“Gentlemen of Kentucky and Virginia,” began the colonel, “for six long years have we striven on the dark and bloody ground to keep a foothold on the inheritance we are earning for our children. For three years of that time, our whole land has been fighting against fearful odds on the side of the unnatural mother country. Not content with hiring Hessians to come over and murder us, they have bribed the savages to fire our houses and scalp women and children, from Cherry Valley to Harrodsburg.”
Here there was a growl of assent, “That’s so.” “Cuss ’em.” “We’ll get square, some day.”
“Soldiers,” continued Clark, addressing them by the title he knew they were most proud of, “the time has come when we must turn the tables on the British. Saratoga has shown them that we can beat their best troops, and all along the Atlantic States they are running like whipped hounds!”
A tremendous yell greeted the reference.
“Now,” cried the colonel, “since we are safe on the east, let us turn to the west. The Indians have tormented us long enough. We chase them, and ’tis like attacking a swarm of wasps. We can not catch them. Well, boys, what do you do when the wasps get too troublesome?”
He paused, as if to await a reply. There was an awkward silence for near a minute. Then Daniel Boone, who stood near Clark, and out of the ranks, observed in his clear, quiet tones:
“We hunt for the nest, and burn it up, some night, colonel.”
“Right, old comrade!” exclaimed the young leader, amid a whispered chorus of excited comments; “we find the nest, and burn it up. Well, gentlemen, these wasps come not from one nest, but three: and their names are Detroit, St. Vincent’s, and Kaskaskia. Detroit is a fortified town, beyond our reach. St. Vincent’s is too strong for us as yet. Kaskaskia, the furthest of all, is the most dangerous to Kentucky. Secure in their distance from us, the British think they need fear nothing. Gentlemen, I have orders from Governor Henry of Virginia to take Kaskaskia and save Kentucky forever. Who will volunteer to go with me, and strangle the snake in his den?”
There was a deep silence following this speech, at the end of which Captain Harrod stepped forward and made a characteristic speech:
“Colonel George Rogers Clark, Esquire: Sir, I’ve be’n a-grumblin’ a long time about these hyar secret orders, and, I reckon, be’n makin’ a darned jackmule of myself about it. Colonel, I take it all back, and damme, sir, I’ll lift the ha’r off any feller as says you ain’t a full team and two mules to spar’, with a yaller dawg hitched under the tail-board. I’m with you, colonel, while thar’s a drop of blood in my body, and these hyar Harrodsburg hu’sters, they travel with me, you kin bet all the clothes you ever owned. Thar!”
A rousing cheer from Harrod’s company applauded the speech, and it was followed by equally warm indorsement from every captain and company, with one exception.
This was captain Dillard, whose company was raised near Harrod’s, and entertained considerable jealousy of the others.
Captain Dillard, when questioned point-blank by Clark, before the rest, replied:
“Waal, colonel, ef I’d knowed you war a-goin’ on any sich a wild-goose chase as this hyar, I wouldn’t have pledged my credit to the boys, and asked ’em to come. You’re a-goin’ a long way, and it’s more than likely you’ll git beat. Ef so, whar are ye? Worse off than ever, a thousand miles from hum, and no one to help ye?”
The cautious captain’s words were not without their effect in damping the men’s spirits, and it was with great adroitness that Clark replied, in closing the discussion:
“That’s all provided for, captain. We have bateaux enough to carry us all down the Mississippi to New Orleans, where the Spanish and French will be only too glad to pay us like princes to fight the Indians for them. But we shall not get beat. We shall take them by surprise, kill the British soldiers, save Kentucky, and come home worth two hundred and fifty acres of land apiece. Governor Henry has promised it to us, and I have the patent in my pocket. Now, gentlemen, since you’re all agreed to follow me, disperse to your quarters. Captain Bowman, you are officer of the day. Secure all the boats, and place sentries at the ford. Let no man cross without my orders. I wish to see the captains in my cabin at once. Adjutant, dismiss the parade.”
