Part 5

“Mademoiselle, they are in good hands”; but he smiled as he said it, looking on the girlish form before him, with its soldier cap and heavy gun. Madelon saw the smile, and who can blame her that she answered,—

“In better hands than you think. Will Monsieur come and inspect the fort?”

The Lieutenant and his forty men followed her up to the fort, found everything in order, and a sentinel on each bastion. He turned with a look of surprise to Madelon, and asked,—

“Why does not the commandant of this fort come to receive me?”

“I have commanded this fort, Monsieur, during the absence of my father, since there was none other either willing or able to do it. Will Monsieur give me his orders?”

The surprised lieutenant, after looking again about him, turned and bowed.

“What commands does Mademoiselle wish me to give? For my part, there seems nothing for me to alter.”

“If Monsieur will relieve the garrison, it would be well, since none of us have been off the bastions for a week.”

We can well imagine that there were deep and peaceful slumbers in Castle Dangerous that night, and let us hope that the cowardly soldiers had to take their turn at last at bastion duty. I cannot find in the history that they did, however.

Think of the pride and pleasure that Madelon’s father and mother felt in their daughter when the news of her bravery reached them!

What they said to her when she told them all about it, history does not say either; but the facts of the defence were written down as Madelon herself told them, in obedience to the commands of the Marquis de Beauharnais, Governor of Canada.

Even in those dangerous times, when one never knew what peril the next moment would bring forth, and women as well as men took their share in guarding homes and firesides, such wonderful bravery and determination in a girl of fourteen did not pass unnoticed. Through the efforts of those in power, Madelon was highly commended at the great French court over seas, and was granted a pension by the King, to be paid to her each year as long as she should live.

In another encounter with Indians many years later, she saved the life of a French gentleman whom she afterward married. All her life was passed in the midst of peril, and on no occasion when bravery was demanded was Madelon ever found wanting.

THE PEARL NECKLACE _1767_

I

“Good-bye,” she said.

And then again, “Good-bye.”

The voice of the young girl was choked with sobs, and tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.

“Good-bye, dear garden; good-bye, dear home”; and as she spoke she stopped and looked up at the old grey chateau which the warm afternoon sun had made glow with tints of rose and gold.

She made a pretty picture standing there, even though her eyes were red with weeping, for her clustering curls were drawn high on her graceful head with a great comb, the lack of powder letting their bright chestnut tones shine in the warm evening light. A gaily flowered gown of simple muslin, less ample in its cut than the style affected by those who lived nearer the court, was fashioned so as to show a slender white throat. The delicate ruffles at elbow and neck showed that even in the country Mechlin, the lace of the hour, had its wearers.

Looking about, eyes even less partial than hers would cease to be surprised that parting with so fair a scene should cause such grief. To Clemence Valvier the chateau was home. There she was born, had grown to girlhood, and though but seventeen was not only a wife, but the mother of a tiny child for whose sake she was preparing to leave parents, country, home, and friends, and seek that little known land across the sea where so many of her countrymen had gained a footing in the wilderness.

The pointed turrets of the chateau stood out sharply against the deep blue of the afternoon sky, and the glass panes in the small windows sparkled as the late sunbeams rested on them. On one side huge vines of ivy clambered up the rough stones till they reached the roof, and amid their hospitable leaves sheltered many a nest of linnet and of sparrow, whose cheerful songs made music at morning and at sunset.

Clemence stood in the garden looking sadly at the roses whose sweet profusion was due in no small measure to her care. There was the garden seat; here the sun-dial; yonder, above the wall which bounded the garden, rose the dove-cote, around which constantly hovered some of her feathered pets.

“How can I leave you all!” she cried, as each familiar object rose before her eyes. “My courage wellnigh fails me”; and she sank on her knees before the dial,—a grey veteran which gave no hint of time this afternoon, since it marked only sunny hours, and already the long shadows cast by the chateau fell across its face of stone.

