3.4. CHAPTER IV
OF A SUDDEN RESOLUTION
IT was nearly morning when I fell asleep in my chair,
from sheer exhaustion, for the day before had been a hard
one, even for me. I awoke with a start, and sat for some
minutes trying to collect my scattered senses. The sun
streamed in at my open door, the birds hopped on the
lawn, and the various sounds of the bustling life of the
little town came to me from beyond. Suddenly, with a
glimmering of the mad events of the night, I stood up,
walked uncertainly into the back room, and stared at the
bed.
It was empty. I went back into the outer room; my
eye wandered from the shattered whiskey bottle, which
was still on the floor, to the table littered with Mrs.
Temple's letters. And there, in the midst of them, lay a
note addressed with my name in a big, unformed hand. I
opened it mechanically.
“Dear Davy,”—so it ran,—“I have gone away, I cannot
tell you where. Some day I will come back and you
will forgive me. God bless you! NICK.”
He had gone away! To New Orleans? I had long
ceased trying to account for Nick's actions, but the more
I reflected, the more incredible it seemed to me that he
should have gone there, of all places. And yet I had had
it from Clark's own lips (indiscreet enough now!) that
Nick and St. Gré were to prepare the way for an insurrection
there. My thoughts ran on to other possibilities;
would he see his mother? But he had no reason to know
that Mrs. Temple was still in New Orleans. Then my
glance fell on her letters, lying open on the table. Had
he
read them? I put this down as improbable, for he was a
man who held strictly to a point of honor.
And then there was Antoinette de St. Gré! I ceased
to conjecture here, dashed some water in my eyes, pulled
myself together, and, seizing my hat, hurried out into the
street. I made a sufficiently indecorous figure as I ran
towards the water-side, barely nodding to my acquaintances
on the way. It was a fresh morning, a river breeze
stirred the waters of the Bear Grass, and as I stood, scanning
the line of boats there, I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned to confront a little man with grizzled, chestnut
eyebrows. He was none other than the Citizen Gignoux.
“You tek ze air, Monsieur Reetchie?” said he. “You
look for some one, yes? You git up too late see him off.”
I made a swift resolve never to quibble with this man.
“So Mr. Temple has gone to New Orleans with the
Sieur de St. Gré,” I said.
Citizen Gignoux laid a fat finger on one side of his
great nose. The nose was red and shiny, I remember,
and glistened in the sunlight.
“Ah,” said he, “ 'tis no use tryin' hide from you.
However, Monsieur Reetchie, you are the ver' soul of honor.
And then your frien'! I know you not betray the Sieur
de St. Gré. He is ver' fon' of you.”
“Betray!” I exclaimed; “there is no question of
betrayal. As far as I can see, your plans are carried on
openly, with a fine contempt for the Federal government.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“ 'Tis not my doin',” he said, “but I am—what you call
it?—a cipher. Sicrecy is what I believe. But drink too
much, talk too much—is it not so, Monsieur? And if
Monsieur le Baron de Carondelet, ze governor, hear they
are in New Orleans, I think they go to Havana or Brazil.”
He smiled, but perhaps the expression of my face caused
him to sober abruptly. “It is necessair for the cause.
We must have good Revolution in Louisiane.”
A suspicion of this man came over me, for a childlike
simplicity characterized the other ringleaders in this
expedition. Clark had had acumen once, and lost it; St. Gré
was a fool; Nick Temple was leading purposely a reckless
life; the Citizens Sullivan and Depeau had, to say
the least, a limited knowledge of affairs. All of these
were responding more or less sincerely to the cry of the
people of Kentucky (every day more passionate) that
something be done about Louisiana. But Gignoux seemed
of a different feather. Moreover, he had been too shrewd
to deny what Colonel Clark would have denied in a soberer
moment,—that St. Gré and Nick had gone to New Orleans.
“You not spik, Monsieur. You not think they have
success. You are not Federalist, no, for I hear you march
las night with your frien',—I hear you wave torch.”
“You make it your business to hear a great deal,
Monsieur Gignoux, I retorted, my temper slipping a little.
He hastened to apologize.
“Mille pardons, Monsieur,” he said; “I see you are
Federalist—but drunk. Is it not so? Monsieur, you tink
this ver' silly thing—this expedition.”
“Whatever I think, Monsieur,” I answered, “I am a
friend of General Clark's.”
“An enemy of ze cause?” he put in.
“Monsieur,” I said, “if President Washington and
General Wayne do not think it worth while to interfere
with your plans, neither do I.”
I left him abruptly, and went back to my long-delayed
affairs with a heavy heart. The more I thought, the more
criminally foolish Nick's journey seemed to me. However
puerile the undertaking, De Lemos at Natchez and Carondelet
at New Orleans had not the reputation of sleeping at
their posts, and their hatred for Americans was well known.
I sought General Clark, but he had gone to Knob Licks,
and in my anxiety I lay awake at nights tossing in my bed.
