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Randall Parrish - Prisoners of Chance

R >> Randall Parrish >> Prisoners of Chance




A lady! In the name of all the gods, what lady? Even in the old days
I enjoyed but a limited circle of acquaintance among women. Indeed, I
recalled only one in all the wide province of Louisiana who might
justly be accorded so high an appellation even by a negro slave, and
certainly she knew nothing of my presence in New Orleans, nor would she
dream of sending for me if she did. Convinced of this, I dismissed the
thought upon the instant, with a smile. The black must have made a
mistake, or else some old-time acquaintance of our family, a forgotten
friend of my mother perhaps, had chanced to hear of my return.
Meanwhile the negro stood gazing at me with open mouth, and the sight
of him partially restored my presence of mind.

"Is she English, boy?"

"No, sah, she am a French lady, sah, if ebber dar was one in dis hyar
province. She libs ober yonder in de Rue Dumaine, an' she said to me,
'Yah, Alphonse, you follow dat dar young feller wid de long rifle under
his arm an' de coon-skin cap, an' fotch him hyar to me!' Dem am de
bery words wat she done said, sah, when you went by our house a
half-hour ago."

"Is your mistress young or old?"

The black chuckled, his round face assuming a good-natured grin.

"Fo' de Lawd, Massa, but dat am jest de way wid all you white folks!"
he ejaculated. "If she was ol', an' wrinkled, an' fat, den dat settle
de whole ting. Jest don't want to know no mor'."

"Well," I interrupted impatiently, "keep your moralizing to yourself
until we become better acquainted, and answer my question--Is the woman
young?"

My tone was sufficiently stern to sober him, his black face
straightening out as if it had been ironed.

"Now, don't you go an' git cross, Massa Benteen, case a laugh don't
nebber do nobody no hurt," he cried, shrinking back as if expecting a
blow. "But dat's jest wat she am, sah, an' a heap sweeter dan de
vi'lets in de springtime, sah."

"And she actually told you my name?"

"Yas, sah, she did dat fer suah--'Massa Geoffrey Benteen, an Englisher
from up de ribber,' dem was her bery words; but somehow I done
disremember jest persactly de place."

For another moment I hesitated, scarcely daring to utter the one vital
question trembling on my lips.

"But who is the lady? What is her name?" As I put the simple query I
felt my voice tremble in spite of every effort to hold it firm.

"Madame de Noyan, sah; one ob de bery first famblies. Massa de Noyan
am one ob de Bienvilles, sah."

"De Noyan? De Noyan?" I repeated the unfamiliar name over slowly, with
a feeling of relief. "Most certainly I never before heard other."

"I dunno nothin' 'tall 'bout dat, Massa, but suah's you born dat am her
name and Massa's; an' you is de bery man she done sent me after, fer I
nebber onct took my eyes off you all dis time."

There remained no reasonable doubt as to the fellow's sincerity. His
face was a picture of disinterested earnestness as he fronted me; yet I
hesitated, eying him closely, half inclined to think him the
unsuspecting representative of some rogue. That was a time and place
where one of my birth needed to practise caution; racial rivalry ran so
high throughout all the sparsely settled province that any
misunderstanding between an English stranger and either Frenchman or
Spaniard was certain to involve serious results. We of Northern blood
were bitterly envied because of commercial supremacy. I had, during my
brief residence in New Orleans, witnessed jealous treachery on every
hand. This had taught me that enemies of my race were numerous, while,
it was probable, not more than a dozen fellow-countrymen were then in
New Orleans. They would prove powerless were I to become involved in
any quarrel. Extreme caution under such conditions became a paramount
duty, and it can scarcely be wondered at that I hesitated to trust the
black, continuing to study the real purpose of his mysterious message.
Yet the rare good-humor and simple interest of his face tended to
reassure me. A lady, he said--well, surely no great harm would result
from such an interview; and if, as was probable, it should prove a mere
case of mistaken identity, a correction could easily follow, and I
should then be free to go my way. On the other hand, if some friend
really needed me, a question of duty was involved, which--God
helping--I was never one to shun; for who could know in how brief a
space I might also be asking assistance of some countryman. This
mysterious stranger, this Madame de Noyan of whom I had never heard,
knew my name--possibly had learned it from another, some wandering
Englishman, perchance, whom she would aid in trouble, some old-time
friend in danger, who, afraid to reveal himself, now appealed through
her instrumentality for help in a strange land. Deciding to brave the
doubt and solve the mystery by action, I flung the long rifle across my
shoulder and stood erect.

