FORT SUMTER had been fired on!
The whole country was in a state of flaming excitement. Up to that time there had been a division of sentiment in the North, and many thought that by patient effort the seceding States could be brought back into the Union—that there would never be any serious fighting—but now all that was changed.
In a measure the Northerners were unprepared for war, and the regular army was then very small, but one month after the inauguration of President Lincoln he issued a call for seventy-five thousand volunteers for three months' service only, and the war between North and South began in earnest.
In every part of the country there was one absorbing topic of conversation, while men were being hastily gathered into companies, officers were forming their regiments to march to the scene of conflict, women were hurriedly joining hospital brigades, and the government was rushing the purchase and manufacture of ammunition and weapons, and collecting an adequate supply of horses and army-wagons, camp equipments and provisions and uniforms for the soldiers.
In every State there was an individual flurry of preparation while men and women made ready to leave homes and families, for the sake of their country. When the firstenlistment took place, Annie Etheredge, a young woman whose childhood and early girlhood had been passed in Wisconsin, was in Detroit visiting some friends, and the set of young women with whom she associated became so filled with the enthusiasm of war that nineteen of them offered themselves to go as nurses with the Second Michigan volunteers under Colonel Richardson. This offer was accepted and all bade brave farewells to their families and friends, and set out with the regiment, to help and to heal wherever opportunity offered. But theirs were hands and hearts not accustomed to such work, and at the end of a few months, eighteen of them returned to their homes, having been unable to bear the sights and service of the battlefield. But it was not so with Annie Etheredge. Her brave spirit and heroic character never gave way under the most severe strain, and as we follow her through those sombre days, we give thanks for such a pure, strong example of what a woman, however young, may be. To Tennessee went Annie with her regiment, and was transferred to Michigan, where she had many friends and was with that regiment in every battle in which they took part.
It took very little time to discover the value of her services and General Berry, who for a long time commanded the brigade to which Annie's regiment was attached, soon declared that the young woman was as self-possessed under a hot fire of shot and shell as he was himself—and that was a good deal for the gallant commander to acknowledge of one of the opposite sex!
Annie was provided with a fine horse, a side-saddle, and saddle bags, as well as two pistols which she carried in her holster, but never used, and so fitted out she rode fearlessly to the front in the skirmish of Blackburn's Ford and in the first battle of Bull Run. Her keen eye was always quickto discover where there was need of assistance, and she would gallop to a wounded soldier who was too severely hurt to go to the rear, dismount, and regardless of the fire of shot and shell often whizzing around her, would skilfully bind up his wounds, give him water or a necessary stimulant, say a cheery word,—then gallop on to her next patient. So tender and soothing a nurse was she that the soldiers called her "Gentle Annie," and many an eye watched with eager affection as the horse carrying her girlish figure came in sight following the troops.
In the second battle of Bull Run, on the 29th of August, 1861, Annie was standing on a part of the battle-field where there was a rocky ledge, under the protection of which some wounded soldiers had crawled. Seeing this, Annie lingered behind the troops, helped several other injured men to the same retreat, and was soon busy dressing their wounds. One of the fellows was a fine looking boy whose lips were parched and his eyes brilliant with fever. She gave him a refreshing drink, then bound up his wounds, receiving in return a bright glance of gratitude and a faint "God's blessing on you," just as the rebel battery literally tore him to pieces under her very hands, while at the same moment she saw the enemy, almost within touch, and she was obliged to make a hasty flight or she too would have been killed.
On another part of that bloody battle-field of Bull Run, tireless in her activity, although sick at heart from the ghastly sights and sounds of the day, she was kneeling beside a soldier and tenderly binding up his wounds, when she heard a gruff voice repeating her name, and looking up, to her astonishment saw brave General Kearney, checking his horse by her side, watching her with genuine admiration in his eyes. "That's right," he exclaimed. "Iam glad to see you here, helping those poor fellows, and when this is over, I will have you made a regimental sergeant," which meant that she would receive a sergeant's pay and rations, but as the gallant General was killed two days later at Chantilly, Annie never received the appointment. But she continued her care of the sick and wounded in the same quiet manner which characterised all her actions. When she was not busy on the field or in hospital or transport duty she superintended the cooking at headquarters, and when the brigade moved, she would mount her horse, and march with the ambulance and the surgeons, ready to serve where she was most needed, or if on the battle-field when night fell she wrapped herself in her soldier's blanket and slept under the protecting sky with the hardihood of a true soldier.
At Chancellorsville, on the 2nd of May, 1863, the men of the Third Corps were in extreme danger because of a panic by which the Eleventh Corps was broken up; and one company of the Third Michigan and also one of the sharp-shooters were detailed as skirmishers. Annie was advised of her danger in remaining with the regiment, but refused to go to the rear, and instead took the lead, but met her Colonel and he peremptorily commanded her to go back, saying the enemy was very near, and he was every moment expecting an attack. Reluctant to obey, Annie turned and rode along the front of a line of shallow trenches filled with Union men. Then rising in her saddle she called out, "Boys, do your duty and whip the rebels!"
The men's heads rose above the edge of the trench and they cheered her, crying, "Hurrah for Annie! Bully for you!" which shout unfortunately showed their position to the enemy, who at once fired a volley of shots in the direction of the cheering. Annie rode to the end of the rear ofthe line, then turned to look back, and as she did so, an officer quickly pushed his horse between her and a large tree by which she was standing, so that he might be sheltered behind her. She was staring at him in astonishment at such an unchivalrous act, when a second volley was fired; a ball whizzed past her, and the officer fell heavily against her, then lifeless to the ground. At the same moment another ball grazed Annie's hand (this was the only wound she received during the whole war), cut through her dress, and slightly wounded her horse, who was so frenzied by the pain that he set off on a run through the woods, plunging in and out among the trees so rapidly that Annie was afraid of being brushed from her saddle by the branches, or of having her brains dashed out by being thrown against a tree trunk. Raising herself on her saddle with a violent effort she crouched on her knees and clung to the pommel and awaited what might come, but by a lucky chance, the frightened animal dashed out of the woods and into the midst of the Eleventh Corps, who stopped the runaway and gave a rousing cheer for plucky Annie. Her regiment was by this time quite a distance away, and Annie wanted to see and speak with General Berry, who was the commander of her division, but was told by an aide that he was not there. "Heishere," replied Annie, "and I must see him." The aide turned his horse and rode up to the General, who was near by, and told him that a woman was coming up, who insisted on seeing him.
"It is Annie," said General Berry. "Let her come, let her come. I would risk my life for Annie any time!" As Annie approached from one side a prisoner was brought up on the other, and after some words with him, and receiving his sword, the General sent him to the rear, and after greeting Annie cordially he gave the prisoner into her charge,directing him to walk by her horse. This was Annie's last interview with the brave General, for he was killed early the next morning in the desperate fight for possession of the plank road, in the woods not far from the hospital, leading past the Chancellor House.
