Donald McElroy, Scotch Irishman

CHAPTER XVIII

As soon as Colonel Clark's commands were delivered to Captain Bowman at Cahokia, I obtained permission for Thomas and myself to return to Kaskaskia, that we might await there the issue of Ellen's illness. We took turns of watching upon the porch of the commandant's house to be in readiness for any instant service it was in our power to render. Meantime Madame Rocheblave and Angélique nursed Ellen assiduously and tenderly, and her physicians gave her faithful attention. This was my first acquaintance with people of French blood, and their unfailing cheerfulness and sympathy were a revelation to me. In truth the French Americans of the Northwest were the most simple natured and warm hearted race I have ever known – they had not, however, the hardier qualities of my own people.

For seven days we had always the same answer to our questions given by the little doctor, with cheery air, and sympathetic expression – "C'est impossible à dire, Monsieur, il faut avoir la patience."

Late on the eighth night, Father Gibault came to me, his gentle face beaming with pleasure, to announce that the crisis had been favorably passed, and that with no relapse, Ellen would soon be as strong or stronger than before.

The most hazardous part of our enterprise lay yet before us – the taking of Vincennes, the real key to the Northwest, without which we could not long hold our position at Kaskaskia and Cahokia. And every day the English commandant, Abbott, might return from Detroit with reënforcements for the fort, which was far stronger and better equipped than the almost abandoned one at Kaskaskia. Moreover we could not hope so easily to overawe and win the larger and more mixed population of the town of Vincennes, which had fallen more directly under British influence.

Colonel Clark had conceived that his best hope was to make the Kaskaskians believe his riflemen the most formidable of warriors, and to lead them to think that he could summon from our recently established forts on the Ohio any number of reënforcements he might need. So we drilled and mustered the men and made pretense of sending couriers to our forts, till the Kaskaskians imagined us to be but the vanguard of an army. Their fears were aroused for friends and relatives at Vincennes, and Father Gibault himself offered to proceed to that town under an escort of Colonel Clark's troops, to counsel submission and alliance. Clark accepted his offer with apparent indifference, but secret joy, put me in command of Father Gibault's escort, and bade me gather all the information possible, in regard to the condition of the fort, the feeling of the people toward the English, and everything I thought might be useful in case we should have to storm or besiege the place.

Still our amazing good luck attended us. The logic of Father Gibault, and the natural preference of the people for peace – which made a change of masters a matter of secondary importance – proved irresistible. The citizens assembled willingly in the church, swore allegiance to Virginia, elected a town officer favorable to our interests, and allowed us to garrison the fort, and raise our standards over it. Father Gibault carried the news of our third bloodless victory back to Clark, and a week later Captain Helm arrived to take command of the garrison of five Americans, and about a score of French recruits. Colonel Clark had given him the large sounding title of "Governor-General of Indian affairs on the Wabash," and had charged him with a characteristic answer to Tabac – the head chief of the Piankeshaws, who had visited us at Vincennes, and arrogantly commanded us to convey a defiant message to the chief of the Long-Knives.

"Take your choice," was Clark's answer – by the mouth of the interpreter Givens – "between the British and the Big-Knives. Choose peace or war with the Long Knives and you will – but whichever you select, remember it is final and prepare to stand firmly by your choice. We are fighters by trade, we object not to war, yet we have no present quarrel with the red men, and seek none. We prefer to save our strength to make war upon the British king" – and then the ground of our quarrel with Great Britain was explained as well as Givens was able to do it by the use of such figures of speech as the Indians could understand.

The negotiations lasted several days, nor could we gather from the stolid faces of Tabac and his warriors what their decision would be. At last Tabac announced that he had made up his mind, – then sat in Sphinx-like silence for half an hour, smoking solemnly and looking straight before him into the dense smoke made by the pine knots, burning in the midst of our circle. His warriors did likewise. Instructed by Givens, we showed neither curiosity nor impatience, but remained as impassive as they.

