 | Castle nowhere |  |
JEANNETTE.
BEFORE the war for the Union, in the times of
the old army, there had been peace throughout
the country for thirteen years. Regiments existed
in their officers, but the ranks were thin, —
the more so the better, since the United States
possessed few forts and seemed in chronic embarrassment
over her military children, owing to the
flying foot-ball of public opinion, now “standing
army pro,” now “standing army con,” with more or
less allusion to the much-enduring Cæsar and his
legions, the ever-present ghost of the political arena.
In those days the few forts were full and much
state was kept up; the officers were all graduates
of West Point, and their wives graduates of the first
families. They prided themselves upon their antecedents;
and if there was any aristocracy in the
country, it was in the circles of army life.
Those were pleasant days, — pleasant for the old
soldiers who were resting after Mexico, — pleasant
for young soldiers destined to die on the plains of
There was an esprit de corps in the little band,
a dignity of bearing, and a ceremonious state, lost in
the great struggle which came afterward. That great
struggle now lies ten years back; yet, to-day, when
the silver-haired veterans meet, they pass it over as
a thing of the present, and go back to the times of
the “old army.”
Up in the northern straits, between blue Lake
Huron, with its clear air, and gray Lake Michigan,
with its silver fogs, lies the bold island of Mackinac.
Clustered along the beach, which runs around its
half-moon harbor, are the houses of the old French
village, nestling at the foot of the cliff rising behind,
crowned with the little white fort, the stars and
stripes floating above it against the deep blue sky.
Beyond, on all sides, the forest stretches away, cliffs
finishing it abruptly, save one slope at the far end
of the island, three miles distant, where the British
landed in 1812. That is the whole of Mackinac.
The island has a strange sufficiency of its own;
it satisfies; all who have lived there feel it. The
island has a wild beauty of its own; it fascinates;
all who have lived there love it. Among its aromatic
cedars, along the aisles of its pine-trees, in the
gay company of its maples, there is companionship.
On its bald northern cliffs, bathed in sunshine and
swept by the pure breeze, there is exhilaration.
day, who look back to the island with the tears that
rise but do not fall, the sudden longing despondency
that comes occasionally to all, when the tired heart
cries out, “O, to escape, to flee away, far, far away,
and be at rest!”
In 1856 Fort Mackinac held a major, a captain,
three lieutenants, a chaplain, and a surgeon, besides
those subordinate officers who wear stripes on their
sleeves, and whose rank and duties are mysterious
to the uninitiated. The force for this array of commanders
was small, less than a company; but what
it lacked in quantity it made up in quality, owing
to the continual drilling it received.
The days were long at Fort Mackinac; happy
thought! drill the men. So when the major had
finished, the captain began, and each lieutenant was
watching his chance. Much state was kept up also.
Whenever the major appeared, “Commanding officer;
guard, present arms,” was called down the line
of men on duty, and the guard hastened to obey,
the major acknowledging the salute with stiff precision.
By day and by night sentinels paced the
walls. True, the walls were crumbling, and the whole
force was constantly engaged in propping them up,
but none the less did the sentinels pace with dignity.
What was it to the captain if, while he
sternly inspected the muskets in the block-house, the
strengthening its underpinning? None the less did
he inspect. The sally-port, mended but imposing;
the flag-staff with its fair-weather and storm flags;
the frowning iron grating; the sidling white causeway,
constantly falling down and as constantly repaired,
which led up to the main entrance; the well-preserved
old cannon, — all showed a strict military
rule. When the men were not drilling they were
propping up the fort, and when they were not propping
up the fort they were drilling. In the early
days, the days of the first American commanders,
military roads had been made through the forest, —
roads even now smooth and solid, although trees of
a second growth meet overhead. But that was when
the fort was young and stood firmly on its legs. In
1856 there was no time for road-making, for when
military duty was over there was always more or
less mending to keep the whole fortification from
sliding down hill into the lake.
On Sunday there was service in the little chapel,
an upper room overlooking the inside parade-ground.
Here the kindly Episcopal chaplain read the chapters
about Balaam and Balak, and always made the same
impressive pause after “Let me die the death of the
righteous, and let my last end be like his.” (Dear
old man! he has gone. Would that our last end
might indeed be like his!) Not that the chaplain
as those chapters are appointed for the August Sundays,
and as it was in August that the summer visitors
came to Mackinac, the little chapel is in many
minds associated with the patient Balak, his seven
altars, and his seven rams.
There was state and discipline in the fort even on
Sundays; bugle-playing marshalled the congregation
in, bugle-playing marshalled them out. If the sermon
was not finished, so much the worse for the sermon,
but it made no difference to the bugle; at a given
moment it sounded, and out marched all the soldiers,
drowning the poor chaplain's hurrying voice with
their tramp down the stairs. The officers attended
service in full uniform, sitting erect and dignified in
the front seats. We used to smile at the grand air
they had, from the stately gray-haired major down
to the youngest lieutenant fresh from the Point.
But brave hearts were beating under those fine uniforms;
and when the great struggle came, one and
all died on the field in the front of the battle.
Over the grave of the commanding officer is inscribed
“Major-General,” over the captain's is “Brigadier,”
and over each young lieutenant is “Colonel.” They
gained their promotion in death.
I spent many months at Fort Mackinac with Archie;
Archie was my nephew, a young lieutenant. In the
short, bright summer came the visitors from below; all
the long winter the little white fort looked out over
unbroken ice-fields, and watched for the moving black
dot of the dog-train bringing the mails from the mainland.
