by Jamie Carie
“You’re taking this mission pretty seriously,” Samuel said with quiet teasing.
“I am proving myself.” Isabelle looked up at him with something in her eyes that caused Samuel’s heart to race.
Inside the one-room church their eyes took a moment to adjust. The meager light, provided by two small windows, revealed a simple wooden platform and altar and four wooden pews on either side of a narrow aisle.
Father Gibault turned from his place at a low desk in the corner of the church as they entered. Isabelle made her way toward him, her sturdy boots ringing on the wood floor.
“Father Gibault?”
The man stood and smiled, reaching out his hands toward her. “You must be Isabelle Renoir,” he said with a proud grin and grasped her hands in welcome. Turning to Samuel and Julian, he repeated the action. “And you are Julian; I can see the family resemblance at once. But you, sir, do not look like the Indian described in the letter I received from Father Francis.”
Samuel shook hands with the man. “No sir, I am Samuel Holt. I met the Renoirs en route to Kaskaskia. Quiet Fox was guiding them but disappeared the morning after I joined the party.”
“Well, it was providential that you were there to help, was it not? We should thank the Father who watches out for all His children.” He smiled again and motioned them over to a shelf. With a grand sweep of his hand he indicated about ten small, ancient-looking books. “Father Francis’s books. I vow, I have been enjoying the use of them since they arrived and will miss them.”
Isabelle nodded. “Such a fine library. Father Francis will be so pleased they have arrived safely. And I am certain he will lend you some when you come to Vincennes.”
“Yes. I haven’t been to Vincennes in some time, but I should go. I should go,” he repeated, almost to himself. “Come though, you must all be tired, and hungry, eh?” He looked to Julian who was glaring expectantly at Samuel.
Father Gibault led them across the dirt street to a small but neat home. It was a typical bachelor’s dwelling that lacked the warmth of rugs, window coverings, or knickknacks, save an old, ornate clock that ticked loudly like a welcoming pet. There was plenty of food though, and the priest soon busied himself roasting ham over an open flame and served it with thick slices of bread, apples, and some early garden peas.
Samuel said, “I noticed the gate was unmanned when we came into the village.”
Father Gibault nodded. “We have little need for an active sentry.”
“That’s welcome news. I’ve just come up through Kentucky country where the Shawnee are attacking the settlers left and right. Have you had no problems with the Indians here?”
Father Gibault’s eyes lit with interest on Samuel. “We are British held. The Indians of this area are aligned with the British and so do us no harm.”
“But the citizens are French?”
“Yes, the British have mostly left us to ourselves. They’ve allowed us to keep our commander, de Rocheblave, a good man. But they’ve not given him much support. I daresay our little village is mostly forgotten by everyone save God.”
Samuel nodded. The intelligence Clark had received appeared accurate. Wanting to see more of the town, Samuel finished his meal, drank down his mug of water, and stood. “I would like to see the village, make some inquires into a trading business.”
“Are you a trader, then?” Father Gibault asked.
Samuel’s glance took in Julian’s stare. “Of a kind,” he replied simply.
Isabelle looked up from her plate. “I should like to see the village. Can I join you?”
“Isabelle,” Julian interrupted, “we have just arrived. Let Samuel go.”
The flat line of her mouth and glare she shot her brother made clear to all her feelings of being so commanded.
Samuel grinned. “She can come. I’m just having a look around.”
“Well, in that case, I should come too.”
The priest laughed as Julian pushed back from the table, all noticing Isabelle’s scowl.
* * *
CLARK MARCHED HIS men in a long, serpentine line through the tall grasses of an open field. Men who weeks ago couldn’t command their legs to walk for more than a few hours at a time now had taken on the appearance of a shabby but semi-disciplined force—raw recruits on their way to becoming soldiers. Like wild-eyed pirates united in the quest for treasure—filthy, reeking, and, more often than not, cursing or, in the next phrase, giving praise to God—these men were determined to become everything that their leader said they could be.
