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The Death Shot: A Story Retold
While organising the expedition, the half-blood had presented himself, and offered to act as its guide – professing acquaintance with that section of Texas whither the colony was to be conducted. But long before reaching their destination, Dupré had promoted him to a higher and more lucrative post – in short, made him his “major-domo.”
Colonel Armstrong does not object. He has not the right. Still less, anybody else. Outsiders only wonder and shake their heads; saying, in whispers, that the thing is strange, and adding, “No good can come of it.”
Could any of them observe the mestizo at this midnight hour, skulking away from the house; could they follow and watch his further movements, they might indulge in something more than a surmise about his fidelity; indeed, be convinced he is a traitor.
After getting about half-a-mile from the mission walls, he makes stop on the edge of attract of timber lying between – its outer edge, open towards the river’s bank, and the bluffs beyond.
There, crouching down by the side of a flat stone, he pours some gunpowder upon it, from a horn taken out of his pocket.
This done, he draws forth a box of lucifer matches; scrapes one across the stone, and sets the powder ablaze.
It flashes up in bright glare, illumining the darkness around.
A second, time he repeats this manoeuvre; a third, and a fourth; and on, till, for the tenth time, powder has been burnt.
Then turning away from the spot, he makes back towards the dwelling-house, entering it by the way he went out, and stealthily as before.
No one within its walls has been witness to the pyrotechnic display.
For all, it has not been unobserved. The Indian videttes, stationed on the far-off bluff, see it. See, and furthermore, seem to accept it as a signal – a cue for action. What but this could have caused them to spring upon the backs of their horses, forsake their post of observation, and gallop off to the bivouac of their comrades; which they do, soon as noting that the tenth flash is not followed by another?
Surely must it be a signal, and preconcerted?
In the life of the prairie savage fire plays a conspicuous part. It is his telegraph, by which he can communicate with far off friends, telling them where an enemy is, and how or when he should be “struck.” A single spark, or smoke, has in it much of meaning. A flash may mean more; but ten following in succession were alphabet enough to tell a tale of no common kind – one, it may be, predicting death.
Chapter Forty Six.
A suspected servant
Now fairly inaugurated, the new colony gives promise of a great success; and the colonists are congratulating themselves.
None more than their chief, Colonel Armstrong. His leaving Mississippi has been a lucky move; so far all has gone well; and if the future but respond to its promise, his star, long waning, will be once more in the ascendant. There is but one thought to darken this bright dream: the condition of his eldest daughter. Where all others are rejoicing, there is no gladness for her. Sombre melancholy seems to have taken possession of her spirit, its shadow almost continuously seated on her brow. Her eyes tell of mental anguish, which, affecting her heart, is also making inroad on her health. Already the roses have gone out of her cheeks, leaving only lilies; the pale flowers foretelling an early tomb.
The distressing symptoms do not escape the fond father’s observation. Indeed he knows all about them, now knowing their cause. Only through the Natchez newspapers was he first made aware of that secret correspondence between his daughter and Clancy. But since she has confessed all – how her heart went with her words; is still true to what she then said. The last an avowal not needed: her pallid cheeks proclaiming it. The frank confession, instead of enraging her father, but gives him regret, and along with it self-reproach. But for his aristocratic pride, with some admixture of cupidity, he would have permitted Clancy’s addresses to his daughter. With an open honourable courtship, the end might have been different – perhaps less disastrous. It could not have been more.
He can now only hope, that time, the great soother of suffering hearts, may bring balm to hers. New scenes in Texas, with thoughts arising therefrom, may throw oblivion over the past. And perchance a new lover may cause the lost one to be less painfully remembered. Several aspirants have already presented themselves; more than one of the younger members of the colony having accompanied it, with no view of making fortunes by the cultivation of cotton, but solely to be beside Helen Armstrong.
Her suitors one and all will be disappointed. She to whom they sue is not an ordinary woman; nor her affections of the fickle kind. Like the eagle’s mate, deprived of her proud lord, she will live all her after life in lone solitude – or die. She has lost her lover, or thinks so, believing Clancy dead; but the love still burns within her bosom, and will, so long as her life may last. Colonel Armstrong soon begins to see this, and despairs of the roses ever again returning to the cheeks of his elder daughter.
