with the vines, which looped from branch to branch, or from tree to tree, and even the berry thickets had become trellises to support their luxuriant meanderings. These wild grapes made a rich, delicious wine, much prized by the people as a beverage, and by the priests as an antidote to the far less innocent fire water, peddled by the traders, in boat loads, up and down the river. Colonel Clark not only consented to the celebration of this one of their frequent holidays, but agreed that the soldiers might take part on condition that no liquors be dispensed.
All assisted in the morning's work of gathering the grapes, and piling them in the calèches, or two-wheeled carts, to be hauled to the wine vats, then the afternoon was given up to pleasure and feasting. Games were interspersed with trials of strength and skill, upon the public square of the village; shooting at a mark, hurling the tomahawk, wrestling and racing were the chief contests, which were participated in by Frenchmen and soldiers on equal terms. Colonel Clark, Captain Montgomery, and myself were the chosen judges, and we were careful to distribute the prizes equally, with no very strict regard to merit.
The free half-breeds and the panins, with a few straggling Indians, had also their games apart, presided over by three of our men from the fort, who acted as judges. The supper was provided by Colonel Clark, and besides the usual pancakes and maple syrup, served at nearly all their feasts, there were maize cakes, barbecued venison, corn parched, ground and sweetened, wild duck and plover eggs boiled and roasted, melons, pawpaws, mulberries and sangaree. This supper was served by the cheery matrons of Kaskaskia, from calèches backed in a circle around a part of the green. Later, smiling maidens bedecked with flowers, came out of the low eaved houses, and with the youths and gayer soldiers fell a dancing on the green to the sound of banjo and guitar, in the light of a bright full moon, beneath a star-studded dome of clearest azure. It was a picture of simple Arcadian happiness, which needed only the embellishments of nature to beautify it, only the impulses of nature to stimulate it.
Ellen had been named "Queen of the Festa" by Clark, and the day seemed diverted into an occasion to honor her. It was she who pressed with dainty fingers the juice from the first bunch of grapes, ere they were put into vats for trampling; she who presented the prizes to the victors, or crowned them gracefully with the laurel wreaths. And when the music sounded, Clark led her forth to tread a stately measure alone with him upon the green, ere the general dancing began. I did not know before that either of them could dance—for never had I seen such sport until Nelly Buford had shown me the latest steps at Colonel Morgan's. But Ellen was a daily astonishment, and Clark had learned much in his adventurous life.
When they had thus inaugurated the evening's gayety as also they had presided over the day's festivities, Ellen and Clark wandered through the village together, in the moonlight, she leaning on his arm, and he bending over her like an accepted lover. Half an hour later I saw them seated side by side on the steps, under the nave of the church, absorbed in each other, and entirely unconscious of me, as I passed them on the opposite side of the street. Ellen was all in white, save for a black lace scarf she wore Spanish fashion, about her head, and shoulders, and in the moonlight she was a radiant vision of girlish loveliness—as Clark by her side was a picture of handsome young manhood. "They would be well mated," I thought with a sigh as I passed on, homesick and heartsick. In the darkness of the deserted barracks, I sought my soldier's couch, and lay a long time awake, thinking longingly of home and loved ones and wrestling with the demon of jealousy which threatened to master me.
A deep sigh aroused me after awhile, from the half dream into which I had slipped, and I heard Thomas' voice, praying in low tones. Poor Thomas. He was even more unhappy than I, for he had deserted home, parents, and religion for his idol, who but treated him with cousinly kindness. Yet I rejoiced, though I pitied him; there was hope for Thomas, since his sorrow and disappointment but drove him back to God, and his prayers.
Colonel Clark sent for me next morning, and began, in his most peremptory manner to announce that he desired me to make ready to start to Virginia immediately, to deliver certain dispatches to the Governor and the Assembly. He wished his appointments confirmed, and the conquered territory of the Northwest formally annexed to Virginia. Also, he must have money, supplies, and reënforcements for a prompt advance on Detroit, and later on, Quebec. All Canada might be taken, with the aid of our French and Indian allies, had we but a nucleus of American soldiers, and sufficient means to forward the enterprise. I must not only deliver his request to that effect, but urge the members of the Assembly, publicly and privately, as I had opportunity, to support the project, and to vote money and men for it.
When he had said all this, without asking my opinion, I stopped him by suggesting that perhaps I could not be earnest and eloquent enough in a cause my reason and judgment did not sanction; that I had once helped to storm Quebec, and knew the almost insurmountable difficulties of the attempt without a large army and plenty of cannon; that I did not believe our allies would be of any value in such an enterprise, and that in my opinion we would only be risking what we had secured, or abandoning it more probably, for a success dependent upon a hundred unlikely chances.
