Very few of the soul-stirring narratives written by GUSTAVE AIMARD are equal in freshness and vigour to "The Missouri Outlaws," hitherto unpublished in this country. The characters of the Squatter, the real, restless, unconquerable American, who is always going ahead, and of his wife and daughter, are admirably depicted, while his eccentric brother is a perfect gem of description. The great interest, however, of the narrative is centred in Tom Mitchell, the mysterious outlaw, whose fortunes excite the readers' imagination to the utmost. There can be no doubt he is one of the most original characters depicted by the versatile pen of the great French novelist. In addition to being a story of adventure, "The Missouri Outlaws" is also a love tale, and abounds in tender pathos, the interest of which is well sustained in "The Prairie Flower" and in its sequel, "The Indian Scout."
PERCY B. ST. JOHN.
London: February, 1877.
On the 4th of August, 1801, a little after eight o'clock at night, just as the last rays of the setting sun disappeared behind the heights of Dorchester, gilding as they did so the summits of certain islands scattered at the entrance to Boston Bay, some idlers of both sexes, collected on Beacon Hill, at the foot of the lighthouse, saw a large vessel making for the harbour.
At first it seemed as if the ship would be compelled to desist from her design, as the wind was slightly contrary; but, by a series of skilful manoeuvres, it at last passed by the danger which threatened, the sails were one by one taken in and furled, and finally the anchor was cast beside one of the many vessels in port.
A few minutes later nothing was to be seen on deck save one man walking up and down doing duty as watch for the time being.
The vessel had, under cover of a dense fog, escaped from Brest, slipped past the English cruisers, and finally, after many dangers, reached its destination.
Descending into the cabin, we find two men seated at a table upon which were glasses, bottles, pipes, and tobacco, conversing and smoking.
These were Captain Pierre Durand, a young man, with regular but rather effeminate features, and yet a look of frank honesty, to which his sparkling eyes, his broad forehead, his long waving hair, gave an appearance of singular energy. Though every inch a sailor, there was a refinement about him not generally found in his class.
His companion was a handsome and haughty young man, of about two-and-twenty, of moderate height, but with very broad shoulders; he was evidently of powerful make, with nerves of steel. His complexion was olive; his hair long wavy black; his eyes were large and bold; the expression of his countenance sombre and thoughtful, while at this early age many a wrinkle caused by thought or suffering was to be observed.
There had evidently been a warm discussion, for the captain was walking up and down, a frown upon his brow. Suddenly, however, he reseated himself and held out his hand across the table.
"I was wrong. Do not be vexed," he said.
"I am not angry, my good Pierre," he answered.
"Then why sulk with your friend?"
"I do not sulk, heaven knows; I am simply sad. You have reopened a wound I thought forever closed," the other added with a sigh.
"Well, then, in heaven's name, if it be so," cried the captain, "let us talk about something else—and above all, let us drink. This old rum is a sovereign remedy for the blues. Your health, my friend."
Both drank after touching glasses, and then silence again ensued.
"Now, my dear Oliver," resumed the captain, "at last we are safe in Boston. We leave tomorrow. What do you intend to do?"
"You remember our conversation at Brest?"
"I have not forgotten it, but I never seriously entertained the idea. We had dined rather copiously."
"We were very sober. There were two bottles on the table, one empty and the other nearly full. I then told you that though I had only just returned to France after an absence of ten years, I was compelled to leave at a moment's notice, and to leave without raising any suspicion. I wanted to depart without anyone being able to obtain the slightest clue; you remember," he added.
"I do, and I told you that I would run the blockade that very night, if the weather turned out as bad as I expected. Did I keep my promise?"
"With all the loyalty of your honest heart. I also told you I intended remaining in America."
"It is to that madcap resolution I object," said the captain emphatically. "Why not stay with me? You are an excellent sailor—you shall be my chief officer."
"No, my friend. I can accept nothing which can ever tempt me to return to France," he answered.
"How you suffer!" sighed his friend.
"Horribly. Come, my friend, as we shall part for ever tomorrow, I will tell you my history."
"Not if it makes you suffer."
"I will be brief. Sad as my story is, it is not very long."
"Go on," replied Captain Durand, filling up two more glasses of rum, and lighting a fresh cigar for himself.
"I will not sermonise, but begin at the beginning. I was born in Paris, but might be English, German, or even Russian, for all I know. I am simply aware that my birthplace was Paris, in the house of a doctor, where my mother took refuge. It was in the Rue St. Honoré I first saw the light but, as soon as I could be removed, was sent to the Foundling. There I remained four years, until a loving young couple, who had lost their only child, adopted me. They were poor, and lived on the third floor of a wretched old house, in the Rue Plumet, where, I must own, I had enough, but of very coarse, food."
