CHAPTER VIII – THE SURPRISE
There was, it is true, a side not so simple and wholesome, and this had been gathering slowly since the advent of the governor. More drunken men were seen about the levee. There was talk of regular orgies taking place at the government house, and the more thoughtful men, like the Chouteaus, the Guerins, the Guions, and the Lestourniers, had to work hard to get the fortifications in any shape, and the improvements made were mostly done by private citizens.
Of course there were many rumors, but old St. Louis rested securely on her past record. What the people about her were losing or gaining did not seem to trouble her. Now and then a river pirate was caught, or there was some one tripped up and punished who had traded unlawfully.
This had been the case with a French Canadian named Ducharme, who had been caught violating the treaty law, trading with Indians in Spanish territory, and giving them liberal supplies of rum in order to make better bargains with furs. His goods were seized and confiscated, but he was allowed to go his way, breathing threats of retaliation.
France had recognized the independence of the colonies, which had stirred up resentment in the minds of many of the English in northern Michigan. It was said an English officer at Michilimackinac had formed a plan of seizing or destroying some of the western towns and stations where there was likely to be found booty enough to reward them. Ducharme joined the scheme eagerly and gathered roving bands of Ojibways. Winnebagoes and Sioux, and by keeping well to the eastern side of the Mississippi marched down nearly opposite Gabaret Island, and crossed over to attack the town.
Corpus Christi was a great festival day of the church. Falling late in May, on the 25th, it was an out-of-doors entertainment. After mass had been said in the morning, women and children, youths and maidens, and husbands who could be spared from business, went out for a whole day’s pleasure with baskets and bags of provisions.
The day was magnificent. The fragrance of spruce and fir, the breath of the newly grown grasses, the bloom of trees and flowers, was like the most exhilarating perfume, and stirred all the senses.
Spies had crept down the woods to reconnoitre and assure themselves their arrival had not been suspected. It seemed indeed an opportune moment. It was now mid-afternoon. There had been dancing and merriment, the children had run and played, gathered wild strawberries and flowers, and some of the more careful ones had collected their little children and started homeward.
To the westward was Cardinal Spring, owned by a man of that name, but considered free property. He and another hunter had been shooting game, and as he stooped for a drink his companion espied an Indian cautiously creeping through the trees.
“Indians! Indians!” he shouted, and fired.
Cardinal snatched up his gun, but a storm of bullets felled him. Rivière was captured. A young Frenchman, catching sight of the body of Indians, gave the alarm.
“Run for your lives! Fly to the fort!” he shouted.
There were men working in the fields, and nearly every one took his gun, as much for the chance at game as any real fear of Indians. They covered the retreat a little, and as this was a reconnoitring party, the main body was at some distance.
“Fly! Fly!” Men who had no weapons caught little ones in their arms and ran toward the fort. All was wild alarm.
“What is it?” cried Colonel Chouteau, who had been busy with some papers of importance.
“The Indians! The Indians!” shouted his brother.
“Call out the militia! Where is the Governor?”
“In his own house, drunk as usual,” cried Pierre indignantly, and he ran to summon the soldiers.
There had been a small body of troops under the command of Captain Cartabona, a Spaniard sent from Ste. Genevieve at the urgent request of the chief citizens, but it being a holiday they were away, some canoeing down the river or fishing, and of the few to be found most of them were panic stricken. The captain had been having a carouse with the Governor.
“Then we must be our own leaders. To arms! to arms! every citizen! It is for your wives and children!” was the inspiriting cry.
“You shall be our leader!” was shouted in one voice almost before the Colonel had ceased. For Colonel Chouteau was not only admired for his friendliness and good comradeship, but trusted to the last degree.
Every man rushed for his gun and ran to the rescue, hardly knowing what had happened save that the long-feared attack had come upon them unawares. They poured out of the fort, but the flying women and children were in the advance with the Indians back of them.
Colonel Chouteau marshalled his little force in a circuitous movement, and opened a volley that took the Indians by surprise. They fell back brandishing their arms and shouting to their companions to come on. Then the Colonel saw that it was no mere casual attack, but a premeditated onslaught. Already bodies were lying on the ground struggling in death agonies.
