When left to myself, I was wont to slide into the commonplace; and where
my own dull life intrudes to clog the action I cut it down here and pare
it away there until I am merely explanatory, and not too much in
evidence. I rode out the Wilderness Trail, fell in with other
travellers, was welcomed by certain old familiar faces at Harrodstown,
and pressed on. I have a vivid recollection of a beloved, vigorous
figure swooping out of a cabin door and scattering a brood of children
right and left. "Polly Ann!" I said, and she halted, trembling.
"Tom," she cried, "Tom, it's Davy come back," and Tom himself flew out of
the door, ramrod in one hand and rifle in the other. Never shall I
forget them as they stood there, he grinning with sheer joy as of yore,
and she, with her hair flying and her blue gown snapping in the wind, in
a tremor between tears and laughter. I leaped to the ground, and she
hugged me in her arms as though I had been a child, calling my name again
and again, and little Tom pulling at the skirts of my coat. I caught the
youngster by the collar.
"Polly Ann," said I, "he's grown to what I was when you picked me up, a
foundling."
"And now it's little Davy no more," she answered, swept me a courtesy,
and added, with a little quiver in her voice, "ye are a gentleman now."
"My heart is still where it was," said I.
"Ay, ay," said Tom, "I'm sure o' that, Davy."
I was with them a fortnight in the familiar cabin, and then I took up my
journey northward, heavy at leaving again, but promising to see them from
time to time. For Tom was often at the Falls when he went a-scouting
into the Illinois country. It was, as of old, Polly Ann who ran the mill
and was the real bread-winner of the family.
Louisville was even then bursting with importance, and as I rode into it,
one bright November day, I remembered the wilderness I had seen here not
ten years gone when I had marched hither with Captain Harrod's company to
join Clark on the island. It was even then a thriving little town of log
and clapboard houses and schools and churches, and wise men were saying
of it--what Colonel Clark had long ago predicted--that it would become
the first city of commercial importance in the district of Kentucky.
I do not mean to give you an account of my struggles that winter to
obtain a foothold in the law. The time was a heyday for young
barristers, and troubles in those early days grew as plentifully in
Kentucky as corn. In short, I got a practice, for Colonel Clark was here
to help me, and, thanks to the men who had gone to Kaskaskia and
Vincennes, I had a fairly large acquaintance in Kentucky. I hired rooms
behind Mr. Crede's store, which was famed for the glass windows which had
been fetched all the way from Philadelphia. Mr. Crede was the embodiment
of the enterprising spirit of the place, and often of an evening he
called me in to see the new fashionable things his barges had brought
down the Ohio. The next day certain young sparks would drop into my room
to waylay the belles as they came to pick a costume to be worn at Mr.
Nickle's dancing school, or at the ball at Fort Finney.
The winter slipped away, and one cool evening in May there came a negro
to my room with a note from Colonel Clark, bidding me sup with him at the
tavern and meet a celebrity.
I put on my best blue clothes that I had brought with me from Richmond,
and repaired expectantly to the tavern about eight of the clock, pushed
through the curious crowd outside, and entered the big room where the
company was fast assembling. Against the red blaze in the great
chimney-place I spied the figure of Colonel Clark, more portly than of
yore, and beside him stood a gentleman who could be no other than General
Wilkinson.
He was a man to fill the eye, handsome of face, symmetrical of figure,
easy of manner, and he wore a suit of bottle-green that became him
admirably. In short, so fascinated and absorbed was I in watching him as
he greeted this man and the other that I started as though something had
pricked me when I heard my name called by Colonel Clark.
"Come here, Davy," he cried across the room, and I came and stood abashed
before the hero. "General, allow me to present to you the drummer boy of
Kaskaskia and Vincennes, Mr. David Ritchie."
"I hear that you drummed them to victory through a very hell of torture,
Mr. Ritchie," said the General. "It is an honor to grasp the hand of one
who did such service at such a tender age."
General Wilkinson availed himself of that honor, and encompassed me with
a smile so benignant, so winning in its candor, that I could only mutter
my acknowledgment, and Colonel Clark must needs apologize, laughing, for
my youth and timidity.
"Mr. Ritchie is not good at speeches, General," said he, "but I make no
doubt he will drink a bumper to your health before we sit down.
Gentlemen," he cried, filling his glass from a bottle on the table, "a
toast to General Wilkinson, emancipator and saviour of Kentucky!"
The company responded with a shout, tossed off the toast, and sat down at
the long table. Chance placed me between a young dandy from
Lexington--one of several the General had brought in his train--and Mr.
