CHAPTER XV. DAYS OF TRIAL
But I was not immediately to take up the study of French. Things beganto happen in Kaskaskia. In the first place, Captain Bowman’s company,with a few scouts, of which Tom was one, set out that very afternoon forthe capture of Cohos, or Cahokia, and this despite the fact that theyhad had no sleep for two nights. If you will look at the map, ¹ youwill see, dotted along the bottoms and the bluffs beside the greatMississippi, the string of villages, Kaskaskia, La Prairie du Rocher,Fort Chartres, St. Philip, and Cahokia. Some few miles from Cahokia, onthe western bank of the Father of Waters, was the little French villageof St. Louis, in the Spanish territory of Louisiana. From thenceeastward stretched the great waste of prairie and forest inhabited byroving bands of the forty Indian nations. Then you come to Vincennes onthe Wabash, Fort St. Vincent, the English and Canadians called it, forthere were a few of the latter who had settled in Kaskaskia since theEnglish occupation. ¹The best map which the editor has found of thisdistrict is in vol. VI, Part 11, of Winsor’s “Narrative and CriticalHistory of America,” p. 721.
We gathered on the western skirts of the village to give Bowman’scompany a cheer, and every man, woman, and child in the place watchedthe little column as it wound snakelike over the prairie on the road toFort Chartres, until it was lost in the cottonwoods to the westward.
Things began to happen in Kaskaskia. It would have been strange indeedif things had not happened. One hundred and seventy-five men had marchedinto that territory out of which now are carved the great states ofOhio, Indiana, and Illinois, and to most of them the thing was a picnic,a jaunt which would soon be finished. Many had left families in thefrontier forts without protection. The time of their enlistment hadalmost expired.
There was a store in the village kept by a great citizen,--not a citizenof Kaskaskia alone, but a citizen of the world. This, I am aware, soundslike fiction, like an attempt to get an effect which was not there. Butit is true as gospel. The owner of this store had many others scatteredabout in this foreign country: at Vincennes, at St. Louis, where heresided, at Cahokia. He knew Michilimackinac and Quebec and New Orleans.He had been born some thirty-one years before in Sardinia, had servedin the Spanish army, and was still a Spanish subject. The name of thisfamous gentleman was Monsieur François Vigo, and he was the Rothschildof the country north of the Ohio. Monsieur Vigo, though he merited it,I had not room to mention in the last chapter. Clark had routed him fromhis bed on the morning of our arrival, and whether or not he had been inthe secret of frightening the inhabitants into making their wills, andthen throwing them into transports of joy, I know not.
Monsieur Vigo’s store was the village club. It had neither glass in thewindow nor an attractive display of goods; it was merely a log cabin setdown on a weedy, sun-baked plot. The stuffy smell of skins and furs cameout of the doorway. Within, when he was in Kaskaskia, Monsieur Vigo waswont to sit behind his rough walnut table, writing with a fine quill,or dispensing the news of the villages to the priest and other prominentcitizens, or haggling with persistent blanketed braves over canoe-loadsof ill-smelling pelts which they brought down from the green forests ofthe north. Monsieur Vigo’s clothes were the color of the tobacco he gavein exchange; his eyes were not unlike the black beads he traded, butshrewd and kindly withal, set in a square saffron face that had thecontradiction of a small chin. As the days wore into months, MonsieurVigo’s place very naturally became the headquarters for our army, ifarmy it might be called. Of a morning a dozen would be sitting againstthe logs in the black shadow, and in the midst of them always squattedan unsavory Indian squaw. A few braves usually stood like statues atthe corner, and in front of the door another group of hunting shirts.Without was the paper money of the Continental Congress, within the goodtafia and tobacco of Monsieur Vigo. One day Monsieur Vigo’s young Creoleclerk stood shrugging his shoulders in the doorway. I stopped.
“By tam!” Swein Poulsson was crying to the clerk, as he waved aworthless scrip above his head. “Vat is money?”
This definition the clerk, not being a Doctor Johnson, was unable togive offhand.
“Vat are you, choost? Is it America?” demanded Poulsson, while theothers looked on, some laughing, some serious. “And vich citizen are yousince you are ours? You vill please to give me one carrot of tobacco.”And he thrust the scrip under the clerk’s nose.
The clerk stared at the uneven lettering on the scrip with disdain.
“Money,” he exclaimed scornfully, “she is not money. Piastre--Spanishdollare--then I give you carrot.”
“By God!” shouted Bill Cowan, “ye will take Virginny paper, and Congresspaper, or else I reckon we’ll have a drink and tobaccy, boys, take or notake.”
“Hooray, Bill, ye’re right,” cried several of our men.
“Lemme in here,” said Cowan. But the frightened Creole blocked thedoorway.
“Sacré!” he screamed, and then, “Voleurs!”
The excitement drew a number of people from the neighborhood. Nay, itseemed as if the whole town was ringed about us.
“Bravo, Jules!” they cried, “garde-tu la porte. À bas les Bostonnais! Àbas les voleurs!”
“Damn such monkey talk,” said Cowan, facing them suddenly. I knew himwell, and when the giant lost his temper it was gone irrevocably until afight was over. “Call a man a squar’ name.”
“Hey, Frenchy,” another of our men put in, stalking up to the clerk, “Ireckon this here store’s ourn, ef we’ve a mind to tek it. I ‘low you’llgive us the rum and the ‘baccy. Come on, boys!”
