Long Knife (29 page)

“My dear,” he beamed, “what a pleasure to have you join us!” She sat in the chair between them, looking down and smiling in modesty, unsure how she should behave in this highly unusual circumstance, whether as a member of the conversation or simply as a listener. She watched Vigo sip his port. He was obviously in a high state of excitement. He was never able to contain his physical energy when he was enthusiastic about something; his eyes flashed, happy expressions played over his face, and he sat on the forward edge of his chair, looking as if he might jump up at any moment and begin running about. Sardinian by birth, he had been a muleteer, a common laborer, and then a Spanish soldier in the Old World before coming to Cuba,
then New Orleans, and now to St. Louis where, even though he was only thirty-one, he had become very wealthy trading in furs with the trappers and Indians for the last five years. His trading centers were scattered from Kaskaskia to Cahokia and distant Vincennes, and he was seldom at his home base in St. Louis. He was free of any family ties and ranged continually about the territories, always welcomed by the important people on both sides of the Mississippi as a bearer of useful information. Being almost illiterate, he had the natural eloquence of a great raconteur and a bottomless memory for detail. He was a beloved favorite of the most influential man on the far side of the river, that gawky priest Father Gibault.

“Our friend,” Fernando said now to Teresa, “has just seen an old acquaintance of ours!” Then he paused as if to let her guess.

“Who?” she asked. “Father Gibault? Señor Cerré?”

“Nay,” Fernando replied, pleased that she had not been able to guess. “Colonel Clark, of the Americans.”

“Colonel Clark?” Fortunately the torchlight was dim and uncertain; she felt herself flushing at the mention of that unsettling name.

“You remember,” Fernando went on as Vigo nodded excitedly and grinned. “The one who burst in on us in the ballroom at Cerré’s last month.”

“That awful night! I shall always remember.”

Fernando laughed and spoke to Vigo. “Teresa believes he is the most terrible man in the world.”

“Name of God!” Vigo exclaimed. “On the contrary!” He fairly levitated off his chair for emphasis. “He has won the heart of every white man and woman in the Illinois! The women in particular, I daresay! And Father Gibault exults as if Our Savior has returned to walk on the earth. Ha, ha!”

Teresa gasped at this sacrilege, and Fernando exploded with a laugh, then checked himself and admonished, “Señor, if you please!”

“I’m only giving you my impressions. Gibault so loves this Clark that he went as his emissary to Vincennes and converted its people to Virginianism. Oh, you have never seen such a man … but, yes, you have seen him, haven’t you? Splendid,
splendid …”

Teresa twisted the ends of her sash in her hands, shaken with fright and confusion. Surely these men were wrong to have become so enthusiastic about that … that …

Yet she could not understand why her reaction to the thought
of him was so unpleasant. Again the hard, naked, filthy image of the giant barbarian-appeared behind her eyes, and she shuddered. “I … I’m sorry, but he frightened me worse than anything in my life, and I … I see him bringing only violence and grief upon us …”

“Nonsense, Teresa!” protested Vigo. “He is the fairest, most judicious man we’ve ever seen hereabouts. Surely as wise even as Gibault—though perhaps even less tolerant of nonsense and human frailty than that worthy. Ha, ha! And how vicious is a soldier who can subdue a whole territory without shedding a drop of blood, tell me that!”

Teresa fell silent. The men obviously were far beyond her fears.

“… And the Indians, Fernando,” Vigo rattled on. “They are buzzing with anxiety, let me tell you. There appeared to be nigh a thousand of them there this morning, yet he faced them down, and they’re all but begging him—to the degree their dignity will allow, I mean—for the privilege of becoming his brother. Oh, Henry Hamilton would quail in his boots if he knew what is going on out here!”

“Not Hamilton,” replied de Leyba quietly. “As I’ve heard of him, he is too arrogant to quail before anything.”