Colonel Clark had gazed at me haughtily as I spoke—a manner the more nettling because of his previous friendliness and comradeship with me—and now he reprimanded me sharply for having forgotten my position as a subordinate, whose business it was to obey, not to advise, and then added:
"Can you start, sir, to Virginia to-morrow, with my dispatches and commands?"
"No, Colonel Clark," I answered with a haughtiness that matched his own: "I remain in Kaskaskia till it is my pleasure to leave; my term of enlistment expires next week, after which I am no longer under orders. Confine me if you please, in the guardhouse, while I am still in your service, but I shall not go to Virginia on this errand."
"And I know your reason for this act of disrespect and disobedience, sir. You are jealous of my suit to Ellen O'Neil."
"As my cousin's lawful protector, I stay by her side until she is safely placed with the guardian she shall choose upon reaching her legal majority."
"Your jealousy has been made evident before, Captain McElroy, but know this, I recognize not your right to interfere with me in any way, nor to dictate to Miss O'Neil upon any subject. I shall warn her, sir, and watch you," and Clark had grown so angry that he talked now half random foolishness, and glared at me savagely.
No less angry, I replied, "And I shall watch you, Colonel Clark. A man who can take advantage of his position of authority to send his rival across the continent with dispatches that a common courier might as well carry is capable of taking other and less honorable advantages, perhaps."
"No man dare insult me, McElroy, without knowing that he must apologize or fight. Take your choice; I am no longer your superior officer," and he threw aside his epauleted coat, and plumed hat, and drawing his sword, stood before me, pallid and rigid with anger.
"Sir," I answered, fully as furious as he, "you have so lorded it over Frenchmen, panins and Indians, that you seem to have forgotten the respect due a comrade—your equal in all save military rank. Your challenge, Colonel Clark, I accept with pleasure!" I bowed to him, drew my sword and stood at guard.
Neither of us were practiced swordsmen, but both were lithe, active, and possessed of trained eyes, and arms. We fought with small science, yet with some skill, and in deadly earnest. Without doubt one or the other of us would have been killed or badly wounded, had not a startling interruption paralyzed the arm of each, just when both were wrought up to the killing frenzy. I was fighting desperately and so was Clark, when, suddenly, Ellen's voice rang above the clash of our swords, and the panting emission of our breath:
"Cousin Donald! Colonel Clark!" she called sharply, and each lowered his weapon and turned to face her. She stood in the doorway, her eyes glowing, her face quite pale, and Father Gibault stood behind her, looking more perturbed than I had ever seen him.
"I know not whose the fault," she added scornfully, "but each is less the knight and patriot, in my esteem, for this rash deed. You would kill each other and bring destruction upon your patriotic enterprise, and death to these men, whose lives are in your keeping? Bah! Men are children; their passions rule them! Father Gibault, will you stay with Colonel Clark and soothe his anger? You have hurt me grievously, Colonel Clark, and I thought you my friend—" and now was heard the break in Ellen's voice which tugged always at one's heartstrings.
"Forgive me, Miss Ellen!" stammered Clark; "I have no quarrel with your cousin; it was, as you say, foolish anger and rashness. But in justice I must confess that I forced this fight upon McElroy," and my generous comrade looked frankly at me.
"Nor have I just grounds of quarrel with you, Colonel Clark," I responded. "I was disrespectful in my words and manner. Will you accept my apology?" and I held out my hand.
Clark took and shook it warmly, while Ellen smiled upon us, and Father Gibault blessed us with low spoken benediction.
"Come with me, Cousin Donald!" commanded Ellen; "I have something I would say to you."
We walked together toward the town, for some time in silence, then Ellen said, blushing as she spoke:
"Father Gibault tells me that you and Colonel Clark quarreled about me, Cousin Donald. It was not kind, nor respectful, and it was very foolish, if jealousy prompted you, for I shall never marry."
"Never marry, Ellen, and why?" I asked in great astonishment.
"Did not I tell you, Cousin, that I had set before myself a high and holy purpose? I have sworn a vow of consecration. As soon as I have reached my majority, I shall take the veil, and pass the remainder of my life in prayer, and God's holy service. Will you tell Colonel Clark this for me? And neither of you, I beg, will ever again couple me, even in your thoughts with love and marriage. I shall be the bride of the Church, I trust, but never the bride of mortal. God saved me from an awful fate in answer to my vow of consecration. To choose a life of worldly pleasure would be in me dishonesty in its worst form. Help me to keep my vow, Cousin Donald; make me strong to do the right."