One January day I had been out walking on
the snow-crust, breathing the cold, still air, and, returning
within the walls to our quarters, I found my
little parlor already occupied. Jeannette was there,
petite Jeanneton, the fisherman's daughter. Strange
beauty sometimes results from a mixed descent, and
this girl had French, English, and Indian blood in her
veins, the three races mixing and intermixing among her
ancestors, according to the custom of the Northwestern
border. A bold profile delicately finished, heavy blue-black
hair, light blue eyes looking out unexpectedly
from under black lashes and brows; a fair white skin,
neither the rose-white of the blonde nor the cream-white
of the Oriental brunette; a rounded form with
small hands and feet, — showed the mixed beauties of
three nationalities. Yes, there could be no doubt but
that Jeannette was singularly lovely, albeit ignorant
utterly. Her dress was as much of a mélange as her
ancestry: a short skirt of military blue, Indian leggins
and moccasins, a red jacket and little red cap embroidered
with beads. The thick braids of her hair hung
down her back, and on the lounge lay a large blanket-mantle
lined with fox-skins and ornamented with the
plumage of birds. She had come to teach me bead-work;
away the time, but found myself an awkward scholar.
“Bonjou', madame,” she said, in her patois of broken
English and degenerate French. “Pretty here.”
My little parlor had a square of carpet, a hearth-fire
of great logs, Turkey-red curtains, a lounge and arm-chair
covered with chintz, several prints on the cracked
walls, and a number of books, — the whole well used
and worn, worth perhaps twenty dollars in any town
below, but ten times twenty in icy Mackinac. I began
the bead-work, and Jeannette was laughing at
my mistakes, when the door opened, and our surgeon
came in, pausing to warm his hands before going up
to his room in the attic. A taciturn man was our surgeon,
Rodney Prescott, not popular in the merry garrison
circle, but a favorite of mine; the Puritan, the
New-Englander, the Bostonian, were as plainly written
upon his face as the French and Indian were written
upon Jeannette.
“Sit down, Doctor,” I said.
He took a seat and watched us carelessly, now and
then smiling at Jeannette's chatter as a giant might
smile upon a pygmy. I could see that the child was
putting on all her little airs to attract his attention;
now the long lashes swept the cheeks, now they were
raised suddenly, disclosing the unexpected blue eyes;
the little moccasined feet must be warmed on the fender,
the braids must be swept back with an impatient
then there was a coquettish arch of the red lips, less
than a pout, what she herself would have called “une
p'tite moue.” Our surgeon watched this pantomime
unmoved.
“Is n't she beautiful?” I said, when, at the expiration
of the hour, Jeannette disappeared, wrapped in her
mantle.
“No; not to my eyes.”
“Why, what more can you require, Doctor? Look
at her rich coloring, her hair —”
“There is no mind in her face, Mrs. Corlyne.”
“But she is still a child.”
“She will always be a child; she will never mature,”
answered our surgeon, going up the steep stairs
to his room above.
Jeannette came regularly, and one morning, tired of
the bead-work, I proposed teaching her to read. She
consented, although not without an incentive in the
form of shillings; but, however gained, my scholar
gave to the long winter a new interest. She learned
readily; but as there was no foundation, I was obliged
to commence with A, B, C.
“Why not teach her to cook?” suggested the major's
fair young wife, whose life was spent in hopeless
labors with Indian servants, who, sooner or later, ran
away in the night with spoons and the family apparel.
“Why not teach her to sew?” said Madame Captain,
garments before her.
“Why not have her up for one of our sociables?”
hazarded our most dashing lieutenant, twirling his
mustache.
“Frederick!” exclaimed his wife, in a tone of horror:
she was aristocratic, but sharp in outlines.
“Why not bring her into the church? Those French
half-breeds are little better than heathen,” said the
chaplain.
Thus the high authorities disapproved of my educational
efforts. I related their comments to Archie, and
added, “The surgeon is the only one who has said
nothing against it.”
“Prescott? O, he 's too high and mighty to notice
anybody, much less a half-breed girl. I never saw
such a stiff, silent fellow; he looks as though he had
swallowed all his straightlaced Puritan ancestors. I
wish he 'd exchange.”
“Gently, Archie —”
“O, yes, without doubt; certainly, and amen! I
know you like him, Aunt Sarah,” said my handsome
boy-soldier, laughing.
The lessons went on. We often saw the surgeon
during study hours, as the stairway leading to his
room opened out of the little parlor. Sometimes he
would stop awhile and listen as Jeannette slowly read,
“The good boy likes his red top”; “The good girl can
write her name, or add a one and a two. It was slow
work, but I persevered, if from no other motive than
obstinacy. Had not they all prophesied a failure?
When wearied with the dull routine, I gave an oral
lesson in poetry. If the rhymes were of the chiming,
rhythmic kind, Jeannette learned rapidly, catching the
verses as one catches a tune, and repeating them with
a spirit and dramatic gesture all her own. Her favorite
was Macaulay's “Ivry.” Beautiful she looked, as,
standing in the centre of the room, she rolled out the
sonorous lines, her French accent giving a charming
foreign coloring to the well-known verses: —
Charge for the golden lilies, — upon them with the lance!
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.”
And yet, after all my explanations, she only half
understood it; the “knights” were always “nights”
in her mind, and the “thickest carnage” was always
the “thickest carriage.”
One March day she came at the appointed hour,
soon after our noon dinner. The usual clear winter
sky was clouded, and a wind blew the snow from the
trees where it had lain quietly month after month.
“Spring is coming,” said the old sergeant that morning,
Jeannette and I went through the lessons, but toward
three o'clock a north-wind came sweeping over
the Straits and enveloped the island in a whirling
snow-storm, partly eddies of white splinters torn from
the ice-bound forest, and partly a new fall of round
snow pellets careering along on the gale, quite unlike
the soft, feathery flakes of early winter. “You cannot
go home now, Jeannette,” I said, looking out
through the little west window; our cottage stood
back on the hill, and from this side window we could
see the Straits, going down toward far Waugoschance;
the steep fort-hill outside the wall; the long meadow,
once an Indian burial-place, below; and beyond on
the beach the row of cabins inhabited by the French
fishermen, one of them the home of my pupil. The
girl seldom went round the point into the village;
its one street and a half seemed distasteful to her.