During the same battle Annie found an artillery man so badly wounded that he could not move. The batteries had no surgeons of their own, and despite his entreaties the infantry surgeons with their hands full in caring for their own wounded men, had refused to assist him. Annie, after binding up the poor man's wounds, insisted on having him cared for, and a year later she received the following letter:
Washington, D. C., Jan. 14, 1864.Annie:—Dearest Friend:—I am not long for this world, and I wish to thank you for your kindness ere I go.You were the only one who was ever kind to me since I entered the Army. At Chancellorsville, I was shot through the body, the ball entering my side and coming out through the shoulder. I was also hit in the arm, and was carried to the hospital in the woods where I lay for hours and not a surgeon would touch me when you came along and gave me water and bound up my wounds. Please accept my heartfelt gratitude; and may God bless you and protect you from all dangers; may you be eminently successful in your present pursuit. I enclose a flower, a present from a sainted mother; it is the only gift I have to send you. Had I a picture, I would send you one. I know nothing of your history, but I hope you always have and always may be happy, and since I will be unable to see you in this world, I hope I may meet you in the better world where there is no war. May God bless you, both now and forever, is the wish of your grateful friend.
Washington, D. C., Jan. 14, 1864.
Annie:—Dearest Friend:—I am not long for this world, and I wish to thank you for your kindness ere I go.
You were the only one who was ever kind to me since I entered the Army. At Chancellorsville, I was shot through the body, the ball entering my side and coming out through the shoulder. I was also hit in the arm, and was carried to the hospital in the woods where I lay for hours and not a surgeon would touch me when you came along and gave me water and bound up my wounds. Please accept my heartfelt gratitude; and may God bless you and protect you from all dangers; may you be eminently successful in your present pursuit. I enclose a flower, a present from a sainted mother; it is the only gift I have to send you. Had I a picture, I would send you one. I know nothing of your history, but I hope you always have and always may be happy, and since I will be unable to see you in this world, I hope I may meet you in the better world where there is no war. May God bless you, both now and forever, is the wish of your grateful friend.
Such rewards for loving service must have been very grateful to one of Annie's sensitive nature, and she continued to toil on in the spirit of love and heroism through the battle of Gettysburg, and the engagements of Grant's closing campaign, where her gentleness and courage were favourite themes of the soldiers, who could scarcely bear to have her out of their sight when they were sick or wounded.
At the battle of the Wilderness, when the fighting was fiercest and the balls were raining like hailstones, the Fifth Michigan, to which Annie was now attached, together with other troops, were surrounded and nearly cut off by the rebels and as the line of battle swung round, the rebels at once took the places vacated by the Union men. Annie was at that moment speaking to a little drummer boy when a bullet pierced his heart, and he fell against Annie, dead. For the first and only time during the war she was overcome by a panic of terror and laying the dead boy on the ground, she ran like a hunted deer towards what she took to be the Union troops, to find to her horror she was mistaken. It was the rebel forces, but, too late to retrace her steps she dashed ahead, cutting her swift way through the enemy's line, and though shots whistled after her, she escaped in safety.
With every month of service, Annie's patriotism grew stronger and her desire to serve the cause for which the Union was fighting, keener. During the battle ofSpotsylvaniashe met a number of soldiers retreating, and when imploring them to turn back had no effect, she offered to lead them herself, and shamed into doing their duty, by a woman's courage, they turned, and led by the dauntless girl, went back into the thick of the fight, under heavy fire from the enemy. Never did Annie bear the regimental colours or flourish sword or flag, as has been asserted; shesimply inspired men to deeds of valour or to the doing of their simple duty by her own contagious example of unwavering patriotism.
When the enemy was attacked by the Second Corps, as they were at Deep Bottom, Annie became separated from her regiment, and with her usual attendant—the surgeon's orderly, who carried the medicine chest, went in search of the troops, but before she realised it, found herself beyond the line of the Union pickets. An officer at once told her she must turn back, that the enemy was near, and almost before the words were spoken, the rebel skirmishers suddenly appeared, and as suddenly the officer struck spurs into his horse and fled, Annie and the orderly following as fast as they could, until they reached the Union lines. As the rebels had hoped to surprise the Union troops they did not fire lest they should give an alarm, which is probably the reason why Annie escaped uninjured, and in this as in many other cases it seemed as if the loving thoughts and prayers of those to whom she had been mother, sister and friend in hours of blackest despair protected the brave girl from harm.
So strong was the confidence of the soldiers in Annie's ability to shape even circumstances to her will, that this confidence amounted almost to a superstition, and whenever a battle was to be fought, were uneasy as to results, also as to the care of the wounded unless she was at hand, and there was never a more fitting tribute paid to man or woman, old or young, than that paid to Annie by the brilliant General Birney. After watching her closely and observing her invaluable service and dauntless courage one day at twilight he gathered together his troops, and amid shouts of appreciative applause presented her with the glittering Kearney Cross, a token of noble self-sacrifice andheroic service rendered to the Union army, and it is pleasant to picture the brave girl as she received the reward of her faithful service, with that modest diffidence which is so charming in a woman, but with shining eyes and cheeks flushed with appreciation of the token that her work had not been in vain.
Many verses have been written in honour of Annie, and this fragment of one of them seems a fitting tribute to the pure, sweet, patriotic Daughter of the Regiment.
To Miss Anna Etheredge.(THE HEROINE OF THE WAR.)
Hail dauntless maid! whose shadowy form,Borne like a sunbeam on the air,Swept by amid the battle storm,Cheering the helpless sufferers there,Amid the cannon's smoke and flame,The earthquake sound of shot and shell,Winning by deeds of love, a nameImmortal as the brave who fell.Hail angel! whose diviner spellCharmed dying heroes with her prayer,Staunching their wounds amid the knellOf death, destruction and despair.Thy name by memory shall be wreathedRound many desolate hearts in prayer;By orphan lips it shall be breathed,And float in songs upon the air.
IT was the twenty-second of October. Hills until recently tapestried, and valleys which had been flaming with the glory of autumn were now putting on the more sombre garb of early winter, though still the soft haze of fall hung over fields and forests in the small Canadian colony, on the bank of the St. Lawrence River, twenty miles below Montreal, a settlement commanded by the French officer Seignieur de Verchères.
Peace and quiet reigned throughout the small community on that October morning, while all its inhabitants except the very young or the infirm were busy harvesting.
MADELEINE DE VERCHÈRESMADELEINE DE VERCHÈRES
Because of its location in a direct route between the hunting ground of the Iroquois Indians and Montreal, the fort protecting the settlement was known as the "Castle Dangerous" of Canada. At night all the farmers and other settlers of the community left their log cabins and gathered in the fort for protection, then went out in the morning, with hoe in one hand and gun in the other, to till the fields, leaving the women and children safe inside the fort, which stood in an exposed position beyond the homes of the settlers. Outside the fort stood a strong block house connected with it by a covered passage, and both were surrounded by a palisaded wall. Fort and blockhouse and wall were necessary protections in those days when English, French and Indians were at war in the Canadianprovinces in the name of Church or King, or for personal betterment, and when the Indians were resisting with powerful determination the religion and customs which the white men were trying to thrust upon them, and attempting to prevent the aliens from securing the rich supplies of skins which were annually brought down the Ottawa river by fur-traders from the frozen North.
