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Title: Deeds of Daring Done by Girls
Author: Moore, N. Hudson
Language: English
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GIRLS ***
DEEDS OF DARING
DONE BY GIRLS
[Illustration: “SEE, CLEMENCE, A GOOD OMEN. LOOK AT THE NEW MOON.”—_Page
153._]
DEEDS _of_ DARING DONE BY GIRLS
BY N. HUDSON MOORE
AUTHOR OF “CHILDREN OF OTHER DAYS,” “THE OLD CHINA BOOK,” “THE OLD
FURNITURE BOOK,” “THE LACE BOOK,” “OLD PEWTER, BRASS, COPPER, AND
SHEFFIELD PLATE,” “THE COLLECTOR’S MANUAL,” ETC.
_With Illustrations in Colour_
BY ARCHIE GUNN
[Illustration]
_NEW YORK_ · FREDERICK A.
STOKES COMPANY · _PUBLISHERS_
_Copyright, 1906_
BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
This edition published in October, 1906
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
AN OPEN LETTER
Do not think, dear girls, that because you are girls you may not have as
much courage as your brothers. I believe that quite as stout hearts beat
beneath muslin frocks as under stuff jackets. When you have finished
reading this book about your sisters, perhaps—if you do not already—you
will agree with me, and think that it needs only occasion to call out
the necessary courage. I have been asked which one of these heroines I
think the most daring, but—oh dear—it would never do to have a
favourite, would it? So I leave them to you, and that you will enjoy
learning of their trials and triumphs is the wish of your friend,
THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE ROBE OF THE DUCHESS 1
THE PRINCESS WINS 53
DEFENCE OF CASTLE DANGEROUS 96
THE PEARL NECKLACE 129
DICEY LANGSTON 220
THE MAID OF ZARAGOZA 265
ILLUSTRATIONS
“See, Clemence, a good omen. Look at the new moon” _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
“None looking on my stately Duchess would deem that she
had but fifteen years” 48
“On, for the love of the Daughter of Holland, and death
to those that deny her!” 86
“I have commanded this fort, Monsieur, during the
absence of my father” 124
“Coward, shoot now if you dare!” 260
“What are you doing here, my girl?” 288
DEEDS OF DARING
DONE BY GIRLS
[Illustration]
THE ROBE OF THE DUCHESS
_As told by Jehan, her Page in the Year of Grace 1392_
I
“’Tis not so,” quoth she, “and you know it”; and with that she fetched
me a buffet on the ear.
Now, when the other pages saw me bested like that by a damsel, even
though she were my Lady, they roared and girded at me so loud that I
liked to have choked with rage.
I ran forward a step; but she cried out,—
“An you touch me I’ll have you whipped, sir”; and, truth, she would,
which well I knew, for I’d felt ere this old Raoul’s whip curling about
my shoulders, all on her charges too. But that was some years since.
’Twas this wise that the present pother came about.
Of a joyous afternoon in May, my Lady Eleonore took it into her head to
go into the court to see her hawk. For these many months I’d been
training of it for her, and in all the mews there was not another flew
so true, aimed so swift, and brought back her quarry so little torn.
My Lady knew right well that the hawk was for her, but she knew not that
I thought to give it her on her fête day, which fell on the morrow. The
bird was in fine feather, not a pinion ruffed, her russet colour showing
redly in the sun,—it was a Barberry bird,—and a new hood of fine leather
on her head. On her feet, fastened by bewits of deer’s hide, hung two
Milan bells of gold,—the one, as is ever the way with choicest bells, a
semi-tone below the other. These bells I had begged from Comte Gaston,
who gave willingly enough when he knew that they were to pleasure my
Lady.
Now ’twas not my purpose that she should see the bird till next day, but
womenfolk ever contrive to mix matters up. I thought but to stay her, to
keep her jesting for a while; but her anger rose and was greater than I
knew.
She was down in the broad hall on her way to the mews, and I following
behind, before my wits, which work ever a thought slow, had conjured up
something to say.
“Pray, mistress,” saith I, “how old be you to-morrow? Let me think, will
it be all of eleven years?”
To tell truth, I knew her years as well as she. It was nine years since
my Lady’s mother, Dame Eleonore of Comminges, had brought and left her
daughter with my Lord, Gaston Phoebus, Comte de Foix.
Comte Gaston was my Lady’s cousin, and poor Dame Eleonore, her mother,
fleeing from a cruel husband, knew not where to place the child, so
sought advice from Comte Gaston, a powerful and great lord.
“Leave her with me,” saith my Lord, who had taken a fancy to my little
Lady, then but a child of three. She was the first bright thing that had
come to the old castle of Orthez, which was but a gloomy tower since in
a rage my Lord Gaston had slain his only son, and driven forth to her
own people his wife, the Princess Agnes.
Canst thou wonder that we all loved the child?
None knew nor loved her better than I, being that my Lord Gaston gave me
to be her page and playfellow, since there were but scullery maids and
some rude wenches in the castle since the Princess Agnes went forth. So
who should doubt but that I should know my Lady’s age? Besides this I
was but four years older come Hallowe’en.
Being well grown and tall, she was ever tender on the subject of her
years. By my Lord’s command, she had been taught to play on the lute,
she could walk a measure, hunt and hawk, and since the new tirewoman had
come, there had been much bravery of apparel. So ’twas but to tease her
and keep her from the mews that I put forth,—
“All of eleven years?”
“’Tis not so, and you know it,” quoth she, and then came the buffet.
I choked down my rage, and turning to those that mocked me, thought to
bring the laugh on her.
“Varlets,” cried I, “my Lady Eleonore is no longer a child, she chooses
you to know. Twelve years old will she be to-morrow, but two years
younger than our new Queen Isabeau. And who knows what brave suitor
comes to woo?”
At this they all laughed again, as in truth I hoped they would. With a
black look at me and a stamp of her foot, my Lady turns and goes up the
stair. This pleased me well, since the hawk was forgotten.
“Wit ye well, ye shall suffer for this,” sneered one of the pages,
between whom and me there was ever discord. “Your mistress wilt have you
soundly swinged, and well I pray my Lord will do it himself.”
My skin was pricking somewhat at the thought, but it behoved me to show
no signs of it; so I looked him in the eye and flung back,—
“If my Lord so much as cuffs me, thou mayst do it also”; and with that I
strolled to the mews.
I stroked the hawk, and thought how pleased my Lady would be on the
morrow to have her and fly her too, since, to pleasure my Lady, my Lord
had passed his word that we all should fly a cast with him on the broad
marches that lay to the west a league or more.
Long ere cockcrow the next day was I astir. ’Twas a bright day for me,
since my Lord had given me a new livery. For the first time I cast away
my leathern doublet and put on one of soft cloth, and drew on a brave
pair of chausses, a red one on the right leg and a green one on the
left, and tied the points to my doublet.
It needed but only a sword to make me a man!
As I stole down the stair, I crept into the great hall to take one look
into the great mirror of purest crystal which had but lately come to my
Lord from a land far over seas, called Venice.
What I saw therein causeth me to turn hot, since never thought I to look
so fine. Clapping my cap on my head, I ran to the mews, to bathe the
feet of the hawk in fair water, to settle her bells and jesses, and to
see that the hood could be quickly cast aside. Soon I heard the bustle
in the courtyard, and hurried thither with the hawk on hand.
My faith, but it was a joyous sight!
There on the highest step stood my Lord and beside him my mistress
Eleonore. My Lord was smiling at her, and well he might, she stood
beside him so straight and tall. She was in a gown of green, made of
Florence cloth, and on her head was a cap bound with many chains of
gold, which, she telleth me later, came from the same far-away country
as the mirror,—Venice. In their midst was set a stone big as a
throstle’s egg and blue as the sky. On her hips hung a girdle of gold
set close with little stones of this same sky-blue.
All this I saw as I walked from the court’s end. Coming up the steps,
said I in my bravest fashion,—
“Mistress Eleonore, here is the hawk I trained for thee; and I set the
Barberry bird upon her wrist.
“Now, Jehan, I forgive thee,” saith she, “and trust thou’lt bear in mind
that I be twelve years, not eleven. My Lord and cousin hath a gift for
thee also, and telleth me to give it thee now.”
With that she hands me out a sword,—a brave, bright sword!
And my Lord says kindly,—
“Have it ever ready in her service, Jehan; she is a lonely maid.”
I bent and kissed my Lady’s hand, and saith with my heart in my mouth,
“My Lord, I’ll e’en follow her to the world’s end.”
“Thou art a good lad, and I trust thee”; and as he spoke, my Lord
smiled.
True, as I swore fealty to my Lady, I little recked how soon ’t would be
before I rode away behind her!
Just then the huntsman wound his horn, and we all rode out over the
drawbridge and away into the bright sun and green fields a-hawking. We
made a merry day of it. The hounds sped before, starting up many a
creature that fled affrighted from us.
My Lady rode, not her own palfrey, which was a gentle animal but of
little speed, but a chestnut mare, one specially cherished by Comte
Gaston, even though she was a thought too light for his bulk.
For many a day the mare had been but exercised about the court, and
being a high-mettled creature, soon grew fretted by the flapping of my
Lady’s habit,—a thing to which she was ill-used.
We were pricking along at a good pace, my Lady having her hands full
with holding down the mare, when suddenly from the grass at her very
feet darted out a fallow deer, a little thing scarcely more than a month
old. The mare started, threw up her head, and ere I knew what had
befallen, had wheeled about and started off like the wind.
“Jehan,” I heard my Lady call; and turning my own horse about, I spurred
him after the flying mare. On we sped; the others, passing through a
copse, had missed seeing our plight.
“Hold fast, mistress,” shouted I, while I strove with whip and spur to
get beside her.
Little by little we crept forward, my horse and I, and after that day I
ever forbore to call him a poor thing. First his nose pressed the mare’s
thigh, and then he came up with the saddle-cloth, and then a bit ahead
of that, till I called,—
“Loose your foot from the stirrup, mistress.”
Even as I spoke I could see that she did it.
“Lean towards me and drop the reins, mistress”; and as I spoke I
switched my poor nag and leaned from the saddle, took my mistress about
the waist, and pulled her clear of the mare. It took but a moment more
to set her gently on the ground and start after the mare, since I knew,
if aught befell her, our day of pleasuring would have but an ill ending.
Freed from the flapping of the skirt, she gradually slackened her pace,
and erelong I was leading her back to where my Lady stood with the tall
marsh grasses waving about her feet.
“Help me to mount, Jehan,” saith she, whilst I was turning about in my
mind how to urge her to let me ride the mare while she took the steadier
horse.
“Pray, mistress,” I began; but she cut me short with,—
“Have a care that my cousin knows not of this mishap, since it fairly
shames me to think how the mare bested me. But I was not affrighted.”
At this she gave a side look at me, but I knew her too well to show that
I had noted her white face. I did not answer, but pondered if it was not
seemlier to guard my mistress even against herself. When she noted me
standing and switching of the grass, she crieth out,—
“Sure, Jehan, it would be an unkind part to tell that I was like to be
run with on my fête day, since all has come out well. Promise now that
thou wilt hold thy peace.”
So promise I did, and none guessed how near we had come to grief, though
my Lord, when we drew up with them, wondered why the mare looked so hard
ridden!
’Twas now well on to noon, and we rested by the side of a clear stream,
and ate of squirrels fresh roasted, and of little fishes drawn from the
brook but half an hour before, and of the honey of the wild bee spread
on cakes of white flour, and of spices and of wine.
“Hast had a happy day, little one?” saith my Lord, as we sat ’neath the
trees; and my mistress, turning, laid her cheek on his hand and said,—
“Dear Cousin, never can I thank thee enough for all that thou hast done
for me”; and the tears like to have fallen.
“To see thee happy gives me all the thanks I crave”; and my Lord fetched
a deep sigh, thinking belike of that son whom his own hand had slain.
Then, when the sun grew low, homeward we turned, the pages singing as we
rode along,—
“White as a lily, more ruddy than the rose,
Brilliant as a ruby that with spark of fire glows,
Your beauty and your loveliness to me all peerless shows,
White as a lily, more ruddy than the rose.
My heart for your heart watches; it pleaseth me to know
That to all other lovers the law of love I show.
White as a lily, more ruddy than the rose,
Brilliant as a ruby that with spark of fire glows.”
II
When we came in sight of the castle of Orthez, there rose from the great
chimneys a dark cloud of smoke. The drawbridge fell, and the steward
rode forth to meet us.
“Lo, my Lord,” he cried, “hasten home. Whilst thou wert absent here hath
come a great lord, the Due de Berry, with messages from the King.”
“Hath he a great following?” questioned my Lord.
“Seventy lances and thirty sumpter mules. They are cared for, my Lord,
and all have supped.”
We hurried forward. As my Lord rode into the court, the Due de Berry
cometh through the door to meet him. He was elder than my Lord, and was
uncle to King Charles, and a powerful and noble lord. Never had I looked
on one so great as he. All France hath heard how he taxed his people and
gathered from them great stores of money that he might have gold to buy
palaces, that he might get from strange and foreign countries noble
pictures with which to deck his walls, and tapestries wrought in
coloured threads and gold. Not only these things did he buy, but books
enriched with jewels and filled with images of saints and others,
coloured with blue, red, and gold. After him rode hundreds of followers
when he went to war or travelled abroad in strange countries.
As one looked upon him, his face seemeth harsh at first, yet a smile
became it well, and he smiled when he looked on my mistress, as doth
everyone who seeth her.
One, two, three days he tarried. ’Twas said that his matters were
despatched in one, and true it is that when my mistress was before him,
his eyes ne’er left her face.
Right seemly she looketh, thought I, as I stood behind her chair when
they supped. Never before had she borne herself so bravely, and rich
were the gauds that tirewoman furnished forth. One evening my Lady came
into the great hall in a gown of cherry red, made from the thread of the
silkworm and wonderous soft and fine. Above this was a long coat with
wide pointed sleeves, and it was bound about her with a sash of cloth
that shone like silver. Her hair was woven with strings of pearls, large
and white, and over her hung a veil like unto a spider’s web, set full
with shining threads. Well do I remember all this, for it was the first
time that ever I had seen such richness of apparel.
Till now we had been friends together, playmates. The priest whom my
Lord Gaston had brought to dwell in the castle taught us to read, and
when we irked him overmuch sent us packing. Then would we spend the time
running over the great old castle, shooting with the bow and arrow, and
teaching the shagged greyhounds to fetch and carry.
But from to-day all was different. She was a great lady, and I her page
Jehan, to hand her cup, to do her bidding within doors, and to ride at
her litter’s side or by her saddle when she went abroad, with my sword
loosened and hand steady and prompt at her need.
On the fourth day my Lord Gaston rode out with the Due de Berry to see
him fare forth. My mistress stood upon the steps as they set out, with
her sky-blue jewel in her hair and her cheeks like maybuds. The Due had
bent and kissed her hand, and of a truth I heard him say,—
“Farewell, mistress. Thou wilt hear from me again, and that shortly.”
She saith never a word, but looked into his face and smiled.
Now once again it was “Jehan here” and “Jehan there,” and we fell back
into our old ways. I digged and tilled for her the garden patch without
the walls of the castle, for this was a year of richness, and my Lady’s
gillyflowers and lavender, lilies and coriander, showed bright beside
the dull potherbs, anise, mustard, and storax, and the beds of leeks,
dittany, lettuces, and garden-cress. We had words over the poppies.
“Jehan,” saith she, “didst ever see the poppies brighter than they be
this spring?”
“Fair they be, mistress, and of a size too, so that the seeds will be
choice, and none need suffer for lack of a sleeping draught if they be
ill!”
“Mean you to save all the flowers for seeds?”
“Of a truth, yes, mistress, since they be so fine.”
“But, Jehan, thou knowest that I love the poppies, and sure they were
planted for me.”
Now this was true, but the flowers were so exceeding fine, and gave
promise of such a crop of seeds, that I fairly loathed to give one up.
So I tried to coax Mistress Eleonore with other buds.
“Jehan,” suddenly quoth she, “run you to the court and fetch me out a
garden tool. I would help thee myself to-day.”
I hurried away, as she bade me, and when I got back there she stood in
the midst of the poppy-bed, with a wreath of them in her black hair, and
both hands full! I stopped short, and she began to laugh at me, looking
so like the fairies we hear of dancing in a ring, that though I felt the
loss of the poppy-seeds sore, all I could find to say was,—
“Oh, mistress, the seeds!”
“But the flowers are so beautiful, and the seeds but ill-favoured black
things, as thou knowest well, Jehan, wherefore I chose the flowers.”
There was naught to do but to hope that the buds that were left would
bloom freely; and shortly we went back to the castle, for the day was
growing warm, the birds had ceased their morning songs, and the wind was
no longer sweet and cool. As we reached the gate, there came to us,
faint and far away, the sound of a winded horn. We turned, and out over
the marches we could see coming many knights, their armour glistening in
the sun, and their lances shining like so many points of fire.
“Who be these, think you, Jehan?” said my mistress, as with her wreath
of poppies she stood and watched them come. But I knew no more than she,
and soon the stranger knights rode by us into the court, each man as he
passed doffing his cap to my mistress, who stood tall and smiling, and
bowing in her turn.
“Jehan,” quoth she, “run as fast as ever thou canst and find the
tirewoman and send her to me. Perchance my cousin will wish me to come
to the great hall.”
I was glad to be off, since I was eager to know who the great lord was
that rode so bravely at the head of his vassals. In the court all was
bustle, but I heard it said that he was a friend to the King, and that
he bore the name of Seigneur Bureau de la Rivière.
What was his mission to my Lord none could guess. But as one day
followed another and yet he tarried, my Lady’s tirewoman could hold her
tongue no longer, and out the secret came. Never could I bide that
woman! ’Twas always touch and go between us.
“Knave,” quoth she, and “Jade,” say I, till the ill-favoured wench would
to my Lady Eleonore in tears.
Now the secret that she blabbed was this,—that the Seigneur de la
Rivière had come to ask for the hand of my little mistress at the suit
of the Duc de Berry!
It seems that the King laughed when he heard that his uncle the Duc, who
had seen a round fifty years and had sons who were men grown, wished to
take to wife “une fillette,” as he calleth her, of twelve years. But the
Duc held fast to his cause, and the King was but a lad of sixteen
himself with a wife two years younger, and many of the court were of
scarce greater age. So the Duc had persevered in his wishes, and the
Seigneur de la Rivière had come to treat with my master, the Comte de
Foix, who did not wish to give up his young cousin to one so much her
elder. So he put off the Seigneur, saying,—
“The child is too young. Let the marriage wait till she grows up.”
These days I saw little of my mistress. The flowers and the dogs were
all forgot, and she was housed with that tirewoman all the bright days.
One morning there was an exceeding bustle and rushing hither and yon.
Then was I bidden to put on my bravest suit and attend my mistress to
the great hall. It took me far less time than it took my Lady to put on
all her fine gear, and when we came into the hall, there sat my Lord,
and beside him sat the stranger lord, while all around them were many
score of knights and lances.
My Lord cometh forward, and taking my mistress by the hand, he leadeth
her to a seat in the great oak chair beside him, whilst I stood but a
step behind her. My Lord looked at her kindly, and then quoth he,—
“Knowest why I sent for thee, child?”
My mistress drew up her head quite proud, and answered bravely, though
her cheeks were like poppy buds,—
“In truth I do, Cousin.”
“I think that thou art over-young to make a marriage yet,” began my
Lord; but my mistress saith quickly, before he could go further,—
“Dear Cousin, our new Queen Isabeau had but fourteen years when she
wedded King Charles, and it is said that she hath meaner height than I.”
Her cousin smiled.
“Thou knowest that the Duc de Berry is far more in years than thyself?”
“Yet methinks I could like him well,” saith the Lady Eleonore, “and
indeed this marriage suits me much.”
She looked so full of spirit, and withal so fair, that the Seigneur de
la Rivière thought it well to take now a part himself.
“The lady knows her mind,” saith he, “and for a truth the Duc loves her
right well. King Charles, who is a youthful liege himself, will welcome
her, and at Paris she will find all things that a young maid loves.”
“I had forgot that in my lonely castle the young maid lacked much that
other maids have. Still, child, thou knowest that I have loved thee
well.”
At this my mistress went to her cousin and knelt by his knee, holding
his hand and kissing of it.
“Dearest Cousin,” she cried, “there has been naught lacking in all thy
kindness for me, and if it is thy wish that I stay with thee, send the
Seigneur hence.”
My Lord smiled sadly and shook his head, saying with a sigh,—
“The child has chosen for herself, my Lord.”
Then my mistress withdrew, and I followed her. How my head spun! My
mistress to wed a lord almost as great as the King himself, to go to
Paris to dwell, and I, Jehan, to go with her!
Of a truth I scarce drew breath for the next ten days, since we were to
go forth straightway, and there was hurly-burly to get us furnished
forth. At the end of that time we set out towards Paris, my Lord Comte
sending five hundred lances to safeguard my Lady, and the Duc de Berry
sending as many more, with litters, chariots, jewels, and fine robes to
meet us on our way. I have not speech to tell how fine we fared on that
journey. At every halt great silken tents were spread, my Lord Duc had
sent minstrels for to sing at my Lady’s pleasure, and there were litters
hung with scarlet and gold to carry her when she was a-weary. There were
women to wait on her, pages to run her bidding, and Jehan, chief of them
all, always at hand, with a chain of bright gold about his neck, to show
his new rank.
III
When we came nigh Paris, word came from my Lord Duc that we were to halt
at the Abbey of St. Denis, whither the King and Queen and the Ducs de
Berry and Burgundy, with my Lady’s father, were to come to welcome us.
When my Lady heard that her father was to come also, she turneth to me,
who knew that she had not seen him since she was a small babe of three.
“By my faith, Jehan,” quoth she, “I fear my own father more than the
lord I am to marry, since he is the greater stranger of the two. Why
think you he cometh?”
“Truth, I know not, my Lady,” say I; and it was not till later that it
was known that this strange father, hearing of his daughter’s beauty and
that she was to wed his friend the Duc de Berry, came forth from Paris
with the King and Queen to look on her.
We lay that night at the Abbey, and before we went to rest heard mass in
the cathedral itself. Never had I dreamed that so noble a building had
been made by men’s hands. And this was but the beginning. Gold and
silver statues stood on the great altar; great coloured stones the names
of which I knew not, sparkled on the cups and dishes of gold that were
used for the holy offices, while the books that the holy fathers held in
their hands, as well as their robes and mitres, gave forth sparkles like
unto a rainbow. After the mass they took my Lady to show her the
treasures, and I, following behind, saw with these eyes, that had never
thought to see such things, the great golden sword of King Charlemagne,
and so many other wonders of gold and jewels that my mind could hold
them not.
What made my blood to stir most amid all that world of rich and holy
things, was a banner that hung high over the great altar. Torn it was,
yet in its folds glowed the colour of flame; and one of the good fathers
turning to me, who stood with mouth agape, I doubt not, asked,—
“Good lad, knowest thou what banner hangest there?”
“Nay, father,” answered I, “and how should I, since I am but newly come
from the far-away castle of Orthez, which, as thou knowest, lies in the
lonely marches to the west.”
“Look, son,” then spoke he, “at the greatest treasure of France. ’Tis
the Oriflamme, that sacred banner which hath led her hosts so oft to
victory.”
And as I looked on it, and knew how many brave knights had found death
under its folds, my heart was fuller than ever before. For what is more
noble than to give one’s life for one’s country? Even a poor page may do
that, though he may never hope to fall under a banner which may be borne
only by princes and nobles. That night I slept on a monk’s pallet,
spread on the floor of the passage without my Lady’s door, yet were my
dreams always of war and clashings of arms, and there floated ever
through my visions that wonderous banner of flame-colour.