"All right, boy, lead on," I said shortly. "I intend to learn what is
behind this, and who it is that sends for me in New Orleans."

Far from satisfied with the situation, yet determined now to probe the
mystery to the bottom, I silently followed the black, attentive to his
slightest movement. It was a brief walk down one of the narrow streets
leading directly back from the river front, so that within less than
five minutes I was being silently shown into the small reception room
of a tasty cottage, whose picturesque front was half concealed by a
brilliant mass of trailing vines. The heavy shades being closely drawn
at the windows, the interior was in such gloom that for the moment
after my entrance from the outside glare I was unable to distinguish
one object from another. Then slowly my eyes adjusted themselves to
the change, and, taking one uncertain step forward, I came suddenly
face to face with a Capuchin priest appearing almost ghastly with his
long, pale, ascetic countenance, and ghostly gray robe sweeping to the
floor.

Startled by this unexpected apparition, and experiencing an American
borderer's dislike and distrust for his class, I made a hasty move back
toward where, with unusual carelessness, I had deposited my rifle
against the wall. Yet as I placed hand upon it I had sufficiently
recovered to laugh silently at my fears.

"Thou hast responded with much promptitude, my son," the priest said in
gentle voice, speaking the purest of French, and apparently not
choosing to notice my momentary confusion. "It is indeed an excellent
trait--one long inculcated by our Order."

"And one not unknown to mine--free rangers of the woods, sir priest," I
replied coldly, resolving not to be outdone in bluntness of speech. "I
suppose you are the 'lady' desiring speech with me; I note you come
dressed in character. And now I am here, what may the message be?"

There was neither smile nor resentment visible on his pale face,
although he slightly uplifted one slender hand as if in silent rebuke
of my rude words.

"Nay, nay, my son," he said gravely. "Be not over-hasty in speech. It
is indeed a serious matter which doth require thy presence in this
house, and the question of life or death for a human being can never be
fit subject for jesting. She who despatched the messenger will be here
directly to make clear her need."

"In truth it was a woman, then?"

"Yes, a woman, and--ah! she cometh now."

Even as he gave utterance to the words, I turned, attracted by the soft
rustle of a silken skirt at my very side, stole one quick, startled
glance into a young, sweet face, lightened by dark, dreamy eyes, and
within the instant was warmly clasping two outstretched hands, totally
oblivious of all else save her.

"Eloise!" I exclaimed in astonishment. "Eloise--Mademoiselle
Lafreniere--can this indeed be you? Have you sent for me?"

It seemed for that one moment as if the world held but the two of us,
and there was a glad confidence in her brimming eyes quickly
dissipating all mists of the past. Yet only for that one weak,
thoughtless instant did she yield to what appeared real joy at my
presence.

"Yes, dear friend, it is Eloise," she answered, gazing anxiously into
my face, and clinging to my strong hands as though fearful lest I might
tear them away when she spoke those hard words which must follow. "Yet
surely you know, Geoffrey Benteen, that I am Mademoiselle Lafreniere no
longer?"

It seemed to me my very heart stopped beating, so intense was the pain
which overswept it. Yet I held to the soft hands, for there was such a
pitiful look of suffering upon her upturned face as to steady me.

"No, I knew it not," I answered brokenly. "I--I have been buried in
the forest all these years since we parted, where few rumors of the
town have reached me. But let that pass; it--it is easy to see you are
now in great sorrow. Was it because of this--in search of help, in
need, perchance--that you have sent for me?"

She bowed her head; a tear fell upon my broad hand and glistened there.

"Yes, Geoffrey."

The words were scarcely more than a whisper; then the low voice seemed
to strengthen with return of confidence, her dark eyes anxiously
searching my face.

"I sent for you, Geoffrey, because of deep trouble; because I am left
alone, without friends, saving only the _pere_. I know well your
faithfulness. In spite of the wrong, the misunderstanding between
us--and for it I take all the blame--I have ever trusted in your word,
your honor; and now, when I can turn nowhere else for earthly aid, the
good God has guided you back to New Orleans. Geoffrey Benteen, do not
gaze at me so! It breaks my heart to see that look in your eyes; but,
my friend, my dearest friend, do you still recall what you said to me
so bravely the night you went away?"

Did I remember! God knew I did; ay! each word of that interview had
been burned into my life, had been repeated again and again in the
silence of my heart amid the loneliness of the woods; nothing in all
those years had for one moment obliterated her face or speech from
memory.