She climbed the stone-wall on the ridge behind her
cabin, took an Indian trail through the grass in summer,
or struck across on the snow-crust in winter,
ran up the steep side of the fort-hill like a wild
chamois, and came into the garrison enclosure with
a careless nod to the admiring sentinel, as she passed
under the rear entrance. These French half-breeds,
like the gypsies, were not without a pride of their
own. They held themselves aloof from the Irish of
summer, and the common soldiers of the garrison.
They intermarried among themselves, and held their
own revels in their beach-cabins during the winter,
with music from their old violins, dancing and songs,
French ballads with a chorus after every two lines,
quaint chansons handed down from voyageur ancestors.
Small respect had they for the little Roman Catholic
church beyond the old Agency garden; its German
priest they refused to honor; but, when stately old
Father Piret came over to the island from his hermitage
in the Chenaux, they ran to meet him, young
and old, and paid him reverence with affectionate
respect. Father Piret was a Parisian, and a gentleman;
nothing less would suit these far-away sheep
in the wilderness!
Jeannette Leblanc had all the pride of her class;
the Irish saloon-keeper with his shining tall hat, the
loud-talking mate of the lake schooner, the trim sentinel
pacing the fort walls, were nothing to her, and
this somewhat incongruous hauteur gave her the air
of a little princess.
On this stormy afternoon the captain's wife was in
my parlor preparing to return to her own quarters
with some coffee she had borrowed. Hearing my remark
she said, “O, the snow won't hurt the child,
Mrs. Corlyne; she must be storm-proof, living down
there on the beach! Duncan can take her home.”
Duncan was the orderly, a factotum in the garrison.
“Non,” said Jeannette, tossing her head proudly
as the door closed behind the lady, “I wish not of
Duncan; I go alone.”
It happened that Archie, my nephew, had gone over
to the cottage of the commanding officer to decorate
the parlor for the military sociable; I knew he would
not return, and the evening stretched out before me
in all its long loneliness. “Stay, Jeannette,” I said.
“We will have tea together here, and when the wind
goes down, old Antoine shall go back with you.” Antoine
was a French wood-cutter, whose cabin clung
half-way down the fort-hill like a swallow's nest.
Jeannette's eyes sparkled; I had never invited her
before; in an instant she had turned the day into
a high festival. “Braid hair?” she asked, glancing
toward the mirror; “faut que je m' fasse belle.” And
the long hair came out of its close braids, enveloping
her in its glossy dark waves, while she carefully
smoothed out the bits of red ribbon that served as
fastenings. At this moment the door opened, and the
surgeon, the wind, and a puff of snow came in together.
Jeannette looked up, smiling and blushing; the falling
hair gave a new softness to her face, and her eyes were
as shy as the eyes of a wild fawn.
Only the previous day I had noticed that Rodney
Prescott listened with marked attention to the captain's
Jeannette had negro blood in her veins. “Those quadroon
girls often have a certain kind of plebeian beauty
like this pet of yours, Mrs. Corlyne,” she said, with a
slight sniff of her high-bred, pointed nose. In vain I
exclaimed, in vain I argued; the garrison ladies were
all against me, and, in their presence, not a man dared
come to my aid; and the surgeon even added, “I wish
I could be sure of it.”
“Sure of the negro blood?” I said, indignantly.
“Yes.”
“But Jeannette does not look in the least like a
quadroon.”
“Some of the quadroon girls are very handsome, Mrs.
Corlyne,” answered the surgeon, coldly.
“O yes!” said the high-bred Virginia lady. “My
brother has a number of them about his place, but we
do not teach them to read, I assure you. It spoils
them.”
As I looked at Jeannette's beautiful face, her delicate
eagle profile, her fair skin and light blue eyes, I
recalled this conversation with vivid indignation. The
surgeon, at least, should be convinced of his mistake.
Jeannette had never looked more brilliant; probably
the man had never really scanned her features, — he
was such a cold, unseeing creature; but to-night he
should have a fair opportunity, so I invited him to
join our storm-bound tea-party. He hesitated.
“Ah, do, Monsieur Rodenai,” said Jeannette, springing
forward. “I sing for you, I dance; but, no, you
not like that. Bien, I tell your fortune then.” The
young girl loved company. A party of three, no matter
who the third, was to her infinitely better than
two.
The surgeon stayed.
A merry evening we had before the hearth-fire.
The wind howled around the block-house and rattled
the flag-staff, and the snow pellets sounded on the
window-panes, giving that sense of warm comfort
within that comes only with the storm. Our servant
had been drafted into service for the military sociable,
and I was to prepare the evening meal myself.
“Not tea,” said Jeannette, with a wry face; “tea, —
c'est médecine!” She had arranged her hair in fanciful
braids, and now followed me to the kitchen,
enjoying the novelty like a child. “Café?” she said.
“O, please, madame! I make it.”
The little shed kitchen was cold and dreary, each
plank of its thin walls rattling in the gale with a
dismal creak; the wind blew the smoke down the
chimney, and finally it ended in our bringing everything
into the cosey parlor, and using the hearth fire,
where Jeannette made coffee and baked little cakes
over the coals.
The meal over, Jeannette sang her songs, sitting
on the rug before the fire, — Le Beau Voyageur, Les
to minor airs brought over from France two hundred
years before.
The surgeon sat in the shade of the chimney-piece,
his face shaded by his hand, and I could not discover
whether he saw anything to admire in my protégée,
until, standing in the centre of the room, she gave us
“Ivry” in glorious style. Beautiful she looked as she
rolled out the lines: —
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, —
Press where ye see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war,
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.”