The aim was so good that the assailants halted, then fell back to wait for their companions. This gave most of the flying and terrified throng an opportunity to reach the fort. For the wounded nothing could be done at present.
Now the streets were alive with men who had no time to pick out their own families, but ran, musket or rifle in hand, to man the fort. Colonel Chouteau and his brother Pierre were experienced artillerists, and stationed themselves at the cannon.
The Indians held a brief colloquy with the advancing body. Then it was seen that an attack was determined upon. They approached the fort, headed by several white leaders, and opened an irregular fire on the place.
“Let them approach nearer,” commanded the Colonel. The walls of the stockade and the roofs of the nearest houses were manned with the residents of the town. A shower of arrows fell among them. Surprised at no retaliation, the enemy ventured boldly, headed by Ducharme.
Then the cannons poured out their volley, which swept down the foremost. From the roofs muskets and guns and even pistols made a continuing chorus. Ducharme fell. Two of the white leaders were wounded also. Then another discharge from the cannons and the red foes fell back. The plan had been to wait until almost dusk for the attack, but the incident at the spring had hastened it.
Ducharme had not counted on the strength of the fort, and he knew the town was but poorly supplied with soldiers, so he had persuaded the Indians it would fall an easy prey and give them abundant pillage. But the roar and the execution of the cannon dismayed them, and many of them fled at once. Others marched slowly, helping some of the wounded.
General Cartabona came out quite sobered by the fierceness of the attack.
“Would it not be well to order a pursuit?” he questioned.
“And perhaps fall into a trap!” returned Colonel Chouteau with a touch of scorn. “No, no; let us bring in the wounded as we can.”
Gaspard Denys had been among the first to rush to the defence of the town. Marchand had gone out with the party, and Mère Lunde was to care for Renée. He had not stopped to look or inquire. He saw Madame Renaud.
“Oh, thank heaven my children are safe! But Barbe! I cannot find Barbe!” she cried.
“And Renée?” his voice was husky.
“She was with the Marchands. They were going to the woods. Oh, M’sieu Denys, what a horrible thing! And we felt so safe. The Indians have been so friendly. But can you trust them?”
He was off to look after the wounded. A number were lying dead on the field. No, Renée was not among them. They carried the wounded in gently, the dead reverently. The good priest proffered his services, and Dr. Montcrevier left his beloved experiments to come and minister to them. The dead were taken to the church and the priest’s house.
All was confusion, however. Darkness fell before families were reunited. Children hid away in corners crying, and were too terrified to come out even at the summons of friendly voices. Colonel Chouteau and his brother were comforting, aiding, exhorting, and manning the fort anew. General Cartabona set guards at the gates and towers, for no one knew what might happen before morning.
Denys had hurried home as soon as he could be released. “Renée!” he called. “Mère Lunde!” but no one replied. He searched every nook and corner. He asked the Pichous. No one had seen them. A great pang rent his heart. And yet – they might have hidden in the forest. Ah, God send that they might not be taken prisoners! But Marchand was with them. He knew the man’s courage well. He would fight to the death for them.
“I must go out and search,” he said in a desperate tone. “Who will accompany me?”
A dozen volunteered. They were well armed, and carried a rude lantern made of tin with a glass in one side only. They saw now that their fire had done good execution among their red foes. The trampled ground showed which way the party had gone, and they were no longer in sight.
“Let us try the woods. They came by the way of the spring,” said one of the party.
They found the body of Cardinal and that of an old man, both dead. They plunged into the woods, and, though aware of the danger, Denys shouted now and then, but no human voice replied. Here, there, examining some thicket, peering behind a clump of trees, startling the denizen of the woods, or a shrill-voiced nighthawk, and then all was silence again.
They left the woods and crossed the strip of prairie. Here lay something in the grass – a body. Denys turned it over.
“My God!” he exclaimed in a voice of anguish. “It is François Marchand.”
He dropped on the ground overwhelmed. If he was dead, then the others were prisoners. There was no use to search farther to-night. To-morrow a scouting party might go out.
They made a litter of the men’s arms and carried Marchand back to the fort, to find that he was not dead, though he had a broken leg and had received a tremendous blow on the head.
