 Book 3 Chapter 2 of the Crossing by Winston Churchill It was Mayday, and shortly after dawn we slipped into the quiet water which is banked up for many miles above the falls. The captain and I set forward on the deck, breathing deeply the sharp odor which comes from the wet forest in the early morning, listening to the soft splash of the oars, and watching the green form of eighteen-mile island as it gently drew nearer and nearer. And ere the sun had risen greatly we had passed twelve-mile island, and emerging from the narrow channel which divides six-mile island from the northern shore, we beheld on its terrace above the bare grass Louisville. Being white in the morning sun, majestic in its mile of wit, calm as though gathering courage, the river seemed to straighten for the ordeal to come, and the sound of its waters crying over the rocks far below came faintly to my ear and awoke memories of a day gone by. Fearful of the suck, we crept along the Indian shore until we counted the boats moored in the bare grass, and presently above the trees on our right we saw the stars and stripes floating from the log bastion of Fort Fenney, and below the fort on the gentle sunny slope of the river's brink was spread the green garden of the garrison, with its sprouting vegetables and fruit trees blooming pink and white. We were greeted by a company of buff and blue officers at the landing, and I was bidden to breakfast at their mess, kept in Wendale promising to take me over to Louisville afterwards. We had business in the town, and about eight o'clock we crossed the wide river in one of the barges of the fort and made fast at the landing in the bare grass. But no sooner had we entered the town than we met a number of country people on horseback, with their wives and daughters, I and sweethearts perched up behind them, the men mostly in butternut, Lindsay-hunting shirts and trousers, schlouse hats and red hackerchiefs stuck into their bosoms, the women marvelously pretty and fresh in stiff cotton gowns and Quaker hats, and some in crimped caps with ribbons neatly tied under the chin. Before Mr. Eastern's tavern, Joe Handy, the fiddler, was reeling off a few bars of Hey Betty Martin to the familiar crowd of loungers under the big poplar. "'It's Davy Richie,' shouted Joe, breaking off in the middle of the tune. "'Welcome home, Davy. You're just in time for the barbecue on the island.' "'And Captain Wendale, howdy, Cap,' drawled another, a huge, long-haired, sallow, dirty fellow, but the captain only glared. "'Damn him,' he said, after I had spoken to Joe and we had passed on. He ought to be barbecued. He nearly bit off ends in Barry's nose a couple of months ago. Barry tried to stop the beast in a gouging fight. The bright morning, the shady streets, the home-like frame and log houses, the old-time fragrant odor of corn-pone wafted it out of the open doorways. The warm greetings all made me happy to be back again. Mr. Creed rushed out and escorted us into his cool store, and while he waited on his country customers, Bade his Negro brew a bowl of toddy, at the mention of which Mr. Bill Whalen, Chief Habitu, roused himself from a stupor on a tobacco barrel. Presently the customers, having indulged in the toddy, departed for the barbecue. The captain went to the fort, and Mr. Creed and myself were left alone to talk over the business which had sent me to Philadelphia. At four o'clock, having finished my report and dined with my client, I set out for Clarksville, for Mr. Creed had told me, among other things, that the general was there. Louisville was deserted, the tavern porch vacant, but tacked on the logs beside the door was a printed bill which drew my curiosity. I stopped, caught by a familiar name in large type at the head of it, George R. Clark Esquire, Major General in the Armies of France and Commander-in-Chief of the French Revolutionary Legion on the Mississippi River. Proposals for raising volunteers for the reduction of the Spanish Post on the Mississippi, for opening the trade of said river and giving freedom to all its inhabitants. I had got so far, when I heard a noise of footsteps within, and Mr. Easton himself came out in his shirt sleeves. By Crickey Davy, said he, I'm right glad to see you again. Reading a general's bill, are you? Tire nation, I reckon Washington and all his European fellers east of the mountains won't be able to hold us back this time. I reckon we'll gallop over to Louisiana in the face of all the Spaniards ever created. I've got some new whiskey. I'll lousink tala. Come in, Davy. As he took me by the arm, a laughter and shouting came from the back room. It's some of them Frenchy-fellers come over from Knob Licks. There in it, and he pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the proclamation. And there's one young American among them who's a terrorer. Come in. I drank a glass of Mr. Easton's whiskey, and asked about the general. He stazed over and Clarksville pretty much, said Mr. Easton. There ain't quite so much walking around to do, he added significantly. I made my way down to the waterside, where Jake Landris sat alone on the gunnel of a Kentucky boat, smoking a clay pipe as he fished. I had to exercise persuasion to induce Jake to paddle me across, which he finally agreed to do on the score of old friendship. And he declared that the only reason he was not at the barbecue was because he was waiting to take a few gentlemen to see General Clark. I agreed to pay the damages if he were late in returning for these gentlemen, and soon he was shooting me with pulsing strokes across the lake-like expanse towards the landing at Fort Finney. Louisville and the Fort were just above the head of the falls, and the little town of Clarksville, which Clark had founded at the foot of them. I landed, took the road that led parallel with the river through the tender green of woods, and as I walked the mighty song which the falls had sung for ages to the wilderness rose higher and higher, and the faint spray seemed to be wafted through the forest and to hang in the air like the odor of a summer rain. It was May Day. The sweet caressing note of the thrush mingled with the music of the water, the dogwood in the wild plum were in festal array, but my heart was heavy with thinking of a great man who had cheapened himself. At length I came out upon a clearing where fifteen log houses marked the grant of the federal government to Clarks regiment. Perched on a tree-dotted knoll above the last spasm of the waters in their two-mile race for peace was a two-storied log house with a little square porch in front of the door. As I rounded the corner of the house and came inside of the porch I halted, by no will of my own, at the sight of a figure sunken in a wooden chair. It was that of my old colonel. His hands were folded in front of him. His eyes were fixed but dimly on the forest of the Kentucky shore across the water. His hair, uncared for, fell on the shoulders of his faded blue coat, and the stained buff west coat was unbuttoned, for he still wore unconsciously the colors of the army of the American Republic. General, I said, he started, got to his feet, and stared at me. Oh, it's Davey, he said. I was expecting some friends, Davey. What's the matter, Davey? I've been away. I'm glad to see you again, General. Citizen General, sir, Major General in the Army of the French Republic, and Commander-in-Chief of the French Revolutionary Legion on the Mississippi. You will always be Colonel Clark to me, sir, I answered. You, you were the drummer boy. I remember, and strutted in front of the regiment as if you were the colonel. You can't. I remember how you fooled the Cascascans when you told them we were going away. He looked at me, but his eyes were still fixed on the point beyond. You were always older than I, Davey. Are you married? In spite of myself, I laughed as I answered this question. You are as canny as ever, he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. Liberty, equality, fraternity. They are only possible for the bachelor. Hearing a noise, he glanced nervously in the direction of the woods, only to perceive his negro carrying a pail of water. I was expecting some friends, he said. Sit down, Davey. I hope I'm not intruding, General. I said, not daring to look at him. No, no, my son, he answered. You're always welcome. Did we not campaign together? Did we not shoot these very falls together on our way to Cascascia? He had to raise his voice above the roar of the water. Faith, well, I remember the day. And you saved it, Davey. You, a little Gamecock, a little whirl-y-wise, top of my thumb, Hamilton's scalp hanging by a lock he got. And they frightened out of their five wits because it was growing dark. He laughed and suddenly became solemn again. There comes a time in every man's life when it grows dark, Davey. And then the cowards are afraid. They have no friends whose hands they can reach out and