 | CHAPTER XV. The prairie |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
That after-hours with sorrow chide us not!”
Shakspeare.
It is proper that the course of the narrative should
be stayed, while we revert to those causes, which
have brought in their train of consequences, the singular
contest just related. The interruption must
necessarily be as brief as we hope it may prove satisfactory
to that class of readers, who require that
no gap should be left by those who assume the office
of historians, for their own fertile imaginations to fill.
Among the troops sent by the government of the
Confederacy to take possession of its newly acquired
territory in the west, was a detachment led by the
young soldier who has become so busy an actor in
the scenes of our legend. The mild and indolent
descendants of the ancient colonists received their
new compatriots without distrust, well knowing that
the transfer raised them from the condition of subjects,
to the more enviable distinction of citizens in
a government of laws. The new rulers exercised
their functions with discretion and wielded their delegated
authority without offence. In such a novel
intermixture, however, of men born and nurtured in
freedom, and the compliant minions of absolute power,
the catholic and the protestant, the active and the
indolent, some little time was necessary to blend the
discrepant elements of society. In attaining so desirable
an end, woman was made to perform her accustomed
and grateful office. The barriers of prejudice
power of the master-passion, and family unions
ere long began to cement the political tie which had
made a forced conjunction between people so opposite
in their habits, their educations, and their
opinions.
Middleton was among the first, of the new possessors
of the soil, who became captive to the charms
of a Louisianian lady. In the immediate vicinity of
the post he had been directed to occupy, dwelt the
chief of one of those ancient colonial families, which
had been content to slumber for ages amid the ease,
indolence and wealth of the Spanish provinces. He
was an officer of the crown, and had been induced
to remove from the Floridas, among the French of
the adjoining province, by a rich succession of which
he had become the inheritor. The name of Don
Augustin de Certavallos was scarcely known beyond
the limits of the little town in which he resided,
though he found a secret pleasure himself in pointing
it out, in large scrolls of musty documents, to an
only child, as enrolled among the former heroes and
grandees of old and of new Spain. This fact, so important
to himself and of so little moment to any
body else, was the principal reason, that while his
more vivacious Gallic neighbours were not slow to
open a frank communion with their visiters, he chose
to keep aloof, seemingly content with the society of
his daughter, who was a girl just emerging from the
condition of childhood into that of a woman.
The curiosity of the youthful Inez, however, was
not so entirely inactive. She had not heard the martial
music of the garrison, melting on the evening air,
nor seen the strange banner, which fluttered over the
heights that rose at no great distance from her father's
extensive grounds, without experiencing some
of those secret impulses which are thought to distinguish
her sex. Natural timidity, and that retiring and
groundwork of female fascination in the tropical
provinces of Spain, held her in their seemingly indissoluble
bonds; and it is more than probable, that
had not an accident occurred in which Middleton
was of some personal service to her father, so long a
time would have elapsed before they met, that another
direction might have been given to the wishes
of one who was just of an age to be alive to all the
power of youth and beauty.
Providence—or if that imposing word is too just
to be classical, fate—had otherwise decreed. The
haughty and reserved Don Augustin was by far too
observant of the forms of that station on which he
so much valued himself, to forget the duties of a
gentleman. Gratitude, for the kindness of Middleton,
induced him to open his doors to the officers of
the garrison, and to admit of a guarded but polite
intercourse. Reserve gradually gave way before the
propriety and candour of their spirited young leader,
and it was not long ere the affluent planter rejoiced
as much as his daughter, whenever the well known
signal at the gate announced one of these agreeable
visits from the commander of the post.
It is unnecessary to dwell on the impression which
the charms of Inez produced on the soldier, or to delay
the tale in order to write a wire-drawn account
of the progressive influence that elegance of deportment,
manly beauty, and undivided assiduity and intelligence
were likely to produce on the sensitive
mind of a romantic, warm-hearted, and secluded girl
of sixteen. It is sufficient for our purpose to say
that they loved, that the youth was not backward to
declare his feelings, that he prevailed with some
facility over the scruples of the maiden, and with no
little difficulty over the objections of her father, and
that before the province of Louisiana had been six
the latter was the affianced husband of the richest
heiress on the banks of the Mississippi.
