CHAPTER XIV. HOW THE KASKASKEIANS WERE MADE CITIZENS
Never before had such a day dawned upon Kaskaskia. With July fiercenessthe sun beat down upon the village, but man nor woman nor child stirredfrom the darkened houses. What they awaited at the hands of the LongKnives they knew not,--captivity, torture, death perhaps. Through thedeserted streets stalked a squad of backwoodsmen headed by John Duff andtwo American traders found in the town, who were bestirring themselvesin our behalf, knocking now at this door and anon at that.
“The Colonel bids you come to the fort,” he said, and was gone.
The church bell rang with slow, ominous strokes, far different from itsgentle vesper peal of yesterday. Two companies were drawn up in the sunbefore the old Jesuit house, and presently through the gate a processioncame, grave and mournful. The tone of it was sombre in the whiteglare, for men had donned their best (as they thought) for the lasttime,--cloth of camlet and Cadiz and Limbourg, white cotton stockings,and brass-buckled shoes. They came like captives led to execution. Butat their head a figure held our eye,--a figure that spoke of dignity andcourage, of trials borne for others. It was the village priest inhis robes. He had a receding forehead and a strong, pointed chin; butbenevolence was in the curve of his great nose. I have many times sinceseen his type of face in the French prints. He and his flock haltedbefore our young Colonel, even as the citizens of Calais in a bygonecentury must have stood before the English king.
The scene comes back to me. On the one side, not the warriors of anation that has made its mark in war, but peaceful peasants who hadsought this place for its remoteness from persecution, to live and diein harmony with all mankind. On the other, the sinewy advance guard of arace that knows not peace, whose goddess of liberty carries in her handa sword. The plough might have been graven on our arms, but always therifle.
The silence of the trackless wilds reigned while Clark gazed at themsternly. And when he spoke it was with the voice of a conqueror, andthey listened as the conquered listen, with heads bowed--all save thepriest.
Clark told them first that they had been given a false and a wickednotion of the American cause, and he spoke of the tyranny of theEnglish king, which had become past endurance to a free people. As forourselves, the Long Knives, we came in truth to conquer, and because oftheir hasty judgment the Kaskaskians were at our mercy. The British hadtold them that the Kentuckians were a barbarous people, and they hadbelieved.
He paused that John Duff might translate and the gist of what he hadsaid sink in. But suddenly the priest had stepped out from the ranks,faced his people, and was himself translating in a strong voice. Whenhe had finished a tremor shook the group. But he turned calmly and facedClark once more.
“Citizens of Kaskaskia,” Colonel Clark went on, “the king whom yourenounced when the English conquered you, the great King of France, hasjudged for you and the French people. Knowing that the American cause isjust, he is sending his fleets and regiments to fight for it against theBritish King, who until now has been your sovereign.”
Again he paused, and when the priest had told them this, a murmur ofastonishment came from the boldest.
“Citizens of Kaskaskia, know you that the Long Knives come not tomassacre, as you foolishly believed, but to release from bondage. We arecome not against you, who have been deceived, but against those soldiersof the British King who have bribed the savages to slaughter ourwives and children. You have but to take the oath of allegiance tothe Continental Congress to become free, even as we are, to enjoy theblessings of that American government under which we live and for whichwe fight.”
The face of the good priest kindled as he glanced at Clark. He turnedonce more, and though we could not understand his words, the thrill ofhis eloquence moved us. And when he had finished there was a moment’shush of inarticulate joy among his flock, and then such transports asmoved strangely the sternest men in our ranks. The simple people fellto embracing each other and praising God, the tears running on theircheeks. Out of the group came an old man. A skullcap rested on hissilvered hair, and he felt the ground uncertainly with his gold-headedstick.
“Monsieur,” he said tremulously “you will pardon an old man if he showfeeling. I am born seventy year ago in Gascon. I inhabit this countrythirty year, and last night I think I not live any longer. Last nightwe make our peace with the good God, and come here to-day to die. Butwe know you not,” he cried, with a sudden and surprising vigor; “ha, weknow you not! They told us lies, and we were humble and believed. Butnow we are Américains,” he cried, his voice pitched high, as he pointedwith a trembling arm to the stars and stripes above him. “Mes enfants,vive les Bostonnais! Vive les Américains! Vive Monsieur le ColonelClark, sauveur de Kaskaskia!”
The listening village heard the shout and wondered. And when it had dieddown Colonel Clark took the old Gascon by the hand, and not a man of hisbut saw that this was a master-stroke of his genius.
“My friends,” he said simply, “I thank you. I would not force you, andyou will have some days to think over the oath of allegiance to theRepublic. Go now to your homes, and tell those who are awaiting you whatI have said. And if any man of French birth wish to leave this place, hemay go of his own free will, save only three whom I suspect are not ourfriends.”