feel. But you're my friend. You remember that you said you would always be my friend? It was in the fort at Vincennes. I remember, General. He rose from the steps, buttoned his westcoat, and straightened himself with an effort. He looked at me impressively. You have been a good friend indeed, Davey. A faithful friend, he said. You came to me when I was sick. You lent me money. You waved aside my protest. I'm happy to say that I shall soon be in a position to repay you, to reward you. My evil days are over and I spurned that government which spurned me, for the honor and glory of which I founded that city, he pointed in the direction of Louisville, for the power and wealth of which I conquered this northwest territory. Listen, I'm now in the service of a republic where the people have rights. I'm Commander-in-Chief of the French Revolutionary Legion on the Mississippi. Despite the supineness of Washington, the American nation will soon be at war with Spain. But my friends, and thank God there are many, will follow me. They will follow me to Natchez and New Orleans, and I even to Santa Fe and Mexico, if I give the word. The west is with me, and for the west I shall win the freedom of the Mississippi, for France and Liberty. I shall win back again Louisiana, and then I shall be a Marichal de Camp. I could not help thinking of a man who had not been want to speak of his intentions, who had kept his council for a year before Cascasca. I need my drummer boy, Davy, he said, his face lighting up. But he will not be a drummer boy now. He will be a trusted officer of high rank, mind you? Come, he cried, seizing me by the arm. I will write to commission this instant. But whole, you read French. I remember the day Father Gretbalt gave you your first lesson. He fumbled in his pocket, drew out a letter and handed it to me. This is from Citizen Micheal, the famous naturalist, the political agent of the French Republic. Read what he's written me. I read, I fear, in a faltering voice. When I had finished, I glanced at the general, but he seemed not to be heeding me. The sun was setting above a ragged line of forest, and a blue veil was spreading over the tumbling waters. He took me by the arm and led me into the house, into a bare room that was all awry. Maps hung on the wall, beside them the general's new commission rudely framed. Among the littered papers on the table were two whiskey bottles and several glasses, and strewn about were a number of chairs, the arms of which had been whittled by the general's guests. Across the rough mantel shelf was draped the French tricolor, and before the fireplace on the punch-ins lay a huge bear-skin which undoubtedly had not been shaken for a year. Picking up a bottle, the general poured out generous helpings in two of the glasses, and handed one to me. The mists are bad, Davy, said he. I cannot afford to get the fever now. Let us drink to the success of the Army of the Glorious Republic, France. Let us drink first, general, I said, to the old friendship between us. Good! he cried, tossing off his liquor he set down the glass and began what seemed a fruitless search among the thousand papers on the table. But at length, with a grunt of satisfaction, he produced a form and held it under my eyes. At the top of the sheet was that much abused and culminated lady, the goddess of liberty. Now, he said, drawing up a chair and dipping his quill into an almost depleted ink pot, I have decided to make you, David Ritchie, with full confidence in your ability and loyalty to the rights of liberty and mankind, a captain in the legion of the Mississippi. He crossed the room swiftly, and as he put his pen to paper I laid my hand on his arm. General, I cannot, I said. I had seen from the first the futility of trying to dissuade him from the expedition, and I knew now that it would never come off. I was willing to make almost any sacrifice rather than offend him, but this I could not allow. The general drew himself up in his chair and stared at me with a flash of his old look. You cannot, he repeated. You have affairs to attend to, I take it. I tried to speak, but he rode me down. There's money to be made in that prosperous town of Louisville. He did not understand the pain which his words caused me. He rose and laid his hands affectionately on my shoulders. Ah, David, commerce makes a man timid. Do you forget the old days when I was the father and you the son? Come, I will make you a fortune undreamed of, and you shall be my financier once more. I had not thought of the money, general, I answered, and I've always been ready to leave my business to serve a friend. There, there, said the general, soothingly, I know it, I would not offend you. You shall have the commission, and you may come when it pleases you. He said down again to write, but I restrained him. I cannot go, general, I said. Thunder and fury, cried the general. A man might think you were a weak-kneed federalist. He stared at me, and stared again, and rose and recoiled a step. My God, he said, you cannot be a federalist. You can't have marched to Cascascia and Vincennes. You can't have been a friend of mine and have seen how the government of the United States has treated me and to be a federalist. It was an argument and an appeal which I had foreseen, yet which I knew not how to answer. Suddenly there came, unbidden, his own counsel which he had given me long ago. Serve the people as all true men should in a republic, but do not rely upon their gratitude. This man had bidden me remember that. General, I said, trying to speak steadily. It was you who gave me my first love of the republic. I remember you as you stood on the heights above Cascascia waiting for the sun to go down, and you reminded me that it was the nation's birthday. And you said that our nation was to be a refuge of the oppressed of this earth, a nation made of all peoples out of all time. And you said that the lands beyond, and I pointed to the west as he had done, should belong to it until the sun sets on the sea again. I glanced at him for he was silent, and in my life I can recall no sadder a moment than this. The general heard, but the man who had spoken these words was gone forever. The eyes of this man before me were fixed as it were upon space. He heard, but he did not respond, for the spirit was gone. What I looked upon was the tortured body from which the genius, the spirit I had worshipped, had fled. I turned away, only to turn back in anger. What do you know of this France for which you are to fight? I cried. Have you heard of the thousands of innocents who were slaughtered, of the women and children who were butchered in the streets in the name of liberty? What have those blood-stained adventures to do with liberty? What have the fishwives who loved the sight of blood to do with you that would fight for them? You warned me that this people and this government, to which you have given so much, would be ungrateful. Will the butchers and fishwives be more grateful? He caught only the word grateful, and he rose to his feet with something of the old straightness and of the old power. And, by evil chance, his eye and mine fell upon the sword hanging on the father wall. Well I remember when he had received it. Well I knew the inscription on its blade, presented by the State of Virginia to her beloved son George Rogers Clark, who by the conquest of Illinois and St. Vincennes extended her empire and aided in the defense of her liberties. By evil chance, I say, his eye lighted on that sword. In three steps he crossed the room to where it hung, snatched it from its scabbard, and ere I could prevent him he had snapped it across his knee and flung the pieces in a corner. So much for the gratitude of my country, he said. I had gone out on the little porch and stood gazing over the expanse of forest and waters lighted by the afterglow. Then I felt a hand upon my shoulder. I heard a familiar voice calling me by an old name. Yes, General, I turned wonderingly. You are a good lad, Davy. I trust you, he said. I was expecting some friends. He lifted a hand that was not too steady to his brow and scanned the road leading to the fort. Even as he spoke, four figures emerged from the woods. Undoubtedly the gentleman who had held the council at the end that afternoon. We watched them in silence as they drew nearer, and then something in the walk and appearance of the foremost began to bother me. He were a long double-breasted, claret-colored redding-goat that fitted his slim figure to perfection, and his gate was the easy gate of a man who goes through the world careless of its pitfalls. So intently did I stare that I gave no thought to those who followed him. Suddenly, when he was within fifty paces, a cry escaped me. I should have known that smiling, sallow, weakly, handsome face anywhere in the world. The gentleman was none other than Montchure Auguste de Saint-Grie. At the foot of the steps he