As stiffly and formally as if nothing had happened, he signified by his manner that discussion was over. The officers returned to their companies; the little adjutant called up the sergeants and received reports; and finally parade was dismissed, with a ceremony rarely seen among the rough frontiersmen.
Guards were set around the boat and at the fort, and the whole camp was soon a buzz of conflicting voices on the prospects of the famous expedition to Kaskaskia. Some of Dillard’s men were disposed to gloomy prophecies, influenced by their captain, but the greater part were light-hearted, reckless hunters, to whom the idea of a distant and dangerous expedition acted as a charm.
These laughed at the croakers, and prognosticated great things of the expedition, as they devoured their rations, which the foresight of Clark had collected at the falls in large quantities. None knew better than Clark the road through the stomach to a soldier’s heart, and none appreciated it better.
At last all was quiet, and the fires dying away, the camp was buried in profound slumber.
Two hours after midnight Colonel Clark was awakened by a touch on his shoulder. Starting up, he saw the little adjutant before him, who spoke at once.
“Colonel, the whole of Dillard’s men, with their first lieutenant, have deserted, and forded the river on the way home.”
In a moment Clark was on his feet, broad awake.
“Have they taken their horses? Has any one else gone? Have the sentries at the ford played us false?”
“Not one, sir. The scoundrels crossed higher up, leaving their horses in camp. Dillard remains here. I only found it out five minutes ago, while making my rounds.”
Clark laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Frank, you’re little, but you’re worth ten giants. Call the bugler and sound to arms. I’ll send you after them, lad.”
The leader walked quickly out to the parade-ground, and inside of five minutes the bugle sounded and the men came filing out of their bivouacs in silence, forming with a celerity and order that veteran soldiers could not have excelled. They were all well used to night alarms, and expected an Indian attack at least.
When the colonel, in a few brief, nervous words, informed them of the cowardly treachery of their comrades, and called for a party to pursue them, there was a roar of indignation. Every man in camp clamored to go after the “durned ornary skunks,” as they called them, and Clark hastily selected the first score who presented themselves, mounted them on the horses of the deserters, and sent them off with Captain Harrod and the little adjutant, with orders to shoot all who resisted.
Away went the capturing party at full speed across the ford, and the rest of the night was spent in excited discussion, for all were too angry to sleep.
About an hour before noon Harrod’s party returned with seven or eight of the captured deserters, reporting the rest as scattered to the four winds, and the rest of the day was spent in selecting the companies to go to Kaskaskia, while the rest were detailed to go to Kentucky and defend the frontiers during the absence of their comrades.
Then on the next day, the 24th June, 1778, ten bateaux, carrying four strong companies of hardy rangers, dropped down the rapids of the Ohio, and set off on their dangerous expedition to the unknown wilds of the Illinois country; while, as if to appall them with the terrors of superstition, the sun passed into a total eclipse, and darkness covered the heavens at the instant they entered the passage. There let us leave them, on their venturesome way, and turn to the great post which they were trying to reach.
The Fourth of July is generally a hot day. The Fourth of July, 1778, was a particularly hot day around the town of Kaskaskia, as it basked in the sun on the banks of two rivers, the tin roofs of its quaint old houses shining like mirrors. Kaskaskia, a hundred years ago, was like Quebec to-day, a quaint, rambling town of steep, narrow streets, nominally English, actually French in language and sentiment. Founded two years before Philadelphia, it was at that time the emporium of Indian trade, and far ahead of the infant St. Louis, eighty miles further up.
What changes a century makes! To-day Kaskaskia is a decayed village, and St. Louis a city of palaces.
On a rounded bluff opposite the town stood a handsome stone fort, with rows of bright brass guns trained on the place, and that so closely as to obviate the necessity of walls around the houses.
Kaskaskia was safe from the Indians for two reasons.