One evening, perhaps four days after Nick's departure,
I went into the common room of the tavern, and
there I was surprised to see an old friend. His square,
saffron face was just the same, his little jet eyes snapped
as brightly as ever, his hair—which was swept high above
his forehead and tied in an eelskin behind—was as black
as when I had seen it at Kaskaskia. I had met Monsieur
Vigo many times since, for he was a familiar figure
amongst the towns of the Ohio and the Mississippi, and
from Vincennes to Anse à la Graisse, and even to New
Orleans. His reputation as a financier was greater than
ever. He was talking to my friend, Mr. Marshall, but
he rose when he saw me, with a beaming smile.
“Ha, it is Davy,” he cried, “but not the sem lil
drummer boy who would not come into my store. Reech
lawyer now,—I hear you make much money now, Davy.
“Congress money?” I said.
Monsieur Vigo threw out his hands, and laughed exactly
as he had done in his log store at Kaskaskia.
“Congress have never repay me one sou, said Monsieur
Vigo, making a face. “I have try—I have talk—I have
represent—it is no good. Davy, it is your fault. You
tell me tek dat money. You call dat finance?”
“David,” said Mr. Marshall, sharply, “what the devil
is this I hear of your carrying a torch in a Jacobin
procession?”
“You may put it down to liquor, Mr. Marshall,” I
answered.
“Then you must have had a cask, egad,” said Mr.
Marshall, “for I never saw you drunk.”
I laughed.
“I shall not attempt to explain it, sir,” I answered.
“You must not allow your drum to drag you into bad
company again,” said he, and resumed his conversation.
As I suspected, it was a vigorous condemnation of General
Clark and his new expedition. I expressed my belief that
the government did not regard it seriously, and would
forbid the enterprise at the proper time.
“You are right, sir,” said Mr. Marshall, bringing down
his fist on the table. “I have private advices from
Philadelphia that the President's consideration for Governor
Shelby is worn out, and that he will issue a proclamation
within the next few days warning all citizens at their peril
from any connection with the pirates.”
I laughed.
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Marshall,” said I, “Citizen
Genêt has been liberal with nothing except commissions,
and they have neither money nor men.”
“The rascals have all left town,” said Mr. Marshall.
“Citizen Quartermaster Depeau, their local financier, has
gone back to his store at Knob Licks. The Sieur de St.
Gré and a Mr. Temple, as doubtless you know, have gone
to New Orleans. And the most mysterious and therefore
the most dangerous of the lot, Citizen Gignoux, has vanished
like an evil spirit. It is commonly supposed that he,
too, has gone down the river. You may see him, Vigo,”
said Mr. Marshall, turning to the trader; “he is a little
man with a big nose and grizzled chestnut eyebrows.”
“Ah, I know a lil 'bout him,” said Monsieur Vigo; “he
was on my boat two days ago, asking me questions.”
“The devil he was!” said Mr. Marshall.
I had another disquieting night, and by the morning I
had made up my mind. The sun was glinting on the
placid waters of the river when I made my way down to
the bank, to a great ten-oared keel boat that lay on the
Bear Grass, with its square sail furled. An awning was
stretched over the deck, and at a walnut table covered
with papers sat Monsieur Vigo, smoking his morning pipe.
“Davy,” said he, “you have come à la bonne heure. At
ten I depart for New Orleans.” He sighed. “It is so long
voyage,” he added, “and so lonely one. Sometime I have
the good fortune to pick up a companion, but not to-day.”
“Do you want me to go with you?” I said.
He looked at me incredulously.
“I should be delighted,” he said, “but you mek a jest.”
“I was never more serious in my life,” I answered, “for
I have business in New Orleans. I shall be ready.”
“Ha,” cried Monsieur Vigo, hospitably, “I shall be
enchant. We will talk philosophe, Beaumarchais, Voltaire,
Rousseau.”
For Monsieur Vigo was a great reader, and we had often
indulged in conversation which (we flattered ourselves)
had a literary turn.
I spent the remaining hours arranging with a young
lawyer of my acquaintance to look after my business, and at
ten o'clock I was aboard the keel boat with my small
baggage. At eleven, Monsieur Vigo and I were talking
“
philosophe” over a wonderful breakfast under the
awning, as we dropped down between the forest-lined shores of
the Ohio. My host travelled in luxury, and we ate the
Creole dishes, which his cook prepared, with silver forks
which he kept in a great chest in the cabin.
You who read this may feel something of my impatience
to get to New Orleans, and hence I shall not give a long
account of the journey. What a contrast it was to that
which Nick and I had taken five years before in Monsieur
Gratiot's fur boat! Like all successful Creole traders,
Monsieur Vigo had a wonderful knack of getting on with
the Indians, and often when we tied up of a night the
chief men of a tribe would come down to greet him.