halted and swept his hand to his hat with a military salute. Citizen General, he said gracefully, we come and pay our respects to you and make our report. I'm very happy to see you look well. Citizens, viva la Republic! Hail to the Citizen General! Viva la Republic! Viva la General! cried the three citizens behind him. Citizens, you are very welcome, answered the general gravely as he descended the steps and took each of them by the hand. Citizens, allow me to introduce to you my old friend, Citizen David Richie. Milistia, bless! cried the citizen Saint-Grie, seizing me by the hand. Cess mon cher ami! Monsieur Richie! Very happy, you have the Santa Monsieur! And snatching his wide-brimmed military cocked hat from his head, he made me a smiling, sweeping bow. What! cried the general to me. You know the Sur de Saint-Grie, David? He was my guest once in Louisian, ma General, Monsieur Auguste explained. My family knows him. You know the Sur de Saint-Grie, David? said the general again. Yes, I know him, I answered, I fear with some brevity. Pardon me, said Auguste. I am now Citizen Captain de Saint-Grie, and you are also embarked in the glorious cause. Ah, I am happy, he added, embracing me with a winning glance. I was relieved from the embarrassment of denying the impeachment by reason of being introduced to the other notables, to Captain Citizen Sullivan, who wore an undress uniform consisting of a cotton butternut hunting shirt. He had charge on the bare grass of building the boats for the expedition, and was likewise a prominent member of that Auguste body, the Jacobin Society of Lexington. Next came Citizen Quartermaster de Puy, now of Knob Lix, Kentucky, some time of New Orleans. The Citizen Quartermaster wore his hair long in the backwoods fashion. He had a keen pale face and sunken eyes. Very glad make you known to me, Citizen Richie. The fourth gentleman was likewise French and called Gignot. The Citizen Gignot made some sort of an impression on me, which I did not stop to analyze. He was a small man with a little round hand that wriggled out of my grasp. He had a big French nose, bright eyes that popped a little and gave him the habit of looking sideways, and grizzled chestnut eyebrows over them. He had a thin-lipped mouth and a round chin. Citizen Richie, is it? I like to know Citizen's name glorified by grand cause, Richie. Will you enter, Citizens? said the General. I do not know why I followed them, unless it was to satisfy my devil-prompted curiosity as to how Auguste Saint-Grie had got there. We went into the room where the General's slovenly negro was already lighting the candles, and the General proceeded to collect and fill six of the glasses on the table. It was Citizen Captain Sullivan who gave the toast. Citizens, he cried, I give you the health of the foremost apostle of liberty in the Western world, the General who tamed the savage tribes who braved their elements, who brought to their knees the minions of a despot king. A slight suspicion of a hiccough filled this gap. Cast aside by an ungrateful government, he is still unfaltering in his allegiance to the people. May he lead our legion victorious through the Spanish dominions. Vive la Republic, they shouted, draining their glasses. Vive la Citézaine, Enrol Clarke. Louisiana, shouted Citizen Sullivan, warming. Louisiana, groaning under oppression and tyranny, is imploring us with uplifted hands to those remaining veteran patriots whose footsteps we follow to this distant desert, and who by their blood and toil have converted it into a smiling country we now look. Under your guidance, Citizen General, we fought, we bled. How far the Citizen Captain would have gone is problematical. I had noticed a look of disgust slowly creeping into the Citizen Quartermaster's eyes, and at this juncture he seized the Citizen Captain and thrust him into a chair. Sacré-vente, he exclaimed, it is the proclamation. He recites the proclamation. I see he have participated in those handbills of war. Poof! The world is to conquer. Let us not speak so much. I give you one toast, said the little Citizen Geno, slyly. We all bring back one wife from Nouveau-Aulines. Ha! exclaimed the sewer de sangri, laughing. The Citizen Captain du Puy, he has already one wife in Nouveau-Aulines. It is unnecessary for the editor to remind the reader that these are not Mr. Rich's words, but those of an adventurer. Mr. du Puy was an honest and worthy gentleman, earnest enough in a cause which is more to his credit than to an American's. According to a contemporary evidence, Madame du Puy was in Nouveau-Aulines. The Citizen Quartermaster was angry at this, and it did not require any great purse capacity on my part to discover that he did not love the Citizen de Saint-Grie. He is called in his country, Gumbaux de Saint-Grie, said Citizen du Puy. It is a dish of that country. But to business citizens, we embark on glorious enterprise. The king and queen of France, she pay for her treason with their haids, and we must be prepared for do the same. Ha! exclaimed the sewer de Saint-Grie. The Citizen Quartermaster will lose his provision before his head. The inference was plain, and the Citizen Quartermaster was quick to take it up. We're all among friends, said he. Why I call you Gumbaux de Saint-Grie. When I come first settled in Louisiana, you was Wildman, yes? Drink taffia, fight dual, spend family money. Aristocrat then. No, I not hold my tongue. You go France and Monsieur de Marques de Saint-Grie, he gets you in God's decor of the king. Yes, I tell him. You tell the Citizen General, how come you jocobin now, and we see if he make you captain? A murmur of surprise escaped from several of the company, and they all stared at the sewer de Saint-Grie. But General Clark brought down his fist on the table with something of his old-time vigor, and the glasses rattled. Gentlemen, I will have no quarreling in my presence, he cried, and I beg to inform Citizen de Puy that I bestow my commissions where it pleases me. Auguste de Saint-Grie rose, flushing to his feet. Citizens, he said, with a fluency that was easy for him, I never make secret of my history. No. It is true, my relation. Monsieur de Marques de Saint-Grie bought me a pair of colors and the king's God's decor. And is it not true you tremble the caucade, what I hear from Philadelphia? Tried de Puy. Monsieur Auguste smiled with a patient tolerance. If you have pains to make inquiry, said he, you must learn that I join de Marques de Lafayette and the National Guard, that I have since fight for the revolution, that I am come now home to fight for Louisian, as Monsieur Genet will tell you whom I saw in Philadelphia. The Citizen Capitaine, he speaks true. All eyes were turned towards Genot, who had been sitting back in his chair very quiet. It is true what he say, he repeated. I have it by Monsieur Genet himself. Gentlemen, said General Clark, this is beside the question and I will not have these petty quarrels. I may as well say to you now that I have chosen the Citizen Captain to go at once to New Orleans and organize a regiment among the citizens there faithful to France. On account of his family and supposed royalist tendencies he will not be suspected. I fear that a month at least has yet to elapse before our expedition can move. It is one wise choice, put in Monsieur Genot. Monsieur le General, and gentlemen, said the sewer de Saint-Grie gracefully, I thank you very much for the confidence. I leave by first flat boat and will have all things stir up when you come. The citizens of Louisiana wait you. If necessary, we have hold in Levy, ready to cut. Citizens interrupted General Clark, sitting down before the ink pot. Let me hear the quarter-master's report of supplies of knob licks, and Citizen Sullivan's account of the boats. But hold, he cried, glancing around him. Where is Captain Temple? I heard that he had come to Louisville from the Cumberland today. Is he not going with you to New Orleans, Songrie? I took up the name involuntarily. Captain Temple, I repeated while they stared at me. Nicholas Temple? It was Auguste de Songrie, who replied. The same, he said. I recall he was along with you in Novel Orleans. He is at the tavern, and he has had one grand fight in his very, I'm sorry, intoxicate. I know not how. I made my way through the Black Woods to Fort Fenney, where I discovered Jake Landress and his canoe. The road was long and yet short, for my brain whirled with the expectation of seeing Nick again, and the thought of this poor, pathetic ludicrous expedition, compared to the sublime one I had known. George Rogers Clark had come to this. End of Chapter 2 Book 3, Chapter 3 of The Crossing by Winston Churchill They have grand time in Louisville tonight, Davey, said Jake Landress, as he paddled me towards the Kentucky shore. You hear? I should be stone deaf if I didn't, I answered, for the shouting which came from the town filled me with forebodings. They