Just at that moment, when she was almost willing to abandon the thought of the long and terrible journey, she heard a footstep on the gravel of the paths.

“Ah, Clemence, dear heart, it grieves me almost past endurance to see your grief. Say but one word, and I will go forth alone, and shall send back for you and the little one when a home is made ready and when I have some comforts for you.”

At the first sound of her husband’s voice Clemence had jumped to her feet, and running to him had laid her tear-stained face upon his shoulder. As he finished speaking, she had almost brought a smile to drive away the tears, and looking into his face she bravely made answer,—

“If it wrings my heart to leave dear France, Pierre, it would be a thousand times worse to have you go and leave me here, me and little Annette, for whose sake we undertake all these perils.”

“If I could think that this was really so”; and Pierre, scarce more than a youth himself, as he yet wanted several months of seeing twenty years, bore on his face a gravity that is rarely seen on one so young. His dark eyes were sad, and though he smiled when he comforted his youthful wife, it seemed as though it was but to cheer her. In truth, all his life he had comforted and protected her, for Pierre Valvier, like Clemence, had called the old chateau, the rose garden, the long straight terrace, and the fertile fields his home.

Left an orphan at an early age, under the guardianship of Monsieur Bienville, the father of Clemence, the two children had played together, studied together, and finally were wedded, and now were preparing to go forth to the New World together.

At this time Louis XV sat upon the throne of France. He was a weak monarch, devoted to his pleasures, and content to let his ministers rule, although he always took an active part in all the religious quarrels which disturbed and agitated France. Jealousy, which had long been smouldering between France and England on account of the various colonies in America to which each country laid claim, broke out into war in 1756, and its effects were felt over the whole world.

The brilliant victory of Admiral Galissonière at Fort St. Philip, the chief citadel of Port Mahon on the Minorca Islands, the most important naval victory which France had gained in fifty years, filled the whole French nation with joy. Yet the succeeding years brought little but ignominy and defeat, and The Seven Years War, as this struggle was ultimately called, lost France not only the greater part of her navy, but, what was even more galling, many of her possessions in the New World.

Disapproval of the King and his ministers drove to what was left of these colonies in America many Frenchmen of high character who foresaw nothing but disaster left for France herself. Among these was Pierre Valvier, who sought for himself and his little family a home in that new country where liberty of person and creed was assured. They were to start on the morrow for Calais, and thence take ship for New Orleans.

The old chateau—old even in 1756—stood upon a gentle slope looking down upon the little fishing village of Étaples. Such a tiny village it was, with its one-story huts,—you could scarcely call them more,—set upon the banks of the Canache, a broad shallow river so influenced by the ocean that when the tide was low the fisher-girls kilted up their scant skirts and waded across with their baskets of shrimps upon their strong young shoulders.

Such a little village, and so poor!

“Petit sou, petit sou, donnez-moi un petit sou!” That was the cry heard on every side. There was hardly a hand in the hamlet which would not be held out in expectation of a small copper coin, should anyone from the chateau chance to pass through its one ill-paved street.

Every year the poverty seemed to increase. Every year the revenues of the chateau grew less,—which was but another reason why Pierre, young and strong, should seek a home where those of gentle birth were made welcome, and where the Crown gave broad acres of land to each and all who would go and settle there.

Still, even with Hope and Courage beckoning, the parting was sad for all. Monsieur Bienville, the father of Clemence, was a soldier of the old régime. Tall, elegant, with the true air of grandeur which is born, not bred, he watched with sad eyes the preparations for departure. Madame his wife could not suppress her grief, and declared that never, never again should she see her loved ones.

“Ah,” cried she, “the poor children will be devoured by frightful beasts, I know it well,—if not by those that roam on land, by those more awful ones which dwell in the sea!”

The distant land was to her a wilderness, a desert; and, in truth, a few miles away from the city of New Orleans it was little else.

