University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
THE LADY AND HER COMPANY.

Great as was the surprise of the frontiersman
at discovering by the keenness
of his ear, and that peculiar sagacity,
half reasoning, half instinctive, by
which men living in what may be called
a half-savage state of life jump at once
to what others would necessarily deem
most unforeseen conclusions, that the
approaching party consisted of dragoons,
—far greater was his wonder, when he
saw precisely of whom that party was
composed.

He had not advanced above a hundred
yards from the spot where his horse
was tethered and his fire burning, before
he discovered the little band of
travellers just entering the belt of timber,
at not above a hundred yards distance
from the point, where he himself
had ridden into it from the open prairie.

They consisted, as he had instantly
discovered by the niceness of his ear, of
eight animals, six of which were mounted,
the other two being beasts of burthen.
This in itself was a singular arrangement
for men travelling through a
perilous and hostile wilderness, where
celerity of progress is the object to be
attained far more than comfort or convenience;
and where for the most part,
men rely for their subsistence on their
rifles and ammunition, and for their
personal comforts on the smallest possible
knapsack or valise.

That, however, which instantly
caught the eye of the rover was the
form of a female, and a female evidently
of the superior classes, forming one
of the party, which beside herself consisted,
as he saw at half a glance, of an
officer and four privates of dragoons, or
mounted rifle-men.

All this the woodman had discovered
long before he was himself descried by
the soldiers, who rode on, one private
thrown forward in advance of the lady
and the officer, who rode abreast, with
his rifle or carbine slung and ready for
service, two others following, each
leading a heavily laden pack mule,
and the last bringing up the rear, with
his weapon likewise in his hand—all
seemingly unconscious that they were
in the neighborhood of any human being.

This in itself was little calculated to
impress the woodman with any great respect
for the soldierly qualities, much
less for the woodcraft, of the new-comers;
and perhaps it was from a desire
to examine into these a little more closely,
that he drew himself somewhat
aside from the direction of their advance,
and concealed himself behind
the stem of a huge live oak.

“Precious lads truly, these,” he muttered
through his teeth, “to be travelling
the prairies, and not see my trail at a
short hundred yards. By the Lord! I
believe they will cross it, without notice.”

And indeed, as he spoke, the line, in
which the party was advancing, would
evidently intersect the track which his
own horse had made through the deep
herbage and soft soil of the grassy meadow,
from the surface of which the great
timber-trees shot up so massive and luxuriant.

Now they were within ten yards of
it, yet the vidette, or scout, in advance,
had evidently taken no note of it. But
at this moment, when our traveller was
beginning to laugh in silent scorn at the
proceedings of the soldiers, whom he
evidently regarded as little or nothing
worth, the party came to a sudden halt;
not in consequence of any alarm communicated

by the trooper in advance,
but at a word passed onward to the head
of the little column from him who
brought up the rear, and who now cantered
forward, and saluted as he addressed
his officer, pointing to the broken
grass and trampled soil, indicating the
passage of some heavy animal, at less
than thirty yards distance on their left
flank, from which, when he noticed it,
he was the farthest distant of the whole
party.

The officer in command immediately
rode on, and after inspecting the trail
rather narrowly, and having it would
seem, satisfied himself of its nature
drew his party a little more closely together,
and caused all his men to un,
sling and prepare their rifles. Then
altering his course, which would have
intersected the track near by the frontiersman,
he followed it directly downward,
towards where his horse was standing.

“Ha! he has seen the shodden hoof,”
muttered the woodsman to himself,
and so feels secure that it is not a Camanche,
who has preceded him. A poor
criterion too, when the whooping devils
have stolen so many of our troop horses
in the lastthree months. Besides, what
tells him it is not a Mexican Ranchero
who has passed, and may be leading
him into an ambush. He might see
that, it is true, by the size and roundness
of the track; it is not every mustang
or Spanish horse sets down such a
foot as Emperor. Now, if I had my
rifle and my bull-dogs with me, how I
could pick off that lieutenant and two
out of his four fellows, before they
should know what hurt them. By
heaven! if they show no more wit than
this after they get into the Spanish country
fairly, they will scarce reach Old
Zachary with whole skins. I'faith I'm
glad, for the girl's sake, I fell in with
them, though what in the devil's name
they should be bringing a girl out here
into the wilderness for, is more than
I can guess. Well! well! that's no affair
of mine—but I'll give them a fright
any how—so here goes,” and with the
words he elapped his hand to his mouth,
and uttered a long drawn Indian yell,
which made the arches of the forest
echo and re-echo its cadences, till it
died quavering in the far distance.

The rifles of the little party were
cocked in an instant, and two or three
were instinctively cast up, and levelled
in the direction whence the sound proceeded.

But the woodman did not wait for any
farther demonstrations of hostility, but
stepped calmly forth from his covert,
calling out, as he did so, in a loud clear
voice—“whither, and whence, friends,
so carelessly this bright evening?”

But ere his words were half out of
his lips, he was interrupted by the sharp
crack of a rifle, discharged at him within
twenty paces, the ball of which sang
past his head perhaps at a foot's distance.
But, entirely unmoved by the
assault or by the peril he had run, he
finished his sentence quietly, and then
added—

“A miserably bad shot that, my
lad; and a most unsoldierly act to fire
a shot at all, without waiting orders.
Do not you say so, lieutenant?”—

But before he had spoke, the officer
had opened his mouth to reprimand the
unlucky dragoon; who was in fact no
other than the vidette, who had so stupidly
overlooked the track on entering
the timber; and he continued to do so
sharply, sending the man to the rear
and ordering him to relieve one of the
soldiers who led the pack mules, before
he gave any attention to the stranger.

That done, however, without replying
to his question, he said quickly—

“You are very much to blame yourself,
fellow; first, for yelling in that
wild fashion, as if for the very purpose
of creating an alarm, and then for approaching
a command so rashly. Who
are you, fellow? speak!”

“Fellow! fellow!” replied the other
half soliloquising—“and a command—
hey! precious command truly! a couple
of camandus, or one of Jack Hays' men
would make an end of such a command,
before it had seen where to throw away
one bullet. So you desire to know who
I am, lieutenant? Now, it is usual in
the prairie, or the timber, for the stronger
party to answer such questions first;
but, in the first place, as I know very
well who you are, and in the second, as
I am not at all clear that you are the
stronger, I have not so much objection
to divulge.”

He spoke so well and correctly, and

his manner was so gentlemanlike, though
he uttered his words with something of
a bantering expression and a half contemptuous
smile, that the young dragoon
officer perceived at once that he had mistaken
his man in a degree; and his tone
was altered, as he again addressed him.

“Well, sir, and who are you, then,
I pray?”

“Pierre Delacroix, at your service.”

“What? he, who is commonly known
as Pierre—”

“The Partisan, lieutenant,” interrupted
the other quietly; “yes, I am
the man; and my horse, Emperor, of
whom you have heard, since you have
heard of me, is down in the brake yonder;
and what is a better thing just
now, there is a good fire burning, and
some venison steaks ready by this time,
if they be not overdone, and a flask of
good Sherry wine and some cool water;
and if you and your fair lady will share
the supper of the Partisan, I shall be
happy to think that I am pardoned for
the slight alarm I gave you; and after
supper we will hear what has brought
you hither, and what I can do to serve
you. Is it a bargain?”

“Surely it is; and very thankful
shall we be for your hospitality, and
yet more for your advice This is the
famous soldier, Julia,” he continued
turning to the lady, who accompanied
him, “of whom you have heard so
much, and whom we had hoped to meet
at San Antonio. It is most fortunate
that we should have so unexpectedly
fallen in with you, at a moment when
we were indeed in no small perplexity
as to our next movement.”

“We will speak of this farther at the
camp,” replied the Partisan—for such
was the name in which he especially
rejoiced—bowing deeply to the lady with
the manners of one used to the society
of courts, no less than of camps; “for
it is growing late, and it will be quite
dark in a few minutes. Allow me to
show you the nearest way; you will
find but poor accommodations, lady, yet
poor as it is, it is better than mere frontier
fare.”