Although we have presumed the reader to be acquainted
with the manner in which such results are
commonly attained, it is not to be supposed that the
triumph of Middleton either over the prejudices of
the father or of those of the daughter was achieved
entirely without difficulty. Religion formed a stubborn
and nearly irremoveable obstacle with both.
The devoted young man patiently submitted to a formidable
essay, which father Ignatius was deputed to
make in order to convert him to the true faith. The
effort on the part of the worthy priest was systematic,
vigorous, and long sustained. A dozen times (it was
at those moments when glimpses of the light, sylphlike
form of Inez flitted like some fairy being past
the scene of their conferences) the good father fancied
he was on the eve of a glorious triumph over
infidelity; but all his hopes were frustrated by some
unlooked-for opposition on the part of the subject of
his pious labours. So long as the assault on his faith
was distant and feeble, Middleton, who was no great
proficient in polemics, submitted to its effects with
the patience and humility of a martyr; but the moment
the good father, who felt such concern in his
future happiness, was tempted to improve his vantage
ground by calling in the aid of some of the peculiar
subtilties of his own creed, the young man was too
good a soldier not to make head against the hot attack.
He came to the contest, it is true, with no
weapons more formidable than common sense, and
some little knowledge of the habits of his country as
contrasted with that of his adversary; but with these
homebred implements he never failed to repulse the
father with something of the power with which a
nervous cudgel-player would deal with a skilful master
the direct and unanswerable arguments of a broken
head and a shivered weapon.
Before the controversy was terminated, an inroad
of Protestants had come to aid the soldier. The
reckless freedom of such among them, as thought
only of this life, and the consistent and tempered
piety of others, caused the honest priest to look
about him, in concern. The influence of example
on one hand, and the contamination of too free an
intercourse on the other, began to manifest themselves,
even in that portion of his own flock, which
he had supposed to be too thoroughly folded in spiritual
government ever to stray. It was time to turn
his thoughts from the offensive, and to prepare his
followers to resist the lawless deluge of opinion
which threatened to break down the barriers of their
faith. Like a wise commander, who finds he has occupied
too much ground for the amount of his force,
he began to curtail his outworks. The relics were
concealed from profane eyes; his people were admonished
not to speak of miracles before a race that
not only denied their existence, but who had even the
desperate hardihood to challenge their proofs, and
even the bible itself was once more prohibited, with
terrible denunciations, for the triumphant reason that
it was liable to be misinterpreted.
In the mean time it became necessary to report to
Don Augustin the effects his arguments and prayers
had produced on the heretical disposition of the
young soldier. No man is prone to confess his weakness
at the very moment when circumstances demand
the utmost efforts of his strength. By a species of
pious fraud, for which no doubt the worthy priest
found his absolution in the purity of his motives, he
declared that, while no positive change was actually
wrought in the mind of Middleton, there was every
reason to hope the entering wedge of argument had
opening was left, through which, it might rationally
be hoped, the blessed seeds of a religious fructification
would find their way, especially if the subject
was left uninterruptedly to enjoy the advantage of
Catholic communion.
Don Augustin himself was now seized with the
desire of proselyting. Even the soft and amiable
Inez thought it would be a glorious consummation of
her wishes to be a humble instrument of bringing
her lover into the bosom of the true church. The
offers of Middleton were promptly accepted, and,
while the father looked forward impatiently to the
day assigned for the nuptials, as to the pledge of his
own success, the daughter thought of it with feelings
in which the holy emotions of her faith were blended
with the softer sensations of her years and situation.
The sun rose the morning of her nuptials on a
day so bright and cloudless, that the sensitive Inez
hailed it as a harbinger of her future happiness. Father
Ignatius performed the offices of the church, in
a little chapel that was attached to the estate of Don
Augustin, and long ere the sun had begun to fall,
Middleton pressed the blushing and timid young
Creole to his bosom, as his acknowledged and unalienable
wife. It had pleased the parties to pass the
day of the wedding in retirement, dedicating it solely
to the best and purest affections, aloof from all the
noisy and ordinarily heartless rejoicings of a compelled
festivity.