come back from the barbecue full of whiskey, said Jake, and a young man at the tavern come out on the porch, and he say, Get ready, you old, to go to Louisiana. You've been holed up back long enough by tyranny. Sam Baker come along, and he say he a Federalist. He done from a grand fight, he and the young fellow, and Sam got licked. He went at Sam like a hurricane. And then, I demanded. Them four wanted to leave, taking no trouble to disguise his disgust. And I had to fetch him over. I've got to go back and wait for him now. And you swore with sincere disappointment. I reckon there ain't been such a jamboree in town for years. Jake had not exaggerated. Gentlemen from Moore Settlement, from Sullivan Station on the Bear Grass, to be brief the entire male population of the county, seemed to have moved upon Louisville after the barbecue. And I paused involuntarily at the sight which met my eyes as I came into the street. A score of sputtering, smoking pine-knots, threw a lurid light on as many hilarious groups, and revealed, fantastically enough, the bowls and lower branches of the big shade trees above them. Navigation for the individual, difficult enough, lower down, in front of the tavern, became positively dangerous. There was a human eddy, nay a maelstrom would better describe it. Fights began, but ended abortively by reason of the inability of the combatants to keep their feet. One man, whose face I knew, passed me with his hat afire, followed by several companions in gusts of laughter. For the torch-bearers were careless and burned the ears of their friends in their enthusiasm. Another person whom I recognized lacked a large portion of the front of his attire, and seemed sublimely unconscious of the fact. His face was badly scratched. Several other friends of mine were indulging in brief intervals of rest on the ground, and I barely avoided stepping on them. Still other gentlemen were delivering themselves of the first impressive periods of orations, only to be drowned by the cheers of their auditors. These were the snatches which I heard as I picked my way onward with exaggerated fear. Gentlemen, the Mississippi is ours. Let the tyrants who forbid its use beware. To hell with the federal government! I tell you, sirs, this land is ours. We've conquered it with our blood, and I reckon no Spaniard's going to stop us. We ain't come this far to stand still. We settle cantuck, fit off the red skins, and we'll march across the Mississippi and on and on. To Louisiana, they shouted, and the whole crowd would take it up. To Louisiana! Open the river! So absorbed was I in my own safety and progress that I did not pause to think, as I've often thought since, of the full meaning of this, though I had marked it for many years. The support given to Wilkinson's plots, to Clark's expedition, were merely the outward and visible sign of the onward sweep of a restless race. In spite of untold privations and hardships, of cruel warfare and massacre, these people had toiled over the mountains into this land, and impatient of cheek or hindrance would, even as Clark had predicted, when their numbers were sufficient, leap the Mississippi. Night or day, drunk or sober, they spoke of this thing within ever-increasing vehemence, and no man of reflection who had read their history could say that they would be thwarted. One day Louisiana would be theirs, and their children's, for the generations to come. One day Louisiana would be American. That I was alive and unscathed when I got as far as the tavern is a marvel. Amongst all the passion-lit faces which surrounded me I could get no sight of Knicks, and I managed to make my way to a momentary quiet corner of the porch. As I leaned against the wall there, trying to think what I should do, there came a great cheering from a little way up the street, and then I straightened in astonishment. Above the cheering came the sound of a drum, beaten in marching time, and above that there burst upon the night what purported to be the Marseilles, taken up and brawled by a hundred drunken throats and without words. Those around me who were sufficiently nimble began to run towards the noise, and I ran after them, and there, marching down the middle of the street at the head of a ragged and most indocorous column of twos, in the center of a circle of light cast by a pine-knot which Joe Handy held was Mr. Nicholas Temple. His barring, if a trifle unsteady, was proud, and, if I could believe my eyes, around his neck was slung the thing which I prized above all my possessions, the drum which I had carried to Cascascia and Vincennes. He had taken it from the peg in my room. I shrink from putting on paper the sentimental side of my nature, and indeed I could give no adequate idea of my affection for that drum. And then there was Nick, who had been lost to me for five years. My impulse was to charge the possessions, seize Nick and the drum together and drag them back to my room, but the futility and danger of such a course was apparent, and the caution for which I am noted prevented my undertaking it. The possession, augmented by all those to whom sufficient power of motion remained, cheered by the helpless but willing ones on the ground, swept on down the street and through the town. Even at this late day I shame to write it. Behold me, David Richie, Federalist, excrubly sober at the head of the column behind the leader, was it twenty minutes or an hour that we paraded. This I know that we sighted no street in the little town of Louisville. What was my bearing? Were the proud or angry or carelessly indifferent? I know not. The glare of Joe Hardy's torch fell on my face. Joe Hardy's arm and that of another gentleman, the worst for liquor, were linked in mine, and they saw fit to applaud at every step my conversion to the cause of liberty. We passed, time and time again, the respectable door-yards of my Federalist friends, and I felt their eyes upon me with that look which the angels have for the fallen. Once, in front of Mr. Horton's house, Mr. Handy burned my hair, apologized, staggered, and I took the torch. And I used it 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, after marching seemingly half the night, they halted by common consent before the house of a prominent Democrat who shall be nameless. And after some minutes of vain importuning, Nick, with a tattoo of the drum, marched bolly up to the gate and into the yard. A desperate cunning came to my aid. 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 him onward through the premises, he drumming with great docility. Followed by a few stragglers only, some of whom went down in contact with the trees 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 behind Mr. Creed's store. Pulling Nick through the gate, I slammed it, and he was only beginning to protest when I had him safe within my door and the bolt slipped behind him. As I struck a light, something fell to the floor with a crash. An odor of alcohol filled the air, and as the candle caught the flame, I saw a shattered whiskey bottle at my feet and a room which had been given over to carousing. In spite of my feelings, I could not but laugh at the perfectly irresistible figure my cousin made, as he stood 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 without a trace of surprise. "'Show you've come back to last, Davy,' he said. "'You're very irregular. You'll lose lobbishness. You're worse than Andy Jackson. He's always fighting.'" I relieved him, unprotesting of the drum, thanking my stars there was so much as a stick left of it. He watched me with a silent and exaggerated interest as I laid it on the table. From a distance without came the shouts of the survivors, making for the tavern. "'Fortunate you had the drum, Davy,' he said gravely. "'Really it have no possession. It's fortunate I have it now,' I answered, looking roofily at the battered rim where Nick had missed the skin and his ardor. "'Davy?' said he. "'Funny thing!' I said, "'No, you was a Jacobite!' "'She's here,' he added relevantly. "'Did Andy Jackson was married?' "'No,' I answered, having no great interest in Mr. Jackson. "'Where have you been seeing him again?' "'Nashville and Cumberland, Saxons, Countess Lyceter, Devil of Man. I tell you, Davy,' he continued, laying his uncertain hand on my shoulder and speaking with great earnestness. "'I had Chickasaw, horse, Jackson, Virginia Thurbread had a race, and Jackson wanted to shoot me, and I wanted to shoot Jackson. And then we all went to the Red Heifer.' "'What the deuce is the Red Heifer?' I asked. "'Stilery over the spring,' then they blow a horn when the liquor's runch. Then we had supper in Major Louis' tavern. Major Louis came in with roast pig on platter, you know roast pig, Davy. And Jackson pulls out an hunting knife and weighs you very mystistic. You know how mystistic Jackson is when he wants to be?' He let go my shoulder, brushed back his hair in a fiery