The touching appeal of her voice and manner as she spoke thus, it is not possible to describe. She seemed to throw herself upon my strength, to implore me to help her to sacrifice herself. I saw how strongly she felt all she said, how impossible it would be to make her see now the folly of her purpose, and the illogic of her thoughts. She wanted my sympathy and encouragement—yet how could I give it to her, at risk of forfeiting my happiness, and possibly hers! Yet I could not fail her.
"Dear Ellen," I said, with all the deep tenderness of my heart for her trembling in my words, "whatever you finally conclude is your duty, that I shall help you to do, with all the sympathy and courage I can give you. But take no step rashly, nor without consulting Father Gibault. Our heavenly Father has, I truly believe, guided you thus far; let us look to Him for further guidance."
There was no lack of volunteers to convey Colonel Clark's dispatches to Virginia. More than half of the men it appeared were anxious to return to their homes at the expiration of their term of enlistment. In that case, but a handful of us would be left, after October, to hold the three forts, and keep down the Indians. Colonel Clark resorted to entreaties and promises, and at last induced about three hundred of the men to consent to reënlist for six months more. Thirty-five were determined to go, and even the prospect of being rewarded, by the gratitude of Virginia, with royal land grants in the new territory, could not keep them longer.
"If Virginia did not choose to send recruits to hold the territory, we had won for her," they argued, "she deserved to lose it. Meantime their own families might be suffering privation or danger, and their own lands be lapsing again into the state of wilderness from which they had so lately rescued them. They could risk no more, sacrifice no further—not even for Virginia." One was forced to admit there was reason in their excuses.
Thomas, to my small surprise, was one of those who could not be persuaded to remain. Clark asked me to remonstrate with him, and I did so but without success.
"I've nothing to stay for," he answered; "Ellen rejects my love, and it is only what I deserve for my stubborn following of my own will, and my disrespect to my mother. Since neither Ellen's death nor her misery lies at our door; since she has reached a safe and pleasant harborage among people of her own religion, and can take her choice between a nunnery in Quebec, or a husband—who may be either military hero, or French Catholic as she will—I feel that my responsibility is ended. I shall go home, Donald, beg my parents' pardon, renew my vows, and resume the work to which I was called, and upon which I wickedly turned my back to pursue a foolish course."
"I cannot understand your feelings, Thomas," I replied, out of patience with what sounded to me like spiteful cant; "you joined our expedition with two specific objects in view:—to regain your lost health, and possibly find trace of Ellen. You have accomplished both objects; besides, have done your share toward our fortunate achievement. To abandon us now, before our success is permanently assured, and Ellen safely settled, seems to me to be an act of childishness."
"Yours, Donald, is the soldier's point of view, and I cannot complain of your disapproval. I see it all differently, however. It was wrong of me to come, in the first place, with the motives that brought me; the only reparation I can make is to go back as soon as possible, confess humbly, and reconsecrate to God and duty all my future life."
I said no more, for I saw Thomas' will was set; his present state of mind was as unreasonable as that I had found him in eight months before. There are men to whom a medium course is not possible—they are born fanatics; Thomas was one of these, but, in justice to him, I must add here, that he grew saner as he grew older, and that, with the coming of maturity, what fanaticism was left took the form of humble service in God's name, to his fellow men.
Colonel Clark's force now numbered barely a hundred men, including officers. A score were left at Cahokia; the rest were with him at Kaskaskia. It seemed wise to preserve a show of strength at both places, since Indian deputations were coming to one or the other of the two forts, all through the fall, to tender to Colonel Clark the allegiance or submission of their tribes. Being but half a day's march apart, our force could quickly be massed at either of these points.
Captain Helm, backed chiefly by his high sounding title of "Governor-general of Indian Affairs on the Wabash," with a garrison of five, held Vincennes! Should an English force march against it there would be no chance for defense; for that reason, that Vincennes might be strongly garrisoned, it seemed imperative for us to have speedy reënforcements from Virginia. It was from Vincennes that Colonel Clark was planning to advance on Detroit, but I had never any hope of sufficient reënforcements to make such advance feasible, even in Clark's daring estimation, so gave myself no anxiety as to that rash project.
A rumor that Vincennes had been taken by the British reached us about the middle of December, but a few weeks after the thirty-six had departed for Virginia. The rumor lacked confirmation, however, and Colonel Clark eagerly awaited the confidently expected reënforcements.
After the cold autumn rains set in, visits from the Indian tribes were less frequent, and presently with the coming of winter they ceased. The arrival on Christmas eve, therefore, of a large deputation of much befeathered warriors, and their chief, caused some excitement,—the more so as they were reported to be Miamis from Lake Michigan. This tribe so far had held aloof from us, and was said to be faithful to the English. They demanded an interview with the white chief, Long-Knife, and asked that he bring only his most trusted warriors to the council chamber, since they had secret matters of weight and importance to discuss.