Next morn we were all astir with the dawn. ’Twas my task to see that my
Lady’s litter had been made fresh and seemly, that the pages were all
point device in their looks, so that we should not bear our part ill
before the nobles coming from Paris to greet us.
About sunset they arrived. The King rode at the head of them all, with
his two uncles on either hand, the Duc de Berry on the right and the Duc
de Burgoyne on the left. Behind came the Queen and her ladies in an open
car, and on either side rode the great lords, two by two, carrying their
swords and shining in their armour of gold.
The Duc de Berry cometh forward and, taking my Lady by the hand, led her
to the King, who kissed her on the brow, and then took her to the Queen.
They were so handsome, these two, the Queen and my Lady, that all
marvelled thereat. Queen Isabeau was of a fairness like unto milk and
roses, while my Lady, who stood a full hand taller, was of a dark
brownness, which looked but the darker beside the golden-haired Queen.
Shortly the Queen turneth to a tall and dark noble who stood behind her,
and saith she with a smile,—
“Well, Comte, hast thou naught to say?”
Then he came forward, and taking the hand of my Lady in his, looketh her
long in the face. At last he looks less stern, and then he saith,
“If thou hadst looked like thy mother, child, thou and I hadst not met
to-day. But I see well thou art my own child, and carry in thy brow and
eyes the colour of a true daughter of Auvergne.”
One needed only to look at them as they stood side by side, to see that
they were of one race. He, like the King, kisseth my Lady on the brow,
and then he turneth to the Duc de Berry, and placing in his hand the
little one of my Lady, he saith,—
“One may not wonder longer at your choice, my Lord Duc.”
This night, like the last one, we lay in the Abbey, but there was
feasting and gaiety, at least as much as seemed good in a holy house.
Then next day we took our way to Paris, my Lady riding in the car with
the Queen and her ladies, and I looked on her with marvel to see how one
who had scarce seen aught but a squire’s lady and the wenches about the
castle, and those who had taught us, could bear herself so bravely, as
if all her life she had known aught but courts.
Then after a brief space cometh the marriage at Paris, where King
Charles himself giveth the bride away. For five days there were masques
and feastings, balls and jousts, in which even the King takes a part.
Many of these balls were at the Palace of St. Pol, where lived the King
and Queen; some there were at the Hôtel de la Reine Blanche, where dwelt
the Queen of Navarre, and there were others yet at the Hôtel de Nesle
which the Duc de Berry gave to my mistress, the Duchess Eleonore, for
her wedding gift.
Methought we had been merry at Orthez, but at Paris it was like a
minstrel’s tale!
Who can wonder that my mistress was happy? She sang and danced, my Lord
Duc adored her, everybody loved her for her sweet and gentle ways, and
there were none about the palace but that she knew and cared for.
“Jehan,” she saith to me one day, “art thou happy here?”
“Yea, mistress, since this great city is to be my home.”
“Dost thou never think of those days when we trained the dogs at
Orthez?”
“Faith an’ I do, mistress, though it is but seldom, and I love the brave
doings here. Besides, where thou goest, there must Jehan follow.”
The days slipped away and were none too long. I fed the pet squirrel
with its collar of fair pearls which the King had given to my mistress,
and the monkey too, and the flying birds, for my mistress loved ever to
have antic creatures about her. At the hunts I ride close at hand, and
as at Orthez, where my mistress the Duchess goeth, there goeth Jehan.
Once when we chased the deer at Val-la-Reine, the stag, a-weary and
dazed, took refuge in a barn. Our King, the Well-beloved, crieth out,—
“Spare him, spare him,” for the huntsmen ran into the barn to cut the
poor beast’s throat. Then saith the King from his kind heart,—
“Never shall this deer be hunted more. His life shall be his own from
this day forth.”
Saying which, he pulled from his saddle-cloth a splendid fleur-de-lys,
and turned to some of his men for a chain with which to hang it on the
creature’s neck. None had one; so my Duchess took from her own neck a
chain of gold, and it was hanged about the deer’s neck to show that it
was the King’s, and none might do it ill.
Each day there was some new sport, and I had scant time to do aught but
follow my mistress. As one morn she stood playing with the monkey, a
beast that had no regard for my fingers, but was ever pleased to be
petted by my Duchess, my Lady’s eyes roved to the beds of gay posies
that bloomed without on the terrace. They put to shame the ones we
tended in the old days by the castle wall, but my Duchess cried,—
“There is not a posy here as bright as the poppies that grew at Orthez,
nor one so white as the gillyflowers. ’Twas a pretty garden, and I loved
it well. Yet I cannot say but what I love these too.”
She stepped out on the terrace, and called back over her shoulder,—
“See that the cup of gold that the monkey broke be mended.” I loved not
this task, since it seemed a shame to me that so grievous a beast should
have his food from so fair a cup, while many of his betters had none.
Soon after my mistress was wedded to my Lord Duc, the great fair of St.
Denis was set out in the meadow, “Pré aux Clercs.” Thither went we with
the King, Queen, and all the court. Such marvels as were spread out
there for sale! Jewels and stuffs wrought with gold and gems; pictures
and holy books painted in colours and with gold; carvings made from
wood, and from the great white teeth of strange beasts which they saith
live in the sea; cups of gold shaped like unto lilies and roses; swords
and spears, battle-axes and shields, armour and horse-trappings, till
one knew not which way to turn.
If it was a fine show in daytime, my certes, what a sight it was at
night! Every stall was ablaze with torches, and there were crowds of
strange peoples of divers colours and from far-away lands, with soldiers
and singers on every hand.
My mistress had never seen before such a sight, no more than I; and she
chose many a rich and curious toy, and my Lord Duc smiled, and gave her
all her heart’s desire.
Yet think not that my Lady had ever gauds and merry doings in her mind.
Being but young, she loved these well, as what young maid does not? But
her heart was ever loyal to her friends, as presently I shall set forth.
IV
It befell, after we had dwelt three years in Paris, and my Duchess was
just turned of fifteen, that there was tumult at the court. King Charles
the Well-beloved, whose fits of madness caused so much havoc (owing to
the mischief wrought by his uncles when he was too ill of mind and body
to rule himself) was again out of his mind.
The Seigneur de la Rivière, whom my Duchess had ever loved since he had
arranged her marriage and fetched her to Paris to my Lord the Duc de
Berry, was, by the order of the Duc de Burgundy, seized and held to die.
His friends, lest they too should suffer for’t, feared to help him. The
King, as hath been said, was ill; the Queen cared not what happened so
long as she was not irked. But my Duchess clenched her little hand and
saith,—
“He shall not die!”
Just how to serve him she knew not; so she cometh to her Lord, the Duc
de Berry, and cast herself on her knees before him.
“Oh, dear my lord,” cried she, sobbing, “this man who hath done no
wrong, and whom we know and love, must die, since none but I durst speak
for him.”
The Duc, who loved her well, raised her and saith,—
“Take comfort, dear one.”
“But, my Lord, what comfort is there for me, when one who gave me
happiness and thee, is in danger of his life, and for no wrongdoing,
neither?”
“Dear heart,” answered my Lord the Due, “I too love him, since he
brought thee to me, and what man can do, that will I for thy sake and
his.”
“If he be not saved, then will I sorrow always,” wept my Duchess.
My Lord Duc went forth, and though the King was only at times come to
his wits again, my Lord got from him a command that the Seigneur de la
Rivière should be sent overseas, and not slain.
This did but half content my mistress. When the King grew well again, my
Duchess plead with him so prettily, that as he loved right well to
pleasure her, he allowed the Seigneur de la Rivière to come home, and to
him restored all his castles and his wealth. Greatly my mistress
rejoiceth, and giveth thanks to both her Lord and the King.
Now the Seigneur, when once more in honour and in wealth he came to his
home, in token for his thanks for all she had wrought in his behalf,
brought to my mistress a coffer filled with rich gifts. The coffer was
in itself a marvel, since it was painted all over with little flying
boys, who bore in their hands flowers and wreaths. All the rest of it
was like unto gold, and it stood upon four feet cut in the shape of
great paws.
When the coffer was opened, there seemeth no end to the splendid things
my mistress brought forth,—tissues glistening like moonbeans, wrought
stuffs of many colours, and chains and jewels. Chiefest amongst the rich
treasures was a length of velvet from the great city called Genoa, the
mate to which was not in all the court. It was blue in colour, the which
my mistress ever loveth,—just the shade of the sky of a sunny day at
noon. Wrought all over it in threads of purest silver were flying doves.
My faith, it seemeth as if their long wings fairly moved!
“Oh,” cried my Duchess Eleonore, “never was such a lovely robe seen
before, and it cometh just in time, too, since the ball that Queen
Blanche giveth to the Queen’s maid on her marriage will be shortly.”
My Duchess had the velvet fashioned into a robe so splendid that all
marvelled. It fell from her shoulders and flowed three metres’ length
upon the floor, and the doves of silver fluttered and shone with every
step she taketh. Above her brow rose the tall hennin that Queen Isabeau
so loved to wear and to have the ladies of her court wear also, and from
this fell a veil of silver like unto the doves.
The night of the ball was at hand, and none looking on my stately
Duchess would deem that she had but fifteen years. So heavy was the
robe, and of such length, that as I walked behind I bore it for her.
The palace shone bravely with torches and flambeaux set in the wall, and
borne in the hands of many lackeys all about the rooms. Our King, the
Well-beloved, no longer ill, was full of pleasure at the masques which
had been planned for this ball. He was scarce older than was I, since he
was but nineteen years, and when he was not ill, ever loved to mingle in
all the sports going forward.
[Illustration: “NONE LOOKING ON MY STATELY DUCHESS WOULD DEEM THAT SHE
HAD BUT FIFTEEN YEARS.”—_Page 48._]
The dancing had come to an end. Quickly a space was cleared, and as I
stood behind my Lady, a loud voice crieth out,—
“The wild men, the wild men! Give the wild men room!”
Of a truth they were frightful to see,—five chained together, led by a
sixth who leaped along in front shouting, all of them being covered with
long shaggy hair after the manner of some strange beasts.
As the mummers passed, for they were but dressed to look like wild men,
I tweaked betwixt finger and thumb a bit of the fur, and lo, it was but
ravelled tow. Now I knew right well why the word had been passed that
none with lights should move about the room. With what wild shouts did
the mummers leap here and there amongst the guests! Some were affrighted
and ran screaming away. The leader of them all runneth up to my
mistress.
“Dost thou know me?” cried he.
Right firmly she held him by the hand.
“Not yet,” saith she, “but shall ere I let thee go.”
Then my blood froze with the horror of a scream I heard, then another
and another. In an instant mummers, guests, room, and all were in a
blaze. One of the company, to see the mummers better, had seized a torch
and held it near them. The tow sprang into flame, and the five men who
were tied together were instantly on fire and shrieking out. One only
loosed himself and ran and plunged into a tank for washing of the
silver, and which happened to be full of water.
All through the tumult and cries there stood my Duchess mid the flying
brands, which I fought as best I might with cap and hands.
“Come away,” I cried, “oh, mistress, come.”
“Nay, help me to save him, Jehan,” was what she whispered back.
Her fair veil shrivelled with the heat, the flying slivers blistered her
arms and neck. Cries of “The King, the King, save the King,” grew loud
and louder. Queen Isabeau fainted, yet my brave Duchess stood there till
every flying spark had been stamped out, holding gathered about her the
heavy velvet robe. When at last the fire was all subdued, she threw
aside the blue robe that had been so fair, and there under its scorched
folds, in his monstrous suit of tow, knelt the King, safe and unharmed.
“Hasten, Sire,” cried she, “the Queen waiteth you. Throw over you
Jehan’s cloak lest some wanton spark fly near you.”
The King hurried away, and then think not but that I hastened to get my
mistress home. And oh, my Lord’s pride in my Lady!
And oh, the King’s words when he came next morn to thank her, kneeling
on one knee to kiss her hand!
The sky-blue robe, say you? What became of that?
My mistress packed it away in the coffer that had brought it from Genoa,
with her own hands, and from that time my Lord taketh for his pennon one
of sky-blue ground with a silver dove set in its midst.
[Illustration]
THE PRINCESS WINS
_1417_
I
In my own youthful days, when turning over the leaves of storybooks, I
used to pause at those tales which began “Once upon a time.” I always
had a feeling that there was something of the fairy-tale about stories
which began in this fashion, and I should like so to begin this day.
For truly the story I am about to tell you is but one incident in the
life of a girl whose whole career was so full of ups and downs—alas,
most often downs,—that it reads, even in the solemn old Dutch documents,
like the most fanciful tale of the imagination.
When she died at thirty-seven, it seems as if our Jacqueline had dared
everything and lost,—lost kingdom, home, and friends. Yet even in a life
so full of disaster there were some bright spots, and in this story you
will hear how once at least our Princess wins.
She was born, our heroine, at her father’s palace at The Hague on St.
James’ Day, 1401. The little girl was baptised Jacoba, in honour of the
holy day of her birth, Jacobus being the Latin form of the name James.
Gradually Jacoba was changed into the French form of Jacqueline, though
in the strange old documents of the times her name is written as Jacob,
or Jacque, or sometimes Madam Jake, and often as Jaque de Bavière.
Jacqueline was born a princess, and when she was three years old, had
the title given her of “Daughter of Holland,” as she was the sole heir
and successor of her father, William the Sixth, Count of Holland, who on
the death of his father had succeeded him as Count of Zealand and
Hainault.
In the Middle Ages, when might made right, possessions were held in many
cases by him who had the strongest arm, who could muster the greatest
number of followers and had the most powerful connections. Marriage with
princes who had great possessions of land or would inherit them was one
of the ways by which sovereigns of small states strengthened their
positions, and this was one reason why mere babies were given in
marriage by their parents. You see, the parents could not go to war
against each other when it was arranged that their children were to be
married when they grew up!
Little Jacqueline was no exception to the rule, and before she was quite
five years old was formally betrothed to John, Duke of Tourraine, second
son of Charles the Sixth of France, called the “Well-beloved.”
The betrothal of Jacqueline to her bridegroom of nine years old took
place in the old French town of Compiègne, where both the French and
Dutch courts were present. The fine old palace with its great number of
rooms was elegantly furnished for the occasion, and the little
Jacqueline had in her company Staes, Jan, and Hans, her drummer, piper,
and trumpeter! Now these were very important personages in those
times,—they amused the company when there was nothing else to be done,
they had their duties among the soldiers; and in some of the old papers
which are still preserved, and which show the expenses of this betrothal
down to the last groot, it is duly set down that Staes, Jan, and Hans
are each to have six French crowns to cover their travelling expenses.
This would be equal to about nine dollars of our money.
Neither of the fathers of the two children was present at the betrothal,
for King Charles had one of his attacks of insanity, and Count William
had been bitten by a dog, and was not able to be there, either.
But the mothers had seen to it that nothing was lacking to make the
ceremony a handsome one. The Dutch expense account tells of new clothes
for everybody connected with Jacqueline, even those who had to stay at
home having wedding garments and fine new hat-bands.
When the betrothal ceremonies were over, the young bridegroom was handed
over to Jacqueline’s mother, and the two children were taken home to
Holland to be brought up together.
From time to time they had presents sent to them from their subjects,
which seem more like taxes than free gifts, and which were duly set down
in the archives. For instance, there were fish and wine for John, and
there were many ells of “very fine cloth of silk” for Madam Jake. They
had a special dispensation sent them, too, so that they could eat meat
on fast-days; and this dispensation was extended also to the
napkin-bearer, the cook, and ten other servants who had to taste the
dishes beforehand.
You see, our Jacqueline lived in the days when people were sometimes
poisoned by their enemies, so that royalty had “tasters,” who ate of
every dish before it was placed on the table for their Majesties to eat,
and if the tasters did not suffer, why then it was deemed safe for their
masters to eat.
Notwithstanding all these things, the children passed many happy years
studying French, English, and Latin, and in hunting, hawking, riding on
horseback, playing tennis and ball, and, best of all, in skating on the
long winding canals. Perhaps they skated the “Dutch Roll,” and Hans,
Staes, and Jan went along too, to make things merry with the fife,
trumpet, and drum. These were their pleasures. It was a more solemn
matter when they had to learn how to rule their kingdoms and subjects,
for the little bridegroom stood next but one to the great throne of
France, and Jacqueline was heir to her father’s kingdom.
They were married in 1415, when Jacqueline was fourteen years old.
Two years later, her young husband, who, by the death of his elder
brother, had become Dauphin and heir to the throne of France, died. The
poor lad breathed his last at Compiègne, in the very palace where he had
been betrothed, whether by poison or from getting overheated at tennis,
none can say, but at any rate while he was away from his wife and from
his family.
As if this was not enough, just two months later, Count William, the
kind and loving father of Jacqueline, died also. The poor girl, without
father or husband to protect her or her possessions, turned to her
Fatherland to pronounce her sovereign of Zealand and Hainault.
But there were others who had their eyes and minds fixed on the sturdy
little kingdom, and, truth to tell, they were the last persons one would
suspect of such ideas, since they were Jacqueline’s own kinsfolk. But so
it was; and in order to strengthen her position, and to allow her
subjects to know and love her and to pay her their vows of fealty,
Jacqueline, as was the custom in those times, started on a “progress,”
or tour through her various cities.
These royal progresses were very splendid affairs, we can hardly imagine
them now, and on this occasion Jacqueline’s mother bore her company, and
there were many of her most powerful nobles as well.
On June 12, 1417, when the cavalcade rode into Mons, the whole city was
gay to welcome the young girl who came thither to take her vows of
sovereignty. How prettily the city, old even then, must have looked!
From the windows fluttered banners of bright-coloured cloth, many of
them worked with patterns of gold and silver! So large were some of
these banners that they stretched from window to window across the
street. Many were the arches wreathed with flowers and branches under
which Jacqueline passed, and streamers waved everywhere.
Leaning from the casements were ladies richly dressed and holding chains
of flowers; and children were here, there, and everywhere, come to see
their little Princess, who was scarce more than a child herself.
Many great lords there were as well, having come forth from their
castles on the wooded hills of Hainault, followed by their retainers and
serfs, the former clad in suits of bright armour and riding on
horseback, while the latter ran on foot beside the men-at-arms, and bore
on their collars the names of their masters, and their doublets were of
leather, and many times their feet were bare.
Jacqueline on a milk-white palfrey, with her mother at her left hand,
rode at the head of them all. There are a few quaint old pictures which
show her to have been slender and tall, brown-haired, and without the
high cheek bones which are so usual in her countrywomen. On this
occasion her appearance was royal indeed. She wore a gown of cloth of
gold, which glittered in the warm June sunshine. Her coif, or headdress,
was bound by many a chain of gold and jewels, suitable to her rank as
Dauphine of France and Daughter of Holland.
She had not advanced far within the city before a deputation of young
girls, all dressed in white, stood forth to meet her.
“Hail, Daughter of Holland, welcome to Mons,” the leader of them said,
and stepping forward, hung her chaplet of flowers on Jacqueline’s arm.
One by one each young girl followed in turn, and Jacqueline, turning
with smiling face to her mother, said,—
“Our good city of Mons shows its loyalty in pleasing fashion, Madame. If
all our other cities bear themselves like this, we care not for our
uncle of Burgundy, who seeks to take our inheritance from us, nor for
the Egmonts nor Arkels, nor any who are enemies of our house.”
“In truth all seemeth fair, my daughter. Our good burghers always
respond to our need, though our nobles sometimes think too highly of
their power.”
“Our loyal burghers! In truth they are our best friends. Yet remember
how many nobles ride with us this day, and have sworn to urge our cause
as though it were their own.”
They rode slowly forward, the little Princess pleased and happy at the
homage of her subjects, bowing and smiling. At last the church of St.
Waltrude was reached. Here Jacqueline dismounted, and entering the dim
old building, walked slowly up the central aisle till she reached the
high altar. Here she knelt, kissed the holy relics, and swore to
preserve “all usages and privileges of the city, to protect the church,
to uphold the right, to dispel the wrong.”
Then, seated on a lofty throne that had been set up beside the altar,
she received the homage of her subjects, and their vows of loyalty to
her and to her cause.
After the solemn ceremonies at the church were over, the royal party had
a banquet given in their honour by the burghers of the city, who had
arranged many festivities to give them pleasure.
Can you not see our Princess with rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes
standing at the table’s head? Her soft brown hair is tightly bound to
her head and covered with a cap wrought of threads of gold strung with
pearls. Embroidery of threads of gold and coloured silks in which the
Dutch excelled, enrich her gown, which is of the heaviest silk that even
Flanders can produce. Long chains of pearls, which were sold by weight,
hang about her neck, and fur of minever binds and edges the cuts and
slashes in her great sleeves and on the body of her gown.
Besides the banquet, there was planned a tournament, a favourite
occasion for showing knightly deeds, and it was to be held on a grassy
mead just without the walls of the city, on the day following the paying
of homage, and entry into the city.
Thither early in the morning trooped the inhabitants of the town. Among
the first to go were groups of apprentices, dressed in the uniforms of
their guilds or trade societies. These trudged on foot, glad enough of a
holiday. Mingling among them were serfs or bondsmen, easily to be told
by their metal collars. Some carried burdens for their masters who
should arrive later in the day, while some merely swung a cudgel, and
hurried on as if conscious of their lowly position.
As the day wore on, the road was dusty with the men-at-arms, knights,
nobles, and their attendants, with substantial burghers with their
apprentices, and with groups of maidens from the town, eager to see the
gay company, and looking pretty enough themselves in their close-fitting
white caps and scarlet kirtles.
Only occasionally, walking sedately by her father’s side, shrouded in a
long cloak to keep her clothes fresh from the dust, came some
tradesman’s daughter, her neck encircled with strings of coral beads,
and her gold earrings, handed down through many generations, a trifle
longer than those of the serving maidens, and the inevitable cap edged
with lace, or of finest plaited muslin, while theirs, though snowy
white, were of coarse material.
Now and again amid the crowd swung covered litters, bearing either the
wife of some dignitary, or some high official who preferred this manner
of travelling to going on horse or mule back.
At an hour past noon, out from the palace yard rode a troop of men on
horseback, bright in a livery of orange and black. Their business it was
to clear the road of any such as cumbered it, so that the passage to the
field should be kept free, since the Princess Jacqueline would ride
thither on her palfrey, to show herself to her subjects, who had
prepared the tournament in her behalf.
As the cavalcade issued from the palace yard, there came first twoscore
knights riding two abreast, each in a full suit of armour which sparkled
like silver in the sun, each carrying his shield and a pennon of bright
silk. Then came the members of the council of Mons, in rich robes of
velvet, furred and wrought, and showing on their breasts the heavy gold
chains of their office. They were men who showed on their faces
intelligence and a sense of the importance of their office, slow to
smile and grave, but true as steel to what they deemed the right, and
loyal subjects when once won to their sovereign.
Next came Jacqueline with her mother beside her, both riding on splendid
horses, whose caparison was as rich as cloth and gold could make it.
Right royally shone our Princess, robed in a gown of damask which showed
in the pattern tulips of many shades, the flower of all others most dear
to the Dutch heart, the which were made richer yet by stitchery of
brilliant silks. Around the neck and long sleeves, which reached almost
to her feet, were bands of ermine fur, and beneath the flowing cap, made
truly in the very shape of those worn by the peasant maidens, her hair
was bound with many a string of pearl.