II

The rain was falling heavily as the old travelling carriage, drawn by four horses, lumbered up to the door of the chateau the next morning. Into it had been packed the necessaries for the journey to Calais, and two heavy wains had been sent off some days previously, laden with such goods as the young people were to take with them to the New World.

Within doors the daughter was taking leave of her parents, and as if to shorten the sad moment, her father took her hand, and placed within it a packet carefully bound in silk.

“Dear daughter,” said he, “see that this packet is carefully guarded. In it is thy heritance, the pearl necklace which my mother had from her mother, and which in its turn must go to thy daughter, the little Annette.”

“Oh, father, why give to me that most precious thing? Safeguard it till we come again, as, if God is willing, we shall.”

“It is yours, and then the daughter’s, and,” he whispered in her ear, “I have added all the jewels which were my mother’s portion. Keep them till time of need.”

The impatient stamping of the horses on the cobblestones of the court, warned them all that they must part, and Pierre led Clemence to the carriage, where little Annette was sleeping on the broad lap of old Marie, who had petted and scolded her mother through her babyhood and was now going with her on that long journey to the land of which they knew so little and feared so much.

As if desirous of making up for lost time, Jacques cracked his whip, and with the words, “Farewell, farewell,” ringing in the air, the coach passed quickly down the long drive and through the gates leading to the highroad, and turned in the direction of Boulogne, where they were to pass that night.

The familiar scenes of her childhood never seemed so fair to Clemence as at this moment when she was parting from them. Here was the little church nestling among the trees, where she had received her first communion, and there stood Père Joseph, waving adieux from the old grey porch, the unfamiliar tear stealing down his wrinkled cheek.

Farther along on the other side of the road was the Rose d’Or, the quaint old inn, before whose hospitable door the village yokels were wont to gather of a summer’s evening and play at bowls upon the green. The very signboard as it hung above the door and swung in the wind seemed to creak “farewell,” and as the travelling chariot rolled by, Clemence hid her face upon her husband’s shoulder.

At last her sobs grew less violent, and as if to call attention from her grief, little Annette awoke, and lying comfortable and rosy upon the lap of her nurse, cooed out her satisfaction as only a healthy, happy baby can. Pierre took the child in his arms, and the baby stretched out her hands towards her mother, who, turning to take her, found neglected in her own lap the parcel of jewels so carefully wrapped and handed to her by her father as a parting gift.

“See, Pierre, my father gave to me the pearl necklace which I wore on my wedding day, and it is to be the portion of little Annette, when she too marries.”

Hardly had the words passed her lips, when rude shouts were heard, and the coach gradually came to a standstill.

“Halt!” cried a voice almost beside the window, and old Jacques the coachman could be heard saying,—

“But, messieurs, my master and mistress—”

“Peace, knave, let thy betters speak for themselves.”

At this a rude leering face was thrust into the window, and a man pulled roughly at the carriage door and cried,—

“Step out, and quickly too, and bring out your valuables with you.”

“But we are travellers, and have with us barely enough to carry us to Calais, where our ship lies at anchor,” said Pierre, trying not to let his voice show his anger and disgust.

“What will serve you will serve us also at a pinch. Is it not so, Jean?” and he turned to a third ruffian who stood at hand, holding by the bridle some sorry-looking horses.

“Truth, if we take all they have, ’t will be enough, but do not wait too long,” answered the one named Jean, who wore a soldier’s cap with a soiled and broken feather trailing over one ear.

At the first appearance of the highwaymen at the carriage window, Clemence had handed little Annette to Marie, and in so doing had managed to slip among her clothes the precious packet of jewels. She gave Marie a warning look, and when they were commanded to step from the coach, she begged, for the sake of the child, that it and the nurse might sit within.

“You can see for yourselves that neither the infant nor the aged woman has aught of value,” said she.