Colonel Clark summoned his officers, and five others, and the conference began in the large room of the fort—where Clark and I had indulged in our sword play some days before. The chief was, I thought, not past middle age, though it is difficult to guess the age of a redskin. He had a countenance of unusual cruelty and subtlety. His tall frame was powerfully built, and his tongue was both eloquent and cunning.
"Long-Knife and his warriors had come," he said, "as strangers to the land of the Algonquins; they had come to bid the great tribes of the red men, whose fathers had owned the plains washed by the fresh seas, and the great Father-of-Waters, from the beginning, to declare war against their powerful English father, who had given them their guns, and had protected them against their hereditary enemies, the Hurons and the Iroquois. It was said that the warriors of the white chief, Big-Knife, were about to conquer the warriors of the great English father, but were willing to protect the Miamis, and to leave them in peaceful possession of their lands. He and his braves had come to ask if these things were true, and if the Big-Knives sought peace and friendship with the tribes of the Miami."
Colonel Clark responded in his usual way, mixing adroitly with his parade of cool arrogance, and entire indifference, a tone of gracious condescension. "The Miamis might choose for themselves; he had no quarrel with the red man—did they wish the redoubtable warriors of Long-Knife, and the great and war-like nation they came from, on the shore of the eastern ocean, for their friends and brothers—did they wish, as so many of their brethren had done, to make alliance with us, it would be well with them, but we were used to war and liked it—if the Miamis preferred war—good; it was theirs to choose. But they must decide once for all, and war once begun the Long-Knives would not be the first to sue for peace."
A long silence followed Clark's speech, during which the Indians gazed fixedly before them, while the air grew dense with the strong tobacco smoke they exhaled, in great deliberate puffs. We also smoked stolidly on; and the chief's face was not more a mask than Clark's. In the midst of this silent ring of grim smokers—as an angelic apparition floats into the vision of a dream—glided Ellen. She came to my side with smiling countenance, on which was no other expression than that of idle curiosity, gazed calmly into the hideous faces of the savages, and pointing to the crimson aigrette among the head feathers of one, and the black heron quills worn by another asked me in English to buy them for her. Then without changing her expression, or looking again at me, she lowered her tones to a whisper, and scarcely moved her lips in saying,
"When I go out—wait—then follow," and even while she spoke thus, she was making gestures of admiration over the Indian's ornaments, continuing to do so, and to comment upon them to us, as a child might.
Presently the chief began again to speak. Ellen listened gravely for a few moments, shook her head, smiled, and passed out. In doing so she walked behind Clark, and uttered a whisper like a sigh. "Beware! Be on your guard!"
Clark gave no sign to indicate that she had spoken, and after lingering at the door for a moment, Ellen went out, and we heard her singing gayly, on her way back to the town.
But for her words to me, I should have thought, as evidently the Indians did, that she had wandered into the council chamber, prompted by idle curiosity alone, and finding small amusement there, had wandered out again. The free customs among their own squaws, in regard to their comings and goings, made the incident seem natural to the Indians.
A meaning look from Clark, the barest glance of significance, made known to me that he too had been spoken to, and was on the watch for something unusual. Ellen was not found until I had gone all the way to her house, where she was walking the floor in the greatest excitement, awaiting my arrival.
"Cousin Donald," she whispered, as if the walls had really ears,—"the fort is surrounded by armed savages, they are lurking in the bushes and in the chimney corners, crouching under the steps, and behind trees—they are everywhere. Without doubt they await the signal for an attack; meantime the soldiers are scattered about the village, and ten went this morning, as you know, to carry the powder to Cahokia."
"We must take measures at once to collect the men. You have already warned Colonel Clark?"
"Yes; and I have sent Angélique to seek every soldier she can find loitering about the village, and to bid them all come here."
"Well done, Ellen! I shall muster them as quietly as possible and lead them to the fort. Have you thought of anything else that should be done?"
"M. Légère, who was walking on the bluff with me when I saw the Indians, with Colonel Clark's spy glass, has already started to Cahokia, mounted on the fleetest horse in the village. If only you can, by some strategy, delay the signal until the men from Cahokia can get here."
"They will, I imagine, wait for twilight. The savages seem to rely much upon the aid of surprise and confusion. If Légère's horse is fleet, and they have boats in readiness at Cahokia, reënforcements should reach us by midnight; but that will be too late, I fear. It will hardly be possible to divert the Indians from their purpose so long. But, now that we are warned, we may find a way to outwit them."