Wharton, a prominent planter of the neighborhood with whom I had a
speaking acquaintance. This was a backwoods feast, though served in
something better than the old backwoods style, and we had venison and
bear's meat and prairie fowl as well as pork and beef, and breads that
came stinging hot from the Dutch ovens. Toasts to this and that were
flung back and forth, and jests and gibes, and the butt of many of these
was that poor Federal government which (as one gentleman avowed) was like
a bantam hen trying to cover a nestful of turkey's eggs, and clucking
with importance all the time. This picture brought on gusts of laughter.
"And what say you of the Jay?" cried one; "what will he hatch?"
Hisses greeted the name, for Mr. Jay wished to enter into a treaty with
Spain, agreeing to close the river for five and twenty years. Colonel
Clark stood up, and rapped on the table.
"Gentlemen," said he, "Louisville has as her guest of honor to-night a
man of whom Kentucky may well be proud [loud cheering]. Five years ago
he favored Lexington by making it his home, and he came to us with the
laurel of former achievements still clinging to his brow. He fought and
suffered for his country, and attained the honorable rank of Major in the
Continental line. He was chosen by the people of Pennsylvania to
represent them in the august body of their legislature, and now he has
got new honor in a new field [renewed cheering]. He has come to Kentucky
to show her the way to prosperity and glory. Kentucky had a grievance
[loud cries of "Yes, yes!"]. Her hogs and cattle had no market, her
tobacco and agricultural products of all kinds were rotting because the
Spaniards had closed the Mississippi to our traffic. Could the Federal
government open the river? [shouts of "No, no!" and hisses]. Who opened
it? [cries of "Wilkinson, Wilkinson!"]. He said to the Kentucky
planters, 'Give your tobacco to me, and I will sell it.' He put it in
barges, he floated down the river, and, as became a man of such
distinction, he was met by Governor-general Miro on the levee at New
Orleans. Where is that tobacco now, gentlemen?" Colonel Clark was here
interrupted by such roars and stamping that he paused a moment, and
during this interval Mr. Wharton leaned over and whispered quietly in my
ear:--
"Ay, where is it?"
I stared at Mr. Wharton blankly. He was a man nearing the middle age,
with a lacing of red in his cheeks, a pleasant gray eye, and a singularly
quiet manner.
"Thanks to the genius of General Wilkinson," Colonel Clark continued,
waving his hand towards the smilingly placid hero, "that tobacco has been
deposited in the King's store at ten dollars per hundred,--a privilege
heretofore confined to Spanish subjects. Well might Wilkinson return
from New Orleans in a chariot and four to a grateful Kentucky! This year
we have tripled, nay, quadrupled, our crop of tobacco, and we are here
to-night to give thanks to the author of this prosperity." Alas, Colonel
Clark's hand was not as steady as of yore, and he spilled the liquor on
the table as he raised his glass. "Gentlemen, a health to our
benefactor."
They drank it willingly, and withal so lengthily and noisily that Mr.
Wilkinson stood smiling and bowing for full three minutes before he could
be heard. He was a very paragon of modesty, was the General, and a man
whose attitudes and expressions spoke as eloquently as his words. None
looked at him now but knew before he opened his mouth that he was
deprecating such an ovation.
"Gentlemen,--my friends and fellow-Kentuckians," he said, "I thank you
from the bottom of my heart for your kindness, but I assure you that I
have done nothing worthy of it [loud protests]. I am a simple, practical
man, who loves Kentucky better than he loves himself. This is no virtue,
for we all have it. We have the misfortune to be governed by a set of
worthy gentlemen who know little about Kentucky and her wants, and think
less [cries of "Ay, ay!"]. I am not decrying General Washington and his
cabinet; it is but natural that the wants of the seaboard and the welfare
and opulence of the Eastern cities should be uppermost in their minds
[another interruption]. Kentucky, if she would prosper, must look to her
own welfare. And if any credit is due to me, gentlemen, it is because I
reserved my decision of his Excellency, Governor-general Miro, and his
people until I saw them for myself. A little calm reason, a plain
statement of the case, will often remove what seems an insuperable
difficulty, and I assure you that Governor-general Miro is a most
reasonable and courteous gentleman, who looks with all kindliness and
neighborliness on the people of Kentucky. Let us drink a toast to him. To
him your gratitude is due, for he sends you word that your tobacco will
be received."
"In General Wilkinson's barges," said Mr. Wharton leaning over and
subsiding again at once.
The General was the first to drink the toast, and he sat down very
modestly amidst a thunder of applause.
The young man on the other side of me, somewhat flushed, leaped to his
feet.
"Down with the Federal government!" he cried; "what have they done for
us, indeed? Before General Wilkinson went to New Orleans the Spaniards
seized our flat boats and cargoes and flung our traders into prison, ay,
and sent them to the mines of Brazil. The Federal government takes sides
with the Indians against us. And what has that government done for you,
Colonel?" he demanded, turning to Clark, "you who have won for them half
of their territory? They have cast you off like an old moccasin. The
Continental officers who fought in the East have half-pay for life or
five years' full pay. And what have you?"
