by Jamie Carie
The man looked ready to argue, then heaved a big breath and nodded. “Personne ne sait qui le possède.”
At Clark’s puzzled brow he interpreted. “I only said that no one knows who owns it. But for now, yes, it appears the Americans have it. What will you do with our town, George Rogers Clark?”
George’s face lit up with the question. “Why, open up the territory for hardworking folk. Now, if you and the missus wouldn’t mind getting dressed, we’ll see to the business of it, shall we?”
It didn’t take long for Clark to have the town under his control. A Frenchman in the company was assigned the task of raising the alarm to the townsfolk by shouting throughout the streets of Kaskaskia that it had been taken and ordering the good people of the village, on the pain of death, to remain indoors. Before the first rays of daylight, the people were disarmed and fearful of their fate.
* * *
“CITIZENS OF KASKASKIA,” a French voice shouted in the street just feet from the window Isabelle was sleeping next to. “Stay in your homes where it is safe. The Americans have taken the city.”
Isabelle reared up, clutching the thin blanket at her waist, straining to hear anything else. The man repeated the phrase in various ways, but the message was clear: Do not raise arms against the Americans.
The Long Knives, as they were called, had taken the fort.
8
Isabelle pressed her ear against the bedroom door trying without success to hear what the soldiers were saying to Father Gibault. She eased the door open a crack, and, still standing in her nightgown, her toes curled into the wood floor, she peered out.
“The colonel would like to meet with all the leaders of the community,” a tall, rough-clad officer was saying.
Father Gibault nodded, wrapping his sash about his priest’s tunic. “Who has taken the city?” There was a quiver in his voice.
Isabelle strained to hear the answer.
“Colonel George Rogers Clark and the Americans, sir.”
Father Gibault’s head jerked up to look at the man, and Isabelle gasped.
The Long Knives.
She had heard stories of their brutality, a bribe mothers used to coerce obedience from their children. “You’d better get yourself inside or the Long Knives will get ya.” Or, “Best eat all that dinner afore the Long Knives come to eat it up and you with it.” Her own mother had never stooped to such levels, but Isabelle had heard the stories.
She watched as the priest followed the soldier out, then shut the bedroom door and gathered her clothing. Julian was still asleep on the floor, so she slipped quietly into her dress, knowing that if she woke him he would try to keep her from following Father Gibault. Taking up her rifle, which had been hidden under the covers with her during the night, she looked one last time at Julian and left the room.
The first rays of sun were brightening the sky. The air was sweet, with a breeze that blew her long, unbound hair into her face. Isabelle thought she should have taken time to stuff it under a bonnet, but little matter now. Skirting the edges of the buildings that made up the main street, she made her way to the center of town where a crowd of men had gathered. They were mumbling quietly, eyes darting here and there, feet shuffling, clothing in disarray from the hurry and panic of this meeting. Isabelle spotted Father Gibault near the front. He was turned away from her and talking to several men, gesturing with sweeping motions of his hands and an intense look in his eyes.
A tall, redheaded man came out of the trading post with three other men flanking him. He wore buckskins from head to toe, the color of honey with fringe swaying as he walked. He was quite tall, but there was something in his carriage that made him seem enormous. A rare authority sat upon his shoulders, lending him the air of a king. King of the Long Knives.
Isabelle’s breathing caught in awe as the colonel towered over the men from the porch of the trading post.
One man cried out in a loud voice, “Don’t kill us! Let us be your slaves, lord.”
Isabelle bit down on her bottom lip, straining to hear but unable to make out more than the sounds of the citizenry begging for mercy. Crouching down, she crept to a tall water barrel and hunkered behind it. Another sideways dodge and she was barely hidden behind the doctor’s front-porch pillar and a wooden rocking chair. Peeking between the slats in the chair she could now see and hear.
“Citizens of Kaskaskia,” the colonel began in the pained voice of one offended, “I am mortified to learn of your low opinion of the Americans. We do not come to enslave, but to set free. You have heard tales that are false. Let me tell you the truth of the Americans.”
