# D'ri and I/Chapter 9

IX 121
ext morning the baroness went away in her glittering caleche with Louison. Each shining spoke and golden turret flashed the sunlight back at me as I looked after them at the edge of the wood. The baroness had asked me to go with her, but I thought the journey too long. Louise came out and sat by me awhile as I lay in the hammock. She was all in white. A trifle taller and a bit more slender than her sister, I have sometimes thought her beauty was statelier, also, and more statuesque. The sight of her seemed to kindle in me the spirit of old chivalry. I would have fought and died for her with my best lance and plume. In all my life I had not seen a woman of sweeter graces of speech and manner, and, in truth, I have met some of the best born of her sex.
​She had callers presently—the Sieur Michel and his daughter. I went away, then, for a walk, and, after a time, strolled into the north trail. Crossing a mossy glade, in a circle of fragrant cedar, I sat down to rest. The sound of falling water came to my ear through thickets of hazel and shadberry. Suddenly I heard a sweet voice singing a love-song of Provence—the same voice, the same song, I had heard the day I came half fainting on my horse. Somebody was coming near. In a moment I saw Louise before me.
"What, ma'm'selle!" I said; "alone in the woods!"
"Not so," said she. "I knew you were here—somewhere, and—and—well, I thought you might be lonely."
"You are a good angel," I said, "always trying to make others happy."
Louise.
"Ma'm'selle, it is appalling!" I said. "You may have injured the poor man. You must be very bad. Let me see your palm."
I held her dainty fingers in mine, that were still hard and brown, peering into the pink hollow of her hand. She looked up curiously.
"A quick temper and a heart of gold," I said. "If the devil has it, he is lucky, and—well, I should like to be in his confidence."
"Ah, m'sieur," said she, seriously, a little tremor on her lips, "I have much trouble—you do not know. I have to fight with myself."
"You have, then, a formidable enemy," I answered.
"But I am not quarrelsome," said she, thoughtfully. "I am only weary of the life here. I should like to go away and be of some use in the world. I suppose it is wicked, for my papa wishes me to stay. And bah! it is a prison—a Hôpital de Salpêtrière!"
"Ma'm'selle," I exclaimed, "if you talk like that I shall take you on my horse and fly with ​you. I shall come as your knight, as your deliverer, some day."
"Alas!" said she, with a sigh, "you would find me very heavy. One has nothing to do here but grow lazy and—ciel!—fat."
If my meeting with her sister had not made it impossible and absurd, I should have offered my heart to this fair young lady then and there. Now I could not make it seem the part of honor and decency. I could not help adoring her simplicity, her frankness, her beautiful form and face.
"It is no prison for me," I said. "I do not long for deliverance. I cannot tell you how happy I have been to stay—how unhappy I shall be to leave."
"Captain," she said quickly, "you are not strong; you are no soldier yet."
"Yes; I must be off to the wars."
"And that suggests an idea," said she, thoughtfully, her chin upon her hand.
"Which is?"
"That my wealth is ill-fortune," she went on, with a sigh. "Men and women are fighting and toiling and bleeding and dying to make the ​world better, and I—I am just a lady, fussing, primping, peering into a looking-glass! I should like to do something, but they think I am too good—too holy."
"But it is a hard business—the labors and quarrels of the great world," I suggested.
"Well—it is God's business," she continued. "And am I not one of his children, and 'wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business?' It was not too good for the man who said that."
"But what would you do?"
"I do not know. I suppose I can do nothing because—alas! because my father has bought my obedience with a million francs. Do you not see that I am in bondage?"
"Be patient; the life of a rich demoiselle is not barren of opportunity."
"To be gay—oh! one might as well be a peacock; to say pretty things, one might better be a well-trained parrot; to grace the court or the salon, I had as soon be a statue in the corner—it has more comfort, more security; to be admired, to hear fine compliments—well, you know that is the part of a pet poodle. I ​say, captain, to be happy one must be free to do."
I looked into her big eyes, that were full of their new discovery.
"I should like to be among the wounded soldiers," said she, her face brightening. "It did make me very happy to sit by your bedside and do for you."
There was a very tender look in her eyes then.
She started to rise. A brier, stirring in the breeze, had fallen across her hair. She let me loose the thorns, and, doing so, I kissed her forehead—I could not help it.
"M'sieur!" she exclaimed in a whisper. Then she turned quickly away and stood tearing a leaf in her fingers.
