THE MEASURE OF A MANBy John Trotwood Moore
By John Trotwood Moore
It was early in December, 1814. It had been a hot summer in New Orleans, and the fall had brought little frost, scarcely enough to kill the vegetation. A sallowness lay over the landscape, a callousness and an unknown dread.
All the fall this dread had lain over the city—the dread of the British. And strange rumors had been mingled with that dread—rumors which shook the fair Creole city to its depths, for they were a gallant and romantic people, and the things which touched their women touched them; and never before in all their history had any such foe threatened them in any such language as came mingled with the rumors of the approaching British—this threat which they had sent of “Beauty and Booty.”
And never had any threat so stirred a people to desperate resistance; for the French Creole is chivalric and his woman is his god. And the Southern-American—who was fully one-half of the people at that time in New Orleans—is more than chivalric—he is a fighter.
At first, in the sallow, stagnated city, they had heard vague things with scarcely any confirmation—of the British landing at Pensacola and Mobile, and the Creole city gave a sigh of relief, for it was higher up the coast the dreaded British would land, and not in their fair town.
Then came a rumor which thrilled them and threw them into a fervor of patriotic enthusiasm—they were wild in rejoicing—it was too good—it could not be true! But it was, and they knew of it the next day—positively, surely, from Lafitte, the Baratarian pirate, whom Jackson had pardoned and given the rights of anAmerican citizen. It was Lafitte who told them that for the first time in this war the British had been whipped and driven out, both from Pensacola and Mobile, and that by a backwoods fighter who was already headed for New Orleans and with the same troops which had annihilated the Indians and driven the British from Pensacola.
There were bonfires and rejoicings that night. And Lafitte also was a hero, though his crimes had been many and his robberies more.
And they had pictured great things of this Jackson in the interval; surely he was a man magnificent, in gold tinsel and booted and in velvet and stars—a new Napoleon, a Louis the Fourteenth, armed cap-a-pie, in a new land to avenge their old foe. They would now defy the British—let them come!—long live Jackson!
It threw them into renewed spasms of exertion. Things had been dead, but now they were alive again; and Major Planché, the intrepid, rushed around to harangue his brave guards and call upon them to defend their country to the last!
It was several days later before they saw him, and then their enthusiasm went the way of all French ebullition. For it was a small party of horsemen who came in on the road leading from old Fort St. John to the city, a gray-haired, sallow, emaciated, gaunt, but terribly in earnest man, riding at their head. One glance from the Creoles and they knew he needed treatment for malaria, and they wondered how he sat his horse at all. And his dress—this proud Napoleon—it was absurd! Great boots, too big for his feet and legs, threadbare uniform and a little leathern cap on his head!
But his eyes—his way of going at things, his quick cut to the heart of things, his quiet assurance to the people who crowded around him—so sure that it carried absolute certainty and so bravely said that it fired them to the fighting pitch: “They’ll not enter New Orleans save over my dead body!”
Juliette had been in New Orleans long enough to love the place—as all who live in it long enough do—when one morning she received a note from Mrs. Edward Livingston to come over and help her entertain General Jackson and his staff at dinner.
“My husband,” the lady wrote, “has been appointed his aide-de-camp, and we shall give them a royal welcome. But I do confess, my dear, that I scarcely know how I shall be able to entertain this wild General from Tennessee—so do come and help me.”
Juliette smiled and flushed indignantly. “A wild General from Tennessee! Mother,” she said to the older lady, “listen! Is there not a surprise in store for her?”
The Livingston mansion, the most fashionable home in the city, had been lighted with many candles when Juliette arrived. From its wide-pillared portico a negro butler ushered her in where a hum of feminine voices greeted her and a beautiful sight met her eyes. Besides herself, a dozen of the most beautiful society women of New Orleans had been asked to help receive the noted Indian fighter.
“Oh, what does he look like?” cried one, as soon as she saw Juliette and greeted her, “and how shall we do to please him? I am told you know him well,ma chérie—does he wear coon caps, and, O, what do you call it?—furs?”
Mrs. Livingston came up, smiling: “Now, my dear, you must act as my aide-de-camp. You must introduce me and all these girls to the General and his staff, and do taste the punch and see if I have put enough whiskey in, for they say he drinks it straight out of a dipper!”
There were sounds of footsteps on the portico and the clatter of swords against spurs. The bevy of pretty women fell back in line behind their hostess, with:
“There they are, now!”
Juliette fell back with the others, her face pale, for just as they came into the door her quick eye had seen them, Major Livingston ushering them in—and Trevellian among them.
Then her heart began to thump so loudly—her breath to come so quickly that she felt as if she should faint.