It was indeed a time of warfare in Canada—that latter part of the seventeenth century, when Frontenac was governor of the French possessions, and two nations were striving so bitterly for supremacy. At that time the river Ottawa, as Parkman, the historian, tells us, "was the main artery of Canada, and to stop it was—to stop the flow of her life blood."
The Iroquois, a powerful and cunning tribe of Indians who were a menace to all foreigners, knew this, and their constant effort was to close it so completely that the annual supply of beaver skins would be prevented from passing, and the French colony thus be obliged to live on credit. It was the habit of the Iroquois to spend the latter part of the winter, hunting in the forests between the Ottawa and the upper St. Lawrence, and when the ice broke up to move in large bands to the banks of the Ottawa and lie in ambush to waylay the canoes of the fur-traders with their cargoes of skins. On the other hand, it was the constant effort of Frontenac and his men to keep the river open, an almost impossible task. Many conflicts great and small took place, with various results, but in spite of every effort on the part of the French, the Iroquois blockade was maintained for more than two years.
The brunt of the war was felt in the country above Montreal, which was easily accessible to the Indians, but it was a time of grave menace also to all the colonists,and the children of the Seignieur de Verchères had been taught from their earliest childhood to handle firearms easily and skilfully, and had been told so many blood-curdling tales of the treachery and cruelty of the Iroquois, and of the heroic deeds done by their countrymen in defending forts and homes, that each young heart thrilled with the hope that they too might some day perform a deed of valour. And their chance was nearer than they dreamed on that October morning when the little settlement lay serene in its quiet security, giving no heed to invasion or to foe, when everyone in the settlement was at work in the fields except two soldiers, the two young sons of the Seignieur, an old man of eighty, and a number of women and children.
The Seignieur was at that time on duty at Quebec, his wife was also away on a visit to Montreal, and their daughter, Madeleine, a girl of fourteen, was in command of both fort and home—not very difficult offices to fill, so thought her parents in leaving, as there had been no attacks for some time, and we can picture Madeleine, tall and slender, with a wealth of golden-brown hair falling over her low brow, her eyes dancing with merriment as she received her list of household duties from her mother, and her commands concerning the fort from her father, sure that the hours and days of the golden autumn would bring her no graver responsibilities than she had carried before.
Her morning duties in the home despatched, she sauntered down to the river boat-landing, taking with her a hired man named Laviolette. She was expecting some friends from Montreal and for a long time she stood on the bank of the sparkling river, shading her eyes from the glare of the sun, watching eagerly in hopes of seeing the boatload coming. It was not in sight, and she chatted with Laviolette and watched the movements of somenear-by fishing craft for a moment. Suddenly she turned, stood still, and held up a silencing finger to the garrulous Laviolette, who was spinning a sea yarn of his boyhood. She had heard an ominous sound in the direction of the field where the settlers were at work.
"Run, Laviolette, to the top of the hill and see what it is," she said, without serious apprehension. The man, quick to do her bidding, ran to a point of vantage, stood beside her again, and what was it he said?
"Shots! Run, Mademoiselle,run!" he cried, "here come the Iroquois!"
The warning was too late. As Madeleine turned she found herself within gun range of forty or fifty of the dreaded Indians! Like a bit of thistle-down blown by the wind, she ran toward the fort, her brown hair flying in the breeze, commending herself as she ran, so she herself afterwards told, to the Holy Virgin, the Iroquois in hot pursuit, but not one of them fleet-footed enough to catch the fleeing maiden. Disconcerted, they stood still, seeing that pursuit was fruitless, and, standing, fired at her, the bullets whistling about her ears, while her heart beat so fast with fright that it seemed she could not take another step. But still she was fleeing, fleeing. She was at the gate at last, she cried loudly, "To arms! To arms!" praying that someone within would hear her and come to the rescue, but she prayed in vain. The two soldiers who were in the fort were so terror stricken that they ran to the blockhouse and hid, and only one answered Madeleine's call. To add to her horror, outside the gate were two women huddled, moaning for their husbands who had just been killed before their eyes. There was no time for quiet thought, but in Madeleine's veins flowed the blood of warriors. In a brave voice she called, "Go in, and cease your crying!"and pushing the women inside the gate, closed it, as she did so, trying to think how she was to save the other defenceless ones of whom in her father's absence she was the guardian. With flying feet she inspected the fort and wall, and to her dismay found that in several places the defences were so insecure that the enemy could easily push through. The weak spots must be barricaded at once. With peremptory orders Madeleine set her few helpers to work, and herself fetched wood for her purpose, helping place it with her quick strong hands. That done, she went into the blockhouse where all the ammunition was kept, and there crouching in a corner she found the two soldiers, one with a lighted match in his hand.
"What are you going to do with that?" she asked.
Too frightened to lie, he answered, "Light the powder and blow us all up."
Madeleine flashed a glance of contempt at him. "You are a miserable coward!" she said. "Go out of this place.Iam commander of the fort," and there was that in her voice which made the men obey. Then throwing off her bonnet, putting on a more masculine hat, and taking up a gun, in the use of which she was unusually skilful, she gave a command to her two brothers, who were awaiting her orders. "Let us fight to the death," she said. "We are fighting for our country and our religion. Remember our father has taught you that gentlemen are born to shed their blood for the service of God and the King."
The boys were only ten and twelve years old, but they had received the same early training as Madeleine, and in their veins too ran the blood of those who conquer. The stirring words roused their courage, and like old seasoned warriors they took up arms, and with what ability they possessed began at once to fire through the loopholes of theblockhouse on the Iroquois, who, having no idea how many soldiers were inside defending the garrison, were overcome with fear, and giving up their attack on the fort, began to chase the people in a neighbouring field, and killed all whom they could catch. Madeleine was now so thoroughly filled with the spirit of war that she at once ordered a cannon to be fired, partly to keep the enemy from a further assault, and also as a signal to some of the soldiers who were at a distance, hunting. And all this time within the fort there was the shrill sound of the women and children wailing and screaming. Madeleine, on guard at a loophole, gave a stern order, "Be quiet, or your screams will encourage the enemy!" Then with far sighted eyes she saw a canoe gliding up to the landing-place, the one that she had been looking for in that care-free hour which now seemed years ago; the canoe in which was her friend who was trying to reach the fort with his family. Knowing how near the Indians were, Madeleine was terrified lest the visitors should be killed before her eyes, and she begged the soldiers to go to their aid, but they were not brave enough to do it. She must go herself. With a hasty command to Laviolette to keep watch at the gate while she was gone, she ran out alone down to the landing-place. She afterwards said, "I thought that the savages would suppose it to be a ruse to draw them towards the fort, in order to make a rush upon them. They did suppose so, and thus I was able to save my friends, the Fontaine family. When they were landed I made them all march up to the fort before me in full sight of the enemy. We put so bold a face on that they thought they had more to fear than we had." Thus the settlers and their plucky young escort gained the shelter of the fort, and Madeleine, quite encouraged by this addition to the number of her forces, atonce ordered that whenever an Indian came in sight, he should at once be fired on, which order was faithfully obeyed, and in watching and firing, the hours of the long day wore away.