The journey from the Falls of the Ohio to Kaskaskia had taken ten days thus far and had not been without certain struggles. At the outset, one hundred and seventy-eight men had smeared mud on their faces, checked their weapons, and boarded the canoes that lined the banks of Corn Island. They hunkered down into the belly of the vessels, feeling the light summer breeze and the warmth of the sun on their faces, belying the dangers ahead. They paddled, scanning the riverbanks for movement, their long rifles trained and ready as they slipped through the British-controlled country toward Kaskaskia.
Then a sudden shadow had appeared overhead, as if a great bird had flown over them and blocked the sun. Clark looked up at the sound of the men gasping. It took a moment to comprehend what he was seeing, then his heart sped up. The sun was darkening, slice by slice, becoming black. The light around them turned a silver color that bathed his army’s stunned faces in an eerie glow.
“An eclipse,” Clark said, as if to himself, staring rapt at the phenomenon. He had read of such a thing but had never thought to see it. Clark tore his gaze away from the sight and scanned his troops. Many sat with their jaws open, terror in their eyes. All paddling had ceased, which caused the canoes to bunch up on one another. Then the sound of rushing water brought Clark to his feet.
“Men! The falls! Man your canoes!”
The men bent to their paddles, straining to see the bubbling head of the rapids ahead of them. A strange stillness descended on them as they crested the peak of water. Then, as if falling from a hilltop, they dropped, boat by boat, tilting over the edge into a frothy stream that carried them, splashing, into a river head pool below.
Clark demanded they keep rowing, not giving their imagination time to dwell upon the superstitious implications of the darkening sun.
Once the small flotilla rested in calmer waters, they stopped paddling and gazed skyward, where the sun was reappearing by slow degrees. The murmurs of the men now reached Clark’s ears.
“It’s a curse of God. A sign. We should turn back,” said a tall, lanky man.
“What if it’s a blessing?” said another.
“We’re cursed, I tell you. We’ll never beat those redcoats now. We have to turn back.”
“Perhaps the heavens stopped moving just to watch us,” another opined.
Clark’s gaze swept the men and saw that several were wide-eyed and fearful, others were agitated, and a few were looking for anyone to explain what they had never seen before.
He stood in his canoe as the waters around them calmed and waited until he held their attention. “It was merely an eclipse of the sun by the moon, my good men,” Clark assured them. “But let us not look to the right or to the left or even above us. You men are the future of this nation, and nothing, not even signs from the heavens, will detract us from our mission.”
There were a few cheers.
“We may see new things ahead, things that grip our hearts with fear. But mighty men see only their mission and their leader. Follow me. I will not lead you astray.”
That night several men deserted despite Clark’s assurances of faith and future victory. Clark remembered the Bible story of Gideon and how God commanded that Gideon’s army be winnowed to a mere three hundred men. Clark didn’t send a party out to find the deserters, though everything within insisted that he needed every man, every hand, every weapon. Instead, he decided that God had tested them, separating the mighty from those weak ones who might endang
er their mission with unbelief.
* * *
AT FORT MASSAC the army abandoned their boats. Clark would have preferred to travel from the old fort by way of the Mississippi up the Kaskaskia River. That would only require seven miles of riverboat travel, but the risks were simply too great. The river was being watched by the British, the Indians, and maybe even the Spanish. This part of the country was valuable for its rivers, meaning trade and commerce. Clark doubted the inhabitants of small, quiet communities like Kaskaskia, Vincennes, and Cahokia understood the value of their presence here. But the British knew. That was why they had built forts and stationed an army to control the trade and the flow of the river all the way from Detroit and the headwaters of the Great Lakes down to the Gulf of Mexico.
So instead Clark pushed his remaining men overland to Kaskaskia, a hundred-mile journey north through fields and bogs with little rest. One night, after the men had bedded down in the deep grass, Clark walked a little ways from the camp and soon found himself on one knee, his buckskin pants growing wet and soggy in the damp earth. He turned his face heavenward, toward the diamond-inlaid velvet of the night sky, knowing that the One who called this dazzling firmament into existence had also made him, for this time, for this purpose.
