The Rose of Old St. Louis | Page 2

THE ROSE OF OLD ST. LOUIS
CHAPTER I

I MAKE MY BOW IN CAHOKIA
"The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft a-gley."
"And this is the village of St. Louis, sir?"
I bowed respectfully to my captain standing in the prow of the boat and
looking across an expanse of swirling muddy water to the village on the
bluffs beyond. I spoke more after the manner of making polite
conversation than because I was desirous of information, for I knew
without asking that it could be none other.
My captain answered me: "Yes, my lad, yonder is St. Louis, and this is
De Soto's river; what dost think of it?"
"I think, sir, 'tis a great river, though not so clear a stream as the
Delaware, and muddier even than the Ohio."
I spoke calmly, but my heart was beating fast, and I could feel the
blood rushing through my veins. I had been ill with what the boatmen
call river fever, and had lain in the bottom of the boat wrapped in my
blanket, alternately shivering with chills and burning with fever,
oblivious to all about me, so that I had not known when we swept out
of the Ohio into the Mississippi, past Fort Massac, nor when we had
tied up at Kaskaskia for a long rest.
We had landed late the evening before at Cahokia, and been most
hospitably entertained by Mr. Gratiot. There had been a great banquet
in honor of Captain Clarke, with dancing far into the night, and many
guests from St. Louis. I, being still an invalid, had been put to bed in
Mr. Gratiot's beautiful guest-chamber, and given a hot posset that put
me to sleep at once, though not so soundly but that I could dreamily
catch occasional strains of the fiddles and the rhythmic sound of feet on
the waxed walnut, and many voices and much laughter.
Had I been well, it would have vexed me sore not to have been able to
lead in the minuet one of the beauties of Cahokia, whose fame had
reached even my distant home in Philadelphia, for I had been carefully

trained in the steps and the figures, and was young enough to be proud
of my skill in the dance. But feeling ill as I did, the sounds of revelry
combined with the posset only to soothe me into a heavy slumber.
I woke in the early dawn to find Yorke, Captain Clarke's big black,
standing beside my bed, with a bowl of smoking gruel. He showed a
formidable array of white ivory as he grinned amiably in response to
my questioning look:
"Mars' Gratiot send you de gruel wid his complimen's, sah, and he and
de capen bofe say you's not to git up dis mohnen, sah."
Yorke always considered that to state a request of "de capen" was
sufficient to insure compliance. He could not dream of any one setting
his authority at naught. With me, too, Captain Clarke's authority was
paramount. It had only been by a promise of absolute submission to
that authority that I had persuaded my kinsman in Kentucky to allow
me to accompany the captain on his mission to the governor of Illinois
at St. Louis.
So, when Yorke said the captain had ordered me to remain in bed, I
thought for a moment I would have to obey; but having swallowed the
hot gruel, into which Yorke had put a modicum of good Orleans ratafia,
I was straightway infused with new spirit (I meant not that for wit), and
such strength flowed through my limbs as I had not felt for days.
"Yorke," I said, springing out of bed with a haste that made me
light-headed for a moment, "help me into my clothes, and be quick
about it; I think I hear sounds below that betoken getting ready for
departure."
Even as I spoke I ran to a stand on which stood a basin and a small
ewer of water. I filled the basin, and plunged my head into the icy
water. I drew it out, sputtering and shivering, and, seizing a towel, gave
my head and neck and hair so vigorous a rubbing that I did not see
Yorke slip out of the room. When I turned to speak to him I found him
gone, afraid either of being a partner in my disobedience to the captain,
or of being left behind if he delayed longer.

Left to myself, I did my best to hurry with my clothing. I had not much
experience in dressing myself, but I had been compelled to leave
behind me in Philadelphia the black boy who had never before, since I
could remember, been absent from me a day. I had been eager enough
to part with