It was nearly morning when I fell asleep in my chair, from sheer
exhaustion, for the day before had been a hard one, even for me. I awoke
with a start, and sat for some minutes trying to collect my scattered
senses. The sun streamed in at my open door, the birds hopped on the
lawn, and the various sounds of the bustling life of the little town came
to me from beyond. Suddenly, with a glimmering of the mad events of the
night, I stood up, walked uncertainly into the back room, and stared at
the bed.
It was empty. I went back into the outer room; my eye wandered from the
shattered whiskey bottle, which was still on the floor, to the table
littered with Mrs. Temple's letters. And there, in the midst of them,
lay a note addressed with my name in a big, unformed hand. I opened it
mechanically.
"Dear Davy,"--so it ran,--"I have gone away, I cannot tell you where.
Some day I will come back and you will forgive me. God bless you!
NICK."
He had gone away! To New Orleans? I had long ceased trying to account
for Nick's actions, but the more I reflected, the more incredible it
seemed to me that he should have gone there, of all places. And yet I
had had it from Clark's own lips (indiscreet enough now!) that Nick and
St. Gre were to prepare the way for an insurrection there. My thoughts
ran on to other possibilities; would he see his mother? But he had no
reason to know that Mrs. Temple was still in New Orleans. Then my glance
fell on her letters, lying open on the table. Had he read them? I put
this down as improbable, for he was a man who held strictly to a point of
honor.
And then there was Antoinette de St. Gre! I ceased to conjecture here,
dashed some water in my eyes, pulled myself together, and, seizing my
hat, hurried out into the street. I made a sufficiently indecorous
figure as I ran towards the water-side, barely nodding to my
acquaintances on the way. It was a fresh morning, a river breeze stirred
the waters of the Bear Grass, and as I stood, scanning the line of boats
there, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to confront a little man
with grizzled, chestnut eyebrows. He was none other than the Citizen
Gignoux.
"You tek ze air, Monsieur Reetchie?" said he. "You look for some one,
yes? You git up too late see him off."
I made a swift resolve never to quibble with this man.
"So Mr. Temple has gone to New Orleans with the Sieur de St. Gre," I
said.
Citizen Gignoux laid a fat finger on one side of his great nose. The
nose was red and shiny, I remember, and glistened in the sunlight.
"Ah," said he, "'tis no use tryin' hide from you. However, Monsieur
Reetchie, you are the ver' soul of honor. And then your frien'! I know
you not betray the Sieur de St. Gre. He is ver' fon' of you."
"Betray!" I exclaimed; "there is no question of betrayal. As far as I
can see, your plans are carried on openly, with a fine contempt for the
Federal government."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"'Tis not my doin'," he said, "but I am--what you call it?--a cipher.
Sicrecy is what I believe. But drink too much, talk too much--is it not
so, Monsieur? And if Monsieur le Baron de Carondelet, ze governor, hear
they are in New Orleans, I think they go to Havana or Brazil." He
smiled, but perhaps the expression of my face caused him to sober
abruptly. "It is necessair for the cause. We must have good Revolution
in Louisiane."
A suspicion of this man came over me, for a childlike simplicity
characterized the other ringleaders in this expedition. Clark had had
acumen once, and lost it; St. Gre was a fool; Nick Temple was leading
purposely a reckless life; the Citizens Sullivan and Depeau had, to say
the least, a limited knowledge of affairs. All of these were responding
more or less sincerely to the cry of the people of Kentucky (every day
more passionate) that something be done about Louisiana. But Gignoux
seemed of a different feather. Moreover, he had been too shrewd to deny
what Colonel Clark would have denied in a soberer moment,--that St. Gre
and Nick had gone to New Orleans.
"You not spik, Monsieur. You not think they have success. You are not
Federalist, no, for I hear you march las night with your frien',--I hear
you wave torch."
"You make it your business to hear a great deal, Monsieur Gignoux," I
retorted, my temper slipping a little.
He hastened to apologize.
"Mille pardons, Monsieur," he said; "I see you are Federalist--but drunk.
Is it not so? Monsieur, you tink this ver' silly thing--this
expedition."
"Whatever I think, Monsieur," I answered, "I am a friend of General
Clark's."
"An enemy of ze cause?" he put in.
"Monsieur," I said, "if President Washington and General Wayne do not
think it worth while to interfere with your plans, neither do I."
I left him abruptly, and went back to my long-delayed affairs with a
heavy heart. The more I thought, the more criminally foolish Nick's
journey seemed to me. However puerile the undertaking, De Lemos at
Natchez and Carondelet at New Orleans had not the reputation of sleeping
at their posts, and their hatred for Americans was well known. I sought
General Clark, but he had gone to Knob Licks, and in my anxiety I lay
awake at nights tossing in my bed.