"I remember, Eloise," I answered more calmly. "The words you mean
were: 'If ever you have need of one on whom you may rely for any
service, however desperate (and in New Orleans such necessity might
arise at any moment), one who would gladly yield his very life to serve
you, then, wherever he may be, send for Geoffrey Benteen.' My poor
girl, has that moment come?"

The brown head drooped until it rested in unconsciousness against my
arm, while I could feel the sobs which shook her form and choked her
utterance.

"It has come," she whispered at last; "I am trusting in your promise."

"Nor in vain; my life is at your command."

She stopped my passionate utterance with quick, impulsive gesture.

"No! pledge not yourself again until you hear my words, and ponder
them," she cried, with return to that imperiousness of manner I had
loved so well. "This is no ordinary matter. It will try your utmost
love; perchance place your life in such deadly peril as you never faced
before. For I must ask of you what no one else would ever venture to
require--nor can I hold out before you the slightest reward, save my
deepest gratitude."

I gazed fixedly at her flushed face, scarcely comprehending the strange
words she spoke.

"What may all this be that you require--this sacrifice so vast that you
doubt me? Surely I have never stood a coward, a dastard in your sight?"

She stood erect, facing me, proudly confident in her power, with tears
still clinging to her long lashes.

"No! you wrong me uttering such a thought. I doubt you not, although I
might well doubt any other walking this earth. But listen, and you can
no longer question my words; this which I dare ask of you--because I
trust you--is _to save my husband_."

"Your husband?" The very utterance of the word choked me. "Your
husband? Save him from what? Where is he?"

"A prisoner to the Spaniards; condemned to die to-morrow at sunrise."

"His name?"

"Chevalier Charles de Noyan."

"Where confined?"

"Upon the flag-ship in the river."

I turned away and stood with my back to them both. I could no longer
bear to gaze upon her agonized face uplifted in such eager pleading,
such confiding trust; that one sweet face I loved as nothing else on
earth.

Save her husband! For the moment it seemed as if a thousand emotions
swayed me. What might it not mean if this man should die? His living
could only add infinitely to my pain; his death might insure my
happiness--at least he alone, as far as I knew, stood in the way. "To
die to-morrow!" The very words sounded sweet in my ears, and it would
be such an easy thing for me to promise her, to appear to do my very
best--and fail. "To die to-morrow!" The perspiration gathered in
drops upon my forehead as I wavered an instant to the tempting thought.
Then I shook the foul temptation from me. Merciful God! could I dream
of being such a dastard? Why not attempt what she asked? After all,
what was left for me in life, except to give her happiness?

The sound of a faint sob reached me, and wheeling instantly I stood at
her side.

"Madame de Noyan," I said with forced calmness, surprising myself, "I
will redeem my pledge, and either save your husband, or meet my fate at
his side."

Before I could prevent her action she had flung herself at my feet, and
was kissing my hand.

"God bless you, Geoffrey Benteen! God bless you!" she sobbed
impulsively; and then from out the dense shadows of the farther wall,
solemnly as though he stood at altar service, the watchful Capuchin
said:

"Amen!"




CHAPTER II

A PERILOUS VENTURE

Any call to action, of either hazard or pleasure, steadies my nerves.
To realize necessity for doing renders me a new man, clear of brain,
quick of decision. Possibly this comes from that active life I have
always led in the open. Be the cause what it may, I was the first to
recover speech.

"I hope to show myself worthy your trust, Madame," I said somewhat
stiffly, for it hurt to realize that this emotion arose from her
husband's peril. "At best I am only an adventurer, and rely upon those
means with which life upon the border renders me familiar. Such may
prove useless where I have soldiers of skill to deal with. However, we
have need of these minutes flying past so rapidly; they might be put to
better use than tears, or words of gratitude."

She looked upward at me with wet eyes.

"You are right; I am a child, it seems. Tell me your desire, and I
will endeavor to act the woman."

"First, I must comprehend more clearly the nature of the work before
me. The Chevalier de Noyan is already under sentence of death; the
hour of execution to-morrow at sunrise?"

She bent her head in quiet acquiescence, her anxious eyes never leaving
my face.

"It is now already approaching noon, leaving us barely eighteen hours
in which to effect his rescue. Faith! 't is short space for action."

I glanced uneasily aside at the silently observant priest, now
standing, a slender gray figure, close beside the door. He was not of
an Order I greatly loved.

