CHAPTER III. LOUISVILLE CELEBRATES
“They have gran’ time in Louisville to-night, Davy,” said JakeLandrasse, as he paddled me towards the Kentucky shore; “you hear?”
“I should be stone deaf if I didn’t,” I answered, for the shouting whichcame from the town filled me with forebodings.
“They come back from the barbecue full of whiskey,” said Jake, “and ayoung man at the tavern come out on the porch and he say, ‘Get ready youall to go to Louisiana! You been hole back long enough by tyranny.’ SamBarker come along and say he a Federalist. They done have a gran’ fight,he and the young feller, and Sam got licked. He went at Sam just like aharricane.”
“And then?” I demanded.
“Them four wanted to leave,” said Jake, taking no trouble to disguisehis disgust, “and I had to fetch ‘em over. I’ve got to go back and waitfor ‘em now,” and he swore with sincere disappointment. “I reckon thereain’t been such a jamboree in town for years.”
Jake had not exaggerated. Gentlemen from Moore’s Settlement, fromSullivan’s Station on the Bear Grass,--to be brief, the entire malepopulation of the county seemed to have moved upon Louisville after thebarbecue, and I paused involuntarily at the sight which met my eyes as Icame into the street. A score of sputtering, smoking pine-knots threwa lurid light on as many hilarious groups, and revealed, fantasticallyenough, the boles and lower branches of the big shade trees above them.Navigation for the individual, difficult enough lower down, in front ofthe tavern became positively dangerous. There was a human eddy,--nay, amaelstrom would better describe it. Fights began, but ended abortivelyby reason of the inability of the combatants to keep their feet; oneman whose face I knew passed me with his hat afire, followed by severalcompanions in gusts of laughter, for the torch-bearers were carelessand burned the ears of their friends in their enthusiasm. Another personwhom I recognized lacked a large portion of the front of his attire, andseemed sublimely unconscious of the fact. His face was badly scratched.Several other friends of mine were indulging in brief intervals ofrest on the ground, and I barely avoided stepping on them. Still othergentlemen were delivering themselves of the first impressive periods oforations, only to be drowned by the cheers of their auditors. These werethe snatches which I heard as I picked my way onward with exaggeratedfear:--
“Gentlemen, the Mississippi is ours, let the tyrants who forbid its usebeware!” “To hell with the Federal government!” “I tell you, sirs,this land is ours. We have conquered it with our blood, and I reckon noSpaniard is goin’ to stop us. We ain’t come this far to stand still.We settled Kaintuck, fit off the redskins, and we’ll march across theMississippi and on and on--” “To Louisiany!” they shouted, and the wholecrowd would take it up, “To Louisiany! Open the river!”
So absorbed was I in my own safety and progress that I did not pauseto think (as I have often thought since) of the full meaning of this,though I had marked it for many years. The support given to Wilkinson’splots, to Clark’s expedition, was merely the outward and visible sign ofthe onward sweep of a resistless race. In spite of untold privations andhardships, of cruel warfare and massacre, these people had toiled overthe mountains into this land, and impatient of check or hindrance would,even as Clark had predicted, when their numbers were sufficient leap theMississippi. Night or day, drunk or sober, they spoke of this thingwith an ever increasing vehemence, and no man of reflection who had readtheir history could say that they would be thwarted. One day Louisianawould be theirs and their children’s for the generations to come. Oneday Louisiana would be American.
That I was alive and unscratched when I got as far as the tavern is amarvel. Amongst all the passion-lit faces which surrounded me I couldget no sight of Nick’s, and I managed to make my way to a momentarilyquiet corner of the porch. As I leaned against the wall there, trying tothink what I should do, there came a great cheering from a little way upthe street, and then I straightened in astonishment. Above the cheeringcame the sound of a drum beaten in marching time, and above that thereburst upon the night what purported to be the “Marseillaise,” taken upand bawled by a hundred drunken throats and without words. Those aroundme who were sufficiently nimble began to run towards the noise, and Iran after them. And there, marching down the middle of the street at thehead of a ragged and most indecorous column of twos, in the centre ofa circle of light cast by a pine-knot which Joe Handy held, was Mr.Nicholas Temple. His bearing, if a trifle unsteady, was proud, and--ifI could believe my eyes--around his neck was slung the thing whichI prized above all my possessions,--the drum which I had carried toKaskaskia and Vincennes! He had taken it from the peg in my room.