Middleton was returning through the grounds of
Don Augustin from a visit of duty to his encampment,
at that hour in which the light of the sun begins
to melt into the shadows of evening, when a
glimpse of a robe, similar to that in which Inez had
accompanied him to the altar, caught his eye through
the foliage of a retired arbour. He approached the
diminished by the claim she had perhaps given him
to intrude on her private moments; but the sounds
of her soft voice, which was offering up prayers, in
which he heard himself named by the dearest of all
appellations, overcame his scruples, and induced
him to take a position where he might listen without
the fear of detection. It was certainly grateful to
the feelings of a husband to be able in this manner
to lay bare the spotless soul of his wife, and to find
that his own image lay enshrined amid its purest and
holiest aspirations. His self-esteem was too much
flattered not to induce him to overlook the immediate
object of the petitioner. While she prayed that
she might become the humble instrument of bringing
him into the flock of the faithful, she petitioned for
forgiveness on her own behalf, if presumption or indifference
to the counsel of the church had caused
her to set too high a value on her influence, and led
her into the dangerous error of hazarding her own
soul by espousing a heretic. There was so much of
fervent piety, mingled with so strong a burst of natural
feeling, so much of the woman blended with the
angel in her prayers, that Middleton could have forgiven
her, had she termed him a Pagan, for the
sweetness and interest with which she petitioned in
his favour.
The young man waited until his bride arose from
her knees, and then he joined her as though entirely
ignorant of what had just occurred.
“It is getting late, my Inez,” he said, “and Don
Augustin would be apt to reproach you with inattention
to your health in being abroad at such an hour.
What then am I to do, who am charged with all his
authority, and twice his love?”
“Be like him in every thing,” she answered, looking
up in his face with tears in her eyes, and speaking
with a marked emphasis; “in every thing. Imitate
you.”
“Nor for me, Inez? I doubt not that I should be
all you can wish, were I to become as good as the
worthy and respectable Don Augustin. But you are
to make some allowances for the infirmities and habits
of a soldier. Now let us go and join this excellent
father.”
“Not yet,” said his bride, gently extricating herself
from the arm, that he had thrown around her
slight form, while he urged her from the place. “I
have still another duty to perform, before I can submit
so implicitly to your orders, soldier though you
are. I promised the worthy Inesella my faithful
nurse, she who, as you heard, has so long been a
mother to me, Middleton—I promised her a visit at
this hour. It is the last, as she thinks, that she can
receive from her own child, and I cannot disappoint
her. Go you then to Don Augustin, and in one
short hour I will rejoin you.
“Remember it is but an hour!”
“One hour,” repeated Inez, as she kissed her
hand to him; and then blushing, as if ashamed at
her own boldness, she darted from the arbour, and
was seen for an instant gliding towards the cottage of
her nurse, in which at the next moment she disappeared.
Middleton returned slowly and thoughtfully to the
house, often bending his eyes in the direction in
which he had last seen his wife, as if he would fain
trace her lovely form, in the gloom of the evening,
still floating through the vacant space. Don Augustin
received him with warmth, and for many minutes
his mind was amused by relating to his new kinsman
plans for the future. The exclusive old Spaniard listened
to his glowing but true account of the prosperity
and happiness of those States, of which he
had been an ignorant neighbour half his life, partly
with which one attends to what he fancies are the
exaggerated descriptions of a too partial friendship.
In this manner the hour for which Inez had conditioned
passed away, much sooner than her husband
could have thought possible in her absence. At
length his looks began to wander to the clock, and
then the minutes were counted, as one rolled by after
another, and Inez did not yet appear. The hand
had already made half of another circuit around the
face of the dial, when Middleton arose and announced
his determination to go and offer himself as an
escort to the absentee. He found the night dark,
and the heavens charged with the threatening vapour,
which in that climate was the infallible forerunner
of a gust. Stimulated no less by the unpropitious
aspect of the skies, than by his secret uneasiness, he
quickened his pace, making long and rapid strides in
the direction of the cottage of Inesella. Twenty
times he stopped, fancying that he caught glimpses
of the fairy form of Inez, tripping across the grounds
on her return to the mansion-house, and as often he
was obliged to resume his course in disappointment.
