3.15. CHAPTER XV
AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF A MAN
OUT of the blood and ashes of France a Man had arisen
who moved real kings and queens on his chess-board—
which was a large part of the world. The Man was
Napoleon Buonaparte, at present, for lack of a better name,
First Consul of the French Republic. The Man's eye,
sweeping the world for a new plaything, had rested upon
one which had excited the fancy of lesser adventurers, of
one John Law, for instance. It was a large, unwieldy
plaything indeed, and remote. It was nothing less than
that vast and mysterious country which lay beyond the
monster yellow River of the Wilderness, the country
bordered on the south by the Gulf swamps, on the north by
no man knew what forests,—as dark as those the Romans
found in Gaul,—on the west by a line which other
generations might be left to settle.
This land was Louisiana.
A future king of France, while an émigré, had been to
Louisiana. This is merely an interesting fact worth
noting. It was not interesting to Napoleon.
Napoleon, by dint of certain screws which he tightened
on his Catholic Majesty, King Charles of Spain, in the
Treaty of San Ildefonso on the 1st of October, 1800, got
his plaything. Louisiana was French again,—whatever
French was in those days. The treaty was a profound
secret. But secrets leak out, even the profoundest; and
this was wafted across the English Channel to the ears of
Mr. Rufus King, American Minister at London, who
wrote of it to one Thomas Jefferson, President of the
United States. Mr. Jefferson was interested, not to say
alarmed.
Mr. Robert Livingston was about to depart on his
mission from the little Republic of America to the great
Republic of France. Mr. Livingston was told not to
make himself disagreeable, but to protest. If Spain was
to give up the plaything, the Youngest Child among the
Nations ought to have it. It lay at her doors, it was
necessary for her growth.
Mr. Livingston arrived in France to find that Louisiana
was a mere pawn on the chess-board, the Republic he
represented little more. He protested, and the great
Talleyrand shrugged his shoulders. What was Monsieur talking
about? A treaty. What treaty? A treaty with Spain
ceding back Louisiana to France after forty years. Who
said there was such a treaty? Did Monsieur take snuff?
Would Monsieur call again when the Minister was less
busy?
Monsieur did call again, taking care not to make himself
disagreeable. He was offered snuff. He called again,
pleasantly. He was offered snuff. He called again. The
great Talleyrand laughed. He was always so happy to
see Monsieur when he (Talleyrand) was not busy. He
would give Monsieur a certificate of importunity. He
had quite forgotten what Monsieur was talking about on
former occasions. Oh, yes, a treaty. Well, suppose there
was such a treaty, what then?
What then? Mr. Livingston, the agreeable but
importunate, went home and wrote a memorial, and was
presently assured that the inaccessible Man who was
called First Consul had read it with interest—great
interest. Mr. Livingston did not cease to indulge in his
enjoyable visits to Talleyrand—not he. But in the
intervals he sat down to think.
What did the inaccessible Man himself have in his
mind?
The Man had been considering the Anglo-Saxon race,
and in particular that portion of it which inhabited the
Western Hemisphere. He perceived that they were a
quarrelsome people, which possessed the lust for land and
conquest like the rest of their blood. He saw with
astonishment something that had happened, something
that they had done. Unperceived by the world, in five
and twenty years they had swept across a thousand miles
of mountain and forest wilderness in ever increasing
thousands, had beaten the fiercest of savage tribes before
them, stolidly unmindful of their dead. They had come
at length to the great yellow River, and finding it closed
had cried aloud in their anger. What was beyond it to
stop them? Spain, with a handful of subjects inherited
from the France of Louis the Fifteenth.
Could Spain stop them? No. But he, the Man, would
stop them. He would raise up in Louisiana as a monument
to himself a daughter of France to curb their ambition.
America should not be all Anglo-Saxon.
Already the Americans had compelled Spain to open
the River. How long before they would overrun Louisiana
itself, until a Frenchman or a Spaniard could scarce
be found in the land?
Sadly, in accordance with the treaty which Monsieur
Talleyrand had known nothing about, his Catholic Majesty
instructed his Intendant at New Orleans to make ready to
deliver Louisiana to the French Commission. That was in
July, 1802. This was not exactly an order to close the River
again—in fact, his Majesty said nothing about closing the
River. Mark the reasoning of the Spanish mind. The
Intendant closed the River as his plain duty. And Kentucky
and Tennessee, wayward, belligerent infants who
had outgrown their swaddling clothes, were heard from
again. The Nation had learned to listen to them. The
Nation was very angry. Mr. Hamilton and the Federalists
and many others would have gone to war and seized the
Floridas.
Mr. Jefferson said, “Wait and see what his Catholic
Majesty has to say.” Mr. Jefferson was a man of great
wisdom, albeit he had mistaken Jacobinism for something
else when he was younger. And he knew that Napoleon
could not play chess in the wind. The wind was rising.
Mr. Livingston was a patriot, able, importunate, but
getting on in years and a little hard of hearing.
Importunity
without an Army and a Navy behind it is not
effective—especially when there is no wind. But Mr.
Jefferson heard the wind rising, and he sent Mr. Monroe
to Mr. Livingston's aid. Mr. Monroe was young, witty,
lively, popular with people he met. He, too, heard the
wind rising, and so now did Mr. Livingston.
The ships containing the advance guard of the colonists
destined for the new Louisiana lay in the roads at Dunkirk,
their anchors ready to weigh,—three thousand men, three
thousand horses, for the Man did things on a large scale.
The anchors were not weighed.
His Catholic Majesty sent word from Spain to Mr.
Jefferson that he was sorry his Intendant had been so
foolish. The River was opened again.
The Treaty of Amiens was a poor wind-shield. It blew
down, and the chessmen began to totter. One George of
England, noted for his frugal table and his quarrelsome
disposition, who had previously fought with France, began
to call the Man names. The Man called George names,
and sat down to think quickly. George could not be said
to be on the best of terms with his American relations, but
the Anglo-Saxon is unsentimental, phlegmatic, setting
money and trade and lands above ideals. George meant
to go to war again. Napoleon also meant to go to war
again. But George meant to go to war again right away,
which was inconvenient and inconsiderate, for Napoleon
had not finished his game of chess. The obvious outcome
of the situation was that George with his Navy would get
Louisiana, or else help his relations to get it. In either
case Louisiana would become Anglo-Saxon.
This was the wind which Mr. Jefferson had heard.
The Man, being a genius who let go gracefully when he
had to, decided between two bad bargains. He would sell
Louisiana to the Americans as a favor; they would be
very, very grateful, and they would go on hating George.
Moreover, he would have all the more money with which
to fight George.
The inaccessible Man suddenly became accessible. Nay,
he became gracious, smiling, full of loving-kindness,
charitable.
Certain dickerings followed by a bargain passed
between the American Minister and Monsieur Barbé-Marbois. Then Mr. Livingston and Mr. Monroe dined
with the hitherto inaccessible. And the Man, after the
manner of Continental Personages, asked questions.
Frederick the Great has started this fashion, and many
have imitated it.
Louisiana became American at last. Whether by destiny
or chance, whether by the wisdom of Jefferson or the
necessity of Napoleon, who can say? It seems to me,
David Ritchie, writing many years after the closing words
of the last chapter were penned, that it was ours
inevitably. For I have seen and known and loved the people
with all their crudities and faults, whose inheritance it was
by right of toil and suffering and blood.
And I, David Ritchie, saw the flags of three nations
waving over it in the space of two days. And it came to
pass in this wise.
Rumors of these things which I have told above had
filled Kentucky from time to time, and in November of
1803 there came across the mountains the news that the
Senate of the United States had ratified the treaty between
our ministers and Napoleon.