After sunset a fierce northeast wind came up, accompanied with a flurry of snow and hail, and as the little band in the fort heard the howling of the wind they looked at one another with pale and terrified faces, fearing that the Iroquois, who were still lurking near, would be able, under cover of the noise and darkness of the storm, to climb into the fort, and all would be lost. Whitest of all was Madeleine, the young commander, but she gathered her troop of six persons around her, and said stoutly, "God has saved us to-day from the hands of our enemies, but we must take care not to fall into their snares to-night. As for me, I want you to see that I am not afraid. I will take care of the fort with an old man of eighty and another who never fired a gun, and you, Pierre Fontaine, with the two soldiers, will go to the blockhouse with the women and children because that is the strongest place, and if I am taken, don't surrender, even if I am cut to pieces and burned before your eyes. The enemy cannot hurt you in the blockhouse if you make the least show of fight."
Then placing her two brothers on two of the bastions or look-outs of the fort, and the old man of eighty on the third, she herself took the fourth watch, and all through the endless hours of that night while the wind howled and the storm beat against the wall, the cries of "ALL'S WELL!" were repeated from the blockhouse to the fort, and from the fort to the blockhouse. One would have thought the place was filled with soldiers, and the Indians were completely deceived, as they confessed afterwards to a Frenchman to whom they then told their plan of capturing thefort in the night, a plan which had failed because the place had been so well guarded!—and two young boys, a very old man and a young girl had accomplished this!
About one o'clock in the morning the soldier who had been put on watch at the gate called out, "Mademoiselle, I hear something," and hurrying to him Madeleine, by the aid of the snow light, was able to see a small number of cattle huddled close to the fort. Telling this to her companions they instantly cried, "Let them in," but Madeleine shook her head, answering emphatically, "God forbid! You don't know all the tricks of the savages. They are no doubt following the cattle, covered with skins of beasts so as to get into the fort, if we are simple enough to open the gate for them."
But later, after having taken every precaution for safety, besides placing the boys ready with their guns cocked in case of surprise, Madeleine allowed the gate to be opened and the cattle filed in safely and alone.
At last the weary night of suspense was over, and as daylight dawned, the situation began to look brighter. Everyone took fresh courage except Madame Fontaine, who begged her husband to carry her to another and safer fort. He replied, "I will never abandon this fort while Mademoiselle Madeleine is here."
At this loyal answer Madeleine gave him a swift glance of appreciation, and cried, "I will never abandon it. I woulddierather than give it up to the enemy. It is of the greatest importance that they should not get hold of any French fort, because they would think they could get others and grow more bold and presumptuous than ever!"
Then with another quick nod of thanks and of understanding off went the young commander again to her post on the look-out, and then back to the blockhouse, where shesaid words of ringing encouragement to the weary band huddled there together, and it was twenty-four hours later before she went into her father's house either for refreshment or rest, although sadly in need of both, but was always on guard to cheer her discouraged flock.
When forty-eight hours had passed in this way, rest became imperative even for Madeleine's strong, young frame, and she allowed herself to doze at a table, folding her arms on it, so that with her gun lying across her arms and her head on her gun she was ready at a word of alarm to spring up, weapon in hand, and face the enemy. It was a terrible situation, that of the little band within the fort, for they knew of no way to send word to friends of their plight, and if the outer world had no news of the situation, from whence could help come? This thought was constantly in the minds of the exhausted band, waiting, watching and hoping against hope for some one to come to their rescue. Had they but known that even while they were waiting, some of the farmers who when at work in the field had escaped the Indians, were now making their way to Montreal, their anxiety would have been greatly lessened, but they did not know, and the fort was constantly attacked by the enemy, who when not besieging it were crouching near, waiting for a chance to make a successful attack. Very early on the dawn of the seventh day of their vigil, Madeleine's younger brother, who was on watch on the side of the fort which faced the river, heard the sound of distant voices and the splashing of oars in the water.
"Who goes there?" he called out bravely, but with a shivering fear that it might be additional forces of the enemy. At the sound of his cry Madeleine, dozing by the table, roused and ran to his side with a question on her lips which did not need to be framed.
"A voice from the river," he whispered, but as he spoke came the louder sound of near-by footsteps and voices, and fleet-footed Madeleine ran to the bastion to see whether it was friend or foe arriving.
"Who are you?" the clear voice of the intrepid young commander rang out, and instantly came the answer:
"We are Frenchmen. It is La Monnerie, who comes to bring you help, and with him are forty men."
Relief was at hand! Turning, Madeleine gave a command to a soldier to stand on guard, then, "Quick, open the gate," she said, and her command was obeyed. The gate, closely guarded, was opened, and out went Madeleine to meet those who had come to the rescue.
As Monsieur Monnerie caught sight of the slight girlish figure his eyes were full of wonder. Then she stood before him, drew herself up to her full height, and solemnly saluted, saying, "Monsieur, I surrender my arms to you."
The gallant Frenchman retorted chivalrously, "Mademoiselle, they are in good hands," and then the pride of the brave girl broke bounds, and with shining eyes she exclaimed, "Better than you know. Come and see for yourself!" and fairly pulled him into the fort, where he made a thorough inspection, and his admiration increased momentarily as he saw what this slip of a girl had been able to accomplish. Everything was in order, a sentinel was on each bastion, the enemy had been held at bay—what man could have done better work? Nay, who could have more nobly defended the garrison?
With the light of intense admiration in his eyes La Monnerie paid tribute to Madeleine's good judgment, bold tactics and ready wit which had saved the situation, and for very embarrassment at his praise, a deep flush crimsoned the girl's cheeks, as with a shy glance of appreciation, shethanked him, adding quietly, "It is time to relieve the guard, Monsieur. We have not been off our bastions for a week!"
Among all the incidents handed down concerning that troublous time in the Canadian provinces, none is so worthy of lingering over as this noble defence of Castle Dangerous, by the daughter of its commander, and sweet and strong, the influence of Madeleine de Verchères comes down to inspire and thrill the hearts of girls of all countries and ages by the deed she did in the name of her country and her King.
MADAME DE LAFAYETTE! How stately the title sounds, and how slender and girlish the little bride looks in her wedding finery, her dark eyes large with excitement, and a soft flush on her delicate cheeks as she gazes admiringly into the eyes of her "Big boy with the red hair," as the young Marquis de Lafayette was called by his intimate friends.
Having seen the young bride and groom, for Lafayette was only nineteen, while pretty Adrienne, his wife, was just fourteen, let us turn back the pages of history for a moment and see what led up to this remarkably youthful marriage.
To begin with, in the days of the reign of Louis XVI and the beautiful young queen, Marie Antoinette, there was no more palatial residence in all Paris than that which in 1711 came into the possession of the Duc de Noailles and was thereafter called the Hôtel de Noailles.
The finest artists of the day had re-decorated its stately rooms for the Duc; its walls were hung with costly silk, its picture gallery was famous even in a city rich in art treasures, even its stables were fabulously large and far-famed. All that could minister to the joy of life was to be found in the Hôtel de Noailles in those happy days before the clouds hanging low over France broke in a storm of disaster. Later in 1768, Madame D'Ayen,—wife of the Duc de Noailles, who was also the Duc D'Ayen,—mistress of thebeautiful home, was leading a happy life there with her four daughters, to whose education and care she devoted most of her time.