Behind her came those who were to take part in the tournament; and never
had Mons, staid old city, seen a sight of such splendour. Forty knights
came ahead at a stately pace, each mounted on a noble steed in trappings
of velvet, for the steeds of the fallen knights became the prizes of the
victors, and it was a matter of pride to have both horse and harness
worthy to be a prize. After the knights rode forty ladies, chosen for
their beauty, all richly dressed in colours of the gayest hues, mounted
on palfreys, each one riding alone, and leading by a silver chain a
knight completely armed for tilting, astride a splendid horse, which
also wore armour, and a plume of feathers.
Minstrels and trumpeters followed along, blowing on their instruments;
and then came the people, shouting and cheering, and hurrying along so
as not to miss any of the sport at the field.
It was a lovely sight that met their eyes when the mead was reached. The
grassy sward was dotted with gay and constantly changing groups, bright
awnings and banners were stretched to keep off the sun from spectators
and combatants, and almost encircling the tilting ground were fine
trees, beneath whose shade many horses were tethered, while their
attendants lounged on the grass. So busy were all with the scene before
them, that none noted the cloud rising dark above the horizon, and he
who called attention to it would have been but deemed a churl for his
pains.
In the little enclosure set apart for the Princess and her immediate
attendants, the hangings were of equal splendour with the rest of the
arrangements. It was hung with gay strips of cloth, and with chains of
flowers, and it was placed midway between the lists, so that the tilting
could be seen to the best advantage.
All was ready; the heralds rode forth, each with his silver trumpet at
his lips prepared to announce the opening of the fray, when a long
rolling peal of thunder startled alike the spectators in the stands as
well as those who stood upon the greensward pressing eagerly forward to
see the first shock of the encounter.
The first peal was followed by another and another. The wind whirled
across the wide meadow and tore into shreds the awnings which had been
stretched against the sun. Rain descended in floods, and before
Jacqueline and her party could take shelter in the rude stalls that had
been built below the galleries, and in which the horses were stabled,
they were pelted with hailstones so large, and which came with such
force, that one of them left on Jacqueline’s cheek a cruel bruise.
Even centuries later, and in our own country, women and girls were
burned as witches, and when our Daughter of Holland lived, many things
which would seem quite natural to us were called “omens,” and were
supposed to foretell either good or ill.
This hail-storm was judged a bad omen for poor Jacqueline. So strong a
hold did it take on the superstitious people that while many important
transactions and details of history are lost, a full account of this
storm has been left in various Dutch documents, with fabulous tales as
to the size of the hailstones, and that they killed cattle and ruined
crops. Thus sadly ended for Princess Jacqueline the day that had opened
so fair. Right bravely did she bear the hurried ride back into the city.
With her mother she withdrew into their apartments as soon as they
reached Mons, and was seen no more that night.
Indeed so wrought upon was Jacqueline by the great storm and the
misfortune attending it, that, as soon as they were alone, she exclaimed
to her mother,—
“Let us away as soon as our train can be made ready.”
“Nay, dear child, that would but incense our good people of Mons, who
did their best to pleasure and to honour you.”
“But, mother, that is all past, and see the grievous bruise upon my
cheek. It ill becomes the face of a princess.”
“That it does, my dearest, but it is but just to remember that, cruel
though it be, unguents and laving it with soft water will heal it, and
by the morrow thy cheek will show no stain. Neither must thou forget
that for this bruise none of thy subjects should be blamed.”
To this the little Princess made no reply, yet could not her mother
induce her to remain longer in the city; and shortly after sunrise the
next morning, the cavalcade took their way from the city of Mons,
Jacqueline travelling in a litter, since she chose not to show herself
again in that ill-omened place.
II
After the mishap at Mons, the young Princess journeyed to other of her
loyal towns,—to Delft, to Leyden, to Amsterdam and Haarlem. Though all
these cities paid homage to Jacqueline as their sovereign, and supported
her claims to Zealand and Hainault, there was a strong party growing up
against her, chiefly on account of her youth, and because she was a
girl.
The headquarters of this party was at Dordrecht, the one city which
refused to pay homage to Jacqueline. Here in Dordrecht the leaders of
the opposing party were joined by one of the uncles of Jacqueline, known
as “John the Pitiless,” who was eager to rob his niece of her
inheritance. He proposed to be appointed governor, and in this way
gradually get into his own hands the whole power.
Now indeed Jacqueline showed that she was strong at heart, for though
but sixteen, she immediately took steps in person to suppress all such
designs on the part of her uncle, and levied troops, gathered supplies,
and started towards rebellious Dordrecht.
Right bravely she looked, our little Princess, as she rode at the head
of her troops, and ever from time to time she turned to her mother with
a bright smile, and some such word as—
“Courage, dear Madame, ever saw you troops with braver front than ours?”
Or, after a pause,—
“Think you that mine uncle of Burgundy will expect to see us in person,
come to defend our rights?”
“Thou art my brave girl. Wouldst that thy father wert here to guard and
guide thee!”
But her mother looked anxious, and as she rode in her litter near her
daughter, it was she who from time to time called to her side those
brave nobles who had espoused her daughter’s cause, and to whose advice
she looked to bring the assault to a successful conclusion.
After the first day’s march Jacqueline’s bright confidence was shaken.
Wearied with being all day in the saddle and bearing the weight of her
suit of armour, even though the shirt was of the finest Milan steel and
flexible and light, Jacqueline dismissed all her attendants, and begged
her mother to bide with her for a space before going to rest.
When all were gone and they were alone together and the curtains to the
tent secured, poor Jacqueline, but a tired girl after all, cast herself
down beside her mother, and hid her face in her lap.
“Oh, mother,” cried she, “methinks I’d give all Dordrecht to be once
more in our own palace in The Hague, safe sheltered in mine own room,
and rid of this armour which chafes me so!”
“Nay, daughter, speak not so loud, bend thy lips to mine ear, for truly
it would shame you much should the men-at-arms without hear thy
plaints.”
“But, mother—”
“Lower, dear child, speak lower. What! weeping? Countess of Hainault and
Daughter of Holland shedding tears?”
“Thy daughter was I, mother, before I was Daughter of Holland. So
fearsome am I of those cruel men we go to meet, with their spears and
arrows. Methinks that already I feel them in my flesh”; and at the very
thought there were fresh showers of tears.
“Can this be my brave Princess? Is this the maid of whom her father
said, ‘Brave as a lad, with more wisdom than her years, and better
fitted to rule than many an elder one’? Sure, child, the hailstones have
in truth bewitched thee!”
“Ah, mother, I will be brave to-morrow, since needs I must. But say thou
wilt not leave me this night? Stay with me; the darkness affrights me,
mother.”
“Truly I had no thought not to stay with thee, dear child. See, give me
thy hand, and I will sit beside thy couch till thou art fast asleep.”
Jacqueline threw herself on the couch which had been hastily spread in
her tent, and made soft with the skins of fox and of bear, and drew over
her buckskin doublet a cloak of frieze.
“Kiss me, mother, as though I were once more thy little daughter, and
leave me not”; and holding her mother’s hand as she had done in
babyhood, our poor little Daughter of Holland, from very weariness, fell
fast asleep.
Before dawn the next day all the camp was astir. The sound of the
armourers at work, the stamping and neighing of horses, the shouts of
the soldiers as they hurried about their labour, made a din quite at
variance with the quiet of the night, when the only sounds which
disturbed the solitude were the cries of the sentries that all was well,
and the occasional whinny of some restive horse.
Yet still Jacqueline slept on, and by her side her mother watched,
hoping that the sounds from without would penetrate the deep sleep of
the weary girl. At last, at the door of the tent itself, sounded the
notes of the bugle, and Jacqueline started up, her eyes clear and
flashing, as she turned to the patient watcher at her side.
“Once more Countess of Hainault, dearest lady,” she cried, “Jacqueline
the little girl has fled back to her childhood.”
Her mother drew a long breath and smiled in return.
“Let us praise St. James for that,” she answered, and pushed aside the
hanging folds that covered the opening to the tent, so that the fresh
morning air would sweep within.
“Hail, Lady, a bright awakening and a joyous day”; and forward pressed
two pages, special attendants to Jacqueline herself, and like her
dressed in suits of bright armour. But while theirs glittered as bravely
as hers, on her helmet, on her shield, and on any smallest spot which
offered a space for the tool of the goldsmith, there were wrought the
various heraldic devices which belonged to the Countess by right of her
great and royal descent.
The younger of the two pages—so young in fact that his cheek was scarce
less rosy and fair than that of his young mistress—bore her sword and
spear, which gleamed in the cold beams of the wintry sun. The elder of
the two carried her shield and pennon, the last of fine blue silk,
showing the arms of Bavaria quartered with those of Hainault-Holland,
and watching over these was deftly embroidered the image of the Virgin
and Child.
Jacqueline came to the door of her tent, and as her eyes watched the
busy scene, she looked both rested and well pleased.
“A fair omen for the Daughter of Holland this day,” she said, and
pointed towards where the lad stood with her pennon. The bright clouds
in the sky had but touched the faces of the Holy Virgin and the Child,
and reflected in the silver threads with which they were wrought, caused
them to glow with almost the colours of true flesh and blood.
“The Countess speaks well,” said Eberhard, Lord of Hoogtwoude, than whom
Jacqueline had no more faithful follower, and who had just come up from
the camp to see how the young Countess had rested.
“A fair sleep and a long one, thanks to my lady mother,” said
Jacqueline, turning to her with a loving glance, “who was ever wont to
take upon her own shoulders the burden of my humours.”
Full well did Jacqueline repay the kindness of her mother, by her love
for that lady which her dignity never caused her for a moment to
conceal. Going once more within the tent, she bathed in water fresh and
cold, and though the air was a thought too keen, she had the armourer
summoned to rivet on her greaves, so that the legs below the knee should
be well protected, lest some who were on foot among the enemy might get
near and do her harm.
“Bring my helmet,” next she ordered, “and sling it to my saddle bow, for
this cap of velvet shall serve me to wear till we near the troops which
my false uncle hath gathered.”
Kissing her mother, she whispered in her ear,—
[Illustration: “ON, FOR THE LOVE OF THE DAUGHTER OF HOLLAND, DEATH TO
THOSE THAT DENY HER.”—_Page 87._]
“Fear not, lady, I be a lad this day”; and then placing her spurred foot
on the knee of her page, she mounted easily into her saddle. Once on the
back of her war-horse, her courage rose higher still, and seizing her
pennon in her hand, she drove her horse onward, shouting in her sweet
young voice,—
“On, for the love of the Daughter of Holland, and death to those that
deny her!”
Across the low bare fields and through the scrubby woods rode the small
army, which numbered barely a couple of thousand men. When the sun stood
high in the heavens and showed the hour of noon, though the wind was
keen and little comfort was to be had, they rested, for the sake of the
horses as well as the men.
Whilst they stopped thus, and with fires and food sought to take such
ease as they could command, a band of picked men, less than a score,
rode forward to gain what news they might of the enemy. Soon they could
be seen spurring quickly back, and they brought the welcome news that
“John the Pitiless” was encamped just without the town of Grocum, that
the men were scattered about as if preparing to halt for the remainder
of the day, and that they had learned from some faithful adherents of
the Princess Jacqueline’s, that her uncle had been able to muster scarce
five hundred men more than were in her own little army.
At this news all sprung to their saddles, since the brief winter’s day
was all too short for that which they had to do, and Jacqueline with
helmet on head and sword in hand, rode at their head.
Scarce an hour’s brisk riding brought them in sight of the army gathered
from among those who opposed the Princess. There was much confusion
evident among them, and it seemed as if they had but just learned of the
approach of the Daughter of Holland, and were preparing to hold their
own as best they might.
Straight as an arrow, forward to where his pennon showed the presence of
her uncle, rode Jacqueline.
No need to shout encouragement to the brave men at her back, yet ever
and again she would turn and call, “For love of Holland,” or “For the
Virgin and St. James,” and ever and anon would come back the answering
cry, “For love of Holland,” “For St. James.”
When almost within the flight of an arrow from the enemy, once again did
Jacqueline turn, and this time her cry was borne back on the wind with
the clearness of a trumpet,—
“For love of the Daughter of Holland.”
At this the hoarse shout that rose among her followers could have been
heard a league away. Still keeping her horse’s head straight for that
pennon she had marked so well, she sent her pages to the right and left,
bidding the soldiers spread in a wide circle, and never draw rein till
they had circled the enemy.
On they came like a whirlwind; the enemy, seeming not to know what
manner of tactics they were like to meet, formed a compact body.
The rushing mass of men and horses, with Jacqueline at their head, swept
madly on, nor paused nor swerved till they had flung themselves against
the enemy. In a moment all was frightful confusion, men unhorsed and
being trampled underfoot by the riderless steeds, and in many cases the
horses suffering themselves from wounds that had fallen on them instead
of their masters.
Twice, above all the tumult and din of metal when spear met shield or
helmet, could be heard the cry, “For the Daughter of Holland,” and each
time it brought the answering shout. At these moments even the enemy
seemed to waver, as if they had not dreamed that their hereditary
Princess could be there in the thick of battle in her own person.
Surrounded by the noblest of her kin and those of the highest rank among
her party, Jacqueline never gave a thought to her own safety.
From right to left she flew, encouraging here, supporting there,
bringing up laggards to harass a weak spot among the enemy’s forces, by
the sheer might of her presence striking awe among the foe.
At last one more stolid or more cruel than the rest rode straight at
her, his lance thrust at her breast. The good mail shirt she wore and
her trusty shield turned aside the blow, but so sharp was the shock that
she fell from her horse. Now indeed came in that training in
horsemanship on which her father had ever insisted, and in which she had
been practised since her earliest years. Still clinging to the bridle,
she managed to keep from falling, and with the aid of her faithful pages
who kept ever at her saddle, she managed to regain her seat.
“Now, by all I hold dear,” cried she, “no mercy shall be shown the
enemies of Holland and my house.”
From that moment with voice and example she inspired her weary men, till
with the fall of dusk on that December day they routed those that were
still left alive, and sent them flying over the waste country back to
Dordrecht.
Many of the enemies of Jacqueline and her house fell during this battle,
the most noted, and the most vindictive as well, being that William of
Arkell to whom her father desired to wed her in the interests of peace,
but who stubbornly refused our little Princess and always remained one
of her most bitter foes.
Her uncle, “John the Pitiless,” escaped and returned to Dordrecht with
the remnant of his forces. Nor was this the only effort he made to
capture her lands, but for years he pursued her relentlessly, and did
not hesitate at any means to gain his end.
Involved in endless wars and intrigues both with enemies within her own
land as well as those abroad, the battle at Grocum was the only time
when Jacqueline, Daughter of Holland, led her troops in person, and no
amount of persuasion could induce her to assume command again.
The night of the victory at Grocum, the little army encamped within the
city which they had wrested from the Burgundian party, and the
celebration of this happy event was accompanied with feasting and much
joy. A thousand healths were drunk to Jacqueline, Countess and
Commander, and there were toasts to future victories, and the rosiest
anticipations of success, the victors imagining that because of one
triumph their enemies would be vanquished.
When the Daughter of Holland laid herself down to sleep that night, her
mother, with a happy face, bent to kiss her good night.
“Mother, dear lady,” whispered this victorious Countess of sixteen, “I
pray you tell no one that last night I wept from fear!”
Her mother smiled as she kissed her, and answered in her gentle voice,—
“Thou hast my promise.”
[Illustration]
DEFENCE OF CASTLE DANGEROUS
_1692_
I
The sun shone bright and warm on the little frontier settlement of
Verchères one crisp October morning in the year 1692.
Though the settlement was small, it was pleasantly placed on the south
shore of the St. Lawrence River, not more than twenty miles from
Montreal, which was considered but a short distance from a place of
safety in those days when homes were being hewn out of the wilderness.
The Seignior or Governor of the place was an old soldier, formerly a
captain in the renowned regiment of Carignan, which was sent to New
France to give aid and protection to the settlers, and to assist them in
repelling the Iroquois. The officers of this great regiment were
rewarded for their services by large grants of land along the rivers,
which were for many years the great highways. The officers in turn
rented out the land to the soldiers under them, and none save the
Colonel himself was allowed to return to France, so anxious was that
country to increase the population of its colonies.
When our story opens, Seignior Verchères was on military duty at Quebec,
his wife had gone on a visit to Montreal, and they had left the little
family at home in charge of Madelon, the only daughter, a girl about
fourteen years old. There were two young brothers,—Louis, a lad of
twelve, and Alexander, who was about a year younger. There were,
besides, the settlers who looked on Madelon as the representative of her
father.
We can hardly picture to ourselves what a very rude place the settlement
was, and as it lay near the trail of the Iroquois, it had become known
throughout New France as “Castle Dangerous.”
At this time the Iroquois, containing the strong and invincible Five
Nations, had two motives which swayed their savage breasts most
powerfully; these were love of fighting and love of gain. They were
dependent on the Dutch and English at Albany for guns, powder, lead,
brandy, and many other things which the white man had brought with him
from the Old World, and which these children of the woods had come to
regard only too quickly as necessary to their comfort.
True, beaver skins could buy these things which they coveted, but with
the Iroquois the supply was limited. The great forests stretching to the
west and northwest, and those of the upper lakes, were occupied by
tribes who were bound to French interests, and it was the French traders
who controlled their immense annual product of furs.
Every summer there was a great Fair at Montreal, where the trading for a
whole year took place, and the remote tribes brought in their
accumulated beaver skins. The Iroquois saw and envied these furs and the
strong waters which they enabled their possessors to buy, so they became
more than ever bent on mastering all this traffic by first conquering
the tribes. The Dutch and English urged them on, for the Hurons,
Ottawas, and other tribes were the “children” of the French, working in
their interests and protected by them, while French and Indians alike
were enemies of the Iroquois.
Thus it was no accidental attack that the French had to fear at “Castle
Dangerous,” but a determined effort by a race that could put nearly
three thousand warriors in the field, and that constantly increased this
force by adopting captives into the tribes.
The settlement at Castle Dangerous consisted of the blockhouse, a strong
building made of timbers; of the house of the Seignior; some rude
shacks, and the fort itself, which was connected with the blockhouse by
a covered way. All the settlers lived in these buildings for safety,
since their pitiless enemy the Iroquois had always to be guarded
against. There were as well bands of wandering Indians that were
constantly passing up and down the trail that lay along the St. Lawrence
River.
Rude and dangerous as the place seemed, Madelon loved it, since it was
home to her. She was brave, and had been trained by her father in the
use of firearms, to be cool in the face of danger and quick to meet
emergencies.
The morning of the twenty-second of October broke fair, the sun rose
amid banks of purple and gold clouds, and as there was still work to be
done in the fields, the men of the settlement started off directly after
the morning meal, leaving the women and children, two soldiers, one old
man of eighty, and Madelon in charge of the fort.
For a long time Verchères had been unmolested. The settlers had come to
feel that perhaps there was not much further danger to be feared from
the foe, and with this feeling of fancied security they had grown less
vigilant. Madelon, attracted by the beauty of the day, started to go
down to the landing-place, which hung over the river and made an
admirable spot from which to fish, the river being noted for the
excellence and number of fine fish to be found there.
“Come, Laviolette,” she called to a French half-breed who was hired to
work about the fort, “bring some lines and perhaps we can catch fish
enough to serve for a meal.”
They were busily engaged in this peaceful sport, when suddenly the sound
of firing was heard in the neighbourhood of the place where the settlers
were at work in the fields.
“Run, Mademoiselle, run! The Iroquois are coming,” screamed Laviolette,
and taking her by the hand, they fled towards the fort.
“Can we reach it, dost thou think?”
“Courage, Mademoiselle! we are almost there,” replied Laviolette; and so
the Iroquois thought also, since they gave up the chase of the flying
girl, and contented themselves with firing at her and her companion. As
the bullets whistled by, she prayed aloud,—
“Holy Marie, save us!” and as the words inspired her with fresh courage,
she shouted as she neared the fort,—
“Help, help, to arms!” Her wild call was not heard, and at the very gate
itself were two sobbing women who from the battlement of the fort had
seen their husbands murdered in the field, and stood wringing their
hands in misery.
“Oh, come within, come in, think of the children”; and as she spoke,
Madelon pushed the two women in before her, and with the aid of
Laviolette shut the heavy gate.
“Where are the soldiers?” was her next question.
“Hidden in the blockhouse, sister”; and Louis, the elder of the two
boys, came to meet his sister with a gun in his hand. They ran together
to the blockhouse, and there, sure enough, were the two men, crazed with
fear, and one of them holding in his hand a lighted fuse.
“What do you with that fuse?”
“Light the powder and blow us all up,” cried the soldier, while his
companion, huddling in the corner, only moaned.
“Miserable coward, go from this place at once!” and Madelon’s voice rang
with such determination and command that the man obeyed.
“See, since none of you dare, I myself will defend this fort, for my
father would have shame if his daughter could not keep it, when there
are arms and powder and those that can use them.”
“Sister,” said Alexander, “give me a gun, for I too can load and fire
one.”
“Truly thou shalt have one, little brother. We shall fight to the death.
Remember what our father hath taught us, that men are born to shed their
lives for their country and their king. Though I be but a girl, I shall
do as he would wish, since neither of you is old enough to take command
here.”
Even the craven soldiers, inspired with some small degree of courage,
agreed to follow their intrepid commander, whose first order was that
they should make a round of the palisades, that high fence of great logs
with pointed ends that surrounded the forts and blockhouses planted in
the wilderness, and to which many owed their safety, since they were
wellnigh impossible to climb, and the garrison within had those that
climbed at their mercy. As they hurried to the palisades, Madelon put on
her head one of the soldier caps which she saw in the blockhouse.
“Why do you put that cap on, sister?” asked Louis, with a curiosity
which he could not repress even at that critical time.
“So that the Iroquois shall not think that it is a girl making the
rounds. You put one on also, and give one to Alexander.”
The feeble band hurried to go around the inside of the palisades to see
that all was secure, for on this defence of heavy logs their very lives
depended.
“Thank the Holy Virgin that we came,” Madelon exclaimed; for they found
not one, but half a dozen of the logs gone at different places, and had
this been discovered by the Indians, there would have been little chance
for the small band to have escaped being slain.
“Help, Louis; push, Alexander! We can get this log into place while the
soldiers set up those that have wholly fallen down.” As she spoke, the
brave girl and the two little brothers tugged with might and main, and
got the heavy log in place, and held it while the soldiers drove it into
the ground, so that no opening was left in the palisades. All the other
weak spots were mended under her direction, the two men working as she
ordered, since they seemed incapable of taking charge themselves. When
the palisades were well repaired, and Madelon thought there was no
further danger to be feared from that direction, she said,
“Now must we make the cowardly Iroquois believe that there is a strong
garrison within, and never let them think that my father is from home.
So let each one in turn fire from the loopholes, and see to it, boys,
that there is no shot wasted.”
Finding that the firing was scattering but continuous, the Indians, ever
averse to making an attack on a fortified place, withdrew to the woods.
Shortly, however, they discovered some of the settlers who had escaped
the morning assault, creeping back to the fort, and with horrid yells
the savages pursued and killed them. The women and children in the fort
cried and screamed without ceasing, knowing that their loved ones were
being killed without mercy. At last Madelon, fearing that they would be
heard by the Indians, and their distress taken as a sign of weakness,
ordered them to stop, and tried to busy them about the defence.
“Load and fire the cannon, Laviolette; it will serve as a warning to any
of the settlers that may have escaped, and I have heard my father say
that Indians ever fear a cannon.”