I shrink from putting on paper the sentimental side of my nature, andindeed I could give no adequate idea of my affection for that drum. Andthen there was Nick, who had been lost to me for five years! My impulsewas to charge the procession, seize Nick and the drum together, and dragthem back to my room; but the futility and danger of such a course wereapparent, and the caution for which I am noted prevented my undertakingit. The procession, augmented by all those to whom sufficient power ofmotion remained, cheered by the helpless but willing ones on the ground,swept on down the street and through the town. Even at this late dayI shame to write it! Behold me, David Ritchie, Federalist, execrablysober, at the head of the column behind the leader. Was it twentyminutes, or an hour, that we paraded? This I know, that we slighted nostreet in the little town of Louisville. What was my bearing,--whetherproud or angry or carelessly indifferent,--I know not. The glare ofJoe Handy’s torch fell on my face, Joe Handy’s arm and that of anothergentleman, the worse for liquor, were linked in mine, and they sawfit to applaud at every step my conversion to the cause of Liberty. Wepassed time and time again the respectable door-yards of my Federalistfriends, and I felt their eyes upon me with that look which the angelshave for the fallen. Once, in front of Mr. Wharton’s house, Mr. Handyburned my hair, apologized, staggered, and I took the torch! And I usedit to good advantage in saving the drum from capture. For Mr. Temple,with all the will in the world, had begun to stagger. At length, aftermarching seemingly half the night, they halted by common consent beforethe house of a prominent Democrat who shall be nameless, and, after someminutes of vain importuning, Nick, with a tattoo on the drum, marchedboldly up to the gate and into the yard. A desperate cunning came to myaid. I flung away the torch, leaving the head of the column in darkness,broke from Mr. Handy’s embrace, and, seizing Nick by the arm, led himonward through the premises, he drumming with great docility. Followedby a few stragglers only (some of whom went down in contact with thetrees of the orchard), we came to a gate at the back which I knew well,which led directly into the little yard that fronted my own rooms behindMr. Crede’s store. Pulling Nick through the gate, I slammed it, and hewas only beginning to protest when I had him safe within my door, andthe bolt slipped behind him. As I struck a light something fell to thefloor with a crash, an odor of alcohol filled the air, and as the candlecaught the flame I saw a shattered whiskey bottle at my feet and a roomwhich had been given over to carousing. In spite of my feelings I couldnot but laugh at the perfectly irresistible figure my cousin made, as hestood before me with the drum slung in front of him. His hat was gone,his dust-covered clothes awry, but he smiled at me benignly and withouta trace of surprise.
“Sho you’ve come back at lasht, Davy,” he said. “You’re--you’revery--irregular. You’ll lose--law bishness. Y-you’re worse’n AndyJackson--he’s always fightin’.”
I relieved him, unprotesting, of the drum, thanking my stars therewas so much as a stick left of it. He watched me with a silent andexaggerated interest as I laid it on the table. From a distance withoutcame the shouts of the survivors making for the tavern.
“‘Sfortunate you had the drum, Davy,” he said gravely, “‘rwe’d had noprocession.”
“It is fortunate I have it now,” I answered, looking ruefully at thebattered rim where Nick had missed the skin in his ardor.
“Davy,” said he,
“funny thing--I didn’t know you wash a Jacobite. Sh’ouhear,” he added relevantly, “th’ Andy Jackson was married?”
“No,” I answered, having no great interest in Mr. Jackson. “Where haveyou been seeing him again?”
“Nashville on Cumberland. Jackson’sh county sholicitor,--devil of aman. I’ll tell you, Davy,” he continued, laying an uncertain hand onmy shoulder and speaking with great earnestness, “I had Chicashawhorse--Jackson’d Virginia thoroughbred--had a race--‘n’Jackson wantedto shoot me ‘n’I wanted to shoot Jackson. ‘N’then we all went to the RedHeifer--”
“What the deuce is the Red Heifer?” I asked.
“‘N’dishtillery over a shpring, ‘n’they blow a horn when the liquorrunsh. ‘N’then we had supper in Major Lewish’s tavern. Major Lewis camein with roast pig on platter. You know roast pig, Davy?... ‘N’Jacksonpulls out’s hunting knife n’waves it very mashestic.... You know howmashestic Jackson is when he--wantshtobe?” He let go my shoulder,brushed back his hair in a fiery manner, and, seizing a knife whichunhappily lay on the table, gave me a graphic illustration of Mr.Jackson about to carve the pig, I retreating, and he coming on. “N’whenhe stuck the pig, Davy,--”
He poised the knife for an instant in the air, and then, before I couldinterpose, he brought it down deftly through the head of my preciousdrum, and such a frightful, agonized squeal filled the room that even Ishivered involuntarily, and for an instant I had a vivid vision of a pigstruggling in the hands of a butcher. I laughed in spite of myself. ButNick regarded me soberly.