Having disposed my men in the neighborhood of the fort, in a convenient clump of trees, I told them to wait in absolute silence for the sound of my turkey call within the fort and then to surround the council chamber with a rush, making, as they did so, all the hideous noises possible.
The chief was still speaking when I returned to the council chamber, but his manner and his words were less conciliatory and his warriors were scowling ominously.
"Let my friend, and brother chief, speak for the great American father, General Washington, since you profess to doubt my word," said Colonel Clark, as, a moment later, the chief concluded his second wordy and pointless harangue. "Tell the chief, Captain McElroy, since you were present on the day it happened, how the warriors of Chief Washington defeated the warriors of the English father, on the great battlefield west of the Alleghanies, and how you took prisoners a whole tribe of them at Saratoga."
Stepping into the midst of the circle, I told them of the surrender of Saratoga, vaunting much the courage of my tribe, and the war-like skill of our chiefs, and ending thus: "Before many more moons have waxed and waned, the English will mount again their white winged birds, their great ships, and sail back across the wide waters to their own land, leaving all this country subject to the great confederation of the white American tribes. And when the English are gone, and our great chief Washington shall march his armies against the still hostile Indians, woe to those who have refused our friendship! They shall be shaken as ripe fruit from the boughs; scattered to the four corners of the earth, as fruit blossoms by the wind of an April storm."
The Indians listened to me at first with solemn stolidity, then began to utter low grunts of unbelief, or anger, and at last to exchange black looks, and to scowl at me threateningly. Still they smoked on; still Colonel Clark and his councilors smoked silently, paying no sort of heed to the angry demonstrations of the savages.
The sun set, meanwhile, and what with the fast-coming winter's twilight without, and the thick fog of smoke within, one could scarcely see the faces about him well enough to distinguish white face from red, friend from foe.
As I sat down, the chief laid aside his pipe, with the utmost deliberation, and rose to his feet, towering in the midst of his warriors, who closely copied all his expressions and actions. We rose, also, and the two half circles faced each other grimly, while the murky redness of the sun's last rays cast a momentary lurid illumination over the scene.
With a quick gesture the chief drew from his long robe of white bear's skin two wampum belts—the peace and war belts—and flung them with haughty and insulting air upon the table.
"There are two belts of wampum," he said, and the Indians crowded closer about him; "you know what they mean. Choose which you will!"
There was awesome silence for a moment. For the second time in my life I knew the feeling of subtle, unreasoning terror, such as must precede a panic; but again with a tremendous effort of will I controlled the impulse, and looked calmly from one to another of the scowling, cruel faces—watching, as beasts do, for a chance to spring.
Clark gave each a calm, undaunted stare, then fixed his deliberate, scornful gaze upon the chief, picked up the wampum belts on the point of his sword, took them in his right hand, and drawing himself to his utmost height, flung them full into the face of the chief, as he said in tones of contempt:
"Begone, ye dogs! Back to your squaws, and your beaver traps!"
Upon this instant I blew my turkey call, long, and shrilly. From without came the sound as of a rushing multitude, mingled with yells, whoops, and howls. The Indians seemed suddenly cowed and gathered together in a huddled group.
"We are trapped!" called the chief, and made a leap for the door, followed by the rest. The savages without were fleeing also. Clark called out in loud and positive commands that they should be neither killed nor hindered.
"Let them run like the coward dogs they are," he said, "we care neither to capture their living nor to bury their dead carcasses."
In the midst of the excitement, reënforcements arrived from Cahokia, Légère having met a squad on their way to Kaskaskia. Clark now stationed guards all around the fort and the town, and ordered that the soldiers hold themselves in readiness to repulse a night attack. The Indians loitered all night in the bushes about the fort, and we could hear them arguing hotly. When morning came, they sent in a deputation of three to sue for peace, after which they hastily departed.
I shall not now relate an incident which happened later that night when some of the loitering Indians attempted to take terrible revenge on Ellen, whose warning to Clark they afterwards suspected, and from which it was my very good fortune to save her. Thus repaying twice over, since her life was twice as valuable as mine, the debt I owed her, and proving that I counted my own naught, as weighed against her safety and her honor.
For four days, a fine, thick rain had been descending persistently from the low, gray-blanketed sky, and a wet mist rose from the sodden earth to meet it. The soil reeked with dampness; it oozed from the walls of the stone or stuccoed houses, dripped from the sloping roofs of rambling porches, saturated one's clothes, and permeated one's blood. The Kaskaskia River, pushed out of its banks by its swollen tributaries, had overflowed all the bottoms, and banked the waters of the bayous up into the hills. The village was surrounded by water on three sides, and from the fort one could see nothing save the dreary waste of still, dull water. Even the reeds, canes, and grasses which ordinarily fringed the bayous, adding something of life and grace, were now submerged.
