The Crossing

by Winston Churchill

  CHAPTER IV. OF A SUDDEN RESOLUTION

  It was nearly morning when I fell asleep in my chair, from sheerexhaustion, for the day before had been a hard one, even for me. I awokewith a start, and sat for some minutes trying to collect my scatteredsenses. The sun streamed in at my open door, the birds hopped on thelawn, and the various sounds of the bustling life of the little towncame to me from beyond. Suddenly, with a glimmering of the mad events ofthe night, I stood up, walked uncertainly into the back room, and staredat the bed.

  It was empty. I went back into the outer room; my eye wandered from theshattered whiskey bottle, which was still on the floor, to the tablelittered 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 itmechanically.

  “Dear Davy,”--so it ran,--“I have gone away, I cannot tell you where.Some day 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 accountfor Nick’s actions, but the more I reflected, the more incredible itseemed to me that he should have gone there, of all places. And yet Ihad had it from Clark’s own lips (indiscreet enough now!) that Nick andSt. Gré were to prepare the way for an insurrection there. My thoughtsran on to other possibilities; would he see his mother? But he had noreason to know that Mrs. Temple was still in New Orleans. Then my glancefell on her letters, lying open on the table. Had he read them? I putthis down as improbable, for he was a man who held strictly to a pointof honor.

  And then there was Antoinette de St. Gré! I ceased to conjecture here,dashed some water in my eyes, pulled myself together, and, seizingmy hat, hurried out into the street. I made a sufficiently indecorousfigure as I ran towards the water-side, barely nodding to myacquaintances on the way. It was a fresh morning, a river breeze stirredthe waters of the Bear Grass, and as I stood, scanning the line of boatsthere, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to confront a little manwith grizzled, chestnut eyebrows. He was none other than the CitizenGignoux.

  “You tek ze air, Monsieur Reetchie?” said he. “You look for some one,yes? You git up too late see him off.”

  I made a swift resolve never to quibble with this man.

  “So Mr. Temple has gone to New Orleans with the Sieur de St. Gré,” Isaid.

  Citizen Gignoux laid a fat finger on one side of his great nose. Thenose was red and shiny, I remember, and glistened in the sunlight.

  “Ah,” said he, “‘tis no use tryin’ hide from you. However, MonsieurReetchie, you are the ver’ soul of honor. And then your frien’! I knowyou not betray the Sieur de St. Gré. He is ver’ fon’ of you.”

  “Betray!” I exclaimed; “there is no question of betrayal. As far as Ican see, your plans are carried on openly, with a fine contempt for theFederal government.”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “‘Tis not my doin’,” he said, “but I am--what you call it?--a cipher.Sicrecy is what I believe. But drink too much, talk too much--is it notso, Monsieur? And if Monsieur le Baron de Carondelet, ze governor,hear 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 soberabruptly. “It is necessair for the cause. We must have good Revolutionin Louisiane.”

  A suspicion of this man came over me, for a childlike simplicitycharacterized the other ringleaders in this expedition. Clark had hadacumen once, and lost it; St. Gré was a fool; Nick Temple was leadingpurposely a reckless life; the Citizens Sullivan and Depeau had, to saythe least, a limited knowledge of affairs. All of these were respondingmore or less sincerely to the cry of the people of Kentucky (every daymore passionate) that something be done about Louisiana. But Gignouxseemed of a different feather. Moreover, he had been too shrewd to denywhat Colonel Clark would have denied in a soberer moment,--that St. Gréand Nick had gone to New Orleans.

  “You not spik, Monsieur. You not think they have success. You are notFederalist, no, for I hear you march las’ night with your frien’,--Ihear you wave torch.”

  “You make it your business to hear a great deal, Monsieur Gignoux,” Iretorted, my temper slipping a little.

  He hastened to apologize.

  “Mille pardons, Monsieur,” he said; “I see you are Federalist--butdrunk. Is it not so? Monsieur, you tink this ver’ silly thing--thisexpedition.”

  “Whatever I think, Monsieur,” I answered, “I am a friend of GeneralClark’s.”

  “An enemy of ze cause?” he put in.

  “Monsieur,” I said, “if President Washington and General Wayne do notthink it worth while to interfere with your plans, neither do I.”

  I left him abruptly, and went back to my long-delayed affairs with aheavy heart. The more I thought, the more criminally foolish Nick’sjourney seemed to me. However puerile the undertaking, De Lemos atNatchez and Carondelet at New Orleans had not the reputation of sleepingat their posts, and their hatred for Americans was well known. I soughtGeneral Clark, but he had gone to Knob Licks, and in my anxiety I layawake at night, tossing in my bed.