One evening, perhaps four days after Nick's departure, I went into the
common room of the tavern, and there I was surprised to see an old
friend. His square, saffron face was just the same, his little jet eyes
snapped as brightly as ever, his hair--which was swept high above his
forehead and tied in an eelskin behind--was as black as when I had seen
it at Kaskaskia. I had met Monsieur Vigo many times since, for he was a
familiar figure amongst the towns of the Ohio and the Mississippi, and
from Vincennes to Anse a la Graisse, and even to New Orleans. His
reputation as a financier was greater than ever. He was talking to my
friend, Mr. Marshall, but he rose when he saw me, with a beaming smile.
"Ha, it is Davy," he cried, "but not the sem lil drummer boy who would
not come into my store. Reech lawyer now,--I hear you make much money
now, Davy."
"Congress money?" I said.
Monsieur Vigo threw out his hands, and laughed exactly as he had done in
his log store at Kaskaskia.
"Congress have never repay me one sou," said Monsieur Vigo, making a
face. "I have try--I have talk--I have represent--it is no good. Davy,
it is your fault. You tell me tek dat money. You call dat finance?"
"David," said Mr. Marshall, sharply, "what the devil is this I hear of
your carrying a torch in a Jacobin procession?"
"You may put it down to liquor, Mr. Marshall," I answered.
"Then you must have had a cask, egad," said Mr. Marshall, "for I never
saw you drunk."
I laughed.
"I shall not attempt to explain it, sir," I answered.
"You must not allow your drum to drag you into bad company again," said
he, and resumed his conversation. As I suspected, it was a vigorous
condemnation of General Clark and his new expedition. I expressed my
belief that the government did not regard it seriously, and would forbid
the enterprise at the proper time.
"You are right, sir," said Mr. Marshall, bringing down his fist on the
table. "I have private advices from Philadelphia that the President's
consideration for Governor Shelby is worn out, and that he will issue a
proclamation within the next few days warning all citizens at their peril
from any connection with the pirates."
I laughed.
"As a matter of fact, Mr. Marshall," said I, "Citizen Genet has been
liberal with nothing except commissions, and they have neither money nor
men."
"The rascals have all left town," said Mr. Marshall. "Citizen
Quartermaster Depeau, their local financier, has gone back to his store
at Knob Licks. The Sieur de St. Gre and a Mr. Temple, as doubtless you
know, have gone to New Orleans. And the most mysterious and therefore
the most dangerous of the lot, Citizen Gignoux, has vanished like an evil
spirit. It is commonly supposed that he, too, has gone down the river.
You may see him, Vigo," said Mr. Marshall, turning to the trader; "he is
a little man with a big nose and grizzled chestnut eyebrows."
"Ah, I know a lil 'bout him," said Monsieur Vigo; "he was on my boat two
days ago, asking me questions."
"The devil he was!" said Mr. Marshall.
I had another disquieting night, and by the morning I had made up my
mind. The sun was glinting on the placid waters of the river when I made
my way down to the bank, to a great ten-oared keel boat that lay on the
Bear Grass, with its square sail furled. An awning was stretched over
the deck, and at a walnut table covered with papers sat Monsieur Vigo,
smoking his morning pipe.
"Davy," said he, "you have come a la bonne heure. At ten I depart for
New Orleans." He sighed. "It is so long voyage," he added, "and so
lonely one. Sometime I have the good fortune to pick up a companion, but
not to-day."
"Do you want me to go with you?" I said.
He looked at me incredulously.
"I should be delighted," he said, "but you mek a jest."
"I was never more serious in my life," I answered, "for I have business
in New Orleans. I shall be ready."
"Ha," cried Monsieur Vigo, hospitably, "I shall be enchant. We will talk
philosophe, Beaumarchais, Voltaire, Rousseau."
For Monsieur Vigo was a great reader, and we had often indulged in
conversation which (we flattered ourselves) had a literary turn.
I spent the remaining hours arranging with a young lawyer of my
acquaintance to look after my business, and at ten o'clock I was aboard
the keel boat with my small baggage. At eleven, Monsieur Vigo and I were
talking "philosophe" over a wonderful breakfast under the awning, as we
dropped down between the forest-lined shores of the Ohio. My host
travelled in luxury, and we ate the Creole dishes, which his cook
prepared, with silver forks which he kept in a great chest in the cabin.
You who read this may feel something of my impatience to get to New
Orleans, and hence I shall not give a long account of the journey. What
a contrast it was to that which Nick and I had taken five years before in
Monsieur Gratiot's fur boat! Like all successful Creole traders,
Monsieur Vigo had a wonderful knack of getting on with the Indians, and
often when we tied up of a night the chief men of a tribe would come down
to greet him. We slipped southward on the great, yellow river which
parted the wilderness, with its sucks and eddies and green islands, every
one of which Monsieur knew, and I saw again the flocks of water-fowl and
herons in procession, and hawks and vultures wheeling in their search.