It would, no doubt, be different were the blighted heart that of his younger. With her the Spanish proverb, “un clavo saca otro clavo,” might have meaning. By good fortune, Jessie needs no nail to drive out another. Her natural exuberance of spirits grown to greater joy from the hopes that now halo her young life, is flung over the future of all. Some compensation for her sister’s sadness – something to cheer their common father. There is also the excitement attendant on the industries of the hour – the cares of the cotton-planting, with speculations about the success of the crop – these, with a hundred like thoughts and things, hinder him from so frequently recurring to, or so long dwelling on, that which can but cruelly distress.
It is the night succeeding that in which the mestizo made his private pyrotechnic display; and Colonel Armstrong with his future son-in-law is seated in the former refectory of the mission, which they have converted into a decent dining-room.
They are not alone, or, as in French phraseology better expressed, chez eux mêmes. Six or seven of their fellow-colonists of the better class share the saloon with them – these being guests whom they have invited to dinner.
The meal is over, the hour touching ten, the ladies have retired from the table, only the gentlemen remain, drinking choice claret, which Dupré, a sort of Transatlantic Lucullus, has brought with him from his Louisiana wine bins.
Armstrong himself, being of Scotch ancestry, has the national preference for whisky punch; and a tumbler of this beverage – the best in the world – stands on the table before him. His glass has been filled three times, and is as often emptied.
It need not be said, at this moment he is not sad. After three tumblers of whisky toddy no man can help being hilarious; and so is it with Colonel Armstrong. Seated at the head of his dining-table, the steaming punch before him, he converses with his guests, gay as the gayest. For a time their conversation is on general topics; but at length changes to one more particular. Something said has directed their attention to a man, who waited upon them at table, now no longer in the room.
The individual thus honoured is Dupré’s confidential servant Fernand; who, as already said, is house-steward, butler, factotum of affairs generally.
As is usual with such grand dignitaries, he has withdrawn simultaneously with the removal of the tablecloth, leaving a deputy to look to the decanting of the wine. Therefore, there is nothing remarkable in his disappearance; nor would aught be observed about it, but for a remark made by one of the guests during the course of conversation. A young surgeon, who has cast in his lot with the new colony, is he who starts the topic, thus introducing it: —
“Friend Dupré, where did you get that fellow Fernand? I don’t remember having seen him on your Louisiana plantation.”
“I picked him up in Natchitoches while we were organising. You know I lost my old major-domo last fall by the yellow fever. It took him off while we were down in New Orleans. Fernand, however, is his superior in every sense; can keep plantation accounts, wait at table, drive a carriage, or help in a hunt. He’s a fellow of wonderful versatility; in short, a genius. And what is rare in such a combination of talents, he is devoted to his duties – a very slave to them.”
“What breed may your admirable Crichton be?” asks another of the guests, adding: “He looks a cross between Spaniard and Indian.”
“Just what he is,” answers the young planter; “at least says so. By his own account his father was a Spaniard, or rather a Mexican, and his mother an Indian of the Seminole tribe. His real name is Fernandez; but for convenience I’ve dropped the final syllable.”
“It’s a bad sort of mixture, that between Spaniard and Seminole, and not improved by the Spaniard being a Mexican,” remarks he who made the inquiry.
“I don’t like his looks,” observes a third speaker.
Then all around the table wait to hear what Wharton, the young surgeon, has to say. For it is evident, from his way of introducing the subject, he either knows or suspects something prejudicial to the character of the major-domo. Instead of going on to explain, he puts a second interrogatory —
“May I ask, M. Dupré, whether you had any character with him?”
“No, indeed,” admits the master. “He came to me just before we left Natchitoches asking for an engagement. He professed to know all about Texas, and offered to act as a guide. As I had engaged guides, I didn’t want him for that when he said any other place would do. Seeing him to be a smart sort of fellow, which he certainly has proved, I engaged him to look after my baggage. Since, I’ve found him useful in other ways, and have given him full charge of everything – even to entrusting him with the care of my modest money chest.”