First, the fort frightened the thievish ones; second, the place was full of trappers and traders who had intermarried with every tribe in the West. This last point is the grand secret of the control which the French have always exercised over the Indians. At the present day it turns into friends and allies thousands of the same race in the Hudson’s Bay Territories, that are relentless foes to white men in the American Territories.
In Kaskaskia, on that sultry Fourth, a hundred years ago, trader and Indian could be seen side by side in every shady place, smoking over bargains in furs like old friends.
The blazing sun at last dipped behind the western prairies, and a gentle breeze came sighing up the Mississippi, when Monsieur Rocheblave, the French-English Governor, who was sitting by the open window of the government house at the top of the hill, suddenly spoke to his wife.
“Coralie, ma chere, I do believe I see Mademoiselle Roland, and that she is coming hither. Yes, it is she indeed.”
Madame Rocheblave, who was lying on a sofa fanning herself languidly, bleated out, with a whining, querulous tone:
“Rubie? What can the girl want? I declare I wish my cousin Roland had done any thing in the world rather than leave that wild creature in the way he did, half the time for me to take care of, the other half to that ugly Indian they call the Grand Door of the Wabash. I wish he’d keep her altogether. She has lost all the manner of society, and tells the truth so quick and plain that she lacerates my feelings.”
M. Rocheblave had risen to look out of the window better.
“For all that, my angel,” he said, soothingly, “we must remember that mademoiselle your cousin is a very important person. She represents the union between us and the tribes, a link carefully forged by her illustrious father, at his own cost, which must be maintained. Therefore, Coralie, be polite to mademoiselle, who is about to become our guest. It is a great privilege you and I enjoy, to entertain a princess.”
“A princess!” said madame, ill-temperedly. “I’ve had enough of these wild princesses. What does she come for? It’s not time for her visit for two months yet.”
“I suppose that the visit portends something to us,” said the Governor. “At all events, I shall not be wanting in respect to our illustrious guest.”
And the Governor hastily arranged his costume, and left the room, to greet the approaching personage.
At the principal gate of the “palace,” as it was styled, he paused, to watch the progress of a cavalcade, coming up the street.
At the head rode, on a very handsome dappled mustang, our little friend Ruby Roland, dressed in gorgeous velvets and brocades, heavily laced with gold, and loaded with jewelry. All the finery that the wealth of a tribe could lavish on her, was displayed on her trim figure, and she rode her spirited little horse like a man, with all a man’s ease and dexterity.
She carried no arms, but this was compensated for by her escort, consisting of twelve grim-looking chiefs, armed to the teeth.
The Governor bowed very low to this strangely-situated girl, at once perfect lady and Indian princess, and himself assisted her to dismount from her horse, while a score of obedient servants came running out to perform the same service to her escort.
For every one in the town knew by this time that a great embassy was come from “La Grande Porte.” The chiefs with Ruby were recognized as being the heads of twelve independent tribes, united under the great confederacy of the Wabash, and such chiefs always expected deferential treatment.
The Governor embraced his cousin by marriage in the most courtly French style, and shook hands with all the chiefs in turn, welcoming them with a string of French and Indian compliments together, and ushering them into the drawing-room.
Here Madame la Gouverneuse, who had recovered her outward equanimity, whatever her inward feelings, embraced Ruby with a cordiality that would have deceived any male beholder, and which the quick-witted girl herself penetrated in an instant.
Then, after a sumptuous feast on the most unsubstantial of French pastry and ice cream, articles devoured with intense relish by the wild sons of the prairie, the Governor opened negotiations by a delicate hint that business was in order.
Ruby at once became spokeswoman for her party, and proceeded to explain the object of her visit in a speech which excited general grunts of approbation from her stoical attendants.
“We have come,” said the girl, in the metaphorical Indian style, “from the banks of the great river to the east, to the father of all waters. We are few as a flock of antelopes, but behind us are our brothers, like the buffalo, without number. From the great fresh sea on the north, by the country of the Michigans, to the great river Ohio, that never fails, we are one house, and that house has one door, who is our Red Father. The Grand Door has opened to let us forth, to bring great words to our French father. Tabac has spoken, and if our French Father listen to his words it is well. If not, we will go back, and the door will be shut.”