Sometimes a favorable wind sprang up, and we hoisted the sail. We passed
the Walnut Hills, the Nogales, the moans of the alligators broke our
sleep by night, and at length we came to Natchez, ruled over now by that
watch-dog of the Spanish King, Gayoso de Lemos. Thanks to Monsieur Vigo,
his manners were charming and his hospitality gracious, and there was no
trouble whatever about my passport.
Our progress was slow when we came at last to the belvedered plantation
houses amongst the orange groves; and as we sat on the wide galleries in
the summer nights, we heard all the latest gossip of the capital of
Louisiana. The river was low; there was an ominous quality in the heat
which had its effect, indeed, upon me, and made the old Creoles shake
their heads and mutter a word with a terrible meaning. New Orleans was a
cesspool, said the enlightened. The Baron de Carondelet, indefatigable
man, aimed at digging a canal to relieve the city of its filth, but this
would be the year when it was most needed, and it was not dug. Yes,
Monsieur le Baron was energy itself. That other fever--the political
one--he had scotched. "Ca Ira" and "La Marseillaise" had been sung in
the theatres, but not often, for the Baron had sent the alcaldes to shut
them up. Certain gentlemen of French ancestry had gone to languish in
the Morro at Havana. Yes, Monsieur de Carondelet, though fat, was on
horseback before dawn, New Orleans was fortified as it never had been
before, the militia organized, real cannon were on the ramparts which
could shoot at a pinch.
Sub rosa, I found much sympathy among the planters with the Rights of
Man. What had become, they asked, of the expedition of Citizen General
Clark preparing in the North? They may have sighed secretly when I
painted it in its true colors, but they loved peace, these planters.
Strangely enough, the name of Auguste de St. Gre never crossed their lips,
and I got no trace of him or Nick at any of these places. Was it
possible that they might not have come to New Orleans after all?
Through the days, when the sun beat upon the awning with a tropical
fierceness, when Monsieur Vigo abandoned himself to his siestas, I
thought. It was perhaps characteristic of me that I waited nearly three
weeks to confide in my old friend the purpose of my journey to New
Orleans. It was not because I could not trust him that I held my tongue,
but because I sought some way of separating the more intimate story of
Nick's mother and his affair with Antoinette de St. Gre from the rest of
the story. But Monsieur Vigo was a man of importance in Louisiana, and I
reflected that a time might come when I should need his help. One
evening, when we were tied up under the oaks of a bayou, I told him.
There emanated from Monsieur Vigo a sympathy which few men possess, and
this I felt strongly as he listened, breaking his silence only at long
intervals to ask a question. It was a still night, I remember, of great
beauty, with a wisp of a moon hanging over the forest line, the air heavy
with odors and vibrant with a thousand insect tones.
"And what you do, Davy?" he said at length.
"I must find my cousin and St. Gre before they have a chance to get into
much mischief," I answered. "If they have already made a noise, I
thought of going to the Baron de Carondelet and telling him what I know
of the expedition. He will understand what St. Gre is, and I will
explain that Mr. Temple's reckless love of adventure is at the bottom of
his share in the matter."
"Bon, Davy," said my host, "if you go, I go with you. But I believe ze
Baron think Morro good place for them jus' the sem. Ze Baron has been
make miserable with Jacobins. But I go with you if you go."
He discoursed for some time upon the quality of the St. Gre's, their
public services, and before he went to sleep he made the very just remark
that there was a flaw in every string of beads. As for me, I went down
into the cabin, surreptitiously lighted a candle, and drew from my pocket
that piece of ivory which had so strangely come into my possession once
more. The face upon it had haunted me since I had first beheld it. The
miniature was wrapped now in a silk handkerchief which Polly Ann had
bought for me in Lexington. Shall I confess it?--I had carefully rubbed
off the discolorations on the ivory at the back, and the picture lacked
now only the gold setting. As for the face, I had a kind of consolation
from it. I seemed to draw of its strength when I was tired, of its
courage when I faltered. And, during those four days of indecision in
Louisville, it seemed to say to me in words that I could not evade or
forget, "Go to New Orleans." It was a sentiment--foolish, if you
please--which could not resist. Nay, which I did not try to resist, for
I had little enough of it in my life. What did it matter? I should
never see Madame la Vicomtesse d'Ivry-le-Tour.
She was Helene to me; and the artist had caught the strength of her soul
in her clear-cut face, in the eyes that flashed with wit and
courage,--eyes that seemed to look with scorn upon what was mean in the
world and untrue, with pity on the weak. Here was one who might have
governed a province and still have been a woman, one who had taken into
exile the best of safeguards against misfortune,--humor and an
indomitable spirit.
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