It was the early afternoon of a day in spring. At three o'clock Madame D'Ayen had dined with her children in the huge dining-room hung with dull tapestries and family portraits, then with cheery laughter the girls had run ahead of Madame to her bedroom, which was very large and hung with crimson satin damask embroidered in gold, on which the sun cast a cheerful glow. Louise and Adrienne, the two older girls,—Louise only a year the elder,—handed their mother her knitting, her books and her snuff, and then seated themselves, while the younger children disputed as to which one should have the coveted place nearest Madame. Comfortably settled at last, the older girls busy with their sewing, Madame told them the story from the Old Testament of Joseph and his coat of many colours. When she finished Louise asked question after question, which her mother patiently answered, but Adrienne drank in the story told in her mother's vivacious way, in silence. Begged for just one more story, Madame then told an amusing experience of her convent days, on which both of the girls offered so many comments that at last Madame rose, saying rather impatiently:
"You speak in a forward and disobedient manner, such as other girls of your age would never show to their parent."
Louise looked her mortification, but Adrienne said quietly, "That may be, Madame, because you allow us to argue and reason with you as other mothers do not, but you will see that at fifteen we shall be more obedient than other children," and the girl's prediction was true.
Every month of the year was a pleasure to the happychildren at the Hôtel de Noailles, but to both vivacious Louise and quiet Adrienne summer was the crowning joy of their year, for then they were always taken to visit their grandfather, the Maréchal de Noailles, who cheerfully gave himself up to making the visit as gay for the children as possible. He played games with them in the house, delightful games such as they never played at home, and better yet, planned wonderful picnics for them, when with other cousins, and a governess in charge of the cavalcade, they rode on donkeys to the appointed spot. The governess, it is said, was a tiny person, blonde, pinched, and touchy, and very punctilious in the performance of her duties. Once mounted on her donkey, however, she entirely lost her dignity and appeared so wild-eyed, scared, and stiff that one could not look at her without feeling an irresistible desire to smile, which made her angry, though what angered her most was the peals of laughter when she tumbled off her donkey, as she seldom failed to do on an excursion. She usually fell on the grass and the pace of her donkey was not rapid, so she was never hurt, and the frolicsome children filed by her, for if one of them tried to help her up, as Adrienne always wanted to do, a scolding was the reward.
In sharp contrast to the happy summer visits were those paid every autumn to the home of Madame D'Ayen's father, who lived at Fresnes. He was old and deaf and wished the children to be so repressed, that had Madame D'Ayen not made the visits as short as she could there would doubtless have been some disastrous outbreak in their ranks.
For the other months of the year, life at the Hôtel de Noailles was a charmed existence for the children, especially for nature-loving Adrienne, who spent most of her time in the beautiful garden surrounding the house,—a gardencelebrated throughout Paris for its marvellously kept flower beds, separated by winding, box-bordered paths. A flight of steps led from the house into this enchanting spot, and on either side three rows of great trees shed their long shadow over the near-by walks, while from the foot of the garden could be seen the wonderful panorama of the Tuileries. The garden was indeed an enchanted land, and the children played all sorts of games in its perfumed, wooded depths, only pausing when their mother passed through the garden, when with cries of joy they would cling to her skirts and tell her eager stories of their doings. And so, in happy play, in hours of education by her mother's side, in busy days of learning all the useful arts, seldom taught in those days to children of such high social rank, Adrienne grew to be fourteen years old. She was a reserved, well-informed, shy girl with great beautiful brown eyes, which grew large and dark when she was pleased with anything, and her finely chiselled features were those of a born aristocrat, while her good disposition was clearly visible in her expression, which was one of winning charm.
At that time in France it was customary for parents to receive proposals of marriage for their daughters at a very early age, sometimes even before the proposition had any meaning to the girl herself, and so it happened that before Adrienne D'Ayen was twelve years old, the guardian of the young Marquis de Lafayette had begged Madame D'Ayen to give her daughter in marriage to his ward, who was but seventeen, and often was one of the merry party of young people who frequented the Hôtel de Noailles,—in fact Adrienne felt for him the real affection which she might have given to a brother.
The family of the young Marquis was one of the oldest and most famous in France, famous for "bravery in battle,wisdom in counsel, and those principles of justice and right which they ever practised." Young Lafayette had been left an orphan when he was eleven years old, also the possessor of an enormous fortune, at that time, of course, in the care of his guardian. He had been a delicate child, and not especially bright, but always filled with a keen desire for liberty of thought and action, and when he became old enough to choose between the only two careers open to one of his rank, he chose to be a soldier rather than a courtier, as life at the Court did not appeal to one of his temperament. Notwithstanding this, being a good looking, wealthy young man, he was always welcome at Court and made the object of marked attentions by the young Queen and her companions. Such was the young Marquis, who for reasons diplomatic and political his guardian wished to marry to a daughter of Madame D'Ayen, but Madame objected, saying that she feared his large fortune, in the hands of one so headstrong as the young Lafayette, might not make for his own and her daughter's happiness. However, her family and friends begged her not to make the mistake of refusing an alliance with a family of such distinction as the Lafayettes, and finally, although this was as yet unknown to the girl whose future it was to so closely touch, Madame withdrew her objections, and so was decided the fate of little Adrienne D'Ayen, whose name was to be in consequence linked thereafter with great events in history.
Two years later, in the spring of 1777, the Hôtel de Noailles was in a bustle of gay preparations. Louise D'Ayen, now fifteen years old, had just become the bride of the Marquis de Montagu, and no sooner were the festivities over, than Madame D'Ayen called Adrienne to her room, and told her of the accepted proposal of M. de Lafayettefor her hand. She added, "In accepting this honour for you, my Adrienne, I have made the stipulation that you and your husband are to remain here with me for the present, as you are but children yet, that I may still influence your education and religious experience. This proposal was made two years ago, before the education of M. Lafayette was completed, but now that it is accomplished, and you are fourteen years old, you are to become the affianced bride of the young Marquis."
No well-brought-up French girl would have thought of resisting her mother's decree, although her would-be husband was not to her liking, but in this case the idea was altogether to Adrienne's own choice, and her brown eyes grew dark with joy, and she clasped her hands, exclaiming, "Oh, quel bonheur! Quel bonheur!" then escaped to her own room to think about this wonderful fairy story happening which had come to her.
Though she and the young Marquis had been constantly thrown together before this, one can well imagine the degree of shyness which overcame the young girl on their first meeting after the betrothal had been announced. The world was in a dazzling array of spring beauty, so says the historian,—the tender almonds were budding with softest green, the daffodils and tulips were breaking into rare blooms, the world waking from its winter sleep. All seemed to smile on the young lovers who walked as in a dream-world through the flower-bordered paths and spoke together of that future which they were to share.