“The French Father is dead,” said Rocheblave, cautiously. “He can not hear my red brethren’s words. We have an English father now, who gives us blankets and guns. Let the chiefs talk to him.”
Rocheblave, though of French parents, was entirely devoted to the English government, and he hoped by speaking as he did, to check the proposition he felt, rather than saw, was coming.
Ruby proceeded with simple directness to her mission.
“The Great Spirit has sent a bird to his children,” she said, “to speak with a straight tongue and tell us the truth. He tells us that the French Father is not dead. He has been asleep for many years, but now is awake. He calls to his red-children to arouse and drive out the fork-tongued English who have stolen his lands, and hired the red-men to make war on the Big-Knives (Americans). The French Father has made friends with the Big-Knives, and has declared war against the English. My father is French and ought to love his French Father. The Grand Door is open, and if the Governor of Kaskaskia is wise, he will enter into our house, and forsake the fork-tongues forever, as we have. I have spoken.”
The Governor was astounded. This was the first intelligence he had received of the American alliance with France, so lately concluded. He could hardly credit it. Therefore, he said:
“Is my daughter sure that the bird spoke true? There are lying birds about, sent by the rebellious Big-Knives. Let my red brothers beware of such.”
“The bird spoke true,” said Ruby, firmly. “The tribes of the Wabash are ashamed to have served the English. Henceforth they befriend the Big-Knives, as their French Father wishes them. I have spoken.”
And the twelve chiefs grunted an emphatic assent.
Rocheblave was puzzled, and temporized. He said:
“This is a grave matter. I must consult the old men and warriors. I will give an answer to the Grand Door at noon to-morrow. Is it good?”
“It is not good,” said Ruby, rising. “To-morrow we will come, but the Grand Door will be shut. The Governor of Kaskaskia must knock ere it be opened.”
So saying, she swept from the room, followed by her dusky escort, leaving Rocheblave astonished, while madame whined:
“Mon Dieu! Why did my cousin Roland make such a fool of himself? I told you she was a barbarian.”
The night closed in over Kaskaskia, cool and pleasant after the sultry day. There was no moon, but the stars were uncommonly brilliant, and there was no difficulty in traveling. The Governor of Kaskaskia, a few days before, had been exercising the militia of the neighboring country, with considerable force of Indian allies; for some vague rumors had reached him of a possible raid by the rebel Virginians. All along the banks of the Mississippi scouts and spies were stationed with swift horses, to give notice of any force ascending the river. But, as the days wore on, and no one came, the vigilance of the townspeople had slacked.
Guard was mounted regularly at the fort, and there were several hundred militia in the town; but the parades were more formal than useful, and twenty men were judged sufficient for the defense of the fort.
Governor Rocheblave retired to rest that night, somewhat disturbed in mind. The message from old Tabac had puzzled and annoyed him, but he was too confident of his own ability to manage the Indians to fear for the issue of next day’s conference.
He sat up till ten o’clock, preparing an artful speech, to be followed by munificent presents, and finally went to bed hopeful of success.
Meanwhile, Ruby and her red friends were hospitably quartered in an empty building near the “palace,” and to all appearance were settled for the night, when the rest of the townspeople were asleep.
About three-quarters of a mile above the town, on the opposite side of the river Kaskaskia, stood the farm-house of Monsieur Picard, a worthy market-gardener, who supplied the town with vegetables; and around this house, about an hour after dark, events were taking place which would have alarmed the Governor considerably, had he known them.
Monsieur Picard and his family, in their night-clothes, and all pale with terror, were surrounded by a crowd of rough-looking men, who were questioning them about the town, in English.