They turned, and in an ecstasy of joy quite pitiful to see went troopingout of the gate. But scarce could they have reached the street andwe have broken ranks, when we saw them coming back again, the priestleading them as before. They drew near to the spot where Clark stood,talking to the captains, and halted expectantly.
“What is it, my friends?” asked the Colonel.
The priest came forward and bowed gravely.
“I am Père Gibault, sir,” he said, “curé of Kaskaskia.” He paused,surveying our commander with a clear eye. “There is something that stilltroubles the good citizens.”
“And what is that, sir?” said Clark.
The priest hesitated.
“If your Excellency will only allow the church to be opened--” heventured.
The group stood wistful, fearful that their boldness had displeased,expectant of reprimand.
“My good Father,” said Colonel Clark, “an American commander has but onerelation to any church. And that is” (he added with force) “to protectit. For all religions are equal before the Republic.”
The priest gazed at him intently.
“By that answer,” said he, “your Excellency has made for your governmentloyal citizens in Kaskaskia.”
Then the Colonel stepped up to the priest and took him likewise by thehand.
“I have arranged for a house in town,” said he. “Monsieur Rocheblave hasrefused to dine with me there. Will you do me that honor, Father?”
“With all my heart, your Excellency,” said Father Gibault. And turningto the people, he translated what the Colonel had said. Then theircup of happiness was indeed full, and some ran to Clark and would havethrown their arms about him had he been a man to embrace. Hurryingout of the gate, they spread the news like wildfire, and presently thechurch bell clanged in tones of unmistakable joy.
“Sure, Davy dear, it puts me in mind of the Saints’ day at home,” saidTerence, as he stood leaning against a picket fence that bordered thestreet, “savin’ the presence of the naygurs and thim red divils widblankets an’ scowls as wud turrn the milk sour in the pail.”
He had stopped beside two Kaskaskia warriors in scarlet blankets whostood at the corner, watching with silent contempt the antics of theFrench inhabitants. Now and again one or the other gave a grunt andwrapped his blanket more tightly about him.
“Umrrhh!” said Terence. “Faith, I talk that langwidge mesilf when Ihave throuble.” The warriors stared at him with what might be calleda stoical surprise. “Umrrh! Does the holy father praych to ye widthim wurrds, ye haythens? Begorra, ‘tis a wondher ye wuddent washyereselves,” he added, making a face, “wid muddy wather to be had forthe askin’.”
We moved on, through such a scene as
I have seldom beheld. The villagehad donned its best: women in cap and gown were hurrying hither andthither, some laughing and some weeping; grown men embraced eachother; children of all colors flung themselves against Terence’slegs,--dark-haired Creoles, little negroes with woolly pates, and nakedIndian lads with bow and arrow. Terence dashed at them now and then, andthey fled screaming into dooryards to come out again and mimic him whenhe had passed, while mothers and fathers and grandfathers smiled at thegood nature in his Irish face. Presently he looked down at me comically.
“Why wuddent ye be doin’ the like, Davy?” he asked. “Amusha! ‘tis mesilfthat wants to run and hop and skip wid the childher. Ye put me in mindof a wizened old man that sat all day makin’ shoes in Killarney,--allsavin’ the fringe he had on his chin.”
“A soldier must be dignified,” I answered.
“The saints bar that wurrd from hiven,” said Terence, trying topronounce it. “Come, we’ll go to mass, or me mother will be visitin’ methis night.”
We crossed the square and went into the darkened church, where thecandles were burning. It was the first church I had ever entered, and Iheard with awe the voice of the priest and the fervent responses, butI understood not a word of what was said. Afterwards Father Gibaultmounted to the pulpit and stood for a moment with his hand raised abovehis flock, and then began to speak. What he told them I have learnedsince. And this I know, that when they came out again into the sunlitsquare they were Americans. It matters not when they took the oath.
As we walked back towards the fort we came to a little house with aflower garden in front of it, and there stood Colonel Clark himself bythe gate. He stopped us with a motion of his hand.
“Davy,” said he, “we are to live here for a while, you and I. What doyou think of our headquarters?” He did not wait for me to reply, butcontinued, “Can you suggest any improvement?”
“You will be needing a soldier to be on guard in front, sir,” said I.
“Ah,” said the Colonel, “McChesney is too valuable a man. I am sendinghim with Captain Bowman to take Cahokia.”
“Would you have Terence, sir?” I ventured, while Terence grinned.Whereupon Colonel Clark sent him to report to his captain that he wasdetailed for orderly duty to the commanding officer. And within half anhour he was standing guard in the flower garden, making grimaces at thechildren in the street. Colonel Clark sat at a table in the little frontroom, and while two of Monsieur Rocheblave’s negroes cooked his dinner,he was busy with a score of visitors, organizing, advising, planning,and commanding. There were disputes to settle now that alarm hadsubsided, and at noon three excitable gentlemen came in to informagainst a certain Monsieur Cerre, merchant and trader, then absent atSt. Louis. When at length the Colonel had succeeded in bringing theirdenunciations to an end and they had departed, he looked at me comicallyas I stood in the doorway.