There was a breathless hush. A swift vision came to me of a man, young,
alert, commanding, stern under necessity, self-repressed at all times--a
man who by the very dominance of his character had awed into submission
the fierce Northern tribes of a continent, who had compelled men to
follow him until the life had all but ebbed from their bodies, who had
led them to victory in the end. And I remembered a boy who had stood
awe-struck before this man in the commandant's house at Fort Sackville.
Ay, and I heard again his words as though he had just spoken them,
"Promise me that you will not forget me if I am--unfortunate." I did
not understand then. And now because of a certain blinding of my eyes, I
did not see him clearly as he got slowly to his feet. He clutched the
table. He looked around him--I dare not say--vacantly. And then,
suddenly, he spoke with a supreme anger and a supreme bitterness.
"Not a shilling has this government given me," he cried. "Virginia was
more grateful; from her I have some acres of wild land and--a sword." He
laughed. "A sword, gentlemen, and not new at that. Oh, a grateful
government we serve, one careful of the honor of her captains.
Gentlemen, I stand to-day a discredited man because the honest debts I
incurred in the service of that government are repudiated, because my
friends who helped it, Father Gibault, Vigo, and Gratiot, and others have
never been repaid. One of them is ruined."
A dozen men had sprung clamoring to their feet before he sat down. One,
more excited than the rest, got the ear of the company.
"Do we lack leaders?" he cried. "We have them here with us to-night, in
this room. Who will stop us? Not the contemptible enemies in Kentucky
who call themselves Federalists. Shall we be supine forever? We have
fought once for our liberties, let us fight again. Let us make a common
cause with our real friends on the far side of the Mississippi."
I rose, sick at heart, but every man was standing. And then a strange
thing happened. I saw General Wilkinson at the far end of the room; his
hand was raised, and there was that on his handsome face which might have
been taken for a smile, and yet was not a smile. Others saw him too, I
know not by what exertion of magnetism. They looked at him and they held
their tongues.
"I fear that we are losing our heads, gentlemen," he said; "and I propose
to you the health of the first citizen of Kentucky, Colonel George Rogers
Clark."
I found myself out of the tavern and alone in the cool May night. And as
I walked slowly down the deserted street, my head in a whirl, a hand was
laid on my shoulder. I turned, startled, to face Mr. Wharton, the
planter.
"I would speak a word with you, Mr. Ritchie," he said. "May I come to
your room for a moment?"
"Certainly, sir," I answered.
After that we walked along together in silence, my own mind heavily
occupied with what I had seen and heard. We came to Mr. Crede's store,
went in at the picket gate beside it and down the path to my own door,
which I unlocked. I felt for the candle on the table, lighted it, and
turned in surprise to discover that Mr. Wharton was poking up the fire
and pitching on a log of wood. He flung off his greatcoat and sat down
with his feet to the blaze. I sat down beside him and waited, thinking
him a sufficiently peculiar man.
"You are not famous, Mr. Ritchie," said he, presently.
"No, sir," I answered.
"Nor particularly handsome," he continued, "nor conspicuous in any way."
I agreed to this, perforce.
"You may thank God for it," said Mr. Wharton.
"That would be a strange outpouring, sir," said I.
He looked at me and smiled.
"What think you of this paragon, General Wilkinson?" he demanded
suddenly.
"I have Federal leanings, sir," I answered
"Egad," said he, "we'll add caution to your lack of negative
accomplishments. I have had an eye on you this winter, though you did
not know it. I have made inquiries about you, and hence I am not here
to-night entirely through impulse. You have not made a fortune at the
law, but you have worked hard, steered wide of sensation, kept your mouth
shut. Is it not so?"
Astonished, I merely nodded in reply.
"I am not here to waste your time or steal your sleep," he went on,
giving the log a push with his foot, "and I will come to the point. When
I first laid eyes on this fine gentleman, General Wilkinson, I too fell a
victim to his charms. It was on the eve of this epoch-making trip of
which we heard so glowing an account to-night, and I made up my mind
that no Spaniard, however wily, could resist his persuasion. He said to
me, 'Wharton, give me your crop of tobacco and I promise you to sell it
in spite of all the royal mandates that go out of Madrid.' He went, he
saw, he conquered the obdurate Miro as he has apparently conquered the
rest of the world, and he actually came back in a chariot and four as
befitted him. A heavy crop of tobacco was raised in Kentucky that year.
I helped to raise it," added Mr. Wharton, dryly. "I gave the General my
second crop, and he sent it down. Mr. Ritchie, I have to this day never
received a piastre for my merchandise, nor am I the only planter in this
situation. Yet General Wilkinson is prosperous."