A sad morning dawned over St. Louis, where yesterday all had been joy. True, it might have been much worse. In all about a dozen had been killed, but the wounded and those who had fallen and been crushed in the flight counted up many more. And some were missing. What would be their fate? And oh, what would happen to Wawataysee if some roving Indian should recognize her! As for Renée, if he had not wholly understood before, he knew now how the child had twined herself about his heart, how she had become a part of his life.
Marchand’s blow was a dangerous one. The Garreaus insisted upon nursing and caring for him, but Madame Garreau was wild about the beautiful Wawataysee. She knew the Indian character too well to think they would show her any mercy, if she was recognized by any of the tribe. And Renée, what would be her fate?
General Cartabona was most anxious to make amends for past negligence. The militia was called to a strict account and recruited as rapidly as possible, and the fortifications made more secure. He took counsel with Colonel Chouteau, who had the best interests of the town at heart.
“We must make an appeal for the Governor’s removal,” insisted the Colonel. “It is not only this cowardly episode, but he is narrow-minded and avaricious, incompetent in every respect, and drunk most of the time. He cares nothing for the welfare of the town, he takes no interest in its advancement. After such men as Piernas and Cruzat he is most despicable. Any Frenchman born would serve Spain better.”
“That is true. I will head a petition of ejectment, and make it strong enough to be heeded.”
The dead were buried, the living cared for. Even the fallen enemies had been given decent sepulture outside the town. And Gaspard Denys felt that he must start on his journey of rescue, if indeed that was possible.
He chose two trusty young fellows, after shutting his house securely, providing his party with ammunition, and provisions for a part of their journey, as much as they could carry. He found the Indians had boats in waiting on the Illinois River, and after proceeding some distance they had separated in two parties, going in different directions. Some of the prisoners had been left here, as they did not care to be bothered with them.
The one party kept on up the river. They learned there were some women with them, and were mostly Indians. It was not an easy trail to follow. There had been a quarrel and another separation, a drunken debauch, part stopping at an Indian village. And here Denys heard what caused him almost a heart-break.
They had fallen in with some Hurons who had bought two of the captives. An old woman was set free with two men and sent down the river. The others were going up north.
“It is as I feared, Jaques,” he said. “They will carry Madame Marchand to her old home as a great prize. Ah, if François were only well! But I shall go on for life or death. I will not ask you to share my perils. Wawataysee came from somewhere up by the straits. She ran away with Marchand. She was to be married to an old Indian against her will. And no doubt he will be wild with gratification at getting her back, and will treat her cruelly. The child is mine and I must save her from a like fate. But you and Pierre may return. I will not hold you bound by any promises.”
“I am in for the adventure,” and Pierre laughed, showing his white teeth. “I am not a coward nor a man to eat one’s words. I am fond of adventure. I will go on.”
“I, too,” responded Jaques briefly.
“You are good fellows, both of you. I shall pray for your safe return,” Denys said, much moved by their devotion.
“And we have no sweethearts,” subjoined Pierre with a touch of mirth. “But if I could find one as beautiful and sweet as Madame Marchand I should be paid for a journey up to Green Bay.”
“It might be dangerous,” said Denys sadly.
He wondered if it was really Mère Lunde they had set free. It would be against her will, he was sure, and it would leave the two quite defenceless. A thousand remembrances haunted him day and night. He could see Renée’s soft brown eyes in the dusk, he could hear her sweet voice in the gentle zephyrs, that changed and had no end of fascinating tones. All her arch, pretty moods came up before him, her little piquant jealousies, her pretty assumptions of dignity and power, her dainty, authoritative ways. Oh, he could not give her up, his little darling.
There was sorrow in more than one household in old St. Louis, but time softened and healed it. And now the inhabitants congratulated themselves on their freedom heretofore from raids like these. Towns had been destroyed, prisoners had been treated to almost every barbarity. Giving up their lives had not been the worst.
But the summer came on gloriously, and Colonel Chouteau made many plans for the advancement of the town. He was repairing the old house where his friend had lived, and improving the grounds, and everyone felt that in him they had a true friend.