"One day, however, fortune knocked at the door. My adopted mother was, and still is, one of the handsomest women in Paris. By accident an old friend, a distant relation, a man of high position, found her out. He at once procured a lucrative appointment for my supposed parent, and we moved to a splendid residence in the Faubourg du Roule. The friend, who lived close by, at once began to visit us every evening, and, by a curious coincidence, the husband always found business which required his absence. He never returned until a quarter of an hour after the other had left."
"Accommodating husband," sneered Durand.
"Just so. But, unfortunately for me, I became older, curious, was always turning up when not wanted, and saying things which were not required. It was decided that I was an incorrigible scamp, and must be sent away."
"My adopted mother had relations at Dunkirk, and I was packed off to them to be sent to sea as cabin boy. Then only did I discover that these people were not my parents. My supposed mother coldly kissed me, told me to be a good boy and gave me ten sous; my father, who escorted me to the ramshackle vehicle which traded between Paris and Calais, told me to remember this, that society never having done anything for me, I was to do nothing for society; the only virtues to which men ever owed success were, he said, selfishness and ingratitude. He further added, 'Good-bye, we shall never meet again.'"
"He turned his back and left me. This was my first young sorrow, and I felt it very much."
"I feel for you," said the captain; "your story is very much like my own."
"These people, knowing me then to be very delicate, hoped that the hardy profession they had selected for me would kill me. They were mistaken."
"As I see," answered Durand.
"I was first boy on board a herring boat, where I had to endure the brutality and insolence of a low drunkard, who never spoke except with an oath from his mouth, accompanying it with a blow from his cane. My apprenticeship was one long terror. Sometimes a whaler, sometimes a cod fisher, sometimes a slaver. I have been five or six times round the world; abandoned on the wildest coast of America, I was a long time prisoner; shipwrecked on an island in the Pacific, I wonder I did not die of misery and despair."
"Poor Oliver!"
"But bad as was my life, I everywhere in savage lands found some friend; but in France, from which I was ignominiously expelled eleven years ago, I found on my return two implacable foes—Calumny and Hatred. I was a very sharp boy, and trusted wholly to strangers. I could not help hearing many things I should not have heard. I discovered the secret of my birth, who were my father and mother, their exact names, and their position in society. One day, in a moment of frenzy—and you know I am extremely violent—I was foolish enough to let out the fact that I knew all. From that day a vow was made to accomplish my ruin; the most calumnious reports pursued me; I was accused behind my back and in the dark of the most horrible crimes. It is to me still a wonder how I have escaped all the ambushes laid for me. My foes hesitated at nothing. They tried to assassinate me. Is it not horrible? Well, having failed in the ordinary way, they bribed the captain of a ship I had joined to maroon me on the coast of New Mexico, where dwell the most ferocious Indian tribes."
"And the captain did this?"
"Pardieu!" cried Oliver; "He was a poor man, and the father of a family. I was cast on shore stupefied by laudanum. When I recovered the ship was already out of sight. I expected to be killed by the savages or to die of hunger. How neither happened is too long a story to tell now. But the end of all is, I have determined on an eternal exile. Never again will I place myself in the power of my foes, who live rich, happy, and respected in France."
"You will establish yourself in Boston?"
"No! I have done with civilised life; I shall now try that of the desert. It is my intention to bury myself in the wilds until I find an Indian tribe that will welcome me. I will ask them to receive me as a warrior. I thoroughly understand the manners and customs of the aborigines, and shall easily make friends."
"I believe," observed the captain, "that you are right in this particular. You are young, brave, and intelligent; therefore you will succeed even in this mad project. But mark my word, you may live five, perhaps ten years with the Indians; but at last you will weary of this existence—what will you do then?"
"Who knows? Experience will have ripened my reason, perhaps killed my grief, even deadened the hatred which burns within my heart. I may even learn to forgive those who have made me suffer. That in itself is a sort of vengeance."
"But you will never come to that," said his friend.
The young man rose without making any reply, and went on deck.
Next day, as soon as the usual formalities had been gone through, the captain landed in his boat with his young friend. Both were silent before the sailors. Very soon they were threading their way along the crowded quays. Boston was by no means the really magnificent town which now excite universal admiration, but it was already a very busy and important commercial emporium.
