Long Knife (28 page)

“Much excitement in the countryside, Excellency,” said de Cartabona. “I suspect a good half of our population has sailed over to Cahokia in the last few days to get a glimpse of the Bostonese, and they come back with the most fantastic giant stories!”

“Not so fantastic as you might think,” de Leyba laughed. “They
are
giants, eh, Teresa?”

She frowned and came away to stand nearer her brother. He put his arm around her.

“Yes,” he said. “She still has nightmares about it. And premonitions. What, little sister?”

She nodded, looking at the ground, troubled.

“Well, then, Tenente,” said de Leyba. “Farewell, and thank you for escorting my dear ones.”

“The pleasure was mine, Excellency. Adiós, Senorita, until I may have the honor again.” And de Cartabona, always proud of his horsemanship, led his militiamen away down the cobbled street at a pretty canter, all obviously for her eyes.

C
AHOKIA, THOUGH IT SAT IN A SPLENDID SITE, WAS A WRETCHED
place, reflecting the indolence of its inhabitants, who were more committed to Indian trade than to farming or husbandry. It was a straggling line of some thirty-five or forty dilapidated houses, along a road which led from its mill to the juncture of the Cahokia River and the Mississippi. Directly in the mouth of the Cahokia stream nestled a picturesque wooded island; beyond that, in the middle of the two-mile-wide Mississippi, lay a smaller island, and on a bluff on the far side of the great stream the distant buildings of St. Louis could be seen on a clear day. To the east of the village of Cahokia was a long, curving lake which apparently once had been part of the Mississippi’s earlier channel. Now all the lowland between the town and the lake was full of the camps and horses of Indians who had come to hold council with the Big Knives. The tribal camps sprawled over the lush green grass in the humid summer morning mist of the valley. Dominating the terrain was one ancient Indian mound, huge as a hill.

George Rogers Clark, with Captain Bowman at his side, stepped out of the large stone house which had been serving as Bowman’s command post and walked out through the gate of the newly built palisade. Outside the gate, exactly between two great fan-shaped elms, a long council table had been set up, with benches at both ends and along the side nearer the fort. Sitting on the ground before the table in tribal groups were several dozen Indian chiefs and chieftains, and behind them stood hundreds of warriors, a great, breathing semicircle of gleaming brown faces, scalplocks, feathers, bead necklaces, greased skin, knives in fringed sheaths, long breechclouts decorated with brilliant beads and quills, woven or metal armbands. Some of the
chiefs wore scarlet British uniform coats. They watched the American colonel with intense eyes but impassive faces as he strode to the table, bareheaded, the brass buttons on his buff-and-blue uniform glinting at them in the morning sunlight. A low murmur went among the Indians as they studied this lithe youth who had suddenly appeared in their country preceded by his own new legend. The Indians were not disappointed at the sight of him. Here was a man who looked like his legend. His hair seemed to burn like a flame in the sunlight and his eyes were like deep cold water.

George stepped behind the table, drew his sword and laid it across the tabletop, pointing toward the Indians. He took a deep breath and inhaled the smell of the huge body of Indians, that strangely pleasant, sweet, smoky, musky smell so evocative of his long-ago idylls among the Mingoes. His eyes flickered over the faces of the chiefs as he placed the sword, and as he reached for a bundle which Bowman handed to him.

Opening the bundle without looking down at it, George drew out two wide belts of bead wampum. One was white, and represented peace; the other was blood-red and represented war. The Indians knew the language of the belts and watched approvingly as the chief of the Big Knives laid them side by side across the table, arranging them so that several inches of the belt-ends hung over the forward edge, close before the eyes of the nearest chiefs. Now the chiefs rose, almost as one, to their feet, to face him and bring their eyes to a level with his.

An aged and dignified chief, his white hair in braids, his face brown and seamed as the leather of polished old boots, stepped forward, holding before him in both hands a long-stemmed peace pipe-tomahawk festooned with red and white feathers. Lighting it from a coal brought forward by a young brave, he then raised it out beyond his eyes, presenting it toward the Long Knife, then, turning, showed it to the four corners of the compass.