One July day three worn and weary people came in at the northern gate, and after the guards had looked sharply at them there was a shout of joy. Pierre Duchesne, whose family had lived on a faint hope, young Normand Fleurey, and Mère Lunde, looking a decade older and more wrinkled than ever.
She sat down on a stone and wept while the sounds of joy and congratulation were all about her.
Who could give her any comfort? She suffered Gaspard Denys’s pain as well as her own. And though there had been adventures and hiding from roving Indians, living on barks and roots, she could not tell them over while her heart was so sore.
She went to the old house, where the three had known so much content.
“He will come back some day,” she said, “but the child – ” and her voice would break at that.
She heard Marchand had been very ill with a fever, beside the wounds. He had come near to losing his leg, and was still a little lame, and very weak and heartbroken. His wife had been torn from his arms when an Indian had given him the blow on his head with a club, and there memory had stopped. Though Mère Lunde would talk to no one else, to him she told the sad story. And he had been lying helpless all the time Wawataysee had been in such danger! Yes, he knew what would happen to her now, but presently he would go up to the strait and never rest until he had killed all who worked her ill. Oh, if she had fallen into the hands of her old tribe!
That thought was madness. But he understood what the courage of her despair would be. She would not suffer any degradation, death would be a boon instead. Ah, if he could have joined Denys! He knew the cruelty and treachery of those whose hands she had fallen into. And the child!
But it would be useless to start disabled as he was, although his anger was fierce enough, and Denys was well on the journey. Yet it was terrible to wait with awful visions before his eyes. He had seen both men and women tortured, and the agonies prolonged with fiendish delight.
Mère Lunde opened the house and cleared up the dust and disorder. The garden was overgrown with weeds and everything was running riot. Marchand insisted upon lending a helping hand here. Many an evening they sat in the doorway wondering, hoping and despairing.
CHAPTER IX – PRISONERS
The wild cry of “The Indians! the Indians!” had roused a small group from their desultory enjoyment. They were pouring down in what seemed a countless throng. Marchand had no weapon except his knife.
“Run,” he cried. “Make for the fort! Keep at the edge of the wood while we can!”
Wawataysee seized Renée’s hand. The Indian girl was as fleet as a deer. She could have saved herself, but she would not leave the child. They had now reached the open. All was screams and confusion and flying fugitives.
A tall Indian was behind them with a club. Wawataysee gave a wild shriek and the next instant stumbled over her husband’s prostrate body. The Indian rushed on.
“Oh!” cried Renée in wild affright, standing still in terror, the flying crowd like swirling leaves before her eyes.
The sharp crack of a rifle made her spring back. Were both killed now? But Wawataysee moved, groaned.
“They have shot him now, my beloved!” She raised the bleeding head and pressed it to her bosom. “Oh, he has been killed, I know. Why did I not die with him? Oh, Renée – ”
Escape now was as impossible as succor. The Indian girl moaned over her husband, and made a futile attempt to drag him back to the edge of the wood to hide him. But suddenly she was violently wrenched away, and an Indian with a hand hold of each began to run with them toward the river. At last Renée fell and he had to pause. Meanwhile the firing from the fort had begun with its execution.
Wawataysee began to plead with her captor, who turned a deaf ear to her entreaties. Renée was crying in a desperate fashion, from both fright and fatigue. He raised his club, but the young wife clasped the child in her arms.
“Kill us both,” she exclaimed, “as you have already killed my husband.”
“White man?” with a grunt. “Squaw woman. Make some Indian glad.” Other prisoners were being brought in this direction, and among them Mère Lunde, who had started to reach the fort and bear the tidings to Gaspard.
“Oh, my dear child,” she cried. “The good God help us. They are trying to take the town.” And she almost fell at their feet.
Then they were marched on, the Indian guards behind with clubs and tomahawks, now and then goaded by a light blow that would not disable. The cries grew fainter, though they still heard the roar of the cannon.
And now the sun was slanting westward and the trees cast long shadows, the sound of the river fell on their ears mingled with the homeward song of birds. The heat began to wane, the air was dewy sweet.
It was almost dusk when they reached the boats, and they were bidden to get in and were conveyed to the opposite shore. Here they were bound together, two and two, with their hands fastened behind them. One Indian was detailed to watch them while the others took the boats back.