The Americans, with their restless activity, had hastened to clear away all signs of the War of Independence; the town had grown quite young again, and assumed that gay and lively physiognomy which belongs to great commercial centres, where almost everybody can find the means of living.
As soon as they were alone the captain spoke.
"When, my friend, do you propose to start?" he said.
"Tonight, two hours before the setting of the sun. I burn with a fierce desire to breathe the air of the great savannahs, to feel free from the trammels of civilisation," he answered.
"Well, my friend, I must leave you now, but promise to wait breakfast for me, and to do nothing until you have seen me again," insisted the captain.
"I was about to ask you to join me. Where shall we breakfast?"
The captain indicated a hotel at no great distance, after which he hurried away to wait on the consignees.
"What on earth can Pierre mean," muttered Oliver to himself, "by my doing nothing until we meet again? Probably he will try once more to change my resolution. He ought to know that once I make up my mind I never falter. He is a good fellow, the only man who has ever been my sincere and devoted friend—the only being in the world I am sorry to part from."
Musing thus Oliver strolled about, looking listlessly at the streets, the shops, and particularly selecting those which, by-and-by, he would have to visit for the purpose of his outfit, which he would have to purchase after breakfast.
An hour later the two men met in front of the hotel. Both were exact to a minute. They ordered breakfast in a private room. As soon as they had finished the captain opened the ball.
"Now let us chat," he said.
"With the greatest of pleasure," replied Oliver. "Nothing is more agreeable after a meal than to enjoy a cigar, a cup of coffee, and a friend's company."
"And yet you have determined to deprive yourself of these luxuries forever," replied Durand.
"Man is ever insatiable. The unknown always did and always will attract him. He will ever quit the substance for the shadow. The fable is right. But let us talk of something else. Serious conversation after eating is folly," observed Oliver.
"You are quite right—some more rum in your coffee? It is an excellent thing. What do you think I have been doing since I saw you?"
"It is impossible for me to guess," cried Oliver.
The captain rose, went to the window, and gave a short whistle. After this, he returned to his seat, Oliver staring at him while he sipped his coffee.
Five minutes elapsed, and then in came several men, carrying various packets, which they placed on a side table, and went out without speaking.
"What does it mean?" cried Oliver, in comic astonishment.
"Then something can rouse you?" cried Durand, smiling.
"No, only I wondered."
"Never mind. You still intend going off tonight?" asked the captain.
"Certainly," said Oliver rising; "that reminds me—"
"One moment. We are old friends, and there should be no secrets between us," urged Durand.
"There shall be none," answered Oliver.
"Have you much money?" asked Durand.
"Do you want to lend me any?" cried Oliver.
"No matter if I did. But still I want an answer," urged Durand.
"I have eleven thousand francs in gold sewn in my belt, and in a bag fastened round my neck diamonds worth a hundred and twenty thousand more. Besides this I have about eighty guineas in English money for immediate expenses. Are you satisfied?"
"Perfectly," said the captain laughing, "and now listen to me."
"Then it appears you are not quite satisfied?" cried Oliver, in his turn surprised.
"Don't be in a hurry. I wish to interest you if I can."
"I will wait your pleasure," observed Oliver, smiling at the other's hesitation.
"It is useless," said Durand, "for me to feign a gaiety I do not feel. I feel more like weeping than laughing. The mere idea of this long, perhaps eternal, separation makes my heart bleed. I think that the hand now in mine I shall never shake again."
"Don't be downhearted. Perhaps we may meet sooner than either of us expect," retorted Oliver.
"I hope you may be a true prophet. Still I cannot help shuddering at the thought of your starting off amidst people whose language you do not even know."
"There you are mistaken," responded Oliver; "as well as French, I speak English, Spanish, and Dutch, with about five Indian dialects, which I picked up at different times."
"It is a wonder," mused the other, "that, placed as you have been, you should have had the time."
"Before I became a cabin boy I could read and write a little. After a time I spent every moment of leisure in study."
"I remember," sighed Durand, "I never met you without you were reading. What will you do for books now?"
"What book is more interesting than that in which God has written on the plains, on the mountains, on the minutest blade of grass?" replied Oliver with enthusiasm. "Believe me, my friend, the sacred book of Nature has pages too interesting to ever weary us; from them you always find consolation, hope, encouragement. But," he added with a smile, "I have two books with me which, in my opinion, epitomise all great human thoughts, make man better, and even restore his courage, when bowed down by the heavy weight of misfortune. I have these books by heart, and yet I read them over again."