Meantime, partially to rest my eyes from the smoke and flame of the pine logs, I gazed long and curiously at Tabac. How crafty and subtle the expression about the thin close-lipped mouth, and long half-shut eyes! How savage the narrow sloping forehead, and the high fleshless cheek bones, smeared with fantastic daubs of paint, and surmounted with suggestive scalp lock, conspicuously adorned with gay feathers and stiff quills. The noble red man indeed! I have no patience with this absurd sentiment of admiration and pity for the Indian – which seems now to be coming into fashion. The generation of pioneers, and frontiersmen not long past, realize as others never can the inherent savagery of the Indians. Either we should never have come to America, or we must exterminate the savages. Indians and civilization repel each other like the opposite poles of a magnet.

When Tabac arose deliberately to his feet at last, his eyes roved around the circle, and were fixed upon me with an expression of defiance, rather than upon Captain Helm, at whose left I sat, showing that he had felt, and resented my scrutiny.

"Warriors of the Big-Knife," he began in slow, measured tones, that made an impression of rude eloquence, though we understood not a word he said until Givens had translated his speech; "I have reflected long – have taken counsel of my warriors, and of the Great Spirit himself. I have made my choice. I have reached a last decision. And when Tabac, chief of the brave and noble tribe of the Piankeshaws decides, it is the end – there is no more hesitation with him, nor with his people. We are friends to the Big-Knife, and his warriors. We make alliance with the tribes of Virginia. We, too, are Big-Knives, we stand or fall with our pale face brethren from the rising sun."

Captain Helm made gracious answer to this language, interspersed with much flattery of Tabac and his tribe, for their alliance was, really, of the greatest importance to us, and our apparent indifference but a part of the big game of bluff Clark was playing. Then the peace pipe was passed around, presents interchanged, and after bidding our new allies an elaborate farewell, we returned to the fort.

Just before he had sent me to Vincennes, Colonel Clark, as I neglected to mention at the proper time, had raised me to my old rank of Captain, and given me a place on his staff, as special attaché to himself – as the moving executive, so to speak, of the central authority. Clark remained at Kaskaskia, where one Indian deputation after another flocked to him to make treaties of peace or alliance, while I moved up the river to Cahokia, or across the prairies and marshes to Vincennes, carrying his orders, making reports, and gathering information.

Upon my return to Kaskaskia after my first trip to Vincennes, I found Ellen more than convalescent. Her vigorous youth had quickly vanquished the disease after the first crisis was safely passed, and she had made such rapid recovery as caused Madame Rocheblave to lift her hands, elevate her eyebrows, and exclaim over the marvelous physical powers of "zeze so veery strong Ameerikans."

I found Ellen not only bright-eyed, but plump and rosy, as she had never been before, and even gay among her new friends. They had already taken her to their hearts, partly, I suppose, because she was so devout a Catholic, partly because they had been called upon to befriend and care for her, and partly too, as any one must recognize, for her own charming personality. No wonder Thomas had been so infatuated! The thin, awkward, shy girl, I remembered, with the beautiful blue eyes, set in a slim, pale face, was become an indescribable compound of girlish roundness, bloom, and sparkle, of maidenly softness and brightness. Her new woman's clothes, constructed by Angelique's deft fingers of the delicate hued soft stuffs of the place, which were woven of home grown flax, or of buffalo wool, and dyed with native roots, hung about her in long, graceful folds, that made her figure look statuesque in its poses of natural grace. But even more than her beauty, her manner astonished me – its graciousness, piquancy, gayety, and ease. Not Nelly Buford herself, nor Miss Shippen, reigned with more charming assurance over her circle of admirers, than did Ellen over the court of adorers which soon gathered about her.

She had been enrolled as "John Givens" in Captain Dillard's company, and they laid now special claim to her; every one of the officers making himself the slave of her caprices, and vying one with another to flatter and to spoil her. Dr. Lafonte and young Legère, a distant kinsman of the commandant, promptly surrendered, and, presently, Colonel Clark enrolled himself among her devoted admirers. There were a dozen fresh faced, sweet voiced French girls of the peasant class in the village, but Ellen alone had qualities to attract men like Dillard, Clark, Thomas and me, who demanded more than rounded outlines, bright eyes, and soft skin.

