Randall Parrish - Prisoners of Chance

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[Frontispiece: I could merely clasp the hands she gave so unreservedly
into my keeping, gaze into the depths of her dark eyes, and murmur a
few broken words of confidence and farewell.]

PRISONERS OF CHANCE

THE STORY OF WHAT BEFELL GEOFFREY BENTEEN, BORDERMAN, THROUGH HIS LOVE
FOR A LADY OF FRANCE

BY

RANDALL PARRISH

Author of "When Wilderness was King," "My Lady of the North," "Bob
Hampton of Placer," etc.

ILLUSTRATED IN FULL COLOR BY THE KINNEYS

CHICAGO

A. C. McCLURG & CO.

1908

COPYRIGHT

A. C. McCLURG & CO.

1908

Entered at Stationers' Hall, London

All rights reserved

Published March 28, 1908

THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

CHAPTER

I THE REQUEST FOR AID
II A PERILOUS VENTURE
III A VISIT TO THE FLAG-SHIP
IV WE HOLD A COUNCIL OF WAR
V ON THE DECK OF THE "SANTA MARIA"
VI THE ROLE OF PERE CASSATI
VII THE CHEVALIER DE NOYAN
VIII FAVORED OF THE GODS
IX THE BIRTH OF THE DEATH-DAWN
X A COVERT IN THE CANE
XI A NIGHT IN THE BOAT
XII WE LAND AN ODD FISH
XIII WE GAIN A NEW RECRUIT
XIV THE MOUTH OF THE ARKANSAS
XV A PASSAGE AT ARMS
XVI WE CHANGE OUR COURSE
XVII WE MEET WITH AN ACCIDENT
XVIII A HARD DAY'S MARCH
XIX DEMON, OR WHAT?
XX BACKS TO THE WALL
XXI THE STRONGHOLD OF THE NATCHEZ
XXII PRISONERS IN THE TEMPLE
XXIII THE VOTE OF DEATH
XXIV THE DAUGHTER OF THE SUN
XXV A VISITANT FROM THE SUN
XXVI THE CHRONICLES OF THE NATCHEZ
XXVII A VENTURE IN THE DARK
XXVIII SPEECH WITH NALADI
XXIX IN AND OUT THE SHADOW
XXX UNDERGROUND
XXXI WE MOUNT THE CLIFF
XXXII CHIEF PRIEST OF THE SUN
XXXIII PERE ANDRE LAFOSSIER
XXXIV THE TALE OF THE PRIEST
XXXV NIGHT AND THE SAVAGES
XXXVI THE INTERFERENCE OF THE JESUIT
XXXVII THE DEAD BURY THEIR DEAD

ILLUSTRATIONS

I could merely clasp the hands she gave so unreservedly into my
keeping, gaze into the depths of her dark eyes, and murmur a few broken
words of confidence and farewell. . . . _Frontispiece_

Had I ventured upon a smile at his predicament he would have popped
instantly forth again.

"I am the Daughter of the Sun. These are my children, given unto me by
the great Sun-god. . . . None of white blood may set foot in this
valley and live."

The woman stood gazing intently down, her red robe sweeping to her
feet; below the flaring torches in the hands of her barbaric followers
cast their light full upon her.

FOREWORD

The manuscript of this tale has been in my possession several years.
It reached me through natural lines of inheritance, but remained nearly
forgotten, until a chance reading revealed a certain historic basis;
then, making note of correspondences in minor details, I realized that
what I had cast aside as mere fiction might possess a substantial
foundation of fact. Impelled by this conviction, I now submit the
narrative to public inspection, that others, better fitted than I, may
judge as to the worth of this Geoffrey Benteen.

According to the earlier records of Louisiana Province, Geoffrey
Benteen was, during his later years, a resident of La Petite Rocher, a
man of note and character among his fellows. There he died in old age,
leaving no indication of the extent of his knowledge, other than what
is to be found in the yellowed pages of his manuscript; and these
afford no evidence that this "Gentleman Adventurer" possessed any
information derived from books regarding those relics of a prehistoric
people, which are widely scattered throughout the Middle and Southern
States of the Union and constitute the grounds on which our century has
applied to the race the term "Mound Builders."

Apparently in all simplicity and faithfulness he recorded merely what
he saw and heard. Later research, antedating his death, has seemingly
proven that in the extinct Natchez tribe was to be found the last
remnant of that mysterious and unfortunate race.

