"If I am obliged to storm, you may depend upon such treatment as is
justly due to a murderer. And beware of destroying stores of any kind,
or any papers or letters that are in your possession; or of hurting one
house in the town. For, by Heaven! if you do, there shall be no mercy
shown you.
"To Lieutenant-Governor Hamilton."
So read Colonel Clark, as he stood before the log fire in Monsieur
Bouton's house at the back of the town, the captains grouped in front of
him.
"Is that strong enough, gentlemen?" he asked.
"To raise his hair," said Captain Charleville.
Captain Bowman laughed loudly.
"I reckon the boys will see to that," said he.
Colonel Clark folded the letter, addressed it, and turned gravely to
Monsieur Bouton.
"You will oblige me, sir," said he, "by taking this to Governor Hamilton.
You will be provided with a flag of truce."
Monsieur Bouton was a round little man, as his name suggested, and the
men cheered him as he strode soberly up the street, a piece of sheeting
tied to a sapling and flung over his shoulder. Through such humble
agencies are the ends of Providence accomplished. Monsieur Bouton walked
up to the gate, disappeared sidewise through the postern, and we sat down
to breakfast. In a very short time Monsieur Bouton was seen coming back,
and his face was not so impassive that the governors message could not be
read thereon.
"'Tis not a love-letter he has, I'll warrant," said Terence, as the
little man disappeared into the house. So accurately had Monsieur
Bouton's face betrayed the news that the men went back to their posts
without orders, some with half a breakfast in hand. And soon the rank
and file had the message.
"Lieutenant-Governor Hamilton begs leave to acquaint Colonel Clark that
he and his garrison are not disposed to be awed into any action unworthy
of British subjects."
Our men had eaten, their enemy was within their grasp and Clark and all
his officers could scarce keep them from storming. Such was the
deadliness of their aim that scarce a shot came back, and time and again
I saw men fling themselves in front of the breastworks with a war-whoop,
wave their rifles in the air, and cry out that they would have the Ha'r
Buyer's sculp before night should fall. It could not last. Not tuned to
the nicer courtesies of warfare, the memory of Hamilton's war parties, of
blackened homes, of families dead and missing, raged unappeased. These
were not content to leave vengeance in the Lord's hands, and when a white
flag peeped timorously above the gate a great yell of derision went up
from river-bank to river-bank. Out of the postern stepped the officer
with the faded scarlet coat, and in due time went back again, haughtily,
his head high, casting contempt right and left of him. Again the postern
opened, and this time there was a cheer at sight of a man in hunting
shirt and leggings and coonskin cap. After him came a certain Major Hay,
Indian-enticer of detested memory, the lieutenant of him who
followed--the Hair Buyer himself. A murmur of hatred arose from the men
stationed there; and many would have shot him where he stood but for
Clark.
"The devil has the grit," said Cowan, though his eyes blazed.
It was the involuntary tribute. Lieutenant-Governor Hamilton stared
indifferently at the glowering backwoodsmen as he walked the few steps to
the church. Not so Major Hay. His eyes fell. There was Colonel Clark
waiting at the door through which the good Creoles had been wont to go to
worship, bowing somewhat ironically to the British General. It was a
strange meeting they had in St. Xavier's, by the light of the candles on
the altar. Hot words passed in that house of peace, the General
demanding protection for all his men, and our Colonel replying that he
would do with the Indian partisans as he chose.
"And whom mean you by Indian partisans?" the undaunted governor had
demanded.
"I take Major Hay to be one of them," our Colonel had answered.
It was soon a matter of common report how Clark had gazed fixedly at the
Major when he said this, and how the Major turned pale and trembled.
With our own eyes we saw them coming out, Major Hay as near to staggering
as a man could be, the governor blushing red for shame of him. So they
went sorrowfully back to the gate.
Colonel Clark stood at the steps of the church, looking after them.
"What was that firing?" he demanded sharply. "I gave orders for a
truce."