manner, and, seizing a knife which unhappily lay on the table, gave me a graphic illustration of Mr. Jackson about to carve the pig. I retreating, and he coming on. "'When he stuck the pig, Davy!' he poised the knife for an instant in the air, and then, before I could interpose, he brought it down deftly through the head of my precious drum. And such a frightful, agonized squeal filled the room that I shivered involuntarily, and for an instant I had the vivid vision of a pig struggling in the hands of a butcher. I laughed in spite of myself. But Nick regarded me soberly. "'Find anything, David?' he said. They all left the room. For a moment he appeared to be ruminating on this singular phenomenon. Then he continued. And Jackson was back first, and he was damned in polite, and he shook his fish in my face. Here Nick illustrated Mr. Jackson's gesture, and he said, "'Gray God, sir, you have a fine talent. But if you ever do that again, I'll kill you.' That's what he said, Davy. "'How long have you been in Nashville, Nick?' I asked. "'A year,' he said. "'Looking after property, I won Rattle and Snap. You remember.' "'And why didn't you let me know you were in Nashville?' I asked, though I realized the futility of the question. "'Thought you was mad at me,' he answered. "'But you ain't, Davy. You've been very good in nature. Didn't let me have your drum,' he straightened. "'I'm very much obliged.' "'And where were you before you went to Nashville?' I said. "'Charleston, Naples, Philadelphia, everywhere,' he answered. "'Now?' said he. "'I'm going to bed.' I applauded this determination, but doubted whether he meant to carry it out. However I conducted him to the back room where he set himself down on the edge of my fore-poster, and after conversing a little longer on the subject of Mr. Jackson, who seemed to have gotten upon his brain, he toppled over and instantly fell asleep with his clothes on. For a while I stood over him, the old affection welling up so strongly within me that my eyes were dimmed as I looked upon his face. Spare and handsome it was, and boyish still, the weaker lines emphasized in its relaxation. Would that relentless spirit with which he had been born make him too a wanderer forever? And was it not the strangest of fates which had impelled him to join this madcap expedition of this other man I loved, George Rogers-Clark? I went out, closed the door, and lighting another candle, took from my portfolio a packet of letters. Two of them I had not read, having found them only on my return from Philadelphia that morning. They were all signed simply Sarah Temple. They were dated at a certain number in the Rue Bourbon, New Orleans, and each was a tragedy that which it had left unsaid. There was no suspicion of heroics, there was no railing of fate, the letters breathed but the one hope that her son might come again to that happiness of which she had robbed him. There were an all but twelve, and they were brief. For some affliction had nearly deprived the lady of the use of her right hand. I read them twice over, and then, despite the lateness of the hour, I set staring at the candles, reflecting upon my own helplessness. I was startled from this reverie by a knock. Rising hastily I closed the door of my bedroom, thinking I had to do with some drunken reveler who might be nosy. The knock was repeated. I slipped back the bolt and peered out into the night. I saw that light, said a voice which I recognized. I think I come in to say good night. I opened the door, and he walked in. You are one night owl, Monsieur Richie, he said, and you seem to prefer the small hours for your visits, Monsieur de Saint-Grie, I could not refrain from replying. He swept the room with a glance, and I thought a shade of disappointment passed over his face. I wondered whether he was looking for Nick. He set himself down in my chair, stretched out his legs, and regarded me with something less than his usual complacency. I have much like for you, Monsieur Richie. He began, and waved aside my bow of acknowledgment. Before I go away from Louisville, I want to speak with you. This is a reason why I am here. You listen to what that depuis he say. That is not truth. My family knows you. I like to have you here to truth. He paused, and while I wondered what revelations he was about to make, I could not repress my impatience at the preamble. You are my friend. You have proved it. He continued. You remember last time we meet? I smiled involuntarily. You was in bed, but you not need to be ashamed for me. Two days after I went to France, I am not in New Orleans since. Two days after you saw me, I repeated. Yes, I run away. That was a month of August 1789, and we have not been heard in New Orleans that the Bastille is attacked. I land at Le Havre. It is the end of September. We go to the Châté de Saint-Grie, Great Iron Gates, Long Avenue of Poplar, big house all around the court, and Monsieur Le Marquis is at Versailles. I borrow three Louis from the concierge, and I go to Versailles to the hotel of Monsieur Le Marquis. There's all that trouble what you read about going on, and Monsieur Le Marquis, he is not so glad to see me for that reason. Monsieur Auguste, he cried, you want to be officer in Godet's decor, you're not afraid? Auguste stiffened. I am a Saint-Grie, Monsieur Le Marquis. I am afraid of nothings, I answered. He take me to the king. I am made lieutenant. The mob come, and the king and queen are carried off to Paris. The king is prisoner. Monsieur Le Marquis goes back to the Château de Saint-Grie. France is a republic. Monsieur, que voulez-vous? The sewer de Saint-Grie shrugged his shoulders. I too become republican. I become officer in the National Guard. One must move with the time. Is it not so, Monsieur? I demand of you if you ever expect to see a Saint-Grie, a republican. I expressed my astonishment. I give up my right, my principle, my family. I come to America, I go to New 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 left France, but the uselessness of it was apparent. You see, Monsieur, I am justified before you, before my friends. That is all I care. And he gave another shrug in defiance of the world at large. What I have done, I have done for principle. If I remain royalist, I might have married my cousin, mademoiselle de Saint-Grie. Ha! Monsieur, you remember? The miniature you were so kindness to borrow me, four hundred liveries. I remember, I said. It is because I have much confidence in you, Monsieur, he said. It is because I go, pâté, to danger, to death, that I come here and ask you to do me a favor. You honor me too much, Monsieur, I answered, though I could scarce refrain from smiling. It is because of your character, Monsieur Auguste was good enough to say. You are to be reposin', you are to be reliant. Sometime I think you're very old man. And this is why, and since you like objects of art, that I bring this and ask you to keep it while I am in danger. I was mystified. He thrust his hand into his coat and drew forth an oval object wrapped in dirty paper, and then disclosed to my astonished eyes the miniature of mademoiselle de Saint-Grie. The miniature, I say, for the gold back and setting were lacking. Auguste had retained only the ivory, whether from sentiment or necessity, I will not venture. The sight of it gave me a strange sensation, and I can scarcely write of the anger and disgust which surged over me, of the longing to snatch it from his trembling fingers. Suddenly I forgot Auguste and the lady herself. There was something emblematical in the misfortune which had bereft the picture on its setting. And so the revolution had taken from her a brilliant life, a king and queen, home and friends. Yet the spirit remained unquenchable, set above its mean surroundings, I, and untouched by them. I was filled with a painful curiosity to know what had 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 truth than I knew. Maudieu, Monsieur, it is so. It is that. Make me love. You know not how. You know not what love is, Monsieur Richie. You never love like me. You have not some reason, Monsieur. He continued, leaning forward and putting his hand on my knee. I think she loved me. I'm not sure. I should not be surprised. But Monsieur Lemarquis, her father, he treat me very bad. Monsieur Lemarquis is guillotine now. I must not speak evil of him. But he marry her to one old gonson. Love, I count, d'Iverelateur. So mademoiselle is married, I said, after a pause. Oui, she is madame, love, I count this now. I fall at her feet, just the same. I hear once at Belle Olde, the chateau Monsieur Le Prince, Deliné and Flandre. After that they go, I know not where. They are exiled, lost to me. He sighed and held out the miniature to me. Monsieur, I ask you favor. Will you be as kind and keep it for me again? I have wondered many times since why I did not refuse. Suffice it to say that I took it. And Auguste's face lighted up. I am a thousand times grateful, he cried, and added as though with an afterthought, Monsieur, would you be so kind as to borrow me five dollars? End of chapter three. Book three, chapter four of The Crossing by Winston Churchill. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter four 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 set 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 the 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 scattered 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. Someday 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 Song-Gree 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 Saint-Gree. I ceased to conjecture here, dashed some water in my eyes, pulled myself together, and, ceasing my hat, hurried out into the street. I made a sufficiently endocorous 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 bare 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 Gineau. You take the air, most sure-ishie, said he. You look for someone, yes? You get up too late to see him off. I made a swift resolve never to quibble with this man. So Mr. Temple is gone to New Orleans. With his sword to Saint-Gree, I said, citizen Gineau 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. Just no use trying hide from you. However, most sure-ishie, you're the very soul of honor. And then you're freein'. I know you not betray this sword to Saint-Gree. He very fond of you. Betray, I exclaimed. There's 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. It is not my doing, he said. But I am, what you call it, a cipher. Secrecy is what I believe. But drink too much, talk too much, is it not so mature? And if most sure-ishie, the coron-delay, the governor, here 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 necessary for the cause. We must have good revolution in Louisiana. A suspicion of this man came over me. For a child-like simplicity characterized the other ring-leaders in this expedition. Clark had had ecumen once and lost it. Saint-Gree was a fool. Nick Temple was leading purposely a reckless life. The citizens Sullivan and Dupuis 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 Jeannot seemed of a different feather. Moreover, he had been too shrewd to deny what Colonel Clark would have denied in a soberer moment that Saint-Gree and Nick had gone to New Orleans. You not speak, monsieur. You not think they have success. You're not federalist, no? For I heard you marched last night with your friend. I hear you wave torch. You make it your business to hear a great deal, monsieur Jeannot. I retorted, my temper slipping a little. He hastened to apologize. Really pardon, monsieur, he said. I see you are federalist, but drunk. Is it not so? Monsieur, you think this very silly thing, this expedition. Whatever I think, monsieur, I answered. I'm a friend of General Clark's. An enemy of Zikaz, he put in. Monsieur, I said. If President Washington and General Wade do not think it worthwhile 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, purile the undertaking, DeLamos had natchez and Carone DeLay 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 night, 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 eel-skin behind, was as black as when I had seen it at Cascassquia. I had met Moshe Ravigo many times since, for he was a familiar figure amongst the towns of the Ohio and the Mississippi, and from Vincennes to Anzala, Greece, 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. Ah, it is Davy, he cried, but not the same little drummer boy who would not come into my store. Reach lawyer now! I owe you make much money now, Davy! Congress money, I said. Moshe Ravigo threw out his hands and laughed exactly as he had done in his log store at Cascassquia. Congress has never repaid me once, Sue, said Moshe Ravigo, making a face. I have tried, I have talked, I have represented. It is no good. Davy, it is your fault. You tell me, take the money. You call that finance? David, said Mr. Marshall sharply. What the devil is this I hear of you carrying a torch and a jack-up in procession? You may put it down to liquor, Mr. Marshall, I answered. Then you must have had a casky, Gad, 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 advice 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 Genet has been liberal with nothing except commissions, and they have neither money nor men. The rascals have all left town, said Mr. Marshall. Citizen Quartimaster DePuy, their local financier, has gone back to his store at Noblex. The soire de sangree and Mr. Temple, as doubtless you know, have gone to New Orleans. And the most mysterious and therefore most dangerous of the lot, Citizen Genot, has vanished like an evil spirit. It is commonly supposed that he too has gone down the river. You may see him, Viggo, said Mr. Marshall, turning to the trader. He's a little man with a big nose and grizzled chestnut eyebrows. I know a little about him, said Mosher Viggo. 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 gliding 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 bare grass, with its square sail furrowed. An awning was stretched over the deck and at a walnut table covered with papers, said Mosher Viggo, smoking his morning pipe. Davy, said he, you have come anabuha. At ten I depart for New Orleans, he sighed. It is a long voyage, he added, and so lonely one. Sometime I have good fortune to pick up companion, but not today. Do you want me to go with you? I said. He looked at me incredulously. I should be delighted, he said. But you make 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 Mosher Viggo, hospitably. I shall be enchant. We will talk philosophy, bon mocher, voter, rousseau. For Mosher Viggo 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 for a young lawyer of my acquaintance to look after my business, and at ten o'clock I was aboard the keelboat with my small baggage. At eleven Mosher Viggo and I were talking philosophy over a wonderful breakfast under the awning as we dropped down between the forest-lined shores of the Ohio. My host traveled in luxury and we ate the creole dishes which is cooked 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 Mosher Gratiot's furboat. Like all successful Creole traders Mosher Viggo 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 slept southward on the great Yellow River which parted the wilderness with its great sucks and eddies and green islands, every one of which Mosher knew, and I saw again the flocks of waterfowl 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 Negalis, 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, Gaso de Lemos. Thanks to Mosher Viggo 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 belverded plantation houses down 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 barren, decorone delay, infatigable 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, Mosher Le Barren was energy itself. That other fever, the political one, he had scotched. Caara and Le Maussier had been sung in the theatres, but not often, for the barren had sent the alcaldes to shut them up. Certain gentlemen, a French ancestry, had gone to languish in the morrow at Havana. Yes, Mosher de Carone Delay, though fat, was on horseback before dawn. New Orleans was fortified as it had never been before. The militia organized, real cannon were on the ramports which could shoot at a pinch. Subrosa I found much sympathy among the planners with the rights of man. What had become the ask 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. Strangely enough the name of Auguste de Sangre 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 Mosher 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 Sangre from the rest of the story. But Mosher 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 Mosher 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 Sangre 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 Caron de Lé and telling him what I know of the expedition. He will understand what Sangre is, and I will explain that Mr. Caron'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 Zabarin think Moro good place for them just the same. Zabarin has not made mesurably with Jacobins, but I go with you if you go.' He discoursed for some time upon the quality of the Sangre's, 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 my piece of ivory which had so strangely come into my possession once more. The face upon it had haunted me since I first beheld it. The miniature was wrapped now in a silk handkerchief which Pollyanne 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 I 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 Love, Icomtesse, d'Ivry Latour. She was haleen 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. Chapter 5 The House of the Honeycombed Tiles As long as I live I shall never forget that Sunday morning of my second arrival at New Orleans. A saffron-heat haze