“Funny thing, Davy,” he said, “they all left the room.” For a momenthe appeared to be ruminating on this singular phenomenon. Then hecontinued: “‘N’Jackson was back firsht, ‘n’he was damned impolite...‘n’he shook his fist in my face” (here Nick illustrated Mr. Jackson’sgesture), “‘n’he said, ‘Great God, sir, y’have a fine talent, but ify’ever do that again, I’ll--I’ll kill you.’ That’sh what he said,Davy.”
“How long have you been in Nashville, Nick?” I asked.
“A year,” he said, “lookin’ after property I won rattle-an’-shnap--youremember?”
“And why didn’t you let me know you were in Nashville?” I asked, thoughI realized the futility of the question.
“Thought you was--mad at me,” he answered, “but you ain’t, Davy. You’vebeen very good-natured t’ let me have your drum.” He straightened. “I amver’ much obliged.”
“And where were you before you went to Nashville?” I said.
“Charleston, ‘Napolis... Philadelphia... everywhere,” he answered.
“Now,” said he, “‘mgoin’ t’ bed.”
I applauded this determination, but doubted whether he meant to carryit out. However, I conducted him to the back room, where he sat himselfdown on the edge of my four-poster, and after conversing a littlelonger on the subject of Mr. Jackson (who seemed to have gotten upon hisbrain), he toppled over and instantly fell asleep with his clothes on.For a while I stood over him, the old affection welling up so stronglywithin me that my eyes were dimmed as I looked upon his face. Spare andhandsome it was, and boyish still, the weaker lines emphasized in itsrelaxation. Would that relentless spirit with which he had been bornmake him, too, a wanderer forever? And was it not the strangest of fateswhich had impelled him to join this madcap expedition of this other manI loved, George Rogers Clark?
I went out, closed the door, and lighting another candle took from myportfolio a packet of letters. Two of them I had not read, having foundthem only on my return from Philadelphia that morning. They were allsigned simply “Sarah Temple,” they were dated at a certain number in theRue Bourbon, New Orleans, and each was a tragedy in that which it hadleft unsaid. There was no suspicion of heroics, there was no railing atfate; the letters breathed but the one hope,--that her son might comeagain to that happiness of which she had robbed him. There were in allbut twelve, and they were brief, for some affliction had nearly deprivedthe lady of the use of her right hand. I read them twice over, andthen, despite the lateness of the hour, I sat staring at the candles,reflecting upon my own helplessness. I was startled from this revery bya knock. Rising hastily, I closed the door of my bedroom, thinking Ihad to do with some drunken reveller who might be noisy. The knock wasrepeated. I slipped back the bolt and peered out into the night.
“I saw dat light,” said a voice which I recognized; “I think I come into say good night.”
I opened the door, and he walked in.
“You are one night owl, Monsieur Reetchie,” he said.
“And you seem to prefer the small hours for your visits, Monsieur de St.Gré,” I could not refrain from replying.
He swept the room with a glance, and I thought a shade of disappointmentpassed over his face. I wondered whether he were looking for Nick. Hesat himself down in my chair, stretched out his legs, and regarded mewith something less than his usual complacency.
“I have much laik for you, Monsieur Reetchie,” he began, and waved asidemy bow of acknowledgment “Before I go away from Louisville I want tospik with you,--this is a risson why I am here. You listen to what datDepeau he say,--dat is not truth. My family knows you, I laik to haveyou hear de truth.”
He paused, and while I wondered what revelations he was about to make, Icould not repress my impatience at the preamble.
“You are my frien’, you have prove it,” he continued. “You remember las’time we meet?” (I smiled involuntarily.) “You was in bed, but you notneed be ashame’ for me. Two days after I went to France, and I not inNew Orleans since.”
“Two days after you saw me?” I repeated.