George came out from behind the table and stood directly before the old chief. Still no word had been spoken. The chief gave the stem of the pipe to George, who took it and puffed on it, drawing the rich, pungent tobacco smoke into his mouth. Damnation, he thought, whatever you do, don’t choke on it. He returned the pipe to the old man, blowing the smoke into the air. The chief nodded, drew on it himself, then passed it around the first row of tribal leaders. When this was done, the Indians stood watching him.

“You are the solicitors of this council,” George began, “so you will tell me what is in your hearts first. I have sent letters to you, desiring you to choose whether you shall lay down the tomahawk, or else behave like men and fight for the British as you have done. I told you that you’ll see your so-called Great Father the British king given to the dogs to eat. I told you I care not whether you choose the white belt of peace or the red belt of war, because I am a warrior and I glory in war. But let me warn you that if you think of giving your hands to the Big Knives, give your hearts also. I believe when we are better acquainted you will find us to be of better principles than the bad birds of British rumor have made you believe.”

George paused here to let them ponder what he had said, and looked them over as they thought. One chief, wearing a red military coat, a bloodstained belt about his neck and a small British flag like a bib upon his breast, watched George with an almost palpable intensity in his black eyes, a particularly hard and challenging look on his face. He seemed to be about thirty-five years old, very strong in the shoulders, where the English coat strained at the seams. His legs were sinewy; his cheeks sunken, his mouth very wide and thin-lipped and severe. George knew who this one was; he had been pointed out early in the morning, one of the first to arrive at the council table. It was Lajes, who was known as Big Gate because, as a mere boy, during the siege of Detroit by Chief Pontiac, he had shot and killed a soldier at a gate of the fort. He was a hero among his people, and he had a special sense of his own importance, having announced in a letter to the Americans that he would be attending the council. It was obvious that he expected to be recognized and singled out for attention very soon. Knowing this, George did not linger on Big Gate’s face but quickly passed his gaze over the other chiefs. Then he continued: “You see that I do not cover my council table with rum or presents for your people, as the British do. That is because I have come here not as a weakling to bribe you, but to tell you the truth, and to hear you tell me the truth. Now …” he paused and folded his arms across his chest, “I wait to hear what you’ve come to say to me.”

The chiefs murmured among themselves for a moment. George half expected Big Gate to come forward as their spokesman, but instead it was the old sage again.

“Chief of the Long Knife,” this dignitary began, “we have come only to take your hand and hear your words. We come to say that we have warred against you because of the bad birds
of the English. We have come to hear what you have to say about your war with them, so that we may understand who tells the truth.” The old chief was neither humble nor arrogant as he made this request. “We hope,” he went on, “that the Great Spirit has brought us together here with you for good reason, as he is good, and we ask you to blow the mist away from our eyes.” Concluding, he proffered his hand to George, who refused it. A murmur of consternation went among the Indians now, and it was an ominous sound. George felt some apprehension, among these hundreds of savages, refusing that offered hand, but he was determined not to show any signs of fear or eagerness before this attentive public. Instead, he said:

“I have told you, there is time to give the hand when the heart can be given also. You are many tribes; perhaps you’re not all of the same mind. Go and talk among yourselves. We will meet at this same place tomorrow at the highest time of the sun, and I will tell you why the Big Knives fight the British. I do not believe that things of such importance as the making of friendship can be done in haste, but only after men understand each other. Tomorrow, then.”

The interpreters gave the Indians this message then, and George turned away. He picked up his sword from the table and shoved it into its scabbard at his side with a quick, sure thrust. He glanced at Big Gate, who still stood glaring at him, not falling into the general conversation among the other chiefs. George turned then and walked off toward the little fort, followed by Bowman, who had gathered up the symbolic belts of war and peace. They both breathed great sighs of relief when they were inside.

