Long Knife

by JAMES ALEXANDER Thom

  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.

  TERESA DE LEYBA 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 o
n 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.

  “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.”

  ***

  THE 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 co
ol 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: