Chapter 12: The Shadow in the Forest

Luiz and his comrades escorted Henry back to the prison, and the expressive face of Luiz showed pleasure. He made a vigorous pantomime and spoke words in Spanish.

“Yes, I understand your meaning if not your language, my friend,” said Henry, “and I thank you. I am glad to know that I have your good will.”

When the door of his prison was thrown open and Henry was then shut in again with his comrades they looked at him expectantly.

“Well?” said Paul.

“What happened?” said Long Jim.

“Anything to tell?” said Tom Ross.

“How’s your shoulder, Paul?” asked Henry.

“Fast getting well,” replied Paul, who knew that his comrade would speak in his own good time.

Henry sat on the floor and leaned against the wall in as comfortable a position as he could assume. Then he looked rather humorously at his comrades.

“Alvarez wanted to bribe me,” he said.

“To bribe you? What do you mean?”

“Yes, to bribe me--and all of us together. He wanted us to serve him here in Louisiana, and help him in an attempt to bring over Kentucky to Spain.”

“That is, he wanted to make Braxton Wyatts out of us?” said Paul.

“You put it exactly right, Paul,” said Henry, “I laughed at him, and called him by the names that belonged to him. He brought in Braxton Wyatt and the soldiers and ordered me to be put in irons, there in his presence.”

“What!” exclaimed Paul, “did he dare that, too?”

“Yes. His object, of course, was to humiliate me--and all of us. It was stopped by one who came in at the right moment. You couldn’t guess who it was.”

“It must a-been Shif’less Sol,” said Long Jim, whose mind ran to physical deeds. “I guess he sent a bullet right into the middle uv that rascal crew. Sol’s the boy to be right on the spot when he’s needed.”

Henry laughed.

“No, Jim,” he said. “That’s a pretty wild guess. It was none other than Father Montigny, the man whom we helped. He paid us back sooner than we thought. You ought to have seen him, Paul. He looked like an avenging angel. He stood there, a single, unarmed man, and they were afraid of him. I could see fear on every one of their faces.”

Paul’s vivid imagination instantly painted the whole scene. It appealed to him with tremendous power. It was the triumph of mind and character over force and wickedness.

“I can see Father Montigny now,” he said. “A man who always does right and has no fear whatever of death, is afraid of nothing, either in this world or the world to come.”

“Which gives him a pow’ful sight uv freedom,” said Long Jim.

“When he told them to stop they took away their balls and chain,” said Henry, “and sent me back here. Alvarez realized that he had gone too far, but I think that he fears Father Montigny for other reasons, too. The priest may put the Governor General on his guard.”

“So we ain’t alone,” said Long Jim musingly. “Curious how you git help when you ain’t expectin’ it. The wicked hev it their way fur a while, an’ then they don’t. They don’t ever seem able to finish up their work. Sometimes I think the right is jest like a river flowin’ on in its nateral channel, an’ boun’ to git to the sea after a while, no matter what happens. The wrong is all them dams, an’ san’ bars an’ snags, and brush an’ drift-wood that people an’ chance pile up in the way. They do choke up the waters, an’ send ‘em around in other channels, an’ make a heap uv trouble, but by and by them waters git to the sea jest the same.”

“I hope so, Jim,” said Paul.

“Now thar ain’t no doubt uv what I say,” said Long Jim. “Take this case uv ourn. Jest when we need it most fur a thousand miles uv river travel we git a bee-yu-ti-ful boat, all fitted up with everything we want. Jest when that Spaniard gits his paws on us, he don’t git his paws on one uv us, an’ that’s Shif’less Sol out thar in the woods. An’ so long ez Shif’less Sol is free out thar in the woods we’re mighty nigh free ourselves. Then, when this same Spaniard is ready to load irons on Henry in a way that no free-born man kin stand, in pops a priest who likes us--an’ we don’t belong to his church either--an’ puts a stop to the whole thing.”

While they were talking Francisco Alvarez also was busy with a kindred theme, as he entertained a guest. That guest was Father Montigny, to whom he had made up his mind to be courteous, although he would not condescend to any further apology. He ordered that the priest should receive food and attention, and that men should look after and replenish his canoe which was now tied in the bayou. After all these orders were given, Alvarez sat in the great room of Beaulieu and smoked the cigarro of his time.

There was a bitter drop in the well of his satisfaction. The coming of the priest had been unforeseen and unfortunate. He knew Father Montigny, and Father Montigny knew him. Now how much did Father Montigny know of his plans? That was the important question.

While he was yet speaking, Father Montigny, whom a very little of rest and food always sufficed, entered the room, his manner full of austerity. Francisco Alvarez rose, all blandness and courtesy.

“Be seated, Father,” he said. “It is a poor place that we have here, but we give you of our best. Who would deserve it more than you, a man of such long travels and such great hardships in the holiest of all causes?”

The face of the priest did not relax. He sat down upon one of the cane chairs and gazed sternly at Alvarez. Truly, it is a terrible thing to meet the accusing gaze of a man who fears neither torture, nor death, nor the world to come! The accusation is likely to be true. Alvarez looked away. Twice within one day he who, with reason, thought himself so courageous had been forced to yield to the gaze of another, and his heart was full of angry rebellion. But he knew that knowledge and power dwelt under the simple black robe of this man.

“It seems,” said Father Montigny, and there was a slight touch of irony in his tone, “that I came at the right moment.”

