Long Knife (25 page)

“Mon colonel,”
insisted the Frenchman, “your men are supremely fatigued. Surely they could use some help. Let some of my militiamen ride to the villages with your captain, at least. Then, when he has secured them, we can bring our influence to bear in convincing them.”

The man seemed sincere, glowing with enthusiasm for the idea, and George thought it would be a good diplomatic gesture to demonstrate his faith in his newly won allies. But all this was happening so swiftly that he was not yet convinced that the Frenchmen could be trusted to take up arms and ride amid his troops. If they had been fickle enough to turn on their former leader this readily, he thought, can I place such confidence in them?

But there was not time to weigh the matter long; the villages were strung along the Mississippi for some sixty miles, and every passing hour increased the chances that warnings would reach them before Bowman could get there. Despite the attention George had given to security, it seemed probable that someone might have slipped away to carry a warning to those towns.

After considering the dilemma for no more than five minutes, George made his decision, and he made it on the basis of the only evidence he had at hand: the faces and demeanor of the French would-be volunteers. He looked at their eyes and listened to their cheerful tones of voice and decided that there was no treachery there. “Go with them, then,” he said at last, and the French officer astonished him by grabbing his shoulders and kissing him exuberantly on one cheek and then the other, to the extreme amusement of the Virginians nearby.

“Do your best, then,” George said, trying by stern aspect to cover his embarrassment. “Keep in mind this is the first time you’ve ever borne arms as free men, and thus a chance to do y’rselves proud.” The Frenchman’s eyes flashed at the thought.

Thus the little force, nearly half made up of French militiamen dressed up as if for parade, all mounted on some of the finest horseflesh George had ever seen, thundered out of the fort and up the river late in the afternoon, colored richly by a descending sun, cheered on by a good part of the Kaskaskia population, foremost among them the young ladies of the village. That feminine urging, George thought as the expedition was hidden in its own dust, should do as much as anything could to make them behave honorably on our behalf. Much of the reward on their return, he mused, will be the company of these cheerful young women. As he watched the colorfully dressed, animated ladies turn from the road and fall into little groups, laughing, chatting in their musical tongue, some of them casting coy sidelong glances at him, their shapely arms and calves bare and sun-kissed, he was washed over suddenly by a powerful wave of longing, of desire, of loneliness. A succession of faces,
hands, arms, flickered through his memory: young women who had leaned in his arms in reels so long ago in Virginia, sunburned girls in homespun who had shared his few idle moments during the defense of the Kentucky settlements, the naked Mingo girls bathing in the shallows of clear creeks during his long-ago visits with Chief Logan’s people before Dunmore’s War, the adoring face of that chambermaid Nell in Williamsburg. And then, as he turned back to the fort to resume his administrative tasks, he saw the house where he had interrupted the ball the night before—it was the home of the prominent trader Cerré, he had learned, a man absent on commerce at present, a man apparently disliked and envied by many of the Kaskaskia townspeople, to judge by comments made by certain of the Frenchmen during the course of the morning, a man rumored to be strong in the British interest. Looking at the house now in the daylight, its doors closed and guarded by one of his own sentries, George remembered another face, one which had impressed itself on his mind even though he had had no time to think of it; he saw now the frightened, perfect oval face of the black-eyed Spanish girl who had been standing with Don Fernando de Leyba in the ballroom just before the young governor had come forward to speak. Seeing both of their faces in his mind’s eye now, he was struck by their similarity, and, while he might have supposed that the girl was de Leyba’s wife or lover, he now felt a notion that they seemed like brother and sister. Could that be? he wondered.

The question became lodged in his mind now as he passed through the gates into the fort.

And then, strangely, when he tried to envision the girl again beside de Leyba, he saw her instead seated beside himself on the porch of a great house overlooking the Ohio River Valley. That image came and then went in a moment.

“Huh,” he muttered softly, and shook his head. Daydreams of an overweary fool, he thought. No time for that now.

T
HE MURDERS AND ASSASSINATIONS OF WOMEN AND CHILDREN AND
the depredations and ravages, which have been committed under those orders and policies of Governor Hamilton, cry for vengeance with a loud voice,” George dictated.