T
ERESA DE
L
EYBA UNDRESSED BEHIND A FOLDING SCREEN IN HER
room upstairs in the governor’s mansion at St. Louis, and quickly drew a long white cotton gown over her nakedness. Even in solitude she felt uncomfortable and insecure with her body uncovered. The maid had brought up a kettle of hot water. Teresa mixed it with cold water in a basin, soaked a cloth and rubbed it with a small, fragrant piece of soap, then reached under the nightgown to wash herself. These hot August days in the river valley kept her in a constant state of humid discomfort, and she had learned that, unless she repaired to her room to wash two or three times a day, she tended to break out in a prickly rash between her thighs and in the small tufts of black flossy hair under her arms, and would even, at the most inauspicious
times, become aware of unfresh smells from her own body.

Drying on a soft towel, she drew a light, lacy robe on over the nightgown, took the combs and pins from her hair, shook it out, sat at a mirrored vanity and began pulling a brush through it, looking at herself in the light of two sconces on the wall above. Through the open window casement came the faintest breath of a summer night breeze, barely enough to nudge the points of candlelight, and the night chorus of crickets and frogs.

Now and then, scarcely audible, almost as faint as a pulsebeat, the distant thumping of drums came from across the great dark river. This was the second night of the drums, and they had worried her sleep the first night, filling her head with thoughts of naked savages. Many Indians had passed through St. Louis in the last two days, members of the Missouri tribes, on their way to Cahokia for some mysterious council. They had gone through the streets, painted and gaudy with feathers, some carrying elaborately decorated ceremonial spears and shields as well as their British muskets.

Teresa paused in her brushing, listened to the faraway bump of the drums, and closed her eyes for a brief prayer for the safety of her brother, his family, and herself. Some Spanish subjects in recent months had been killed and scalped in their fields around St. Louis, and the atrocities were in general blamed, she had heard, on errant bands of warriors under the influence of British propaganda and British rum.

Now, plaiting her thick hair into two braids, she coiled them on top of her head, pinned them there, and pulled on a small white cap. As she did so, she heard hearty, happy voices on the veranda below her window, the voice of her brother and someone else, and the clink of crystal. She went to the window. Far across the river at Cahokia she could see many tiny, warm points of light, doubtless the Indians’ fires. Below, at the edge of the veranda, a torch flickered on the end of a long pole stuck into the ground; moths tumbled through its light, occasionally singeing themselves and whirling to the ground. Just seating himself in a chair in the light of the torch was her brother, slim and fine-looking without a coat, wearing white breeches and hose and a lace-front white silk shirt with full sleeves. Facing him, seated in another chair with the back of his head to her window, was another man. The two touched the rims of their glasses. Drinking, Fernando saw her silhouette in the window.
“Ah, Teresa, my dear, you’re still awake? You must come down, and say hello to our friend Vigo! He’s been to Cahokia!”

The man had turned in his chair to look up at her, smiling with delight, rising to bow to her. “Hello, little beauty,” he called up, in a voice that should have come from a giant, rather than this short, square, bustling little man with a pointed goatee.

“Uncle Francisco!” she cried in delight. He was not really an uncle, but had come to seem like one, and liked to be thus called. He was her brother’s trading partner and closest friend here in St. Louis, hearty and generous and always cheerful. “But I’m not dressed,” she protested.

“Come down, little beauty,” insisted Vigo. “We’ll pretend not to notice. Come and share the news.”

Persuaded, she drew back into the room, tied a silken sash around the waist of her robe to give herself a feeling of being dressed, and went out of the room, past the sleeping-rooms of Maria and her daughters, and down the darkened staircase, feeling her way along the waxy hardwood banister. She felt a bit wicked, aware of her unlaced nakedness under the light gown, going down in the night to sit with the two men. She still had not grown accustomed to the suspension of propriety that seemed to prevail here so far from Spain. Emerging onto the veranda, feeling the cooler night air on her legs, she was met by the two men, who had stood to await her. Francisco Vigo took her hand and kissed it, while Fernando brought another chair out from the wall and wiped the dew from it with a handkerchief. Vigo wore his usual leather doublet and a belt at least four inches wide with a huge, square brass buckle. She had seen him several times, and whether he was in summer silks or in the furs and skins of the wilderness trader, there was always that doublet and that great buckled belt.