In all the village there was but one cheerful, wooing spot:—the room in the late Commandant's house, made bright by the presence of Ellen, and kept warm and cheery by the crackling logs piled high in the wide fireplace. Here Ellen gave gracious welcome to officer and private, priest and native, coureur de bois from Canada, trader from New Orleans, and scout from the eastern settlements—whoever might chance our way, so he deport himself gentlemanwise. And now, since the winter and the rains had settled upon us, since the Indian deputations had ceased to trouble us, and traders were rare, the town afforded the officers no other diversion than a twice daily visit to Queen Eleanor's audience chamber.
Colonel Clark, Captains Bowman, Montgomery, Harrod and I, with Légère and Dr. Lafonte occupied usually the inner circle around the fire, Ellen throned in our midst. My quill falls from my hand and I lose myself in the scenes which my memory recalls so vividly that almost I live them over again. Ellen's graceful head, outlined by dark ringlets, rests against the white bear skin which covers her chair; her slender hands are crossed in her lap, and her arched feet, in their gay moccasins, are half buried in the panther's skin thrown over her foot rest. The fire, of seasoned logs three feet in length, lights the low-ceiled stone room with a vivid glow and suffuses the atmosphere with a fragrant warmth. This glow of the flames plays becomingly on Ellen's rich, soft coloring, and even brings out the shadows made by the long lashes upon her cheeks. Also it shows plainly the varied colors and markings of the wild skins hung thick upon the wall, and the gay stripes in the heavy Indian mats upon the floor.
Better still than the cheerful scene was the pleasant talk that filled the room, the bright, earnest discussions which did more to keep us keyed to our otherwise dreary task than all the promises that we could make ourselves of future fortune and renown. Who can gauge the value of woman's social tact and sympathy? In all ages they have been magnets around which great thoughts and noble deeds have focused. Some of the conversations held in the long, stone room at Kaskaskia seem to me to have been worthy the most brilliant salons in Paris, or the most famous of London coffee-houses. Ellen was never one of those chattering women—though she could express herself pithily and gracefully when she had anything to say—but she was the most inspiring listener I have ever seen.
Colonel Clark was a bold and brilliant talker, though sometimes arrogant and boastful. Légère, who had been bred and educated in Paris, had culture, and a keen tongue. Bowman was a man of careful observation, shrewd thinking, and close reasoning; and my own love of mental exercise made me an ambitious aspirant in these conversational bouts, over which Ellen presided with inspiring guidance.
The future of America was the subject we oftenest discussed, perhaps, and the one upon which we diverged, too, most widely. Colonel Clark favored the organization of thirteen free states, confederated as loosely as possible. I was for a close federation with a strong central government. All the delays and difficulties of our war were due to the lack of a central authority, it seemed to me. And even after our independence should be achieved we must fall to pieces, I argued, or become the prey of European powers unless we sought strength in a firmly cemented union.
"But Virginia," argued Clark, "had everything to lose, and nothing to gain by union. With the Illinois territory added to her possessions she would be the largest, richest, and strongest, of the States, and could dominate the rest. No union would be agreed to by the other States which did not provide for the territorial reduction of the Old Dominion—for her relinquishment, doubtless, of all we had won for her, and that we would never consent to. Why should Virginia voluntarily weaken herself in order to strengthen a union which would control all her resources?"
To this Ellen responded, taking sides with me: "A course of unselfish patriotism was the only course worthy of Virginia, and the only one consistent with her admirable policy so far. The building of a free, mighty, and glorious republic in America which might become a pattern for future democracies was the object for which all true Virginians and all enlightened patriots should be willing to sacrifice everything."
Légère agreed with Clark, Bowman with me, and our argument waxed warm—always to be quieted or diverted by Ellen's skillful management. One day, however, Clark was more arrogant than usual, and I more vehement, so that at last we quarreled like school boys.
Ellen's sarcasm, as she rebuked us, seemed directed at me rather than at Clark, and I left the room in an unseemly rage, being for several days too sore, and too much ashamed of myself, to return.