“Mon Dieu, messieurs,” said the unhappy gardener, “eef you vill not keel me, I vill tell all I know. Monsieur Rocheblave, de Gouverneur, he have two, t’ree, twenty t’ousand soldier dere, and he march and make parade, eh, mon Dieu, how I know vat it mean—I be not soldat, I do not know, but dey say de Americains dey come to cut our t’roats, comme les Indiens, and M. Rocheblave he say dat he extair-r-rminate dem for King Shorge!”
“How many men are in the fort?” inquired one man, less savage in aspect than the rest, and in good French.
“Not many, monsieur, not many. There is only the company of Capitaine Ledoux to mount guard there,” said Picard, glibly.
“Good!” said the other. “Where’s Adjutant Frank?”
It was Clark who spoke. There was a short silence.
Then Captain Harrod answered.
“I thought you knew, colonel. The little cuss found a hoss yesterday, and rid off into the perrary, all alone, this arternoon. He said as how he war a-goin’ on a scout on his own hook.”
Clark seemed disturbed.
“I know, captain, I know; but I thought he had come back. The boy promised to be with us by dark. Has any one seen him since?”
There was no answer, and Clark groaned aloud.
“The rash lad! He must have lost his way. If there were any Indians about, I should judge him a prisoner; and if he has been taken into Kaskaskia, the town will be alarmed, and we shall have hard work!”
It was seldom the cautious leader allowed his feelings to be publicly noticed, and it was evident he was deeply stirred by the fate of the little adjutant, who had become a wonderful favorite with all the command during the weary secret march over the prairies of Illinois. He turned sternly on Picard, saying:
“Now, sir, tell me quick, and tell me truly, as you value your life, has the Governor of Kaskaskia any notion we are here?”
“My God! monsieur, how can he? Should I be where I am, if that were the case? I will tell the truth, monsieur. The Governor expects you to come up the river, and men are there, on the watch.”
“Then we waste time here,” said the leader, abruptly. “Major Bowman, take your own company, with Harrod’s and Helm’s. Cross in this man’s boat, and march on the town as I told you. When you hear a gun from the fort, rush in with a shout, take the place, and disarm every one. You know the orders. Captain Montgomery’s company will follow me. Place a guard over this house, and shoot any one who tries to come out. Get in there!”
He signified his orders to the terrified Picards, who hurried into the house, expecting nothing less than instant death. The ignorant French were full of superstitious terrors about the Americans, whom they had been taught to regard as merciless savages; and Clark’s seeming brutality only confirmed the impression.
Then there was a hurried embarkation by the riverside.
Honest Picard never dreamed that his flat-boat, which had conveyed so many loads of cabbage to Kaskaskia, would come one July night, to be a transport for ferocious enemies. But it was even so, now. Loaded down to the water’s edge with wild-looking backwoodsmen, it served as a ferry for the three companies destined to attack the town, and, in less than an hour after, the whole body was on its silent way to Kaskaskia.
At the moment of starting, Clark led the remaining company down the river toward the fort, only about a half-mile below. The men proceeded in Indian file, stealing along like ghosts; and a person a hundred yards off could have suspected nothing.
In a short time the gray bastions of the fort loomed up before them, standing at the edge of a high bank, down which one of its outworks stretched to the water’s edge.
The leader stayed his men with a signal and stole forward himself to reconnoiter, when the sound of voices in gay conversation struck his ear; and, the moment after, a little postern door low down by the water, opened, and two men came out and advanced toward the Americans as if careless of danger.
Without an order given, every one of the invaders sunk down to the earth in an instant and vanished from view, leaving Clark alone in the middle of the open glacis.
The commander did not drop. He knew that he had been seen, for the two men halted and seemed undecided whether to advance or not.
Suddenly one of them called out in French:
“Qui vive? (Who goes there?) Is it thou, Picard?”
Clark started violently. It was the voice of the missing adjutant. With admirable presence of mind he imitated the voice and rustic accent of the gardener, answering:
“It is I, indeed. Has the doctor gone back yet? My wife is sick.”
“The doctor went back at sunset,” answered Frank, “but here is Poirier, the hospital steward. He and I were coming over to break a bottle with thee, Picard; but, since thy wife is sick, Poirier shall do what he can.”