“In doing that,” rejoins the surgeon, “I should say you’ve acted somewhat imprudently. Excuse me, M. Dupré, for making the observation.”
“Oh, certainly,” is the planter’s frank reply. “But why do you say so, Mr Wharton? Have you any reason to suspect his honesty?”
“I have; more than one.”
“Indeed! Let us hear them all.”
“Well; in the first place I don’t like the look of the man, nor ever did since the day of our starting. Since I never set eyes on him before, I could have had no impression to prejudice me against him. I admit that, judging by physiognomy, any one may be mistaken; and I shouldn’t have allowed myself to be led by that. In this case, however, a circumstance has contributed to shaping my judgment; in fact, deciding me in the opinion, that your fellow Fernand is not only dishonest, but something worse than a thief.”
“Worse than a thief!” is the simultaneous echo from all sides of the table, succeeded by a universal demand for explanation.
“Your words have a weighty sound, doctor,” is Colonel Armstrong’s way of putting it. “We are anxious to hear what they mean.”
“Well,” responds Wharton, “you shall know why I’ve spoken them, and what’s led me to suspect this fellow Fernand. You can draw your own conclusions, from the premises I put before you. Last night at a late hour – near midnight – I took a fancy into my head to have a stroll towards the river. Lighting a weed, I started out. I can’t say exactly how far I may have gone; but I know that the cigar – a long ‘Henry Clay’ – was burnt to the end before I thought of turning back. As I was about doing so, I heard a sound, easily made out to be the footsteps of a man, treading the firm prairie turf. As it chanced just then, I was under a pecan-tree that screened me with its shadow; and I kept my ground without making any noise.
“Shortly after, I saw the man whose footfall I had heard, and recognised him as M. Dupré’s head-servant. He was coming up the valley, toward the house here, as if returning from some excursion. I mightn’t have thought much of that, but for noticing, as he passed me, that he didn’t walk erect or on the path, but crouchingly, among the trees skirting it.
“Throwing away the stump of my cigar, I set out after him, treading stealthily as he. Instead of entering by the front, he went round the garden, all the way to its rear; where suddenly I lost sight of him. On arriving at the spot where he had disappeared, I saw there was a break in the wall. Through that, of course, he must have passed, and entered the mission-building at the back. Now, what are we to make of all this?”
“What do you make of it, doctor?” asks Dupré.
“Give us your own deductions!”
“To say the truth, I don’t know what deductions to draw, I confess myself at fault; and cannot account for the fellow’s movements; though I take you’ll all acknowledge they were odd. As I’ve said, M. Dupré, I didn’t from the first like your man of versatile talents; and I’m now more than ever distrustful of him. Still I profess myself unable to guess what he was after last night. Can any of you, gentlemen?”
No one can. The singular behaviour of Dupré’s servant is a puzzle to all present. At the same time, under the circumstances, it has a serious aspect.
Were there any neighbouring settlement, the man might be supposed returning from a visit to it; entering stealthily, from being out late, and under fear of rebuke from his master. As there are no such neighbours, this theory cannot be entertained.
On the other hand, there has been no report of Indians having been seen in proximity to the place. If there had, the mestizo’s conduct might be accounted for, upon an hypothesis that would certainly cause apprehension to those discussing it.
But no savages have been seen, or heard of; and it is known that the Southern Comanches – the only Indians likely to be there encountered – are in treaty of peace with the Texan Government. Therefore, the nocturnal excursion of the half-blood could not be connected with anything of this kind.
His singular, and seemingly eccentric, behaviour, remains an unsolved problem to the guests around the table; and the subject is eventually dropped their conversation changing to other and pleasanter themes.
Chapter Forty Seven.
