As the morning wore on, that stratagem seemed to be having its desired effect. Heartened by the two men’s hopeful shouts, the marchers exerted themselves far beyond any reasonable quitting point.
The unloaded canoes returned soon, took on as many of the half-conscious men as they could carry, and again sped ahead to the shore.
Freeman and Greathouse kept up their calls, but in actuality the water was growing even deeper as the column neared the woods. Now the smaller and weaker men were being held up by their stronger comrades, some being so weak they were supported with difficulty by one on each side.
The trees of the wood began to loom closer, growing with a maddening slowness. The fissures in the bark were visible; the fringe of white ice in the shadows by the shore grew wider. But the deepest part seemed to be here. George was appalled to find the water now risen up to his neck, and the shore only a few yards away. The canoes went back and forth in a great hurry now, picking up those who simply were not tall enough to keep their faces above the water. Shouts of relief and encouragement were coming from those who had already been put on the shore. The drummer boy beat with a thrilling agitation upon his drum, there was whooping and sobbing, and at last the column, in disarray, floundered into the flooded edge of the woods. Some with sufficient strength waded ashore and dropped to their knees or collapsed; others reached the first tree or bush they could find and clung there waiting for the canoes to come. Some reached shallow water and started wading out, only to find that without the water to buoy them they were too weak to stand. George came upon one woodsman, surrounded by broken ice, with an arm wrapped over a floating log, his stubbly cheek resting on the wet wood, whimpering something of which the only coherent word was “God.” George got an arm under him and with his own last bit of strength dragged him onto the shore. Then he turned and watched.
Like gleaners, the canoes were going out and picking up the last dozen men whose heads and shoulders still dotted the sheet of water, and bringing them in. Bowman waded through the shallows, wet hair hanging over his shoulders in yellow strings, and came stumbling toward George with a rictus of a grin on his face; he looked like a skeleton in wet deerskins, shaking as with ague, but he was grinning.
“By God. George. By God in Heaven, it may be a miracle but we made it. D’you hear me, man? We made it! George, not a man went under!” He turned and gazed back over the bright expanse of ice and water to the tiny clump of distant trees where the sugar camp was, then at the edge of the woods, where some men were still lying half in and half out of the water trying to recover the strength to move. “Look at ’em, George! Dear God, I’ve never seen such people!” And suddenly his stretched grin crumbled; he buried his face in his hands and sobbed without constraint.
It was past noon. George ordered the able-bodied to build fires, regardless of the proximity of the town. It soon became apparent that the fires helped little; the men were frozen to the marrow. So two strong men would take a weaker by both arms and walk him staggering back and forth until he would recover enough to stand by himself. George was about to lean on a tree and pray for another miracle to send manna from Heaven when a shout came from the water’s edge. The men in one of the canoes had discovered an Indian canoe full of women and children moving toward the town, and it was forced ashore. The squaws and children stood looking fearfully at the hideous crowd of wretches.
As if delivered by Providence—how often this has happened to us! he thought—the canoe carried half a buffalo quarter, some tallow, corn, and kettles. It was a small amount for a starving army but a grand prize nonetheless. George spoke to the oldest squaw, told her he believed that the Great Spirit must have sent them, and promised to pay her for the meat and corn as soon as possible. A hot broth was made and served out to the men. With careful rationing everyone got a little, but many of the stronger ones passed their portions on to the weakly, joking and making light of it. By Heaven, George thought, kings could learn something about nobility from these roughnecks of mine.
Warmed from outside by the strengthening February sunshine, from inside by their sips of broth and by the realization that the obstacles of their journey were all now behind them, the troops made an easy canoe passage of one more deep, narrow lake and marched a short distance to a copse of timber known as Warrior’s Island. George led the men to the edge of that wood and then let them stay there at their ease for a few minutes to feast their eyes on the fort and the town they had suffered so hard and long to reach.