No more words were spoken until
they reached the spot which Delacroix
had selected for his bivouac; but, as
they did so, an exclamation of pleasure
burst from Julia's lips, at the romantic
beauty of the scene.

The watchfire of the Partisan, which
had by this time burnt up bright and
clear, was casting a wide ruddy light
over the rich greensward and dark foliage
over-head, glancing upon the arms
and accoutrements which hung or lay
around it, and dwelling wanly on the
rich hues of the Spanish blanket which
was spread on the ground, a fit cover
for a soldier. At a little distance, the
twilight shadows dwelt so deeply in the
long arcades of the forest, that nothing
could be seen except in the direction of
the broad and majestic river, on the bosom
of which all the light of the skies
appeared to be concentrated.

“How beautiful,” she cried, in those
soft, low, silvery tones, which are so
exquisite a thing in woman—“How
beautiful; and what is more, at such a
moment, how bright and cheerful-looking.
Why, Mr. Delacroix, instead of
the wild desperate chieftain I expected
to find in you,” she continued, turning
gaily toward the Partisan, “you must
have the eye of a painter, and the imagination
of a poet.”

“Spare me, I pray you, madame,”
answered Pierre, with a low, merry
laugh. “Should Jack Hays or McCulloch
hear what you say, I should
lose caste and character directly and
for ever. And yet,” he added, with a
half sigh, “I believe it is this touch of
romance—which finds its way more or
less into every heart, except that which
beats within the sordid breast of the
trader—that makes the joys, nay, the
very perils of a forest life, dearer to
thousands such as I, than all the charms
of civilized society, which some of us,
though you would hardly fancy it, have
tasted. But come, let me help you
from your horse, of which, by the distance
you have travelled, I should suppose
you must be more than a little
weary. Look to your men, lieutenant,
and I will do the honors to your fair
lady.”

And, with the words, he extended his
arms as if he would have lifted her
from the saddle; but she replied by a
merry ringing laugh—one of those
fresh, artless, genuine laughs, which
can proceed only from the lips of a
young, mirthful, unsophisticated woman

—and patting the arched neck of the
beautiful thorough-bred mare which
carried her, “Oh, no!” she cried, “if
you will not allow me to disparage your
character, by attributing a little dash of
poetry to you, I must not let you fancy
me so very unfit for a soldier's wife,
as to be tired with a little ride of thirty
miles. Besides,” she added, again caressing
her favorite, “Nell goes more
like a bird through the air, than a more
earthly wingless Pegasus. Oh, no, I
can dismount unaided.”

And, extricating her knee gracefully
from the pummel of her side-saddle, she
gathered the long draperies of her dark
cloth riding-habit, and sprang lightly to
the ground; but she had either miscalculated
her strength, or she tripped as
she touched the earth, for she would
surely have fallen headlong, had not the
ready stalwart arm of the Partisan
caught her instinctively round the slender
waist, and given her the support
which she required though she refused
it.

“A thousand thanks!” she said, as
she extricated herself, blushing slightly,
from his half embrace. “I was both
wilful and awkward; and I believe I
must confess to a little weariness, also;
but I am afraid I am a bit of a spoiled
child, as you may learn to your cost, it
we journey far in company, Major Delacroix,
for I believe that is your correct
designation.”

The Partisan bowed, but made no answer:
so thoroughly were all his senses
engaged and absorbed on gazing on the
face and form of unrivalled loveliness
which now, for the first time, met his
gaze: since the darkness of the increasing
twilight, the lady's veil, and her
seat on horseback, had prevented him
from distinguishing clearly either her
person or her features.

But now, as she stood erect before
him, with the clear light of the blazing
woodfire falling full on her face, and
revealing all the charms of a figure, tall
as the tallest of her sex, voluptuous and
fully rounded, yet slight withal, and delicate
and slender as the fairest ideal of
a poet's dream, he thought that he had
never looked upon anything so perfectly
and femininely lovely.