I will not mention here what my life had become, what
my fortune, save to say that both had been far beyond my
expectations. In worldly goods and honors, in the respect
and esteem of my fellow-men, I had been happy indeed.
But I had been blessed above other men by one whose
power it was to lift me above the mean and sordid things
of this world.
Many times in the pursuit of my affairs I journeyed
over that country which I had known when it belonged
to the Indian and the deer and the elk and the wolf and
the buffalo. Often did she ride by my side, making light
of the hardships which, indeed, were no hardships to her,
wondering at the settlements which had sprung up like
magic in the wilderness, which were the heralds of the
greatness of the Republic,—her country now.
So, in the bright and boisterous March weather of the
year 1804, we found ourselves riding together along
the way made memorable by the footsteps of Clark and
his backwoodsmen. For I had an errand in St. Louis
with Colonel Chouteau. A subtle change had come upon
Kaskaskia with the new blood which was flowing into it:
we passed Cahokia, full of memories to the drummer boy
whom she loved. There was the church, the garrison,
the stream, and the little house where my Colonel
and I had lived together. She must see them all, she
must hear the story from my lips again; and the telling of
it to her gave it a new fire and a new life.
At evening, when the March wind had torn the cotton
clouds to shreds, we stood on the Mississippi's bank,
gazing at the western shore, at Louisiana. The low,
forest-clad hills made a black band against the sky, and
above the band hung the sun, a red ball. He was setting,
and man might look upon his face without fear. The
sight of the waters of that river stirred me to think of
many things. What had God in store for the vast land
out of which the waters flowed? Had He, indeed, saved
it for a People, a People to be drawn from all nations,
from all classes? Was the principle of the Republic to
prevail and spread and change the complexion of the
world? Or were the lusts of greed and power to increase
until in the end they had swallowed the leaven? Who
could say? What man of those who, soberly, had put
his hand to the Paper which declared the opportunities of
generations to come, could measure the Force which he
had helped to set in motion.
We crossed the river to the village where I had been so
kindly received many years ago—to St. Louis. The
place was little changed. The wind was stilled, the blue
wood smoke curled lazily from the wide stone chimneys
of the houses nestling against the hill. The afterglow
was fading into night; lights twinkled in the windows.
Followed by our servants we climbed the bank, Hélène
and I, and walked the quiet streets bordered by palings.
The evening was chill. We passed a bright cabaret from
which came the sound of many voices; in the blacksmith's
shop another group was gathered, and we saw faces eager
in the red light. They were talking of the Cession.
We passed that place where Nick had stopped Suzanne
in the cart, and laughed at the remembrance. We came
to Monsieur Gratiot's, for he had bidden us to stay with
him. And with Madame he gave us a welcome to warm
our hearts after our journey
“David,” he said, “I have seen many strange things
happen in my life, but the strangest of all is that Clark's
drummer boy should have married a Vicomtesse of the old
régime.
And she was ever Madame la Vicomtesse to our good
friends in St. Louis, for she was a woman to whom a title
came as by nature's right.
“And you are about to behold another strange thing
David,” Monsieur Gratiot continued. “To-day you are on
French territory.”
“French territory!” I exclaimed.
“To-day Upper Louisiana is French,” he answered.
To-morrow it will be American forever. This morning
Captain Stoddard of the United States Army, empowered
to act as a Commissioner of the French Republic, arrived
with Captain Lewis and a guard of American troops. Today,
at noon, the flag of Spain was lowered from the staff
at the headquarters. To-night a guard of honor watches
with the French Tricolor, and we are French for the last
time. To-morrow we shall be Americans.”
I saw that simple ceremony. The little company of
soldiers was drawn up before the low stone headquarters,
the villagers with heads uncovered gathered round about.
I saw the Stars and Stripes rising, the Tricolor setting.
They met midway on the staff, hung together for a space,
and a salute to the two nations echoed among the hills
across the waters of the great River that rolled impassive by.