But such a tête-à-tête did not occur again, for after that the little bride-to-be was kept busy with her studies until the time came for a flurry of preparation just before the marriage day, and it is interesting to read the description of a wedding in those days of long ago, in a country wherethe customs have ever been so different from those of our own.
It is said that there were interviews with solemn lawyers who brought huge parchments on which were recorded the estates and incomes of the two young people, but of far greater interest to the bride was the wonderful trousseau for which family treasures were brought to light, rare laces were bleached, jewels were re-set and filmy gossamer muslins were made up into bewitching finery for the pretty wearer; as well as dresses for more formal occasions made with festoons of fairy-like silver roses, panels of jewelled arabesques, cascades of lace lighter and more frail than a spider's web, masses of shimmering satins and velvets fashioned with heavy court trains, which when tried on the slender girlish figure seemed as if she were but "dressing up" as girls will often do for their own amusing. Then, too, there were priceless jewels to be laid against the white neck, slipped on the slender fingers, to marvel at their beauty and glitter, and to wonder if they could really and truly be her own!
But even the sparkling gems, the elaborate trousseau, and all the ceremony and flattery surrounding a girl who was making such a brilliant marriage, failed to turn the head or spoil the simple taste of little Adrienne. Even in her gayest moods—and like other girls, she had them—Adrienne was never frivolous, and though possessed of plenty of wit and spirit, was deeply religious and at heart unselfish and noble.
Monsieur and Madame de Lafayette! What magic there was in the new title. How proudly the young couple, scarcely more than children yet, but now husband and wife, bore themselves, as they returned from the church to the Hôtel de Noailles, to take up their residence there, accordingto the promise made to Madame D'Ayen before she would consent to the marriage. They would have preferred a home of their own, but when shortly after their marriage Lafayette's regiment was ordered to Metz, and broken-hearted little Adrienne was left behind, she found it very comforting to be where she could child-wise sob out her loneliness on the shoulder of her sympathetic mother. Poor little Adrienne,—well it was that you could not see into the future with its many harder separations!
With the return of Lafayette the pretty bride began to lead a life much gayer than any she had ever led before, for she and her young husband, because they belonged to two such famous families, became now a part of the gay little set ruled by the caprices of Queen Marie Antoinette. That first winter after their marriage the young couple went constantly to balls and late suppers, to the opera and the play,—were in fact in a constant whirl of amusement, which had the charm of novelty to them both, and Lafayette, who had always, even as a boy, been a favourite at Court, was still popular and still called "The big boy with the red hair." He was always awkward, and conspicuous for his height, as well as his clumsiness, and danced as badly as Adrienne did well, which mortified him greatly, having discovered which, Queen Marie Antoinette would often in a spirit of mischief order him to appear on the floor, and then tease him mercilessly about his awkwardness. He was different too in many ways from the courtiers with whom he was thrown, and his dominant passion even then, at nineteen, was the ambition of a true patriot, only waiting to be turned into its fitting channel.
Both he and Adrienne enjoyed the gaiety and lack of responsibility of those first months of their married life, but more than the frivolity, Adrienne enjoyed sitting athome with her husband and friends while they discussed great national affairs, and later she loved best to slip upstairs and care for the little daughter who came to be her especial joy,—and so, absorbed in a variety of interests, the first two years of Madame Adrienne's married life slipped away, and at sixteen we find her as pretty and as slender as ever, but with a deeper tenderness and gravity in her brown eyes.
At the Court of Versailles an honoured guest from the American Colonies was being entertained,—a homely, unpolished, reserved man, named Benjamin Franklin. He was a man with a mission: America must be a free country, and France must help her in the struggle, not only with men, but with money. This was the burden of his plea and it thrilled all Paris. The plain brusque American became the fad of the hour. Shops displayed canes, scarfs, hats—even a stove "à la Franklin," and he bore away with him not only an immense gift, but also a large loan, neither of which impoverished France could afford to give.
Foremost among those whom he inflamed in the cause of liberty was young Lafayette, and Adrienne noted with keen alarm his growing indifference to all other topics except that one which was absorbing his interest, and although she said nothing to him about her fear, she went at once to each member of his family with the same plea, "Persuade him not to go! Tell him his duty is here! I would die if I were left alone after we have been so happy together!" But even as she pleaded, the passion to go to America was taking a firmer hold daily on the young enthusiast. His family forbade it, but in secret he made his plans—in secret carried them out to the last moment, when going to London for a couple of days, he sent back a letter to his father-in-law, telling of his intentions. M. de Noailles read it, sentat once for his wife, and after a brief and agitated conference Adrienne was called. Eagerly impatient to know why she had been summoned, she stood before her parents, so young and frail that the mother's heart rebelled at having to tell her the cruel news. She could not do it. Without a word she handed her the letter and turned away that Adrienne might not see her sorrowful expression. Then turning back again she said hastily, "It is an utterly absurd, selfish scheme, my dear. I will see that it is not carried out."
Then she stood amazed. What had come over Adrienne? She held herself erect, her eyes were dry, and she said proudly: "If my husband feels that way, it is right and best for him to go to America, and we must do all we can to make the parting easy for him. It is he who is going to leave those who are dearest to him, for the sake of a noble cause."
Brave girl! Not once after that did she allow her own feelings to check the ardour of Lafayette's patriotism, not once did she stay her hand in her careful preparation for his departure, although every article laid aside for his use was moistened by her unseen tears, while he was busy with the interesting and enormously expensive work of chartering and fitting up a ship, which Adrienne namedThe Victory, in which he was to make his trip across the ocean.
The preparations were completed and the day had come for his going. Slight, beautiful; too proud to show her emotion, thinking more of him than of herself, Adrienne, not yet eighteen years old, bade her husband farewell—saw him embark for a strange land, for the sake of a cause as dangerous as it was alluring to the young patriot, and went back to her quiet routine of home duties and regular occupations without one murmur.
To her family and her friends she showed little of what she felt, although many a night she did not even lie down, but sat at her desk, pouring out her heart to the dear one tossing on a perilous sea, in letters which though daily sent, never reached the young adventurer, so we must needs imagine her transports of loneliness—her passion of affection, written to ease and comfort and in a measure to fit her to take up the next day's duties calmly.
Lafayette's letters to her had a better fate than hers to him, and one day when she least expected it, a precious packet lay in Adrienne's hands. Wild with excitement at sight of the familiar writing, she held it for a long time unopened, then fled to the solitude of her own room to read its contents with no eye watching her joy.
The letter was full of tender interest in her health, and of repetitions of undying affection which warmed the heart so starved for them. Written on boardThe Victory, May 30, 1777, it said: "I ought to have landed by this time, but the winds have been most provokingly contrary. When I am once more on shore I shall learn many interesting things concerning the new country I am seeking. Do not fancy that I shall incur any real danger by the occupations I am undertaking. The service will be very different from the one I must have performed if I had been, for example, a colonel in the French army. My attendance will only be required in the council. To prove that I do not wish to deceive you, I will acknowledge that we are at this moment exposed to some danger from the risk of being attacked by English vessels, and that my ship is not of sufficient force for defence. But when I have once landed I shall be in perfect safety. I will not write you a journal of my voyage. Days succeed each other, and what is worse, resemble each other. Always sky, always water,and the next day a repetition of the same thing. We have seen to-day several kinds of birds which announce that we are not very far from shore."