She had heard of his deeds and his rapid promotion. Mrs. Jackson herself had written her over a month ago—how he had led the troops into Pensacola, taking a battery which was threatening them with a squad of men. How he had helped at Ft. Bowser, driving the British out and (for Mrs. Jackson would not omit this, since she had written the letter for no other purpose)—he had been promoted to the colonelcy of the Tennessee regiment in place of Bristow, captured by the British and taken off in their man-of-war as it ran out of Pensacola: “And Mr. Jackson says,” she wrote, “that he had met them secretly and was acting without authority at a critical time.”
All this had gone through her mind as she saw them advancing. She smiled when she saw General Jackson’s magnificent bow to Mrs. Livingston, and that lady’s look of surprise, as with courtly grace, he turned and introduced to her each of his officers. In turn she introduced him to the ladies and when he reached Juliette he stopped, raised and kissed her hand, saying:
“I am delighted to see you so soon after my arrival, my dear, for I was just going to look you up,” and then with a wonderful memory for French and American names, he turned and introduced each of his officers to the younger hostess and the younger ladies, pronouncing their names as if he had been familiar with them always. Taking Mrs. Livingston by the hand he conducted her to a sofa and seated her amid the hum and hubbub of younger voices mingling. Juliette turned. It was a pretty girl whispering in her ear.
“Is this your backwoodsman? He is a prince.”
She turned, looking for a corner—anywhere to be rid of Trevellian’s eyes. She saw him coming towards her, led by General Jackson. Seizing her by the arm as if to prevent escape and holding Trevellian also for the same purpose: “I wish you to greet and congratulate Colonel Trevellian, my dear,” said the general, his eyes flashing proudly.
“I am happy to congratulate you, sir,” she said, her face paling, her knees trembling.
He took her hand, pressed it and turned away.
But in that pressure she knew he loved her yet and she—never had hated herself more, for she loved him.
The evening was nearly over. It had been a memorable one for all, for Jackson’s assurance had made them all assured.
“Oh, he will whip them,” said Mrs. Livingston to Juliette; “he can do anything. Backwoodsman?—he is a prince. What reserve power, what force—what natural leadership! And do you know,” she pouted, “he has not touched any of my fine dishes—he is sick—he eats only a little rice and milk. Oh, I wish I could keep him here and nurse him! But I know, dear, I feel the city is safe.”
Trevellian had talked to each of his hostess’ guests; he had spent the evening seemingly satisfied with the chattering, jolly beauties around him, but his thoughts were continually with Juliette. For it had been many months since he had seen her, and he, too, had yearned. And then when she shook his hand—that pressure, ever so slight, but it meant, and he knew it—that she loved him.
Could he seek her and speak to her again? Had she not said and done enough to cause a renewal of his advances?
While she was thinking he walked over mechanically, but his heart beating as it never had before. She was alone, near the window on the vine-covered veranda looking over the cooling, dew-gathering landscape of the mild December night.
“I hope you have found it pleasant living here,” he said, “and that you will suffer no fright from the fear of the British.”
“I am not in the least afraid,” she said, smiling toward General Jackson, who, fatigued, was stretched out on a sofa before a small fire, while a numberof young people listened to his talk.
Trevellian shook his head. “It is a terribly serious thing. Half our troops are still in the woods marching here. The Kentuckians have not yet arrived. We have only 2,000 troops of all kinds yet in the city, and Lafitte places the English he met on the sea at 10,000 alone, to say nothing of their sailors and marines and ships of war. But the General,” he went on proudly, “I believe he thinks he could whip them himself, and he would try it. I do not say this to frighten you, but I wish you to be prepared. If the British were to land before our other troops come, God only knows how we could stop them. I think we should all have to die here.”
She looked up at him quickly and in that look he saw all the sorrow of love in her eyes.
“I, myself,” he said, “do not expect to live through this fight. I do not want to, and that is why I have come to speak to you for the last time.”
He saw her frame quiver and tears spring to her eyes, but he went on:
“I shall leave with General Jackson a letter my father wrote to me before he died, and which I found among his papers a few days after I first met you. After this fight is over I want him to deliver it into your hands—then you may think differently,” he added, “and I should not want you to think evil of me after I am dead.”
“Tell me now,” she said, and turning she came up and stood looking into his face, her eyes moist and yet afire with love and hope. “Tell me now. I do so wish to hear you say.”
He could not restrain himself. He stooped and laid his lips on hers.
“It is my first—my last,” he said, and though she clung to his neck for one brief moment and he heard her sob, he shook her quietly off, and answered the call to horse that was sounded in the yard where his commander and his aides had mounted and were ready to go.
“Goodbye, my darling,” he whispered. “I shall go on, knowing I have your love and if I fall know that you were mine—forever.”
[To be continued.]