Rodney sat in the full light now, and I secretly
triumphed in his rapt attention.
“Something else, Jeannette,” I said, in the pride
of my heart. Instead of repeating anything I had
taught her, she began in French: —
Voici l'étoile du berger.'
— `Ma mère, un enfant du village
Languit captif chez l'étranger;
Pris sur mer, loin de sa patrie,
Il s'est rendu, — mais le dernier.'
File, file, pauvre Marie,
Pour secourir le prisonnier;
File, file, pauvre Marie,
File, file, pour le prisonnier.
“`Pour lui je filerais moi-même
Mon enfant, — mais — j'ai tant vieilli!'
Tout le gain par moi recueilli.
Rose à sa noce en vain me prie; —
Dieu! j'entends le ménétrier!'
File, file, pauvre Marie,
Pour secourir le prisonnier;
File, file, pauvre Marie,
File, file, pour le prisonnier.
“`Plus près du feu file, ma chère;
La nuit vient refroidir le temps.'
— `Adrien, m'a-t-on dit, ma mère,
Gémit dans des cachots flottants.
On repousse la main flétrie
Qu'il étend vers un pain grossier.'
File, file, pauvre Marie,
Pour secourir le prisonnier;
File, file, pauvre Marie,
File, file, pour le prisonnier.”[1]
Jeannette repeated these lines with a pathos so
real that I felt a moisture rising in my eyes.
“Where did you learn that, child?” I asked.
“Father Piret, madame.”
“What is it?”
“Je n' sais.”
“It is Béranger, — `The Prisoner of War,'” said
Rodney Prescott. “But you omitted the last verse,
mademoiselle; may I ask why?”
“More sad so,” answered Jeannette. “Marie she
die now.”
“You wish her to die?”
“Mais oui: she die for love; c'est beau!”
And there flashed a glance from the girl's eyes that
thrilled through me, I scarcely knew why. I looked
toward Rodney, but he was back in the shadow again.
The hours passed. “I must go,” said Jeannette,
drawing aside the curtain. Clouds were still driving
across the sky, but the snow had ceased falling, and
at intervals the moon shone out over the cold white
scene; the March wind continued on its wild career
toward the south.
“I will send for Antoine,” I said, rising, as Jeannette
took up her fur mantle.
“The old man is sick to-day,” said Rodney. “It
would not be safe for him to leave the fire to-night.
I will accompany mademoiselle.”
Pretty Jeannette shrugged her shoulders. “Mais,
monsieur,” she answered, “I go over the hill.”
“No, child; not to-night,” I said decidedly. “The
wind is violent, and the cliff doubly slippery after this
ice-storm. Go round through the village.”
“Of course we shall go through the village,” said
our surgeon, in his calm, authoritative way. They
started. But in another minute I saw Jeannette fly
by the west window, over the wall, and across the
snowy road, like a spirit, disappearing down the steep
bank, now slippery with glare ice. Another minute,
and Rodney Prescott followed in her track.
With bated breath I watched for the reappearance
of the two figures on the white plain, one hundred and
fifty feet below; the cliff was difficult at any time,
and now in this ice! The moments seemed very long,
and, alarmed, I was on the point of arousing the garrison,
when I spied the two dark figures on the snowy
plain below, now clear in the moonlight, now lost in
the shadow. I watched them for some distance; then
a cloud came, and I lost them entirely.
Rodney did not return, although I sat late before
the dying fire. Thinking over the evening, the idea
came to me that perhaps, after all, he did admire my
protégée, and, being a romantic old woman, I did not
repel the fancy; it might go a certain distance without
harm, and an idyl is always charming, doubly so to
people cast away on a desert island. One falls into
the habit of studying persons very closely in the limited
circle of garrison life.
But, the next morning, the Major's wife gave me an
account of the sociable. “It was very pleasant,” she
said. “Toward the last Dr. Prescott came in, quite
unexpectedly. I had no idea he could be so agreeable.
Augusta can tell you how charming he was!”
Augusta, a young lady cousin, of pale blond complexion,
neutral opinions, and irreproachable manners,
smiled primly. My idyl was crushed!
The days passed. The winds, the snows, and the
high-up fort remained the same. Jeannette came and
that we read much, but we talked more. Our surgeon
did not again pass through the parlor; he had ordered
a rickety stairway on the outside wall to be repaired,
and we could hear him going up and down its icy steps
as we sat by the hearth-fire. One day I said to him,
“My protégée is improving wonderfully. If she could
have a complete education, she might take her place
with the best in the land.”
“Do not deceive yourself, Mrs. Corlyne,” he answered.
“It is only the shallow French quickness.”
“Why do you always judge the child so harshly,
Doctor?”
“Do you take her part, Aunt Sarah?” (For sometimes
he used the title which Archie had made so
familiar.)
“Of course I do, Rodney. A poor, unfriended girl
living in this remote place, against a United States
surgeon with the best of Boston behind him.”
“I wish you would tell me that every day, Aunt
Sarah,” was the reply I received. It set me musing,
but I could make nothing of it. Troubled without
knowing why, I suggested to Archie that he should
endeavor to interest our surgeon in the fort gayety;
there was something for every night in the merry little
circle, — games, suppers, tableaux, music, theatricals,
readings, and the like.
“Why, he 's in the thick of it already, Aunt Sarah,”
Augusta; she sings `The Harp that once — ' to him
every night.”
(“The Harp that once through Tara's Halls” was
Miss Augusta's dress-parade song. The Major's quarters
not being as large as the halls aforesaid, the
melody was somewhat overpowering.)
“O, does she?” I thought, not without a shade of
vexation. But the vague anxiety vanished.