So the cannon was fired, and Madelon from her loophole saw the tall,
painted forms of the enemy take refuge in the forest. But this was not
the last duty of the little commander that night. From her place on the
bastions of the fort she saw a canoe with a settler whom she knew well,
named Fontaine, coming towards the landing. He was not alone, but had
his wife and family with him.
“I must save them if it be the will of God. Laviolette, dost thou see
any of the Indians lurking at the woods’ edge?”
“There be none very near at hand, Mademoiselle. Perhaps the cannon
affrighted them.”
“I pray that it may be so, since there is none but thou and I to save
our friends, I fear.”
“Nay, there are the soldiers. Sure, it is their business to venture to
the dock and bring in Sieur Fontaine.”
“Listen thou, Laviolette, the while I ask them to do this.”
The soldiers summoned before their little commander, though testifying
their willingness to follow all her orders within the palisades,
absolutely refused to risk their lives by going beyond its shelter.
“’Twas as I feared; thou and I must save them, Laviolette. Thou shalt
keep guard at the gate, and I will to the landing and bring them
hither.”
“Pray, Mademoiselle, bid me to go, and thou stay and keep the gate.”
“Nay, for I have heard my father say that the Indian is ever wary about
that which he doth not understand. They will marvel why I go alone to
the landing, and doubtless think it but a ruse to draw them hither, so
that we may train the cannon on them again. If they appear, go thou in
and bar the gate, since we must save the fort at any cost, and as many
lives as is possible.”
So Madelon, with a bravery that might have put to shame the soldiers
skulking within the fort, alone and in full sight, walked down to the
landing, assisted Fontaine to take his family and goods from the canoe,
and placing the party in front of her, marched back to the fort entirely
unmolested. As she hoped, the Indians, seeing her put so bold a face on
the matter, suspected that they had something to fear from the occupants
of the fort; so, while they hesitated, Madelon acted. Once within the
stronghold, how the little party wept and prayed with joy!
“Now indeed I feel as if there was hope, since thou art here to help me,
Sieur Fontaine. There are enough so that we may divide the watch, and as
long as daylight lasts, to fire on the enemy if ever one is seen to show
himself. Thou, Louis, and Alexander as well, shalt take turns at the
loopholes, and see that thy aim go not astray.”
The rest of the day was spent in making all the defences as strong as
possible, in which Fontaine gave valuable assistance, for he was a brave
man, accustomed to the wiles of the murderous enemy, and wise in the
ways of border warfare.
At sunset a fierce northeast wind began to blow, and the first snow of
the season mixed with hail filled the air, making it deadly cold and a
night to try the spirits of the small band who were fighting for their
lives. At first Madelon hoped that the storm would drive the Indians to
shelter for the night, but they were constantly seen appearing at the
edge of the woods, and, as it seemed, making preparations for an attack
under cover of the darkness, and to gain entrance into the fort that
night.
“Go, Louis, and tell all the men that I would speak with them.”
When the whole force was mustered, there were but six in all, two of
them boys and one an old man over eighty. Madelon spoke to them thus,—
“God has saved us to-day from the hands of our enemies, and let us pray
that we shall escape their snares to-night. As for me, know that I am
not afraid. See, I will keep the fort with the old man and my brothers,
whilst you, Pierre Fontaine, and the two soldiers, La Bonté and Gachet,
go into the blockhouse with the women and children, as it is the safest
place. If I am taken, do not you surrender, even if the horrible
Iroquois cut me to pieces and burn me before your eyes. I am but one,
and in the blockhouse they cannot reach you if you care for yourselves
as you should. So all to your places, and may God keep us through the
night.”
Madelon tramped off to her chosen place of duty, with the old man and
her young brothers.
“Louis,” she said, “choose thou the place on the bastion where thou wilt
serve, Alexander shall choose next, then the old man, and I shall take
the last.”
Each did as he was bidden, and all night through the wind and storm the
two little boys, the aged man whose fires of life had burned so low, and
the young girl kept vigil. All night long the cries of “All’s well” rang
from bastion to blockhouse, making it appear as if the place was fully
manned by a large garrison. At about one o’clock the old man who was on
guard at the place on the bastion nearest the gate, called out,—
“Mademoiselle, I hear something, mayhap the enemy.”
His voice quavered with fear and fatigue, and as Madelon hurried to him
she feared the worst had come.
“Where is it that thou hearest something?” asked Madelon, hardly above
her breath.
“There, just below, at the gate of the fort.”
“Surely I see them too, and well I know the poor creatures, since for
many a day this summer past have I driven them to pasture.”
The snow had whitened the ground, so that Madelon’s bright eyes had been
able to distinguish that the dark forms huddled at the gate were the
poor remnant of the cattle that had not been killed or driven off by the
Iroquois. Summoning the others from the blockhouse, they took counsel
together as to whether they should open the gate and let the cattle in.
The men were all anxious to do this, but Madelon feared the crafty foe.
“How canst thou tell but what we let in the savages also? Such creatures
of wile are they, that we know not if they be not concealed in the hides
of the beasts already slaughtered, and if we are simple enough to open
the gate they may enter the fort.”
An hour passed, and still the cattle stood there, and there were no
signs that the enemy was among them. So at last Madelon called Louis and
Alexander.
“Brothers,” she said, “we must get in the cattle if it be possible. You
shall stand on either side of the gate and have your guns cocked, while
I go forth and drive the beasts in. If the Indians make a rush, shoot,
and then shut the gate as quickly as thou canst.”
The heavy gate was swung back, and Madelon stepped out. It did not take
long for her to drive in the few cattle that remained of the generous
herd that had gone to pasture that morning.
The remainder of the night passed away without any further alarms, and
when darkness disappeared, many of the fears and anxieties of the small
garrison disappeared also, as it is always easier to face the fears that
may be seen than those that are born of the imagination.
II
With the dawning of the second day of the defence of Castle Dangerous,
the spirits of all rose, all, that is, except one, and this was Dame
Marguerite, the wife of Sieur Fontaine. She, poor soul, had but lately
come from Paris, and was yet a stranger to the difficulties and dangers
of life in the wilderness.
Her complaints were unceasing, and she gave her husband no rest,
constantly imploring him to carry her to another fort. Her selfish
thought was for herself alone, and she cried,—
“Save me, Pierre, save me. Was it to expose me to such horrible danger
that you sent for me to come from Paris, where I was safe and happy?”
“I sent for you and our children, that we might all be together and make
a home in this new free land. But methinks that perhaps it had been best
to let thee remain where thou wast, and where there was nothing to
disturb thy ease.”
“It is in my heart to wish well that I was there again, Pierre, and had
never seen this hateful wilderness. Oh, wilt thou not take me to some
place of safety ere I die with fright?”
“Peace, woman, and shame me no further by thy childish plaint, for the
very children are more brave than thou. As for Mademoiselle Madelon, she
has the courage of a man, though she is but a girl, nor will I ever
leave this fort while she is here to defend it.”
After this the woman subsided into a peevish quiet, which was at least
easier to bear than her complaints. All the others, even those who had
lost fathers, husbands, or brothers, put aside their griefs, and united
in an effort to compass their common safety. The meals were served out
as usual, the work inside the fort progressed as it did each day, since
each one felt that the best way to keep grief at bay was to occupy one’s
self in helping others. During the middle of the afternoon all the
people were called together by Madelon, so that their situation could be
discussed. The soldiers, poor creatures, knew not what to counsel, and
sought only to stay in the blockhouse, the safest spot. Small account
was taken of them, though they were the very ones to whom the others
should have looked for protection.
Sieur Fontaine, the old man, and the two boys were of course for
staying, and not endeavouring to escape by night down the river.
Encouraged by them, Madelon made a little speech to the garrison and the
women and children under their charge.
“Dear friends,” said she, “never willingly will I give up the fort.
Rather would I die than that the enemy should gain it. Hear what my
father said to me, that it was of the greatest importance that the
Iroquois should never gain possession of any French fort, since, if they
gained one, soon they would grow more bold, and think they could get
others, and after that all safety would be at an end.”
“What you say is true enough,” said the Sieur Fontaine, rising in his
turn to encourage the people. “Nor may any of us complain, if a girl be
brave enough to stay on the bastions for a day and a night without rest
or repose, and who ever carries before us a cheerful face. I, for one,
cry, ‘Viva, viva! Long live brave Madelon!’”
“Viva, viva!” they cried, one and all; and the feeble garrison returned
to their posts, reanimated and hopeful that relief would come to save
them.
For a weary week they were in constant alarm. Each day showed them the
enemy lurking about, and each night made them fearful that the attack
which had not come during the light would be attempted during the
darkness. But every night dragged itself away at last, and each morning
brought, if not the help so eagerly expected, at least courage to wait
for it. On the eighth night poor weary Madelon was dozing in the fort,
with her head pillowed on a table, and her gun beside her, when she
heard the sentinel on watch call,—
“Qui vive?”
She sprang to her feet, and with her gun in her hand ran up on to the
bastion.
“Why called you?”
“Listen, Mademoiselle! Dost thou not hear a sound on the river like the
splashing of oars?”
“Surely yes; there are voices too. Canst thou tell if they be French or
Indian?”
“No; they breathe so low, Mademoiselle.”
Madelon put her hands to her mouth, and called low but clear,—
“Who are you?”
The answer came back in the loved French accents,—
“We are Frenchmen. It is La Monnerie, who comes from down the river to
bring you aid.”
The gate was flung open wide, but even yet Madelon’s caution did not
desert her, for she placed a sentinel on guard, and then alone, as she
had gone before, she marched down to the landing-place to meet the
soldiers. When she came face to face with Lieutenant La Monnerie, she
saluted, and—
“Monsieur,” said she, “I surrender my arms to you.”
Being a gallant Frenchman, and as yet hardly understanding the
situation, knowing that there were soldiers within the fort, he
answered,—
[Illustration: “I HAVE COMMANDED THIS FORT, MONSIEUR, DURING THE ABSENCE
OF MY FATHER.”—_Page 125._]
“Mademoiselle, they are in good hands”; but he smiled as he said it,
looking on the girlish form before him, with its soldier cap and heavy
gun. Madelon saw the smile, and who can blame her that she answered,—
“In better hands than you think. Will Monsieur come and inspect the
fort?”
The Lieutenant and his forty men followed her up to the fort, found
everything in order, and a sentinel on each bastion. He turned with a
look of surprise to Madelon, and asked,—
“Why does not the commandant of this fort come to receive me?”
“I have commanded this fort, Monsieur, during the absence of my father,
since there was none other either willing or able to do it. Will
Monsieur give me his orders?”
The surprised lieutenant, after looking again about him, turned and
bowed.
“What commands does Mademoiselle wish me to give? For my part, there
seems nothing for me to alter.”
“If Monsieur will relieve the garrison, it would be well, since none of
us have been off the bastions for a week.”
We can well imagine that there were deep and peaceful slumbers in Castle
Dangerous that night, and let us hope that the cowardly soldiers had to
take their turn at last at bastion duty. I cannot find in the history
that they did, however.
Think of the pride and pleasure that Madelon’s father and mother felt in
their daughter when the news of her bravery reached them!
What they said to her when she told them all about it, history does not
say either; but the facts of the defence were written down as Madelon
herself told them, in obedience to the commands of the Marquis de
Beauharnais, Governor of Canada.
Even in those dangerous times, when one never knew what peril the next
moment would bring forth, and women as well as men took their share in
guarding homes and firesides, such wonderful bravery and determination
in a girl of fourteen did not pass unnoticed. Through the efforts of
those in power, Madelon was highly commended at the great French court
over seas, and was granted a pension by the King, to be paid to her each
year as long as she should live.
In another encounter with Indians many years later, she saved the life
of a French gentleman whom she afterward married. All her life was
passed in the midst of peril, and on no occasion when bravery was
demanded was Madelon ever found wanting.
[Illustration]
THE PEARL NECKLACE
_1767_
I
“Good-bye,” she said.
And then again, “Good-bye.”
The voice of the young girl was choked with sobs, and tears rolled
slowly down her cheeks.
“Good-bye, dear garden; good-bye, dear home”; and as she spoke she
stopped and looked up at the old grey chateau which the warm afternoon
sun had made glow with tints of rose and gold.
She made a pretty picture standing there, even though her eyes were red
with weeping, for her clustering curls were drawn high on her graceful
head with a great comb, the lack of powder letting their bright chestnut
tones shine in the warm evening light. A gaily flowered gown of simple
muslin, less ample in its cut than the style affected by those who lived
nearer the court, was fashioned so as to show a slender white throat.
The delicate ruffles at elbow and neck showed that even in the country
Mechlin, the lace of the hour, had its wearers.
Looking about, eyes even less partial than hers would cease to be
surprised that parting with so fair a scene should cause such grief. To
Clemence Valvier the chateau was home. There she was born, had grown to
girlhood, and though but seventeen was not only a wife, but the mother
of a tiny child for whose sake she was preparing to leave parents,
country, home, and friends, and seek that little known land across the
sea where so many of her countrymen had gained a footing in the
wilderness.
The pointed turrets of the chateau stood out sharply against the deep
blue of the afternoon sky, and the glass panes in the small windows
sparkled as the late sunbeams rested on them. On one side huge vines of
ivy clambered up the rough stones till they reached the roof, and amid
their hospitable leaves sheltered many a nest of linnet and of sparrow,
whose cheerful songs made music at morning and at sunset.
Clemence stood in the garden looking sadly at the roses whose sweet
profusion was due in no small measure to her care. There was the garden
seat; here the sun-dial; yonder, above the wall which bounded the
garden, rose the dove-cote, around which constantly hovered some of her
feathered pets.
“How can I leave you all!” she cried, as each familiar object rose
before her eyes. “My courage wellnigh fails me”; and she sank on her
knees before the dial,—a grey veteran which gave no hint of time this
afternoon, since it marked only sunny hours, and already the long
shadows cast by the chateau fell across its face of stone.
Just at that moment, when she was almost willing to abandon the thought
of the long and terrible journey, she heard a footstep on the gravel of
the paths.
“Ah, Clemence, dear heart, it grieves me almost past endurance to see
your grief. Say but one word, and I will go forth alone, and shall send
back for you and the little one when a home is made ready and when I
have some comforts for you.”
At the first sound of her husband’s voice Clemence had jumped to her
feet, and running to him had laid her tear-stained face upon his
shoulder. As he finished speaking, she had almost brought a smile to
drive away the tears, and looking into his face she bravely made
answer,—
“If it wrings my heart to leave dear France, Pierre, it would be a
thousand times worse to have you go and leave me here, me and little
Annette, for whose sake we undertake all these perils.”
“If I could think that this was really so”; and Pierre, scarce more than
a youth himself, as he yet wanted several months of seeing twenty years,
bore on his face a gravity that is rarely seen on one so young. His dark
eyes were sad, and though he smiled when he comforted his youthful wife,
it seemed as though it was but to cheer her. In truth, all his life he
had comforted and protected her, for Pierre Valvier, like Clemence, had
called the old chateau, the rose garden, the long straight terrace, and
the fertile fields his home.
Left an orphan at an early age, under the guardianship of Monsieur
Bienville, the father of Clemence, the two children had played together,
studied together, and finally were wedded, and now were preparing to go
forth to the New World together.
At this time Louis XV sat upon the throne of France. He was a weak
monarch, devoted to his pleasures, and content to let his ministers
rule, although he always took an active part in all the religious
quarrels which disturbed and agitated France. Jealousy, which had long
been smouldering between France and England on account of the various
colonies in America to which each country laid claim, broke out into war
in 1756, and its effects were felt over the whole world.
The brilliant victory of Admiral Galissonière at Fort St. Philip, the
chief citadel of Port Mahon on the Minorca Islands, the most important
naval victory which France had gained in fifty years, filled the whole
French nation with joy. Yet the succeeding years brought little but
ignominy and defeat, and The Seven Years War, as this struggle was
ultimately called, lost France not only the greater part of her navy,
but, what was even more galling, many of her possessions in the New
World.
Disapproval of the King and his ministers drove to what was left of
these colonies in America many Frenchmen of high character who foresaw
nothing but disaster left for France herself. Among these was Pierre
Valvier, who sought for himself and his little family a home in that new
country where liberty of person and creed was assured. They were to
start on the morrow for Calais, and thence take ship for New Orleans.
The old chateau—old even in 1756—stood upon a gentle slope looking down
upon the little fishing village of Étaples. Such a tiny village it was,
with its one-story huts,—you could scarcely call them more,—set upon the
banks of the Canache, a broad shallow river so influenced by the ocean
that when the tide was low the fisher-girls kilted up their scant skirts
and waded across with their baskets of shrimps upon their strong young
shoulders.
Such a little village, and so poor!
“Petit sou, petit sou, donnez-moi un petit sou!” That was the cry heard
on every side. There was hardly a hand in the hamlet which would not be
held out in expectation of a small copper coin, should anyone from the
chateau chance to pass through its one ill-paved street.
Every year the poverty seemed to increase. Every year the revenues of
the chateau grew less,—which was but another reason why Pierre, young
and strong, should seek a home where those of gentle birth were made
welcome, and where the Crown gave broad acres of land to each and all
who would go and settle there.
Still, even with Hope and Courage beckoning, the parting was sad for
all. Monsieur Bienville, the father of Clemence, was a soldier of the
old régime. Tall, elegant, with the true air of grandeur which is born,
not bred, he watched with sad eyes the preparations for departure.
Madame his wife could not suppress her grief, and declared that never,
never again should she see her loved ones.
“Ah,” cried she, “the poor children will be devoured by frightful
beasts, I know it well,—if not by those that roam on land, by those more
awful ones which dwell in the sea!”
The distant land was to her a wilderness, a desert; and, in truth, a few
miles away from the city of New Orleans it was little else.
II
The rain was falling heavily as the old travelling carriage, drawn by
four horses, lumbered up to the door of the chateau the next morning.
Into it had been packed the necessaries for the journey to Calais, and
two heavy wains had been sent off some days previously, laden with such
goods as the young people were to take with them to the New World.
Within doors the daughter was taking leave of her parents, and as if to
shorten the sad moment, her father took her hand, and placed within it a
packet carefully bound in silk.
“Dear daughter,” said he, “see that this packet is carefully guarded. In
it is thy heritance, the pearl necklace which my mother had from her
mother, and which in its turn must go to thy daughter, the little
Annette.”
“Oh, father, why give to me that most precious thing? Safeguard it till
we come again, as, if God is willing, we shall.”
“It is yours, and then the daughter’s, and,” he whispered in her ear, “I
have added all the jewels which were my mother’s portion. Keep them till
time of need.”
The impatient stamping of the horses on the cobblestones of the court,
warned them all that they must part, and Pierre led Clemence to the
carriage, where little Annette was sleeping on the broad lap of old
Marie, who had petted and scolded her mother through her babyhood and
was now going with her on that long journey to the land of which they
knew so little and feared so much.
As if desirous of making up for lost time, Jacques cracked his whip, and
with the words, “Farewell, farewell,” ringing in the air, the coach
passed quickly down the long drive and through the gates leading to the
highroad, and turned in the direction of Boulogne, where they were to
pass that night.
The familiar scenes of her childhood never seemed so fair to Clemence as
at this moment when she was parting from them. Here was the little
church nestling among the trees, where she had received her first
communion, and there stood Père Joseph, waving adieux from the old grey
porch, the unfamiliar tear stealing down his wrinkled cheek.
Farther along on the other side of the road was the Rose d’Or, the
quaint old inn, before whose hospitable door the village yokels were
wont to gather of a summer’s evening and play at bowls upon the green.
The very signboard as it hung above the door and swung in the wind
seemed to creak “farewell,” and as the travelling chariot rolled by,
Clemence hid her face upon her husband’s shoulder.
At last her sobs grew less violent, and as if to call attention from her
grief, little Annette awoke, and lying comfortable and rosy upon the lap
of her nurse, cooed out her satisfaction as only a healthy, happy baby
can. Pierre took the child in his arms, and the baby stretched out her
hands towards her mother, who, turning to take her, found neglected in
her own lap the parcel of jewels so carefully wrapped and handed to her
by her father as a parting gift.
“See, Pierre, my father gave to me the pearl necklace which I wore on my
wedding day, and it is to be the portion of little Annette, when she too
marries.”
Hardly had the words passed her lips, when rude shouts were heard, and
the coach gradually came to a standstill.
“Halt!” cried a voice almost beside the window, and old Jacques the
coachman could be heard saying,—
“But, messieurs, my master and mistress—”
“Peace, knave, let thy betters speak for themselves.”
At this a rude leering face was thrust into the window, and a man pulled
roughly at the carriage door and cried,—
“Step out, and quickly too, and bring out your valuables with you.”
“But we are travellers, and have with us barely enough to carry us to
Calais, where our ship lies at anchor,” said Pierre, trying not to let
his voice show his anger and disgust.
“What will serve you will serve us also at a pinch. Is it not so, Jean?”
and he turned to a third ruffian who stood at hand, holding by the
bridle some sorry-looking horses.
“Truth, if we take all they have, ’t will be enough, but do not wait too
long,” answered the one named Jean, who wore a soldier’s cap with a
soiled and broken feather trailing over one ear.
At the first appearance of the highwaymen at the carriage window,
Clemence had handed little Annette to Marie, and in so doing had managed
to slip among her clothes the precious packet of jewels. She gave Marie
a warning look, and when they were commanded to step from the coach, she
begged, for the sake of the child, that it and the nurse might sit
within.
“You can see for yourselves that neither the infant nor the aged woman
has aught of value,” said she.
After hurriedly searching through the coach and finding nothing more,
the highwaymen contented themselves with carrying off Pierre’s sword and
a fair pearl ring which Clemence wore upon her finger, and a small bag
of golden doubloons which Pierre had in the pocket of his travelling
coat. The villainous trio had scarcely got safely away, when the reason
of their haste became apparent, for a captain and four men-at-arms came
around a turn in the road, urging their horses to a smart trot, when
they saw the travelling carriage drawn up by the side of the ditch.
“Have three renegadoes passed this way?” called the leader, as they drew
rein.
“Truly, but a few moments since,” said Pierre, with a rueful face, as he
thought of his bag of gold. “It would have pleased me much had you come
this way but a few moments earlier, since I then had been the richer for
a purse of doubloons.”
“Stole they aught beside?” asked the captain, as he put spurs to his
horse and hardly waited for Pierre’s answer as they rode hastily away in
the direction the robbers had taken.
When once more the coach was in motion, Clemence turned to Annette and
clasped her in her arms, saying,—
“Of a truth, little one, ’twas fortunate indeed that you saved your
inheritance this time,—you and Marie.”
“Let us hide the packet better, Madame,” said Marie. “Who can tell when
another band of cutthroats may be upon us, and truly, as thou saidst, it
was but chance that saved us this time.”
Without any delay the packet was carefully tied among the long skirts of
little Annette, and Marie hardly ceased to tremble till the coach rolled
into the yard of the inn at Boulogne, and the red light streaming from
the open door showed them that warmth and shelter were to be had within.
Early astir the next morning, refreshed and cheered because the rain had
ceased and the sun shone cheerfully abroad, our travellers during the
late afternoon of the next day entered the grey old town of Calais, the
little Annette unconsciously guarding the packet which held her
inheritance as well as the jewels which Monsieur Bienville had given as
a parting token to his daughter.
It was quite dark when the carriage was at last unpacked, and not till
then did Pierre draw from behind a secret panel in the side of the coach
the store of gold which was to suffice for their needs on board ship,
and till they were established in the new home which awaited them on the
other side of the ocean.