In between him and the clerk leaped a little, robin-like man with a redwaistcoat, beside himself with rage. Bill Cowan and his friends staredat this diminutive Frenchman, open-mouthed, as he poured forth averitable torrent of unintelligible words, plentifully mixed withsacrés, which he ripped out like snarls. I would as soon have touchedhim as a ball of angry bees or a pair of fighting wildcats. Not so BillCowan. When that worthy recovered from his first surprise he seized holdof some of the man’s twisting arms and legs and lifted him bodily fromthe ground, as he would have taken a perverse and struggling child.There was no question of a fight. Cowan picked him up, I say, and beforeany one knew what happened, he flung him on to the hot roof of the store(the eaves were but two feet above his head), and there the man stuck,clinging to a loose shingle, purpling and coughing and spitting withrage. There was a loud gust of guffaws from the woodsmen, and oathslike whip-cracks from the circle around us, menacing growls as it surgedinward and our men turned to face it. A few citizens pushed through theoutskirts of it and ran away, and in the hush that followed we heardthem calling wildly the names of Father Gibault and Clark and of Vigohimself. Cowan thrust me past the clerk into the store, where I stoodlistening to the little man on the roof, scratching and clutching at theshingles, and coughing still.
But there was no fight. Shouts of “Monsieur Vigo! Voici Monsieur Vigo!”were heard, the crowd parted respectfully, and Monsieur Vigo in hissnuff-colored suit stood glancing from Cowan to his pallid clerk. He wasnot in the least excited.
“Come in, my frens,” he said; “it is too hot in the sun.” And he setthe example by stepping over the sill on to the hard-baked earth of thefloor within. Then he spied me. “Ah,” he said, “the boy of Monsieur leColonel! And how are you called, my son?” he added, patting me kindly.
“Davy, sir,” I answered.
“Ha,” he said, “and a brave soldier, no doubt.”
I was flattered as well as astonished by this attention. But MonsieurVigo knew men, and he had given them time to turn around. By this timeBill Cowan and some of my friends had stooped through the doorway,followed by a prying Kaskaskian brave and as many Creoles as could crowdbehind them. Monsieur Vigo was surprisingly calm.
“It make hot weather, my frens,” said he. “How can I serve you,messieurs?”
“Hain’t the Congress got authority here?” said one.
“I am happy to say,” answered Monsieur Vigo, rubbing his hands, “for Ithink m
uch of your principle.”
“Then,” said the man, “we come here to trade with Congress money. Hain’tthat money good in Kaskasky?”
There was an anxious pause. Then Monsieur Vigo’s eyes twinkled, and helooked at me.
“And what you say, Davy?” he asked.
“The money would be good if you took it, sir,” I said, not knowing whatelse to answer.
“Sapristi!” exclaimed Monsieur Vigo, looking hard at me. “Who teach youthat?”
“No one, sir,” said I, staring in my turn.
“And if Congress lose, and not pay, where am I, mon petit maître dela haute finance?” demanded Monsieur Vigo, with the palms of his handsoutward.
“You will be in good company, sir,” said I.
At that he threw back his head and laughed, and Bill Cowan and myfriends laughed with him.
“Good company--c’est la plupart de la vie,” said Monsieur Vigo. “Et quelgarçon--what a boy it is!”
“I never seed his beat fer wisdom, Mister Vigo,” said Bill Cowan, now ingood humor once more at the prospect of rum and tobacco. And I found outlater that he and the others had actually given to me the credit ofthis coup. “He never failed us yet. Hain’t that truth, boys? Hain’t wea-goin’ on to St. Vincent because he seen the Ha’r Buyer sculped on theOhio?”
The rest assented so heartily but withal so gravely, that I am betweenlaughter and tears over the remembrance of it.
“At noon you come back,” said Monsieur Vigo. “I think till then aboutrate of exchange, and talk with your Colonel. Davy, you stay here.”
I remained, while the others filed out, and at length I was alone withhim and Jules, his clerk.
“Davy, how you like to be trader?” asked Monsieur Vigo.
It was a new thought to me, and I turned it over in my mind. To see thestrange places of the world, and the stranger people; to become a man ofwealth and influence such as Monsieur Vigo; and (I fear I loved itbest) to match my brains with others at a bargain,--I turned it all overslowly, gravely, in my boyish mind, rubbing the hard dirt on the floorwith the toe of my moccasin. And suddenly the thought came to me that Iwas a traitor to my friends, a deserter from the little army that lovedme so well.
“Eh bien?” said Monsieur Vigo.
I shook my head, but in spite of me I felt the tears welling into myeyes and brushed them away shamefully. At such times of stress some ofmy paternal Scotch crept into my speech.
“I will no be leaving Colonel Clark and the boys,” I cried, “not for allthe money in the world.”
“Congress money?” said Monsieur Vigo, with a queer expression.
It was then I laughed through my tears, and that cemented the friendshipbetween us. It was a lifelong friendship, though I little suspected itthen.
In the days that followed he never met me on the street that he did notstop to pass the time of day, and ask me if I had changed my mind. Hecame every morning to headquarters, where he and Colonel Clark sat bythe hour with brows knit. Monsieur Vigo was as good as his word, andtook the Congress money, though not at such a value as many would havehad him. I have often thought that we were all children then, and knewnothing of the ingratitude of republics. Monsieur Vigo took the money,and was all his life many, many thousand dollars the poorer. FatherGibault advanced his little store, and lived to feel the pangs of want.And Colonel Clark? But I must not go beyond the troubles of that summer,and the problems that vexed our commander. One night I missed him fromthe room where we slept, and walking into the orchard found him pacingthere, where the moon cast filmy shadows on the grass. By day as he wentaround among the men his brow was unclouded, though his face was stern.But now I surprised the man so strangely moved that I yearned to comforthim. He had taken three turns before he perceived me.
“Davy,” he said, “what are you doing here?”
“I missed you, sir,” I answered, staring at the furrows in his face.
“Come!” he said almost roughly, and seizing my hand, led me back andforth swiftly through the wet grass for I know not how long. The moondipped to the uneven line of the ridge-pole and slipped behind the stonechimney. All at once he stopped, dropped my hand, and smote both of histogether.