He reached the gate of the cottage, knocked, opened
the door, entered, and even stood in the presence
of the aged nurse without meeting the person of her
whom he sought. She had already left the place on
her return to her father's house. Believing that he
must have passed her in the darkness, Middleton retraced
his steps to meet with another disappointment.
Inez had not been seen. Without communicating
his intention to any one, the bridegroom proceeded
with a palpitating heart to the little sequestered arbour,
where he had overheard his bride offering up
those petitions for his happiness and conversion.
Here, too, he was disappointed; and then all was
afloat, in the painful incertitude of doubt and conjecture.
For many hours a secret distrust of the motives
of his wife caused Middleton to proceed in the
search with delicacy and caution. But as day dawned
without restoring her to the arms of her father or
her husband, reserve was thrown aside, and her unaccountable
absence was loudly proclaimed. The
inquiries after the lost Inez were now direct and
open; but they proved equally fruitless. No one
had seen her or heard of her from the moment that
she left the cottage of her nurse.
Day succeeded day, and still no tidings rewarded
the search that was immediately instituted, until she
was finally given over, by most of her relations and
friends, as irretrievably lost.
An event of so extraordinary a character was not
likely to be soon forgotten. It excited speculation,
gave rise to an infinity of rumours, and not a few inventions.
The prevalent opinion, among such of
those emigrants who were overrunning the country,
as had time in the multitude of their employments
to think of any foreign concerns, was the simple and
direct conclusion that the absent bride was no more
nor less than a felo de se. Father Ignatius had
many doubts and much secret compunction of conscience,
but like a wise chief he endeavoured to
turn the sad event to some account in the impending
warfare of faith. Changing his battery, he whispered
in the ears of a few of his oldest parishioners,
that he had been deceived in the state of Middleton's
mind, which he was now compelled to believe
was completely stranded on the quicksands of heresy.
He began to shew his relics again, and was even
heard to allude once more to the delicate and nearly
forgotten subject of modern miracles. In consequence
of these demonstrations on the part of the
venerable priest, it came to be whispered among
the faithful, and finally it was adopted, as part of
heaven.
Don Augustin had all the feelings of a father, but
they were smothered in the lassitude of a Creole.
Like his spiritual governor he began to think that
they had been wrong in consigning one so pure, so
young, so lovely, and above all so pious, to the arms
of a heretic, and he was fain to believe that the
calamity, which had befallen his age, was a judgment
on his presumption and want of adherence to established
forms. It is true, that as the whispers of the
congregation came to his ears, he found present consolation
in their belief, but then nature was too powerful,
and had too strong a hold of the old man's
heart, not to give rise to the rebellious thought that
the succession of his daughter to the heavenly inheritance
was a little premature.
But Middleton, the lover, the husband, the bride-groom—Middleton
was nearly crushed by the weight
of the unexpected and terrible blow. Educated himself
under the dominion of a simple and rational faith,
in which nothing is attempted to be concealed from
the believers, he could have no other apprehensions
for the fate of Inez than such as grew out of his knowledge
of the superstitious opinions she entertained
of his own church. It is needless to dwell on the
mental tortures that he endured, or all the various
surmises, hopes and disappointments, that he was
fated to experience in the first few weeks of his misery.
A jealous distrust of the motives of Inez, and
a secret, lingering hope that he should yet find her,
had tempered his inquiries, without however causing
him to abandon them entirely. But time was
beginning to deprive him, even of the mortifying reflection
that he was intentionally, though perhaps
temporarily, deserted, and he was gradually yielding
to the more painful conviction that she was dead,
singular manner.
The young commander was slowly and sorrowfully
returning from an evening parade of his troops, to
his own quarters, which stood at some little distance
from the place of the encampment, and on the same
high bluff of land, when his vacant eyes fell on the
figure of a man, who by the regulations of the place,
was not entitled to be there at that forbidden hour.