Opposite emblems
Pleasure has not been the sole purpose for which Colonel Armstrong is giving his little dinner party, else there would have been ladies invited along with the gentlemen. It is rather a re-union to talk over the affairs of the colony; hence the only ladies present were the daughters of the host. And, for the same reason, these have retired from the table at an early hour, betaking themselves to the sala of the old monastery, their sitting and drawing-room. This, though an ample apartment, is anything but a pleasant one; never much affected by the monks, who in their post-prandial hours, preferred sticking to the refectory. A hasty attempt has been made to modernise it; but the light furniture of French Creole fabric, brought along from Louisiana, ill accords with its heavy style of architecture, while its decayed walls and ceilings lezardée, give it a gloomy dismal look, all the more from the large room being but dimly lit up. As it is not a drawing-room party, the ladies expect that for a long while, if not all evening, they will be left alone in it. For a time they scarce know how to employ themselves. With Helen, amusement is out of the question. She has flung herself into a fauteuil, and sits in pensive attitude; of late, alas! become habitual to her.
Jessie, taking up her guitar, commences a song, the first that occurs to her, which chances to be “Lucy Neal,” a negro melody, at the time much in vogue on the plantations of the South. She has chosen the pathetic strain without thought of the effect it may produce upon her sister. Observing it to be painful she abruptly breaks off, and with a sweep of her fingers across the guitar strings, changes to the merrier refrain of “Old Dan Tucker.” Helen, touched by the delicate consideration, rewards it with a faint smile. Then, Jessie rattles on through a mélange of negro ministrelsy, all of the light comical kind, her only thought being to chase away her sister’s despondency.
Still is she unsuccessful. Her merry voice, her laughter, and the cheerful tinkle of the guitar strings, are all exerted in vain. The sounds so little in consonance with Helen’s thoughts seem sorely out of place in that gloomy apartment; whose walls, though they once echoed the laughter of roystering friars, have, no doubt, also heard the sighs of many a poor peon suffering chastisement for disobedience, or apostacy.
At length perceiving how idle are her efforts, the younger sister lays aside her guitar, at the same time starting to her feet, and saying: – “Come, Helen! suppose we go outside for a stroll? That will be more agreeable than moping in this gloomsome cavern. There’s a beautiful moonlight, and we ought to enjoy it.”
“If you wish, I have no objections. Where do you intend strolling to?”
“Say the garden. We can take a turn along its walks, though they are a little weedy. A queer weird place it is – looks as if it might be haunted. I shouldn’t wonder if we met a ghost in it – some of the old monks; or it might be one of their victims. ’Tis said they were very cruel, and killed people – ay, tortured them. Only think of the savage monsters! True, the ones that were here, as I’ve heard, got killed themselves in the end – that’s some satisfaction. But it’s all the more reason for their ghosts being about. If we should meet one, what would you do?”
“That would depend on how he behaved himself.”
“You’re not afraid of ghosts, Helen! I know you’re not.”
“I was when a child. Now I fear neither the living nor the dead. I can dare both, having nought to make me care for life – ”
“Come on!” cries Jessie, interrupting the melancholy train of reflection, “Let us to the garden. If we meet a monk in hood and cowl, I shall certainly – ”
“Do what?”
“Run back into the house fast as feet can carry me. Come along!”
Keeping up the jocular bravado, the younger sister leads the way out. Arm-in-arm the two cross the patio, then the outer courtyard, and on through a narrow passage communicating with the walled enclosure at back; once a grand garden under careful cultivation, still grand in its neglect.
After entering it, the sisters make stop, and for a while stand surveying the scene. The moon at full, coursing through a cloudless sky, flings her soft light upon gorgeous flowers with corollas but half-closed, in the sultry southern night giving out their fragrance as by day. The senses of sight and smell are not the only ones gratified; that of hearing is also charmed with the song of the czentzontle, the Mexican nightingale. One of these birds perched upon a branch, and pouring forth its love-lay in loud passionate strain, breaks off at sight of them. Only for a short interval is it silent; then resuming its lay, as if convinced it has nought to fear from such fair intruders. Its song is not strange to their ears, though there are some notes they have not hitherto heard. It is their own mocking-bird of the States, introducing into its mimic minstrelsy certain variations, the imitations of sounds peculiar to Texas.
After having listened to it for a short while, the girls move on down the centre walk, now under the shadow of trees, anon emerging into the moonlight; which shimmering on their white evening robes, and reflecting the sparkle of their jewellery, produces a pretty effect.
The garden ground slopes gently backward; and about half-way between the house and the bottom wall is, or has been, a fountain. The basin is still there, and with water in it, trickling over its edge. But the jet no longer plays, and the mason-work shows greatly dilapidated. So also the seats and statues around, some of the latter yet standing, others broken off, and lying alongside their pedestals.