“Come on then, in God’s name,” said Clark, turning away to aid the stratagem. “You have a lancet to let blood, without doubt. Hasten, ere it be too late. She has fits.”
“Come on, Poirier,” cried the little adjutant; and the hospital steward, completely deceived, hurried along after Clark, until in the midst of the crouching borderers.
In another moment he was surrounded, and a dozen knives brandished at his throat, with a sternly whispered command to keep silence, if he valued his life.
The poor fellow was so overcome with terror that he dropped senseless in the road, and the little adjutant hurriedly said:
“Into the fort, colonel, like lightning. The garrison sleep. I’ll tell you how I fooled them when we’re safe. Not a moment is to be lost. I’ll show the way.”
With the rapid, stealthy rush of so many tigers, Montgomery’s company followed the flying figure to the fort, swarmed in at the postern, took the sentries on the ramparts without firing a shot, and in ten minutes were in full possession.
Then, with his own hand, Clark fired a six-pound shot over the town, a signal answered by loud yells from the opposite side of the river, as Bowman’s men rushed in like a tempest through the deserted streets.
Governor Rocheblave was roused from a dream, in which he was being decorated with the Grand Cross of the Bath for eminent services to his Britannic majesty, by the sound of whoops, yells, and rifle-shots under his very house. Then came the crash of glass and plaster, as several bullets came through his window, and sent pieces of ceiling spattering over the floor.
The Governor jumped out of bed, scared out of his wits, and madame began to scream at the top of her voice, a scream echoed from every quarter of the “palace,” as the maid-servants heard the racket in the streets.
Then came the boom of four or five cannon, and a louder crash than before, as the big chimney of the government house, struck by a six-pound shot, toppled down over the roof in a mass of ruins.
Then a stillness perfectly awful succeeded for several minutes, followed by the banging of opening windows, as the terrified inhabitants began to look out.
As for Governor Rocheblave, he remembered the bullets too well to dare go to his own windows; and presently came the clatter of hoofs on the pavement below, as a horseman pulled up from full speed. Then a stentorian voice bellowed, in horribly bad French:
“Fusillez tout homme dans la rue! Fermez fenetres!”
But fear is a quick translator, and every one knew the meaning of those words.
“Shoot every man in the street! Shut windows!”
A disinterested person would have admired the alacrity with which the windows banged to, in obedience to the order; but the people of Kaskaskia were too keenly alive to their own perils to admire any thing.
In a moment Governor Rocheblave came to his senses, and understood every thing. At first he had thought of an Indian rising, but the cannon-shots and bad French convinced him that a more formidable foe was at hand.
“Coralie, it is the barbarous Americans. What shall we do?” he faltered, as he gazed, panic-stricken, at his wife. “The papers—the agreements with the chiefs—they will find them, and I shall be shot.”
“Not so fast,” said madame, more coolly. “I know these men, if they are Americans. They are fools, where women are concerned. Where are the papers?”
“In the box,” said the trembling Governor, pointing to a casket of mahogany, open on the table.
In a moment the quick-witted woman pounced on the box, bore it to her bed, and swept up the loose papers to the same receptacle. She had hardly time to jump in after them when a clatter of weapons was heard on the staircase, and a loud knock was heard at the front door.
“Who’s there?” screamed madame, excitedly. “Are these barbarians that insult the privacy of a lady’s chamber? Go away!”
There was a short, whispered consultation outside, and a voice spoke, in very bad French:
“Open the door, Governor. We know you’re here. We will not hurt the lady, but we must have the Governor.”
“Monsieur Rocheblave has fled,” cried the lady, angrily, as her husband, quaking with fear, turned up the light and moved toward the door. “Have you no manners, pigs, that you do not believe a lady? Go away!”
The only answer was a blow that burst the fastening of the door, and into the room stalked Major Bowman, second in command to Clark, who advanced to Rocheblave with a cocked pistol in his hand, saying:
“Monsieur, you are my prisoner. Surrender your papers.”