Isabelle listened in growing astonishment as Clark declared that the Americans were taking the fort from the British. They intended to stop the bloodshed by the Indians of the Illinois country and Kentucky, and they hoped to break the alliance between the British and the Indians. He explained that the Americans—yes, the Long Knives—were here to free the people of Kaskaskia from British tyranny to live the life of their hearts in this new land where anything was possible.
Isabelle strained to see the faces of the French citizens. They had been shocked into silence. Rising before she had time to really consider what she was doing, she moved closer, dashing toward a watering trough right next to Clark.
His gaze swung to her, piercing blue, full of fire and ice, outrage, and weighing judgment. Isabelle froze, still crouched, grasping her weapon in her right hand with a terrorized grip. All eyes turned toward her. Suddenly a man materialized from Clark’s side and she lifted her gaze into the point of a rifle, her rifle being torn from her grasp.
“Isabelle?”
Isabelle looked up from the rifle into the eyes of Samuel Holt. Exhaling with relief, she gave him a tight smile. “I’m … sorry?”
Samuel hauled her to her feet and marched her over to Clark, where she stood with her hair blowing around her shoulders and into her face like a great black veil. With her right hand she held her hair back from her face and lifted her eyes to Clark’s.
“What do we have here, Sam? This wouldn’t be your wife, would it?”
He said it low, and Isabelle thought that possibly no one else had heard him, but it so infuriated her that she kicked out at Samuel’s shins and hissed at the colonel, “I’m no wife of his, sir.”
“Then why aren’t you with the other obedient citizens who are waiting patiently in their houses?” Clark demanded.
Isabelle took a breath, started to speak, then changed her mind and admitted with a resigned tone, “I’ve always had somewhat of a problem with obedience, sir.”
Clark looked shocked for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “Take her to my headquarters, Samuel. I think we can come up with some practice lessons for her, don’t you?”
Samuel nodded, scowling at her for the kick. With a tight grip on her upper arm and her rifle gripped in the other, he pulled her along to the doctor’s house where Clark had set up his office. Once inside Isabelle turned on him, hackles raised and fluttering.
“You’re with them? You are one of the Americans.”
Samuel gave her a quick nod, staring hard at her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t. It was a scouting mission, Isabelle.”
“So you used us, Julian and me, as a front.” She stopped suddenly, eyes widening. “That’s why you told those people we were married!”
Samuel had the decency to flush and shrug one shoulder. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”
“How convenient for you.”
“I’m sorry.”
Isabelle stared out the window at the men still listening to Clark. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“So what are you going to do now? Or is that a secret too?”
“Isabelle …” Samuel sighed. “I am sorry.”
Isabelle turned away from the sight of this tall and handsome scout. She didn’t want to soften. S
he was confused by the events and didn’t know what to think of them. “Will they let Julian and me go? We were planning to head back to Vincennes today.”
Samuel stepped closer, standing just behind her shoulders, leaning toward her head a little. “I don’t know. I’ll speak with Clark about it.”
She turned, looking up into his eyes, studying his face for truth. “He doesn’t really plan to keep me here and teach me a lesson, does he?”
Samuel grinned, looking at her mouth. “I won’t let him torture you.”
“Hmph. That’s not likely, in any case.”
“Do you fear nothing?” he asked in a soft whisper.
“I heard what he said. He wants peace. And … and freedom.” She smiled at him, her voice lowering. “There is only one thing I fear.”
“What is that?”
She debated, staring into his eyes, wanting him to read the answer inside hers, to see her hopes and fears where he was concerned.
She was saved from having to answer by Clark walking in the door and chuckling. “Am I interrupting something, Samuel?”
Samuel turned and gave his colonel a slow smile. “Would that you were.” Bringing Isabelle forward, her waist in his grasp, he introduced her. “This is Isabelle Renoir. From Vincennes.”
