A Volunteer with Pike - The True Narrative of One Dr. John Robinson and of His Love for the Fair Señorita Vallois

Robert Ames Bennet

Informations

• Publié par: syos
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 19
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Volunteer with Pike, by Robert Ames Bennet
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: A Volunteer with Pike
The True Narrative of One Dr. John Robinson and of His
Love for the Fair Señorita Vallois
Author: Robert Ames Bennet
Illustrator: Charlotte Weber-Ditzler
Release Date: July 5, 2010 [EBook #33091]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A VOLUNTEER WITH PIKE ***
Produced by Darleen Dove, Roger Frank, Mary Meehan and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.netA VOLUNTEER WITH PIKE
The True Narrative of One Dr. John Robinson and of His
Love for the Fair Señorita Vallois
BY ROBERT AMES BENNET
AUTHOR OF "FOR THE WHITE CHRIST," "INTO THE
PRIMITIVE," ETC.
With four Illustrations in color by
CHARLOTTE WEBER-DITZLER
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1909
Copyright
By A. C. McCLURG & Co.
1909
Published October 2, 1909
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
All rights reserved
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
TO ONE
WHO FOLLOWED AFTER PIKE TO
THE GRAND PEAK
HALF A CENTURY LATER
MY FATHER"'We go in now, señorita,' I said, offering her my arm"
Contents
CHAPTER I. The Rose in the Mire
CHAPTER II. Plain Thomas Jefferson
CHAPTER III. At the President's House
CHAPTER IV. Señorita Alisanda
CHAPTER V. Gulf and Barrier
CHAPTER VI. The Web of the Plotter
CHAPTER VII. Ship and Crew
CHAPTER VIII. The Hospitable Blennerhassetts
CHAPTER IX. My Indian Tale
CHAPTER X. The Father of Waters
CHAPTER XI. General Wilkinson
CHAPTER XII. Au Revoir
CHAPTER XIII. Against the Current
CHAPTER XIV. The Lure
CHAPTER XV. The Pawnee Peril
CHAPTER XVI. The Barrier of Rock
CHAPTER XVII. The Grand Peak
CHAPTER XVIII. Famine and Frost
CHAPTER XIX. Beyond the Barrier
CHAPTER XX. A Message to My Lady
CHAPTER XXI. Ho for Chihuahua!
CHAPTER XXII. Glimpses of Fate
CHAPTER XXIII. The House of ValloisCHAPTER XXIV. The Serenade
CHAPTER XXV. A Victory
CHAPTER XXVI. A Defeat
CHAPTER XXVII. Heart To Heart
CHAPTER XXVIII. A Spanish Ball
CHAPTER XXIX. The Insult
CHAPTER XXX. The Duel
CHAPTER XXXI. My Cross
CHAPTER XXXII. The Message
CHAPTER XXXIII. Impressed
CHAPTER XXXIV. Shame
CHAPTER XXXV. Under the Lash
CHAPTER XXXVI. Across the Gulf
BY MR. BENNET
Illustrations
"'We go in now, señorita,' I said, offering her my arm"
"We swung out into the current and drifted swiftly away"
"'The Grand Peak!' I shouted. 'We'll name it for you'"
"He fell like a steer: my sword blade broke clean off, a span beyond the hilt"
A Volunteer with Pike
The True Narrative of One Dr. John Robinson and of His
Love for the Fair Señorita Vallois
CHAPTER I
THE ROSE IN THE MIRE
The first time I was blessed with a sight of the señorita was on the day of my
arrival in the Federal City,—in fact, it was upon my arrival. An inquiry in the
neighborhood of the President's House for my sole acquaintance in the city,
Senator Adair of Kentucky, had resulted in my being directed to Conrad's
boarding house on the Capitol Hill.
In the Fall of 1805 Indian Summer had lingered on through the month of
November. As a consequence, so I had been informed, Pennsylvania Avenue
was in a state of unprecedented passableness for the season. Yet as, weary
and travel-begrimed, I urged my jaded nag along the broad way of yellow mud
toward the majestic Capitol on its lofty hill, I observed more than one coach and
chariot in trouble from the chuck-holes of semi-liquid clay.It was midway of the avenue that I came upon her coach, fast as a grounded
flatboat, both of the forewheels being mired to the hub. The driver, a blear-eyed
fellow, sat tugging at the reins and alternately plying the whip and swearing
villanously. I have ever been a lover of horseflesh, and it cut me to see the
sleek-coated, spirited pair plunge and strain at the harness, in their brave efforts
to perform a task utterly beyond them.
I drew rein alongside. The driver stopped his cursing to stare at me, purple-
faced.
"Are you blind drunk?" I demanded. "They'll never make it without a lift to the
wheels."
"Lift!" he spluttered—"lift! Git along, ye greasy cooncap!"