The stranger was meanly dressed, with every appearance
about his person and countenance of squalid
poverty and of the most dissolute habits. Sorrow
had softened the military pride of Middleton,
and, as he passed the crouching form of the intruder,
he said, in tones of great mildness, or rather of kindness—
“You will be given a night in the guard-house,
friend, should the patrole find you here—there is a
dollar—go, and get a better place to sleep in, and
something to eat!”
“I swallow all my food, captain, without chewing;”
returned the vagabond, with the low exultation
of an accomplished villain, as he eagerly seized
the silver. “Make this Mexican twenty, and I will
sell you a secret.”
“Go, go,” said the other with a little of a soldier's
severity, returning to his manner. “Go, before I order
the guard to seize you.”
“Well, go it is then—but if I do go, captain, I
shall take my knowledge with me; and then you
may live a widower bewitched till the tattoo of life
is beat off.”
“What mean you, fellow?” exclaimed Middleton,
turning quickly towards the wretch, who was already
dragging his diseased limbs from the place.
“I mean to have the value of this dollar in Spanish
brandy, and then come back and sell you my secret
for enough to buy a barrel.”
“If you have any thing to say, speak now;” continued
Middleton, restraining with difficulty the impatience
that urged him to betray his feelings.
“I am a-dry, and I can never talk with elegance
when my throat is husky, captain. How much will
you give to know what I can tell you; let it be something
handsome; such as one gentleman can offer to
another.”
“I believe it would be better justice to order the
drummer to pay you a visit, fellow. To what does
your boasted secret relate?”
“Matrimony; a wife and no wife; a pretty face
and a rich bride; do I speak plain now, captain?”
“If you know any thing relating to my wife, say
it at once; you need not fear for your reward.”
“Ay, captain, I have drove many a bargain in my
time, and sometimes I have been paid in money, and
sometimes I have been paid in promises: now the
last are what I call pinching food.”
“Name your price.”
“Twenty—No, damn it, it's worth thirty dollars,
if it's worth a cent.”
“Here, then, is your money; but remember, if
you tell me nothing worth knowing, I have a force
that can easily deprive you of it again, and punish
your insolence in the bargain.”
The fellow examined the bank-bills he received
with a jealous eye, and then pocketed them, apparently
well satisfied of their being genuine.
“I like a northern note,” he said very coolly;
“they have a character to lose like myself. No fear
of me, captain; I am a man of honour, and I shall
not tell you a word more, nor a word less than I
know of my own knowledge to be true.”
“Proceed then without further delay, or I may repent
and order you to be deprived of all your gains;
the silver as well as the notes.”
“Honour, if you die for it!” returned the miscreant,
holding up a hand in affected horror at so
treacherous a threat. “Well, captain, you must
know that gentlemen don't all live by the same calling;
some keep what they've got, and some get what
they can.”
“You have been a thief.”
“I scorn the word. I have been a humanity hunter.
Do you know what that means? Ay, it has
many interpretations. Some people think the woolly-heads
are miserable, working on hot plantations
under a broiling sun—and all such sorts of inconveniences.
Well, captain, I have been, in my time, a
man who has been willing to give them the pleasures
of variety, at least, by changing the scene for them.
You understand me?”
“You are, in plain language, a kidnapper.”
“Have been, my worthy captain—have been; but
just now a little reduced, like a merchant who leaves
off selling tobacco by the hogshead, to deal in it by
the yard. I have been a soldier, too, in my day.
What is said to be the great secret of our trade, now
can you tell me that?”
“I know not,” said Middleton, beginning to tire of
the fellow's trifling; “courage?”
“No, legs—legs to fight with, and legs to run away
with—and therein you see my two callings agreed.
My legs are none of the best just now, and without
legs a kidnapper would carry on a losing trade; but
then there are men enough left, better provided than
I am.”
“Stolen!” groaned the horror-struck husband.
“On her travels, as sure as you are standing still!”
“Villain, what reason have you for believing a
thing so shocking?”
“Hands off—hands off—do you think my tongue
can do its work the better for a little squeezing of
all; but if you treat me so ungenteelly again, I shall
be obliged to call in the assistance of the lawyers.”