Who were the Mound Builders? No living man may answer. Their
history--strange, weird, mysterious--stretches backward into the dim
twilight before tradition, its sole remaining record graven upon the
surface of the earth, vaguely guessed at by those who study graves;
their pathetic ending has long been pictured in our country's story as
occurring amid the shadows of that dreadful midnight upon the banks of
the Ocatahoola, when vengeful Frenchmen put them to the sword. Whence
they came, whether from fabled Atlantis, or the extinct Aztec empire of
the South, no living tongue can tell; whither fled their remnant,--if
remnant there was left to flee,--and what proved its ultimate fate, no
previous pen has written. Out from the darkness of the unknown,
scarcely more than spectral figures, they came, wrote their single line
upon the earth's surface, and vanished, kings and people alike sinking
into speechless oblivion.

That Geoffrey Benteen witnessed the tragic ending of this strange
people I no longer question; for I have compared his narrative with all
we moderns have learned regarding them, as recorded in the pages of
Parkman, Charlevoix, Du Pratz, and Duponceau, discovering nothing to
awaken the slightest suspicion that he dealt with other than what he
saw. More, I have traced with exactitude the route these fugitives
followed in their flight northward, and, although the features of the
country are greatly altered by settlements of nearly two hundred years,
one may easily discern evidence of this man's honesty. For me it is
enough to feel that I have stood beside the massive tomb of this
mysterious people--a people once opulent and powerful, the warriors of
forgotten battle-fields, the builders of lost civilizations, the
masters of that imperial domain stretching from the Red River of the
North to the sea-coast of the Carolinas; a people swept backward as by
the wrath of the Infinite, scourged by famine, decimated by pestilence,
warred against by flame, stricken by storm, torn asunder by vengeful
enemies, until a weakened remnant, harassed by the French sword, fled
northward in the night to fulfil the fate ordained of God, and finally
perished amid the gloomy shadows of the grim Ozarks, bequeathing to the
curious future neither a language nor a name.

But this I leave with Geoffrey Benteen, and turn to my own simpler
task, a review of the peculiar circumstances leading up to this
narrative, involving a brief chapter from the records of our Southwest.

The early history of the Province of Louisiana is so complicated by
rapid changes in government as to confuse the student, rendering it
extremely difficult to comprehend correctly the varied and conflicting
interests--aristocratic, official, and commercial--actuating her
pioneer colonists. The written records, so far as translated and
published, afford only a faint reflection of the varied characteristics
of her peculiar, changing population. The blue-eyed Arcadian of her
western plateaus, yet dreaming upon his more northern freedom; the
royalist planter of the Mississippi bottoms, proud of those broad acres
granted him by letters-patent of the King; the gay, volatile,
passionate Creole of the town, one day a thoughtless lover of pleasure,
the next a truculent wielder of the sword; the daring smugglers of
Barataria, already rapidly drifting into open defiance of all legal
restraint; together with the quiet market gardeners of the
_Cote-des-Allemands_, formed a heterogeneous population impossible to
please and extremely difficult to control.

Varied as were these types, yet there were others, easy to name, but
far more difficult to classify in their political relationships--such
as priests of the Capuchin order; scattered representatives of Britain;
sailors from ships ever swinging to the current beside the levee;
sinewy backwoodsmen from the wilds of the Blue Ridge; naked savages
from Indian villages north and east; raftsmen from the distant waters
of the Ohio and Illinois, scarcely less barbarian than those with
redder skin; Spaniards from the Gulf islands, together with a negro
population, part slave, part free, nearly equal in point of numbers to
all the rest.

And over all who was the master?

It would have been difficult at times to tell, so swiftly did change
follow change--Crozat, Law, Louis the Fifteenth, Charles the Third,
each had his turn; flag succeeded flag upon the high staff which, ever
since the days of Bienville, had ornamented the Place d'Armes, while
great merchants of Europe played the occupants of thrones for the
bauble of this far western province, whose heart, nevertheless,
remained forever faithful to sunny France.

As late as 1768 New Orleans contained scarcely more than three thousand
two hundred persons, a third of these being black slaves. Sixty-three
years previously Bienville had founded Louisiana Province, making
choice of the city site, but in 1763 it suited the schemes of him, who
ruled the destinies of the mother country, to convey the yet struggling
colony into the control of the King of Spain. It was fully two years
later before word of this unwelcome transfer reached the distant
province, while as much more time elapsed ere Don Antonio de Ulloa, the
newly appointed Spanish governor, landed at New Orleans, and, under
guard of but two companies of infantry, took unto himself the reins.
Unrest was already in the air,--petitions and delegations laden with
vehement protests crossed the Atlantic. Both were alike returned,
disregarded by the French King. Where it is probable that a single
word of wise counsel, even of kindly explanation, might have calmed the
rising tumult, silence and contempt merely served to aggravate it.