No loafing place was left me, now, save the large room in the barracks, where the men were accustomed to assemble. On a certain afternoon it became unbearable. The chimney smoked, the damp logs burned grudgingly, the soldiers, who were now in the town, slept snoring on the floor, wrapped in their blankets, or sprawled on the benches, and smoked strong pipes. My heart ached with home longing; for but an hour with the dear circle around the cheerful hearth, in the big room, I would at that moment have resigned all the prospects of my life—save only my hope of winning Ellen. I could stand it within no longer, and wrapping my cloak around me, and pulling my bearskin cap over my ears, set out to walk to the boat landing. It would afford me a moment's diversion to see how far the water had risen since yesterday. Then the lower end of the wharf was an inch under water.
Now it was completely submerged, and the ground all about it. If a boat should chance to come to Kaskaskia it must seek precarious landing upon a rock, which in dry weather, was half way up the low bluff on this side of the river, below the town. I made my way to this rock, and stood looking out on the formless waste of waters with a new sympathy for the victims of the flood, and a sudden emotion of deep thankfulness for the rock-ribbed mountains, rolling hills, upland meadows and well restricted, gentle streams of our dear valley. He who would might come west to dwell in the rich alluvial valley of the Mississippi, and her tributaries—as for me, I wished no other heritage than one of the fertile, smiling farms in the valley of Virginia.
As I gazed thus, my mind upon my own land rather than upon this desolation, a moving speck appeared upon the waters, and rapidly approached. Yes, it was a boat, one of those long, deep, swift boats used by the coureurs, and the traders. The two men propelling it were standing, evidently looking for the wharf. I called and signaled to them to drift a little down stream, and land upon the rock; then I clambered to its lower edge, and stood in readiness to help them. I had by this time recognized Colonel Vigo and his servant. A month before they had stopped with us on their way to the Illinois country, when Colonel Vigo had offered to spy out for Colonel Clark the real condition of affairs at Vincennes, and to send or to bring him word. His coming back so soon foreboded ill news; he would hardly have returned at such inclement season, but to warn us. We had hardly counted on such friendship from him, though we knew that he wished well to the cause of America. Moreover, he had seemed to conceive a strong friendship both for Colonel Clark and myself.
Sardinian by birth, soldier of fortune by profession, Spanish officer by rank won in Spanish wars, he was to me a most interesting character. Bold, yet cautious, rash yet diplomatic, shrewd yet daring, accomplished gentleman yet reckless adventurer, Indian by mode of life, but in manner and preferred tongue French—he was a type of that age and that civilization, which alone could have produced his like.
"Ah, McElroy," he called to me, as I gave him my hand to help him spring ashore, speaking in what he called English tongue, but which was really an impossible dialect, composed of a conglomerate of English, French, Italian, Spanish and Indian words, so that I do not attempt to reproduce it, but give only the substance of his utterances, "It is you then, and where is the Colonel?"
"Visiting," I answered, rather curtly; "do you come from Vincennes?"
"So the Colonel is courting the fair Americaness, eh?—and you, mon ami, sulk upon the rock! Is it that you have surrendered? I thought it not possible for a stubborn Scotchman to own defeat—but this is no time for banter. Yes, Captain McElroy, I come from Vincennes, and I have for the Colonel important news. He must arouse himself from the idle pleasure of paying court to beauty, and go back to the arduous work of a soldier would he hold his footing on the Wabash."
Meantime we had reached the village, and were soon before the Commandant's house. A panin summoned Clark for us, and together we walked toward the fort, while Colonel Vigo told how Vincennes had fallen, and outlined clearly the present state of affairs at that place. The fort had been repaired and restocked, and was garrisoned by a force of eighty mixed English and Canadians. The French inhabitants were over-awed, and the Wabash Indians were in sympathy with the English. The Miamis, who had recently made a pretended treaty with us, were really agents of Hamilton, having been hired by him to kill or capture Clark, and as many of his men as possible. Having been disappointed in their anticipations of big scalp money, they were awaiting surlily a chance of revenge. The French were, however, in heart, still loyal to us, and Father Gibault—who had been all the time with Captain Helm, as also had Scout Givens—was using all his diplomacy for us. It was due to his insistence that Colonel Vigo was released, and allowed to leave the town, even though he refused to swear that he would do nothing hostile to the British cause.
Clark heard Colonel Vigo to the end, then asked two or three questions as to General Hamilton's expectation of reënforcements, or apparent apprehension lest he be attacked by the Americans. Colonel Vigo answered that he seemed to anticipate neither the one nor the other, whereupon Clark turned to his officers, now gathered about him, and said in the tone of a man promulgating some joyful news.
"Men, we march at once to Vincennes! We are too near success to yield to the first reverse. Have the drum beat for roll call, McElroy!"
When all the men, and many of the villagers, were assembled on the parade ground before the fort, Clark clambered upon the body of a calèche and made them one of his stirring speeches, recalling the treachery of General Hamilton and the successful stratagem of Captain Helm.