"Forgive me!" I pleaded, for I saw she was crying. "It was the impulse of a moment. Pray forgive me!"
She stood motionless and made no answer, I never felt such a stir in me, for I had a fear, a terrible fear, that I had lost what I might never have again.
"It was honorable admiration," I continued, ​rising to my full height beside her. "Tell me, ma'm'selle, have I hurt you?"
"No," said she, in a voice that trembled. "I am thinking—I am thinking of somebody else."
The words, spoken so slowly, so sweetly, seemed, nevertheless, to fly at me. "Of somebody else!" Whom could she mean? Had her sister told her? Did she know of my meeting with Louison? I was about to confess how deeply, how tenderly, I loved her. I had spoken the first word when this thought flashed upon me, and I halted. I could not go on.
"Ma'm'selle," I said, "I—I—if it is I of whom you are thinking, give me only your pity, and I can be content. Sometime, perhaps, I may deserve more. If I can be of any service to you, send for me—command me. You shall see I am not ungrateful. Ah, ma'm'selle," I continued, as I stood to my full height, and felt a mighty uplift in my heart that seemed to toss the words out of me, "I have a strong arm and a good sword, and the love of honor and fair women."
She wiped her eyes, and turned and looked up at me. I was no longer a sick soldier.
​"It is like a beautiful story," she said thoughtfully; "and you—you are like a knight of old. We must go home. It is long past luncheon hour. We must hurry."
She gave me her arm up the hill, and we walked without speaking.
"I am very well to-day," I remarked as we came to the road. "If you will wait here until I get to the big birch, I shall go around to see if I can beat you to the door."
"It is not necessary," said she, smiling, "and—and, m'sieur, I am not ashamed of you or of what I have done."
The baroness and Louison had not yet returned. M. Pidgeon was at luncheon with us in the big dining room, and had much to say of the mighty Napoleon and the coalition he was then fighting.
The great monsieur stayed through the afternoon, as the baroness had planned a big house-party for the night, in celebration of the count's return. My best clothes had come by messenger from the Harbor, and I could put myself in good fettle. The baroness and the count and Louison came early, and we sat long together under the trees.
​The dinner was at seven. There were more than a dozen guests, among whom were a number I had seen at the château—Mr. David Parish of Ogdensburg, who arrived late in a big, two-wheeled cart drawn by four horses that came galloping to the door, and General Wilkinson, our new commander in the North, a stout, smooth-faced man, who came with Mr. Parish in citizen's dress.
At dinner the count had much to say of scenes of excitement in Albany, where he had lately been. The baroness and her wards were resplendent in old lace and sparkling jewels. Great haunches of venison were served from a long sideboard; there was a free flow of old Madeira and Burgundy and champagne and cognac. Mr. Parish and the count and the general and Moss Kent and M. Pidgeon sat long at the table, with cigars and coffee, after the rest of us had gone to the parlors, and the big room rang with their laughter. The young Marquis de Gonvello and Mr. Marc Isambert Brunel of the Compagnie, who, afterward founded the great machine-shops of the Royal Navy Yard at Portsmouth ​and became engineer of the Thames tunnel, and Pierre Chassinis, Jr., and I waltzed with the ladies. Presently I sat down near the baroness, who was talking in French with Thérèse Le Ray, the count's daughter.
"Pardon my using French," said the baroness, turning to me, "for I believe you do not use it, and, my friend, it is a misfortune, for you miss knowing what good company is the Ma'm'selle Le Ray."
"And I miss much pleasure and mayhap a duel with the marquis," I said, laughing; "but I beg you to proceed with your talk. I have learned many words since I came here, and I love the sound of it."
"We saw British soldiers to-day," she continued to Ma'm'selle Le Ray, in French. "They crossed the road near us on their horses."
Louison came over and sat by them.
"They were not in uniform," the baroness continued, "but I knew they were English; you cannot mistake them."
"And what do you think?" said Louison, eagerly. "One of them threatened to kiss me."
​"Indeed, that was terrible," said Ma'm'selle Le Ray. "You must have been afraid."
"Yes," said she, smiling, "afraid he wouldn't. They were a good-looking lot."
"I do not think he was speaking of you at all," said the baroness. "He was looking at me when—"
"Ciel!" exclaimed Louison, laughing. "That is why they turned suddenly and fled into the fields."
I fled, too,—perhaps as suddenly as the Britishers,—to save myself the disgrace of laughter.