"You need have no fear," she exclaimed, hastily interpreting my
thought. "Father Petreni can be fully trusted. He is more than my
religious confessor; he has been my friend from childhood."

"Yes, Monsieur," he interposed sadly, yet with a grave smile lighting
his thin white face. "I shall be able to accomplish little in your
aid, for my trade is not that of arms, yet, within my physical
limitations, I am freely at your service."

"That is well," I responded heartily, words and tone yielding me fresh
confidence in the man. "This is likely to prove a night when comrades
will need to know each other. Now a few questions, after which I will
look over the ground before attempting to outline any plan of action.
You say, Madame, that your--Chevalier de Noyan is a prisoner on the
fleet in the river. Upon which ship is he confined?"

"The 'Santa Maria.'"

"The 'Santa Maria'?--if memory serve, the largest of them all?"

"Yes! the flag-ship."

"She lies, as I remember, for I stood on the levee two hours ago
watching the strange spectacle, close in toward the shore, beside the
old sugar warehouse of Bomanceaux et fils."

"You are correct," returned the Capuchin soberly, the lady hesitating.
"The ship swingeth by her cable scarce thirty feet from the bank."

"That, at least, has sound of good fortune," I thought, revolving
rapidly a sudden inspiration from his answer, "yet it will prove a
desperate trick to try."

Then I spoke aloud once more.

"She appeared a veritable monster of the sea to my backwoods eyes;
enough to pluck the heart out of a man. Has either of you stepped
aboard her?"

The priest shook his shaven head despondently.

"Nay; never any Frenchman, except as prisoner in shackles, has found
foothold upon that deck since O'Reilly came. It is reported no negro
boatmen are permitted to approach her side with cargoes of fruit and
vegetables, so closely is she guarded against all chances of treachery."

"Faith! it must be an important crime to bring such extremity of
vigilance. With what is De Noyan charged?"

"He, with others, is held for treason against the King of Spain."

"There are more than one, then?"

"Five." He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "Madame de Noyan's
father is among them."

"Lafreniere?" I uttered the name in astonishment. "Then why am I not
asked to assist him?"

The thoughtless exclamation cut her deeply with its seeming implication
of neglect, yet the words she strove to speak failed to come. The
priest rebuked me gravely:

"Thou doest great injustice by such inconsiderate speech, my son.
There are hearts loyal to France in this province, who would count
living a crime if it were won at the cost of Lafreniere. He hath been
already offered liberty, yet deliberately chooseth to remain and meet
his fate. Holy Mother! we can do no more."

I bent, taking her moist hands gently between my own.

"I beg you pardon me, Madame; I am not yet wholly myself, and intended
no such offence as my hasty words would seem to imply. One's manners
do not improve with long dwelling among savages."

She met my stumbling apology with a radiant smile.

"I know your heart too well to misjudge. Yet it hurt me to feel you
could deem me thoughtless toward my father."

"You have seen him since his arrest?"

"Once only--at the Captain-General's office, before they were condemned
and taken aboard the flag-ship."

"But the prisoners are Catholics; surely they are permitted the offices
of the Church at such a time?"

A hard look swept across the Capuchin's pale, ascetic face.

"Oh, ay! I had quite forgotten," he explained bitterly. "They enjoy
the ministrations of Father Cassati, of our Order, as representative of
Holy Church."

"Pouf!" I muttered gloomily. "It is bad to have the guard-lines drawn
so closely. Besides, I know little about the way of ships; how they
are arranged within, or even along the open decks. We meet them not in
the backwoods, so this is an adventure little to my taste. It would
hardly be prudent, even could I obtain safe footing there, to attempt
following a trail in the dark when I knew not where it led. I must
either see the path I am to travel by good daylight, or else procure a
guide. This Father Cassati might answer. Is he one to trust?"

The priest turned his head away with a quick gesture of indignant
dissent.

"Nay!" he exclaimed emphatically. "He must never be approached upon
such a matter. He can be sweet enough with all men to their faces; the
words of his mouth are as honey; yet he would be true to none. It is
not according to the canons of our Order for me thus to speak, yet I
only give utterance to truth as I know it in the sight of God. Not
even the Spaniards themselves have faith in him. He has not been
permitted to set foot upon shore since first he went aboard."

"And you have no plan, no suggestion to offer for my guidance?"

"Mon Dieu, no!" he cried dramatically. "I cannot think the first
thing."

"And you, Madame?"

She was kneeling close beside a large chair, her fine dark eyes eagerly
searching my face.