III
In the harbour of Calais rode at anchor the ship “Espérance,” which was
taking on passengers and their goods for the long voyage to New Orleans.
Owing to the shallow water, the ship could not approach the quay, and
all the watermen of the town were busy carrying back and forth those
who, like our travellers, were outward bound, or those who came merely
to say a last farewell.
On the walls of the town were gathered a motley crew, who, not having
friends on board, sought to gain some excitement by watching the
partings of others; and as from time to time the chimes rang out from
the belfry behind the citadel, the little craft in the harbour became
even more animated, since they now carried out to the “Espérance” some
who had been belated on their way thither, and sought to get themselves
and their goods safely aboard before the turn of the tide should serve
to carry the ship out through the Straits into the English Channel.
Watching this scene from the cramped deck of the ship, Clemence and
Pierre stood together, the former giving free vent to her tears, which
rolled unheeded down her cheeks at the thought that she was leaving
behind her so much which had hitherto made her life joyful.
Her sadness was reflected in her husband’s face, and at last he spoke.
“Dear wife, ’tis not yet too late to return. Say one word, and I can
call one of those dingeys which shall carry us back to shore.”
“Nay, Pierre, I would go with you. But indeed I must weep, since never
again do these eyes expect to look on my beautiful France.”
“I pray your sacrifice may not cost too dear,” said Pierre, pressing her
hand; and as she wept she whispered,—
“The grief I feel at parting from France is naught compared to what I
should feel at parting from you.”
Even as she spoke, there began such a scene of bustle and confusion that
Clemence perforce dried her eyes to gaze upon it. The sailors were
running to and fro stowing the goods of passengers away, and piled on
the deck were feather-beds and pallets of straw, each passenger
providing such beds and covering as his station in life permitted, since
the ship provided only the room in which these might be laid. Boatloads
of people were leaving the ship, some merry, some grave, and above all
the noise rose the sharp commands of the Captain. At last sounded the
shrill notes of the boatswain’s whistle, and the crew began to man the
capstan bars. One of the sailors commenced to sing to ease the labour
off a bit, and at the sound of the well-known chorus,
“Ho, ho, batelier, batelier,
Tirez, tirez,
Ancre de flot,
Tirez Roget, tirez Notet,”
the crew joined in, so that the bars worked like magic, and the anchor
rose into sight, then came short up, and finally, with another drive of
the bars, swung all wet and dripping at the bows.
Ere this the huge sails had been bent into place, and now with the fresh
evening breeze began to draw, while from every side came the curious
creak and tugging noise which is present in every sailing craft. ’Twas
not many moments ere the “Espérance” had her nose pointed seaward, and
was bowling along with the white foam flying in her wake. All too
quickly the shores and buildings of the town receded from the sight of
those who gazed on them with tears, and even the belfry chimes had a
melancholy sound as they floated out over the water.
Pierre and Clemence stood by the rail, rather apart from the other
passengers, and when the purple twilight had swallowed up France, Pierre
said,—
“See, Clemence, a good omen. Look at the new moon.”
“It is a happy sign, and glad am I to see it. How silvery it looks, and
see the horn dips not at all, which argues well for a smooth voyage.”
Though the “Espérance” was not a swift craft, she was a steady one.
There were three weary months spent on board of her, and the moon proved
a false prophet, since they encountered storms and head winds, and in
addition had the alarm of pirates and the heat of the tropics. Worse
even than the perils of the Atlantic were those encountered when they
entered the Gulf of Mexico, where also pirates lay in wait, where there
were contrary currents, and worse than all, sandbars, upon which the
ship grounded. Many manœuvres were tried to ease her off, and there was
despair felt on all sides when it was ordered that the baggage should be
thrown overboard. Fortunately this sacrifice became unnecessary, as the
second high-tide floated her off, and slowly the “Espérance” glided into
deeper water. Pierre and Clemence heard with joy the rattle of the chain
as the anchor was thrown overboard in the harbour of the Belize,
thinking, poor souls, that the sufferings of the journey were over.
Clemence turned with a bright smile to poor Marie, who sat upon a pile
of bedding which lay on the deck, where it had been thrown in order to
be ready for departure from the ship. The old nurse had suffered greatly
during the long, tedious journey, and even now she looked sad and worn
as she sat there in the sunshine, holding little Annette on her knees.
“Come, Marie, look less sad; soon will we reach the spot where our home
is to be. Let me hold the little one.”
“Oh, Madame, little did I know of the horrors before us! Praise God that
we still live, we and the little cat.”
“Truly the little cat and Annette seem to have fared better than the
rest of us,” said Clemence, laughing. “Let us hope there will be fewer
mice than you expect.”
“But, Madame, a cat is so comfortable, and in this wild land there be
few enough comforts, I well know.”
Just at this moment Pierre hurried up to them, and said,—
“Come, Clemence, bring Annette, while Marie helps me, for the Captain
says we are to go ashore and wait at the house of the Commandant till
boats come for us from New Orleans.”
It was with scant ceremony that our little party and some of the other
passengers were packed into the ship’s boats and taken to Dauphin
Island. Here they were made comfortable, and during the week of their
stay recovered somewhat from the sufferings on shipboard.
It was in two pirogues and two barges that they at last started on the
trip up the river to New Orleans, and for discomfort the seven days
passed in this journey far outdid all the fatigues sustained in the
“Espérance.”
“Oh, Madame,” said Marie, “who ever saw ‘Messieurs les Maringouins’ of
such size and with such stings before?” and as she spoke she waved again
the huge fan with which she tried to protect Annette from the ravages of
the mosquitoes.
An hour before sunset the rowers stopped each day, and the whole party
encamped on shore, so as to get safely tucked in beneath the mosquito
bars before “les Messieurs” should begin operations.
If the nights were dreadful, the days were scarcely better, since the
boats were piled high with goods, so that the passengers were cramped in
narrow spaces and hardly dared to move. In fact, the little cat in its
wicker basket, and Annette carried on the broad breast of Marie, were
the most comfortable members of the party. They had no fears of going to
feed the fishes, as had some of their elders.
At length the weary trip was over, and when at length the boats drew up
at the landing much of the discomfort was forgotten.
The Crescent City lay before them, the white-walled houses gleaming in
the sunshine, while the bells of the Ursuline Convent pealed a welcome,
and there burned before the chapel of “Our Lady of Prompt Succour”
votive candles, to commemorate the safe arrival of another band of
travellers from the distant land which every one in his heart called
“home.”
“Pierre,” cried Clemence, surprise showing in every tone of her clear
voice, “but what a beautiful city! And oh, Pierre, behold the lovely
ladies! Scarce ever in my life have I seen such brave apparel.”
Her eyes were fixed, as she spoke, on a group which came idly down
towards the landing, the ladies elegant in robes of damask silk loaded
with lace and ribbons, while beside them lounged officers in rich court
suits, both men and women wearing powdered hair and having their faces
decorated with black patches.
Louisiana was passing through an interesting period of its growth, a
changing from the pioneer days when the young officers from Canadian
forts came down and made things lively with their merry pranks and
boyish larks, their ceremonies and festivals. The Marquis de Vaudreuil
was governor now, and brought with him the elegances and dignity which
he had learned in years of life at the French court. The French and
Swiss officers, but newly arrived, bore also the stamp of continental
training; and the house of the Marquis, reflecting as well as might be
the elegance of Versailles, was the centre of all that was most refined
in the city.
Tradition chatters yet of the gracious manners of the Marquis, and there
are still drawn from chests and carved presses robes which once figured
at his balls, when court dress was the only wear. Though these gowns are
now faded and tarnished, in the time when they were first worn they
flaunted brilliant flowers on a ground of gold. The yellow bits of lace
at elbow and corsage are frail now as a spider’s web, but then they were
the latest patterns from Alençon and Flanders, and fit companions for
the jewels which sparkled amongst them.
It was at this time, when New Orleans boasted the greatest beauty and
elegance of any city in the New World, that our little family landed on
its quay.
It is hard to conceive that while within the limits of the city there
flowed such gay life as that seen in the Governor’s mansion, without,
and but a few miles away, were untrod wildernesses.
But so it was.
Pierre and Clemence rested but a few days before they sought out the
plantation where they so fondly hoped to raise a home and enjoy the
fruits of the rich country which they had chosen as their own.
The roads were poor, horses high in price and not at all plenty, so that
Pierre bought some pirogues, a species of small boat, to take them and
their goods the twenty miles up the Bayou Gentilly, to where their
plantation lay.
Poor Clemence, how gloomy looked the cypress swamps which stretched away
on either hand as the heavily laden boats moved slowly along! Strange
and unfamiliar were the long curtains of grey moss which swung back and
forth from the branches of the trees, seeming to wave in a ghostly
fashion even when there was no wind, and creeping up to the tops of the
tallest trees in its silent fashion, but ever turning aside from the
bunches of mistletoe which stood out, great rosettes of bright green
where all else seemed marked for decay.
Even the brilliant-hued birds which flitted cheerfully from one twig to
another, and sang from time to time, did not cheer her, for they seemed
so unfamiliar, her mind clinging more to those modest-coated friends,
the linnets and finches, which she had fed in the rose garden at the
chateau at Étaples.
Ever anxious to cheer her, Pierre said at last,—
“Sing, dearest Clemence. It seems so long since I heard your voice.”
“How can I sing when my heart is sad?” But even as she spoke she was
sorry, since she knew that the good spirits of the little party depended
largely on herself.
“What shall I sing, Pierre?” she asked, after a moment’s pause, and
then, as if it had been on the tip of her tongue all the while, began,—
“Chante, rossignol, chante,
Toi qu’as le cœur tant gai.
“Pour moi, je ne l’ai guère,
Mon amant m’a quittée,
“Pour un bouton de rose
Que trop tôt j’ai donné.
“Je voudrais que la rose
Fût encore au rosier;
“Et que la rosier même
Fût encore a planter;
“Et que mon ami Pierre
Fût encore a m’aimer.
“Tra la la, la la lere,
Tra la lere, de la ri ra.”
No doubt it was the mocking-bird’s song which rang from the trees which
brought to the mind of Clemence this song, which had been a favourite of
theirs at home, and which told so musically of the nightingale’s song,
of the red of the rose, and of the love of “Pierre.”
In five minutes the scene seemed to change from gloom to gaiety. Annette
was cooing, Marie kept time to the gay little tune with the great fan
which seldom left her hand, while the little cat in her efforts to gain
her freedom tipped over her basket and set them all laughing.
The Bayou Gentilly, up which they were travelling in the pirogues, which
were hardly more than dug-out canoes, was bordered at intervals on
either side by the plantations of settlers who had owned the land for
fifty years and over in some cases.
“Why, Pierre, how is this?” said Clemence, breaking off her song; “first
the wilderness, then, see, the fields are planted!”
“These plantations are worked by the order of the King,” answered
Pierre, “and the little shrubs with berries which have such fresh green
leaves are the myrtle-wax bushes, from which wax for candles is made. We
ourselves will have our plantation bordering on the Bayou set with such
bushes as these; it is so directed.”
“But I thought indigo and sugar-cane were what we were to plant. I know
that I could not bring half the things I wished, lest there should not
be room for the indigo seeds and the little canes.”
Pierre smiled and said,—
“Truly a house, dear girl, is the first thing to be considered, and that
may best be obtained by a good crop of indigo seed, since the planters
hereabouts must needs get their seed from France, unless some are
willing to raise seed only.”
On the forenoon of the second day the boats drew up to the shore, and
Pierre, anxious, but looking cheerful, said,—
“Welcome to your new home, Clemence. Give me the little Annette, Marie,
since she, with her mother, must be the first to step on shore.”
“Home, say you, Pierre?” and Clemence laughed, and looked ruefully, too,
at the little log-cabin which had been hastily built by the negroes sent
on in advance by Pierre.
“Patience but for a little while, and in place of that rude home you
shall see a house as fair as any in these plantations.”
Laughing like two children, the young parents hastened to touch to the
ground one of Annette’s tiny feet cased in its sandal, and as Monsieur
Valvier handed the child back to its mother, he said,—
“What is that which makes the child’s garments so stiff?”
A warning glance from Clemence and a smothered exclamation from Marie
made him remember that it was the precious packet with the pearl
necklace and jewels, of which the little girl was still the unconscious
custodian.
In New Orleans, indeed, they had been forced to draw on the packet,
since it was necessary to have slaves to help them build and plant, and
though there were frequent importations of them from Africa, the value
of one working slave was equal to a thousand dollars of our money, and
while it was generally paid in rice, Pierre, a new-comer, was obliged to
pay in money. In order to do this, and also buy the precious seed which
was so necessary, his own store was more than exhausted, and but for the
packet so thoughtfully provided by Monsieur Bienville they would have
been obliged to start out ill provided.
IV
Although the log-cabin was far different from the old chateau, and the
garden planted with indigo and young sugar-canes a great contrast to the
rose garden with its sun-dial at Étaples, the young couple were not
unhappy, and little Annette grew apace.
The only person who took the change sadly to heart was old Marie, and
her love for her mistress and the little one was all that kept her
alive.
The fertile soil, so rich on the shores of the Bayou that it was fairly
black, was soon heavily planted. There were rice fields in addition to
those of indigo and sugar-cane, and for the home were planted
watermelons, potatoes, peas, and beans; figs and bananas as well as
pumpkins were abundant, and there were wild grapes and pecans to be had
for the gathering.
With a gun the larder could be kept supplied with ducks, geese, wild
swan, venison, pheasants, and partridges, and, most curious of all, wild
beef, for unbranded cattle were considered common property, and many of
them escaped from the ranges and roamed the forests in increasing
companies.
The second year the plantation showed the results of Monsieur Valvier’s
unceasing care, and he carried to New Orleans a crop of indigo seed
which exceeded by many bushels his greatest hopes.
As the slaves pushed off from the landing, Pierre, standing in the stern
of the boat, called out,—
“What shall I bring thee back, Clemence?”
“Whatever you think I shall like best,” she answered, waving her hand in
farewell.
“What for the little daughter?” and as if she had only been waiting for
the chance, Annette called out gaily,—
“Dolly.”
“How shall I get a dolly? Would you not rather have something else, a
toy or a new frock?”
“No, papa, a dolly”; and Annette pressed in her arms the bit of stick
enveloped in a piece of gay calico which served her as a substitute for
the dearest of all toys.
Two days later, when the little girl was helping her mother to gather
the wax berries from the twigs, so that the yearly supply of candles
might be made, they heard from the Bayou the cheerful song of the
negroes as they rowed homeward.
“Come, mamma, oh, come and see my dolly”; and Annette ran away, while
her mother followed more slowly, talking to old Marie, who was carrying
in her arms a young Pierre, Annette’s little brother, who had been born
since they had lived in the new home.
With a pleased face Monsieur Valvier leaped ashore, hardly waiting for
the boat to reach the landing. In his arms he held two parcels carefully
wrapped in silver paper.
“Now, mamma shall guess first what is in her parcel,” he said; but
Annette could not wait for that, and stood close at his side, saying
over softly to herself,—
“My dolly, my pretty, pretty dolly.”
“Give Annette hers first,” said Madame Valvier; “it will take me much
time to guess what my parcel contains.”
Annette sat soberly down and brought forth from many wrappings a
beautiful doll, with red cheeks and blue eyes, dressed like a court
lady, and newly come from France, as her father explained.
“She is most too beautiful to love,” exclaimed the little girl, as she
gently held the gay lady; and the father and mother could only smile at
the serious face of the child as she regarded the doll she had so fondly
desired.
“Now look at your gift, dear wife. I hope it will please you as much as
Annette’s pleases her”; and Monsieur Valvier put into his wife’s hands
the second packet. With almost as much excitement as Annette, her mother
unrolled her gift, and exclaimed with pleasure at the length of shining
silk which greeted her delighted eyes.
“Oh, but, Pierre,” she began; but he stopped her with,—
“Yes, I know what you would say, silks and a log-cabin. But I have good
news. The indigo seed brought such a high price that I have bought all
that was needful for a house, and already it is loaded on barges and on
its way hither.”
“Good news, indeed, that is. Marie, did you hear that we are to have a
house at last? Who knows, perhaps it may be ready for the little
Pierre’s christening.”
The parish in which lay the Valviers’ plantation also contained the
homes of several other planters. These were either earlier settlers or
blessed with greater riches than the Valviers, and their plantations
were dignified with dwellings which seemed commodious enough in those
days, simple as they would appear in our eyes now.
The planters’ homes were often built in what was called the “Italian
style,” with pillars supporting the galleries, which were in reality
roomy piazzas. The houses were surrounded by gardens of gorgeous
flowering plants, and approached by avenues of wild orange trees.
It was such a house which soon rose on the bank of the Bayou Gentilly,
among the trees which flourished in that teeming soil, and the rude
cabin was moved into the background to serve as the quarters for the
slaves. Nor were there gaieties wanting, for the planters visited among
their neighbours, the ladies coming in huge lumbering coaches drawn by
many horses, or by pirogue, while the men almost always rode, the
saddle-horse for the master being almost a necessity.
The succeeding years passed quickly, if not too prosperously, and
tobacco was added to the productions of the Valvier plantation. Pierre
had made himself honoured and respected among the men in his own and the
neighbouring parishes, and his ardent love for France kept him ever a
Frenchman, even though his home lay across the sea.
Annette was by this time eight years old, quite a little mother, as
Clemence fondly called her, since, grave beyond her years, she looked
out for the little brothers and sister who had been born at the Bayou
Gentilly. Poor Marie had died, a victim to an attack of the fever which
hangs like a dark pall over that enchanting region, and more care had
fallen on the shoulders of little Annette than really belonged there.
She saw not only to the welfare of the children, but ruled the blacks
and looked after the house in a fashion which astonished her mother,
whose health had sadly failed, and upon whose natural energy the
relaxing climate had laid its enervating spell. The French thrift which
is so marked a quality in the women of that nation seemed to have passed
by the mother and bloomed in the nature of the daughter, and Annette’s
efforts were all which kept the home from being better than a cabin,
left to the mercies of the negligent slaves.
V
There was one thing for which Annette’s mother never lacked strength or
energy, and that was the celebration of the birthdays—“fête days,” she
called them—of the little family. There was always some little gift
forthcoming, were it only a basket of fine figs or a garland of flowers;
and for Annette particularly her mother always made an extra effort.
The birthday of the little girl fell in June, that month when all the
world is dressed in flowers, and when the sky above seems to bend its
bluest arch. On this occasion Annette was to have a party, her very
first, and all the children from the neighbouring plantations had been
bidden; and papa had made a special trip to New Orleans and come home
with some wonderful and mysterious packages, which had been quickly
hidden away. At last the day arrived, and Annette felt it to be the
happiest one she had ever known.
“To be nine years old and to have a party! Just think of that, Auguste!”
she cried, as she helped the little boy to dress.
Auguste was thinking of it with so much glee that it made the dressing
of him more than usually difficult, and Annette turned to little Pierre;
but his whole attention was given to “keeping a secret,” for mamma had
said that Annette was not to know what her present was to be till they
were all gathered at the table for breakfast.
But he knew, did little Pierre, and it was a hard burden not to tell
sister Annette. At last the little ones were ready, and Annette had seen
that the simple fare which formed the breakfast—fruit and hominy, with
coffee for the father and mother—was on the table.
Such a clamour as arose.
“Oh, mother, let me tell.”
“No, let me.”
“Oh, sister Annette—” But they got no further, for Annette herself
pulled the cover off a big box which was laid on her chair, and there
within lay a white dress—oh, such a pretty one!—and a little pair of
slippers, with long, narrow ribbons to lace them criss-cross about the
ankles, and, most lovely of all, a long blue sash, which had on its two
ends a fringe of gold.
“Oh, dearest mother,” cried Annette, “was there ever anything so lovely;
and the little brodequins,” pointing to the little slippers, “and a fan!
Oh, mother, and you, too, father, how can I thank you both enough?”
Her father kissed her fondly and said,—
“My little daughter repays me every day.”
The mother was well contented with Annette’s pleasure for all the pains
she had taken.
“And, sister Annette, see, I gave you the fan.”
“And oh, sister, look at the pretty mouchoir; that is from me.”
And the happy Annette kissed and thanked, and they were all so pleased
that breakfast was quite forgotten and would have grown cold if black
Mimi had not put her head in at the door to remind them of it.
When Annette had put on the new birthday dress, laced the slippers
around her slender ankles, and held the fan and kerchief, she ran into
her mother’s room to show her the effect.
“See, mamma, it just fits me”; and she gave the small skirts a toss and
a pat, while her mother turned from the table where she had been
standing with a small casket in her hand.
“Dearest Annette,” said she, in quite a solemn voice, “I shall let you
wear to-day what my father gave to me, saying that one day it was to be
thine. When you are grown to be a big girl, it shall be yours to have
always, but to-day you shall wear it because you are my good child, and
I love you fondly.”
As Madame Valvier spoke, she clasped about Annette’s neck the pearl
necklace, the only remnant of the packet of jewels which had come from
France, and which had been drawn on when crops failed, or for the
purchase of slaves, or for some of the many needs in a new country where
money is scarce.
“Oh, mamma!” and Annette’s voice was low with pleasure as she gently
touched the rows of shining pearls which seemed far too costly a jewel
for the neck of a little girl, and quite out of place over the modest
frock.
“Are these really for me some day? Did grandpère say it should be so?”
and Annette listened while her mother told her of her grandfather’s
injunction, and how old Marie had hidden them in Annette’s own clothes
and saved them from the highwaymen.
The time passed quickly before the little guests began to arrive, for it
was to be an afternoon party, and some were brought by boat on the
Bayou, while others rode on pillions behind black Philippe or Jean, as
the case might be, sitting very still so that the best frocks would not
be rumpled.
Many games they played in the long, cool galleries, or on the grass
before the house. Ball was one of them, and when they were tired of this
they played at hide-and-seek, finding many good and secret nooks among
the trees and wax-myrtle shrubs, which were so bushy and so green.
“What shall we play next?” asked Annette, anxious that her guests should
have a good time, and some one suggested “Hugh, Sweet Hugh,” that game
of many verses which has been played by high and low through so many
centuries and in all countries.
The children made a pretty sight as, circling in a ring, they sang
merrily,—
“Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh,
Come up and get the ball.”
“I will not come, I may not come,
Without my bonny boys all.”
Even after the tragic death of Sweet Hugh their voices rang out clearly
till the last verse,—
“And all the bells of merry France
Without men’s hands were rung;
And all the books of merry France
Were read without men’s tongue.
Never was such a burial
Since Adam’s days begun.”
Then, half frightened at their own game, they scampered into the house,
where Madame Valvier was awaiting them, and where, spread on
trestle-boards, were all the dainties so loved of children,—fresh figs
with cream, sweet chocolate, little cakes made of nuts and honey, and
right in the centre a great round birthday cake with a dove on the very
top.
At this last touch Annette was as much surprised as the other children,
and in answer to her wondering look her mother said,—
“Your father brought it from New Orleans; it is his gift to you.”
After it had been admired, Annette cut the first piece, and the merry
meal seemed over all too quickly for the children who had to take their
way homewards, reluctant to have an end put to such unusual festivities,
and not half aware of the necessity of being safe in their own homes
before nightfall.
When the last one had gone, Annette took off her unaccustomed finery,
and, holding in her hands the splendid necklace, looked with wonder on
the round globes of pearls, which showed on their satiny faces the
shifting tones of rose, blue, pale green, and yellow.
“Ah, mother,” she sighed, “to think that so beautiful a thing should be
mine!”
“Remember always, little daughter, that it was first my mother’s
portion, then mine, and shall be yours, never to part with.”