We slipped southward on the great, yellow river which
parted the wilderness, with its sucks and eddies and green
islands, every one of which Monsieur knew, and I saw again
the flocks of water-fowl and herons in procession, and
hawks and vultures wheeling in their search. Sometimes
a favorable wind sprang up, and we hoisted the sail. We
passed the Walnut Hills, the Nogales, the moans of the
alligators broke our sleep by night, and at length we came
to Natchez, ruled over now by that watch-dog of the Spanish
King, Gayoso de Lemos. Thanks to Monsieur Vigo,
his manners were charming and his hospitality gracious,
and there was no trouble whatever about my passport.
Our progress was slow when we came at last to the
belvedered plantation houses amongst the orange groves;
and as we sat on the wide galleries in the summer nights,
we heard all the latest gossip of the capital of Louisiana.
The river was low; there was an ominous quality in the
heat which had its effect, indeed, upon me, and made the
old Creoles shake their heads and mutter a word with a
terrible meaning. New Orleans was a cesspool, said the
enlightened. The Baron de Carondelet, indefatigable
man, aimed at digging a canal to relieve the city of its
filth, but this would be the year when it was most needed,
and it was not dug. Yes, Monsieur le Baron was energy
itself. That other fever—the political one—he had
scotched. “Ça Ira” and “La Marseillaise” had been
sung in the theatres, but not often, for the Baron had sent
the alcaldes to shut them up. Certain gentlemen of French
ancestry had gone to languish in the Morro at Havana.
Yes, Monsieur de Carondelet, though fat, was on horseback
before dawn, New Orleans was fortified as it never had
been before, the militia organized, real cannon were on the
ramparts which could shoot at a pinch.
Sub rosa, I found much sympathy among the planters
with the Rights of Man. What had become, they asked,
of the expedition of Citizen General Clark preparing in
the North? They may have sighed secretly when I
painted it in its true colors, but they loved peace, these
planters. Strangly enough, the name of Auguste de St.
Gré never crossed their lips, and I got no trace of him or
Nick at any of these places. Was it possible that they
might not have come to New Orleans after all?
Through the days, when the sun beat upon the awning
with a tropical fierceness, when Monsieur Vigo abandoned
himself to his siestas, I thought. It was perhaps
characteristic of me that I waited nearly three weeks to confide
in my old friend the purpose of my journey to New Orleans.
It was not because I could not trust him that I held my
tongue, but because I sought some way of separating the
more intimate story of Nick's mother and his affair with
Antoinette de St. Gré from the rest of the story. But
Monsieur Vigo was a man of importance in Louisiana, and
I reflected that a time might come when I should need his
help. One evening, when we were tied up under the oaks
of a bayou, I told him. There emanated from Monsieur
Vigo a sympathy which few men possess, and this I felt
strongly as he listened, breaking his silence only at long
intervals to ask a question. It was a still night, I
remember, of great beauty, with a wisp of a moon hanging over
the forest line, the air heavy with odors and vibrant with
a thousand insect tones.
“And what you do, Davy?” he said at length.
“I must find my cousin and St. Gré before they have a
chance to get into much mischief,” I answered. “If they
have already made a noise, I thought of going to the Baron
de Carondelet and telling him what I know of the expedition.
He will understand what St. Gré is, and I will
explain that Mr. Temple's reckless love of adventure is
at the bottom of his share in the matter.”
“Bon, Davy,” said my host, “if you go, I go with you.
But I believe ze Baron think Morro good place for them
jus' the sem. Ze Baron has been make misérable with
Jacobins. But I go with you if you go.”
He discoursed for some time upon the quality of the
St. Grés, their public services, and before he went to
sleep he made the very just remark that there was a flaw
in every string of beads. As for me, I went down into
the cabin, surreptitiously lighted a candle, and drew from
my pocket that piece of ivory which had so strangely
come into my possession once more. The face upon it had
haunted me since I had first beheld it. The miniature
was wrapped now in a silk handkerchief which Polly Ann
had bought for me in Lexington. Shall I confess it?—I
had carefully rubbed off the discolorations on the ivory at
the back, and the picture lacked now only the gold setting.
As for the face, I had a kind of consolation from it. I
seemed to draw of its strength when I was tired, of its
courage when I faltered. And, during those four days of
indecision in Louisville, it seemed to say to me in words
that I could not evade or forget, “Go to New Orleans.”
It was a sentiment—foolish, if you please—which
could not resist. Nay, which I did not try to resist, for
I had little enough of it in my life. What did it matter?
I should never see Madame la Vicomtesse d'Ivry-le-Tour.
She was Hélène to me; and the artist had caught the
strength of her soul in her clear-cut face, in the eyes that
flashed with wit and courage,—eyes that seemed to look
with scorn upon what was mean in the world and untrue,
with pity on the weak. Here was one who might have
governed a province and still have been a woman, one
who had taken into exile the best of safeguards against
misfortune,—humor and an indomitable spirit.