We who stood by the church had indeed heard firing in the direction of
the hills east of the town, and had wondered thereat. Perceiving a crowd
gathered at the far end of the street, we all ran thither save the
Colonel, who directed to have the offenders brought to him at Monsieur
Bouton's. We met the news halfway. A party of Canadians and Indians had
just returned from the Falls of the Ohio with scalps they had taken.
Captain Williams had gone out with his company to meet them, had lured
them on, and finally had killed a number and was returning with the
prisoners. Yes, here they were! Williams himself walked ahead with two
dishevelled and frightened coureurs du bois, twoscore at least of the
townspeople of Vincennes, friends and relatives of the prisoners,
pressing about and crying out to Williams to have mercy on them. As for
Williams, he took them in to the Colonel, the townspeople pressing into
the door-yard and banking in front of it on the street. Behind all a
tragedy impended, nor can I think of it now without sickening.
The frightened Creoles in the street gave back against the fence, and
from behind them, issuing as a storm-cloud came the half of Williams'
company, yelling like madmen. Pushed and jostled ahead of them were four
Indians decked and feathered, the half-dried scalps dangling from their
belts, impassive, true to their creed despite the indignity of jolts and
jars and blows. On and on pressed the mob, gathering recruits at every
corner, and when they reached St. Xavier's before the fort half the
regiment was there. Others watched, too, from the stockade, and what
they saw made their knees smite together with fear. Here were four
bronzed statues in a row across the street, the space in front of them
clear that their partisans in the fort might look and consider. What was
passing in the savage mind no man might know. Not a lip trembled nor an
eye faltered when a backwoodsman, his memory aflame at sight of the
pitiful white scalps on their belts, thrust through the crowd to curse
them. Fletcher Blount, frenzied, snatched his tomahawk from his side.
"Sink, varmint!" he cried with a great oath. "By the etarnal! we'll pay
the H'ar Buyer in his own coin. Sound your drums!" he shouted at the
fort. "Call the garrison fer the show."
He had raised his arm and turned to strike when the savage put up his
hand, not in entreaty, but as one man demanding a right from another.
The cries, the curses, the murmurs even, were hushed. Throwing back his
head, arching his chest, the notes of a song rose in the heavy air.
Wild, strange notes they were, that struck vibrant chords in my own
quivering being, and the song was the death-song. Ay, and the life-song
of a soul which had come into the world even as mine own. And somewhere
there lay in the song, half revealed, the awful mystery of that Creator
Whom the soul leaped forth to meet: the myriad green of the sun playing
with the leaves, the fish swimming lazily in the brown pool, the doe
grazing in the thicket, and a naked boy as free from care as these; and
still the life grows brighter as strength comes, and stature, and power
over man and beast; and then, God knows what memories of fierce love and
fiercer wars and triumphs, of desires gained and enemies conquered,--God,
who has made all lives akin to something which He holds in the hollow of
His hand; and then--the rain beating on the forest crown, beating,
beating, beating.
The song ceased. The Indian knelt in the black mud, not at the feet of
Fletcher Blount, but on the threshold of the Great Spirit who ruleth all
things. The axe fell, yet he uttered no cry as he went before his
Master.
So the four sang, each in turn, and died in the sight of some who pitied,
and some who feared, and some who hated, for the sake of land and women.
So the four went beyond the power of gold and gewgaw, and were dragged in
the mire around the walls and flung into the yellow waters of the river.
Through the dreary afternoon the men lounged about and cursed the parley,
and hearkened for the tattoo,--the signal agreed upon by the leaders to
begin the fighting. There had been no command against taunts and jeers,
and they gathered in groups under the walls to indulge themselves, and
even tried to bribe me as I sat braced against a house with my drum
between my knees and the sticks clutched tightly in my hands.
"Here's a Spanish dollar for a couple o' taps, Davy," shouted Jack
Terrell.