hung over the river and the city, robbed alike from the yellow waters of the one and the pestilent moisture of the other. It would have been strange indeed if this capital of Louisiana brought hither to a swamp from the sands of Biloxi many years ago by the energetic biennial, or not visited from time to time by the scourge. Again I saw the green villas on the outskirts, the verdue dotted expanse of roofs of the city behind the levee-bank, the line of Kentucky boats, keel-boats, and barges, which brought our own resistless commerce hither in the teeth of royal mandates. Father-out and tugging fretfully in the yellow current were the aliens of the blue seas, high-hulled, their tracery of mass in spars shimmering in the heat. A full-rigged ocean packet from Spain, a bark and brigantine from the West Indies, a rakish slaver from Africa with her waterline dry, discharged but yesterday of a teeming horror of freight. I looked again upon the familiar rows of trees which shaded the gravel promenades where Nick had first seen Antoinette. Then we were under it, for the river was low, and the dingy uniformed officer was bowing over our passports beneath the awning. We walked ashore, Moschervigo and I, and we joined a staring group of keel-boatmen and river-men under the willows. Below us the white-shell walks of the plos-darms were thronged with gaily-dressed people. Over their heads rose the fine new cathedral, built by the magnificence of Don Andros Almanastor, and beside that the many-windowed heavy-arched cabello, nearly finished, which will stand for all time a monument to Spanish builders. "'It is Corpus Christi de,' said Moschervigo. "'Let us go and see the procession!' Here once more were the bright-turbaned negruses, the gay creole gowns and scarves, the linen-jacketed broad-headed merchants, with those of soberer and more conventional dress, laughing and chatting the children playing despite the heat. Many of these people greeted Moschervigo. They were the Saturnine long-clothed Spaniards, too, and a greater number than I had believed of my own keen-faced countrymen lounging about, mildly amused by the scene. We crossed the square, and with the courtesy of their race the people made way for us in the press, and we were no sooner placed ere the procession came out of the church. Being soldiers of the Governor's Guard, two by two, sober, sandaled friars and brown, priests in their robes. Another batch of color crosses shimmering, tapers emerging from the cool darkness within a pale by the light of day. Then down on their knees to him, who sits high above the yellow haze, fell the thousands in the plos-darms. For here was the host itself, flower-decked in white and crimson, its gold-tassled canopy upheld by four tonsiled priests, a sheen of purple under it, the Bishop of Louisiana in his robes. The Governor, whispered Moschervigo, and the word was passed from mouth to mouth as the people rose from their knees. Francois-Louis Hector, Baron de Caron-Delay, resplendent in his uniform of Colonel in the Royal Army of Spain, his orders glittering on his breast, pillar of royalty and enemy, to the rights of man. His eye was stern, his carriage erect, but I seemed to read in his care-worn face the trials of three years in this moist capital. After the Governor, one by one, the waiting associations fell in line, each with its own distinguishing sash. So the procession moved off into the narrow streets of the city. The people in the plos dispersed to new vantage points, and Moschervigo signed me to follow him. I have a friend, Lavoux Gravois, who lives very quiet. She has one room, and I ask her to take you in, David. He led the way through the empty roux-charts turned to the right at the roux-bienbel, and stopped before an unpretentious house some three doors from the corner. Madame Gravois, elderly, whizzened, primped in a starched cotton gown, opened the door herself, fell upon Moschervigo in the creole fashion, and within a quarter of an hour I was installed in her best room, which gave out on a little court behind. Moschervigo promised to send his servant with my baggage, told me his address, bade me call on him for what I wanted, and took his leave. First there was Madame Gravois's story to listen to, and she bustled about giving orders to a kinky-haired negro-girl concerning my dinner. Then came the dinner. Excellent, if I could have eaten it. The virtues of the former Moschervigois were legion. He had come to Louisiana from Toulon, planted indigo, fought a duel, and Madame was a widow. So I condensed two hours into two lines. Happily Madame was not proof against the habits of the climate, and she retired for her siesta. I sought my room, almost suffocated by a heat which defies my pen to describe, a heat reeking with moisture, sucked from the foul kennels of the city. I had felt nothing like it in my former visit to New Orleans. It seemed to bear down upon my brain, to clog the power of thought, to make me vacillating. Hitherto my reasoning had led me to seek Moschervigo's agree to count upon that gentleman's common sense and his former friendship. But now that the time had come for it, I shrank from such a meeting. I remembered his passionate affection for Antoinette. I imagined that he would not listen calmly to one who was in some sort connected with her unhappiness. So a kind of cowardice drove me first to Mrs. Temple. She might know much that would save me useless trouble and blundering. The shadows of treetop, thatch, and wall were lengthening as I walked along the roux bourbon, heedless of what the moral might bring forth, the street was given over to festivity. Merry groups were gathered on the corners, songs and laughter mingled in the courtyards, billiard balls clicked in the cabaret. A fat, jolly little Frenchman, surrounded by tripping children, sat in his doorway on the edge of the banquet, fiddling with all his might, pausing only to wipe the beads of perspiration from his face. Madame Cleave, maise-uis, monsieur, la pétite m'ençois et force, smiling benignly at the children, he began to fiddle once more. The little house opposite. Mrs. Temple, mistress of Temple Bow, had come to this. It was a strange little home indeed, Spanish one story, its dormers hitting by a honeycombed screen of terracotta tiles. This screen was sat on the extreme edge of the roof which overhung the banquet and shaded the yellow adobe wall of the house. Low, unpretentious, the lattice shutters of its two windows giving it but a scant air of privacy. Indeed, they were scarred by the wraps of careless passers-by on the sidewalk. The two little battened doors one step up were closed. I rapped, waited, and rapped again. The musician across the street stopped his fiddling, glanced at me, smiled knowingly at the children, and they paused in their dance to stare. Then one of the doors was pushed open a scant four inches, a secret madras-hankerchief appeared in the crack above a yellow face. There was a long moment of silence during which I felt the scrutiny of a pair of sharp black eyes. What, y'all, won't moss? The woman's voice astonished me, for she spoke the dialect of the American tide-water. I should like to see Mrs. Clive, I answered. The door closed a shade. Mr. Sick, she ain't see nobody, said the woman. She closed the door a little more, and I felt tempted to put my foot in the crack. Tell her that Mr. David Richie is here, I said. There was an instant's silence, then an exclamation. Landsake, is you, Marstave? She opened the door, furtively, I thought, just wide enough for me to pass through. I found myself in a low, ceilinged, darkened room, opposite a trim, negrous, who stood with her arms a Kimbo, and stared at me. Marstave, you don't recollect me? I's Lindy. I's Breed's daughter. I recollect you when you was at Temple Bow, Marstave. How you's done groaned? Yes, sir, when I heard from Miss Sally, I done come here to take care of her. How is your mistress? I asked. She polly, Marstave, said Lindy, and paused for adequate words. I took note of this darky, who, faithful to a family, had come hither to share her mistress's exile and obscurity. Lindy was a spare, energetic, forceful, and, I imagined, a discreet guardian indeed for the unfortunate. She polly, Marstave, and she ain't never leave this your house, Marstave, said Lindy earnestly, lowering her voice, and taking a step closer to me. I don't reckon the mistress grind the dire of loneliness. She does sit there and brood and brood, and she used to be the best company to the quality. No sorry, Marstave. She ain't never say so, but she think about young Marston night and day, Marstave. Yes, I said. Marstave, she have a little pink frock than Marston Nick had when he was a baby. I done caught Marstave looking at it, and she hid it when she see me in blush, like pus of sin. Marstave? Yes, I said again. Where am the young Marstave? I don't know, Lindy, I answered. Lindy sighed. She done