Interest lit Clark’s eyes. “And what is the lovely lady doing in Kaskaskia?”
Isabelle swallowed past the lump in her throat and chose to answer for herself. “I’m on an errand of books, sir. My priest sent me and my brother to fetch them from Father Gibault.”
“Hmm. A good man, Father Gibault, I think.” He looked thoughtful as if no longer in the room with them. Then his gaze suddenly locked with Isabelle’s. “How is it, miss, that you remained armed when my men checked the houses for weapons?”
Isabelle shrugged, unable to help the smile that curved her lips. “I doubt they checked the priest’s house.” She paused, looking to Samuel. “Besides, I sleep with my rifle. They wouldn’t check a lone woman’s bed, would they?”
Clark laughed, and Samuel scowled. “A worthy quality in a wife, I’d say. I think you might consider making it permanent.”
Samuel ignored the comment. “She and her brother plan to leave with the books for Vincennes tomorrow. I’m thinking of accompanying them.”
Clark nodded, thoughtful. “A worthy ruse.”
Isabelle took a step forward. “You’ll not use my brother and me again for spying. Do you intend to go after Vincennes next?”
Samuel put his hand on his hip. “Have no fear. We will not travel as a married couple this time. I will merely be your guide.”
“We can take care of ourselves.”
Clark smiled. “Perhaps.” He nodded, looking out the far window of the house, looking lost in sudden, intense thought. Then he turned his gaze back to her, so blue and reading every nuance of her response. “But can you be trusted with such knowledge? Do you understand what we are about here, Miss Renoir?” Clark’s face was suddenly grave and intense.
“I will not be detained, sir. I am on a mission of old and musty books, nothing else. I will speak of nothing else.” She paused, looking into these two faces, bold and daring, sure and strong … and something else—something that told her this was important, that something vast and beyond her understanding was happening. She gripped her skirt by both sides, imbuing her words with passion. “But no, to answer your question, I don’t really know what the Long Knives want with our little towns.”
Clark walked over, poured her a drink of water from a pitcher, and bade her sit down. “Mayhap I can enlighten you.”
That he was taking the time and effort to explain it to her, a woman, and not even a citizen of this place, had her sinking into a chair, grasping the water glass in a tight fist, looking up into the colonel’s taut face as he told her about the Americans and their fight for freedom. As he explained it in his eloquent way, she found herself engulfed, overcome with emotions that she had not known she’d suppressed. This man, George Rogers Clark, spoke of a new land where any cost for this vision of freedom was small and light. He spoke of it like a deliverance, from monarch on foreign soil, from attack by enemies seen and unseen, to a place like … heaven.
Isabelle found it hard to breathe as she listened, everything else forgotten as he spoke into the room, his words resounding. They bounced about her, ideas unformed, but some internal knowing rising up to say that he was right. She found herself nodding and agreeing, willing to put to use any skill she might have for his cause. What if he was right? What if this land was meant for something greater than these European countries were scrabbling at? What if, as Americans, they were meant for more?
She found her heart shouting a resounding “yes!”. She found, within this man’s impassioned speech, a new purpose.
9
Julian and Isabelle, along with the whole town, had bowed on one knee and sworn allegiance to the Americans and the ideals of American freedom. Then it was decided that Samuel would guide brother and sister back to Vincennes.
It was early afternoon on the second day of the return journey, with sun rays pervading the shade of the leaves overhead, lighting their path through the woods and making it dappled with shade and light, that the three of them happened upon a cabin in a little clearing. Twin, giant oak trees stood sentry on either side. A swing hung from each tree’s sturdiest branch, swaying, empty in the summer breeze.
“Look, they have a well,” Julian pointed out, relief in his voice. “Maybe they will be kind enough to feed us too.”