“I will hold on, by the eternal!” he cried. “I will let no American readhis history and say that I abandoned this land. Let them desert! If tenmen be found who will stay, I will hold the place for the Republic.”
“Will not Virginia and the Congress send you men, sir?” I askedwonderingly.
He laughed a laugh that was all bitterness.
“Virginia and the Continental Congress know little and care less aboutme,” he answered. “Some day you will learn that foresight sometimescomes to men, but never to assemblies. But it is often given to one manto work out the salvation of a people, and be destroyed for it. Davy, wehave been up too long.”
At the morning parade, from my wonted place at the end of the line, Iwatched him with astonishment, reviewing the troops as usual. For thevery first day I had crossed the river with Terence, climbed the heightsto the old fort, and returned with my drum. But no sooner had Ibeaten the retreat than the men gathered here and there in groups thatsmouldered with mutiny, and I noted that some of the officers wereamongst these. Once in a while a sentence like a flaming brand wasflung out. Their time was up, their wives and children for all they knewsculped by the red varmints, and, by the etarnal, Clark or no man livingcould keep them.
“Hi,” said one, as I passed, “here’s Davy with his drum. He’ll beleadin’ us back to Kaintuck in the morning.”
“Ay, ay,” cried another man in the group, “I reckon he’s had his full oftyranny, too.”
I stopped, my face blazing red.
“Shame on you for those words!” I shouted shrilly. “Shame on you, youfools, to desert the man who would save your wives and children. How arethe redskins to be beaten if they are not cowed in their own country?”For I had learned much at headquarters.
They stood silent, astonished, no doubt, at the sight of my small figurea-tremble with anger. I heard Bill Cowan’s voice behind me.
“There’s truth for ye,” he said, “that will slink home when a thing’shalf done.”
“Ye needn’t talk, Bill Cowan; it’s well enough for ye. I reckon yourwife’d scare any redskin off her clearin’.”
“Many the time she scart me,” said Bill Cowan.
And so the matter went by with a laugh. But the grumbling continued, andthe danger was that the French would learn of it. The day passed, yetthe embers blazed not into the flame of open mutiny. But he who has seenservice knows how ominous is the gathering of men here and there,the low humming talk, the silence when a dissenter passes. There werefights, too, that had to be quelled by company captains, and no man knewwhen the loud quarrel between the two races at Vigo’s store would growinto an ugly battle.
What did Clark intend to do? This was the question that hung in theminds of mutineer and faithful alike. They knew the desperation of hiscase. Without money, save that which the generous Creoles had advancedupon his personal credit; without apparent resources; without authority,save that which the weight of his character exerted,--how could heprevent desertion? They eyed him as he went from place to place abouthis business,--erect, thoughtful, undisturbed. Few men dare to set theirwill against a multitude when there are no fruits to be won. Columbuspersisted, and found a new world; Clark persisted, and won an empire forthoughtless generations to enjoy.
That night he slept not at all, but sat, while the candles flickered intheir sockets, poring over maps and papers. I dared not disturb him, butlay the darkness through with staring eyes. And when the windows on theorchard side showed a gray square of light, he flung down the parchmenthe was reading on the table. It rolled up of itself, and he pushed backhis chair. I heard him call my name, and leaping out of bed, I stoodbefore him.
“You sleep lightly, Davy,” he said, I think to try me.
I did not answer, fearing to tell him that I had been awake watc
hinghim.
“I have one friend, at least,” said the Colonel.
“You have many, sir,” I answered, “as you will find when the timecomes.”
“The time has come,” said he; “to-day I shall be able to count them.Davy, I want you to do something for me.”
“Now, sir?” I answered, overjoyed.
“As soon as the sun strikes that orchard,” he said, pointing out of thewindow. “You have learned how to keep things to yourself. Now I want youto impart them to others. Go out, and tell the village that I am goingaway.”
“That you are going away, sir?” I repeated.
“That I am going away,” he said, “with my army, (save the mark!), withmy army and my drummer boy and my paper money. Such is my faith in theloyalty of the good people of these villages to the American cause, thatI can safely leave the flag flying over their heads with the assurancethat they will protect it.”
I stared at him doubtfully, for at times a pleasantry came out of hisbitterness.
“Ay,” he said, “go! Have you any love for me?”
“I have, sir,” I answered.
“By the Lord, I believe you,” he said, and picking up my small huntingshirt, he flung it at me. “Put it on, and go when the sun rises.”
As the first shaft of light over the bluff revealed the diamonds in theorchard grass I went out, wondering. Suspecting would be a better wordfor the nature I had inherited. But I had my orders. Terence was pacingthe garden, his leggings turned black with the dew. I looked at him.Here was a vessel to disseminate.
“Terence, the Colonel is going back to Virginia with the army.”
“Him!” cried Terence, dropping the stock of his Deckard to the ground.“And back to Kaintuckee! Arrah, ‘tis a sin to be jokin’ before a man hasa bit in his sthummick. Bad cess to yere plisantry before breakfast.”
“I’m telling you what the Colonel himself told me,” I answered, andran on. “Davy, darlin’!” I heard him calling after me as I turned thecorner, but I looked not back.
There was a single sound in the street. A thin, bronzed Indian ladsquatted against the pickets with his fingers on a reed, his cheeksdistended. He broke off with a wild, mournful note to stare at me. Awisp of smoke stole from a stone chimney, and the smell that corn-poneand bacon leave was in the air. A bolt was slammed back, a door creakedand stuck, was flung open, and with a “Va t’en, méchant!” a cotton-cladurchin was cast out of the house, and fled into the dusty street.Breathing the morning air in the doorway, stood a young woman in acotton gown, a saucepan in hand. She had inquisitive eyes, a pointed,prying nose, and I knew her to be the village gossip, the wife of Jules,Monsieur Vigo’s clerk. She had the same smattering of English as herhusband. Now she stood regarding me narrowly between half-closed lids.