“Aye, perhaps so. But I say he’s met his better if he ever faces Clark. Ha, ha!” Vigo sat leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands, smiling, alternately shaking and nodding his head. “But I tell you, Fernando, my friend, it is a good thing for all of us, I mean if this young man can prevail. Doing trade under the English flag was anything but ideal. Already, under the eyes of this Virginian, everything is proceeding in an easier and more natural way. I think that, if for no other reason than business itself, we should do whatever we can to help him. I, for one, feel absolutely right about it, clear down in my very bones.”

Don Fernando de Leyba nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “I’ve already extended an offer of Spanish hospitality to him, in person. Now that he’s so close by, perhaps he can find a moment of leisure from his negotiations to come and visit us. Be so kind, dear friend, as to carry an invitation to him when you cross the river next, will you? I mean,” he added with a grin at Teresa, “if my sister will permit me to bring such a
monster
into our house …”

“Permission?” she murmured. “But as you know, I am only a woman.”

***

T
HE NOON SUNLIGHT STABBED DOWN THROUGH THE HIGH CANOPIES
of leaves in the twin elm trees, dappling the shaded ground and tabletop with shimmering light. It was extremely pleasant and cool in the shade, which spread wide enough to shelter Colonel Clark and his aides, all the tribal chiefs, and a great number of warriors as well. Sitting in view but off to one side near one of the elm trunks was the priest Gibault, who was known and respected by all of the Indians except those who had come from very distant places. He was known among all the Illinois and Wabash tribes as a man who had never lied, and his presence, George felt, could only lend credence to everything he planned to say.

Now, as on the day before, he arrayed his sword and the belts of war and peace on the table before the eyes of the Indians. And as before, the northern chief Big Gate sat right in the foreground, his eyes flashing, haughty, the British flag on his breast standing out like an insult. Again, George refused to pay any special attention to him. Again, the old chief with the white braids offered the tomahawk-pipe to the four winds, then smoked it with George and the other chiefs. This time he offered it also to Bowman and several of the American lieutenants. “Get ready to sit a spell,” George whispered to Bowman. “I’ve got a long and ponderous speech to make.” Bowman took a bench at the end of the table, turned his strange pale eyes on the Indians, crossed his legs, and folded his arms. George picked up the red belt in his right hand, the white one in his left, planted his feet wide, squarely in front of the table, stood at his full height with the belts held before him in upturned palms, and began in a loud voice, pausing for the interpreters:

“Men and warriors, pay attention. You informed me yesterday that the Great Spirit had brought us together, which you hoped was good, as he is good …” A smile actually broke the face of the old chief, upon hearing his own words thus cited.

“I also have the same hope,” George went on, “and whatever may be agreed upon by us at the present time, whether for peace or war, I expect each party will strictly adhere to, and henceforward prove ourselves worthy of the attention of the Great Spirit.”

They liked that. They sat straighter and their faces softened for a moment. He continued:

“I am a man and a warrior, not a councilor. I carry War in my right hand …” he raised the red belt over-head, then the
white belt, “… and in my left hand, Peace. I was sent by the Council Fire of the Big Knives and their friends to take control of all the towns the British possess in this country, and to remain here watching the conduct of the red men. I was sent to bloody the paths of those who continue the effort to stop the course of the rivers, but to clear the roads that lead from us to those who wish to be in friendship with us, in order that the women and children may walk in them without anything being in the way to strike their feet against; and to continue to call on the Great Fire for warriors enough to darken the land of those who are hostile to us, so that the inhabitants shall hear no sound in it but that of birds that live on blood.” He paused here again for the interpreters, wishing meanwhile with all his might that it could be that easy to call more soldiers from the East.

“I know that a mist is yet before your eyes,” he said, and again the old chief nodded approvingly at the echo of his own words. “I will dispel the clouds in order that you may see clearly the cause of the war between the Big Knives and the English, that you may judge for yourselves which is in the right. Then if you’re men and warriors, as you profess to be, prove it by adhering strictly to what you may now declare, without deceiving either party and thus proving yourselves to be only old women.” Here he let his eyes wander over the entire congregation, making a point of resting his eyes, for a change, on the face of Big Gate, whose lips grew tighter.