talk about you, Marstave, and how good you is. And Mrs. Temple sees no one, I asked. Does one lady come here every week, a French lady, but she speak English just like the masters? That's my fault, said Lindy, showing a line of white teeth. Your fault, I exclaimed. Yes, sir. When I come here from Carolina, the Mr. Dunn told me not to let her soul in here. One day, about three months ago, this year, a lady come and she does wheel me to let her in. She was the quality, Marstave, and I just was afraid not to. I declared I had to. Hush, said Lindy, putting her fingers to her lips. There's the mistice. The door into the back room opened and Mrs. Temple stood on the threshold, staring with uncertain eyes into the semi-darkness. Lindy, she said, what have you done, Miss Sally? Lindy began and looked at me, but I could not speak for looking at the lady in the doorway. Who is it? She said again, and her hand salt the doorpost tremblingly. Who is it? Then I went to her. At my first step she gave a little cry and swayed, and had I not taken her in my arms I believed she would have fallen. David, she said, David, is it you? I cannot see very well. Why did you not speak? She looked at Lindy and smiled. It is because I am an old woman, Lindy. And she lifted her hand to her forehead. See, my hair is white. I shock you, David. Leaning on my shoulder she led me through a little bedroom in the rear into a tiny garden court beyond, a court teeming with lavish colors and regulant with the scent of flowers. A white-shell walk divided the garden and ended at the door of a low outbuilding from the chimney of which blue smoke curled upward the evening air. Mrs. Temple drew me almost fiercely towards a bench against the adobe wall. Where is he? She said. Where is he, David? The suddenness of the question staggered me. I hesitated. I do not know, I answered. I could not look into her face and say it. The years of torment and suffering were written there in characters not to be mistaken. Sarah Temple, the beauty, was dead indeed. The hope which threatened to light again the dead fires in the woman's eyes frightened me. Ah, she said sharply, you are deceiving me. It is not like you, David, you are deceiving me. Tell me, tell me, for the love of God who has brought me to bear chastisement, and she gripped my arm with the strength I had not thought in her. Listen, I said, trying to calm myself as well as her. Listen, Mrs. Temple, I could not bring myself to call her otherwise. You are keeping him away from me, she cried. Why are you keeping him away? Have I not suffered enough? David, I cannot live long. I do not dare to die until he has forgiven me. I forced her gently as I might to sit on the bench and I seated myself beside her. Listen, I said, with a sternness that hid my feelings, and beforece her expression changed again to a sad yearning. You must hear me, and you must trust me, for I have never pretended. You shall see him if it is in my power. She looked at me so piteously that I was near to being unmanned. I will trust you, she whispered. I have seen him, I said. She started violently but I laid my hand on hers, and by some self-mastery that was still in her she was silent. I saw him in Louisville a month ago when I returned from a year's visit to Philadelphia. I could not equivocate with this woman. I could no more lie to her sorrow than to the judgment. Why had I not foreseen her question? And he hates me! She spoke with a calmness now that frightened me more than her agitation had done. I do not know, I answered. When I would have spoken to him he was gone. He was drunk, she said. I stared at her in frightened wonderment. He was drunk. It is better than if he had cursed me. He did not mention me, or any one. He did not, I answered. She turned her face away. Gone! I will listen to you, she said, and set immovable through the whole of my story, though her hand trembled in mine. And while I live I hope never to have such a thing to go through with again. Truth held me to the full ludicrous tragedy of the tale, to the cheap character my old colonel's undertaking, to the incident of the drum, to the conversation in my room. Likewise truth forbade me to rekindle her hope. I did not tell her that Nick had come with songry to New Orleans. For of this my own knowledge was as yet not positive. For a long time after I had finished she was silent. And you think the expedition will not get here? She asked, finally, in a dead voice. I am positive of it, I answered, and for the sake of those who are engaged in it it is mercifully best that it should not. The day may come, I added, for the sake of leading her away, when Kentucky will be strong enough to overrun Louisiana, but not now. She turned to me with the trace of her former fierceness. Why are you in New Orleans? She demanded. A sudden resolution came to me then. To bring you back with me to Kentucky, I answered. She shook her head sadly, but I continued. I have more to say. I'm convinced that neither Nick nor you will be happy until you are mother and son again. You have both been wanderers long enough. Once more she turned away and fell into a reverie. Over the housetop, from across the street came the gay music of the Fiddler, Mrs. Temple laid her hand gently on my shoulder. My dear, she said, smiling, I could not live for the journey. You must live for it, I answered. You have the will, you must live for it, for his sake. She shook her head and smiled at me with a courage which was the crown of her sufferings. You are talking nonsense, David, she said. It is not like you. Come, she said, rising with something of her old manner. I must show you what I've been doing all these years. You must admire my garden. I followed her, marveling along the shale path, and there came unbidden to my mind the garden at Temple Bow, where she had once been want to sit, tormenting Mr. Mason or bending to the tale of Harry Riddle's love. Little she cared for flowers in those days, and now they had become her life. With such thoughts in my mind I listened unheeding to her talk. The place was formally occupied by a shiftless fellow, a tailor, and the court, now a paradise, had been a rubbish heap. That orange tree which shaded the uneven doorway of the kitchen she had found here, figs, pomegranates, magnolias, and camellias dazzling in their purity, the blood-red orleanders, the pink roses that hid the crumbling adobe and climbed even to the sloping tiles, all these had been set out and cared for with her own hands, I and the fragrant bed of yellow jasmine over which she lingered, Antoinette's favorite flower. Antoinette's flowers that she wore in her hair. In her letters Mrs. Temple had never mentioned Antoinette, and now she read the question, perchance purposely put there, in my eyes. Her voice faltered sadly. Scarce a week had she been in the house before Antoinette had found her. I sent the girl away, David. She came without Mosche de Saint Gris's knowledge, without his consent. It is natural that he thinks me, I will not say what. I sent Antoinette away. She clung to me, she would not go, and I had to be cruel. It is one of the things which makes the nights long, so long. My sins have made her life unhappy. And you hear of her? Is she not married? I ask. No, she is not married, said Mrs. Temple, stooping over the jasms. Then she straightened and faced me, her voice shaken with earnestness. David, do you think that Nick still loves her? Alas, I could not answer that. She bent over the jasms again. There were five years that I knew nothing, she continued. I did not dare ask Mr. Clark, who comes to me on business, as you know. It was Mr. Clark who brought back Lindy on one of his trips to Charleston. And then one day in March of this year, Madame de Montemarie came. Madame de Montemarie, I repeated. It is a strange story, said Mrs. Temple. Lindy had never admitted anyone, save Mr. Clark. One day early in the spring when I was trimming my roses by the wall there, a girl ran to me and said that a lady wished to see me. Why had she let her in? Lindy did not know she could not refuse her. Had the lady demanded admittance? Lindy thought that I would like to see her. David, it was a providential weakness or curiosity that prompted me to go into the front room, and then I saw why Lindy had opened the door to her. Who she is or what she is I do not know to this day. Who am I now that I should inquire? I know that she is a lady that she has exquisite manners that I feel now that I cannot live without her. She comes every week, sometimes twice. She brings me little delicacies, new seeds for my garden, but best of all she brings me herself, and I am always counting the days until she comes again. Yes, and I always fear that she too will be taken away from me. I had not heard the sound of voices but Mrs. Temple turned, startled, and looked towards the house. I followed her glance, and suddenly I knew that my heart was beating.