Fifteen days later there was a second letter, and then they arrived with some degree of regularity to cheer lonely little Adrienne, watching, waiting, and living on their coming. It was a time fraught with vital issues in the American Colonies. Though to Lafayette there was somewhat of disillusion in finding the American troops not like the dashing, brilliantly uniformed ones of his own country, but merely a great army of undisciplined, half-ragged soldiers, united only in the flaming desire to acquire liberty for their beloved land at all hazards, yet soon the young foreigner lost sight of all but their patriotism, and his letters show how he too had become heart and soul inflamed by the same spirit. Only fragments of the letters can be given here, but one can picture the young wife, with her baby in her arms, in the home of her childhood, devouring with breathless interest the story of her adventurer in a strange land. On June 15th Lafayette writes:
"I have arrived, my dearest love, in perfect health at the house of an American officer. I am going this evening to Charlestown. . . . The campaign is opened, but there is very little fighting. . . . The manners in this part of the world are very simple, polite and worthy in every respect of the country in which the noble name of liberty is constantly repeated. . . . Adieu, my love. From Charlestown I shall repair by land to Philadelphia to rejoin the army. Is it not true that you will always love me?"
A few days later he writes from Charlestown:
"I landed, after having sailed for several days along a coast swarming with hostile vessels. On my arrival hereeveryone told me that my ship must undoubtedly be taken, because two English frigates had blockaded the harbour. I even sent, both by land and sea, orders to the Captain to put the men on shore and burn the vessel. Well, by an extraordinary stroke of good luck a sudden gale of wind having blown away the frigates for a short time the vessel arrived at noonday without having encountered friend or foe. At Charlestown, I have met with General Howe, a general officer now engaged in service. The Governor of the State is expected this evening from the country. I can only feel gratitude for the reception I have met with, although I have not thought it best yet to enter into any details respecting my future prospects and arrangements. I wish to see the Congress first. There are some French and American vessels at present here which are to sail out of the harbour in company to-morrow morning. . . . I shall distribute my letters along the different ships in case any accident should happen to either one of them. . . .
I shall now speak to you, my love, about the country and its inhabitants, who are as agreeable as my enthusiasm had led me to imagine. Simplicity of manner, kindness of heart, love of country and of liberty and a delightful state of equality are met with universally. . . . Charlestown is one of the finest cities I have ever seen. The American women are very pretty and have great simplicity of character, and the extreme neatness of their appearance is truly delightful; cleanliness is everywhere even more studiously attended to here than in England. What gives me most pleasure is to see how completely the citizens are brethren of one family. In America there are no poor and none even that can be called peasants. Each citizen has some property and all citizens have the same right as the richest individual."
After protestations of deep devotion and loneliness the letter ends with:
"The night is far advanced, the heat intense, and I am devoured with gnats, but the best of countries have their inconveniences. Adieu, my love, adieu."
A very good picture that of customs and habits which would have been to the lasting advantage of America to continue!
The letters of Lafayette grew more and more homesick and Adrienne's feelings were like a harp with its strings attuned to respond to his every emotion.
From Petersburg, Va., on July 17, 1777, he writes:
"I have received no news of you, and my impatience to hear from you cannot be compared to any other earthly feeling. . . . You must have learned the particulars of the commencement of my journey. You know that I set out in a brilliant manner in a carriage, and I must now tell you that we are all on horseback, having broken the carriage after my usual praiseworthy custom, and I hope soon to write you that we have arrived at Philadelphia on foot! . . ."
A few days later he says:
"I am each day more miserable, from having quitted you, my dearest love. . . . I would give at this moment half of my existence for the pleasure of embracing you again, and telling you with my own lips how I love you. . . . Oh, if you knew how I sigh to see you, how I suffer at being separated from you and all that my heart has been called on to endure, you would think me somewhat worthy of your love."
Poor, lonely, young couple—each was suffering in a different way from the separation, but Adrienne's misery was the hardest to bear, for not only had she lost the littledaughter who had been her greatest comfort since the departure of her husband for America, but she now had a shock, for in her husband's letter of the 12th of September, after the battle of Brandywine, he wrote:
"Our Americans after having stood their ground for some time ended at last by being routed; whilst endeavouring to rally them, the English honoured me with a musket ball, which slightly wounded me in the leg, but it is a trifle, and I have escaped with the obligation of lying on my back for some time, which puts me much out of humour. I hope that you will feel no anxiety, this event ought, on the contrary, rather to reassure you, since I am incapacitated from appearing on the field for some time. I have resolved to take good care of myself, be convinced of this, my dearest love."
Notwithstanding the cheerful tenor of this letter, Adrienne was not able to eat or sleep after its arrival, until in a second letter he again assured her of the slightness of his injury, and added:
"I must now give you your lesson as the wife of an American general-officer. They will say to you, 'They have been beaten.' You must answer, 'That is true, but when two armies of equal numbers meet in the field, old soldiers have naturally the advantage over new ones. They have had besides, the pleasure of killing a great many of the enemy; many more than they have lost.' They will afterward say, 'All that is very well, but Philadelphia is taken, the Capital of America, the rampart of Liberty!' You must politely answer, 'You are all great fools.' Philadelphia is a poor forlorn town, exposed on every side, whose harbour is already closed, although the residence of Congress lent it some degree of celebrity. This is the famous city which, it may be added, we will soon make themyield to us! If they continue to persecute you with questions you may send them about their business in terms which the Vicomte de Noailles will teach you, for I cannot lose time in talking to my friends of politics."
Thrilling indeed were those days of 1777 after the battle of Brandywine, for the Americans struggling so valiantly for the liberty they were so determined to secure, and valiant was young Lafayette in upholding that Cause which he had so bravely espoused. A letter from General Greene to General Washington in which he speaks glowingly about the young Frenchman would have filled Adrienne's heart to overflowing with pride, could she but have read it, for it was full of descriptions of her husband's bravery even before he had recovered from the wound received at the battle of Brandywine, and General Greene adds:
"The Marquis Lafayette is determined to be in the way of danger." But Lafayette's own account of his doings, both to General Washington, with whom he was on the most intimate and affectionate terms, and to his wife, were always most modest and self-depreciatory. But because of Lafayette's illustrious connections, the loyalty he showed for the cause of American liberty, and also because of the marked discretion and good sense he had shown on several critical occasions, Washington recommended to Congress that the young Frenchman receive command of adivisionin the Continental army, which suggestion was carried out on the 27th of November, 1777, and of course Lafayette's ardour for the Cause he was supporting flamed higher than before, on receiving this honour.
Soon, in accordance with General Washington's plan, it was decided that the American army was to encamp for the winter at Valley Forge, and of the dreary march there, uncheered by any great triumph, and when most of thesoldiers were suffering from both cold and hunger, and the still drearier arrival and terrible subsequent privations and hardships, the pages of history have made us too well acquainted to need to dwell on them here.