Then he leaned just slightly toward the Indians, and warmed the tone of his voice. “The Big Knives are very much like the red men. They do not know well how to make blankets, powder, and cloth; they buy these things from the English, from whom they formerly descended, and live chiefly by raising corn, hunting, and trading, as you and the French your neighbors do.

“But the Big Knives were daily becoming more numerous, like the trees in the woods, so that the land became poor and the hunting scarce, and having but little to trade with, the women began to cry to see their children naked, and tried to make clothes for themselves, and soon gave their husbands blankets of their own making. And the men learned to make guns and powder, so that they did not want so much from the English.” The chiefs seemed to be hearing this quite sympathetically, as he had hoped. He knew how the Indians struggled for survival year after year, and he knew how they loved their women and children. Logan the Mingo had taught him that.

“Then,” he said, “the English became very angry and stationed strong garrisons through all our country—as you see they have done among you on the Lakes and among the French—and would not let our women spin nor the men make powder, nor let us trade with anybody else. They said we must buy everything from them; and since we had become saucy, they would make us give them two bucks for a blanket that we used to get for one. They said we must do as
they
pleased, and they killed some of us to make the rest afraid.

“This is the truth and the cause of the war between us, which did not begin until they had treated us some time in this fashion. Our women and children were cold and hungry and continued to cry. Our young men were lost, and there were no counselors …” He stopped and gave the old chief a respectful look, “to set them in the right path. The whole land was dark, and the old men hung down their heads in shame, for they could not see the sun.” The Indians, the whole great semicircle of them, sat in perfect stillness, listening to the words of the interpreters.

“Thus there was mourning for many years,” he resumed. “At last the Great Spirit took pity upon us and kindled a great council fire that never goes out, at a place called Philadelphia. He struck down a post there and left a war tomahawk by it and went away. The sun at once broke out and the sky became blue. The old men held up their heads and assembled at the fire. They sharpened the hatchet and put it into the hands of the young men and told them to strike the English as long as they could find one on this side of the Great Water. The young men immediately struck the war post and blood ensued.” He had been gradually raising his voice while describing this, and saw that the Indians were being stirred by the excitement in his tone. He dropped his voice now and went on, the Indians leaning forward to hear the rest:

“Thus the war began, and the English were driven from one place to another, until they became weak, and hired you red men to fight for them and help them.

“The Great Spirit became angry at this, and caused your
old
Father, the French King, and other great nations to join the Big Knives and fight with them against all their enemies, so that the English have become like a deer in the woods. From this you may see that it is the Great Spirit that caused your waters to be troubled, because you fought for the people he was angry with; and if your women and children should cry, you must blame
yourselves for it, and not the Big Knives.” He let that sink in, then he said:

“You can now judge who is in the right. I have already told you who I am. Here is a bloody belt and a white one. Take whichever you please. Behave like men and don’t let your present situation, being surrounded by the Big Knives …” From the corner of his eye he saw Bowman suddenly uncross his legs and recross them, placing his hand over his mouth as if to keep from laughing. “Do not let that cause you to take up the one belt with your hands when your hearts drink up the other …” For a terrible moment, George was swept with mirth at the thought of Bowman’s suppressed laughter, and at his own audacity, but he kept his face straight and silently thanked God for helping him do so.

“If you take the bloody path,” he went on, “you shall go from this town in safety and join your friends the English; and we will try, like warriors, to see who can put the most stumbling blocks in the road and keep our clothes perfumed with blood the longest.

“If you should take the path of peace and now be received as brothers to the Big Knives and the French, but should hereafter listen to bad birds that will be flying through your land, you will no longer be counted as men but as persons with two tongues, who ought to be destroyed without listening to what you say, as nobody could understand you.” He watched their faces as that was translated to them. It will put them on their honor, he thought with satisfaction, because they see each other here listening to it. And sometime soon, perhaps now, he knew, Tobacco’s Son and other great chiefs of the Wabash tribes would be hearing essentially this same speech, getting this same challenge of their honor, from the lips of old Leonard Helm. He had rehearsed it over and over back in Kaskaskia with old Len, and could almost hear his own words now ringing over the Wabash in Len’s ear-stabbing twang.