“Les meutres et assassinations des femmes et enfants et les degats et ravages, qui ont été comise crie vengence a haute voix,”
the translator said slowly, and the scrivener’s pen scratched furiously. George sat at the desk with his fingers steepled and searched the ceiling for the next phrases of his proclamation, which Father Gibault and Doctor Jean Baptiste Laffont had agreed to carry to Vincennes. Father Gibault, long fingers interlaced over his abdomen, eyes closed, sat in a large chair at the side of the room, nodded and listened. He had told George that the Vincennes inhabitants were so resentful against Rocheblave and the British that certainly they could be simply talked into joining the American side. George had come to have complete faith in the judgment of the priest in the four days of his occupation of Kaskaskia, and had decided to let the priest and the influential physician attempt their mission.

“Since the United States has now gained advantage over their British enemies …” he said.

“Les etats unis ayant appresent gagné la de sus sur leurs ennemis brittanique …
” recited the translator.

“… and their plenipotentiaries have now made and concluded treaties of commerce and alliance with the kingdom of France …”

“… et leurs plenipotentiaires ayant actuellement faite et conclus des traites de commerce et alliance avec le royaume de la France …”

“… His Excellency the Governor of Virginia has ordered me
to reduce the different posts to the west of the Miami with a company of troops under my command, in order to prevent longer responsibility for innocent blood …”

“Trop vite, m’sieur!”
groaned the sweating writer.

“What’s he say?” George asked the interpreter.

“He says more slowly,
mon colonel,”
said the translator.

Father Gibault laughed, a resonant, happy laughter that filled the room. He was looking at George now and shaking his head. “Ah, you Americans,” he said. “Always such a hurry!”

“Well, Padre, I just haven’t learned to think slow like you people.”

“George, George, my son, you don’t need to write all this out for me. I know what to tell them!”

“Ah, no, you don’t,” George laughed. “It has to be in my words. It has to be official. Shame on you, anyway, a priest dabbling in political matters.” He had been delighted to discover the priest’s jocose nature, and they had fallen into a habit of joshing each other.

“Oh,
mais
non!” protested the priest. “I have nothing to do with temporal affairs, I assure you, George. But,” he added, putting his palms together in prayer and assuming an expression of piety, “I will give them such hints in the spiritual way that will be very conducive to the business!”

George laughed in delight. He had never suspected that a Roman Catholic priest could be droll and sly. George was, except for moments when he had to embroil himself in the infinite details of administering to this conquered territory, happier than he had ever been. A messenger had returned from Cahokia the day before with news that Captain Bowman was in control of all the upriver villages and had not lost a man in the effort. Bowman had ridden all night to cover the sixty miles to Cahokia, detaining every person met along the way, and thus had gotten inside the town before his presence was even discovered. The Cahokians had gone into a panic at the cry that the Big Knives had arrived, but soon had had their fears assuaged by the Kaskaskians in the expedition, who told them of all the happy events at Kaskaskia. Then Bowman had assembled all the Cahokians and had given them a speech which George wished he could have heard: He had told them that although resistance was out of the question, he would prefer their friendship; and that they were at liberty to become free Americans as their friends at Kaskaskia had, or else move out of the country, except those who had been engaged in inciting the Indians to war.
The Kaskaskians had dispersed among the Cahokians, and soon cheers of “Liberty!” and “Freedom!” had echoed throughout the town, and within a few hours Bowman and his men were snugly quartered in the old British fort. A large number of Indians encamped outside Cahokia had vanished into the countryside, but nothing had been heard of them subsequently.

Within three days, Bowman had taken all three of the villages in this manner, given the oath of allegiance to all their inhabitants, repaired the forts, and established a benevolent military government through that area. Only then had his troops, who had not slept for four strenuous days, gotten an opportunity to rest. George’s heart was swollen with his appreciation of Bowman especially, and of all the other Virginia and Kentucky backwoodsmen of his little army who, transcending their rough, headstrong natures, were serving Virginia’s cause in such exemplary fashion. He had expected them to have courage and endurance, but he had hardly dared hope they would behave in such a responsible and restrained manner in the delicate role of friendly conquerors. So far there had not been one complaint lodged against any one of his Americans by an inhabitant of the territory.

George thought of this while the scrivener caught himself up with the dictation. George picked up the glass of brandy which sat by his elbow, raised it to the priest, who in turn raised his own glass, and they sipped. Setting the glass down, George noticed a piece of fringe that had fallen off his buckskin jacket sleeve. He picked it up and contemplated it. “Tell me, Father, are the tailors hereabouts anything to speak of?”