And he laid on the table two books bound in black morocco.
"What!" cried the amazed captain, "'The Imitation of Jesus Christ' and 'Montaigne'!"
"Yes. 'The Imitation of Jesus Christ' and 'Montaigne,' the most complete and sincere books ever written, for they tell the story of doubt and belief. They tell the rival story of all the philosophers who have existed since the creation of the world. With these two books and the magnificent spectacle of Nature around me have I not a whole library?"
"I cannot make you out. You overwhelm me," said the captain; "but I have not the courage to contradict you. You are too much for me. Go forth, seek the unknown, for alone that will comprehend you. You are one of those whom adversity purifies and renders great; you will often feel inclined to fall by the way in the gigantic combat you are about to undertake against the world. But fail is not a word in your dictionary. Even death, when it comes, will not conquer you."
"All the more that death is but a transformation, a purification of brutal matter by Divine agency. But," he remarked with a smile, "I think we are talking about very serious matters very foreign to our subject. Let us return to business, for the hour of our departure is rapidly approaching."
At this moment the tramp of horses was heard, and the captain again ran to the window.
"Hilloa!" cried the young man; "Another of your mysterious walks! Do explain yourself."
"All right," he replied, reseating himself, "there is no reason for circumlocution between friends. The truth must be told. I had hoped to lend you money, and I know that had you have required it, you would have borrowed it."
"Certainly, without hesitation, my friend."
"Of course, as I find you are very much better off than myself, I withdraw the proposition; but I had already provided your outfit."
"What can you mean? Provided my outfit!"
"Yes! I mean to say that there is not a single thing required for your journey that is not ready. Look!"
And both rising, the captain opened the parcels which had been left on a side table.
"Look here," said the captain; "this is a real Kentucky rifle, the only gun fit for a hunter; I have tried it. This is a ball pouch, with mould and everything necessary to make others when needed; this is your powder horn, which is full, while here are two small canisters to replenish with; this is a 'necessary,' as we sailors call it, containing spoon, fork, cup, knife, and other trifles; this is a leather belt; this is a game bag, with gaiters, riding boots, a cloak, and four rugs."
"My dear friend," said Oliver, deeply moved, "you have been ruining yourself."
"Get out of that and wait a little longer. As you seriously wish to adopt savage life, at all events you must be rigged out accordingly," he added, laughing. "This is a hunting knife, which you put in your belt; these pistols are to be placed in the holsters; that sword is perhaps one of the best cavalry swords I have ever seen. What, more! Oh, yes. This portmanteau, which is neither too large nor too small, in which you will find shirts and other necessaries. Then some pipes, tobacco, flint and steel, and a dozen boxes of preserves, in case you may someday be short of provisions. I think, on my honour, that is all. No, I had forgotten: paper, pens, ink, and pencils. And now my watch as a last remembrance."
"This I must refuse. Your watch is too useful to yourself."
"My friend, every time you look at it you will think of me," said the captain.
And the two Frenchmen embraced.
"I accept," replied Oliver, with deep emotion.
"Now I know," continued the captain, "you are really my friend; and now let me see you dressed up as a true traveller, while I put the other things back into their parcels."
"But before I don my new prairie costume, I have something else to buy," cried Oliver.
"What!" cried the captain, "I thought surely I had forgotten nothing."
"Do you think, my dear friend, that I am going to carry all this on my back. I don't want to look like a comic Robinson Crusoe, and, besides, it is more than I could do. I must have a horse."
The captain burst out laughing.
"Look out of window, my dear friend," he said, "and then you shall decide whether or not I forgot anything."
Oliver approached the window, and saw two magnificent horses admirably caparisoned.
"What do you think of those animals?" asked the captain.
"They are both splendid; above all, the black one—a true horse of the prairies—a mustang."
"You seem to know all about it."
"I have seen them often enough," replied the young man; "the owner of this one should be proud."
"It is yours," said Durand.
"What do you mean?"
"I bought it for you," was the simple reply.
"Pierre! Pierre! I repeat, you are ruined."
"Hush; I may as well add that under the saddles I have placed double pockets, which contain many things I have forgotten."
"But there are two horses," he cried.
"One for you and one for myself. At all events, I must see you fairly on your way."
Oliver made no reply, but turned away to dress in order to hide his emotion. When he was in full costume his friend burst out laughing, and told him he looked like a Calabrian bandit.
"And now which way do we go?" asked the captain.
"Straight forward," replied Oliver.
"Yes," cried the captain, "just so, as you are going round the world."