“Yaas, I run away. That was the mont’ of August, 1789, and we have notthen heard in New Orleans that the Bastille is attack. I lan’ atLa Havre,--it is the en’ of Septembre. I go to the Château de St.Gré--great iron gates, long avenue of poplar,--big house all ‘round acourt, and Monsieur le Marquis is at Versailles. I borrow three louisfrom the concierge, and I go to Versailles to the hotel of Monsieurle Marquis. There is all dat trouble what you read about going on, andMonsieur le Marquis he not so glad to see me for dat risson. ‘Mon cherAuguste,’ he cry, ‘you want to be officier in gardes du corps? You arenot afred?’” (Auguste stiffened.) “‘I am a St. Gré, Monsieur le Marquis.I am afred of nothings,’ I answered. He tek me to the King, I am madelieutenant, the mob come and the King and Queen are carry off to Paris.The King is prisoner, Monsieur le Marquis goes back to the Château deSt. Gré. France is a republic. Monsieur--que voulez-vous?” (The Sieurde St. Gré shrugged his shoulders.) “I, too, become Republican. I becomeofficier in the National Guard,--one must move with the time. Is itnot so, Monsieur? I deman’ of you if you ever expec’ to see a St. Gré aRepublican.”
I expressed my astonishment.
“I give up my right, my principle, my family. I come to America--I go toNew Orleans where I have influence and I stir up revolution for France,for Liberty. Is it not noble cause?”
I had it on the tip of my tongue to ask Monsieur Auguste why he leftFrance, but the uselessness of it was apparent.
“You see, Monsieur, I am justify before you, before my frien’s,--thatis all I care,” and he gave another shrug in defiance of the worldat large. “What I have done, I have done for principle. If I remainRoyalist, I might have marry my cousin, Mademoiselle de St. Gré. Ha,Monsieur, you remember--the miniature you were so kin’ as to borrow mefour hundred livres?”
“I remember,” I said.
“It is because I have much confidence in you, Monsieur,” he said, “it isbecause I go--peut-être--to dangere, to death, that I come here and askyou to do me a favor.”
“You honor me too much, Monsieur,” I answered, though I could scarcerefrain from smiling.
“It is because of your charactair,” Monsieur Auguste was good enough tosay. “You are to be repose’ in, you are to be rely on. Sometime I thinkyou ver’ ole man. And this is why, and sence you laik objects of art,that I bring this and ask you keep it while I am in dang
ere.”
I was mystified. He thrust his hand into his coat and drew forth an ovalobject wrapped in dirty paper, and then disclosed to my astonished eyesthe miniature of Mademoiselle de St. Gré,--the miniature, I say, forthe gold back and setting were lacking. Auguste had retained only theivory,--whether from sentiment or necessity I will not venture. Thesight of it gave me a strange sensation, and I can scarcely write of theanger and disgust which surged over me, of the longing to snatch it fromhis trembling fingers. Suddenly I forgot Auguste in the lady herself.There was something emblematical in the misfortune which had bereftthe picture of its setting. Even so the Revolution had taken from hera brilliant life, a king and queen, home and friends. Yet the spiritremained unquenchable, set above its mean surroundings,--ay, anduntouched by them. I was filled with a painful curiosity to know whathad become of her, which I repressed. Auguste’s voice aroused me.
“Ah, Monsieur, is it not a face to love, to adore?”
“It is a face to obey,” I answered, with some heat, and with more truththan I knew.
“Mon Dieu, Monsieur, it is so. It is that mek me love--you know not how.You know not what love is, Monsieur Reetchie, you never love laik me.You have not sem risson. Monsieur,” he continued, leaning forward andputting his hand on my knee, “I think she love me--I am not sure. Ishould not be surprise’. But Monsieur le Marquis, her father, he trit mever’ bad. Monsieur le Marquis is guillotine’ now, I mus’ not spik evilof him, but he marry her to one ol’ garçon, Le Vicomte d’Ivry-le-Tour.”
“So Mademoiselle is married,” I said after a pause.
“Oui, she is Madame la Vicomtesse now; I fall at her feet jus’ the sem.I hear of her once at Bel Oeil, the château of Monsieur le Princede Ligne in Flander’. After that they go I know not where. They areexile’,--los’ to me.” He sighed, and held out the miniature to me.“Monsieur, I esk you favor. Will you be as kin’ and keep it for meagain?”
I have wondered many times since why I did not refuse. Suffice it to saythat I took it. And Auguste’s face lighted up.
“I am a thousan’ times gret’ful,” he cried; and added, as though withan afterthought, “Monsieur, would you be so kin’ as to borrow me fif’dollars?”
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