“Saintly,” however, was certainly not the word, and Désirée would not have called herself heroine or genius. She was simply fearless and intent, and since, to keep the negroes in courage and energy, it was needful to keep them in good spirits, she was, also, to-night, cheerful, humorous, abounding in praise. Her voice rang out, deep and sweet. “Good man, Mingo! Mingo’s carrying two to everybody else’s one! Lawrence is doing well, though! So is Hannah’s Tom!—

Par ici, François! Christopher, Harper, Sambo, Haiti, Mingo Second, make a line! Big Corinth, throw them the sacks! Work hard—work hard! You shall have rest to-morrow, and at night a feast! Look at Mingo, how he works! He isn’t going to let the river cover Cape Jessamine! When the Colonel comes home he is going to say, ‘Good boy, Mingo!’ To-morrow night all the banjos playing, and good things to eat, and the house-servants down at the quarters, and a dance like Christmas!—Mingo, Mingo, put ten sacks just there—”

Par ici, François!

When she saw the soldier beside her her eyes opened wide in a moment’s query, after which she accepted him as an item of the storm and the night. All the land was in storm, and the stream of events rapid. From every quarter and from distant forests the wind blew the leaves. Sometimes one knew the tree from which they came, sometimes not. On presumption, though, if the leaf were grey, the tree was a proper tree, humble, perhaps, in its region and 13clime, but sound at heart and of a right grain. When Private Edward Cary, gaunt, ragged, muddy, unshaven, asked what he could do, she considered him gravely, then gave him Mingo Second and thirty men, with whom he set to strengthening a place of danger not so imminent. From where he worked he heard at intervals her clear voice, now insouciante, now thrilling. There came a moment of leisure. He turned and saw her where she stood, her knee bent, her hand and arm outstretched against the river, the horseman’s cloak blown backward and upward into a canopy, the red light over all, strong and clear upon her face and throat and bronze-sheathed body—saw her and loved her.

13

insouciante

The December night, already well advanced, grew old. Always the river attacked, always the land opposed. The yellow current sucked and dragged, but the dyke held and the dyke grew stronger. The rain ceased; far up in the sky, through a small, small rift peered a star. The wind died into a whisper. By three o’clock there came a feeling that the crisis had passed. 

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