Her face—of the exact oval, and
strictly classic outline—possessed that
innocent and almost infantile expression
which painters have ascribed only to
Madonna, and which is, perhaps, too
purely beautiful and unearthly in its
character to be very loveable, unless it
be relieved, as it was in this sweet being,
by an air of arch mirthfulness, and
by something which seemed to indicate
that there lay a world of passion sleeping
beneath that placid and child-like
exterior.

Her slightly arched eyebrows, and
long-fringed eyelashes, were many
shades darker than the redundant tresses
of her rich silky hair, which was of
the brightest and most golden auburn.
Her eyes were of that languid sleepy
blue, which is, perhaps, the rarest and
loveliest of all colors; her complexion
was the fairest and most delicate, and
her mouth, which was certainly the
most beautiful feature of her face, would
have been more than voluptuous, would
have been almost sensual, but for that
innocent and dove-like expression of the
other features, and for the artless gaiety
which smiled from its dimples.

It is, perhaps, the hardest thing on
earth to describe beauty; for in beauty
there is something more than mere outline,
than mere coloring: there is a spirit,
a soul, an intangible and indescribable
presence, which we feel rather than
see; which dazzles the eye, and dizzies
the brain, while it enthralls the heart;
and which not the painter's pencil can
altogether transfer to his glowing canvass,
much less the pen call up to the
eye of fancy.

This, nevertheless, is the true portraiture
of a true and most lovely woman;
and if it seem not so to the reader,
let him be sure that the fault is in
the artist, not the model; for Pierre Delacroix,
though in his younger days he
had seen many, and, as he then thought,
loved many lovely women, now felt at
once that he had never seen aught
which could match this paragon—in
truth, he had never loved till now, and
now he loved madly, hopelessly, yet for
ever.

For some moments he stood gazing at
her, mute, and positively breathless with
admiration; then, suddenly recollecting
himself, and mastering his surprise and
delight, though not without something
of an effort, he called to the nearest of

the dragoons, bidding him lead the lady's
horse down to the river, and water him;
and then conducted her respectfully to
the place where he had spread his poncho
on the grass, and with the aid of
that and his large saddle, arranged for
her an extemporaneous arm-chair near
the fire, which the fresh coolness of the
woods rendered not wholly needless,
even at that season; while the thin
smoke which rose from the wood embers,
kept the mosquitoes at a distance.

Meanwhile, some of the dragoons applied
themselves to clean the horses and
accountrements, while others unloaded
the pack mules, and unbuckling the
bags and cases which they carried, produced
camp-kettles and canteens, and a
small India-rubber tent and camp-bed,
which was speedily set up and prepared
in the methodical manner of the old soldier,
and promised better accommodation
for the lady, than she could well
have looked for in the forest.

By this time, the chargers were
cleaned and tethered, two or three fires
were lighted, and the camp-kettles were
filled—one with the beef and pork which
compose the soldiers' rations, and another
with coffee, while hastily kneaded
cakes were baking in the embers.

The men, having got through their
labors, lay stretched around the fires,
smoking or chatting over the adventures
of the day; and the lieutenant who commanded
them, having inspected everything,
and satisfied himself that all was
safe for the night, strolled up to the
quarters (if they may be so termed) of
the Partisan, who was engaged, when
he came up, in serving his forest meal
on plates and dishes—to him a long unknown
luxury—borrowed from the dragoon
canteen, and mixing his sherry
and water—to her as great a luxury—
for his fair unknown visitor.

“I could not join you sooner,” said
the young officer, as he came up; “for
I could not leave the men. They are
good fellows enough in barracks, or in
the field with an enemy before them;
but they are new hands at this bivouacking
and catering for themselves and
their horses, and would make but poor
work of it, if I were not for ever at their
heels.”

“I do not doubt it,” replied Delaeroix,
“or I should rather say, I know
it. A hundred of us woodmen would
live on the fat of the land, with nothing
but our rifles to depend on, where a
score of your dragoons would starve,
for all their pack mules and rations.
You are poorly escorted, lady, for the
wilderness.”

“Oh! we have done vastly well thus
far,” she replied gaily, “and I begin to
look upon it all as a mere frolic: I heard
so much of danger where I have not as
yet met with privation, that I fancy all
the dreadful stories I have heard were
mere exaggerations.”