It has been written by conscientious historians that commercial
interests, not loyalty to French traditions, were the real cause of
this struggle of 1768. Be that as it may, its leaders were found in
the Superior Council, a body of governors older even than New Orleans,
of which the patriotic Lafreniere was then the presiding officer, and
whose membership contained such representative citizens as Foucault,
Jean and Joseph Milhet, Caresse, Petit, Poupet, a prominent lawyer.
Marquis, a Swiss captain, with Bathasar de Masan, Hardy de Boisblanc,
and Joseph Villere, planters of the upper Mississippi, as well as two
nephews of the great Bienville, Charles de Noyan, a young ex-captain of
cavalry, lately married to the only daughter of Lafreniere, and his
younger brother, a lieutenant in the navy.

On the twenty-seventh of October, 1768, every Frenchman in Louisiana
Province was marching toward New Orleans. That same night the guns at
the Tehoupitoulas Gate--the upper river corner--were spiked; while yet
farther away, along a narrow road bordering the great stream, armed
with fowling pieces, muskets, even axes, the Arcadians, and the aroused
inhabitants of the German coast, came sweeping down to unite with the
impatient Creoles of the town. In the dull gray of early morning they
pushed past the spiked and useless cannon, and, with De Noyan and
Villere at their head, forced the other gates and noisily paraded the
streets under the _fleur de lis_. The people rose _en masse_ to greet
them, until, utterly unable to resist the rising tide of popular
enthusiasm, Ulloa retired on board the Spanish frigate, which slipped
her cables, and came to anchor far out in the stream. Two days later,
hurried no doubt by demands of the council, the governor set sail for
the West Indies, leaving the fair province under control of what was
little better than a headless mob.

For now, having achieved success, the strange listlessness of the
Southern nature reasserted itself, and from that moment no apparent
effort was made to strengthen their position--no government was
established, no basis of credit effected, no diplomatic relations were
assumed. They had battled for results like men, yet were content to
play with them like children. For more than seven months they thus
enjoyed a false security, as delightful as their sunny summer-time.
Then suddenly, as breaks an ocean storm, that slumbering community was
rudely aroused from its siestas and day-dreaming by the report that
Spaniards were at the mouth of the river in overwhelming force.

Confusion reigned on every hand; scarcely a hundred men rallied to
defend the town; yet no one fled. The Spanish fleet consisted of
twenty-four vessels. For more than three weeks they felt their
uncertain way around the bends of the Mississippi, and on the
eighteenth of August, 1769, furled their canvas before the silent
batteries. Firing a single gun from the deck of his flag-ship, the
frigate "Santa Maria," Don Alexandro O'Reilly, accompanied by
twenty-six hundred chosen Spanish troops and fifty pieces of artillery,
landed, amid all the pomp of Continental war, taking formal possession
of the province. That night his soldiers patrolled the streets, and
his cannon swept the river front, while not a Frenchman ventured to
stray beyond the doorway of his home.

Within the narrow space of two days the iron hand of Spain's new
Captain-General had closed upon the leaders of the bloodless
insurrection, his judgments falling with such severity as to earn for
him in the annals of Louisiana the title of "Cruel O'Reilly." Among
those of the revolutionists before mentioned, Petit, Masan, Doucet,
Boisblanc, Jean Milhet, and Poupet were consigned to Moro Castle,
Havana, where they remained a year, and then were stripped of their
property and forbidden ever again to enter the province of Louisiana.
The younger Bienville escaped with the loss of his fortune. Foucault
met his fate resisting the guard on board the "Santa Maria," where he
was held prisoner; while Lafreniere, De Noyan, Caresse, Marquis, and
Joseph Milhet were condemned to be publicly hanged. The earnest
supplication, both of colonists and Spanish officials, shocked by the
unjust severity of this sentence, sufficed to save them from the
disgrace of the gallows, but fated them to fall before the volley of a
file of grenadiers.

