Indianapolis Times, Volume 35, Number 290, Indianapolis, Marion County, 14 April 1923 — Page 8

Alice of Old Vincennes By Maurice Thompson

CLARK made a signal, and at the tap of a drum, Beverley shook the ropes loose and began to lower the British colors. Slowly the bright emblem of earth’s mightiest nation crept down in token of the fact that handful of back-woodsmen had won an empire by a splendid stroke of pure heroism. Beverley detached the flag, and saluting, handed It to Colonel Clark. Hamilton’s breast heaved and his iron jaws tightened their pressure until the lines of his cheeks were daep furrows of pain. Father Beret, who had Just been admitted, quietly took a place at one side near the wall. There was a fine, warm, benignant smile on his old face, yet his powerful shoulders drooped as if weighted down with a heavy load. Hamilton was aware when he entered, and instantly the scene of their conflict came into his memory with awful vividness, and he saw Alice lying outstretched, stark and cold, the shining strand of hair fluttering across her pallid cheek. Her ghost overshadowed him. Just then there was a bird-like movement, a wing-like and a light figure flitted swiftly across the area. All eyes were turned upon it. Hamilton recoiled, as pale as death, half lifting his hands, as If to ward off a deadly blow, and then a gay flag was flung out over his head. He saw before him the girl he had shot; but her beautiful face was not wax- n now, nor was it cold or lifeless. The rich, red blood was strong under the browned, yet delicate skin, the eyes were bright and brave, the cherry lips, slightly apart, gave a glimpse of pearl white teeth, and the dimples—those roguish dimples—twinkled sweetly. Colonel Clark looked on in amazement. and in spite of himself, in admiration. He did not understand, the sudden incident bewildered him; but his virile nature was instantly and wholly charmed. Something like a breath of violets shook the tenderest chords of his heart. Alice stood firmly, a statue of triumph. her right arm outstretched, holding the flag high above Hamilton’s head; and close by her side the little hunchback Jean was posed In his most characteristic attitude, gaz j lng at the banner which he himself had stolen and kept hidden for Alice’s sake, and because he loved It There was a dead silence for some moments, during which Hamilton s face showed that he was ready to collapse; then the keen voice of Oncle Jazon broke forth; “Vive Zhorsh Vasinton! Vive la banniere d’Alice Roussillon:” He sprang to the middle of the area and flung his old cap high In air. with a shrill war-whoop. “H’ist it! h'ist It! hissez la banniere de Mademoiselle Alice Roussillon! Voila. que e’est glorieuse. cette banniere la!” H’ist it! h’ist it! He was dancing with a rickety liveliness, his goatish legs and shriveled body giving him the look of an emaciated satyr. Clark had been told by some of his creole officers the story of how Alice raised the flag when Helm took the fort, and how she snatched it from Hamilton’s hand, as It were, and would not give 'it up when he demanded It. The whole situation pretty soon began to explain itself, as he saw what Alice was doing. Then he heard her say to Hamilton, while she slowly swayed the rippling flag back and forth; “I said, as you will remember. Monsieur le Gouverneur, that when you next should see this flag, I should wave it over your head. Well, look. I am waving it! Vive la republique! Vive George Washington! What do you think of it, Monsieur le Gouverneur?” The poor little hunchback Jean took off his cap and tossed It in rhythmical emphasis, keeping time to her words. And now from behind the hollow square came a mighty voice: “Cest moi, Gaspard Roussillon; me void, meseipurs!" There was a spirit in the air which caught from Alice a thrill of romantic energy. The men in the ranks and the officers in front of them felt a wave of irresistible sympathy sweep through their hearts. Her picturesque !>eauty, her fine temper, the fitness of incident to the occasion, had an intaneous power which moved all men alike. "Raise her flag! Run up the young idy’s flag!” someone shouted, and every’ voice seemed to echo the words. Clark was a young man of noble type, in whose veins throbbed the warm chivalrous blood of the cavaliers. A waft of the suddenly prevailing influence bore him also quite off his feet. He turned to Beverley and said; “Do it! It will have a great effect. Ir is a good idea; get the young lady's flag and her permission to run it up.” Before he finished speaking, indeed at the first glance, he saw that Beverley, like Hamilton, was white as a dead man; and at the same time it came to his memory that his young friend had confided to him. during the awful march througfT the prairie wilderness, a love-story about this very Alice Roussillon. In the worry and stress of the subsequent struggle, he had forgotten the tender basis upon which Beverley had rested his excuse for leaving Vincennes. Now it ail reTTppeared in justification of what was going on. It touched the reman tic core of his Southern nature. "I say. Lieutenant Beverley,” he repeated, "beg the young lady's permission to use her flag upon this glorious occason; or shall I do it for you?” There were no miracles In those brave days, and the strain of life with its terrible realities braced all men and women to meet sudden explosions of surprise, whether of good or bad effect, with admirable equipoise; but Beverley’s trial, it must be admitted, was extraordinary; still he braced himself quickly and his whole expression changed when Clark moved to go to Alice. For he realized now that it was, indeed, Alice in flesh and blood, standing there, the center of admiration, filling the air with her fine magnetism and crowning a great •riumph with her beauty. He gave her glad, flashing smile, as If he had just discovered her, and walked straight to her, his hands extended. She was not looking toward him; but she saw him and turned to face him. Hers was the advantage: for she had known, for some hours, of his