The real spring came at last, — the rapid, vivid
spring of Mackinac. Almost in a day the ice moved
out, the snows melted, and the northern wild-flowers
appeared in the sheltered glens. Lessons were at an
end, for my scholar was away in the green woods.
Sometimes she brought me a bunch of flowers; but I
seldom saw her; my wild bird had flown back to the
forest. When the ground was dry and the pine droppings
warmed by the sun, I, too, ventured abroad.
One day, wandering as far as the Arched Rock, I found
the surgeon there, and together we sat down to rest
under the trees, looking off over the blue water flecked
with white caps. The Arch is a natural bridge over a
chasm one hundred and fifty feet above the lake, — a
fissure in the cliff which has fallen away in a hollow,
leaving the bridge by itself far out over the water.
This bridge springs upward in the shape of an arch; it
is fifty feet long, and its width is in some places two
feet, in others only a few inches, — a narrow, dizzy
pathway hanging between sky and water.
“People have crossed it,” I said.
“Only fools,” answered our surgeon, who despised
foolhardiness. “Has a man nothing better to do with
his life than risk it for the sake of a silly feat like
that? I would not so much as raise my eyes to see
any one cross.”
“O yes, you would, Monsieur Rodenai,” cried a voice
behind us. We both turned and caught a glimpse of
Jeannette as she bounded through the bushes and out
to the very centre of the Arch, where she stood balancing
herself and laughing gayly. Her form was outlined
against the sky; the breeze swayed her skirt; she
seemed hovering over the chasm. I watched her, mute
with fear; a word might cause her to lose her balance;
but I could not turn my eyes away, I was fascinated
with the sight. I was not aware that Rodney had left
me until he, too, appeared on the Arch, slowly finding
a foothold for himself and advancing toward the centre.
A fragment of the rock broke off under his foot and fell
into the abyss below.
“Go back, Monsieur Rodenai,” cried Jeannette, seeing
his danger.
“Will you come back too, Jeannette?”
“Moi? C'est aut' chose,” answered the girl, gayly
tossing her pretty head.
“Then I shall come out and carry you back, wilful
child,” said the surgeon.
A peal of laughter broke from Jeannette as he spoke,
swinging herself from side to side, marking the time
with a song. I held my breath; her dance seemed
unearthly; it was as though she belonged to the Prince
of the Powers of the Air.
At length the surgeon reached the centre and caught
the mocking creature in his arms: neither spoke, but
I could see the flash of their eyes as they stood for
an instant motionless. Then they struggled on the
narrow foothold and swayed over so far that I buried
my face in my trembling hands, unable to look at the
dreadful end. When I opened my eyes again all was
still; the Arch was tenantless, and no sound came
from below. Were they, then, so soon dead? Without
a cry? I forced myself to the brink to look down
over the precipice; but while I stood there, fearing to
look, I heard a sound behind me in the woods. It was
Jeannette singing a gay French song. I called to her
to stop. “How could you?” I said severely, for I was
still trembling with agitation.
“Ce n'est rien, madame. I cross l'Arche when I had
five year. Mais, Monsieur Rodenai le Grand, he raise
his eye to look this time, I think,” said Jeannette,
laughing triumphantly.
“Where is he?”
“On the far side, gone on to Scott's Pic [Peak].
Féroce, O féroce, comme un loupgarou! Ah! c'est joli,
ça!” And, overflowing with the wildest glee, the girl
pausing to look at something in her hand, now laughing,
now shouting like a wild creature, until I lost
sight of her. I went back to the fort alone.
For several days I saw nothing of Rodney. When
at last we met, I said, “That was a wild freak of Jeannette's
at the Arch.”
“Planned, to get a few shillings out of us.”
“O Doctor! I do not think she had any such motive,”
I replied, looking up deprecatingly into his cold,
scornful eyes.
“Are you not a little sentimental over that ignorant,
half-wild creature, Aunt Sarah?”
“Well,” I said to myself, “perhaps I am!”
The summer came, sails whitened the blue straits
again, steamers stopped for an hour or two at the
island docks, and the summer travellers rushed ashore
to buy “Indian curiosities,” made by the nuns in Montreal,
or to climb breathlessly up the steep fort-hill to
see the pride and panoply of war. Proud was the
little white fort in those summer days; the sentinels
held themselves stiffly erect, the officers gave up lying
on the parapet half asleep, the best flag was hoisted
daily, and there was much bugle-playing and ceremony
connected with the evening gun, fired from the ramparts
at sunset; the hotels were full, the boarding-house
keepers were in their annual state of wonder
over the singular taste of these people from “below,”
best of beef brought up on ice all the way from Buffalo!
There were picnics and walks, and much confusion
of historical dates respecting Father Marquette
and the irrepressible, omnipresent Pontiac. The fort
officers did much escort duty; their buttons gilded
every scene. Our quiet surgeon was foremost in everything.
“I am surprised! I had no idea Dr. Prescott was
so gay,” said the Major's wife.
“I should not think of calling him gay,” I answered.
“Why, my dear Mrs. Corlyne! He is going all the
time. Just ask Augusta.”
Augusta thereupon remarked that society, to a certain
extent, was beneficial; that she considered Dr.
Prescott much improved; really, he was now very
“nice.”
I silently protested against the word. But then I
was not a Bostonian.
One bright afternoon I went through the village,
round the point into the French quarter, in search of a
laundress. The fishermen's cottages faced the west;
they were low and wide, not unlike scows drifted
ashore and moored on the beach for houses. The little
windows had gay curtains fluttering in the breeze,
and the rooms within looked clean and cheery; the
rough walls were adorned with the spoils of the fresh-water
seas, shells, green stones, agates, spar, and curiously
water-bird, or a bright-colored print, and always a
violin. Black-eyed children played in the water which
bordered their narrow beach-gardens; and slender
women, with shining black hair, stood in their doorways
knitting. I found my laundress, and then went
on to Jeannette's home, the last house in the row.