Francisco Alvarez compelled his face to smile, though his heart was raging.

“I have already apologized, Father Montigny,” he said, “for what I was about to do. And yet the phrase ‘about to do’ is wrong. Even if you had not come I should have repented of myself, and sent away the irons. I can repeat, too, in my defense that I was provoked beyond endurance by this youth’s insolence.”

His tone was silky, light, indolent, as if he would dismiss a trifle about which too much had been said already. It might have been convincing to any other man, but he felt the stern, reproving gaze of Father Montigny still fixed upon him.

“And what of the ring and the professional swordsman?” said the priest. “Are you to turn a youth to a gladiator, even as the blessed martyrs were given to the lions and tigers by the Roman pagans! What of that, Francisco Alvarez? Are such deeds to be done, here, in our day, in Louisiana, and to pass unchallenged?”

The priest’s voice rose and it cut like the sharp edge of a knife. Never since his boyhood had Francisco Alvarez flushed more deeply, and he moved uneasily on his cane chair.

“You give it a name that does not belong to it,” he said. “It was play, or not much more. Romildo, the swordsman, had orders not to hurt him much.”

“That may or may not be true, Francisco Alvarez,” said the priest, speaking slowly and precisely. “But I have more to ask you. What of this plot of yours to set the Indian tribes and a Spanish force with cannon upon Kaintock? What of your plan to become Governor General in place of Galvez? What of your intention to make distant war upon the rebel colonies and therefore commit Spain to an alliance with England? Answer me, Francisco Alvarez. What of these things?”

The priest rose from his seat, as he spoke, and lifted that stern, accusing finger. Alvarez was as still as if struck by lightning. His great plan known to this man, this man who feared not even torture, or death, or the world to come! He shrank visibly both mentally and physically, but then his courage came back under the spur of dreadful necessity.

“A priest can take great liberties,” he said. “Sometimes I think it scarcely fair that you of the Book may denounce us of the sword and that we may say nothing in return, although we may be right and you may be wrong. It is sufficient now for me to tell you that I do not know what you are talking about. I, the Governor General! Any man may dream of that! I have done so, and I have no doubt that many others have done the same. I favor, too, an alliance with England, as do nearly all the Spanish officers in Louisiana, but I am a faithful servant of His Majesty, the King, and though I may hold my opinions, I know of no plot, either against Bernardo Galvez or to make a war upon Kaintock.”

“I have heard you, Francisco Alvarez,” said the priest, “but it is for your actions to prove the truth of your words. See to it, also, that there is no further cruelty practised against these men from Kaintock.”

“They are my prisoners,” replied Alvarez, “and I mean to hold them. There you cannot interfere, Father Montigny. They were taken in arms against us upon our soil of Louisiana, and that they are my prisoners even you cannot dispute.”

“No,” replied Father Montigny, “I do not dispute it; at least not for the present. But if they are held as prisoners they should be sent to Bernardo Galvez at New Orleans, and not be retained here.”

He walked out without waiting for an answer, and Francisco Alvarez was glad to see him go. Five minutes later the Spaniard sent for Braxton Wyatt and the two remained long in consultation.

Meanwhile, something was stirring in the forest not far from Beaulieu. It was a forest of magnolia, willow, and cypress, and of oaks, from which hung great solemn festoons of moss. A deep still bayou cut across it, and here and there were pools of stagnant water, in which coiling black forms swam.

Night was deepening over the wilderness upon which the estate of Beaulieu had made only a scratch. Pale moonlight fell over the drooping green forest and across the deep waters of the bayou. The something that had stirred resolved itself into the shadowy figure of a man who came out of the heart of the forest toward its edge. He walked with a singularly agile step. His moccasined feet made no noise when they touched the ground and the bushes seemed to part for the passage of his body.

When the man reached the edge of the forest next to the Chateau of Beaulieu, he paused for a long time, standing in the shadow of the trees. Always he looked fixedly at a single building, the log hut, in which Alvarez held his four prisoners from Kaintock. While he stood there, stray rays of moonlight coming through the cypresses fell upon him, revealing a tanned face, yellow hair, and a tall, athletic form. He did not look like a Spaniard or an Acadian, or one of the Frenchmen who had emigrated from Canada, or any kind of a West Indian. His was certainly an alien presence in those regions.

The moon slid back behind a cloud, the silver rays failed, and the figure of the man became more indistinct, almost a shadow, thin and impalpable. Then he bent far over in a stooping position, passed rapidly through a patch of scrub bushes, and came much nearer to the log prison.

At the edge of the bushes he stopped again and watched the prison for at least a minute. Two soldiers were on watch in front of it before the single door, two soldiers in Spanish uniform, who were suffering from tedium, and who were quite sure, anyway that unarmed prisoners could not escape from a one-room building of logs with but a single door, secured by a huge, oak shutter, and two windows, each too small to admit the passage of a boy’s or man’s body.

The two soldiers slouched in their walk, and presently, when their beats met before the door, they let the butts of their guns rest on the ground, and exchanged pleasant talk about pretty, dark girls that they had known in far-away Spain. One boldly lighted a cigarrito and the other encouraged by his example did likewise. Hark, what was that? “A lizard in the grass,” said Carlos. “Yes, certainly,” said Juan. They continued to smoke their cigarritos blissfully, and talk of the pretty, dark girls that they had known in far-away Spain.