He raised his whip as if to strike me. I reined my horse within arm's-length.
"Put down that whip, or I'll put you down under the wheel," I said cheerfully. He
looked me in the eye for a moment; then he dropped his gaze, and thrust the
whipstock into its socket. "Good! You are well advised. Now keep your mouth
shut, and get off your coat."
Again I smiled, and again he obeyed. We Western men have a reputation on
the seaboard. It may have been this, or it may have been the fact that my
buckskin shirt draped a pair of lean shoulders quite a bit broader than the
average. At the least, the fellow kept his mouth closed and started to strip off his
coat.
I rode over to the nearest fence and borrowed two of the top rails. Returning, I
found the fellow in his shirt-sleeves. Yet he seemed not over-willing to jump
down into the mud. One more smile fetched him. He took his rail and
descended on the far side, muttering, while I swung off at the head of his
lathered team and stroked them. Once they had been soothed and quieted, I
dropped back, took the reins in hand, and thrust my rail beneath the hub of the
wheel. I heard the driver do the same on his side.
"Ready?" I called.
"Ready, sir!" he answered.
A voice came from over my shoulder "Por Dios! It is not possible, señor, to lift.
First I will descend."
The knowledge that I had put my shoulder to the wheel for a Spaniard caused
my tightening muscles to relax in disgust. But the don had spoken courteously,
his one thought being to relieve us of his weight, at the risk of ruining his
aristocratic boots.
"Sit still. Quien sabe?" I replied, without looking about, and bore up on the rail.
"Heave away!"
The rails bowed under the strain, but the clay held tenaciously to the embedded
wheels. I drew the reins well in and called to the willing team. They put their
weight against the breast bands steadily and gallantly. The wheels rose a little,
the coach gave forward.
"Heave!" I called. The wheels drew up and forward. "Steady! steady, boys! Pull
away!"
Out came the forewheels; in went the rear. We caught them on the turn. One
last gallant tug, and all was clear. The driver plodded around by the rear, ahand at his forelock.
"Return the rails," I said. "I'll hold them."
He took my rail with his own and toiled over to the roadside. I called up my
horse and swung into the saddle, little the worse for my descent into the midst
of the redoubtable avenue, for my legs had already been smeared and
spattered to the thigh before I entered the bounds of the city.
Again I heard the voice at the coach window: "Muchas gracias, señor! A
thousand thanks—and this."
He proved to be what I had surmised,—a long-faced Spanish don. What I had
not expected to see was the hand extended with the piece of silver. There was
more than mere politeness in his smile. It was evident he meant well. None the
less, I was of the West, where, in common opinion, Spaniards are rated with the
"varmints." I took the coin and dropped it into the mire. He stared at me,
astonished.
"Your pardon, señor," I said, "I am not a Spanish gentleman."
The shot hit, as I could see by the quick change in the nature of his smile.
"It is I who should ask pardon," he replied with the haughtiness of your true
Spanish hidalgo. "Yet the señor will admit that his appearance—to a foreigner
—"
"Few riders wear frills on the long road from Pittsburgh," I replied.
He bowed grandly and withdrew his head into the coach's dark interior. I was
about to turn around, when I heard a liquid murmuring of Spanish in a lady's
voice, followed by a protest from the don: "Nada, Alisanda! There is no need.
He is but an Anglo-American."
The voice riveted my gaze to the coach window in eager anticipation. Nor was I
disappointed. In a moment the cherry-wood of the opening framed a face which
caused me to snatch the coonskin cap from my wigless yellow curls.
After four years of social life among the Spanish and French of St. Louis and
New Orleans, I had thought myself well versed in all the possibilities of Latin
beauty. The Señorita Alisanda was to all those creole belles as a queen to
kitchen maids. Eyes of velvety black, full of pride and fire and languor; silky
hair, not of the hard, glossy hue of the raven's wing, but soft and warming to
chestnut where the sun shone through a straying lock; face oval and of that
clear, warm pallor unknown to women of Northern blo