“A la bonne heure! Que fais-tu donc? What do you do so early?”
“The garrison is getting ready to leave for Kentucky to-day,” Ianswered.
“Ha! Jules! Écoute-toi! Nom de dieu! Is it true what you say?”
The visage of Jules, surmounted by a nightcap and heavy with sleep,appeared behind her.
“Ha, e’est Daveed!” he said. “What news have you?”
I repeated, whereupon they both began to lament.
“And why is it?” persisted Jules.
“He has such faith in the loyalty of the Kaskaskians,” I answered,parrot-like.
“Diable!” cried Jules, “we shall perish. We shall be as the Acadians.And loyalty--she will not save us, no.”
Other doors creaked. Other inhabitants came in varied costumes into thestreet to hear the news, lamenting. If Clark left, the day of judgmentwas at hand for them, that was certain. Between the savage and theBriton not one stone would be left standing on another. Madame Julesforgot her breakfast, and fled up the street with the tidings. Andthen I made my way to the fort, where the men were gathering about thecamp-fires, talking excitedly. Terence, relieved from duty, had done thework here.
“And he as little as a fox, wid all that in him,” he cried, when heperceived me walking demurely past the sentry. “Davy, dear, come herean’ tell the b’ys am I a liar.”
“Davy’s monstrous cute,” said Bill Cowan; “I reckon he knows as well asme the Colonel hain’t a-goin’ to do no such tomfool thing as leave.”
“He is,” I cried, for the benefit of some others, “he’s fair sick ofgrumblers that haven’t got the grit to stand by him in trouble.”
“By the Lord!” said Bill Cowan, “and I’ll not blame him.” He turnedfiercely, his face reddening. “Shame on ye all yere lives,” he shouted.“Ye’re making the best man that ever led a regiment take the back trail.Ye’ll fetch back to Kaintuck, and draw every redskin in the north woodssuckin’ after ye like leaves in a harricane wind. There hain’t a man ofye has the pluck of this little shaver that beats the drum. I wish toGod McChesney was here.”
He turned away to cross the parade ground, followed by the faithfulTerence and myself. Others gathered about him: McAndrew, who, for allhis sourness, was true; Swein Poulsson, who would have died for theColonel; John Duff, and some twenty more, including Saunders, whoseaffection had not been killed, though Clark had nearly hanged him amongthe prairies.
“Begob!” said Terence, “Davy has inflooence wid his Excellency. It’sDavy we’ll sind, prayin’ him not to lave the Frinch alone wid theirloyalty.”
It was agreed, and I was to repeat the name of every man that sent me.
Departing on this embassy, I sped out of the gates of the fort. But, asI approached the little house where Clark lived, the humming of acrowd came to my ears, and I saw with astonishment that the street wasblocked. It appeared that the whole of the inhabitants of Kaskaskia werepacked in front of the place. Wriggling my way through the people, I hadbarely reached the gate when I saw Monsieur Vigo and the priest, threeCreole gentlemen in uniform, and several others coming out of the door.They stopped, and Monsieur Vigo, raising his hand for silence, made aspeech in French to the people. What he said I could not understand,and when he had finished they broke up into groups, and many of themdeparted. Before I could gain the house, Colonel Clark himself cameout with Captain Helm and Captain Harrod. The Colonel glanced at me andsmiled.
“Parade, Davy,” he said, and walked on.
I ran back to the fort, and when I had gotten my drum the threecompanies were falling into line, the men murmuring in undertones amongthemselves. They were brought to attention. Colonel Clark was seen tocome out of the commandant’s house, and we watched him furtively as hewalked slowly to his place in front of the line. A tremor of excitementwent from sergeant to drummer boy. The sentries closed the big gates ofthe fort.
The Colonel stood for a full minute surveying us calmly,--a disquietingway he had when matters were at a crisis. Then he began to talk.
“I have heard from many sources that you are dissatisfied, that you wishto go back to Kentucky. If that be so, I say to you, ‘Go, and God bewith you.’ I will hinder no man. We have taken a brave and generouspeople into the fold of the Republic, and they have shown theirpatriotism by giving us freely of their money and stores.” He raised hisvoice. “They have given the last proof of that patriotism this day.Yes, they have come to me and offered to take your places, to finishthe campaign which you have so well begun and wish to abandon. To-day Ishall enroll their militia under the flag for which you have fought.”
When he had ceased speaking a murmur ran through the ranks.
“But if there be any,” he said, “who have faith in me and in the causefor which we have come here, who have the perseverance and the courageto remain, I will reënlist them. The rest of you shall march forKentucky,” he cried, “as soon as Captain Bowman’s company can berelieved at Cahokia. The regiment is dismissed.”
For a moment they remained in ranks, as though stupefied. It was Cowanwho stepped out first, snatched his coonskin hat from his head, andwaved it in the air.
“Huzzay for Colonel Clark!” he roared. “I’ll foller him into Can
ady, andstand up to my lick log.”
They surrounded Bill Cowan, not the twenty which had flocked to him inthe morning, but four times twenty, and they marched in a body to thecommandant’s house to be reënlisted. The Colonel stood by the door,and there came a light in his eyes as he regarded us. They cheered himagain.
“Thank you, lads,” he said; “remember, we may have to whistle for ourpay.”
“Damn the pay!” cried Bill Cowan, and we echoed the sentiment.
“We’ll see what can be done about land grants,” said the Colonel, and heturned away.
At dusk that evening I sat on the back door-step, by the orchard,cleaning his rifle. The sound of steps came from the little passagebehind me, and a hand was on my head.
“Davee,” said a voice (it was Monsieur Vigo’s), “do you know what is uncoup d’état?”