My astonishment somewhat prevented me from replying to this, too. Was it
possible that Mr. Wharton meant to sue the General? I reflected while he
paused. I remembered how inconspicuous he had named me, and hope died.
Mr. Wharton did not look at me, but stared into the fire, for he was
plainly not a man to rail and rant.
"Mr. Ritchie, you are young, but mark my words, that man Wilkinson will
bring Kentucky to ruin if he is not found out. The whole district from
Crab Orchard to Bear Grass is mad about him. Even Clark makes a fool of
himself--"
"Colonel Clark, sir!" I cried.
He put up a hand.
"So you have some hot blood," he said. "I know you love him. So do I,
or I should not have been there tonight. Do I blame his bitterness? Do
I blame--anything he does? The treatment he has had would bring a blush
of shame to the cheek of any nation save a republic. Republics are
wasteful, sir. In George Rogers Clark they have thrown away a general
who might some day have decided the fate of this country, they have left
to stagnate a man fit to lead a nation to war. And now he is ready to
intrigue against the government with any adventurer who may have
convincing ways and a smooth tongue."
"Mr. Wharton," I said, rising, "did you come here to tell me this?"
But Mr. Wharton continued to stare into the fire.
"I like you the better for it, my dear sir," said he, "and I assure you
that I mean no offence. Colonel Clark is enshrined in our hearts,
Democrats and Federalists alike. Whatever he may do, we shall love him
always. But this other man,--pooh!" he exclaimed, which was as near a
vigorous expression as he got. "Now, sir, to the point. I, too, am a
Federalist, a friend of Mr. Humphrey Marshall, and, as you know, we are
sadly in the minority in Kentucky now. I came here to-night to ask you
to undertake a mission in behalf of myself and certain other gentlemen,
and I assure you that my motives are not wholly mercenary." He paused,
smiled, and put the tips of his fingers together. "I would willingly
lose every crop for the next ten years to convict this Wilkinson of
treason against the Federal government."
"Treason!" I repeated involuntarily.
"Mr. Ritchie," answered the planter, "I gave you credit for some
shrewdness. Do you suppose the Federal government does not realize the
danger of this situation in Kentucky. They have tried in vain to open
the Mississippi, and are too weak to do it. This man Wilkinson goes down
to see Miro, and Miro straightway opens the river to us through him. How
do you suppose Wilkinson did it? By his charming personality?"
I said something, I know not what, as the light began to dawn on me. And
then I added, "I had not thought about the General."
"Ah," replied Mr. Wharton, "just so. And now you may easily imagine that
General Wilkinson has come to a very pretty arrangement with Miro. For a
certain stipulated sum best known to Wilkinson and Miro, General
Wilkinson agrees gradually to detach Kentucky from the Union and join it
to his Catholic Majesty's dominion of Louisiana. The bribe--the opening
of the river. What the government could not do Wilkinson did by the
lifting of his finger."
Still Mr. Wharton spoke without heat.
"Mind you," he said, "we have no proof of this, and that is my reason for
coming here to-night, Mr. Ritchie. I want you to get proof of it if you
can."
"You want me--" I said, bewildered.
"I repeat that you are not handsome," -- I think he emphasized this
unduly, -- "that you are self-effacing, inconspicuous; in short, you are
not a man to draw suspicion. You might travel anywhere and scarcely be
noticed, -- I have observed that about you. In addition to this you are
wary, you are discreet, you are painstaking. I ask you to go first to
St. Louis, in Louisiana territory, and this for two reasons. First,
because it will draw any chance suspicion from your real objective, New
Orleans; and second, because it is necessary to get letters to New
Orleans from such leading citizens of St. Louis as Colonel Chouteau and
Monsieur Gratiot, and I will give you introductions to them. You are
then to take passage to New Orleans in a barge of furs which Monsieur
Gratiot is sending down. Mind, we do not expect that you will obtain
proof that Miro is paying Wilkinson money. If you do, so much the
better; but we believe that both are too sharp to leave any tracks. You
will make a report, however, upon the conditions under which our tobacco
is being received, and of all other matters which you may think germane
to the business in hand. Will you go?"
I had made up my mind.
"Yes, I will go," I answered.
"Good," said Mr. Wharton, but with no more enthusiasm than he had
previously shown; "I thought I had not misjudged you. Is your law
business so onerous that you could not go to-morrow?"
I laughed.
"I think I could settle what affairs I have by noon, Mr. Wharton," I
replied.
"Egad, Mr. Ritchie, I like your manner," said he; "and now for a few
details, and you may go to bed."
He sat with me half an hour longer, carefully reviewing his instructions,
and then he left me to a night of contemplation.
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