presence in Vincennes, and had prepared herself to meet him courageously and with maidenly reserve. There is no safety, however, where Love lurks. Neither Beverley nor Alice was as much agitated as Hamilton, yet they both forgot, what he remembered, that a hundred grim soldiers were looking on. Hamilton had his personal and official dignity to sustain, and he fairly did it, under what a pressure of humiliating and surprising circumstances we can fully comprehend. Not so with the two young people, standing as it were in a suddenly bestowed and incomparable happiness, on the verge of anew life, each to the other an unexpected un-hoped-for resurrection from the dead. To them there was no universe save the illimitable expanse of their love. In that moment of meeting, all that they had suffered on account of love was transfused and poured forth—a glowing libation for love's sake—a flood before which all barriers broke. Father Beret was looking on with a strange fire In his eyes, and what he feared would happen did happen. Alice let the flag fall at Hamilton’s feet when Beverley came near her smiling that great, glad smile, and with a joyous cry leaped into his outstretched Joys. Jean snatched up the fallen banner and ran to Colonel Clark with it. Two minutes later it was made fast and the halyard began to squeak through the rude pulley at the top of the pole. Up, up. climbed the gay little emblem of glory, while the cannon crashed from the embrasures of the blockhouse hard by, and outside the roar of voices redoubled. Thirteen guns boomed the salute, though It should have been fourteen—the additional one for the great northwestern territory, that day annexed to the domain of the young American republic. The flag went up at old Vincennes never to come down again, and when it reached its place at the top of the staff, Beverley and Alice stood side by side looking at it, while the sun broke through the clouds and flashed on its shining folds, and love unabashed glorified the two strong young faces. CHAPTER XXI HISTORY' would be a very orderly affair, could the drv-as-dust historians have their day, and doubtless it will be thrillingly romantic at every turn if the novelists were able to control its current. Fortunately neither one nor the other has much influence, and the result, in the long run, is that most novels are shockingly tame, while the large body of history Is loaded down with picturesque Incidents, which if used in fiction, would be thought absurdly romantic and Improbable. Were our simple ertory of old Vincennes a mere fiction, we should hesitate to bring In the explosion of a magazine at the fort with a view to sudden confusion, and. by that means, distracting attention from our heroine while she betakes herself out of a situation which, although delightful enough for a blessed minute, has quickly become an embarrassment quite unendurable. But we simply adhere to the established facts In history. Owing to some carelessness there was, Indeed, an explosion of twenty-six six-pound cartridges, which made a mighty roar and struck the newly Installed garrison Into a heap, so to say, scattering things terribly and wounding six men, among them Captains Bowman and Worthington. After the thunderous crash came a momentary silence, which embraced both the people within the fort and the wild crowd outside. Then the rush and noise were Indescribable. Even Clark gave way to excitement, losing command of himself and, of course, of his men. There was a stampede toward the main gate by one wing of the troops in the hollow square. They literally ran over Beverley and Alice, flinging them apart and jostling them hither and yonder without mercy. Os course the turmoil quickly subsided. Clark and Beverley got hold of themselves and sang out their peremptory orders with excellent effect. It was like oil on raging water; the men obeyed in a straggling way, getting back Into ranks as best they could. "Ventrebleu!” squeaked Oncle Jazon, "es I didn’t think the ole world had busted into a million pieces!” He was Jumping up and dow r n not three feet from Beverley's toes, waving his cap excitedly. “But I wasn’t skeert! Ya, ya, ya! Vive la banniere d’Alice Roussillon! Vive Zhorzh Vasinton!” Hearing Alice’s name caused Beverley to look around. Where was she? In the distance he saw Father Beret hurrying to the spot where some of the men burnt and wounded by the explosion were being stripped and cared for. Hamilton still stood like a statue. He appeared to be the only cool person in the fort. “Where is Alice?—Miss Roussillon —where did Miss Roussillon go?” Beverley exclaimed .staring around like a lost man. “Where is she?” "D’know,” said Oncle Jazon, resuming his habitual expression of droll dignity, “she shot apast me jes’ as thet thing busted loose, an' she went like er hummin’ bird, skitch!—-jes’ thet way—an’ I didn’t see ’r no more. 'Cause I was skeert mighty nigh inter seven fits; 'epect that 'splosion blowed her clean away! Ventrebleu! never was so plum outen breath an* dead crazy weak o’ bein' afeard!" “Lieutenant Beverley,” roared Clark in his most commanding tone, “go to the gate and settle tbifkgs there. That mob outside is trying to break in!” The order was instantly obeyed, but Beverley had relapsed. Once more his soul groped in darkness, while the whole of his life seemed unreal, a wavering, misty, hollow dream. And yet his military duty was all real enough. He knew just what to do when he reached the gate. “Back there at once!” he commanded, not loudly, but with Intense force, “back there!” This to the inward surging wedge of excited outsiders. Then to the guard: “Shoot the first man who crosses the line!” * “Ziff! me voici! moi! Gaspard Roussillon. Lalssezmoi passer, messieurs.” A great body twirled itsejf frantically past Beverley and the guard, going out through the gateway against the wall of the crowd, bearing everything before It and ing.“Back, fools! you’ll all be killed—