In two hours, after a hearty and warm shake of the hand, they parted. They were too deeply moved to speak.
On the same day on which the Patriot anchored in the Bay of Massachusetts an interesting event took place between seven and eight in the morning in a pretty village named Northampton, at no great distance from Boston.
Everybody was excited. A crowd of men, women, and children pressed around a number of waggons, each drawn by six horses. They stood in front of a brick house, the only inn of the village. Four magnificent saddle horses, with very handsome harness, were held by a young intelligent-looking Negro, who at the same time smoked a short pipe.
The crowd was very excited, but very decorous and quiet—as a New England crowd always is—waiting simply for an explanation.
Suddenly the sharp trot of a horse was heard at the entrance of the street. This served to create a new sensation in the crowd.
"Samuel Dickson!" cried the people; "At last he has come. Now he will make them listen to reason."
The new arrival was a man of middle age, with a pleasant countenance, delicate and intelligent features, clothed in the dress of a rich farmer, and in those parts was looked up to as a most important individual.
He made his way carefully through the crowd, bowing on either hand, and rather puzzled at the ovation he was receiving.
"Ah! Ah! That is you, massa," said a Negro, with a chuckle, as he approached the inn door.
"Sandy, is that you? Then I suppose the others are inside," he remarked, as he dismounted and handed him the bridle.
"Yes, Massa Samuel, dem all dere."
"I am glad of it," he replied, "for I have come a long way to see them. Look after my horse, he is rather fresh."
Then, bowing once more to the crowd, Samuel Dickson entered the inn, closing the door behind him.
In a large and comfortable room six persons, two women and four men, were seated at one of those copious breakfasts which are never seen to such perfection as in America. Upon benches round the room sat about twenty persons in a humbler station in life, amongst others two coloured young women, who were eating from bowls and plates placed on their knees.
Those at the table were the members of the family—father, mother, daughter, and three sons. Those around were the servants.
Joshua Dickson, the head of the family, was in reality a man of fifty-five, not, however, looking more than forty. He was a man of rude manners, but frank, honest expression. He was six feet high, as powerful as Hercules, a true type of those hardy pioneers who opened up the forests of the New World, drove back the Indians, and founded stations in the desert, which in time became rich and flourishing towns.
His sons were named Harry, Sam, and Jack, aged respectively thirty, twenty-eight, and twenty-six. They were all three as tall as their father, and about as Herculean—true Americans, with no thought of the past, only looking to the future.
Susan Dickson, the mother of this trio of giants, was a woman of about fifty—small, elegant, but extremely active, with delicate features and a pre-possessing physiognomy. She looked much younger than she really was—thanks to her really admirable complexion and the singular brightness of her eyes. She must have been rarely beautiful in her youth.
Diana, the child of her old age, as she loved to call her, was scarcely sixteen, was the idol of the family, the guardian angel of the fireside; her father and brothers actually worshipped her. It was something wonderful to see their rude natures bending like reeds before the slightest wish of this delicate child, and obeying her most fantastic orders without a murmur.
Diana was a charming brunette, with blue and dreamy eyes, slight and flexible form; she was pale; a look of profound melancholy was to be remarked on her countenance, giving to her physiognomy that angelic expression rarely found except in the Madonnas of Titien. This sadness, which all the family saw with sorrow, had only been in existence a few days. When questioned on the subject, even by her mother, she had no answer to give.
"It is nothing at all," she said, "only a slight feeling of sickness, which will soon pass away."
Hearing this, all had ceased to question her, though all felt uneasy, and slightly annoyed at her reticence. Still, as she was the spoiled child of the family, no one had the heart to blame her or pester her with questions. They had seduced her to govern them unquestioned that it appeared hard now to want to curb her will.
The entrance of the stranger into the hall where the emigrants were breakfasting like persons who knew the value of time, caused no small stir; they ceased eating, and, glancing at one another, whispered amongst themselves. The stranger, leaning on his riding whip, looked at them with an odd kind of smile.
The chief of the family, though himself somewhat surprised, was the first to recover himself. He rose, held out his hand, and spoke in what he intended should be a jovial tone. The attempt was a failure.
"My good brother," he said, "this is indeed a surprise. I really did not expect to see you; but sit down beside my wife and have some breakfast."
"Thank you; I am not hungry."
"Then excuse me if I finish my meal," continued the emigrant.
"Brother," presently said Samuel, "for a man of your age you are acting in an extraordinary manner."
"I don't think so," replied the other.
"Let me ask you where are you going?"