Less than two miles away, its outline hazy blue in the winter sunlight, stood Fort Sackville, its back to the Wabash: the long palisades, hip-roofed blockhouses at each corner, the huge, high gate of logs, the flag a mere speck above the headquarters building inside the compound. Sprawling alongside the road leading to the fort was the town of Vincennes. There they lay, in full view, and the men strained forward and stared like eagles, whispering, muttering, exclaiming in tight, snarling tones of voice, laughing a snickering, cruel, bitter laughter that had the edge of murder and revenge on it. Now and then they uttered the name Hamilton in voices choked with menace. Virtually every man, George suspected, was reviewing some act of murder, pillage, or destruction whose revenge he considered his personal responsibility. “There he sits, boys,” George would insinuate to them as he passed. “The Scalp-Buyer, and all his agents. I ask you boys, was this worth the journey?”
“Aye!”
“What color’d you reckon his scalp is, Colonel?”
“Most likely a powdered wig, Mister Crockett.”
“Good to be here, sir!”
“Glad to have you, Abe. Once or twice there I thought the going would get difficult.”
“We’re here by yer good policy, Mr. Clark.”
“Thankee. Did you say that when you had ice in yer breeches?”
“Ha! It was nothing but what a man c’d bear.”
“Or a soldier expect.”
Such sentiments were like music to George. He knew they were all high-headed on hunger and eagerness, and had passed from one extreme to the other, from desperation to euphoria.
But now, he knew, that eagerness would have to be put to use while it existed, as the task ahead was as formidable as the one just completed. Here was his weakened band of one hundred thirty-five men, without the gunboat, provisions, reinforcements, or even cannon they had figured into their strategy, outside a massive, rebuilt fort that could be expected to stand off a thousand. Indians in the British pay ranged constantly in and out of the fort; British reinforcements were to be expected down the Wabash momentarily.
There was no way to retreat. It was as desperate a situation as any they had just survived.
George looked over the rolling plain that undulated between their present vantage point and the distant village, and pondered his strengths, his weaknesses, his abilities. We cannot wait for the Willing, not one day, even; we’d starve, freeze, or be discovered. The only strengths we do have are in surprise and spirit. We have to exploit those advantages. One thing I know, he thought. There’s not an American here who’d quit short of dying.
The low places of the plain were covered with water, and several men from the town were out on horseback among those ponds, duck-shooting. Two or three of these hunters were within half a mile of the Americans’ hiding place. George ordered some of the trustworthy French volunteers out onto the plain toward the duck hunters, with instructions to bring one in without alarming the others. When they brought him in, he looked with bulging eyes at the few Americans who stood, gaunt and severe, among the trees waiting for him. George had ordered the rest to conceal themselves. Questioned, the prisoner revealed that the repairs on the fort had been completed just the day before, and that there were a good many Indians in the town. Still there had not been any suspicion of the Americans’ presence.
George wandered a few feet away and stood by himself, planning. Our fate will be determined in the next few hours, he thought. Nothing but the most audacious conduct can do this.
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Must take into consideration the villagers. Many are secretly in our favor, and many lukewarm for either side. One thing we have to do is get them sorted out, then we can make our move.
Summoning Girault to come with pen and paper, George dictated, and Girault wrote in French:
To the inhabitants of the village of Post St. Vincent: Gentlemen, being now within two miles of your village and not being willing to surprise you, I take this step to request of such of you as are true citizens and willing to enjoy the liberty I bring you, to remain still in your houses. And that those, if any there be, that are friends to the King of England will instantly repair to the fort and join his troops and fight like men, and if such should hereafter be discovered that did not repair to the garrison, they may depend on severe punishment.
On the contrary, those that are true friends of Liberty may expect to be well treated as such. I once more request that they may keep out of the streets, for every person found under arms on my arrival will be treated as an enemy.
Signing it, George hoped it would encourage the friendly inhabitants, and that their confidence would make the others suppose he had enough troops to be sure of success.
The prisoner then was released and sent into town with the letter. George steadied himself against a tree and watched the messenger through a telescope until he entered the town. Then, in a few minutes, the glass revealed the villagers astir in every street. Soon large numbers of the villagers could be seen running or riding out onto the commons, as if to view the approach of the American army.