“Wonderful,” replied the priest, spreading the skirt of his shabby cassock and looking at it. “You have only to look at my splendid appearance to know the answer to that. And Frenchwomen are by birth and inclination seamstresses. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about the appearance of my people,” he replied. “We came in here looking like so many savages and scared your people half out of their wits. Now that all my officers are busy conducting affairs of state, I wonder if we mightn’t do better at it clad in some semblance of decorum. Listen, a few of my men have the remnants of Continental Army uniforms flapping about ’em … Perhaps the tailors here could copy those uniforms at least for those of us who are engaged in the public business …”

“Ah, I should have known! The pomp and the pride of mortals.
And soldiers especially. Well, my son, as I’ve said, I have nothing to do with temporal matters, but …”

“But perhaps you might show some tailor the spiritual way to dress us up a bit, eh? Ha, ha!”

The scrivener had begun clearing his throat and playing with his quill, so George finished dictating the proclamation for Vincennes:

“… I have taken possession of this fort and the munitions of this country … and I have caused to be published a proclamation offering assistance and protection to all the inhabitants against all their enemies and promising to treat them as the citizens of the State of Virginia (in the limits of which they are) … and to protect their persons and their property, if it is necessary, for the surety of which the faith of the government is pledged … provided the people give certain proofs of their attachment to the states … by taking the oath of fidelity in such cases required … as prescribed by the law ….

“I have been charmed to learn from a letter written by Governor Abbot to M. Rocheblave that you are in general attached to the cause of America ….

“In consequence of which I invite you all to accept offers hereafter mentioned, and to enjoy all their privileges …. If you accede to this offer, you will proceed to the nomination of a commandant by choice or election … who shall raise a company and take possession of the fort and of all the munitions of the king in the name of the United States of America for the Republic of Virginia … and continue to defend the same until further orders ….

“I have the honor of being with much consideration, sirs, your very humble and obedient servant, &c. &c …. There, now, M’sieur Priest,” George said, banging his fist on the desk top, “how d’you reckon that will sit with ’em?”

“Superb,” replied Father Gibault, raising his brandy glass again. “Eloquence worthy of the Church itself.”

“Thank you, thank you. And now, to the health and the success,” he said, “of my little black-robed diplomatic corps!”

A
FEW DAYS LATER
G
EORGE MOUNTED A MAGNIFICENT DAPPLED
warhorse which had been presented to him as a gift by the people of Kaskaskia, and rode out on the village road to see Father Gibault, Doctor Laffont, Simon Butler, and their little party off to Vincennes. George now wore a pair of fine buff trousers, boots, and a dark blue coat with buff lapels and gold-braid epaulets.
He looked healthy and tanned; his firm jaw was clean-shaven, his thick coppery hair gleamed in the sunlight when he took off his hat to wish the priest goodbye. Father Gibault surveyed him up and down with admiration and affection, shook his head, and smiled. He was quite convinced now that the Lord had sent this splendid youth to inspire some strength of character into the villagers, whom he had been trying in vain to ennoble. When he had arrived in the Illinois country as vicar-general in 1769, he had found religion nearly extinct, free-thinking and irreverence rampant for lack of priests, and the people lazy, cunning, and litigious, with a passion for drunkenness surpassed only by that of the neighboring Indians. He had labored among the French souls for almost a decade, here and at Vincennes, achieving some small gains, but always sabotaged by the general cynicism and slyness occasioned by their situation under Rocheblave and the British. Now, with the excitement of their newfound allegiance, and their affection for the gallant and judicious American colonel, the villagers were beginning to act almost like a new people, bearing themselves more proudly and working harder. Or perhaps, he thought, it is simply their recent imagined escape from death that has so improved their attitude on life; that has been known to happen in human nature. At any rate, he thought, this lad will have his hands full governing these people, because though Our Father may visit us with miracles, I tend to doubt that He has changed their iniquitous souls all at once. He had warned George of all this, in a veiled way which did not altogether impugn the French character, of course, and now he leaned over from his own saddle and took George’s hand in both of his own, while the horses fidgeted, and looked intently into his eyes. “Have faith in Heaven, my son,” he said. “I feel in my heart that nothing will disappoint us on this mission. Expect me early in August. By then I should have this, um,
conversion
completed to your satisfaction. God be with you.”