The great clock in the hall above-stairs tolled the hour of two. The ladies had all gone to bed save the baroness. The butler had started upstairs, a candelabrum in his hand. Following him were the count and Mr. Parish, supporting the general between them. The able soldier had overrated his capacity. All had risen to go to their rooms. Of a sudden we were startled by a loud rap on the front door. A servant opened it, and immediately I heard the familiar voice of D'ri.
"Is they anybody here by the name o' Mister Bell?" he asked
​I ran to the door, and there stood D'ri, his clothes wet, his boots muddy, for it had been raining. Before he could speak I had my arms around him, and he sank to his knees in my embrace. He was breathing heavily.
"Tired out—thet's whut's the matter," he muttered, leaning over on one hand. "Come through the woods t' save yer life, I did, an' they was tight up t' me all the way."
"Poor fellow!" said the baroness, who stood at the door. "Help him in at once and give him a sip of brandy."
"Tuk me prisoner over there 'n the woods thet day," said he, sinking into a chair and leaning forward, his head on his hands. "They tuk 'n' they toted me over t' Canady, an' I tuk 'n' got away, 'n' they efter me. Killed one on 'em thet was chasin' uv me over 'n the Beaver medders on the bog trail. Hoss got t' wallerin' so he hed t' come down. Riz up out o' the grass 'n' ketched holt uv 'im 'fore he c'u'd pull a weepon. Tuk this out uv his pocket, an' I tried to git the boss out o' the mire, but didn't hev time."
He sat erect and proudly handed me a sheet of paper. I opened it, and read as follows:—
"To Captain Elias Wilkins, Royal Fusiliers.
"My dear Captain: You will proceed at once across the river with a detail of five men mounted and three days' rations, and, if possible, capture the prisoner who escaped early this morning, making a thorough search of the woods in Jefferson County. He has information of value to the enemy, and I regard his death or capture of high and immediate importance. I am informed that the young desperado who murdered my Lord of Pickford in the forest below Clayton June 29, escaping, although badly wounded, is lying at the country-seat of the Baroness de Ferré, a Frenchwoman, at Leraysville, Jefferson County, New York. It would gratify me if you could accomplish one or both captures. With respect, I am,
"Your Obedient Servant, "R. Sheaffer, General Commanding."
"They 'll be here," said D'ri. "They 'll be here jest es sure es God—'fore daylight, mebbe. But I can't fight er dew nothin' till I 've hed some vittles."
"You shall have supper," said the baroness, who, without delay, went to the kitchen herself with a servant to look after it. The butler brought a pair of slippers and a dry coat, ​while I drew off the boots of my good friend. Then I gave him my arm as he limped to the kitchen beside me. The baroness and I sat near him as he ate.
"Go upstairs and call the gentlemen," said she to the butler, "Do not make any disturbance, but say I should like to speak with them in the dining room."
"Is thet air hired man o' yours a Britisher?" D'ri inquired as soon as the butler was gone.
"He is—from Liverpool," said she.
"Thet's the hole 'n the fence," said he. "Thet's where the goose got away."
"The goose! The geese!" said the baroness, thoughtfully. "I do not understand you."
"Went 'n' blabbed, thet's whut he done," said D'ri. "Mebbe wrote 'em a letter, gol-dum his pictur'."
"Oh, I perceive! I understand," said she; "and I send him away to-morrow."
"Neck's broke with hunger," said D'ri. "Never threw no vittles 'n my basket with sech a splendid taste tew 'em es these hev."
The baroness looked at him with some show of worry.
​"I beg your pardon," said she, "did you say the neck of you was broken?"
I explained the idiom.
"Ain't hed nothin' t' eat since day 'fore yistiddy," said D'ri. "Judas Priest! I 'm all et up with hunger."
With old Burgundy and biscuit and venison and hot coffee he was rapidly reviving.
"I 'm wondering where I will hide you both," said the baroness, thoughtfully.
"Hed n't orter hev no rumpus here, 'n' go t' shootin' 'n' mebbe spile yer house 'n' furnicher," said D'ri. "’T ain't decent er 't ain't nice. We 'd better mek tracks an' put a mild er tew 'twixt us 'n' here 'fore we hev any trouble. 'T ain't a-goin' t' be no Sunday School. Ef they can, they 're a-goin't' tek us dead er 'live. Ef they ever tuk us we would n't be wuth shucks, nuther on us, efter court martial."