“Say on; but if you utter a single word more or
less than the truth, expect my instant vengeance!”
“Are you fool enough to believe what such a
scoundrel as I am tells you, captain, unless it has
probability to back it? No, I know you are not:
Therefore I will give my facts and my opinions, and
then leave you to chew on them, while I go and
drink of your generosity. I know a man who is called
Abiram White.—I believe the knave took that
name to shew his enmity to the race of blacks! But
this gentleman is now, and has been for years, to my
certain knowledge, a regular translator of the human
body from one State to another.—I have dealt with
him in my time, and a cheating dog he is! No more
honour in him than meat in my stomach.—I saw him
here in this very town, the day of your wedding. He
was in company with his wife's brother, and pretended
to be a settler on the hunt for new land. A noble
set they were, to carry on business—seven sons, each
of them as tall as your sergeant with his cap on.
Well, the moment I heard that your wife was lost, I
saw at once that Abiram had laid his hands on her.”
“Do you know this—can this be true? What reason
have you to fancy a thing so wild?”
“Reason enough; I know Abiram White. Now,
will you add a trifle just to keep my throat from
parching?”
“Go, go; you are stupified with drink already,
miserable man, and know not what you say. Go;
go, and beware the drummer.”
“Experience is a good guide”—The fellow called
after the retiring Middleton, and then turning with a
chuckling laugh, like one well satisfied with himself,
he made the best of his way towards the shop of
the suttler.
A hundred times in the course of that night did
Middleton fancy that the communication of the miscreant
was entitled to some attention, and as often
did he reject the idea as too wild and visionary for
another thought. He was awakened early on the
following morning, after passing a restless and nearly
sleepless night, by his orderly, who came to report
that a man was found dead on the parade, at no
great distance from his quarters. Throwing on his
clothes he proceeded to the spot, and beheld the individual,
with whom he had held the preceding conference,
in the precise situation in which he had first
been found.
The miserable wretch had fallen a victim to his
intemperance. This revolting fact was sufficiently
proclaimed by his obtruding eye-balls, his bloated
countenance, and the nearly insufferable odours that
were even then exhaling from his carcass. Disgusted
with the odious spectacle, the youth was turning
from the sight, after ordering the corpse to be removed,
when the position of one of the dead man's hands
struck him. On examination, he found the fore-finger
extended, as if in the act of writing in the sand,
with the following incomplete sentence, nearly illegible,
but yet in a state to be deciphered: “Captain,
it is true, as I am a gentle—” He had either died,
or fallen into a sleep which was the forerunner of his
death, before the latter word was finished.
Concealing this fact from the others, Middleton
repeated his orders and departed. The pertinacity
of the deceased, and all the circumstances united,
induced him to set on foot some secret inquiries. He
found that a family, answering the description which
had been given him, had in fact passed the place the
very day of his nuptials: They were traced along
the margin of the Mississippi for some distance, until
they took boat and ascended the river to its confluence
with the Missouri. Here they had disappeared,
wealth of the interior.
Furnished with these facts, Middleton detailed a
small guard of his most trusty men, took leave of
Don Augustin, without declaring his hopes or his
fears, and having arrived at the indicated point, he
pushed into the wilderness in pursuit. It was not difficult
to trace a train like that of Ishmael until he
was well assured its object lay far beyond the usual
limits of the settlements. This circumstance in itself
quickened his suspicions, and gave additional
force to his hopes of final success.
After getting beyond the assistance of verbal directions,
the anxious husband had recourse to the
usual signs of a trail, in order to follow the fugitives.
This he also found a task of no difficulty until he
reached the hard and unyielding soil of the rolling
prairies. Here, indeed, he was completely at fault.
He found himself, at length, compelled to separate
his followers, appointing a place of rendezvous at a
distant day, and to endeavour to find the lost trail by
multiplying, as much as possible, the number of his
eyes. He had been alone a week, when accident
brought him in contact with the trapper and the
bee-hunter. Part of their interview has been related,
and the reader can readily imagine the explanations
that succeeded the tale he recounted, and which
led, as has already been seen, to the recovery of his
bride.
| CHAPTER XV. The prairie | |