"It rests wholly with you," she said solemnly, "and God."

Twice, three times, I paced slowly across the floor in anxious
reflection; each time, as I turned, I gazed again into her trustful,
appealing eyes. It was love calling to me in silent language far more
effective than speech; at last, I paused and faced her.

"Madame de Noyan," I said deliberately, my voice seeming to falter with
the intensity of my feelings, "I beg you do not expect too much from
me. Your appeal has been made to a simple frontiersman, unskilled in
war except with savages, and it is hardly probable I shall be able to
outwit the trained guardsmen of Spain. Yet this I will say: I have
determined to venture all at your desire. As I possess small skill or
knowledge to aid me, I shall put audacity to the front, permitting
sheer daring either to succeed or fail. But it would be wrong, Madame,
for me to encourage you with false expectation. I deem it best to be
perfectly frank, and I do not clearly see how this rescue is to be
accomplished. I can form no definite plan of action; all I even hope
for is, that the good God will open up a path, showing me how such
desperate purpose may be accomplished. If this prove true--and I beg
you pray fervently to that end--you may trust me to accept the
guidance, let the personal danger be what it may. But I cannot plan,
cannot promise--I can only go forward blindly, seeking some opening not
now apparent. This alone I know, to remain here in conversation is
useless. I must discover means by which I may reach the 'Santa Maria'
and penetrate below her deck if possible. That is my first object, and
it alone presents a problem sufficient to tax my poor wits to the
uttermost. So all I dare say now, Madame, is, that I will use my
utmost endeavor to save your hus--the Chevalier de Noyan. I request
you both remain here--it would be well in prayer--ready to receive, and
obey at once, any message I may need to send. If possible I will visit
you again in person before nightfall, but in any case, and whatever
happens, try to believe that I am doing all I can with such brains as I
possess, and that I count my own life nothing in your service."

However they may sound now, there was no spirit of boasting in these
words. Conceit is not of my nature, and, indeed, at that time I had
small enough faith in myself. I merely sought to encourage the poor
girl with what little hope I possessed, and knew she read the truth
behind those utterances which sounded so brave. Even as I finished she
arose to her feet, standing erect before me, looking a very queen.

"Never will I doubt that, Geoffrey Benteen," she declared impulsively.
"I have seen you in danger, and never forgotten it. If it is any
encouragement to hear it spoken from my lips, know, even as you go
forth from here, that never did woman trust man as I trust you."

The hot blood surged into my face with a madness I retained barely
sufficient strength to conquer.

"I--I accept your words in the same spirit with which they are
offered," I stammered, hardly aware of what I said. "They are of
greatest worth to me."

I bowed low above the white hand resting so confidingly within mine,
anxious to escape from the room before my love gave utterance to some
foolish speech. Yet even as I turned hastily toward the door, I paused
with a final question.

"The negro who guided me here, Madame; is he one in whom I may repose
confidence?"

"In all things," she answered gravely. "He has been with the De Noyan
family from a child, and is devoted to his master."

"Then I take him with me for use should I chance to require a
messenger."

With a swift backward glance into her earnest dark eyes, an indulgence
I could not deny myself, I bowed my way forth from the room, and
discovering Alphonse upon the porch, where he evidently felt himself on
guard, and bidding him it was the will of his mistress that he follow,
I flung my rifle across my shoulder, and strode straight ahead until I
came out upon the river bank. Turning to the right I worked my way
rapidly up the stream, passing numerous groups of lounging soldiers,
who made little effort to bar my passage, beyond some idle chaffing,
until I found myself opposite the anchorage of the Spanish fleet.

In the character of an unsophisticated frontiersman, I felt no danger
in joining others of my class, lounging listlessly about in small
groups discussing the situation, and gazing with awe upon those strange
ships of war, swinging by their cables in the broad stream. It was a
motley crew among whom I foregathered, one to awaken interest at any
other time--French _voyageurs_ from the far-off Illinois country, as
barbarian in dress and actions as the native denizens of those northern
plains, commingling freely with Creole hunters freshly arrived from the
bayous of the swamp lands; sunburnt fishermen from the sandy beaches of
Barataria, long-haired flatboat-men, their northern skin faintly
visible through the tan and dirt acquired in the long voyage from the
upper Ohio; here and there some stolid Indian brave, resplendent in
paint and feathers, and not a few drunken soldiers temporarily escaped
from their commands. Yet I gave these little thought, except to push
my way through them to where I could obtain unobstructed view of the
great ships.

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