“I trust they may all prove so in the
end,” said the Partisan, rather gravely.
“At all events, it shall not be my fault
if they do not. But my cooking is
ready, lady, such as it is; and I fancy
you have the Spartan sauce, which
makes even the black broth palatable.”

Julia started a little at the classical
allusion, and cast a quick glance toward
her young husband, whose attention had
been fixed on another portion of the
roving soldier's speech, and who said
quickly, repeating the Partisan's word:

“Lady! Indeed I have been strangely
remiss and discourteous, Major Delacroix.
In the first hurry of our introduction,
I forgot to name ourselves to
you, though Yankee like; yet, I assure
you, I am not a Yankee!—I by no
means forgot to extort from you all that
I wished to know. Not a very unpardonable
thing that a soldier should be a
little ganche, but very funny that a
pretty lady should. I should have
imagined, Jule, that you would have
found tongue enough, by this time, to
make yourself known to Major Delacroix;
but, since it seems you have not
done so, better late than never. Allow
me, Major Delacroix, to present you to
Mrs. Arthur Gordon, six weeks ago,
Miss Julia Forester, of New Orleans;
and that done, to call your attention to
my very humble and unworthy self,
Arthur Gordon, First Lieutenant of the
2nd Dragoons.”

He spoke gaily and merrily, but the
Partisan seemed to hear no more, after
the first few words of the introduction
were spoken; he had arisen to his feet,
for he had been seated by the fire busied
about his cookery, and bowed very
gracefully at the first name; but when
Arthur Gordon pronounced the words

Julia Forester, he started forward and
exclaimed—

“What? what? it cannot be—the
daughter of my best and oldest friend,
Colonel John Forester? I recollect his
wife's name, whom I never saw, was
Julia.”

Julia Gordon blushed crimson, as he
spoke, and then, in an instant turned as
pale as ashes—

“My mother,” she gasped out, with
a great exertion of the will compelling
herself to speak at all. “My poor
mother, I never saw her either, at least
not within my recollection. Yes, Major
Delacroix, I am Col. John Forester's
wild and wilful daughter. God bless
him,” she continued, a big tear swelling
to her eye, “as he deserves a better
child.”

“Not so, not so, young lady. I am
certain that it is not so. A brighter or
more beautiful he could not have; and
it will be hard to convince me he could
have a better. Lieutenant Gordon allow
me to shake your hand, and congratulate
you; your father-in-law, and
your sweet lady's father, was, I may say,
to me more than a father; for when nature
robbed me of both my parents, he
supplied both their places, he taught me
all I know, and had I profited by his
teachings, instead of being a wild wandering
Partisan, I might have been a
scholar and a gentleman. Still there is
something decent about Pierre Delacroix
after all, and that something is all
good John Forester's. God bless John
Forester, and all who love and honor
him.”

So thoroughly was the Partisan engrossed
by his own warm and generous
feelings, that he did not perceive at all,
what would at any other time have been
sufficiently apparent to a man of his
keen and intuitive sagacity, that there
was something of evident discomposure
in the manner of the young officer as
he spoke to him of his father-in-law.

But he must have been not only morally
but physically blind, had he not
observed, as he turned again to the
daughter of his old friend, that her beautiful
face was buried in her hands, and
that the big tears were trickling fast
through her slender fingers.

By far too much a man of the world
to make the least allusion to circumstan
ces indicating mental affliction or strong
feeling of any kind, which no words can
alleviate; and at the same time, by far
too shrewd a judge of human nature to
attribute such a revulsion of manner and
thought to any casual accident, Pierre
Delacroix turned aside, and walking
down to the bivouac of the men, asked
a few trivial questions about their route,
the length of their marches and the like,
and then directing one of them to bring
up a can of coffee to the other fire as
soon as it should be ready, he returned,
marvelling greatly, and much disturbed
in his mind, not less by the violent and
overwhelming passion which he had so
suddenly conceived for a married woman,
than by the very strong suspicion
he entertained, that there was something
in the matter very seriously amiss.