If once I had patronized Ellen, it was her turn now, and she queened it over me ruthlessly. At our very first interview she proved her power. I had sought to see her alone, that I might give her in plain words my opinion of her late rashness, and insist that in future she take no step without consulting Thomas, or me, in lieu of closer kinsman, with better right to advise her. It seemed my duty to do this, since Thomas' infatuation made him dumb in her presence, and would allow him to recognize no fault in her.

After keeping me waiting a good fifteen minutes, she came, trailing a pale yellow robe behind her, and bearing herself like a princess.

"Is this really Ellen O'Niel?" I asked, involuntarily, meeting her half way down the long room, and taking both her hands in cousinly greeting.

"None other than the forlorn little Irish lass you used to be kind to," and she flashed upon me an irradiating smile, and drew her hands out of mine with an air of gentle dignity that somehow embarrassed me. "But you did not know me in riflemen's uniform – my heart need not have fluttered so that day in the forest when you planted yourself before me, and looked me straight in the eye."

"It makes me tremble even yet, Ellen," I answered, "to think of your rash conduct during the last few months."

"All has turned out beautifully, Cousin Donald, and I would do it all over again," and she spoke gaily, but with more seriousness, as she added: "Are you not risking all for freedom; and is not liberty as dear to a woman as to a man? I took the risk and I have won. Had I died in the attempt 'twould have been better than the life of slavery and persecution. Besides, cousin, though your narrow Protestantism may find it hard to grant such grace to Catholics, we, too, have faith in an overruling Providence, believe in a power that can protect the helpless, and guide the orphan. I rode away from my Uncle Thomas' house that night, unguarded by man, but guided by the holy Christ and the gentle Virgin," – Ellen's face shone with uplifted rapture as she spoke thus – "By them I have been brought in safety to this peaceful village of kindly, cheerful people, to the care of holy Father Gibault, kind Madame Rocheblave, and faithful Angélique. I shall not again lack friends nor suffer persecution for my religion. You are a distant kinsman, 'tis true, Cousin Donald, and I hold you in grateful affection for past kindnesses – but I will not be scolded nor upbraided. I am done with that, for always. Nor have I any apologies to make to any one. I was driven to what I did by those who were called to give me a home and affection. I repeat I would do over again what I have done. If you wish to treat me with a kinsman's kindness upon these terms I shall be glad – otherwise you must say farewell, and leave me to my new found friends."

Never was I so completely cowed by speech from the lips of any one, as by these quiet words from Ellen, as she sat before me in calm dignity. Scattered like summer smoke was my intent to reprimand her once for all, and set before her the suffering she had caused us.

"Did you not promise, the night we said good night at the spring, to be my friend and comrade always?" I answered, "and have not friends and comrades the right to speak the truth to one another? Once for all, Ellen, I must say I think you acted rashly, and beg that you will never again act upon impulse without taking counsel of Thomas or me who are your loyal kinsmen, and would risk our lives for you. I speak not to disapprove, but to warn; the dangers, the risks your independent, confident spirit may lead you into, frighten me. And, Ellen," I went on rapidly, lest I should never again be able to summon up the needful courage to say it – "you must not include Uncle Thomas, nor my mother, in your just condemnation of Aunt Martha; both are sincerely grieved, and Uncle Thomas half distracted with apprehension and remorse; neither had a thought that you were so very unhappy."

"Uncle Thomas had not the courage to take my side, nor your mother to offer me a refuge – both preferred family peace, and their own comfort to my salvation; they left no other course open to me than that I took. Not even Cousin Thomas, though he wished to befriend me, had the bravery to make a stand on my side against his mother; he, too, was cowed by her domineering spirit – were I a man, I would cringe to no one, not even to the woman that I love."

That last sentence I remembered, and afterwards it helped me to hold my own a little better against Ellen's growing power over me.