"I shall not permit you to go," said the baroness. "They may be here now, about the house in the dark. They would shoot you, they would stab you, they would cause you to die as you went. No, I shall permit you not to go, There are four of them? Very well; we shall ​fight here, we shall conquer. We have a general, a count, a millionnaire, a marquis, a lawyer, an astronomer, a scout, and," she added, patting me on the shoulder, "le brave capitaine! I have four guns and three pistols, and M'sieur Bell has arms also. We shall conquer. We shall make them to bite the dust."
"Guns; did ye say? Jerushy Jane! Le' 's hev 'em," said D'ri.
"What did he call me? Mon Dieu! Jerushy Jane! It is not I," said the baroness.
Again I explained the difficulty.
"Ain't very proper-spoke," said D'ri, apologetically. "Jest wan't' say et them 'air guns er likely t' come handy here 'most any minute. Give us guns, 'n' we 'll sock it to 'em."
"We shall sock it to them, we shall indeed," said she, hurrying out of the room. "We shall make them to run for their lives."
They were all in the dining room—the men of the party—save the general, who could not he awakened. Guns and pistols were loaded. I made a novel plan of defence that was unanimously approved. I posted a watch at every window. A little after dawn the baroness, from ​behind a curtain, saw a squad of horsemen coming through the grove.
"Ici! they have come!" said she, in a loud whisper. "There are not four; there are many."
I took my detail of six men above-stairs. Each had a strip of lumber we had found in the shop, and each carefully raised a window, waiting the signal. I knew my peril, but I was never so cool in my life. If I had been wiser, possibly I should have felt it the more. The horsemen promptly deployed, covering every side of the mansion. They stood close, mounted, pistol and sabre ready. Suddenly I gave the signal. Then each of us thrust out the strip of lumber stealthily, prodding the big drab cones on every side. Hornets and wasps, a great swarm of them, sprang thick as seeds from the hand of a sower. It was my part to unhouse a colony of the long, white-faced hornets. Goaded by the ruin of their nests, they saw the nodding heads below them, and darted at man and horse like a night of arrows. They put their hot spurs into flank and face and neck. I saw them strike and fall; they do hit hard, ​those big-winged Vespæ. It was terrible, the swift charge of that winged battalion of the air. I heard howls of pain below me, and the thunder of rushing feet. The horses were rearing and plunging, the men striking with their hats.
I heard D'ri shouting and laughing at his window.
"Give 'em hell, ye little blue devils!" he yelled; and there was all evidence that they understood him.
Then, again, every man of us opened his window and fired a volley at the scurrying mass.
One horse, rearing and leaping on his hind legs, came down across the back of another, and the two fell heavily in a rolling, convulsive heap. One, as if blinded, bumped a tree, going over on his withers, all fours flashing in the air. Some tore off in the thickets, as unmanageable as the wild moose. More than half threw their riders. Not a man of them pulled a trigger: they were busy enough, God knows. Not one of them could have hit the sky with any certainty. I never saw such a torrent of horsehair and red caps.
​"Whut! Been on the back o' one o' 'em hosses?" said D'ri, telling of it a long time after. "’D ruther o' been shet up 'n a barrel with a lot o' cats 'n' rolled downhill. Good deal better fer my health, an' I 'd 'a' luked more like a human bein' when I come out. Them fellers—they did n't luk fit t' 'sociate with nuthin' er nobody when we led 'em up t' the house—nut one on 'em."
Only one Britisher was brought down by our bullets, and he had been the mark of D'ri: with him a rifle was never a plaything. Five others lay writhing in the grass, bereft of horse, deserted by their comrades. The smudges were ready, and the nets. D'ri and I put on the latter and ran out, placing a smudge row on every side of the Hermitage. The winged fighters were quickly driven away. Of the helpless enemy one had staggered off in the brush; the others lay groaning, their faces lumpy and one-sided. A big sergeant had a nose of the look and diameter of a goose-egg; one carried a cheek as large and protuberant as the jowl of a porker's head; and one had ears that stuck out like a puffed bladder. They were helpless. ​We disarmed them and brought them in, doing all we could for their comfort with blue clay and bruised plantain. It was hard on them, I have often thought, but it saved an ugly fight among ladies, and, no doubt, many lives. I know, if they had taken us, D'ri and I would never have got back.
I have saved myself many a time by strategy, but chose the sword always if there were an even chance. And, God knows, if one had ever a look at our bare bodies, he would see no sign of shirking on either D'ri or me.