From the mother, a Chippewa woman, I learned that
Jeannette was with her French father at the fishing-grounds
off Drummond's Island.
“How long has she been away?” I asked.
“Veeks four,” replied the mother, whose knowledge
of English was confined to the price-list of white-fish
and blueberries, the two articles of her traffic with the
boarding-house keepers.
“When will she return?”
“Je n' sais.”
She knitted on, sitting in the sunshine on her little
doorstep, looking out over the western water with
tranquil content in her beautiful, gentle eyes. As I
walked up the beach I glanced back several times to
see if she had the curiosity to watch me; but no, she
still looked out over the western water. What was I
to her? Less than nothing. A white-fish was more.
A week or two later I strolled out to the Giant's
Stairway and sat down in the little rock chapel.
There was a picnic at the Lovers' Leap, and I had
that side of the island to myself. I was leaning back,
voices roused me; a birch-bark canoe was passing
close in shore, and two were in it, — Jeannette and our
surgeon. I could not hear their words, but I noticed
Rodney's expression as he leaned forward. Jeannette
was paddling slowly; her cheeks were flushed, and her
eyes brilliant. Another moment, and a point hid them
from my view. I went home troubled.
“Did you enjoy the picnic, Miss Augusta?” I said,
with assumed carelessness, that evening. “Dr. Prescott
was there, as usual, I suppose?”
“He was not present, but the picnic was highly enjoyable,”
replied Miss Augusta, in her even voice and
impartial manner.
“The Doctor has not been with us for some days,”
said the major's wife, archly; “I suspect he does not
like Mr. Piper.”
Mr. Piper was a portly widower, of sanguine complexion,
a Chicago produce-dealer, who was supposed
to admire Miss Augusta, and was now going through
a course of “The Harp that once.”
The last days of summer flew swiftly by; the surgeon
held himself aloof; we scarcely saw him in the
garrison circles, and I no longer met him in my
rambles.
“Jealousy!” said the major's wife.
September came. The summer visitors fled away
homeward; the remaining “Indian curiosities” were
and the forests deserted; the bluebells swung unmolested
on their heights, and the plump Indian-pipes
grew in peace in their dark corners. The little white
fort, too, began to assume its winter manners; the
storm-flag was hoisted; there were evening fires upon
the broad hearth-stones; the chaplain, having finished
everything about Balak, his seven altars and seven
rams, was ready for chess-problems; books and papers
were ordered; stores laid in, and anxious inquiries
made as to the “habits” of the new mail-carrier, —
for the mail-carrier was the hero of the winter, and
if his “habits” led him to whiskey, there was danger
that our precious letters might be dropped all along
the northern curve of Lake Huron.
Upon this quiet matter-of-course preparation, suddenly,
like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, came orders
to leave. The whole garrison, officers and men,
were ordered to Florida.
In a moment all was desolation. It was like being
ordered into the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
Dense everglades, swamp-fevers, malaria in the air,
poisonous underbrush, and venomous reptiles and insects,
and now and then a wily unseen foe picking off
the men, one by one, as they painfully cut out roads
through the thickets, — these were the features of military
life in Florida at that period. Men who would
have marched boldly to the cannon's mouth, officers
the deadly swamps.
Families must be broken up, also; no women, no
children, could go to Florida. There were tears and
the sound of sobbing in the little white fort, as the
poor wives, all young mothers, hastily packed their
few possessions to go back to their fathers' houses,
fortunate if they had fathers to receive them. The
husbands went about in silence, too sad for words.
Archie kept up the best courage; but he was young,
and had no one to leave save me.
The evening of the fatal day — for the orders had
come in the early dawn — I was alone in my little
parlor, already bare and desolate with packing-cases.
The wind had been rising since morning, and now
blew furiously from the west. Suddenly the door
burst open and the surgeon entered. I was shocked
at his appearance, as, pale, haggard, with disordered
hair and clothing, he sank into a chair, and looked at
me in silence.
“Rodney, what is it?” I said.
He did not answer, but still looked at me with that
strange gaze. Alarmed, I rose and went toward him,
laying my hand on his shoulder with a motherly touch.
I loved the quiet, gray-eyed youth next after Archie.
“What is it, my poor boy? Can I help you?”
“O Aunt Sarah, perhaps you can, for you know her.”
“Her?” I repeated, with sinking heart.
“Yes. Jeannette.”
I sat down and folded my hands; trouble had come,
but it was not what I apprehended, — the old story of
military life, love, and desertion; the ever-present ballad
of the “gay young knight who loves and rides
away.” This was something different.
“I love her, — I love her madly, in spite of myself,”
said Rodney, pouring forth his words with feverish
rapidity. “I know it is an infatuation, I know it is
utterly unreasonable, and yet — I love her. I have
striven against it, I have fought with myself, I have
written out elaborate arguments wherein I have clearly
demonstrated the folly of such an affection, and I have
compelled myself to read them over slowly, word for
word, when alone in my own room, and yet — I love
her! Ignorant, I know she would shame me; shallow,
I know she could not satisfy me; as a wife she
would inevitably drag me down to misery, and yet — I
love her! I had not been on the island a week before
I saw her, and marked her beauty. Months before
you invited her to the fort I had become infatuated
with her singular loveliness; but, in some respects,
a race of the blood-royal could not be prouder than
these French fishermen. They will accept your money,
they will cheat you, they will tell you lies for an extra
shilling; but make one step toward a simple acquaintance,
and the door will be shut in your face. They
will bow down before you as a customer, but they will
to reach Jeannette. I do not say that I tried, for all
the time I was fighting myself; but I went far enough
to see the barriers. It seemed a fatality that you
should take a fancy to her, have her here, and ask me
to admire her, — admire the face that haunted me by
day and by night, driving me mad with its beauty.