DOINGS OF THE DUFFS—

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THEM DAYS IS GONE FOREVER—

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the powder is on lire! Ziff! run!” Wild as a March hare, he bristled with terror and foamed at the mouth. He stampeded the entire mass. There was a wild howl; a rush In the other direction followed, and soon enough the esplanade and all the space back to the barricades and beyond were quite destered. Alice w’as not aware that a serious accident had happened. Naturally she thought the great, rattling, crashing noise of the explosion a mere

OUT OUR WAY —By WILLIAMS

THE OLD HOME TOWN—By STANLEY

part of the spectacular show. When the rush followed, separating her and Beverley, It was a great relief to her sorno way; for a sudden recognition of the boldness of her action in the little scene just ended, came over her and bewildered her. An impujse sent her running away from the spot wrhere, it seemed to her, she had Invited public derision. The terrible noises all around her were, she now fancied, the Jeering and hooting of rude men who had seen her un-

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

maidenly forwardness. With a burning face she flew to the postern and slipped out, once more taking the course which had become so familiar to her feet. She did not slacken her speed until she reached the Bourcler cabin, where she had made her home since the night when Hamilton’s pistol ball struck her. The little domicile was quite empty of its household, but Alice entered and flung herself Into a chair, whero she sat q> Tvering and

The Stork’s Bill!

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breathless when Adrienne, also much excited, cj*me In, proceded by a stream of patois that sparkled continuously. “The fort is blown up!” she cried, gesticulating in every direction at once, her petite figure comically dilated with the Importance of her statement. “A hundred men are killed, and the powder is on Are!” She pounced into Alice’s arms, still talking as fast as her tongue could vibrate, changing from subject to subject without rhyme or reason, her

FRECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS—By BLOSSER

OUR BOARDING HOUSE—By AHERN

prattle making its way by skips and shies until what was really uppermost In her sweet little heart, disclosed itself. "And O Alice! Rene has not come yet!” She plunged her dusky face between Alice’s cheek and shoulder; Alice hugged her sympathetically, and said: “But Rene will corue, I know he will, dear." “Oh, but do you know it? Is it

SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 1923

-By ALLMAN

—By AL POSEN

true? who told you? when will he come? where Is he tell me about him!” Her head popped up from her friend’s neck and she smiled brilliantly through the tears that were still sparkling on her long blacklashes. ‘‘l didn’t mean that I had heard from him, and I don’t know where he is; but —they always come back.” (To Be Continued.)