"You were most unkindly treated, Ellen, and it will always be a reproach upon us, something for which we must all hang our heads in shame, – but will you not try to forgive them? They have bitterly atoned for the wrong they did you, if unhappiness, and self reproach, can atone."

"Father Gibault says I must freely forgive them ere he can absolve me from the wrong thoughts, and actions of which I too have been guilty," answered Ellen – that catch in her voice, which so often I had recalled to mind, and had never heard in any other woman's – "but I find no consolation in their remorse. In you, Cousin Donald, I have nothing to forgive, you have always been good to me. I am still your friend and comrade, if you wish – though already you are a great and noble man, as I foresaw you would be," and again she gave me that flashing smile which made my head swim.

"And you will go home with Thomas and me when this business is ended?"

"I can never go back to that dreary, solemn valley, where people think of nothing but hard work, and long doleful prayers. As yet I have heard mass but twice, and only once have I been to confession; it seemed to me that the spirit of my dead parents were with me, and it brought me such joy and peace as you cannot conceive. I can never be separated again from the exercise of my religion. In truth I have a solemn and holy purpose set before me, of which I shall tell you, some day. Meantime let us not talk upon this painful subject, Cousin Donald, – life is so good to me now, so full of pure joy, and perfect happiness that I like not to recall the past five years."

CHAPTER XIX

During the months of August and September, Clark was kept busy receiving the Indian deputations which came weekly to Kaskaskia to sue for peace and alliance, with the famed Big-Knives and his warriors. Each visit was an affair of state, and must be received with due ceremony. Did the deputation consist only of the chief of some petty sub-tribe, and two or three warriors, they must have audience at the fort with Colonel Clark himself, surrounded by an armed body-guard; speeches, presents, and wampum belts must be ceremoniously exchanged, and the peace pipe smoked solemnly, after which Clark must tender them a feast.

Born to administer large affairs, Colonel Clark showed in his pacification of the Northwest Indians, a remarkable shrewdness, and knowledge of human nature. He used much the same tactics as those found so successful in dealing with the French: – he over-awed them by dauntlessness of spirit, and a show of far greater strength than he really possessed. When the desired impression had been made upon them, and they had offered alliance, he would adroitly win them to his purposes by friendliness and flattery. He could meet them with a counter stoicism and subtlety that confounded them, and sent them back to their tribes to tell marvelous stories of the great white warrior chief, the redoubtable Big-Knife, whose course of conquest had started at the rising sun, and would be stopped only by the big river towards the sun's lodge. One edict of Colonel Clark well serves to illustrate his far-seeing wisdom, and the extent of his power. He forbade any soldier, any citizen of Kaskaskia, or trader on the river, to sell or to give a single gill of liquor to an Indian within so many miles of the town and fort, under heavy penalties; and the few infringements of this rule were severely punished. Ceremony, presents and feasting were dealt out generously to the savages, but their expectations of fire-water were invariably disappointed. Some of them went away sullen, but there was no rioting in Kaskaskia, and no more bloody fights such as had been customary between panins and Indians.

Between these and other duties, Colonel Clark found some leisure for diversion, and sought it usually in the long room of the Commandant's house, where Ellen held her court with a constantly increasing number of subjects. Madame Rocheblave had left Kaskaskia soon after Ellen's recovery, to visit friends in Detroit, while awaiting the release of M. Rocheblave, who had been sent to Virginia with several other prisoners. But Angélique had consented to accept services as Ellen's maid, and was in constant attendance upon her.

Among Ellen's admirers the most indefatigable and determined were Monsieur Légère, Colonel Clark, Thomas and I; and for each of us she had a special course of treatment that kept us hovering between hope and despair. Monsieur Légère's manner of attack was nightly to serenade Ellen with voice and guitar, and daily to present her with passionate love poems, hidden in bunches of gorgeous wild flowers, which he had gathered at risk of limb and life from the most inaccessible spurs of the bluff across the river. These offerings she would receive with just enough appearance of pleasure, and expression of appreciation to prevent that emotional youth from committing suicide. Thomas, she treated as she would a brother, took him to mass with her, and alternately commanded, scolded, and coaxed him. He alone failed to see that there was naught but cousinly regard, and a degree of gratitude and pity in her heart for him.