During that hard winter, there were those in command who were jealous of the intimacy between Washington and the young Marquis who attempted to break it up by offering Lafayette the command of an expedition into Canada, which it was thought his military ambition would tempt him to accept. It did, and in consequence he hastened to the headquarters of General Gates at Yorktown to receive further orders, where he found the General dining, surrounded by such evidences of luxury and high living as were never seen at Valley Forge, and when he proposed the toast, "The Commander-in-chief of the American Armies," to his surprise the toast was received without a cheer, which was his first intimation that there was any feeling in the American ranks hostile in the slightest degree to General Washington.
Almost at once he set out to undertake the commission given him, and not until it had proved a disastrous failure did he discover that it had been given without the sanction or even the knowledge of Washington. He wrote a letter of profound regret and humiliation to his Commander-in-chief, laying the whole matter before him, saying that he felt utterly distressed about the matter, to which Washington replied in a fatherly and calm letter, assuring the young Marquis of his continued esteem, and gladly then Lafayette hastened back to Valley Forge, to again enjoy the companionship of his Commander-in-chief, to be inspired by his fatherly counsel.
But of what Lafayette was exposed to, of privation or of struggle, at that time Adrienne knew little, for he alwayswrote cheerfully to her, dwelling at length on any bit of brightness of which he could speak.
After having returned to Valley Forge he writes:
"My presence is more necessary to the American cause than you can possibly conceive. Many foreigners have endeavoured by every sort of artifice to make me discontented with this revolution and with him who is their chief. They have spread as loudly as they could the report that I was quitting the Continent. The English have proclaimed also loudly the same intention on my side. I cannot in justice appear to justify the malice of these people. If I were to depart many Frenchmen who are useful here would follow my example. General Washington would feel very unhappy if I were to speak of quitting him. His confidence in me is greater than I dare acknowledge, on account of my youth. In the place he occupies he is likely to be surrounded by flatterers or by secret enemies, he finds in me a sincere friend in whose bosom he may always confide his secret thoughts and who will always speak the truth. . . ." Again he says, "Several general officers have brought their wives to the camp. I envy them—not their wives—the happiness they enjoy in being able to see them. General Washington has also resolved to send for his wife. As to the English, they have received a re-inforcement of three hundred young ladies from New York!" Then with boyish simplicity he adds, "Do you not think that at my return we shall be old enough to establish ourselves in our own house, live there happily together and receive our friends?" and the letter concludes, "Adieu, my love. I only wish this project could be executed on this present day."
While Lafayette was living through all sorts of thrilling experiences and receiving still higher promotion as areward for his brilliant military exploits, across the sea had come the disquieting rumour to Madame D'Ayen of his death, and the mother-heart stood still with fear that it should reach the brave wife, already saddened enough by the suspense of her loneliness, and now the mother of another little daughter who needed all the happy smiles that Adrienne could give. With great haste and diplomacy Madame D'Ayen urged Adrienne to visit her grandfather at Fresnes, and unsuspecting Adrienne welcomed the suggestion of a change of scene, as her heart-hunger for the "big boy" over the water was daily growing more insistent. She returned in better health and spirits, but as the rumour had not yet been discredited, Madame D'Ayen insisted on another visit to the country, and never did Adrienne know of the report which would have almost killed her, until a glad unexpected day, when, without any warning to expect him, Adrienne found herself again in the arms of her husband. Lafayette had been overcome with homesickness at a time when affairs looked bright enough for the American army to risk his absence, and he had impulsively taken the first steamer sailing for France and home. Then and only then did Adrienne hear of the rumour which had caused her mother such disquietude, and then for the first time Madame D'Ayen had the opportunity for which she had longed, to learn the details of that alliance between France and America, in which she was profoundly interested and in the making of which Lafayette had played such a prominent part. There was indeed much to talk about after the long separation, and Lafayette felt that he could not have Adrienne and the little daughter whom he had not seen before, out of his sight even for a moment. Adrienne would have been quite happy, had not a dark disquietude troubled even her nights, for Lafayette had comebut to go again, and if the first parting had been hard, this was doubly so, for she knew now how devotedly she loved him, and that the changes made in him in his two years of adventure and real privation, had only given her affection a stronger desire for his presence and protection. But with characteristic courage she made no plea that he should stay, but showed a keen bright interest in all the news which came from America, and Lafayette remained with her until after the birth of his son, who was christened George Washington Lafayette. Soon after this event, Adrienne was obliged once again to say farewell to her husband, and as before, she held herself in proud courage, a courage which a woman twice her age might have been proud to show, offering no word which might sadden his going, but spurred him on with the dauntless spirit of the woman who inspires a man to be his best self.
Three long years now went by and Adrienne alone bore the anxiety and responsibility of her baby boy's alarming sickness, at the same time constantly kept on the rack of suspense by newspaper accounts of the dangerous campaigns in which Lafayette was playing a prominent part. But she remained outwardly calm and courageous, and even made herself enter a little into Court festivities, that she might brighten the lives of her mother and the children who looked to her for their sunshine.
Days, weeks and months went by, and then there came a grand fête at the Hôtel de Ville, to celebrate the birth of the Dauphin, and despite her heavy heart Adrienne went to it, looking very pretty in her stately Court gown of stiff brocade, which threw into sharp contrast her girlish figure and face. Trying not to put a damper on the party, she was chatting as gaily as possible with a courtier who was her devoted admirer, when a message was brought to her.There was a general stir of excited interest around her. What was it they said? Adrienne could scarcely credit the news. The Virginia campaign brought to a successful end? The Marquis de Lafayette at home? Cornwallis surrendered? Lafayetteat home, and waiting for her? Even the Queen was wildly excited by the good news, and being fond of both Adrienne and Lafayette, she rushed to the dazed girl's side, exclaiming impatiently, "Rouse, dear, rouse; make haste, or," this laughingly, "your red-headed boy may have sailed again for his beloved land of freedom!" Still Adrienne made no movement, and Marie Antoinette took her by the arm, saying, "I see I must personally conduct you to your own happiness. Come, my own carriage waits!"
By this time Adrienne's heart had responded to the bewildering news, and bending over the Queen's hand she would have thanked her for her favour, but Marie Antoinette was young and romantic, and pushed aside the ceremonious thanks, to impel the still dazed Adrienne into the carriage.
The Queen's carriage! The Queen herself! was whispered on every side at the unwonted sight of royalty driving so unceremoniously through the Rue Saint Honoré, but the Queen paid no heed to the fact that she was doing something unusual, and Adrienne saw nothing—heard nothing—she only kept repeating, "The campaign is over—Cornwallis has surrendered. He is back!"
The massive gates of the courtyard of the Hôtel de Noailles swung open to admit the carriage. Marie Antoinette only waited to murmur an exclamation of congratulation, to press a hasty kiss on Adrienne's cheek, then drove away, while Adrienne, her great brown eyes lustrous with excitement and joy, her cheeks flaming with suchcrimson as had not flushed them for weary months, ran up the steps between the rows of stiff lackeys, ran so fast that she tripped on her absurdly ceremonious dress of brocade, tripped and tripped again, and then with a cry of joy ran into the arms of her beloved boy with the red hair!