With the firing of the sunset gun the evening of their last earthly
day, the post-captain visited the condemned men, and spoke with each in
turn; they numbered five. All through the dark hours of that night
heavily armed sentries stood in the narrow passageway before
nail-studded doors, while each hour, as the ship's bell struck, the
Commandant of Marine peered within each lighted apartment where rested
five plainly outlined forms. With the first gray of the dawn the
unfortunate prisoners were mustered upon deck, but they numbered only
four. And four only, white faced, yet firm of step and clear of eye,
stood an hour later with backs to the rising sun and hearts to the
levelled rifles, and when the single volley had echoed and reechoed
across the wide river, the white smoke slowly lifting and blown away
above the trees, only four lifeless bodies lay closely pressed against
the red-brick wall--the fifth condemned man was not there: _Chevalier
Charles de Noyan had escaped his fate_. Like a spirit had he vanished
during those mysterious hours between midnight and dawn, leaving no
trace of his going save a newly severed rope which hung dangling from a
foreyard.

But had he escaped?

That morning--as we learn from private letters sent home by officers of
the Spanish fleet--there came to the puzzled O'Reilly a report that in
the dense blackness of that starless night a single boat sought to slip
silently past beneath the deep shadows of the upper battery. Unhalting
in response to a hail of the sentry, a volley was hastily fired toward
its uncertain outline, and, in the flare of the guns, the officer of
the guard noted the black figure of a man leap high into air, and
disappear beneath the dark surface of the river. So it was the
Captain-General wrote also the name "Charles de Noyan" with those of
the other four, endorsing it with the same terse military record, "Shot
at sunrise."

Nor since that fateful hour has the world known otherwise, for,
although strange rumors floated down the great river to be whispered
about from lip to lip, and New Orleans wondered many a long month
whither had vanished the fair young wife, the daughter of Lafreniere,
yet no authentic message found its way out of the vast northern
wilderness. For nearly one hundred and fifty years history has
accepted without question the testimony of the Spanish records. The
man who alone could tell the strange story was in old age impelled to
do so by a feeling of sacred duty to the dead; and his papers,
disarranged, ill-written, already yellowed by years, have fallen to my
keeping. I submit them without comment or change, save only as to the
subdivision into chapters, with an occasional substitution for some
old-time phrase of its more modern equivalent. He who calls himself
"Geoffrey Benteen, Gentleman Adventurer," shall tell his own tale.

R. P.

Prisoners of Chance

CHAPTER I

THE REQUEST FOR AID

I am Geoffrey Benteen, Gentleman Adventurer, with much experience upon
the border, where I have passed my life. My father was that Robert
Benteen, merchant in furs, the first of the English race to make
permanent settlement in New Orleans. Here he established a highly
profitable trade with the Indians, his bateaux voyaging as far
northward as the falls of the Ohio, while his influence among the
tribesmen extended to the eastern mountains. My mother was of Spanish
blood, a native of Saint Augustine, so I grew up fairly proficient in
three languages, and to them I later added an odd medley of tribal
tongues which often stood me in excellent stead amid the vicissitudes
of the frontier. The early death of my mother compelled me to become
companion to my father in his wanderings, so that before I was
seventeen the dim forest trails, the sombre rivers, and the dark lodges
of savages had grown as familiar to me as were the streets and houses
of my native town. Hence it happened, that when my father fell the
victim of a treacherous blow, although he left to my care considerable
property and a widely scattered trade, I could not easily content
myself with the sameness of New Orleans; there I felt almost a
stranger, ever hungering for the woods and the free life of the
mountains.

Yet I held myself to the work in hand until successful in straightening
out the tangled threads, and might have remained engaged in peaceful
traffic until the end of life, had it not been for a misunderstanding
with her who held my heart in captivity to her slightest whim. It
matters little now the cause of the quarrel, or where rested the
greater blame; enough that its occurrence drove me forth reckless of
everything, desirous only to leave all of my own race, and seek amid
savage environment and excitement forgetfulness of the past.

It was in September of the year 1769--just forty-eight years ago as I
write--that I found myself once again in New Orleans, feeling almost a
stranger to the town, except for the few rough flatboat-men in company
with whom I had floated down the great river. Five years previously,
heartsick and utterly careless of life, I had plunged into the
trackless wilderness stretching in almost unbroken virginity to north
and east, desiring merely to be left alone, that I might in solitude
fight out my first grim battle with despair, saying to myself in all
bitterness of soul that never again would I turn face to southward or
enter the boundaries of Louisiana Province. During those years, beyond
reach of news and the tongue of gossip, I wandered aimlessly from
village to village, ever certain of welcome within the lodges of Creeks
and Shawnees, or farther away amid those little French border towns
dotting the Ohio and the Illinois, constantly feeling how little the
world held of value since both my parents were gone, and this last blow
had fallen. I loved the free, wild life of the warriors with whom I
hunted, and the _voyageurs_ beside whom I camped, and had learned to
distrust my own race; yet no sooner did I chance to stand again beside
the sweeping current of the broad Mississippi, than I was gripped by
the old irresistible yearning, and, although uninspired by either hope
or purpose, drifted downward to the hated Creole town.