“Of a truth, dear mother, I should wish to keep it always. But,” and
here she hesitated, “you know the other jewels which grandpère gave have
all gone.”
“Those were my own, but this is different, and should be kept always,
except in case of gravest need.”
“Gravest need—what is that, mamma?” and Annette’s blue eyes looked up
solemnly into her mother’s face.
“Does it mean to save a life, mamma?”
Madame Valvier, hardly appreciating the earnest little soul which was
listening to her words, answered,—
“Yes, to save life or honour. Now, put it in its box, and come with me
till I show you where it is hidden.”
In a small room where the children kept their few playthings, some rude
toys and some bright shells and beans, Madame Valvier paused, and,
stooping, took from beneath the window a small board, which disclosed a
box-like cupboard lined with lead.
“Here it is kept with the rest of our treasures, Annette, the papers
which belong to your father and the grants of our land. I show this
place to you because you have a wisdom beyond your years, and are indeed
my little comfort.”
Annette’s face grew rosy with pleasure at these words, and holding her
mother’s hand, she whispered,—
“I love you truly, dearest mamma, and I am the happiest girl in the
world.”
When the little ones were in bed, Annette crept up on her father’s lap
and had the crowning joy of the day, a long story of his childhood’s
days in France; and she listened entranced, as she had hundreds of times
before, to his descriptions of the old grey chateau at Étaples, the rose
garden with its sun-dial, and, best of all, to the tales of how he and
her mother used to scull down the broad shallow Canache, and then at the
river’s mouth search among the rocks and seaweed for shrimps, while out
at sea the big ships went sailing past, with their white or brown sails
swelling with the fresh wind.
Even with the interest she felt in the story, poor Annette, tired with
so much pleasure, nestled lower and lower in her father’s arms, and
finally her head fell on his shoulder.
“She sleeps,” he said, “poor little girl, fairly tired out with too much
happiness”; and taking her in his strong arms, he carried her off to her
room, where she was soon settled in her bed, the process of undressing
hardly waking her.
VI
With each succeeding year there were more and more settlers coming to
the flowery land of Louisiana. If they had flocked thither in the time
of the Regent, that clever and witty intriguer, they came more eagerly
during the reign of Louis XV, so shallow a king that it is hard to
conceive how he won the name of “The Well-beloved.”
It was a strange company which made up the population of the Crescent
City, not only those from Paris with their elegances and velvet coats,
beneath which beat such loyal hearts, but rubbing shoulders with them in
street and café were many of far rougher exterior, who had come down
from the settlements in Canada, and learned to adore the little city
which was so different from the homes which they had left in the cold
North.
Yet each and every one of these, marquis from France or pioneer from
Canada, or even the sad-faced Acadian refugee who had been welcomed to
these hospitable shores, had a heart which beat for France alone.
With but the least assistance they would have swept the Gulf and made
themselves masters of that inland sea, and not only held the possessions
of the mother country on land, but added to them.
Frenchmen in language and in their hearts, they put up with the
expulsion of their beloved Ursuline sisters, since the mother country so
willed it, only allowing themselves the liberty of giving vent to their
feelings by indulging in an unlimited number of satirical songs,
burlesques, and pasquinades, as they were called. Little did they know,
as they trod the white streets of the city, the deadly blow to those
same stout hearts which France was plotting,—France, whom they loved so
fondly and in whom they trusted so implicitly.
Completely dominated by his prime minister, Choiseul, Louis XV followed
where this ugly, brilliant, inconstant man led, and trafficked first
with Austria and then with Spain, till in 1761 Choiseul put in shape his
famous “Pacte de Famille,” which united all the royalties of Bourbon
blood and which formed into one great band the thrones of France, Spain,
Turin, Naples, and Sicily.
Although Choiseul had the audacity to frame this agreement, and Louis XV
had the folly to sign it, they did not have the courage to proclaim it,
and so it remained a secret for several years.
It was not till October, 1764, that the news arrived at New Orleans that
Louisiana had, by secret treaty, been ceded to Spain, and instructions
were sent to Monsieur D’Abadie, the Governor, to hand over to the envoy
of Spain, who would shortly arrive, the whole colony and its
possessions.
The blow was stunning!
At first it could not be credited. To be tossed like a plaything from
France to Spain, that cowardly Spain who had never assisted them in any
way, who had not even fought to get them, whom they had outwitted and
overmatched in every contest,—this was too much!
Not many hours elapsed before the city was in a ferment. Groups gathered
on the street corners and loudly denounced the proceedings. The
wine-shops held excited bands who declaimed in passionate language
against both king and country that could treat a colony in such fashion,
and the chorus which rose and swelled protested that it could not be
borne.
Swift pirogues carried the news among the plantations which lay along
the Bayous, while men on horseback went to those in the interior.
Meetings were called in the parishes first, and then a convention was
planned in New Orleans itself, to which every parish in the State was to
send delegates. The subject was to be discussed, and then the King was
to be informed of this cruel, this awful thing that he was doing, and he
was to be petitioned to listen to the voice which echoed his own tongue,
and which under every trial had spoken but loyal words of him.
Every parish sent its most notable men, and of these Monsieur Valvier,
Annette’s father, was one. The meeting at New Orleans was a gathering of
all that was wise and distinguished throughout the whole State, and it
was unanimously decided to send to France a delegation of three men, to
bear to the King himself their petition.
These three men left for France on the first vessel which sailed, and
one can imagine the passionate nature of the appeal which they carried
with them, in which the whole colony besought the King to let them die
as they had lived,—Frenchmen to their hearts’ core.
Think of the feeling of relief which swelled every heart as the crowds
gathered to see the envoys depart bearing the message to France and to
their King!
Not one doubted but that the eloquence of Jean Milhet, who headed it,
would win back their loved State from the hated Spaniard, and that he
would speedily return with the joyful news, and that once more it would
be French land for French men.
To the doors of France are laid many acts of cruelty and oppression, but
there is no sadder story than the grief and humiliation to which this
little delegation was subjected. For one whole year they waited, were
put off from day to day with first one excuse and then another, and at
last, sick and heart-broken, sailed back to New Orleans without ever
having seen the King nor presented their petition!
Even though their chief envoy did not return, and there was no news of
the success of their petition, the people of Louisiana seemed to have no
doubt as to its success. Judge then of the fever of excitement into
which they were thrown when a letter arrived in July, 1766, saying that
Don Antonio de Ulloa, the Spanish envoy, was on his way to take
possession.
What should be done?
Whither should they turn? New meetings were called, the militia was
strengthened as much as possible; but month after month passed away and
Don Antonio did not arrive, so that the people quieted down and hope
bubbled up afresh.
One morning in February, 1767, when the Commandant awoke, he found
anchored below the Belize, that old fortress at the mouth of the river,
a large frigate flying the Spanish colours. On board was Don Antonio
with his personal suite, two companies of Spanish infantry, and some
Capuchin monks.
In March, in a frightful storm of wind and rain, they landed on the
levee in New Orleans, and were met by a sullen crowd of citizens and by
a mass of unwilling French troops.
The Spanish envoy, haughty, severe in aspect, and a martinet in
demanding that deferential ceremonial etiquette which was so firmly
engrafted into Spanish nature, either could not or would not understand
the feelings which prompted the ardent Louisianians to cling to their
nationality. He expected the people to change at his coming their flag
and their allegiance, the soldiers their service, and all to hasten to
assume the Spanish yoke. He could not understand their refusal to do so,
and when the Superior Council of the city requested him to show his
credentials, he abruptly refused, although he agreed to defer taking
possession till more Spanish soldiers were sent to him.
This was at least the form to which he agreed; but he proceeded to get
control as far as possible, visiting in turn all the military posts, and
replacing the French flag and the French commanders with Spanish ones.
Over New Orleans alone did the French flag still wave.
It may be easily understood that such high-handed deeds were not
accomplished without protest on the part of the people of Louisiana.
Curtailed of their possessions on every side, for by the “Treaty of
Paris” much had been ceded to the English, they proposed to make as
stubborn a resistance as possible.
In the remote parishes the feeling flamed almost higher than at New
Orleans itself, since the sight of the detested Spanish flag was an
ever-present insult.
During the year which had passed since the deputation had been sent to
Paris bearing the memorial to the King, Monsieur Valvier had wasted
neither time nor effort to arouse those with whom he came in contact,
and keep them rigorously opposed to Spanish rule.
There were stormy meetings in the parish to which he belonged, in which
he was always an impassioned leader. There were secret meetings at his
and the neighbouring plantations. He became gloomy, a man with but one
thought in his head,—the disgrace of belonging to Spain.
It was small wonder that with its head so distraught the plantation fell
into neglect. The crops of indigo and tobacco failed, since the master’s
eye no longer kept watch on careless servants.
Madame Valvier’s ill-health increased as the winter season approached,
and on little Annette fell more and more the care of the family and
home. Scant crops made scant money, and it was only by unceasing care
that Annette kept the active little brothers clothed and fed, and saw
that the languid mother had her fresh fruit and café au lait, and that
her favourite gowns of delicate white were kept mended and ever fresh.
Nor were these all her duties.
At evening, when her father returned depressed and miserable from a
never-ending discussion with neighbouring planters as to the ignominy of
their lot, it was Annette who met and tried to cheer him. She had ever
something ready for him, were it only a bowl of fresh figs; and the
earnest child at last became the confidant of the despairing man.
One memorable evening he returned later than usual, and to Annette’s
surprise and pleasure his eyes were bright and shining, and he carried
his head proudly and with confidence. Tenderly embracing Annette, he
cried,—
“At last, at last have I prevailed on these neighbours who hate and yet
fear the Spanish. All is ready, and to-morrow we at least will show Don
Ulloa that there are loyal Frenchmen enough in Louisiana to refuse to
live under the Spanish flag and his detestable rule.”
“But, father, what is it you would do?”
“Lean closer, my child, for none here must learn of this till everything
is ready and we leave for the city.”
“Does mother know, dear father?”
“No, Annette, I dare not tell her; her constant illness makes her
timorous.”
The young girl pressed closer to his knee, her large, serious eyes fixed
on his face. So wrapped was the man in his own thoughts that he knew not
the heavy burden he was laying on the already overcrowded young
shoulders.
To her the father unfolded his plans.
“Well you know the cruel blow that has been dealt to us from France, and
how the Spaniard Don Antonio has sought to make Spaniards of us
all,—true-born Frenchmen that we are; how he has hoisted the Spanish
flag, and manned all our forts with Spanish soldiers. To-morrow evening
there will start from this plantation Monsieur Biron, myself, and all
the owners of the plantations in this parish, with such of their men as
they can arm, and by boat we will go down the Bayou, stopping at each
plantation as we go, and gathering men together till we reach New
Orleans.”
“Oh, father!” interrupted Annette, breathlessly, “will you take an army
into the city?”
“So I hope; and these, with the loyal French Guard and the citizens,
will enable us to sweep onwards, and Don Antonio will find what manner
of men he has to deal with, and we will not rest till he is safely
confined within the walls of the Belize.”
In the excitement of his story Monsieur Valvier’s voice rose till there
came from the room beyond, where Madame Valvier lay, the sleepy question
as to why they talked so late.
Putting his finger to his lip to warn Annette, he replied,—
“I but tell a tale to Annette, who will go now to bed.” Kissing her
fondly good night, he whispered in her ear,—
“Remember to tell not a word, Annette, and lest I do not see you alone
again, I say farewell, till we put the hated Spaniard where he will do
no further harm.”
Although Annette crept to bed, her eyes for a long time stared into the
darkness. She feared, not for the success of her father’s mission, but
lest in some way he be hurt. She saw, as he described it, Don Ulloa
safely confined in the dreaded Belize, and she rejoiced in her childish
heart over the grand part her father was to take in keeping Louisiana
for the French.
When the next night came, she peeped cautiously out from between the
casements, and saw dark figures take their places in the pirogues drawn
up at the landing and silently paddle down the Bayou.
She saw her father in the leading boat, and with him were several of
their own men, and in the flaring light of the single torch she saw the
gleaming of the guns.
In a silent adieu she waved her hand, even though she knew that her
father could not see her, and confiding on his belief and assurance of
success, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, and over the whole
plantation rested an absolute quiet.
But her father—Ah, the sadness of that night trip!
The few men who had started with him from the plantation in the hope
that they would be joined by many more of wealth and power were cruelly
disabused of their beliefs. There was but a handful more; but in the
small group was the spirit of an army, and it was hoped that Don Ulloa
could be surprised just before dawn, and with the first successful blow
many would hasten to join the victorious party.
It was the old story of a forlorn hope.
In some way Don Ulloa had been apprised of the uprising, and the party
had barely set foot on the levee at New Orleans before they were
surrounded and taken prisoners by a strong party of Spanish soldiers.
Monsieur Valvier, as the leader, was not detained in the city, but sent
up the Bayou to Fort St. John, a desolate spot on the shores of Lake
Pontchartrain, at the head of Bayou St. John.
During the first two days of his imprisonment Monsieur Valvier was
stunned. He seemed incapable of realising the misfortune which had
befallen not himself alone, but the little family at home. Too late he
saw that the lukewarm policy of the others whom he had tried to induce
to join him was not all selfish, and as happens so often to the
enthusiast, he saw too late the folly of his actions.
It was the stinging thought of these helpless sufferers at home which at
last aroused him, and spurred him on to see if their welfare could not
be in some way assured. The intendant in charge of the fort was hard and
cold, but, as Monsieur Valvier soon learned, was not averse to accepting
a ransom.
Indeed, he informed Monsieur Valvier of this fact himself, and allowed
him to send a letter home telling of his personal safety, and that his
liberty could be bought. Till this letter arrived the plantation on the
Bayou Gentilly had been a sad place.
When, as one day after another passed and Monsieur Valvier did not
return, Annette, not knowing what to do, told her mother of the
uprising, and Madame Valvier, with health already undermined, became so
seriously ill that poor Annette knew not which way to turn.
One or two of the slaves had strayed home, and from them Annette had
learned that at least her father was alive, and at last came the letter
which told that he could be ransomed if a sufficient sum of money could
be raised. The letter ended,—
“Alas, dear child, I know too well that there is naught left which may
be turned into money to procure my freedom. I see too late that I have
been led away from my duties to my little ones and their mother. God
grant that they may be kept in safety; as for me my heart is breaking!”
Madame Valvier was too ill to give Annette any counsel. All day long the
child kept saying to herself,—
“My father must be ransomed, but how? Where shall I get the gold? Oh,
mamma, if you could but help me!”
At last, passing through the children’s room while waiting on her
mother, Annette’s eyes fell upon the boards which concealed the
leaden-lined box containing the papers and necklace.
“The pearl necklace,” she cried softly to herself, “why have I not
thought of it before?” Removing the cover, she felt hurriedly within the
enclosure to assure herself that it was safe.
The rest of that day, as she went about her duties, her one thought was
of the way to get it to her father, and at last she decided that she
must go with it herself. There was no one whom she could trust with this
price of her father’s freedom, and her heart was full of the thought of
saving him, so that there was no room for fear.
She determined to start that night, and, used from infancy to the
management of a boat, she did not hesitate as to the means of
travelling.
But her mother—how to leave her?
She called the woman from the kitchen, an old slave but a faithful one,
and bade her sleep within the next room, so that if Madame called she
should hear her.
“For,” said Annette, “see, Tignon, I must go on a message for my father.
When my mother wakens, tell her that I shall soon return,—remember,
Tignon, soon return.”
As soon as it was dark, Annette took from its hiding-place the necklace,
and as the cool, milky globes slipped through her fingers, she kissed
them, saying,—
“Dear father, to think that these may save thy life. I remember my
mother said that they were never to be parted with save ‘for life or
honour.’ Perhaps this time it may be both, but I cannot tell.”
For a moment she was at a loss how to carry them, and then putting them
about her neck she snapped the clasp securely and drew over them the
waist of her gown, which was fashioned to come high in the neck.
“’Tis the easiest and the simplest way, and certainly none would think
that such a thing lay beneath my calico frock.”
She kissed the little brothers and sister, and bade Pierre take good
care of them till she should return, whispering in his ear,—
“I go for father, but tell of this to no one till I return.”
And Pierre, with his wide-staring eyes fixed on her face, could only
say,—
“I will promise.”
At the landing Annette chose the smallest and lightest pirogue, and,
with the caution one would have expected from an older and wiser head,
put in the bottom an extra paddle and a small basket of food. She pushed
off the little dug-out, and turning its head down stream looked back
with confidence, saying in her brave young heart,—
“Shortly I shall return, and with my father.”
All night the child floated and paddled down the silent and lonely
Bayou, often terrified by the strange night sounds which came from the
swamps, and occasionally cheered by the light glimmering in the window
of some of the planters’ homes on the shore. When she was most alarmed,
she would reassure her little trembling heart by putting her hand on the
breast of her frock, beneath which lay the necklace, and by whispering
to herself the beloved name of “father.”
The rising sun saw her heading her boat into the small channel which led
into Bayou St. John, and it was late afternoon when the weary Annette
saw frowning before her the rough palisades which enclosed Fort St.
John.
The soldier on duty could scarcely believe his eyes when the little
pirogue came alongside the quay, and was still more astonished when with
trembling voice Annette said,—
“Sir, may I please see the Governor?”
“The Governor! why, what should the Governor do here? Who are you, and
what would you with the Governor?”
“I have business with the Governor, sir.”
At this reply the man laughed long and loud, and poor Annette was ready
to weep with disappointment and fatigue. Then remembering that at any
rate her father was within those walls, she plucked up courage and began
again.
“If Monsieur the Governor is not here, is there any great general here?”
The soldier laughed again, and said below his breath,—
“Great general—no; but the great Sir Intendant is here, if you can do
your business with him”; and there was another burst of laughter as the
burly man looked at the slender form standing before him.
“Take me to him, please,” said she, and she gave one touch to the frock
below which lay the precious heirloom as the soldier turned to lead the
way within the enclosure.
“Ho, Roget!” he called, “this lady comes on business with Monsieur the
Intendant”; and poor frightened Annette was passed along mid the rude
jests of the soldiers, till she reached an ante-room to which was
attached the small office of the Intendant. At last a voice said,—
“You may enter”; and Annette, who between fright and fatigue was ready
to weep, found herself standing before a man with flashing eyes and a
brilliant scarlet and gold uniform, who was looking at her with
unconcealed interest.
“Well, child, what would you with me?” and Annette, raising her head,
bravely answered,—
“I come to ransom my father, Monsieur Valvier.”
The Intendant frowned; and surely the pale child before him, in a simple
calico gown, with empty hands and eyes full of unshed tears, hardly
seemed able to ransom a bird, much less a political prisoner.
The Intendant’s voice was harsh and cold as he said,—
“Ransom means gold, child,—gold, or lands.”
“Alas, Monsieur, I have neither,” said the trembling little girl, “but I
thought perhaps—” And she drew from its place of concealment the
splendid necklace.
The Intendant could scarcely conceal a start.
“How came you by this?” he asked, letting the rich strings glide through
his fingers.
“’Twas the marriage portion of my grandmother in France, then of my
mother also, and was to be mine. I will give it to you for my father,
Monsieur Valvier.”
The sight of the jewels recalled to the Intendant scenes in his native
Spain, where the Spanish grandees loved to ruffle it in laces and jewels
of the choicest description, and where the dusky Spanish beauties often
chose pearls, since these milky gems but served to throw out the fire of
their eyes and the rich tones of their olive skins. As he mused, passing
the pearls between his fingers, poor Annette was torn with anxiety lest
the necklace should fall short of the ransom desired.
“Oh, Monsieur, is it not enough?” she cried, one trembling hand holding
the other; “we have naught else, my mother is ill,—I came alone”; and
the tears so bravely held back now fell in showers.
The Intendant had no idea of giving up the necklace, yet was not wholly
cruel; so, striking on a bell, he called to the orderly who answered
it,—
“Bring Valvier hither.”
The sound of the words caused Annette to wipe her eyes, and in a moment,
with a little scream of joy, she rushed into the arms of her father,
whose wonder at her presence froze the words on his lips.
“Monsieur Valvier,” said the Intendant, “you are free. The ransom
provided by your daughter is sufficient. But you must give me your
parole that you will never again bear arms against the Spanish flag, and
that you will accept such regulations as Spain deems best for her
colonies.”
“I give my parole,” answered Monsieur Valvier; “but, Annette,
ransom—what had you, poor child?”
Annette’s face was wreathed in smiles as she whispered in his ear, “The
pearl necklace, dearest father.”
[Illustration]
DICEY LANGSTON
_1787_
There was a pleasant mellow glow in the great low-ceiled kitchen, and
the absolute quiet was unbroken save for an occasional crackling of the
sticks which made a bright fire on the hearth. Yet, if the room was
still, it was but because Dicey chose it so, and as she stood beside the
huge wheel which a few moments before had been whirling merrily, she
looked with thoughtful eyes at the fire.
Now, to tell the truth, Dicey did not like to be alone, nor was it usual
for her to be silent. The every-day Dicey was singing if she was not
talking, or spinning if she was not busy about the house, or flying here
and there on errands for her father, or hunting up the brothers to do
this or that,—to play or ride, or come to meals or something,—for Dicey
was quite a little queen, as a girl with five big brothers has a right
to be.
A father and five big brothers, but no mother, poor little girl! and she
had grown to be sixteen years old, the pet of her brothers and the
darling of her father’s heart, and, as you may guess, somewhat spoiled
and self-willed. Yet I would not have you think for a moment that she
was selfish, for she was not so; but she had grown to depend very much
on herself, and to decide for herself many questions which other girls
who had mothers to turn to would have left to them.
Dicey’s father was no longer a young man. Indeed, he was almost past
middle life when, ten years before, he had left his home near
Charleston, shattered in spirit by the death of his wife, and gone to
the “Up Country,” as the northern part of the State of South Carolina
was called, and started life anew. Dicey hardly remembered the old home
at all. Her thoughts and her affections were all centred about the
comfortable home in whose kitchen she now stood, and over whose comfort
she reigned.
She stood for many minutes as we saw her first, quite motionless, and
then, as the evening air brought to her ear a sound so slight that you
or I might not have noticed it, she ran to the window and looked out.
The house stood in the centre of a clearing on the top of a gentle
ridge, and flowing out on either hand were dales and hills still covered
with the forests through which the hunters and cow-drivers had wandered
years before. Through this country the Catawbas and the Cherokees
roamed, and but a short distance from the little settlement of which
Solomon Langston’s house was a part, lay that well-known Indian trail
called the “Cherokee Path,” which led from the Cherokee country on the
west to the lands of the Catawbas on the east.
On the flat lands below the hills stretched wide plains destitute of
trees and rich in fine grass and gay with flowers. Here roamed the
buffalo, elk, and deer. Here also were wild horses in many a herd, and
it was from one of these wandering bands of horses that Dicey’s own
little pony had been captured by brother Tom, before he married and went
to live at “Elder Settlement” across the Tyger River, a deep and
boisterous stream, between which and the Enoree lay the plantation where
Dicey’s father had made his home.
All this time she has been standing at the window, looking out over a
landscape which lay clear and white before her in the moonlight. The
slight sound which had caught her ear was getting louder every moment,
and at last two figures came into view, her father and one of her
brothers, who had ridden early that morning to the settlement
“Ninety-six” to hear the latest tidings about the War, and to gain some
news regarding the revolutionary movement which hitherto had been
largely confined to the southern portion of the State.
For Dicey it had been a long and weary day. Her father’s last words
were: “Let no one know where we have ridden, Dicey, for in such days as
these it is best to keep one’s own counsel, and you know, little
daughter, that most of our neighbours belong to the King’s party.”