“Dear God, one hundred and fifty men. To take a kingdom. I’ll not do this alone!” he cried out, recognizing the utter hopelessness of his plan. “I can’t do this alone.” He bent his head over his raised knee, his breath coming in quick and short gasps, the night insects accompanying his prayer in song.
Now, after several days of marching, Clark surveyed his troops and couldn’t help but grin. They looked like a pack of dogs, rising up and wagging their tails at him, ready for adventure.
Clark was holding it all together with the strength of his voice and the cadence of his conviction. He had convinced them that they could walk on water, if need be, by the Great God of heaven who was on their side. He led his men at the head, sloughing through the mire of stagnant water and weeds, bugs and snakes and nettles attacking them, marching through swamp and prairie. The days were marked by blazing sun with little water, the moonlit nights by too little sleep.
When they lagged in strength, Clark instinctively knew it and called out in a bellowing voice, “Who will follow me, boys? Who will match my steps?”
And as one they would respond. “We will, Colonel Clark. The Long Knives will follow you anywhere!” Then and every time they said it, a feeling that it was true would rise up in their hearts to keep their feet moving forward. Somehow they all knew that, together, they could do anything their redheaded leader would demand of them.
They were sore and tired. They were poor and wretched—but invincible.
On July 4 they came upon the farmhouse located just three miles from their first target, the small but important fort of Kaskaskia, the old French capital of the Illinois country. But Clark hesitated to proceed until he heard from Samuel Holt. Where was he? He was concerned that his scout had run into trouble; it wasn’t like him to be anything less than efficient.
His men were crouched around him in the tall grass, listening to the crickets come out and watching the sun set on the horizon. Clark held his hand over his eyes, squinting as he scanned the area, weighing his decision whether to wait or proceed. The farmhouse was quiet, looked an easy target, but it would be far better to know the lay of the land. So they waited.
Then a flash of light caused Clark’s face to break into a big grin. Samuel was running around the edge of the farm toward them, signaling with a mirror as he ran. The ragtag soldiers waited, quiet and intense, as Samuel tore across the flat field at an unbelievable gait. The sun was now low in the sky, the wind whipping about them, cooling their sweat-soaked faces and necks.
“I think they’re at supper,” Samuel said, panting, stopping in front of his commander and saluting with a big grin.
“So that’s where you’ve been. Filling your stomach on enemy fare.”
Samuel shrugged. “Mrs. Coffman’s a fair hand in the kitchen. Shall we join them?”
Clark nodded, smiling, looking around at the excitement on the men’s faces. “Do you think they’ll have enough?”
“I think they may be able to scrounge something up for Lt. Colonel Clark and his army when they see your grand forces.”
Clark laughed. “What have you learned?”
“They’re a friendly sort. Kept me and a couple of new friends for the night last evening.”
“New friends and nice meals … you have been on holiday out here, Samuel. Have you learned anything to help my army?”
Samuel grasped Clark’s shoulder, his eyes suddenly intense. “Aye. We should meet little resistance in Kaskaskia. The fort is just as the hunters said, held by few militia and fewer weapons. The town is almost … sleepy.”
“That is good news. And de Rocheblave?”
“Having dinner with the town’s doctor when I left. He was very friendly toward me and gave me free reign to trade in Kaskaskia.”
“So you were a trader this time, eh?”
“A trader with a wife and brother-in-law in tow.” Samuel shook his head. “A story for another time.”
Clark nodded, mischievous interest in his eyes, “A wife, eh? I won’t forget to hear that tale.” Turning toward his men he ordered them into marching lines. With a signal from his hand, they marched.
The farmhouse was large, with several outbuildings housing animals and grain. It had a large well, thank God, and a spring-house providing more water and a place to keep things cool. It was the perfect jumping-off point for the coming assault.