“No, sir.”
“Ha! You execute one to-day. Is it not so, Monsieur le Colonel?”
“I reckon he was in the secret,” said Colonel Clark. “Did you think Imeant to leave Kaskaskia, Davy?”
“No, sir.”
“He is not so easy fool,” Monsieur Vigo put in. “He tell me paper moneygood if I take it. C’est la haute finance!”
Colonel Clark laughed.
“And why didn’t you think I meant to leave?” said he.
“Because you bade me go out and tell everybody,” I answered. “What youreally mean to do you tell no one.”
“Nom du bon Dieu!” exclaimed Monsieur Vigo.
Yesterday Colonel Clark had stood alone, the enterprise for which he hadrisked all on the verge of failure. By a master-stroke his ranks wererepleted, his position recovered, his authority secured once more.
Few men recognize genius when they see it. Monsieur Vigo was not one ofthese.
CHAPTER XVI. DAVY GOES TO CAHOKIA
I should make but a poor historian, for I have not stuck to mychronology. But as I write, the vivid recollections are those that Iset down. I have forgotten two things of great importance. First, thedeparture of Father Gibault with several Creole gentlemen and a spy ofColonel Clark’s for Vincennes, and their triumphant return in August.The sacrifice of the good priest had not been in vain, and he came backwith the joyous news of a peaceful conquest. The stars and stripes nowwaved over the fort, and the French themselves had put it there. And thevast stretch of country from that place westward to the Father of Waterswas now American.
And that brings me to the second oversight. The surprise and conquest ofCahokia by Bowman and his men was like that of Kaskaskia. And the Frenchthere were loyal, too, offering their militia for service in the placeof those men of Bowman’s company who would not reënlist. These came toKaskaskia to join our home-goers, and no sooner had the hundred marchedout of the gate and taken up their way for Kentucky than Colonel Clarkbegan the drilling of the new troops.
Captain Leonard Helm was sent to take charge of Vincennes, and CaptainMontgomery set out across the mountains for Williamsburg with letterspraying the governor of Virginia to come to our assistance.
For another cloud had risen in the horizon: another problem for Clarkto face of greater portent than all the others. A messenger from CaptainBowman at Cohos came riding down the street on a scraggly French pony,and pulled up before headquarters. The messenger was Sergeant ThomasMcChesney, and his long legs almost reached the ground on either side ofthe little beast. Leaping from the saddle, he seized me in his arms, setme down, and bade me tell Colonel Clark of his arrival.
It was a sultry August morning. Within the hour Colonel Clark and Tomand myself were riding over the dusty trace that wound westward acrossthe common lands of the village, which was known as the Fort Chartresroad. The heat-haze shimmered in the distance, and there was no sound inplain or village save the tinkle of a cowbell from the clumps of shade.Colonel Clark rode twenty paces in front, alone, his head bowed withthinking.
“They’re coming into Cahokia as thick as bees out’n a gum, Davy,” saidTom; “seems like there’s thousands of ‘em. Nothin’ will do ‘em but theymust see the Colonel,--the varmints. And they’ve got patience, they’llwait thar till the b’ars git fat. I reckon they ‘low Clark’s gotthe armies of Congress behind him. If they knowed,” said Tom, with achuckle, “if they knowed that we’d only got seventy of the boys and somehundred Frenchies in the army! I reckon the Colonel’s too cute for ‘em.”
The savages in Cahokia were as the leaves of the forest. Curiosity,that mainspring of the Indian character, had brought the chiefs, big andlittle, to see with their own eyes the great Captain of the Long Knives.In vain had the faithful Bowman put them off. They would wait. Clarkmust come. And Clark was coming, for he was not the man to quail at sucha crisis. For the crux of the whole matter was here. And if he failed toimpress them with his power, with the might of the Congress for which hefought, no man of his would ever see Kentucky again.
As we rode through the bottom under the pecan trees we talked of PollyAnn, Tom and I, and of our little home by the Salt River far to thesouthward, where we would live in peace when the campaign was over. Tomhad written her, painfully enough, an affectionate scrawl, which he sentby one of Captain Linn’s men. And I, too, had written. My letter hadbeen about Tom, and how he had become a sergeant, and what a favoritehe was with Bowman and the Colonel. Poor Polly Ann! She could not write,but a runner from Harrodstown who was a friend of Tom’s had carriedall the way to Cahokia, in the pocket with his despatches, a fold ofnettle-bark linen. Tom pulled it from the bosom of his hunting shirt toshow me, and in it was a little ring of hair like unto the finest spunred-gold. This was the message Polly Ann had sent,--a message fromlittle Tom as well.
At Prairie du Rocher, at St. Philippe, the inhabitants lined the streetsto do homage to this man of strange power who rode, unattended andunafraid, to the council of the savage tribes which had terrorized hispeople of Kentucky. From the ramparts of Fort Chartres (once one of themighty chain of strongholds to protect a new France, and now desertedlike Massacre), I gazed for the first time in awe at the turgid flood ofthe Mississippi, and at the lands of the Spanish king beyond. With neverceasing fury the river tore at his clay banks and worried the greenislands that braved his charge. And my boyish fancy pictured to itselfthe monsters which might lie hidden in his muddy depths.
We lay that night in the open at a spring on the bluffs, and the nextmorning beheld the church tower of Cahokia. A little way from the townwe perceived an odd gathering on the road, the yellowed and weatheredhunting shirts of Bowman’s company mixed with the motley dress of theCreole volunteers. Some of these gentlemen wore the costume of coureursdu bois, others had odd regimental coats and hats which had seen muchservice. Besides the military was a sober deputation of citizens, andhovering behind the whole a horde of curious, blanketed braves, come toget a first glimpse of the great white captain. So escorted, we crossedat the mill, came to a shady street that faced the little river, andstopped at the stone house where Colonel Clark was to abide.