Colonel Clark sued, as he did everything else, masterfully. It was plain, too, that this had a certain effect upon Ellen, who moreover, could not fail to be attracted by his handsome person and winning manners. That personal charm felt so strongly by men, even by savages and foreigners must produce a more sure effect upon the feelings of the woman whom he condescended to woo. Yet Ellen did not acknowledge his power, but rather took pleasure in making him yield to her. There was almost daily warfare of words between them. She would be starting to vespers with Thomas perhaps, just as Clark would be mounting the porch steps.

"You are not going this afternoon, Miss Ellen," in his firm tone of command; "I want you to stay and talk to me."

"But I always go to vespers, Colonel Clark."

"Except when I come to see you."

"No matter who comes to see me."

"You need make exception in my case only; I have many duties, and can not choose my hours of recreation; you can say your prayers all day, if you wish."

"Vesper hour is sacred; I cannot profane it by staying away from service to amuse even you, Colonel Clark. Moreover I am neither Frenchman, Indian, nor soldier; I do not take orders from the Long-Knives," and she would flash upon him a look of smiling defiance, and pass on.

"You are as cruel as fair, Miss Ellen," in hurt, gentle tones; "you cannot guess how weary, and heart-hungry I am, or you would be more merciful. Are you not the one bit of home, and comfort, and cheer we soldiers have in this wilderness? Now, after a day of toil, with the prospect of an hour of delight with you as my only recompense, you leave me thus without a word of regret."

"I must to vespers, Colonel Clark, but I shall hasten back; you can wait here for me."

And Clark would wait impatiently, Ellen returning promptly, as she had promised, to put forth for him, during the rest of the evening, the utmost of her powers of fascination.

Her treatment of me was less flattering, I thought, than that she accorded any of the others. I was no more her best friend, her openly favored comrade. On the contrary, she treated me with alternate indifference, haughtiness and patronage; she would seem to seek occasions of difference, and then, when I was lashed into answering her, would flaunt me angrily, or mock me with sarcasms. Afterwards she would repent her rudeness, and beg my pardon with the sweetest humility and gentleness. But this playing hot and cold on her part kept me in a sort of inward fever, and made me what I had never been in my life before, irritable and quarrelsome. To the men under me, I was peremptory; I was testy with Thomas, and often almost rude with Clark. In truth I was half frenzied with jealousy. A score of times in the day, I would compare myself with Clark – set my appearance and qualities over against his, and cast up the balance between us; but, with all my leaning to my own side, I could not blind myself that neither in manner, person, nor gifts could I rival him. There could be little doubt as to which one of us Ellen would choose when a final choice was forced upon her.

The wild grape vintage was a customary festival with the Kaskaskians. The woods along the river were wreathed with the vines, which looped from branch to branch, or from tree to tree, and even the berry thickets had become trellises to support their luxuriant meanderings. These wild grapes made a rich, delicious wine, much prized by the people as a beverage, and by the priests as an antidote to the far less innocent fire water, peddled by the traders, in boat loads, up and down the river. Colonel Clark not only consented to the celebration of this one of their frequent holidays, but agreed that the soldiers might take part on condition that no liquors be dispensed.

All assisted in the morning's work of gathering the grapes, and piling them in the calèches, or two-wheeled carts, to be hauled to the wine vats, then the afternoon was given up to pleasure and feasting. Games were interspersed with trials of strength and skill, upon the public square of the village; shooting at a mark, hurling the tomahawk, wrestling and racing were the chief contests, which were participated in by Frenchmen and soldiers on equal terms. Colonel Clark, Captain Montgomery, and myself were the chosen judges, and we were careful to distribute the prizes equally, with no very strict regard to merit.