I had left it a typical frontier French city, touched alike by the
glamour of reflected civilization and the barbarism of savagery, yet
ever alive with the gayety of that lively, changeable people; I
returned, after those five years of burial in forest depths, to
discover it under the harsh rule of Spain, and outwardly so quiet as to
appear fairly deserted of inhabitants. The Spanish ships of war--I
counted nineteen--lay anchored in the broad river, their prows up
stream, and the gloomy, black muzzles of their guns depressed so as to
command the landing, while scarcely a French face greeted me along the
streets, whose rough stone pavements echoed to the constant tread of
armed soldiers.

Spanish sentries were on guard at nearly every corner. Not a few
halted me with rough questioning, and once I was haled before an
officer, who, hearing my story, and possibly impressed by my
proficiency in his language, was kind enough to provide me with a pass
good within the lines. Yet it proved far from pleasant loitering
about, as drunken soldiers, dressed in every variety of uniform,
staggered along the narrow walks, ready to pick a quarrel with any
stranger chancing their way, while groups of officers, gorgeous in
white coats and gold lace, lounged in shaded corners, greeting each
passer-by with jokes that stung. Every tavern was crowded to the
threshold with roistering blades whose drunken curses, directed against
both French and English, quickly taught me the discretion of keeping
well away from their company, so there was little left but to move on,
never halting long enough in one place to become involved in useless
controversy.

It all appeared so unnatural that I felt strangely saddened by the
change, and continued aimlessly drifting about the town as curiosity
led, resolved to leave its confines at the earliest opportunity. I
stared long at the strange vessels of war, whose like I had never
before seen, and finally, as I now remember, paused upon the ragged
grass of the Place d'Armes, watching the evolutions of a battery of
artillery. This was all new to me, representing as it did a line of
service seldom met with in the wilderness; and soon quite a number of
curious loiterers gathered likewise along the edge of the parade.
Among them I could distinguish a few French faces, with here and there
a woman of the lower orders, ill clad and coarse of speech. A party of
soldiers, boisterous and quarrelsome from liquor, pressed me so closely
that, hopeful of avoiding trouble, I drew farther back toward the curb,
and standing thus, well away from others, enjoyed an unobstructed view
across the entire field.

The battery had hitched up preparatory to returning to their quarters
before I lost interest in the spectacle and reluctantly turned away
with the slowly dispersing crowd. Just then I became aware of the
close proximity of a well-dressed negro, apparently the favored servant
in some family of quality. The fellow was observing me with an
intentness which aroused my suspicion. That was a time and place for
exercising extreme caution, so that instinctively I turned away, moving
directly across the vacated field. Scarcely had I taken ten steps
before I saw that he was following, and as I wheeled to front him the
fellow made a painful effort to address me in English.

"Mornin', sah," he said, making a deep salutation with his entire body.
"Am you dat Englisher Massa Benteen from up de ribber?"

Leaning upon my rifle, I gazed directly at him in astonishment. How,
by all that was miraculous, did this strange black know my name and
nationality? His was a round face, filled with good humor; nothing in
it surely to mistrust, yet totally unknown to me.

"You speak correctly," I made reply, surprise evident in the tones of
my voice. "I have no reason to deny my name, which is held an honest
one here in New Orleans. How you learned it, however, remains a
mystery, for I never looked upon your face before."

"No, sah; I s'pects not, sah, 'cause I nebber yet hab been in dem dere
parts, sah. I was sent yere wid a most 'portant message fer Massa
Benteen, an' I done reckon as how dat am you, sah."

"An important message for me? Surely, boy, you either mistake, or are
crazy. Yet stay! Does it come from Nick Burton, the flatboat-man?"

"No, sah; it am a lady wat sent me yere."

He was excessively polite, exhibiting an earnestness which caused me to
suspect his mission a grave one.

"A lady?"

I echoed the unexpected word, scarcely capable of believing the
testimony of my own ears. Yet as I did so my heart almost ceased its
throbbing, while I felt the hot blood rush to my face. That was an age
of social gallantry; yet I was no gay courtier of the town, but a
hunter of the woods, attired in rough habiliments, little fitted to
attract the attention of womanly eyes amid the military glitter all
about.

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