On that day, and for many days more, that street was thronged withwarriors. Chiefs in gala dress strutted up and down, featheredand plumed and blanketed, smeared with paint, bedecked with rudejewellery,--earrings and bracelets. From the remote forests of the norththey had come, where the cold winds blow off the blue lakes; fromthe prairies to the east; from the upper running waters, where theMississippi flows clear and undefiled by the muddy flood; from thevillages and wigwams of the sluggish Wabash; and from the sandy, pinycountry between the great northern seas where Michilimackinac standsguard alone,--Sacs and Foxes, Chippeways and Maumies and Missesogies,Puans and Pottawattomies, chiefs and medicine men.
Well might the sleep of the good citizens be disturbed, and the womenfear to venture to the creek with their linen and their paddles!
The lives of these people hung in truth upon a slender thing--thebearing of one man. All day long the great chiefs sought an audiencewith him, but he sent them word that matters would be settled in thecouncil that was to come. All day lo
ng the warriors lined the picketfence in front of the house, and more than once Tom McChesney roughlyshouldered a lane through them that timid visitors might pass. Like apack of wolves, they watched narrowly for any sign of weakness. As forTom, they were to him as so many dogs.
“Ye varmints!” he cried, “I’ll take a blizz’rd at ye if ye don’t keepthe way clear.”
At that they would give back grudgingly with a chorus of grunts, only toclose in again as tightly as before. But they came to have a wholesomeregard for the sun-browned man with the red hair who guarded theColonel’s privacy. The boy who sat on the door-step, the son of thegreat Pale Face Chief (as they called me), was a never ending sourceof comment among them. Once Colonel Clark sent for me. The little frontroom of this house was not unlike the one we had occupied at Kaskaskia.It had bare walls, a plain table and chairs, and a crucifix in thecorner. It served as dining room, parlor, bedroom, for there was apallet too. Now the table was covered with parchments and papers, andbeside Colonel Clark sat a grave gentleman of about his own age. As Icame into the room Colonel Clark relaxed, turned toward this gentleman,and said:--
“Monsieur Gratiot, behold my commissary-general, my strategist, myfinancier.” And Monsieur Gratiot smiled. He struck me as a man who neverlet himself go sufficiently to laugh.
“Ah,” he said, “Vigo has told me how he settled the question of papermoney. He might do something for the Congress in the East.”
“Davy is a Scotchman, like John Law,” said the Colonel, “and he is amaster at perceiving a man’s character and business.”
“What would you call me, at a venture, Davy?” asked Monsieur Gratiot.
He spoke excellent English, with only a slight accent.
“A citizen of the world, like Monsieur Vigo,” I answered at a hazard.
“Pardieu!” said Monsieur Gratiot, “you are not far away. Like MonsieurVigo I keep a store here at Cahokia. Like Monsieur Vigo, I havetravelled much in my day. Do you know where Switzerland is, Davy?”
I did not.
“It is a country set like a cluster of jewels in the heart of Europe,” said Monsieur Gratiot, “and there are mountains there that rise amon theclouds and are covered with perpetual snows. And when the sun sets onthose snows they are rubies, and the skies above them sapphire.”
“I was born amongst the mountains, sir,” I answered, my pulse quickeningat his description, “but they were not so high as those you speak of.”
“Then,” said Monsieur Gratiot, “you can understand a little my sorrowas a lad when I left it. From Switzerland I went to a foggy place calledLondon, and thence I crossed the ocean to the solemn forests of thenorth of Canada, where I was many years, learning the characters ofthese gentlemen who are looking in upon us.” And he waved his arm atthe line of peering red faces by the pickets. Monsieur Gratiot smiledat Clark. “And there’s another point of resemblance between myself andMonsieur Vigo.”
“Have you taken the paper money?” I demanded.
Monsieur Gratiot slapped his linen breeches. “That I have,” and thistime I thought he was going to laugh. But he did not, though his eyessparkled. “And do you think that the good Congress will ever repay me,Davy?”
“No, sir,” said I.
“Peste!” exclaimed Monsieur Gratiot, but he did not seem to be offendedor shaken.
“Davy,” said Colonel Clark, “we have had enough of predictions fo thepresent. Fetch this letter to Captain Bowman at the garrison up thestreet.” He handed me the letter. “Are you afraid of the Indians?”
“If I were, sir, I would not show it,” I said, for he had encouraged meto talk freely to him.
“Avast!” cried the Colonel, as I was going out. “And why not?”
“If I show that I am not afraid of them, sir, they will think that youare the less so.”
“There you are for strategy, Gratiot,” said Colonel Clark, laughing.“Get out, you rascal.”
Tom was more concerned when I appeared.
“Don’t pester ‘em, Davy,” said he; “fer God’s sake don’t pester ‘em.They’re spoilin’ fer a fight. Stand back thar, ye critters,” he shouted,brandishing his rifle in their faces. “Ugh, I reckon it wouldn’t take ahorse or a dog to scent ye to-day. Rank b’ar’s oil! Kite along, Davy.”
Clutching the letter tightly, I slipped between the narrowed ranks,and gained the middle of the street, not without a quickened beat of myheart. Thence I sped, dodging this group and that, until I came tothe long log house that was called the garrison. Here our men werestationed, where formerly a squad from an English regiment wasquartered. I found Captain Bowman, delivered the letter, and startedback again through the brown, dusty street, which lay in the shade ofthe great forest trees that still lined it, doubling now and againto avoid an idling brave that looked bent upon mischief. For a singlemischance might set the tide running to massacre.