George kept scanning the fort and listening intently, but to his surprise there was no movement, or sound of drum or gun, to indicate that the alarm had been relayed to the garrison. That stillness worried him; he began to fear that the enemy knew of his presence and was already prepared. But he could only speculate about that, and deal with it however he must.
As the afternoon grew long, he had the companies formed up for the march into the village. In the first division he put Captain Williams’s and Captain Worthington’s companies, reinforced by the Kaskaskia volunteers; in the second he put Captain Bowman’s company and the Cahokia volunteers. A detachment of fifteen sharpshooters under Captain Bailey was sent around the edge of town to pour harassing fire on the fort until the main force could take possession of the town.
Long poles were cut in the woods, and on the end of each was tied one of the many banners that had been made by the women of Kaskaskia. Soon almost every man carried a banner held high aloft. The men were ordered to march in absolute silence, and at unusually large intervals.
Shortly before sunset, he ordered the companies to start marching toward the town in a zigzagging course across the undulant plain, keeping mostly in the defilades. The officers, now mounted on horses taken from the duckhunters, rode repeatedly this way and that over the knolls. The purpose of this tactic was to give observers in the town a vastly exaggerated impression of the size of the invading force.
The sun set; the French villagers, having feasted their eyes on what obviously was a force of perhaps a thousand Americans—judging by the number of banners and officers—then followed the advice of Colonel Clark’s proclamation and vanished into their homes, some apprehensively, some, familiar with the legends out of Kaskaskia, in a state of happy excitement. They opened their windows and watched the ominously silent army approach until dusk dimmed their view.
In a large stone house, half a dozen of the villagers who had refused to sign the oath of allegiance to the English king gathered, talking excitedly. Among them were the burghers Bosseron and LeGras and the young brother of Father Gibault. Moving aside a table and chair and peeling back a rug, they raised a section of flooring, climbed into a cellar, and began lifting up kegs of gunpowder and bars of lead they had kept hidden since December in anticipation of the Americans’ return.
ONE OF THE GENTLEMEN OF VINCENNES WHO REMAINED PERPETUALLY under General Hamilton’s suspicion, as spies or at least as secret American partisans, was the trader Moses Henry, who had been put under guard in the fort a few days earlier. His wife, under the pretense of bringing some of his personal effects, now visited him at sundown, and whispered to him the news of the American army’s presence and the proclamation from Colonel Clark. Smiling with pleasure, Mr. Henry kissed his lady goodbye and then sauntered to the billet of the prisoner Captain Leonard Helm. Lighting a pipe from Helm’s candle, he murmured:
“You would be pleased to know, Mister Helm, that the town has just now been occupied by your esteemed compatriot, Colonel Clark.”
Helm sat up straight. His eyes sparkled. A broad, sly smile grew among his gray whiskers. “You don’t say so! Thankee, Mister Henry, for that advice. And may I repay it by suggesting you keep your head down tonight, my friend.”
25
VINCENNES, WABASH VALLEY
February 23, 1779
HENRY HAMILTON WAS UNEASY, AND COULD NOT QUITE EXPLAIN why. He stalked about in his headquarters, now and then sitting down at the hearth and sipping brandy. The evening had come down dry and cold, the kind of bracing weather that usually gave him a sense of well-being. But tonight his heart seemed to keep rising in anxiety. Perhaps it was the failure of LaMothe and Maisonville to return with some report on the mysterious fires downstream. Or that strange, unexplained bustling about that had taken place in the town that afternoon. Sentries had reported that for a few minutes everybody in the town had been in the streets, then had vanished back into their homes; yet not a word of explanation had come to the fort.
The orderly knocked and opened the door. “Sir, Captain Helm requests permission to see you.”
“Ah, good!” said Hamilton. “Have him brought around.” Maybe that genial old reprobate will dispel these spirits, he thought. And make me one of his great toddies for this cold night.
Helm entered, looking even more smug than usual.
“Good evening, Captain. What brings you here tonight?”