"Come on, ye pack of Rebel cutthroats!" yelled a man on the wall.
He was answered by a torrent of imprecations. And so they flung it back
and forth until nightfall, when out comes the same faded-scarlet officer,
holding a letter in his hand, and marches down the street to Monsieur
Bouton's. There would be no storming now, nor any man suffered to lay
fingers on the Hair Buyer. * * * * * * *
I remember, in particular, Hamilton the Hair Buyer. Not the fiend my
imagination had depicted (I have since learned that most villains do not
look the part), but a man with a great sorrow stamped upon his face. The
sun rose on that 25th of February, and the mud melted, and one of our
companies drew up on each side of the gate. Downward slid the lion of
England, the garrison drums beat a dirge, and the Hair Buyer marched out
at the head of his motley troops.
Then came my own greatest hour. All morning I had been polishing and
tightening the drum, and my pride was so great as we fell into line that
so much as a smile could not be got out of me. Picture it all:
Vincennes in black and white by reason of the bright day; eaves and
gables, stockade line and capped towers, sharply drawn, and straight
above these a stark flagstaff waiting for our colors; pigs and fowls
straying hither and thither, unmindful that this day is red on the
calendar. Ah! here is a bit of color, too,--the villagers on the side
streets to see the spectacle. Gay wools and gayer handkerchiefs there,
amid the joyous, cheering crowd of thrice-changed nationality.
"Vive les Bostonnais! Vive les Americains! Vive Monsieur le Colonel
Clark! Vive le petit tambour!"
"Vive le petit tambour!" That was the drummer boy, stepping proudly
behind the Colonel himself, with a soul lifted high above mire and puddle
into the blue above. There was laughter amongst the giants behind me,
and Cowan saying softly, as when we left Kaskaskia, "Go it, Davy, my
little gamecock!" And the whisper of it was repeated among the ranks
drawn up by the gate.
Yes, here was the gate, and now we were in the fort, and an empire was
gained, never to be lost again. The Stars and Stripes climbed the staff,
and the folds were caught by an eager breeze. Thirteen cannon thundered
from the blockhouses--one for each colony that had braved a king.
There, in the miry square within the Vincennes fort, thin and bronzed and
travel-stained, were the men who had dared the wilderness in ugliest
mood. And yet none by himself would have done it--each had come here
compelled by a spirit stronger than his own, by a master mind that
laughed at the body and its ailments.
Colonel George Rogers Clark stood in the centre of the square, under the
flag to whose renown he had added three stars. Straight he was, and
square, and self-contained. No weakening tremor of exultation softened
his face as he looked upon the men by whose endurance he had been able to
do this thing. He waited until the white smoke of the last gun had
drifted away on the breeze, until the snapping of the flag and the
distant village sounds alone broke the stillness.
"We have not suffered all things for a reward," he said, "but because a
righteous cause may grow. And though our names may be forgotten, our
deeds will be remembered. We have conquered a vast land that our
children and our children's children may be freed from tyranny, and we
have brought a just vengeance upon our enemies. I thank you, one and
all, in the name of the Continental Congress and of that Commonwealth of
Virginia for which you have fought. You are no longer Virginians,
Kentuckians, Kaskaskians, and Cahokians--you are Americans."
He paused, and we were silent. Though his words moved us strongly, they
were beyond us.
"I mention no deeds of heroism, of unselfishness, of lives saved at the
peril of others. But I am the debtor of every man here for the years to
come to see that he and his family have justice from the Commonwealth and
the nation."
Again he stopped, and it seemed to us watching that he smiled a little.
"I shall name one," he said, "one who never lagged, who never complained,
who starved that the weak might be fed and walk. David Ritchie, come
here."
I trembled, my teeth chattered as the water had never made them chatter.
I believe I should have fallen but for Tom, who reached out from the
ranks. I stumbled forward in a daze to where the Colonel stood, and the
cheering from the ranks was a thing beyond me. The Colonel's hand on my
head brought me to my senses.