Ducharme’s arm hung helplessly by his side, and the English renegades began to upbraid him, while the Indians, seeing that no pillage was possible and no gain could be made, drew away sullenly and began to march toward the rendezvous, leaving some of their own badly wounded behind. It was midnight before they rejoined the others. Then, fearing pursuit, they started up the river again, rousing those who had fallen asleep. All told they had barely thirty prisoners, and had left as many of their own behind.
Mère Lunde had been allowed near the two girls, and now they huddled together in the boat. Renée had fallen asleep again.
“You do not know where they will take us?” Mère Lunde inquired.
Wawataysee shook her head. “They will go up the Illinois River,” she whispered.
“Do you think they will not follow?” in a low, desperate tone. “Master Denys and – ”
“Oh, he is dead,” with a heart-breaking moan. “I held him to my heart and he made no stir, I kissed his cold lips and there was no warmth. But for the sweet child I should have begged them to kill me too, so that my spirit should be with his. If she could be restored safely, my own life I would hold as nothing.”
“They have started ere this. Do not despair,” and her lips were close to the Indian girl’s ear.
“Then I shall thank the Great Spirit for the child’s sake.” Heaven grant they might be rescued.
The stir and lap of the river and the boats had a mysterious sound in the weird darkness. Then the cry of some wild animal or a bit of wind sweeping through the trees at the edge, here and there. The stars shone out overhead. Mère Lunde dropped asleep also. But Wawataysee sat with wide-open eyes. One moment she said to herself that he could not be dead, the next his white face and half-closed, dulled eyes were against her breast. She felt as if she must shriek and tear her hair, but there was the Indian’s self-control, and the thought of her companions who might be made to suffer for her. But she could not go out of life for her own satisfaction merely, unless it came to the martyrdom worse than death, for the child was a sacred charge. Gaspard Denys would go to the death, even, for both of them, and she was grateful for all the kindness and countenance he had given her at St. Louis.
They turned up a small stream, tributary to the Illinois. At noon they drew the boats up to what looked like an impenetrable brushwood, and disembarked, pulling in the boats and canoes. There was a sort of trodden path through the wild shrubbery, and tangled vines overhung it. Two of the Indians went ahead, the prisoners were driven next, and the rest of the party brought up the rear.
“Oh, where are we going?” cried Renée in affright, clutching Wawataysee’s dress with both hands.
The girl shook her head.
They were stiff from their cramped position in the boats and faint from hunger. Now and then one received a blow and an admonition to hurry on. At length they came in sight of a clearing, an Indian settlement, with wigwams and a space planted with corn. Women were moving about over their fires, children playing or stretched out in the sun. Skins were tacked from tree to tree drying, and several women were busy making garments and leggings, some young girls cutting fringes. It was a pretty, restful scene to the tired travellers.
An old man rose, it almost seemed from the earth itself. He was thin and gaunt, hollow-cheeked and wrinkled to the last degree. From his attire and his head-dress of feathers one could gather that he was the chief of the small settlement.
“Why all this warlike array and these prisoners?” he asked sharply. “We are at peace with our white brothers. We have gathered in the remnant of our tribe, we have few young braves among us, we are mostly women and children. We have nothing to be despoiled of, we do no hunting save for ourselves.”
“We want only a little food and rest, good father Neepawa. We will not molest you and yours. We are going up to the Great Lakes. We have been led astray by a white chief who promised us much plunder, but the town was too strong for us. He has gone south to one of the English forts and taken some of his followers, leaving the prisoners with us. Give us some food and we will go on.”
Their request was acceded to, but with no special cordiality. The thing they would most have liked was whiskey, but that was not to be supplied at this simple Indian village.
“Oh, if we could stay here!” sighed Renée. “Do you know where they mean to take us?” and her eyes dilated with fear.
“Only that we are going farther north.”
Wawataysee was fain to have some conversation with the Indian women, but she soon saw that every effort was adroitly frustrated. Still, they were fed abundantly and some provisions given the party. They reembarked late in the afternoon and made their way down to the Illinois River and up farther on their journey, until their provisions were gone, when they were obliged to land again.
