A Little Girl in Old St. Louis

Then they took their places. Renée had been very eager at first and watched the two closely. M. Marchand had appealed to her on some trifle, and now she saw Barbe and Uncle Gaspard take their places in the dance.

“Did she – choose Uncle Gaspard?” the child exclaimed with a long respiration that was like a sigh, while a flush overspread her face.

“He is the finest man in the room! I would have chosen him myself if I had been a maid. And if you had been sixteen wouldn’t you have taken him, little girl? Well, your day will come,” in a gay tone.

Wawataysee placed her arm over the child’s shoulder. “Let us go around here, we can see them better. What an odd way to do! And very pretty, too!”

Renée’s first feeling was that she would not look. Then with a quick inconsequence she wanted to see every step, every motion, every glance. Her king! Barbe Guion had chosen him, and the child’s eyes flashed.

It was a beautiful dance, and the gliding, skimming steps of light feet answered the measure of the music exquisitely. Other circles formed. The kings and the queens were not to have it all to themselves.

The balls were often kept up till almost morning, though the children and some of the older people went home. Gaspard made his way through the crowd. Madame Marchand beckoned him, and as he neared them he saw Renée was clinging to her with a desperate emotion next to tears.

“Is it not time little ones were in bed?” she asked with her fascinating smile and in pretty, broken French. “Madame Garreau wishes to retire. It is beautiful, and every one is so cordial. I have danced with delight,” and her pleasure shone in her eyes. “But we will take the child safe to Mère Lunde if it is your will.”

“Oh, thank you. Yes. You will go, Renée? You look tired.” She was pale and her eyes were heavy.

“And you – you stay here and are Ma’m’selle Barbe’s king,” she said in a tone of plaintive reproach that went to his heart.

“That is only for to-night. There are other queens beside her.”

“But she is your queen.” The delicate emphasis amused him, it betrayed the rankling jealousy.

“And you are my queen as well, to-morrow, next week, all the time. So do not grudge her an hour or two. See, I am going to give you her rose, my rose, to take home with you.”

She smiled, albeit languidly, and held out her small hand, grasping it with triumph.

He broke the stem as he drew it out, leaving the pin in his coat.

“Now let me see you wrapped up snug and tight. Mind you don’t get any cold. Tell Mère Lunde to warm the bed and give you something hot to drink.”

She nodded and the party went to the dressing room. The two Indian women chattered in their own language, or rather in a patois that they had adopted. Wawataysee was very happy, and her soft eyes shone with satisfaction. Her husband thought her the prettiest woman in all St. Louis.

Renée gave her orders and Mère Lunde attended to them cheerfully.

“For if you should fall ill again our hearts would be heavy with sorrow and anxiety.” she said.

Renée had carried the rose under her cloak and it was only a little wilted. She put it in some water herself, and brought the stand near the fireplace, for sometimes it would freeze on the outer edges of the room, though they kept a big log fire all night.

Gaspard went back to Ma’m’selle Barbe.

“Oh, your rose!” she cried. “Where is it?”

He put his hand to his coat as if he had not known it. “The pin is left,” he said. “What a crowd there is! St. Louis is getting overrun with people,” laughing gayly. “Give me a rose out of your nosegay, for it would signify bad luck to go on the floor without it.”

He took one and fastened it in his coat again, and they were soon merrily dancing. There was no absolute need of changing partners, and the queens were proud of keeping their admirers all the evening.

Barbe was delighted and happy, for Gaspard evinced no disposition to stray off, and danced to her heart’s content, if not his. He had grown finer looking, certainly, since he had relinquished the hardships of a trapper’s life. His complexion had lost the weather-beaten look, his frame had filled out, and strangely enough, he was a much more ready talker. Renée chattered so much, asked him so many questions, and made him talk over people and places he had seen that it had given him a readiness to talk to women. Men could always find enough to say to each other, or enjoy silence over their pipes.

She seemed to grow brighter instead of showing fatigue, and her voice had musical cadences in it very sweet to hear. The touch of her hand on his arm or his shoulder in the dance did give him a peculiar sort of thrill. She was a very sweet, pretty girl. He was glad not to have her wasted on Alphonse Maurice.

But the delicious night came to an end for her. There was a curious little strife among some of the young men to make a bold dash and capture a queen. The girls were sometimes willing enough to be caught. Barbe had skilfully evaded this, he noted.

“Ma’m’selle Guion has the bravest king of them all,” said a neighbor. “He is a fine fellow. I wonder, Mère Renaud, you do not fan the flame into a blaze. He is prospering, too. Colonel Chouteau speaks highly of him and holds out a helping hand. If I had daughters no one would suit me better.”