“Davy,” said he, “all I ask of the good Lord is that He will frighten meincontinently for a month before I die.”
“I think He would find that difficult, sir,” I answered.
“Then there’s no hope for me,” he answered, laughing, “for I haveobserved that fright alone brings a man into a fit spiritual state toenter heaven. What would you say of those slanderers of Monsieur Cerre?”
Not expecting an answer, he dipped his quill into the ink-pot and turnedto his papers.
“I should say that they owed Monsieur Cerre money,” I replied.
The Colonel dropped his quill and stared. As for me, I was puzzled toknow why.
“Egad,” said Colonel Clark, “most of us get by hard knocks what you seemto have been born with.” He fell to musing, a worried look coming on hisface that was no stranger to me later, and his hand fell heavily onthe loose pile of paper before him. “Davy,” says he, “I need acommissary-general.”
“What would that be, sir,” I asked.
“A John Law, who will make something out of nothing, who will makemoney out of this blank paper, who will wheedle the Creole traders intobelieving they are doing us a favor and making their everlasting fortuneby advancing us flour and bacon.”
“And doesn’t Congress make money, sir?” I asked.
“That they do, Davy, by the ton,” he replied, “and so must we, asthe rulers of a great province. For mark me, though the men are happyto-day, in four days they will be grumbling and trying to desert indozens.”
We were interrupted by a knock at the door, and there stood TerenceMcCann.
“His riverence!” he announced, and bowed low as the priest came into theroom.
I was bid by Colonel Clark to sit down and dine with them on the goodthings which Monsieur Rocheblave’s cook had prepared. After dinner theywent into the little orchard behind the house and sat drinking (in theFrench fashion) the commandant’s precious coffee which had been sentto him from far-away New Orleans. Colonel Clark plied the priest withquestions of the French towns under English rule: and Father Gibault,speaking for his simple people, said that the English had led themeasily to believe that the Kentuckians were cutthroats.
“Ah, monsieur,” he said, “if they but knew you! If they but knew theprinciples of that government for which you fight, they would renouncethe English allegiance, and the whole of this territory would be yours.I know them, from Quebec to Detroit and Michilimackinac and SaintVincennes. Listen, monsieur,” he cried, his homely face alight; “Imyself will go to Saint Vincennes for you. I will tell them the truth,and you shall have the post for the asking.”
“You will go to Vincennes!” exclaimed Clark; “a hard and dangerousjourney of a hundred leagues!”
“Monsieur,” answered the priest, simply, “the journey is nothing. For acentury the missionaries of the Church have walked this wilderness alonewith God. Often they have suffered, and often died in tortures--butgladly.”
Colonel Clark regarded the man intently.
“The cause of liberty, both religious and civil, is our cause,” FatherGibault continued. “Men have died for it, and will die for it, and itwill prosper. Furthermore, Monsieur, my life has not known many wants.I have saved something to keep my old age, with which to buy a littlehouse and an orchard in this peaceful place. The sum I have is at yourservice. The good Congress will repay me. And you need the money.”
Colonel Clark was not an impulsive man, but he felt none the lessdeeply, as I know well. His reply to this generous offer was almostbrusque, but it did not deceive the priest.
“Nay, monsieur,” he said, “it is for mankind I give it, in remembranceof Him who gave everything. And though I receive nothing in return, Ishall have my reward an hundred fold.”
In due time, I know not how, the talk swung round again to lightness,for the Colonel loved a good story, and the priest had many which hetold with wit in his quaint French accent. As he was rising to take hisleave, Père Gibault put his hand on my head.
“I saw your Excellency’s son in the church this morning,” he said.
Colonel Clark laughed and gave me a pinch.
“My dear sir,” he said, “the boy is old enough to be my father.”
The priest looked down at me with a puzzled expression in his browneyes.
“I would I had him for my son,” said Colonel Clark, kindly; “but the ladis eleven, and I shall not be twenty-six until next November.”
“Your Excellency not twenty-six!” cried Father Gibault, in astonishment.“What will you be when you are thirty?”
The young Colonel’s face clouded.
“God knows!” he said.
Father Gibault dropped his eyes and turned to me with native tact.
“What would you like best to do, my son?” he asked.
“I should like to learn to speak French,” said I, for I had been muchirritated at not understanding what was said in the streets.
“And so you shall,” said Father Gibault; “I myself will teach you. Youmust come to my house to-day.”
“And Davy will teach me,” said the Colonel.
The Crossing Page 9