After hurriedly searching through the coach and finding nothing more, the highwaymen contented themselves with carrying off Pierre’s sword and a fair pearl ring which Clemence wore upon her finger, and a small bag of golden doubloons which Pierre had in the pocket of his travelling coat. The villainous trio had scarcely got safely away, when the reason of their haste became apparent, for a captain and four men-at-arms came around a turn in the road, urging their horses to a smart trot, when they saw the travelling carriage drawn up by the side of the ditch.

“Have three renegadoes passed this way?” called the leader, as they drew rein.

“Truly, but a few moments since,” said Pierre, with a rueful face, as he thought of his bag of gold. “It would have pleased me much had you come this way but a few moments earlier, since I then had been the richer for a purse of doubloons.”

“Stole they aught beside?” asked the captain, as he put spurs to his horse and hardly waited for Pierre’s answer as they rode hastily away in the direction the robbers had taken.

When once more the coach was in motion, Clemence turned to Annette and clasped her in her arms, saying,—

“Of a truth, little one, ’twas fortunate indeed that you saved your inheritance this time,—you and Marie.”

“Let us hide the packet better, Madame,” said Marie. “Who can tell when another band of cutthroats may be upon us, and truly, as thou saidst, it was but chance that saved us this time.”

Without any delay the packet was carefully tied among the long skirts of little Annette, and Marie hardly ceased to tremble till the coach rolled into the yard of the inn at Boulogne, and the red light streaming from the open door showed them that warmth and shelter were to be had within.

Early astir the next morning, refreshed and cheered because the rain had ceased and the sun shone cheerfully abroad, our travellers during the late afternoon of the next day entered the grey old town of Calais, the little Annette unconsciously guarding the packet which held her inheritance as well as the jewels which Monsieur Bienville had given as a parting token to his daughter.

It was quite dark when the carriage was at last unpacked, and not till then did Pierre draw from behind a secret panel in the side of the coach the store of gold which was to suffice for their needs on board ship, and till they were established in the new home which awaited them on the other side of the ocean.

III

In the harbour of Calais rode at anchor the ship “Espérance,” which was taking on passengers and their goods for the long voyage to New Orleans. Owing to the shallow water, the ship could not approach the quay, and all the watermen of the town were busy carrying back and forth those who, like our travellers, were outward bound, or those who came merely to say a last farewell.

On the walls of the town were gathered a motley crew, who, not having friends on board, sought to gain some excitement by watching the partings of others; and as from time to time the chimes rang out from the belfry behind the citadel, the little craft in the harbour became even more animated, since they now carried out to the “Espérance” some who had been belated on their way thither, and sought to get themselves and their goods safely aboard before the turn of the tide should serve to carry the ship out through the Straits into the English Channel.

Watching this scene from the cramped deck of the ship, Clemence and Pierre stood together, the former giving free vent to her tears, which rolled unheeded down her cheeks at the thought that she was leaving behind her so much which had hitherto made her life joyful.

Her sadness was reflected in her husband’s face, and at last he spoke.

“Dear wife, ’tis not yet too late to return. Say one word, and I can call one of those dingeys which shall carry us back to shore.”

“Nay, Pierre, I would go with you. But indeed I must weep, since never again do these eyes expect to look on my beautiful France.”

“I pray your sacrifice may not cost too dear,” said Pierre, pressing her hand; and as she wept she whispered,—

“The grief I feel at parting from France is naught compared to what I should feel at parting from you.”

Even as she spoke, there began such a scene of bustle and confusion that Clemence perforce dried her eyes to gaze upon it. The sailors were running to and fro stowing the goods of passengers away, and piled on the deck were feather-beds and pallets of straw, each passenger providing such beds and covering as his station in life permitted, since the ship provided only the room in which these might be laid. Boatloads of people were leaving the ship, some merry, some grave, and above all the noise rose the sharp commands of the Captain. At last sounded the shrill notes of the boatswain’s whistle, and the crew began to man the capstan bars. One of the sailors commenced to sing to ease the labour off a bit, and at the sound of the well-known chorus,

“Ho, ho, batelier, batelier, Tirez, tirez, Ancre de flot, Tirez Roget, tirez Notet,”

the crew joined in, so that the bars worked like magic, and the anchor rose into sight, then came short up, and finally, with another drive of the bars, swung all wet and dripping at the bows.