I was nearing the gate again, the dust flying from my moccasined feet,the sight of the stalwart Tom giving me courage again. Suddenly, withthe deftness of a panther, an Indian shot forward and lifted me highin his arms. To this day I recall my terror as I dangled in mid-air,staring into a hideous face. By intuition I kicked him in the stomachwith all my might, and with a howl of surprise and rage his fingersgripped into my flesh. The next thing I remember was being in the dust,suffocated by that odor which he who has known it can never forget.A medley of discordant cries was in my ears. Then I was snatched up,bumped against heads and shoulders, and deposited somewhere. Now it wasTom’s face that was close to mine, and the light of a fierce anger wasin his blue eyes.
“Did they hurt ye, Davy?” he asked.
I shook my head. Before I could speak he was at the gate again,confronting the mob of savages that swayed against the fence, and thestreet was filled with running figures. A voice of command that I knewwell came from behind me. It was Colonel Clark’s.
“Stay where you are, McChesney!” he shouted, and Tom halted with hishand on the latch.
“With your permission, I will speak to them,” said Monsieur Gratiot, whohad come out also.
I looked up at him, and he was as calm as when he had joked with me aquarter of an hour since.
“Very well,” said Clark, briefly.
Monsieur Gratiot surveyed them scornfully.
“Where is the Hungry Wolf, who speaks English?” he said.
There was a stir in the rear ranks, and a lean savage with abnormalcheek bones pushed forward.
“Hungry Wolf here,” he said with a grunt.
“The Hungry Wolf knew the French trader at Michilimackinac,” saidMonsieur Gratiot. “He knows that the French trader’s word is a trueword. Let the Hungry Wolf tell his companions that the Chief of the LongKnives is very angry.”
The Hungry Wolf turned, and began to speak. His words, hoarse andresonant, seemed to come from the depths of his body. Presently hepaused, and there came an answer from the fiend who had seized me. Afterthat there were many grunts, and the Hungry Wolf turned again.
“The North Wind mean no harm,” he answered. “He play with the son ofthe Great White Chief, and his belly is very sore where the Chief’s sonkicked him.”
“The Chief of the Long Knives will consider the offence,” said MonsieurGratiot, and retired into the house with Colonel Clark. For a fullfive minutes the Indians waited, impassive. And then Monsieur Gratiotreappeared, alone.
“The Chief of the Long Knives is mercifully inclined to forgive,” hesaid. “It was in play. But there must be no more play with the Chief’sson. And the path to the Great Chief’s presence must be kept clear.”
Again the Hungry Wolf translated. The North Wind grunted and departed insilence, followed by many of his friends. And indeed for a while afterthat the others kept a passage clear to the gate.
As for the son of the Great White Chief, he sat for a long time thatafternoon beside the truck patch of the house. And presently he slippedout by a byway into the street again, among the savages. His heart wasbumping in his throat, but a boyis
h reasoning told him that he must showno fear. And that day he found what his Colonel had long since learnedto be true--that in courage is the greater safety. The power of theGreat White Chief was such that he allowed his son to go forth alone,and feared not for his life. Even so Clark himself walked among them,nor looked to right or left.
Two nights Colonel Clark sat through, calling now on this man and nowon that, and conning the treaties which the English had made with thevarious tribes--ay, and French and Spanish treaties too--until he knewthem all by heart. There was no haste in what he did, no uneasinessin his manner. He listened to the advice of Monsieur Gratiot and otherCreole gentlemen of weight, to the Spanish officers who came in theirregimentals from St. Louis out of curiosity to see how this man wouldtreat with the tribes. For he spoke of his intentions to none of them,and gained the more respect by it. Within the week the council began;and the scene of the great drama was a field near the village, thebackground of forest trees. Few plays on the world’s stage have heldsuch suspense, few battles such excitement for those who watched. Herewas the spectacle of one strong man’s brain pitted against the combinedcraft of the wilderness. In the midst of a stretch of waving grass wasa table, and a young man of six-and-twenty sat there alone. Aroundhim were ringed the gathered tribes, each chief in the order of hisimportance squatted in the inner circle, their blankets making patchesof bright color against the green. Behind the tribes was the littlegroup of hunting shirts, the men leaning on the barrels of their longrifles, indolent but watchful. Here and there a gay uniform of a Spanishor Creole officer, and behind these all the population of the villagethat dared to show itself.
The ceremonies began with the kindling of the council fire,--a ritehanded down through unknown centuries of Indian usage. By it nations hadbeen made and unmade, broad lands passed, even as they now might pass.The yellow of its crackling flames was shamed by the summer sun, and theblack smoke of it was wafted by the south wind over the forest. Then forthree days the chiefs spoke, and a man listened, unmoved. The sound ofthese orations, wild and fearful to my boyish ear, comes back to me now.Yet there was a cadence in it, a music of notes now falling, now risingto a passion and intensity that thrilled us.
Bad birds flying through the land (the British agents) had besought themto take up the bloody hatchet. They had sinned. They had listened tothe lies which the bad birds had told of the Big Knives, they had takentheir presents. But now the Great Spirit in His wisdom had broughtthemselves and the Chief of the Big Knives together. Therefore (suitingthe action to the word) they stamped on the bloody belt, and rent inpieces the emblems of the White King across the water. So said theinterpreters, as the chiefs one after another tore the miniature Britishflags which had been given them into bits. On the evening of the thirdday the White Chief rose in his chair, gazing haughtily about him. Therewas a deep silence.
“Tell your chiefs,” he said, “tell your chiefs that to-morrow I willgive them an answer. And upon the manner in which they receive thatanswer depends the fate of your nations. Good night.”
They rose and, thronging around him, sought to take his hand. But Clarkturned from them.
“Peace is not yet come,” he said sternly. “It is time to take the handwhen the heart is given with it.”
A feathered headsman of one of the tribes gave back with dignity andspoke.
“It is well said by the Great Chief of the Pale Faces,” he answered;“these in truth are not the words of a man with a double tongue.”