Had the lady been out of the question,
he would have been under no difficulty
whatever; for, himself as free as the air,
and as true as his own rifle, he would
have asked as frankly of another any information
he might desire to gain, as he
would have imparted it himself if required
to do so.

But although in younger, perhaps
appier, days, he had mixed much in
female society, and had been liberally
and gently educated, years had now
passed since he became the rover of the
wilderness, the wild and daring Partisan,
whose name was known everywhere
from the eternal snows of Mount Elias
and the tempestuous waters of the wild
Columbia, to the luxuriant forests and
burned prairies of Texas and Mexico,
and even to the distant Cordilleras;—
years, during which it might be said
that he had scarce looked upon a lady
of his own class and station;—years, during
which his horse, his rifle, and his
broadsword, had been his only friends;
his comrades, but not his companions,
any chance wanderers that he might
find in field or forest, with whom to
consort for the moment.

And, with the lapse of time, it was
not so much that his tastes had changed,
or his manners deteriorated, as that he
lost the habitude of such society, and
the confidence in his own powers, which
is essential to success of any kind.

So that the man, who would have
ridden alone without hesitation into a
camp of hostile Blackfeet, the man of

inexhaustible resource and indomitable
courage, the man who loved danger for
itself, trembled and almost blushed
through his weather-beaten and sunhardened
cheeks, in the presence of one
trembling girl.

Here he felt that he the veteran was
a tyro; here, he knew his own deficiency
in experience; here, he admitted
to himself that he might easily mistake
the landmarks of the human mind,
and blunder wofully and fatally, where
some mere city coxcomb of eighteen
would shine and perhaps subdue.

He determined, therefore, as a wise
and prudent man, to see all things, saying
nothing, suffering events to take
their own natural course, and reserving
to himself the power of acting, whenever
occasion should call for action in
behalf of the children of his oldest and
most esteemed friend.

It must by no means be inferred, because
it has been stated that he was
stricken by a sudden and violent passion
for the lovely woman he had so
strangely met in so unusual a place,
that the gallant Partisan had acknowledged
to himself the fact, or even suspected
for a moment that he loved the
lady. He felt, indeed, something wholly
different to any previous sensation of
his life; but, had any one intimated to
him that he was enamored of her, he
would have at once set him down for a
madman.

Yet he was in love, and that desperately;
though with that simplicity,
which is so common among those who
live hardily in the lap of nature, drawing
their excitements from the harder
and sterner passions of humanity, he
had neither endeavored to analyze his
own feelings, nor could have done so
had he desired it.

When he returned to the camp-fire
with the coffee, after the absence of but a
few minutes, the lady had recovered
her composure, although there was a
cloud on her young husband's brow,
and an angry light in his dark eye.

Sentiments, however, and feelings,
nay even strong passions must give
way before the ordinary wants of everyday
life. Men eat and drink amid the
most dreadful paroxysm of their least
selfish griefs, in the intervals of the
most repturous pleasure; and, when
the head of the house is scarce yet
cold, and not so much as consigned to
the sad coffin, the mourning family must
gather round the cheerless board, and
carve the joint, and pass the bottle, although
their hearts may be well nigh
breaking with inward agony.

And so it was with these chance
comrades of the prairie, on the eventful
night which first made them acquainted.
The green carpet of the
meadow was spread with their simple
fare, and the Partisan did the honors of
his camp with a singular blending of
the frontiersman's bluntness, and the
easy manners of the gentleman and
soldier.

There was, however, an inexplicable
gloom hanging over the little party,
and scarcely was the frugal meal
ended, before, on the pretext of weariness,
the lady retired to her tent, and
her husband went away for a few minutes,
as he said, to inspect his sentries;
while Pierre Delacroix filled his Indian
pipe with kinnekinnink, and
stretching himself at full length on his
blanket, in the warmth of the fire, rested
his head on his elbow, and mused more
deeply than he had done for many a
year, rolling out all the time great volumes
of the odoriferous smoke of that
Indian mixture, which he had learned
to prefer to the best Havana.