And Dicey had remembered, even though Eliza Gordon had come over that
afternoon with her sewing, and the two girls had worked on their new
kerchiefs, fagoting and stitching and edging them with some Mignonette
lace which Eliza’s mother had brought from Charleston when last she went
to town. Such silence was hard enough for Dicey, who was used to tell
whatever thoughts came into her mind, particularly to Eliza, who was her
very “dearest friend.”
When Mr. Langston had dismounted, and Dicey had taken one look into his
face, she cried out,—
“Oh, father, is the news bad? I can see by your face it is none of the
best. Is that cruel King over seas never going to stop his taxing? Shall
I throw out the tea?”
“S’hush, Dicey, my girl. Remember what I told you this morning. There
are none others about us who think as we do, and it behoves us to be
careful both in what we say and do.”
As he spoke, he drew Dicey into the house, and Henry followed, the
horses having been taken to the stables by one of the slaves, who, like
Dicey, had heard the sound of the riders and come forward to meet them.
Once within doors Dicey forgot for a moment her eagerness for news, and
ran forward to stir up the fire which had fallen low while she mused,
and to light the candle which hung from its iron bracket on the back of
her father’s chair. She set the kettle on the arm of the crane to boil,
and put close at her father’s elbow his long clay pipe and box of
tobacco, then brought out a tray with glasses and a generous bowl, into
which she put spices and lemon, together with sugar and a measure of
wine which she poured from a jug which was fashioned in the form of a
fat old man with a very red face and a blue coat.
Kneeling on the hearth, she watched to see the steam come from the
kettle’s nose, and as it seemed o’er long to her impatient spirit, she
cast another billet of wood upon the dancing flames.
“Come, come, little daughter,” her father said, “Henry and I have ridden
far, and your impatience does but delay matters. In truth, I am so weary
and chilled that I am thirsting for the spiced wine, which your
treatment of the fire does but delay.”
Now Dicey seized the poker and hastily endeavoured to make up for her
error in putting on the new log, the only effect of her efforts being to
make Henry laugh and take the poker from her hand, while he said,—
“Keep the little patriot quiet, father, since, if a watched pot never
boils, this one is like to stay ever simmering.”
Mr. Langston held Dicey’s hand, and all fixed their eyes on the kettle,
and as the first slender trickle of steam came from its nose, Dicey
caught it from the iron arm, and soon had two fragrant glasses of hot
wine ready for the travellers.
“Now, father,” she said, as she seated herself at his knee,—“now,
father, the news!”
“’Tis true, Dicey, that at Gowan’s Fort many of our people have been
horribly murdered.”
“Oh, father, not by Indians,” cried the girl, who well knew what this
would mean.
“By worse than Indians,” answered Mr. Langston,—“by white men painted as
Indians, who were even more cruel than the savages, if that can be.”
Dicey sprang to her feet and turned to her brother.
“Do you know if ‘Bloody Bates’ had anything to do with this, Henry?”
“Yes, he was the leader, and it is said that he boasted that his next
raid should be in the country of the Enoree, where he said ‘dwelt so
many fat Whigs.’”
“Just let him come this way,” cried Dicey, “and he will find that the
fat Whigs are ready for him.”
Even though the case was grave enough, Henry and his father could not
forbear a smile at the thought of Dicey, little Dicey, setting up as a
match for the cruel bully who had made himself such a terror to the
country-side by his midnight maraudings and treacherous killings that he
had come to bear the name of “Bloody Bates.”
But Dicey, even though she was a girl, had a secret, and, what was
stranger yet, she kept it, but in her brave little heart she resolved
that if it were possible she would make it serve her friends.
So the next day she went forth in the afternoon carrying her work with
her. Henry, who saw her start, little dreaming of the plans in that
curly head, called out in a loud, cheerful voice,—
“I wager I know what is in that bag, Dicey. A new frock for dolly, made
in the latest mode. But, Dicey, see that it be not of red, since our
enemies are far too partial to that colour to suit me.”
“No such foolishness as you think, brother! I am to finish my kerchief
which Eliza and I have been sewing on these three or four days. Maybe it
will be all done when I come home.”
Dicey hurried on, almost afraid that she would let out the secret if
Henry talked much longer about dolls. Dolls, indeed! why, she hadn’t
looked at one for years!
Eliza saw her coming and ran to meet her.
“Come within doors,” said Eliza, when their greetings were over, drawing
Dicey with her. But this did not suit our little patriot’s plans at all,
and holding back, she said,—
“Let’s go and sit in the tree-seat, Eliza. ’Tis so pleasant out of doors
to-day, and then you know we can talk over things there.”
“Go you there and I will come when I get my reticule,” answered Eliza,
who, like Dicey, was glad to escape from the keen eyes of mother and
elder sister, neither of whom had much sympathy for over-long stitches
or puckered work.
Dicey did as she was bid, and climbed into the tree-seat where for years
the children had been used to play, and, now that they had grown older,
to which retreat they took their sewing or a book, though these latter
came to hand rarely enough, the Bible and some books of devotion being
thought quite enough reading for young people in those days.
When both girls were comfortably seated and thimbles and needles were
ready, Dicey fetched a great sigh.
“What is the matter with you, Dicey? Have you aught ailing you?”
“No,” said Dicey, “nothing very much. I was wondering if, when this
horrible war was ended, you and I should ever go to some great city like
Charleston or Fredericksburg, as did your sister Miriam. Think of it,
Eliza, to go to some great town where there are many houses and
carriages, and a play-house, and, best of all, balls!”
At this magic word Dicey tossed into the air the little kerchief, and,
ere it fell, was on the ground holding the skirts of her calico frock,
bowing and smiling to an imaginary partner, now toeing this way and
that, as if she were going through the dance, though, to tell the truth,
the little minx had never seen anything of the kind, but had got her
information from Eliza’s sister Miriam. All of Miriam’s knowledge had
been acquired in safer and happier days, when she had made a visit to
Fredericksburg, and astonished the young girls on her return with
marvellous tales of what she had seen and heard, and the gaieties she
had taken part in. Dicey and Eliza had often practised in secret, and
though their steps would not have passed muster in a drawing-room, they
had furnished them with pleasure for many an hour.
“Oh, Dicey, come up again! If mother sees you, she would make us come
right away into the house; you know that she thinks that such things as
dancing but waste the time of young maids like you and me.”
Thus urged, Dicey with a sigh took up the sewing again, and sat once
more beside Eliza in the tree. But her thoughts were flying all about,
and Eliza spoke twice ere Dicey noticed what she said.
“When father comes home to-night, he brings with him Colonel Williams.”
The remark seemed simple enough, but a sudden light flooded Dicey’s
mind.
“Coming home,” echoed she; “why, you told me a day or two since that he
would not be home till after harvest.”
“Yes, but things have come about differently,” answered Eliza, with an
important air. “My father has been in a great battle, and he is coming
with Colonel Williams to stay for a day or two till Captain Bates gets
here too.”
“Captain Bates! Do you mean ‘Bloody Bates’?” asked Dicey, pale with
horror.
“My father says that is but a Whig name for him, and that he has done
good service to the King in subduing pestilent Whigs,” answered Eliza,
bridling, and secretly pleased at the easy way the long words tripped
from her tongue.
“That awful, cruel man coming here!” and Dicey half looked round to see
if the mere speaking of his name had not brought upon the scene one of
the most cruel bandits who under the name of scout had wrought endless
cruelties. In a moment the importance of the information had shot into
her mind! If she could find out something more! Sure, whatever Eliza
knew were easy enough to learn also.
“Comes he here to rest too, and at your house, Eliza?”
If Eliza had given a thought to the low voice and shaking hands of her
friend, she might have paused ere she told news which was of the
greatest importance to such Whig families as lived in the neighbourhood,
and more particularly to those who dwelt in the “Elder Settlement” on
the other side of the river, and were entirely unprotected. Among them
was Dicey’s eldest brother with his young wife and little family.
“Comes he here to rest too?” and Eliza, proud of her information, and
entirely forgetting that she had been told to impart it to no one,
answered briskly,—
“No, but he stops here to meet some of the soldiers who go with him, and
only think, ’tis at our house that they will paint themselves just like
the Cherokees!” At the mere thought Eliza clapped her hands. “Think how
comical they will look,” she went on, while every moment Dicey felt
herself getting colder and colder with fear. “And sister Miriam has done
naught but scurry about and turn things topsy-turvy. It’s Captain Bates
this and Captain Bates that, till one feels ruffed all the wrong way.
You know I told you that he was coming here one day, and you laughed and
said he dare not!”
Yes, Dicey remembered. This was the secret she had withheld, thinking
that, like enough, it was but some of Miriam’s boasting that this savage
man should seek her at her home. It was true, however, and like to be
soon. How was she, Dicey, to warn those who were so unprotected?
Thinking more deeply than ever she had thought before, Eliza babbled on,
her silent companion taking no note of what she said.
“Well, Dicey, if you cannot listen to what I say, and not even answer
me, I shall go into the house. Besides, my kerchief is all done, and
mother told me to bring it to her when the stitches were all set. How
does it become me?”
As she spoke, Eliza threw it about her round white throat, and tossed
her head, the exact copy of sister Miriam.
But Dicey was too absorbed to notice her companion’s small frivolities.
Her thoughts were solely on how to get word to her brother of the
impending arrival of “Bloody Bates” in the neighbourhood. Fears for the
safety of her own home were not wanting, since Henry, the only brother
left at the old homestead, was but waiting the summons to go and join
the command of Colonel Hugh Middleton.
As Dicey walked slowly home along the bridle path which served for a
road in that sparsely settled region, her mind had not thought of any
plan by which her message was to be sent to her brother and his friends.
Yet over and over the words formed themselves in her brain, “They must
be told, they must be told.”
Her father was feeble, and these years of anxiety and of hard work since
his sons had been called away from home to bear their share of hardships
in the War to which there seemed no end, had enfeebled him still more.
From him the news must be kept at any risk. Perhaps brother Henry would
go; but while this thought passed through her mind, she saw him coming
through the wood on his horse.
“I have ridden this way to tell you good-bye, little sister. Even now
word was brought that I must join my company. Come hither”; and as Dicey
ran to his side he bent down, saying, “Set thy foot on my stirrup, I
have that to say which must not be spoken aloud.”
As Dicey did as he bade her, and stood poised on his stirrup leather,
holding tightly to his hand, he whispered in her ear,—
“Be brave, little sister, and take the best care you can of father. He
is ill and weak, and it vexes me sorely to leave such a child as you
with no one stronger to protect you. Yet go I must, and I trust that
before long Thomas may come for you and my father, or that Batty will
return.”
As Dicey looked into her brother’s troubled face, the thought that he
must not be told rushed upon her. Go he must, and they must take such
care of themselves as they could. So she leaned forward, and said as
cheerfully as possible,—
“Never fear for us, brother. There is no danger for father and me, for
sure none would attack an old man and a young maid. See, I am not in the
least afraid.”
“I could leave you with a better heart if I thought that were the truth,
yet even as we have spoken thy cheeks have grown as white as milk, and
see, your hand trembles like a leaf in the wind!”
Dicey pulled away that telltale member and jumped down from the horse.
“When the time comes, I’ll prove as good a soldier as any of the
Langston boys, rest you assured of that,” she cried.
“Farewell, then, brother Dicey”; and Henry tried to cheer her by making
her smile. Then, with his own face set in a look far too grave for one
so young, he rode down the path in the flickering light, little dreaming
of the desperate resolution which was forming in the mind of his sister.
As she got the supper ready, and talked brightly as was her wont with
her father, she had decided that she must be the one to take the news
across to brother Tom at the Elder Settlement; and oh dear, oh dear, she
must go that very night, for who could tell, perhaps “Bloody Bates”
would stop there on his way, for she knew not which direction he was
coming from. Yet for her father’s sake she was as much like her own
cheerful self as she could be, and she forced herself to eat, as the way
would be long and difficult. Twice she almost gave way to tears in the
safe shelter of the pantry; yet do not blame my little Dicey, for though
she felt fear, she never once thought of giving up her mission.
When her duties for the night were all done, and the hot coals in the
fireplace carefully covered so that a few chips of light wood would set
them blazing in the morning, Dicey sat down and tried to think out how
she should manage. Her father was sleeping in his great chair by the
fireplace, and he looked so worn and old that she resolved to take on
her own slender shoulders the whole responsibility.
Perhaps it was her steadfast gaze, or perhaps it was his thoughts, which
wakened Mr. Langston with a start, caused him to look quickly round and
ask,—
“Where is Henry?”
“Why, father dear, Henry rode forth this afternoon to join Colonel
Middleton. You have been napping, I think.”
“True, Dicey, I did but dream. ’Tis late enough for an old man like me,
so light the candle, and I’ll to bed.”
As she handed the rude candlestick to him, Dicey threw her arms about
his neck and swallowed hard to keep the tears that were so close to the
surface from welling over.
“Why, child, what ails thee? One would think that I was to start on a
journey too, whereas all I can do is to bide at home”; and Mr. Langston
heaved a deep sigh as he said it.
“Brother Henry bid me take care of you, and I mean to, dearest father.
Since you have sent five sons to this cruel war, it seems as if it might
be that you and I were left at peace.”
“Yes, yes, daughter. I do but pray that I may live to see all my brave
boys come home to me once more.” With bowed head Mr. Langston took his
way to the small chamber opening off the living-room.
“Now,” thought Dicey, “must I plan and act. First must I write a few
lines to father, lest he think that I too have followed brother Henry.”
She hunted about for a fragment of paper,—a thing not too common in a
frontier farmhouse,—then she dashed some water into the dried-up
ink-horn, and mended a pen as well as she could.
Will you think any the less of her if I tell you that poor Dicey was a
wretched penman? Her days at school had been very few, since the nearest
one was at Ninety-six, and her father could ill spare his little
housekeeper. Yet he had taught her a bit, and as she sat and wrote by
the flaring rushlight, I am afraid that her tongue was put through as
much action as her pen. Poor Dicey! the little billet which caused her
so much labour was intended to allay her father’s anxiety as well as to
let him know where she had gone. Of the object of her mission there was
never a word. That she would tell him on her return. The little scrawl
was set on the table with one end beneath the candlestick, where he
would be sure to see it in the morning.
“Dear Father,” it began. “I go to carry a message to brother Tom. I
leave early in the morning, and will return as soon as might be. There
is naught to fear for me. Your loving Dicey.”
“’Tis better,” she mused, half aloud, “to say ‘morning’ than to have him
think that I was forced to go at night, lest I fall into the hands of
some of these bandits on their way here. But I must not think of that,
for I must be off as soon as I can get ready, and the faster I work the
less afraid I am.”
She hurriedly put some food in a packet, and then crept up the stairs to
her own tiny room under the eaves. You would hardly have known her when
she came softly down a few moments later. Her hair was bound and knotted
close to her head, for well she knew how the bushes and trees would
catch the flowing curls. Her stuff gown was kilted high and held
securely in place, while on her feet she had drawn a pair of boots which
were her brother Batty’s, and, though large, they were stout and strong
and came nigh to her knees. A heavy shawl covered her shoulders and was
tied behind, and into the front of it she thrust the packet of food.
As she went softly out of the door, she gave a last look toward her
father’s room and then hastened on, anxious to give her warning and then
hurry home. Dicey knew the way well, having been to visit her brother a
number of times. But in her haste and excitement she had not thought
that a path by day with company is a very different thing from the same
path by night and alone.
Yet this did not daunt her, even though there were strange noises in the
forest and elfin fingers seemed to reach out from the bushes and pluck
at her as she tried to hurry on. Each twig which snapped as she trod on
it brought her heart uncomfortably to her mouth, in a way she did not
like at all. The woods were bad enough, but infinitely worse were the
marshes where there was not even a foot-log, much less a bridge to take
her over the worst places, and but for Batty’s boots she would have
suffered cruelly from roots and stones.
Still she pressed bravely on. She gripped her hands and kept repeating,
“Every step takes me nearer, every step takes me nearer,” till it made
itself into a kind of tune. She dared not think that the worst was yet
to come, and that the Tyger River with its brawling current had still to
be crossed. When at last she heard a faint murmuring, it seemed to give
her new strength, and she turned in that direction.
Just as the first gleams of dawn lighted the sky, she stood on the muddy
banks of the river. She looked about her in the dim light and thought
that she recognised the place as the ford where they usually crossed.
So, quite exhausted, she threw herself upon the ground, saying to
herself, “I will rest a few moments and take a bite of pone, for well I
know that the water of the Tyger is deadly cold and muddy too.”
As she thought, she acted, and in a brief time rose to her feet, not
with that springy lightness which was customary with her, but slowly and
with effort. The long hard walk, the chafing of the boots which were too
large for her, all made her feel stiff and lame, and as she waded into
the water, it took all her courage to keep from screaming out.
In she went, a step at a time, thrusting one foot before the other to
feel her way in the rushing water, and bewildered by the grey light and
the heavy fog which lay above the water and hid the other shore. It
seemed to her that the water was getting very deep, surely much deeper
than when she went through it before, though on that occasion she was
mounted safely on the back of her little pony.
“Oh, dear Molly, if only you were here with me now instead of safe at
home in your stall”; and one or two tears rolled over Dicey’s cheeks to
be immediately swallowed up in the swirling waters which every moment
grew deeper around her.
She went forward, step by step, never once thinking of turning back; and
now the wavelets reached her waist, and now they were breast high and so
heavy that they threatened to draw her from her feet. Completely
bewildered, not quite sure of her course since the opposite bank could
not be seen through the low-lying fog, Dicey lost her track and wandered
up stream instead of across. She noticed that the water, now just below
her armpits, kept at the same height, and fearing that every moment it
would grow deep enough to engulf her, she stopped a moment in her
difficult course and looked about her.
What was that which she could dimly discern apparently advancing towards
her? To her mind, already overwrought, it seemed “Bloody Bates” himself,
as indeed it might have been, and with a shriek which she vainly tried
to smother, she turned abruptly to the left and plunged with all the
speed she could muster through the water.
Oh, joyful thought! The black stream was getting lower, it was but
breast high now, and as she leaped and plunged along, with every
movement it receded, till at last she stumbled on the bank, and lay
there sobbing with fright and exhaustion. She heard a soft swish in the
river, and hastily raised her head to find that what had so terrified
her was a huge buck, which was now half swimming and half wading to
shore himself.
Cold and wet, half dead with fright and fatigue, Dicey, at sight of her
supposed enemy, laid her head on her arms and had a good cry.
“Only a deer,” she sobbed, and then began to laugh, and with the laugh,
feeling better, she scrambled to her feet, saying to herself, “’Tis but
two miles to brother Tom’s and then I am safe.”
The way was easier now, for it was a travelled path, made by Indians, it
is true, and their cruel allies the British, but still it was daylight,
and away from the river the air was clear and fresh,—too fresh for
comfort to the shivering girl, who ran and stumbled in her haste to get
her message delivered. The two miles dragged themselves away at last,
and through the trees Dicey saw the group of rude houses which made the
Elder Settlement, and ah! there was brother Tom already out of doors
about his work.
As soon as Dicey saw him, she shouted, and when he looked up, he seized
his gun, for a weapon lay ever within reach in those days. Little wonder
was it that he did not recognise the small figure which ran towards him
waving its arms and shouting words which he did but half catch. At the
sound of the commotion Elie, his wife, came to the door, and at the
first glance cried out,—
“Why, Tom, ’tis Dicey!” and ran out to meet her, fearful of bad tidings,
since it was easy to see that the girl was almost at the limit of her
strength. As soon as Tom realised who it was, he ran forward and caught
her in his arms, and hurried into the house, his lips forming themselves
into the one word, “Father?”
Dicey shook her head, and when Tom set her down on the stone hearth, she
slipped down into a little wet heap with a pale face and eager eyes.
“Oh, brother Tom,” she began, as soon as she caught her breath.
“Stay,” said her brother, “is aught wrong with my father or brothers?”
“No,” said Dicey, “I came—”
“Then thy news will wait till thou art dry and warm, else we are like to
have a dead Dicey instead of a living one. Elie, take and give her dry
clothes, and I will make for her a mug of hot cider which will warm her
through and through. From her clothes, the Tyger seems at flood these
days.”
When Dicey, warm and dry once more, poured out her tale of warning, Tom
hurried away to call the men of the settlement together. As the small
handful of grave settlers came and heard the news, Dicey felt in their
few words of thanks ample payment for what she had undertaken in their
behalf. Nor did they hesitate in their course. Packing together what
possessions were most valued, and driving before them the few cattle
which remained, they and their families that very afternoon crossed the
Tyger at the ford which poor Dicey had missed, and sought the protection
of the fort at Ninety-six. The next day Dicey was left at her own home
and in the arms of her anxious father.
She told her tale to him, sitting by his side and holding his hand, for
he could hardly realise that his little girl, his Dicey, had been
through an experience at which even a man might have hesitated.
“My child,” said he, “it seems but yesterday that I held you in my arms,
and here you are a woman grown ere I thought it.”
Fondly stroking her soft hair, he looked into the fire and spoke half to
himself,—
“’Tis like her mother; but a child to look on, yet with a heart of
steel.”
“Why, father, you think too much of it; ’twas not so much after all. At
least it seems so now that once more I am safe at home with you, though
truly in the doing I was much afeared.” Looking round as she spoke, she
caught sight of the noon-mark on the window, and, jumping up,
exclaimed,—
“Why, father, here have we sat gossiping till it is nearly midday and
not a thing made ready for dinner! Shame on me for a bad housekeeper!”
and with that she bustled away to prepare the simple meal which was the
daily fare of many a family living far from the towns. A pudding made of
the white corn meal did not take long to stir together, and in a pot was
soon stewing some bits of venison from the last deer which Henry had
shot, part of which had been salted down for their winter supply. A
portion of the pudding with a pinch of salt added, and baked on a hot
iron shovel with a long handle, served instead of bread, and what was
left would answer for their supper, with some of the cheese in the
making of which Dicey was well skilled. There was always plenty of milk
from their small herd of cattle.
After all had been settled for the afternoon, the trenchers washed and
the pewter cups polished and set on their shelves, Dicey drew out her
wheel and set herself at her spinning. The low whir and the comfortable
ditty which Dicey hummed hardly above her breath set her father to
dozing in his chair, and neither of the occupants of the kitchen was
prepared for the crashing knock which came on the heavy door.
Before Dicey could reach it to set it open, a harsh voice cried out,—
“If you open not that door and quickly, we’ll smoke out all of you!”
Dicey drew back, looking at her father for counsel.
“Draw the bolt, child,” he said; “we have no strength to withstand them.
Our very weakness must be our protection.”
Dicey pulled back the great oaken bar which served as a lock, and in
pushed half a dozen men heavily armed, none of whom she had ever seen
before.
[Illustration: “COWARD, SHOOT NOW IF YOU DARE!”—_Page 261._]
“So the Whig cub has gone, has he?” asked the one who seemed the leader,
a tall man dressed in buckskin trousers of Indian make, over which the
red coat of the British officer seemed odd enough.
“It is true that my son has gone forth to serve his country,” said Mr.
Langston, in a quiet voice.
At the reply, which seemed to enrage the ruffian, he strode a step
forward, cocking his pistol as he advanced.
“I’ll show him how to serve his country when I find him, and as for you,
old man, long enough have you hampered the King’s service.”
He pointed the weapon at Mr. Langston, when with a cry Dicey threw her
arms about her father’s neck, and, shielding him with her body, called
out over her shoulder,—
“Coward, shoot now if you dare!”