After foraging about awhile they met a party of Indians and traders quite plentifully supplied with whiskey. This led to quarrels and disputes. A number of them were tired of having the prisoners to feed, and had changed their minds about going north. They were roving Indians who had no strong ties anywhere. Half a dozen decided to cast in their lot with the traders.
And now those going on picked out the most likely of the prisoners. Some of the strong young men who would be useful in the capacity of slaves, one half-breed woman who had astuteness enough to make herself of account in preparing food and did not resent the small indignities offered.
As they marched down to the river’s edge these were first put on the boat. Then Wawataysee and the child. Mère Lunde started to follow, but was rudely thrust back.
“I must, I must!” she shrieked, struggling with her captor; “I must stay with the child!”
“Push off!” was the command. Three Indians stepped in and the boat was propelled out in the stream. Then Wawataysee saw what had happened and half rose, crying wildly that they should take on the poor creature begging in her desperation.
“She is ours! We cannot do without her!”
The Indian pushed her down on her seat and uttered a rough threat.
“Oh, what will they do with her?” shrieked Renée.
A blow was the only answer. Renée fell into her companion’s lap sobbing wildly. Wawataysee tried to soothe and comfort her. But she felt strangely defenceless. The half-breed she mistrusted. If there could be some escape! She studied every point. They were no longer bound, but out here on the river one could do nothing.
So passed another night and day and a second night. No place of refuge had been found in their brief landings. But they reached another settlement, not as orderly or inviting as that of Chief Neepawa. Still, they were glad of a rest. And now their captors seemed undecided again. Two or three were already tired of the journey with its hardships.
An Indian woman found a place in her wigwam for the two girls. They were bound at night and their keeper had strict injunctions about them.
The Elk Horn, as one of the most authoritative Indians was called, now assumed the command. He had an idea, that he kept quite to himself, that he might dispose of his prisoners to some advantage, to make up in part for the ill-advised raid on St. Louis. There were many roving Indians about whose tribes had been decimated by wars and sickness, and who attached themselves to the English or American cause, whichever offered the most profit, and who liked a lawless, wandering life and plunder.
The keeper seemed kindly disposed toward the two girls and treated them well, though she watched them sharply. Wawataysee had been careful to talk in a patois of broken French and the Sioux that she had picked up. She understood nearly all that her captors said and thus held them at a disadvantage, but she could not learn what Elk Horn’s plans were, if indeed he had any certain ones. She admitted that she had left a husband in St. Louis, for there were moments when she could not believe him dead, and that this was the end of their tender love! And she was young, she had just tasted of the sweetness of it all.
There were hours of heart-break, when it seemed as if she could not endure Renée’s prattle, and would fain shake off the soft touch on her arm, the kisses on her forehead, for the awful, desperate want of the other kisses, the other clasp. And oh, how strong the longing was at times to throw herself headlong into the river and let her spirit of love fly to that other land, that the good God provided for His children.
Then she would think of Gaspard Denys and his love for the little maid. He had seen enough of the cruelty of her race to know the danger. Ah, why had the great All-Father allowed any human beings to become such fiends? Up in her northern home she had heard things that turned the blood to ice. And she had been so near the white settlements.
Yes, she must care for the little one, keep with her, befriend her, try to restore her to her dear protector.
It was best to claim that Renée was her little sister by adoption. If they could only get back! Why should they go up north? What was that more than any other place!
The woman at this would shake her head doubtfully. Yet Wawataysee could see that she softened, and once she asked how far it was to St. Louis, and how one could get there.
Wawataysee’s heart beat high with hope. Yet how could two girls reach there alone? They might meet other Indian bands who would capture them. There were wild animals. And they might not get a canoe. They had no money. Still, she would escape if they could and pray to the good God to keep them safe. Often and often she and Renée comforted themselves with the sweet, brief prayers they had learned. And oh, where was poor Mère Lunde!
Several days of rest were vouchsafed to them. Then one day a company of hunters joined them, among which there were a few white prisoners as well. One, a young fellow, strolled about with evident curiosity, and came upon the girls in a leafy covert near the wig-wam. They were given a little liberty by their keeper on promising by the Great Manitou they would not attempt to escape.