  One evening, perhaps four days after Nick’s departure, I went intothe common room of the tavern, and there I was surprised to see an oldfriend. His square, saffron face was just the same, his little jet eyessnapped as brightly as ever, his hair--which was swept high above hisforehead and tied in an eelskin behind--was as black as when I had seenit at Kaskaskia. I had met Monsieur Vigo many times since, for he was afamiliar figure amongst the towns of the Ohio and the Mississippi,and from Vincennes to Anse à la Graisse, and even to New Orleans. Hisreputation as a financier was greater than ever. He was talking to myfriend, Mr. Marshall, but he rose when he saw me, with a beaming smile.

  “Ha, it is Davy,” he cried, “but not the sem lil drummer boy who wouldnot come into my store. Reech lawyer now,--I hear you make much moneynow, Davy.”

  “Congress money?” I said.

  Monsieur Vigo threw out his hands, and laughed exactly as he had done inhis log store at Kaskaskia.

  “Congress have never repay me one sou,” said Monsieur Vigo, making aface. “I have try--I have talk--I have represent--it is no good. Davy,it is your fault. You tell me tek dat money. You call dat finance?”

  “David,” said Mr. Marshall, sharply, “what the devil is this I hear ofyour carrying a torch in a Jacobin procession?”

  “You may put it down to liquor, Mr. Marshall,” I answered.

  “Then you must have had a cask, egad,” said Mr. Marshall, “for I neversaw 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,” saidhe, and resumed his conversation. As I suspected, it was a vigorouscondemnation of General Clark and his new expedition. I expressed mybelief that the government did not regard it seriously, and would forbidthe enterprise at the proper time.

  “You are right, sir,” said Mr. Marshall, bringing down his fist on thetable. “I have private advices from Philadelphia that the President’sconsideration for Governor Shelby is worn out, and that he will issuea proclamation within the next few days warning all citizens at theirperil from any connection with the pirates.”

  I laughed.

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Marshall,” said I, “Citizen Genêt has beenliberal with nothing except commissions, and they have neither money normen.”

  “The rascals have all left town,” said Mr. Marshall. “CitizenQuartermaster Depeau, their local financier, has gone back to his storeat Knob Licks. The Sieur de St. Gré and a Mr. Temple, as doubtless youknow, have gone to New Orleans. And the most mysterious and thereforethe most dangerous of the lot, Citizen Gignoux, has vanished like anevil spirit. It is commonly supposed that he, too, has gone down theriver. You may see him, Vigo,” said Mr. Marshall, turning to the trader;“he is a little man with a big nose and grizzled chestnut eyebrows.”

  “Ah, I know a lil ‘bout him,” said Monsieur Vigo; “he was on my b
oat twodays ago, asking me questions.”

  “The devil he was!” said Mr. Marshall.

  I had another disquieting night, and by the morning I had made up mymind. The sun was glinting on the placid waters of the river when I mademy way down to the bank, to a great ten-oared keel boat that lay on theBear Grass, with its square sail furled. An awning was stretched overthe deck, and at a walnut table covered with papers sat Monsieur Vigo,smoking his morning pipe.

  “Davy,” said he, “you have come à la bonne heure. At ten I depart forNew Orleans.” He sighed. “It is so long voyage,” he added, “and solonely one. Sometime I have the good fortune to pick up a companion, butnot to-day.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?” I said.

  He looked at me incredulously.

  “I should be delighted,” he said, “but you mek a jest.”

  “I was never more serious in my life,” I answered, “for I have businessin New Orleans. I shall be ready.”

  “Ha,” cried Monsieur Vigo, hospitably, “I shall be enchant. We will talkphilosophe, Beaumarchais, Voltaire, Rousseau.”

  For Monsieur Vigo was a great reader, and we had often indulged inconversation which (we flattered ourselves) had a literary turn.

  I spent the remaining hours arranging with a young lawyer of myacquaintance to look after my business, and at ten o’clock I was aboardthe keel boat with my small baggage. At eleven, Monsieur Vigo and I weretalking “philosophe” over a wonderful breakfast under the awning, aswe dropped down between the forest-lined shores of the Ohio. My hosttravelled in luxury, and we ate the Creole dishes, which his cookprepared, 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 NewOrleans, and hence I shall not give a long account of the journey. Whata contrast it was to that which Nick and I had taken five years beforein Monsieur Gratiot’s fur boat! Like all successful Creole traders,Monsieur Vigo had a wonderful knack of getting on with the Indians, andoften when we tied up of a night the chief men of a tribe would comedown to greet him. We slipped southward on the great, yellow river whichparted the wilderness, with its sucks and eddies and green islands,every one of which Monsieur knew, and I saw again the flocks ofwater-fowl and herons in procession, and hawks and vultures wheeling intheir search. Sometimes a favorable wind sprang up, and we hoistedthe sail. We passed the Walnut Hills, the Nogales, the moans of thealligators broke our sleep by night, and at length we came to Natchez,ruled over now by that watch-dog of the Spanish King, Gayoso de Lemos.Thanks to Monsieur Vigo, his manners were charming and his hospitalitygracious, and there was no trouble whatever about my passport.