Clark had the men silently fan out and surround the place while he and Samuel strode to the front door. They knocked, then stood and waited, still and polite.
Henry Coffman opened the door, took in Samuel and his commander, and with terror mounting on his face, gazed over their shoulders to the army surrounding them. He backed up, his arms outstretched as if to ward them off. “What is this, Mr. Holt?” he sputtered in anger, confusion, and fear. “Please, don’t kill us.”
Clark and Samuel entered, guns resting easy and ready in hand for effect. Clark said, “We’re not here to spill the blood of good citizens, sir. Only to commandeer this residence, temporarily, for my men.”
The man had backed into the table where his wife sat unable to move, both looking to Samuel to explain. Clark removed his hat. Samuel followed suit. “We’ve need of water, some food if you have it, and a few hours’ rest. We’ll not molest your family if you cooperate.”
The man glared at Samuel. “You were spying on us?”
Samuel nodded but kept his stern demeanor. “You’ll come to no harm, Henry. This is Colonel Clark. We are of the Americans, Illinois Regiment of Virginia.”
Missy gasped and put her hands to her face, a whispered phrase escaping her lips, “The Long Knives.”
Henry looked frightened anew, sinking back into his bones, pointing to his yard and nodding. “Take anything you need, Colonel Clark, anything at all.”
“My thanks.” Clark nodded his head at the man and then his wife. To Samuel he murmured, “Secure any weapons and see that they stay inside.”
Samuel nodded once and retrieved the rifle above the fireplace. As Clark stepped outside to take care of the army, Samuel silently gathered all the weapons in the house, then stood by the window, waiting for Clark’s signal.
Missy rose and hurried to the stove to cook for them. “But Mr. Holt, where is your wife and her brother?”
Samuel glanced at the woman and grimaced. “She is not my wife, ma’am. I’m truly sorry for the deception, but . . . it seemed the best course at the time.”
Missy was staring at him wide-eyed, most likely remembering putting them up together in the attic. “Oh.” Her round cheeks were pink.
“I feel cheated.” Henry glared at him. “Why did you lie?”
Samuel gave him a hard look. “I didn’t know who lived here, where your alliances might lie, and I c
ouldn’t risk others hearing about what was to come. There are things going on here that you have little understanding of. You will just have to trust me.”
“As if I have a choice,” muttered Henry, looking at his hands.
Samuel just nodded at him and returned to watching the men as they settled into camp. Missy would feed and house the officers, but the others would cook on small fires hidden by the house and then lay low for a few hours while they awaited the cover of night.
* * *
IT WAS DARK now, almost dawn. The men were fed, rested, and ready.
Ready for their first battle of the campaign.
Suppressed excitement held their faces, their bodies straining to keep the slow, steady pace Clark demanded as he led them toward the fort, just three miles away.
After crossing the river, the company made its way up the banks of the river to the edge of town. Splitting the men into two groups, Clark, Samuel, and a few hand-picked men bore down upon the fort. They crept up to the unmanned gate, entering the enclosure without being challenged by so much as a sentry. Samuel hand signaled to Clark the location of the commander’s house, dark and silent as the rest of the buildings lining the small, narrow street. A small armed contingency first surrounded the house and then quietly broke the latch on the front door.
Clark led his men inside. “Commander de Rocheblave,” he said as the door slammed open against the wall, “your fort has been surrounded by the Americans, and we request your immediate surrender.” Clark stated the fact almost politely.
The couple sat up in their bed, an abrupt movement of covers and clenched jaws. The wife clutched the covers to her chin, her cap askew. De Rocheblave’s mouth opened and closed a moment before he snapped it shut and lifted his chin. “Who are you, sir? What is the meaning of this?”
Clark lifted the brim of his hat and grinned. “Colonel George Rogers Clark of the American army. Glad to make your acquaintance.” He laughed, low and deep, seeming to enjoy the scene. “I am here to take over your fort. This is American country now.”