At its conclusion, loud cheers rang forth, and the men crowded about the calèche.
"Right, Colonel," called one of the men, "we must thrash this 'hair-buyer' General; he has been needing a lesson for some time."
"We'll thrash him, Colonel, never doubt it!" called another.
"If the Kaskaskians wish to help us—if they have found us true allies and kind friends, we promise them full recognition and reward with our regular soldiers," added Clark. "Wish any of you to enlist with us?"
"I! I! I!" came from a dozen throats, in chorus.
"Légère shall captain you, if as many as twenty-five enlist," added Clark. "Will you take down their names, Légère, and organize your company?" turning to that Frenchman, who accepted both the honor and the task with enthusiasm.
The commons now presented a lively and almost a cheerful scene; the men gathered in groups here and there, talking excitedly; drums were beating, and the villagers chattering and gesticulating. Suddenly, too, the western sun broke through environing mist and cloud, and poured over the scene a crimson glow, which might have been a word of promise spoken from Heaven, so much it cheered them.
"McElroy," said Clark in my ear, "I would like a word apart with you, please"; then as we walked off together: "It is time this rivalry between us were somehow put an end to; there are too few of us pledged to this dangerous enterprise to risk personal bitterness, especially among the officers, who should be in entire accord. You love your cousin, Ellen O'Neil, and so do I. You wish to marry her, so do I. Which one of us she prefers I defy angel, devil, or man to determine. But she must decide between us, and quickly. If it is you she loves, she must say so, and I will resign all claim, and cease to trouble either of you. If it is I, can you agree to do the same?"
"Yes," I answered a little reluctantly. "If she loves you, Colonel Clark, I promise to withdraw my suit. Only as her cousin and present guardian, I would have a right, I think, to exact one promise of you, and that is that you will forswear a single habit, and promise to settle down when this war is over. Can a man who loves adventure, as you do, resign it for the love of a woman—Colonel Clark—to say nothing of that other passion which sometimes overmasters you?"
Clark's face darkened and flushed, but with an effort he controlled himself. "As her kinsman, McElroy, you doubtless have a right to speak thus to me. You refer to my love for strong drink, and speak of my passion for adventure. The one I could easily resign for Ellen's sake; the other—'tis embedded in my nature, yet even adventure, methinks, might be well exchanged for the love of such a woman; for domestic joys with her to share them; for friends, home and children. Yes, McElroy, I can imagine myself a quiet, respectable, church-going citizen—and yet content."
"Then the decision rests with Ellen alone. Should she choose you, I promise to give my sanction to her choice. But I fear there is small hope for either of us. Have you not heard her say that she intends to take the veil, to be a nun?"
"Yes, but I have never believed that she meant it in her heart of hearts, though she has deceived herself into thinking she does, by telling herself that it is her holy duty."
"She does not seem to me called to the vocation of a nun." I was smiling at the mere thought of the brilliant Ellen in a nunnery.
"Surely she is not, McElroy; could she be happy, think you, shut out from a world which interests her so fully? Your quiet valley, with its dull routine of duty and religion made her rebellious, then how would she endure life in a convent? No, she greatly misunderstands herself. I should rather, by far, see her your wife, McElroy, than to know that all her brilliancy and charms were hidden behind the chill walls of a convent."
"And I would far rather see her your wife than a nun."
"Then let us pledge mutual aid, thus far—that we will both use all the influence we may have with her to keep her from a convent. Shall we go now to see her, and bid her choose between us?"
"It does not seem to me to be the wisest course. Suppose she should absolutely refuse both of us? or even in case we can persuade her that she is not called to a convent life, and can induce her to make choice, suppose one of us should be killed in this attack upon Vincennes, and he the one she had chosen? Might she not afterwards feel it disloyal to the memory of that one to listen to the addresses of the other, and so be more than ever disposed to think herself set apart to virgin consecration? Let us leave the matter undecided until one or both of us return from Vincennes. I can trust you to take no less interest in my safety on that account, and you, I think, can likewise trust me. Should I fall, my rights in Ellen, such as they are, become yours. Should you be killed, I inherit your claim to her. Meantime both are pledged to use our utmost endeavors to keep her out of a convent—even though to do so, we must help the other to win her."
"Shrewdly said, McElroy," replied the Colonel, with a hearty laugh. "It is a true Scotch-Irishman's bargain you propose—many chances to win, few to lose. Your hand on it. Once more we are good friends, and loyal comrades, pledged together and twice over to two noble causes: one—the independence of the United States of America and the saving of the world for democracy, and the other—to preserve to the world the beauty, the wit, and the spirit of Ellen O'Neil."