Ere this the huge sails had been bent into place, and now with the fresh evening breeze began to draw, while from every side came the curious creak and tugging noise which is present in every sailing craft. ’Twas not many moments ere the “Espérance” had her nose pointed seaward, and was bowling along with the white foam flying in her wake. All too quickly the shores and buildings of the town receded from the sight of those who gazed on them with tears, and even the belfry chimes had a melancholy sound as they floated out over the water.

Pierre and Clemence stood by the rail, rather apart from the other passengers, and when the purple twilight had swallowed up France, Pierre said,—

“See, Clemence, a good omen. Look at the new moon.”

“It is a happy sign, and glad am I to see it. How silvery it looks, and see the horn dips not at all, which argues well for a smooth voyage.”

Though the “Espérance” was not a swift craft, she was a steady one. There were three weary months spent on board of her, and the moon proved a false prophet, since they encountered storms and head winds, and in addition had the alarm of pirates and the heat of the tropics. Worse even than the perils of the Atlantic were those encountered when they entered the Gulf of Mexico, where also pirates lay in wait, where there were contrary currents, and worse than all, sandbars, upon which the ship grounded. Many manœuvres were tried to ease her off, and there was despair felt on all sides when it was ordered that the baggage should be thrown overboard. Fortunately this sacrifice became unnecessary, as the second high-tide floated her off, and slowly the “Espérance” glided into deeper water. Pierre and Clemence heard with joy the rattle of the chain as the anchor was thrown overboard in the harbour of the Belize, thinking, poor souls, that the sufferings of the journey were over. Clemence turned with a bright smile to poor Marie, who sat upon a pile of bedding which lay on the deck, where it had been thrown in order to be ready for departure from the ship. The old nurse had suffered greatly during the long, tedious journey, and even now she looked sad and worn as she sat there in the sunshine, holding little Annette on her knees.

“Come, Marie, look less sad; soon will we reach the spot where our home is to be. Let me hold the little one.”

“Oh, Madame, little did I know of the horrors before us! Praise God that we still live, we and the little cat.”

“Truly the little cat and Annette seem to have fared better than the rest of us,” said Clemence, laughing. “Let us hope there will be fewer mice than you expect.”

“But, Madame, a cat is so comfortable, and in this wild land there be few enough comforts, I well know.”

Just at this moment Pierre hurried up to them, and said,—

“Come, Clemence, bring Annette, while Marie helps me, for the Captain says we are to go ashore and wait at the house of the Commandant till boats come for us from New Orleans.”

It was with scant ceremony that our little party and some of the other passengers were packed into the ship’s boats and taken to Dauphin Island. Here they were made comfortable, and during the week of their stay recovered somewhat from the sufferings on shipboard.

It was in two pirogues and two barges that they at last started on the trip up the river to New Orleans, and for discomfort the seven days passed in this journey far outdid all the fatigues sustained in the “Espérance.”

“Oh, Madame,” said Marie, “who ever saw ‘Messieurs les Maringouins’ of such size and with such stings before?” and as she spoke she waved again the huge fan with which she tried to protect Annette from the ravages of the mosquitoes.

An hour before sunset the rowers stopped each day, and the whole party encamped on shore, so as to get safely tucked in beneath the mosquito bars before “les Messieurs” should begin operations.

If the nights were dreadful, the days were scarcely better, since the boats were piled high with goods, so that the passengers were cramped in narrow spaces and hardly dared to move. In fact, the little cat in its wicker basket, and Annette carried on the broad breast of Marie, were the most comfortable members of the party. They had no fears of going to feed the fishes, as had some of their elders.

At length the weary trip was over, and when at length the boats drew up at the landing much of the discomfort was forgotten.