So they sought their quarters for the night, and suspense hungbreathless over the village.
There were many callers at the stone house that evening,--Spanishofficers, Creole gentlemen, an English Canadian trader or two. With myelbow on the sill of the open window I watched them awhile, listeningwith a boy’s eagerness to what they had to say of the day’s doings.They disputed amongst themselves in various degrees of English as to themanner of treating the red man,--now gesticulating, now threatening,now seizing a rolled parchment treaty from the table. Clark sat alone, alittle apart, silent save a word now and then in a low tone to MonsieurGratiot or Captain Bowman. Here was an odd assortment of the races whichhad overrun the new world. At intervals some disputant would pause inhis talk to kill a mosquito or fight away a moth or a June-bug, butpresently the argument reached such a pitch that the mosquitoes fedundisturbed.
“You have done much, sir,” said the Spanish commandant of St. Louis,“but the savage, he will never be content without present. He will neverbe won without present.”
Clark was one of those men who are perforce listened to when they beginto speak.
“Captain de Leyba,” said he, “I know not what may be the present policyof his Spanish Majesty with McGillivray and his Creeks in the south, butthis I do believe,” and he brought down his fist among the papers, “thatthe old French and Spanish treaties were right in principle. Hereare copies of the English treaties that I have secured, and in themthousands of sovereigns have been thrown away. They are so much wastepaper. Gentlemen, the Indians are children. If you give them presents,they believe you to be afraid of them. I will deal with them withoutpresents; and if I had the gold of the Bank of England stored in thegarrison there, they should not touch a piece of it.”
But Captain de Leyba, incredulous, raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
“Por Dios,” he cried, “whoever hear of one man and fifty militiasubduing the northern tribes without a piastre?”
After a while the Colonel called me in, and sent me speeding across thelittle river with a note to a certain Mr. Brady, whose house was not faraway. Like many another citizen of Cahokia, Mr. Brady was terror-ridden.A party of young Puan bucks had decreed it to be their pleasure toencamp in Mr. Brady’s yard, to peer through the shutters into Mr.Brady’s house, to enjoy themselves by annoying Mr. Brady’s family andothers as much as possible. During the Indian occupation of Cahokia thisband had gained a well-deserved reputation for mischief; and chief amongthem was the North Wind himself, whom I had done the honor to kickin the stomach. To-night they had made a fire in this Mr. Brady’sflower-garden, over which they were cooking venison steaks. And, as Ireached the door, the North Wind spied me, grinned, rubbed his stomach,made a false dash at me that frightened me out of my wits, and finallywent through the pantomime of scalping me. I stood looking at him withmy legs apart, for the son of the Great Chief must not run away. AndI marked that the North Wind had two great ornamental daubs likeshutter-fastenings painted on his cheeks. I sniffed preparation, too,on his followers, and I was sure they were getting ready for some newdeviltry. I handed the note to Mr. Brady through the crack of the doorthat he vouchsafed to me, and when he had slammed and bolted me out, Iran into the street and stood for some time behind the trunk of a bighickory, watching the followers of the North Wind. Some were paintingthemselves, others cleaning their rifles and sharpening their scalpingknives. All jabbered unceasingly. Now and again a silent brave passed,paused a moment to survey them gravely, grunted an answer to somethingthey would fling at him, and went on. At length arrived three chiefswhom I knew to be high in the councils. The North Wind came out to them,and the four blanketed forms stood silhouetted between me and the firefor a quarter of an hour. By this time I was sure of a plot, and fledaway to another tree for fear of detection. At length stalked throughthe street the Hungry Wolf, the interpreter. I knew this man to befriendly to Clark, and I acted on impulse. He gave a grunt of surprisewhen I halted before him. I made up my mind.
“The son of the Great Chief knows that the Puans have wickedness intheir hearts to-night,” I said; “the tongue of the Hungry Wolf does notlie.”
The big Indian drew back with another grunt, and the distant firelightflashed on his eyes as on polished black flints.
“Umrrhh! Is the Pale Face Chief’s son a prophet?”
“The anger of the Pale Face Chief and of his countrymen is as thehurricane,” I said, scarce believing my own ears. For a lad is imitativeby nature, and I had not listened to the interpreters fo
r three dayswithout profit.
The Hungry Wolf grunted again, after which he was silent for a longtime. Then he said:--
“Let the Chief of the Long Knives have guard tonight.” And suddenly hewas gone into the darkness.
I waded the creek and sped to Clark. He was alone now, the shutters ofthe room closed. And as I came in I could scarce believe that he wasthe same masterful man I had seen at the council that day, and at theconference an hour gone. He was once more the friend at whose feet I satin private, who talked to me as a companion and a father.
“Where have you been, Davy?” he asked. And then, “What is it, my lad?”
I crept close to him and told him in a breathless undertone, and Iknew that I was shaking the while. He listened gravely, and when I hadfinished laid a firm hand on my head.
“There,” he said, “you are a brave lad, and a canny.”
He thought a minute, his hand still resting on my head, and then roseand led me to the back door of the house. It was near midnight, and thesounds of the place were stilling, the crickets chirping in the grass.
“Run to Captain Bowman and tell him to send ten men to this door. Butthey must come man by man, to escape detection. Do you understand?” Inodded and was starting, but he still held me. “God bless you, Davy, youare a brave boy.”
He closed the door softly and I sped away, my moccasins making nosound on the soft dirt. I reached the garrison, was challenged by JackTerrill, the guard, and brought by him to Bowman’s room. The Captainsat, undressed, at the edge of his bed. But he was a man of action, andstrode into the long room where his company was sleeping and gave hisorders without delay.
Half an hour later there was no light in the village. The Colonel’sheadquarters were dark, but in the kitchen a dozen tall men werewaiting.
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