Arriving at this spot, the sisters again stop, and for a time stand contemplating the ruins; the younger making a remark, suggested by a thought of their grandeur gone.
“Fountains, statues, seats under shade trees, every luxury to be got out of a garden! What Sybarites the Holy Fathers must have been!”
“Truly so,” assents Helen. “They seem to have made themselves quite comfortable; and whatever their morals, it must be admitted they displayed good taste in landscape gardening, with an eye on good living as well. They must have been very fond of fruit, and a variety of it – judging by the many sorts of trees they’ve planted.”
“So much the better for us,” gleefully replies Jessie. “We shall have the benefit of their industry, when the fruit season comes round. Won’t it be a grand thing when we get the walks gravelled, these statues restored, and that fountain once more in full play. Luis has promised me it shall be done, soon as the cotton crop is in. Oh! it will be a Paradise of a place!”
“I like it better as it is.”
“You do. Why?”
“Ah! that you cannot understand. You do not know – I hope never will – what it is to live only in the past. This place has had a past, like myself, once smiling; and now like me all desolation.”
“O sister! do not speak so. It pains me – indeed it does. Besides your words only go half-way. As you say, it’s had a smiling past, and’s going to have a smiling future. And so will you sis. I’m determined to have it all laid out anew, in as good style as it ever was – better. Luis shall do it – must, when he marries, me– if not before.”
To the pretty bit of bantering Helen’s only answer is a sigh, with a sadder expression, as from some fresh pang shooting through her heart. It is even this; for, once again, she cannot help contrasting her own poor position with the proud one attained by her sister. She knows that Dupré is in reality master of all around, as Jessie will be mistress, she herself little better than their dependant. No wonder the thought should cause her humiliation, or that, with a spirit imperious as her’s, she should feel it acutely. Still, in her crushed heart there is no envy at her sister’s good fortune. Could Charles Clancy come to life again, now she knows him true – were he but there to share with her the humblest hut in Texas, all the splendours, all the grandeurs of earth, could not add to that happiness, nor give one emotion more.
After her enthusiastic outburst, to which there has been no rejoinder, Jessie continues on toward the bottom of the garden, giving way to pleasant fancies, dreams of future designs, with her fan playfully striking at the flowers as she passes them.
In silence Helen follows; and no word is exchanged between them till they reach the lower end; when Jessie, turning round, the two are face to face. The place, where they have stopped is another opening with seats and statues, admitting the moonlight. By its bright beam the younger sister sees anguish depicted on the countenance of the older.
With a thought that her last words have caused or contributed to this, she is about to add others that may remove it. But before she can speak, Helen makes a gesture that holds her silent.
Near the spot where they are standing two trees overshadow the walk, their boughs meeting across it. Both are emblematic – one symbolising the most joyous hour of existence, the other its saddest. They are an orange, and a cypress. The former is in bloom, as it always is; the latter only in leaf, without a blossom on its branches.
Helen, stepping between them, and extending an arm to each, plucks from the one a sprig, from the other a flower. Raising the orange blossom between her white fingers, more attenuated than of yore, she plants it amid Jessie’s golden tresses. At the same time she sets the cypress sprig behind the plaits of her own raven hair; as she does so, saying: —
“That for you, sister – this for me. We are now decked as befits us – as we shall both soon be —you for the bridal, I for the tomb!”
The words, seeming but too prophetic, pierce Jessie’s heart as arrow with poisoned barb. In an instant, her joy is gone, sunk into the sorrow of her sister. Herself sinking upon that sister’s bosom, with arms around her neck, and tears falling thick and fast over her swan-white shoulders.
Never more than now has her heart overflowed with compassion, for never as now has Helen appeared to suffer so acutely. As she stood, holding in one hand the symbol of bright happy life, in the other the dark emblem of death, she looked the very personification of sorrow. With her magnificent outline of form, and splendid features, all the more marked in their melancholy, she might have passed for its divinity. The ancient sculptors would have given much for such a model, to mould the statue of Despair.