"David Ritchie," he said, "I give you publicly the thanks of the
regiment. The parade is dismissed."
The next thing I knew I was on Cowan's shoulders, and he was tearing
round and round the fort with two companies at his heels.
"The divil," said Terence McCann, "he dhrummed us over the wather, an'
through the wather; and faix, he would have dhrummed the sculp from
Hamilton's head and the Colonel had said the worrd."
"By gar!" cried Antoine le Gris, "now he drum us on to Detroit."
Out of the gate rushed Cowan, the frightened villagers scattering right
and left. Antoine had a friend who lived in this street, and in ten
minutes there was rum in the powder-horns, and the toast was "On to
Detroit!"
Colonel Clark was sitting alone in the commanding officer's room of the
garrison. And the afternoon sun, slanting through the square of the
window, fell upon the maps and papers before him. He had sent for me. I
halted in sheer embarrassment on the threshold, looked up at his face,
and came on, troubled.
"Davy," he said, "do you want to go back to Kentucky?"
"I should like to stay to the end, Colonel," I answered.
"The end?" he said. "This is the end."
"And Detroit, sir?" I returned.
"Detroit!" he cried bitterly, "a man of sense measures his force, and
does not try the impossible. I could as soon march against Philadelphia.
This is the end, I say; and the general must give way to the politician.
And may God have mercy on the politician who will try to keep a people's
affection without money or help from Congress."
He fell back wearily in his chair, while I stood astonished, wondering.
I had thought to find him elated with victory.
"Congress or Virginia," said he, "will have to pay Monsieur Vigo, and
Father Gibault, and Monsieur Gratiot, and the other good people who have
trusted me. Do you think they will do so?"
"The Congress are far from here," I said.
"Ay," he answered, "too far to care about you and me, and what we have
suffered."
He ended abruptly, and sat for a while staring out of the window at the
figures crossing and recrossing the muddy parade-ground.
"Tom McChesney goes to-night to Kentucky with letters to the county
lieutenant. You are to go with him, and then I shall have no one to
remind me when I am hungry, and bring me hominy. I shall have no
financier, no strategist for a tight place." He smiled a little, sadly,
at my sorrowful look, and then drew me to him and patted my shoulder.
"It is no place for a young lad,--an idle garrison. I think," he
continued presently, "I think you have a future, David, if you do not
lose your head. Kentucky will grow and conquer, and in twenty years be a
thriving community. And presently you will go to Virginia, and study
law, and come back again. Do you hear?"
"Yes, Colonel."
"And I would tell you one thing," said he, with force; "serve the people,
as all true men should in a republic. But do not rely upon their
gratitude. You will remember that?"
"Yes, Colonel."
A long time he paused, looking on me with a significance I did not then
understand. And when he spoke again his voice showed no trace of
emotion, save in the note of it.
"You have been a faithful friend, Davy, when I needed loyalty. Perhaps
the time may come again. Promise me that you will not forget me if I
am--unfortunate."
"Unfortunate, sir!" I exclaimed.
"Good-by, Davy," he said, "and God bless you. I have work to do."
Still I hesitated. He stared at me, but with kindness.
"What is it, Davy?" he asked.
"Please, sir," I said, "if I might take my drum?"
At that he laughed.
"You may," said he, "you may. Perchance we may need it again."
I went out from his presence, vaguely troubled, to find Tom. And before
the early sun had set we were gliding down the Wabash in a canoe, past
places forever dedicated to our agonies, towards Kentucky and Polly Ann.
"Davy," said Tom, "I reckon she'll be standin' under the 'simmon tree,
waitin' fer us with the little shaver in her arms."
And so she was.
Read next: BOOK II - FLOTSAM AND JETSAM#I - IN THE CABIN
Read previous: BOOK I - THE BORDERLAND#XIX - THE HAIR BUYER TRAPPED
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