“Just payin’ my respects, Mister Hamilton, and compliments on th’ fine work you’ve done repairin’ this fort.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much indeed. Quite an improvement over the ramshackle thing it was when you commanded it, eh?”
“Aye, that it is, and we appreciate it. It’ll save us a great deal of labor and expense.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Captain.”
“Wal, surely, Mister Hamilton, sir, you don’t think we’re a-gonna let you keep it.”
Hamilton laughed. “Oh, that again, is it? You amuse me, Mister Helm, with your absurd faith in that boy colonel of yours. Well, would you care to fix us one of your lovely toddies, mine fond enemy?”
“Honored! Honored!” Helm bustled to the sideboard, humming happily like some old servant, and clinked among the glasses and decanters. He shook cloves and cinnamon bark from two porcelain jars into mugs. Then he came to the fireplace and stuck two irons in the fire’s embers. He sat by the fire, took the kettle off the iron swing-arm and poured hot water into the mugs. He stirred in the honey, stuck a red-hot iron hissing into each cup, gave Hamilton his cup, smiling and humming all the while, then held his own cup up for a toast. They clicked the vessels. “Success to Colonel Clark,” Helm proposed.
“Blast your lights, you old sot. I’ll drink to no such thing.”
“As you will.” Helm sipped, then sat looking about at no particular place in the room, leaning slightly forward in an attentive position. Hamilton finally laughed at him.
“You’re a bloody imp this evening, Mr. Helm. What the devil are you listening to, the song of the leprechauns?”
Outside, a gunshot banged.
“That,” Helm said, grinning and raising his cup again.
Four more shots were heard. General Hamilton cocked his head and looked askance at the window, still half smiling. “That?” he said. “Likely a party of the savages welcoming themselves home. They often do that, as you know. Or perhaps some frolic in the village.” He sipped his toddy and shi
fted uneasily in his chair.
“Wal, General, I’ll not argue with you. You’re in command here. For th’ moment, anyways.”
There were shouts in the compound now, and as Hamilton rose to his feet scowling and reached for his cape and hat, there was a sharp smack as something hit the chimney, and mortar sifted down into the flames. As Hamilton opened the door, Leonard Helm went into gales of laughter. To the orderly, who stood bent half out of his chair, eyes wide in alarm, the general snapped, “Put that old fool back in his quarters.” Then he stepped out into the cold, purple-gray twilight. British redcoats and French militiamen were scurrying over the parade ground in confusion, some mounting the parapets, carrying their muskets. Gunners were climbing to the blockhouses, on whose second floors stood the garrison’s artillery.
What the devil is this? Hamilton wondered as he hurried toward one of the blockhouses. He could hear an uproar of whooping and laughter outside the walls. He couldn’t believe the fort was under attack, and was growing indignant at the thought of this disturbance which, he was sure, stemmed from someone’s drunken exuberance and would have to be punished severely, whether the culprit was Frenchman or Indian.
“Man the pieces!” he roared at the milling troops. “But hold fire until I know …”
He was interrupted by a scream of pain. A sergeant, lighting his fuse-match near the firing port of the cannon, caught a rifle ball in the chest, reeled out the blockhouse door and fell off the parapet, his body thumping to the gravel a few feet from General Hamilton. A shiver of awe spilled down the general’s flanks as he stood looking at the twitching victim and heard the frightened shouts of the other soldiers who had witnessed this.
He rushed up the ramp to the parapet and peered out through a firing loophole into the early night. In the shadows among the dim houses and barns of the village, muzzle flashes winked and sparkled, the sporadic crackling and roar of rifles swept to and fro, and bloodthirsty howls and wailing laughter filled the air. The nearest houses were about two hundred yards from the fort, but the balls were hitting the palisade with intimidating precision, making their resounding thwacks or whistling mere inches overhead. When a ball thrummed through the loophole like a bumblebee and left its breath on his right ear, General Hamilton realized that he was silhouetted against the evening’s red afterglow in the tiny porthole and quickly decided he had seen enough of the enemy’s activity for the moment; he ducked away from the opening bathed in cold sweat and shouted:
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