  Our progress was slow when we came at last to the belvedered plantationhouses amongst the orange groves; and as we sat on the wide galleriesin the summer nights, we heard all the latest gossip of the capital ofLouisiana. The river was low; there was an ominous quality in the heatwhich had its effect, indeed, upon me, and made the old Creoles shaketheir heads and mutter a word with a terrible meaning. New Orleans wasa cesspool, said the enlightened. The Baron de Carondelet, indefatigableman, aimed at digging a canal to relieve the city of its filth, butthis would be the year when it was most needed, and it was not dug. Yes,Monsieur le Baron was energy itself. That other fever--the politicalone--he had scotched. “Ça Ira” and “La Marseillaise” had been sung inthe theatres, but not often, for the Baron had sent the alcaldes to shutthem up. Certain gentlemen of French ancestry had gone to languish inthe Morro at Havana. Yes, Monsieur de Carondelet, though fat, was onhorseback before dawn, New Orleans was fortified as it never had beenbefore, the militia organized, real cannon were on the ramparts whichcould shoot at a pinch.

  Sub rosa, I found much sympathy among the planters with the Rights ofMan. What had become, they asked, of the expedition of Citizen GeneralClark preparing in the North? They may have sighed secretly when Ipainted it in its true colors, but they loved peace, these planters.Strangely enough, the name of Auguste de St. Gré never crossed theirlips, and I got no trace of him or Nick at any of these places. Was itpossible that they might not have come to New Orleans after all?

  Through the days, when the sun beat upon the awning with a tropicalfierceness, when Monsieur Vigo abandoned himself to his siestas, Ithought. It was perhaps characteristic of me that I waited nearly threeweeks to confide in my old friend the purpose of my journey to NewOrleans. 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 ofNick’s mother and his affair with Antoinette de St. Gré from the rest ofthe story. But Monsieur Vigo was a man of importance in Louisiana, andI reflected that a time might come when I should need his help. Oneevening, when we were tied up under the oaks of a bayou, I told him.There emanated from Monsieur Vigo a sympathy which few men possess, andthis I felt strongly as he listened, breaking his silence only at longintervals to ask a question. It was a still night, I remember, of greatbeauty, with a wisp of a moon hanging over the forest line, the airheavy with odors and vibrant with a thousand insect tones.

  “And what you do, Davy?” he said at length.

  “I must find my cousin and St. Gré before they have a chance to getinto much mischief,” I answered. “If they have already made a noise, Ithought of going to the Baron de Carondelet and telling him what Iknow of the expedition. He will understand what St. Gré is, and I willexplain that Mr. Temple’s reckless love of adventure is at the bottom ofhis share in the matter.”

  “Bon, Davy,” said my host, “if you go, I go with you. But I believe zeBaron think Morro good place for them jus’ the sem. Ze Baron has beenmake misérable with Jacobins. But I go with you if you go.”

  He discoursed for some time upon the quality of the St. Gré’s, theirpublic services, and before he went to sleep he made the very justremark that there was a flaw in every string of beads. As for me, I wentdown into the cabin, surreptitiously lighted a candle, and drew frommy pocket that piece of ivory which had so strangely come into mypossession once more. The face upon it had haunted me since I had firstbeheld it. The miniature was wrapped now in a silk handkerchief whichPolly Ann had bought for me in Lexington. Shall I confess it?--I hadcarefully rubbed off the discolorations on the ivory at the back, andthe picture lacked now only the gold setting. As for the face, I had akind of consolation from it. I seemed to draw of its strength when I wastired, of its courage when I faltered. And, during those four days ofindecision in Louisville, it seemed to say to me in words that I couldnot evade or forget, “Go to New Orleans.” It was a sentiment--foolish,if you please--which could not resist. Nay, which I did not try toresist, for I had little enough of it in my life. What did it matter? Ishould never see Madame la Vicomtesse d’Ivry-le-Tour.

  She was Hélène to me; and the artist had caught the strength of hersoul in her clear-cut face, in the eyes that flashed with wit andcourage,--eyes that seemed to look with scorn upon what was mean in theworld and untrue, with pity on the weak. Here was one who might havegoverned a province and still have been a woman, one who had takeninto exile the best of safeguards against misfortune,--humor and anindomitable spirit.