“I realized my danger, and called to my aid all the
pride of my race. I said to my heart, `You shall not
love this ignorant half-breed girl to your ruin.' I reasoned
with myself, and said, `It is only because you
are isolated on this far-away island. Could you present
this girl to your mother? Could she be a companion
for your sisters?' I was beginning to gain
a firmer control over myself, in spite of her presence,
when you unfolded your plan of education. Fatality
again. Instantly a crowd of hopes surged up. The
education you began, could I not finish? She was but
young; a few years of careful teaching might work
wonders. Could I not train this forest flower so that
it could take its place in the garden? But, when I
actually saw this full-grown woman unable to add the
simplest sum or write her name correctly, I was again
ashamed of my infatuation. It is one thing to talk
of ignorance, it is another to come face to face with it.
Thus I wavered, at one moment ready to give up all
for pride, at another to give up all for love.
“Then came the malicious suggestion of negro blood.
pardon. [And here, even as the surgeon spoke, I
noticed this as the peculiarity of the New England
Abolitionist. Theoretically he believed in the equality
of the enslaved race, and stood ready to maintain the
belief with his life, but practically he held himself
entirely aloof from them; the Southern creed and
practice were the exact reverse.] I made inquiries
of Father Piret, who knows the mixed genealogy of
the little French colony as far back as the first voyageurs
of the fur trade, and found — as I, shall I say
hoped for feared? — that the insinuation was utterly
false. Thus I was thrown back into the old tumult.
“Then came that evening in this parlor when Jeannette
made the coffee and baked little cakes over the
coals. Do you remember the pathos with which she
chanted File, file, pauvre Marie; File, file, pour le
prisonnier? Do you remember how she looked when
she repeated `Ivry'? Did that tender pity, that ringing
inspiration, come from a dull mind and shallow
heart? I was avenged of my enforced disdain, my
love gave itself up to delicious hope. She was capable
of education, and then —! I made a pretext of old
Antoine's cough in order to gain an opportunity of
speaking to her alone; but she was like a thing possessed,
she broke from me and sprang over the icy
cliff, her laugh coming back on the wind as I followed
her down the dangerous slope. On she rushed, jumping
when the moon shone out, singing and shouting with
merry scorn at my desperate efforts to reach her. It
was a mad chase, but only on the plain below could
I come up with her. There, breathless and eager, I
unfolded to her my plan of education. I only went
so far as this: I was willing to send her to school,
to give her opportunities of seeing the world, to provide
for her whole future. I left the story of my love
to come afterward. She laughed me to scorn. As
well talk of education to the bird of the wilderness!
She rejected my offers, picked up snow to throw in
my face, covered me with her French sarcasms, danced
around me in circles, laughed, and mocked, until I was
at a loss to know whether she was human. Finally,
as a shadow darkened the moon, she fled away; and
when it passed she was gone, and I was alone on the
snowy plain.
“Angry, fierce, filled with scorn for myself, I determined
resolutely to crush out my senseless infatuation.
I threw myself into such society as we had; I assumed
an interest in that inane Miss Augusta; I read and
studied far into the night; I walked until sheer fatigue
gave me tranquillity; but all I gained was lost in that
encounter at the Arch: you remember it? When I
saw her on that narrow bridge, my love burst its bonds
again, and, senseless as ever, rushed to save her, — to
save her, poised on her native rocks, where every inch
and light as a bird! I caught her. She struggled
in my arms, angrily, as an imprisoned animal
might struggle, but — so beautiful! The impulse came
to me to spring with her into the gulf below, and so
end the contest forever. I might have done it, — I
cannot tell, — but, suddenly, she wrenched herself out
of my arms and fled over the Arch, to the farther side.
I followed, trembling, blinded, with the violence of my
emotion. At that moment I was ready to give up my
life, my soul, into her hands.
“In the woods beyond she paused, glanced over her
shoulder toward me, then turned eagerly. `Voilà,' she
said, pointing. I looked down and saw several silver
pieces that had dropped from my pocket as I sprang
over the rocks, and, with an impatient gesture, I thrust
them aside with my foot.
“`Non,' she cried, turning toward me and stooping
eagerly, — `so much! O, so much! See! four shillings!'
Her eyes glistened with longing as she held
the money in her hand and fingered each piece lovingly.
“The sudden revulsion of feeling produced by her
words and gesture filled me with fury. `Keep it, and
buy yourself a soul if you can!' I cried; and turning
away, I left her with her gains.
“`Merci, monsicur,' she answered gayly, all unmindful
of my scorn; and off she ran, holding her treasure
far down the path.
“It is a bitter thing to feel a scorn for yourself!
Did I love this girl who stooped to gather a few shillings
from under my feet? Was it, then, impossible
for me to conquer this ignoble passion? No; it could
not and it should not be! I plunged again into all
the gayety; I left myself not one free moment; if
sleep came not, I forced it to come with opiates;
Jeannette had gone to the fishing-grounds, the weeks
passed, I did not see her. I had made the hardest
struggle of all, and was beginning to recover my self-respect
when, one day, I met her in the woods with
some children; she had returned to gather blueberries.
I looked at her. She was more gentle than usual, and
smiled. Suddenly, as an embankment which has withstood
the storms of many winters gives way at last in
a calm summer night, I yielded. Without one outward
sign, I laid down my arms. Myself knew that the
contest was over, and my other self rushed to her feet.