Bloody Bates, for indeed it was he, raised his pistol once more, and
with a wicked scowl was preparing to fire, when one of the men who had
stood silently by till now knocked up the weapon, saying,—
“As long as the cub we came for has fled, let us on, Bates. We have no
war with dotards and children.” The others murmured surly assent, and
bidding Dicey and her father beware how they harboured traitors, the
whole party withdrew.
It took Dicey scarce a moment to fly to the door and bar it, and then
hurry back to her father, who was lying back in his chair, pale with the
excitement and the peril which they had undergone, and only too thankful
that one among the company had respected his grey hairs and Dicey’s
youth.
For many a day they lived in hourly fear of their lives, even after
Bloody Bates had taken himself off on his raids and the neighbourhood
was comparatively peaceful.
Did Dicey undergo any more special perils, you ask?
Yes; once again she faced grave danger, being met by a scouting party as
she was coming from a trip to the nearest town. They questioned her as
to the whereabouts of her brothers and other Whigs in the vicinity, but
she refused to tell what she knew. The leader threatened to shoot her,
but she faced him bravely, crying,—
“Well, here am I; shoot!” opening her neckerchief at the same time. He
was ashamed apparently, for the band rode on, leaving her to make her
way home.
She lived to see all her brothers but one return from their duties in
the army, and by her loving care and devotion made her father’s life a
happy one. She was only a little Southern girl living in a lonely spot,
and long since dead; but her courageous acts live on and shine, as do
all “good deeds in a naughty world.”
[Illustration]
THE MAID OF ZARAGOZA
_1808_
The notes of a hymn swept up the street,—a hymn so sung that it seemed a
call to battle rather than a sacred song. It rose, it fell, it stirred
the blood, the plaintive tones of the women’s voices rising high above
the fuller notes of the men, while soaring above all the others were the
shrill, sweet voices of the altar boys.
On they came, with banners waving and with clouds of smoke rising from
the swinging censers. But the music, strong as it rose on the morning
air, did not blot out the clang of the alarm bells which were constantly
rung in every quarter of the city. Nor could it drown the boom, boom,
boom of the bombardment which had been slowly wrecking the city for so
long.
Augustina kneeled on the balcony with her bent head on her hands, her
heart swelling as she listened.
“Ah,” said she to herself, “if I were but a man! If I could but help to
save the city. Yet here must I sit and do nothing better than weave
lace, while our brave men are dropping before those cruel guns.”
As the music grew fainter, she rose and stood watching the procession.
At the head of the long narrow street in which she lived, towered the
spires of the lovely old cathedral of the Virgin of the Pillar, and the
procession which had just passed was of men and women who sought to
petition the Holy Mother for her aid in the desperate war which was
being waged against their city.
Although the sun had been up some hours, the tall convents which were
set among the houses made the street still dim, and as Augustina looked
up towards the cathedral, the people in the procession seemed hardly
larger than children moving slowly and singing as they went.
Every day in some part of the city was to be seen such a procession as
had just passed, for although Napoleon and his soldiers had been
besieging the town for forty days, never once did the people lose
courage in their power to come out victorious from the struggle.
Yes, to triumph at last, though hunger, sickness, and ill-trained
soldiers were evils with which they had to struggle, as well as the
enemy without their walls.
As the last singer entered the cathedral, Augustina seemed to wake from
a dream, and a look of anxiety came over her face as she looked up the
street. Leaning as far forward over the balcony as she dared, she could
see nothing but some figures of men wrapped in dull brown cloaks, the
only spots of colour being the gay kerchiefs bound about their heads.
“Augustina!” From within the house came the call, prolonged and whining,
as if the patience of the caller were nearly exhausted.
“Yes, dear mother, just one moment longer.”
Again she leaned out and peered up the street, but whoever or whatever
she looked for did not come in sight. With a sigh she drew back and
entered the house.
The street in which Augustina lived was no whit worse than most of the
thoroughfares in the old city of Zaragoza. The houses covered with
balconies looked at each other across streets so narrow that in some of
them a horse and cart filled the space from side to side, and the
cobblestones were so rough and irregular that walking was difficult. Yet
Augustina had found the city fair enough to look upon before so many
doors and windows were walled up on account of the bombardment, and
before such numbers of the houses had been crumbled by the cannon balls.
Though her face was not as cheerful as was its wont when she turned to
go in, she shook her shoulders as if to get rid of some disagreeable
thought, pushed back from her forehead the heavy black hair, and was
able to show quite a presentable face to her mother when she reached her
side.
“Why did you stay so long when you knew that I waited for you?” asked
the invalid in a peevish tone.
“Did it seem long? Why, mother, ’twas only five minutes after all; just
look at the clock. After the procession passed I only looked to see if
Felipe came this way and if he had any news to tell.”
“Felipe, Felipe, everything is Felipe, while I sit here day after day,
and only get what is thrown to me, as one throws a bone to a dog.”
“Ah, I see that the fever is bad again this morning, else you would
never say a thing like that, mother dear. Now just look at me and say
that again!”
Her mother turned to speak, but as she looked at the bright face, saw
the love which filled the large dark eyes, passed her hand over the rosy
cheeks, and felt the pressure of the strong young arms, she could not
help but soften into a look of pleasure, and her words dwindled into—
“Well, well, it did seem long, but you are a good child, Augustina, and
I love you well, as you know. But what with the fever and this dreadful
war and the sound of the cannon, I spoke sharper than I meant.”
“Dearest, let me give you the cup of chocolate and the bit of bread, for
I ate my breakfast long ago, before you woke.” She did not tell her
mother how scant that meal had been.
“I hardly know if I wish for it,” her mother was beginning; but
Augustina was already in the next room, which served them as a kitchen,
and soon hurried back bearing a small tray on which was the cup of
chocolate and the bit of crusty bread which is the breakfast of every
true Spaniard. Food was scant enough in more households than this.
Augustina’s mother, a widow with barely enough to scrape along on, was
aided in peaceful days by the sale of the lace which Augustina’s skilful
fingers made. Everybody in Spain loves lace, and every woman wore it,
having her whole mantilla of it if she could afford it, and trimmed with
it if she could do no better. Her holiday skirt was flounced with it,
her pretty little aprons edged with it, her snowy chemisette trimmed
with it, so that there was always a demand for what Augustina’s skilful
fingers could make.
But now—what was the use of working at the pillow?
The siege which had lasted so long showed no signs of being broken, and
no one had any coins to spare on such slight things as lace, when famine
was staring the city in the face, and all day long, if one but looked
from the window, the wounded could be seen being carried into the
convents, or any other place where they could be tended and safe from
the cannon balls.
“Is the chocolate sweet enough, mother?” asked Augustina anxiously. She
had stirred into it the last spoonful of sugar which they had, and as
the purse was running so low she hardly dared to buy any more.
“Sweet enough; and, Augustina, when you go out to-day, go first of all
to the cathedral and say an Ave for me. I had hoped before this to be
able to go myself. Say, too, a prayer for our brave men who are holding
the city against those wicked French.”
“I am going now to Our Lady of the Pillar, mother, and I will stop on
the Prado and ask if, by any chance, there has been a call for lace. I
have a fine piece ready; the lilies in it seem fairly to grow, do they
not, mother?”
Augustina held up with pride a long strip of snowy lace into which were
wrought lilies and roses so lifelike that it was almost as if they
blossomed.
“I wish that we could afford to keep that piece, Augustina. I have
watched it grow under your fingers for so long that I shall miss it when
it is no longer here.”
“I shall hate to sell it, mother; yet the money for it would not come
amiss, eh, dearest?”
The widow sighed and glanced at the pillow as it lay on the table
covered from dust, only the gay beads which tipped the bobbins being
visible.
Augustina bustled about, making the house ready for the day, drawing the
shade across the window so that her mother’s siesta should not be
disturbed in case she did not return immediately, and then she went into
the kitchen. Here she packed into a small basket some little cakes and
such simple food as their home afforded, and covered it with a napkin.
Then, with her mantilla drawn over her head, she went into her mother’s
room and said,—
“Adios, mother, till I return. I may be late, so do not worry. Be sure
that I will not forget your Ave at the cathedral.”
Kissing her fondly, she went down the stone stairs which led to their
rooms, treading softly so as not to rouse any of the neighbours who
might come out and ask whither she was going.
She walked quickly up the quiet street, and, with a corner of her
mantilla drawn over her face, looked neither to the right nor left. Few
people were about, and every moment came the boom of the cannon, now a
little louder and now less so,—as they were fired from the walls, or
from the distant cannon of the enemy.
She kept bravely on, for she had a purpose before her. She wished to
make a prayer for herself as well as for her mother, and turned to the
cathedral, whither were also others hurrying, bound on the same errand
as herself.
As the leather curtain of the door fell behind her, the dusky light of
the great cathedral was pointed here and there by hundreds of twinkling
lights, and side by side on the pavement kneeled noble lady or ragged
beggar, all intent on their devotions, whispering prayers for the
deliverance of their beloved city and for the safety of her defenders.
The solemn tones of the organ and the voices of the chanting priests
were the only sounds to be heard, save from time to time a sob from some
mourner who prayed for the dead.
As Augustina stood once more in the sunshine on the great steps of the
church, she looked up and down the street, hardly able to realise that
while the sky was so bright, such misery was in many homes, and such
cruel fighting on the walls.
“On the walls!” Yes; that was the place whither she was bound! Felipe
had not been to their home since the day before yesterday. Something
must have happened to detain him, for as he left he had called back,—
“Look for me to-morrow, Augustina”; and when Felipe said a thing he
always kept his word; no one knew that better than she. It had been so
from the days when they were little children together. When Felipe said,
“I will do this,” or “I will not do that,” it always fell out just as he
said. So now she was going to see for herself what had happened to keep
him away. A horrid idea rose before her mind of Felipe wounded, but she
drove it away, and thought only of how young he was and strong, so proud
of being chosen by his townsmen to serve on the walls, so delighted with
his uniform.
The mere thought of how she had seen him thus made her hurry all the
faster; and she hoped he would like the things which she had brought him
to eat, for, poor boy, he had complained of being hungry the last time
he came to them; and food was getting more scarce each day.
She reached the walls at last, and at the gate near the great convent of
Santa Engracia, where Felipe had a gun, she was stopped by a sentinel
who asked her business there.
“I come to see Felipe,” she answered briefly.
“A brother of thine, little one?” asked the soldier, as he noticed her
basket, and tried to get a glimpse of her face through the mantilla.
“No, a friend,” was all she answered; for how could she tell this man
that some day, when this war was over, she and Felipe were to be
betrothed?
“Just a friend,” the man mimicked, and then, seeing her bent head, he
said more gently: “Well, ’tis not allowed for friends to mount to the
walls, but as it seems that you have something to eat, go you up. You
will find Felipe at the gun at the second turn to the right.”
Up the rude steps to the top of the walls, Augustina hurried, past one,
two, three guns. At the fourth stood Felipe!
“Oh, Felipe!” she cried, “where have you been these last two days? In
truth I could wait no longer to know what had befallen you. See, here is
a bit of meat, and all the bread that I could spare, for mother must not
suffer, you know, else had I brought more.”
Felipe had just cleaned the gun for another charge, and as he stood
beside it, he turned his weary and blackened face towards Augustina.
“I could not come,” he whispered hoarsely. “I have served this gun day
and night since I saw you last, save for a few hours at night when those
dastardly French had to rest too.”
“Poor Felipe!” murmured Augustina. “Here is some wine; take it, for you
look worn and tired”; and as she spoke, she gave him a glass of the sour
wine which is so esteemed by the Spaniard, and in which Felipe moistened
some bits of bread, standing beside his gun all the while so as to be
ready to load and fire as soon as he had finished.
The tumult was appalling. Orders were being shouted out from either
side, clouds of smoke obscured the walls as well as the broad and grassy
vega where the French camp was established. The noise was deafening, and
every few moments a ball, screaming as it went, flew over their heads,
and burst somewhere in the city behind them, killing and destroying, and
often leaving in its wake fiery embers which burst into flame.
Augustina steadied herself by putting her hand on the gun, and as Felipe
turned to it once more he shouted to her,—
“Hear the Signorina speak, Augustina; she is the bravest lady on the
walls!” and he thrust into the gaping mouth of the gun a huge iron case
which he took from a pile near at hand, and which held within it many
small iron balls.
“Now hear my lady’s voice!” turning towards Augustina with a look of
triumph on his face.
There was a deafening roar, a cloud of smoke, and even as it floated
about them out of its midst seemed to come a great thing that flew
towards them,—a whirling, screaming thing that never wavered in its
track! Before she could realise what it was, there was a deafening roar,
Augustina was thrown on her face, and heard all about her a sound as of
falling stones. She knew in a moment, as soon as the noise had died
away, that she was not hurt. She slowly scrambled to her feet, and
looked about for Felipe.
Ah, he had been thrown down like herself!
“Felipe!” she called.
Amid the tumult her voice seemed but a whisper.
“Felipe!” Still there was no answer, and as she looked again she saw
that on his breast lay a large bit of something that looked like a
stone. She hurried to him and pushed it off, trying to raise him as she
did so; but he fell back, and she threw herself on her knees, lifting
his head in her arms, and saying softly,—
“Felipe, dear one, where are you hurt? Answer me, I pray; ’tis I,
Augustina, who calls you.”
But there was no answer. The iron fragment from the cannon ball had hit
Felipe above the heart, and struck out in a moment the life of a brave
soldier. Again and again Augustina called to him, stroking the curling
black hair, and smoothing the hands all stained from his work. How long
she sat there with Felipe’s head in her lap, she never knew. Slowly in
her mind the idea grew that some one must take his place. No one must
think that Felipe’s gun was silent because he had deserted; the faith of
his townsfolk in his courage must not be destroyed.
Besides, what was that she had heard? It was Felipe himself who had told
her of the dreadful thing which happened every night on the walls. She
could hardly bear to think of it,—but at dusk gibbets were set up, and
on them were hung all deserters and cowards.
Oh, if they should think that Felipe was a coward!
Somebody must take his place, but who—who was to do it?
There were far too few men now, able to fill the places of danger on the
walls.
“Then must even I,” said Augustina to herself; and she laid poor Felipe
down tenderly, and threw her mantilla over the quiet face. There was no
time for tears. She had watched him as he loaded the gun, and now tried
to do it herself.
“Now may Our Lady of the Pillar help me!” and as she breathed the
prayer, Augustina dragged the heavy case which held so many
death-dealing balls to the mouth of the gun, lifted and pushed it into
place. After firing the charge, she dropped on her knees, and with her
hands covering her face waited through an awful moment!
Suddenly there was a tearing, crashing sound, an explosion so loud that
it took away her breath, and then Augustina knew that the gun of Felipe
spoke as if he still stood at its side. A sob broke from her lips, but
she crushed it down, and with one look at the still form beneath the
mantilla, she rose to her feet and turned to the gun. Her slender hands
had difficulty in managing the heavy cases, but she kept at it bravely,
murmuring to herself,—
“For Felipe and for Spain!”
It was for her country, too, that Augustina worked and toiled; for to
the tips of her toes she was of Aragon. Her father and his father before
him had watched the Ebro as it flows through the city; they had loved
the olive groves by which it was surrounded, and they had stood in the
arcades and market-places, their sad eyes watching the slow decay of a
city which had once been the home of kings.
Cold and proud to the stranger, the Aragonese when aroused are fairly
heroic in the way they fight for their country; and in 1808, when
Augustina manned the gun for the sake of her playmate and lover who was
slain, the same spirit burned in her heart as had in those of her
ancestors centuries before, when the Berbers came and conquered.
The time crept along, but Augustina never faltered. Her clothes were
torn with the unusual labour, and her hands, more used to the threads of
flax and the smooth wooden bobbins, were cut and bleeding from the rough
metal of the cannon. Her long black hair became loosened and hung like a
veil down her back. She worked like one possessed of man-like strength.
Hardly did she allow the great cannon to cool before she thrust the
charge into it, and dragged another iron case to its mouth, so as to
have it ready at the first moment.
It seemed to her as if she had been the whole day at her post, when
there hurried along an officer making his rounds to observe the
condition of things on the walls.
At sight of Augustina he stopped and looked at her with amazement.
[Illustration: “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, MY GIRL?”—_Page 289._]
“What are you doing here, my girl?” he asked in no gentle tones, hardly
able to credit what his eyes told him, and thinking that Augustina might
perhaps be keeping watch over a sleeping soldier, and anxious to know
the truth.
“I have but taken Felipe’s place, Signor Captain,” pointing with her
hand to the figure lying on the stones beside the gun.
“Does—” The Captain paused in his question. Something in the still
figure seemed to tell him that it was not the sleep of fatigue that held
Felipe while this slender girl worked his gun.
He stooped and lifted the end of the mantilla which covered the face.
There was no need for further question. He rose and touched Augustina’s
small stained hand.
“Poor girl!” he said; “was he your brother?”
“No, signor; he was Felipe. Since we were children we had played
together. His father and mine were old comrades, and when Felipe was
left alone on his father’s death, my mother told him to think that our
home was his when he wanted it. But Felipe was brave, signor. He knew
that we had little, and he worked hard for himself and me, too, since
when we came of age we were to be married. Then came this war; he was
chosen to serve, and, as the signor sees, he served as long as life
lasted. Now I serve for him.”
“Brave girl that you are! I would that we had more men like you, and
like poor Felipe here! Stay but a little longer and I will send some one
to relieve you.”
“No, signor; I will stay in place of Felipe, if but you will send word
to my mother that I am safe and will see her to-night.”
“I can promise that, surely; and if your example does not shame those
who lurk in safety behind the walls, I shall lose all faith in Aragon.”
Saying which, the Captain passed on his way, saluting as he went, with
bowed head and lifted hat, both the girl and the still figure under the
mantilla.
All through the long afternoon Augustina worked. No cannon on the walls
spoke more often than hers. Faint and weary, she ate what remained of
the food she had brought to Felipe, and would not allow herself to think
of anything but the duty before her. Not a tear fell from her eyes, and
she kept whispering to herself,—
“I must make the Signorina speak!” and every time the cannon roared she
looked down at Felipe and cried out, “Ah, Felipe, that was for you; she
spoke for you!”
It was night before the promised relief arrived,—a soldier who looked
hardly able to do the work, so pale was he.
“Have you been ill?” asked Augustina, as she made ready to go.
“But two days from the hospital,” said he; “yet every one who can stand
has need to fight if we wish to save Zaragoza and Our Lady of the
Pillar.”
“If you can bear through the night, I will come again in the morning. If
it were not for my mother, I would not leave here now.”
“Surely you have done your best. No one could ask more; and as for the
poor lad whose place you took, there are few who have been more faithful
than he.”
“It is for that very reason that I come again,” said Augustina. “Never
shall it be said that Felipe’s gun was silent while I am able to stand
beside it—and while Felipe guards it himself,” she added in a lower
tone. She kneeled and looked long into the face of her dead comrade, and
leaving the mantilla still covering his face, walked steadily off,
wiping away with her tired hand the few tears that fell over her cheeks.
Bareheaded and alone, she walked to her home, climbed to the door of
their rooms, and then, overcome with sorrow and fatigue, rushed in and
threw herself on her knees beside her mother.
“Oh, my child, my dearest child!” and fondling and kissing her, her
mother tried to give comfort and cheer to the weeping girl.
“To think that my little girl should be so brave! and, child, how came
you to know how to load and fire one of those fearful guns?”
“I saw Felipe do it, mother, and he said that his gun spoke oftenest of
any on the walls. So I saw to it that it did not become silent, that was
all!”
“Sit here, loved one”; and Augustina’s mother put the tired girl into
her own chair, and hurried away to get something for her to eat, and to
light the brazier to warm her chilled frame, all her own weakness
forgotten in the sight of her child’s sorrow. Nearly all the night they
talked, the mother trying in vain to keep Augustina from her resolve to
return and serve the cannon the next day. But Augustina simply said,—
“I promised Felipe before I left him, mother dear, and I must go.
Besides, I must do my share, and there are few enough to help on the
walls.”
Seeing that the girl could not be won away from her idea of her duty,
both to the dead and to her country, her mother at last gave up trying
to dissuade her, and made her go to bed and try to sleep, so as to have
strength for the coming day.
But although Augustina lay quite still with closed eyes, she did not
sleep. All through the hours she went over her childhood, and always, in
everything, was Felipe. Each little pleasure which they had enjoyed
together came vividly to her mind,—how they had studied and worked and
played; and now—Even the very bobbins on her lace pillow were the work
of his skilful fingers, and many of the comforts of their little home
had been made or bought by him for her mother or herself.
She could not bear to think of him lying on the rough stones of the
wall, but the Captain had promised that the boy soldier should be laid
to rest within the convent yard.
“Would that we could do as much for each brave man who gives his life
for his country!” the message ran.
The grey dawn had hardly broken before Augustina had crept from her bed
and down the stairs, and was hurrying towards her cannon and place on
the walls. She was trying to forget her unhappy thoughts in the work
which lay before her. The soldier who had taken her place was in worse
condition than he had been the evening before, since the chill of the
night and the strain of the work were far more than he, with wounds
hardly healed, could stand.
“I am shamed to give the place to you,” he said; “yet if I stay longer,
I fear that I shall be of no use at all. I will report to the Captain
and see that some one is sent here.”
“It will be no use. I shall serve this gun to-day and every day, as long
as God wills, or till we conquer. I promised Felipe, and the Captain
said it should be so.”
Augustina turned away as if further argument was useless, and so it
proved. Each day she took her place beside the gun where Felipe had met
his death, and not only worked it with the skill and courage of a man,
but inspired others, less stout of heart than she, to hold their places
too. Indeed on more than one occasion she held the men in position by
her words and her bravery, though, alas! poor Zaragoza had to yield at
last to a power stronger than her own.
After sixty days of incredible bravery, after countless repulses and
endless suffering, they were overcome. Right beside the great convent of
Santa Engracia, near which was the cannon which was Augustina’s charge,
the enemy made a breach in the walls. The French soldiers who worked at
it were partially protected by the convent, and had wrought the mischief
before the Spaniards were fully aware of what had happened. Augustina
heard the noise of crumbling masonry at a distance, and ran along the
wall in the direction of the sound.
“Ah!” She caught her breath, for there, even as she looked, a score of
the hated French were through. On they came, silent at first, leaping
through the hole which the workers every moment made larger. They rushed
in like a stream swollen by the spring rains, till ten thousand men at
least had flowed into the city.
But do not think that these sons and daughters of Aragon gave in even
then! Driven from the walls, they used the housetops and the balconies
as vantage grounds. Inch by inch only did they yield, and held off the
enemy for twenty-one days longer, only giving in at last because they
had actually no more soldiers left to fight. Such bravery and
determination impressed even the victorious French, and the terms of
capitulation granted were most honourable and generous.
Augustina lived through all these perils and many more, and was among
the last to yield. Nor were her courage and her services to her country
forgotten; all through Spain her name was known and loved. Nor was her
fame confined to her own country, for her daring has been celebrated in
many tongues.
She lived full fifty years after her brave exploits on the walls of
Zaragoza (she died in 1867), and by command of the government walked
each fine day upon the Prado, her breast covered with medals and
decorations, showing the esteem and honour in which she was held.
Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,
Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,
Mark’d her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady’s bower,
Seen her long locks that foil the painter’s power,
Her fairy form, with more than female grace,
Scarce would you deem that Zaragoza’s tower
Beheld her smile in danger’s Gorgon face,
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory’s fearful chase.
CHILDE HAROLD.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
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