Samuel nodded, scanning the area and committing the lay of the land to memory. It was a small cabin, typical in its lonely simplicity. A rough-hewn door hung on leather hinges and fitted in the hole none too well. Two windows were cut, rough and ragged, on each side of the door that, in the middle of summer, was open and without their winter paper to seal out the cold. At night the family might hang mosquito netting over the windows to keep out the insects. Then again, maybe not. Netting could be hard to come by and a luxury not afforded these folks.
Samuel thought of his home in Virginia, where his family owned a tobacco plantation. Their house was a white stone mansion that sparkled in the sun and could be seen from a mile away amid its setting of lush poplars. His sisters were the beauties of the county, and his mother reigned as social queen in nearby Williamsburg. Theirs was the life of the English gentry, an imitation of worldly prosperity. But Samuel had been bored and restless with it all and, after signing on with General Washington, had few occasions of looking back. It hadn’t taken long for the life of a soldier, then a frontiersman, to latch onto him, body and soul, stirring him to life abundant.
As they approached this home on the outskirts of nowhere, Samuel acknowledged to himself that he would be happier here in this meager cabin in the woods, with its smoke-spitting stove and paper windows, than back in the tight-noosed whirl of Virginian society.
A little boy of about six suddenly ran out the door, shrieking with laughter. Two other boys, each looking two years older than the last, barreled out behind him, yelling and chasing each other with whittled wooden rifles. When they saw Samuel and then Isabelle and Julian, the boys came to a collective stop and shyly stood and stared.
A woman’s voice called out from within the cabin. Then she appeared in the open doorway, a tall, thin woman with dark-blonde hair.
“Thomas, Eli—” she called, then stopped, suddenly seeing the strangers. Her hand went to her hair, trying to catch up wisps that had fallen out of the loose bun she wore. Her face was pretty but looking older than it should. She stepped out into the light with a wary but friendly smile. “Good day to you.”
Samuel nodded his head, quickly closing the gap, respect in every step he took across the cool, green grass. He knew this kind of woman, had seen her type a hundred times, and still it brought a response from deep within him. He swept his hat from his head and clutched it to his chest as he said, “Good day, ma’am. We’re traveling to Vincennes and wondered i
f you might spare some water. The name’s Samuel Holt.” Samuel held out his hand to the woman, who smiled very prettily at him and shook it. “Naomi Lynn, sir.”
Isabelle stepped forward. “Hello, I’m Isabelle Renoir, and this is my brother, Julian.”
The woman nodded politely to them, her gaze returning to Samuel. “My husband’s just come in for the noon meal. Please, join us.” She turned back to the house, waving for them to follow her. “We have a watering trough for your horse at the barn.” She must have noticed the surprisingly good horseflesh Father Gibault had loaned them to carry the books. “Boys, water Mr. Holt’s horse, then go and fetch more wood from the woodpile,” she said to the wide-eyed threesome. “And don’t dally. Dinner is nearly ready.”
A tall, lean man, wearing a faded calico shirt that matched his wife’s skirt, introduced himself as Jake Lynn. Inside were two daughters—Rose, a cherubic three-year-old with chubby cheeks and round, brown ringlets, and Millie, tall and solemn like her father, the eldest, who looked up from her chore of setting the table and stared at the visitors.
Samuel learned that Jake was an American sympathizer and began a scout’s discussion as to the state of the fort and the Indians in the area. The family had not yet heard of the capture of Kaskaskia nor of George Rogers Clark.
“The British have been taking great pains to stir up the French against the Americans for some time. But I reckon the French pay little heed to them. As long as they can trade and live the way they want, they don’t much care who is running the forts.”
Samuel nodded. “And the Indians. Have they been peaceable here?”
Jake lowered his voice and leaned in a little. “You never can tell what they’re up to; that’s the only certainty with them. No trouble lately, but we live close to our rifles.”
“Yes.” Samuel grinned at the little girl, Rose, who was staring at him with big, round eyes from across the table. His own daughter’s infant face flashed across his mind, then he quickly moved beyond it. “You’ve a nice family, Mr. Lynn. The farming good here?”