Madame Renaud smiled and nodded as if she had a secret confidence.

Mothers in old St. Louis were very fond and proud of their daughters and were watchful of good opportunities for them. And those who had none rather envied them. It was the cordial family affection that made life in these wilderness places delightful.

Barbe was being wound up in her veil so that her pretty complexion should suffer no ill at this coldest hour of the twenty-four, after being heated in the dance. She looked very charming, very tempting. If he had been a lover he would have kissed her.

“You come so seldom now,” she said in a tone of seductive complaint. “And we were always such friends when you returned from your journeys. The children have missed you so much. And Lisa wonders – ”

“I suppose it is being busy every day. At that time you know there was a holiday between.”

“But there is no business now until spring opens,” in a pleading tone.

“Except for the householder, the shopkeeper. Oh, you have no idea how ingenious I have become. And the men drop in to talk over plans and berate the Governor because things are not in better shape. We would fare badly in an attack.”

“Are we in any danger from the British?”

“One can never tell. Perhaps they may take up Pontiac’s wild dream of driving us over the mountains into the sea. No,” with a short laugh, “I am not much afraid. And our Indians are friendly also.”

“Come, Barbe,” counselled Madame Renaud, but she took her husband’s arm and marched on ahead like an astute general.

Barbe clung closely to her attendant, for in some places it was slippery.

“Next time you will transfer your attentions,” she said with a touch of regret. “I wonder who will be your queen for a night?”

“The prettiest girl,” he said gayly.

“Madame Marchand is beautiful.”

“But she is no longer a girl.”

“Oh, no. You see a good deal of her, though?”

“They are over often. We are excellent friends.”

“Renée is quite bewitched with her.”

“Yes, they are very fond of each other.”

And somehow she, Barbe, was no more fond of the child than the child was of her.

Madame Renaud studied her sister’s face as they were unwinding their wraps. It was rather pale, not flushed and triumphant as she hoped.

Gaspared Denys stirred the fire in his shop and threw himself on a pile of skins and was asleep in five minutes. It had been a long while since he had danced all night.

They all slept late. There was no need of stirring early in the morning. They made no idol of industry, as the energetic settlers on the eastern coast did. Pleasure and happiness were enough for them. It ran in the French blood.

When Gaspard woke he heard a sound of an eager chattering voice. He rubbed his limbs and stretched himself, looked down on his red sash and then saw a withered red rose that he tossed in the fire.

“Ah, little one, you are as blithe as a bee,” was his greeting.

“Oh, Uncle Gaspard, you have on your ball clothes. When did you come home?” she asked.

“I dropped asleep in them. I am old and stiff this morning. I tumbled down on a pile of skins and stayed there.”

“You don’t look very old. And – are you a king now?” rather curiously.

“I must be two weeks hence. Then I resign my sceptre, and become an ordinary person.”

“And Mère Lunde said you had to choose a new queen.” There was a touch of elation in her voice.

“That is so. And I told Ma’m’selle Guion I should look out for the very prettiest girl. I shall be thinking all the time.”

“I wish you could take Wawataysee. She is the prettiest of anybody, and the sweetest.”

“And she has already chosen her king for life.”

“The breakfast will get cold,” warned Mère Lunde.

There were more snows, days when you could hardly stir out and paths had to be shovelled. The next ball night it stormed, but Renée did not care to go, because M. and Madame Marchand were staying all night and they would play games and have parched corn and cakes and spiced drinks. Wawataysee would sing, too. And though the songs were odd, she had an exquisite voice, and she could imitate almost any bird, as well as the wind flying and shrieking through the trees, and then softening with sounds of spring.

Sometimes they danced together, and it was a sight to behold, the very impersonation of grace; soft, languid mazes at first and then warming into flying sprites of the forest. And how Renée’s eyes shone and her cheeks blossomed, while the little moccasined feet made no more sound than a mouse creeping about.

There was no especial carnival at St. Louis, perhaps a little more gayety than usual, and the dances winding up at midnight. Nearly every one went to church the next morning, listened to the prayers reverently, had a small bit of ashes dropped on his or her head, went home and fasted the rest of the day. But Lent was not very strictly kept, and the maids were preparing for Easter weddings.

“It is strange,” said grandaunt Guion, “that Barbe has no lover. She is too giddy, too much of a coquette. She will be left behind. And she is too pretty to turn into an old maid. Guion girls were not apt to hang on hand.”

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.