“Since then I have often seen her; I have made
plan after plan to meet her; I have — O degrading
thought! — paid her to take me out in her canoe, under
the pretence of fishing. I no longer looked forward;
I lived only in the present, and thought only of when
and where I could see her. Thus it has been until this
morning, when the orders came. Now, I am brought
face to face with reality; I must go; can I leave her
woods. Aunt Sarah, — it is of no use, — I cannot live
without her; I must marry her.”
“Marry Jeannette!” I exclaimed.
“Even so.”
“An ignorant half-breed?”
“As you say, an ignorant half-breed.”
“You are mad, Rodney.”
“I know it.”
I will not repeat all I said; but, at last, silenced, if
not convinced, by the power of this great love, I started
with him out into the wild night to seek Jeannette.
We went through the village and round the point,
where the wind met us, and the waves broke at our
feet with a roar. Passing the row of cabins, with their
twinkling lights, we reached the home of Jeannette
and knocked at the low door. The Indian mother
opened it. I entered, without a word, and took a seat
near the hearth, where a drift-wood fire was burning.
Jeannette came forward with a surprised look. “You
little think what good fortune is coming to you, child,”
I thought, as I noted her coarse dress and the poor
furniture of the little room.
Rodney burst at once into his subject.
“Jeannette,” he said, going toward her, “I have come
to take you away with me. You need not go to school;
I have given up that idea, — I accept you as you
are. You shall have silk dresses and ribbons, like the
see all the great cities, you shall hear beautiful music.
You shall have everything you want, — money, bright
shillings, as many as you wish. See! Mrs. Corlyne
has come with me to show you that it is true. This
morning we had orders to leave Mackinac; in a few
days we must go. But — listen, Jeannette; I will
marry you. You shall be my wife. Do not look so
startled. I mean it; it is really true.”
“Qu'est-ce-que-c'est?” said the girl, bewildered by
the rapid, eager words.
“Dr. Prescott wishes to marry you, child,” I explained,
somewhat sadly, for never had the disparity
between them seemed so great. The presence of the
Indian mother, the common room, were like silent
protests.
“Marry!” ejaculated Jeannette.
“Yes, love,” said the surgeon, ardently. “It is quite
true; you shall be my wife. Father Piret shall marry
us. I will exchange into another regiment, or, if necessary,
I will resign. Do you understand what I am
saying, Jeannette? See! I give you my hand, in
token that it is true.”
But, with a quick bound, the girl was across the
room. “What!” she cried. “You think I marry you?
Have you not heard of Baptiste? Know, then, that
I love one finger of him more than all you, ten times,
hundred times.”
“Baptiste?” repeated Rodney.
“Oui, mon cousin, Baptiste, the fisherman. We
marry soon — tenez — la fête de Saint André.”
Rodney looked bewildered a moment, then his face
cleared. “Oh! a child engagement? That is one of
your customs, I know. But never fear; Father Piret
will absolve you from all that. Baptiste shall have
a fine new boat; he will let you off for a handful of
silver-pieces. Do not think of that, Jeannette, but
come to me —”
“Je vous abhorre; je vous déteste,” cried the girl
with fury as he approached. “Baptiste not love me?
He love me more than boat and silver dollar, — more
than all the world! And I love him; I die for him!
Allez-vous-en, traître!”
Rodney had grown white; he stood before her,
motionless, with fixed eyes.
“Jeannette,” I said in French, “perhaps you do not
understand. Dr. Prescott asks you to marry him;
Father Piret shall marry you, and all your friends
shall come. Dr. Prescott will take you away from
this hard life; he will make you rich; he will support
your father and mother in comfort. My child, it is
wonderful good fortune. He is an educated gentleman,
and loves you truly.”
“What is that to me?” replied Jeannette, proudly.
“Let him go, I care not.” She paused a moment.
Then, with flashing eyes, she cried, “Let him go with
believe me? See, then, how I despise him!” And,
rushing forward, she struck him on the cheek.
Rodney did not stir, but stood gazing at her while
the red mark glowed on his white face.
“You know not what love is,” said Jeannette, with
indescribable scorn. “You! You! Ah, mon Baptiste,
où es-tu? But thou wilt kill him, — kill him for his
boats and silver dollars!”
“Child!” I said, startled by her fury.
“I am not a child. Je suis femme, moi!” replied
Jeannette, folding her arms with haughty grace.
“Allez!” she said, pointing toward the door. We
were dismissed. A queen could not have made a
more royal gesture.
Throughout the scene the Indian mother had not
stopped her knitting.
In four days we were afloat, and the little white fort
was deserted. It was a dark afternoon, and we sat
clustered on the stern of the steamer, watching the flag
come slowly down from its staff in token of the departure
of the commanding officer. “Isle of Beauty,
fare thee well,” sang the major's fair young wife, with
the sound of tears in her sweet voice.
“We shall return,” said the officers. But not one
of them ever saw the beautiful island again.
Rodney Prescott served a month or two in Florida,
resigned suddenly, and went abroad. He has never
returned, and I have lost all trace of him, so that I
cannot say, from any knowledge of my own, how long
the feeling lived, — the feeling that swept me along in
its train down to the beach-cottage that wild night.
Each man who reads this can decide for himself.
Each woman has decided already.
Last year I met an islander on the cars, going eastward.
It was the first time he had ever been “below”;
but he saw nothing to admire, that dignified
citizen of Mackinac!
“What has become of Jeannette Leblanc?” I
asked.
“Jeannette? O, she married that Baptiste, a lazy,
good-for-nothing fellow! They live in the same little
cabin round the point, and pick up a living most anyhow
for their tribe of young ones.”
“Are they happy?”
“Happy?” repeated my islander, with a slow stare.
“Well, I suppose they are, after their fashion; I don't
know much about them. In my opinion, they are a
shiftless set, those French half-breeds round the point.”
| Castle nowhere | |