Rocheblave sunk trembling into a chair.
“I surrender, monsieur. Spare my life, and pray do not insult my wife, if you are gentlemen.”
“We are gentlemen,” said Bowman, quietly. “Madame is safe; but you must dress and come with me to the commander. No excuses, sir. I give you five minutes to dress. Then you must come with us as you are. Where are your papers?”
Rocheblave pointed to an open bureau, littered with the more unimportant papers of his government, and the Kentuckian advanced to inspect them, while the Governor finished his dressing under the eye of a burly sergeant at the door, whose rifle looked remarkably ready for action at a moment’s notice.
But as the Governor found that he was quite unmolested, his spirits began to recover from the first shock of surprise, and he asked:
“Are you not going to give me my parole, sir? I suppose that you make war like honorable soldiers.”
Bowman made no reply till he had made a hasty examination of all the loose papers, finding nothing worthy of note.
Then he turned round to Rocheblave, who was now dressed:
“In five minutes, sir, my commander will be here. He can answer your question. I find you have hidden your papers.”
Here madame, who had ducked under the bed-clothes, put out her head to listen. There was considerable galloping to and fro in the streets, and a great clattering, as if a party were dismounting at the gate.
Rocheblave, who quickly saw that he had fallen into the hands of organized troops, notwithstanding their rough exterior, began to assume a more haughty tone, as became a British officer.
“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” he said, angrily. “You have come into my house, like a parcel of rebel thieves, as you are, and I have given up my papers. Are you not satisfied, but do you wish to insult a prisoner?”
Madame, who had taken her cue, cried out:
“They want the silver, Auguste—that’s what they want, these thieves. Show them the plate-chest, and you will hear no more of papers. I know them well.”
Bowman, who was a chivalrous Kentucky gentleman, was very much embarrassed by the lady’s bitter tongue, and was greatly relieved by hearing the voice of his commander on the stairs. He rose and retreated sheepishly to the door, while madame exchanged a triumphant glance with her husband, and fired a volley of spiteful sarcasms at the abashed soldier.
The next moment Clark entered the room, followed by the boy adjutant.
A conference, in low tones, took place between the three officers, at the end of which Clark advanced to the Governor.
The border leader, haggard and unshorn, with dirty, ragged dress, was by no means a reassuring sight. The moment madame laid eyes on him, she trembled for her papers. While Clark was speaking to the Governor, the little adjutant, whose face had been blacked all over, so that he looked worse than his leader, went peering about the room in a manner very different from that of his restrained and dignified chiefs.
“Governor,” said Clark, “Major Bowman tells me you have hidden all the valuable papers of your office. Where are they? Give them up, and I give you your parole. Refuse, and I put a guard over you.”
“Who are you, sir?” asked Rocheblave, sulkily.
“I am Colonel Clark of Kentucky,” said the other. “I have taken your town, and your people are being disarmed as fast as my men can pile the weapons. Where are your papers?”
“I know, colonel,” said the quiet voice of Adjutant Frank. As he spoke he pointed to madame, who sat up in the bed, guarding her treasures. The lady screamed indignantly.
“Wretches, barbarians, do you bring boys with you to insult ladies? The Governor has no papers. I swear it. These are but my private jewels and trinkets, and let me see a man dare to touch them.”
Little Frank was actually approaching the lady, to take the papers his sharp eyes had discovered, when the deep voice of Clark broke in:
“Hold, Mr. Frank. Better that she should hide any amount of papers, than that a gentleman should insult a lady. Governor, you’re a close prisoner till I see those papers. Gentlemen, clear the room. To our other duties.”
At a late hour next day Kaskaskia presented a strange sight. Not a single house was open, every window and door was closely fastened, the very beasts remained bolted in their stables, and a grim-looking patrol of mounted borderers rode up and down the echoing streets, with cocked rifles.
A town of fifteen hundred inhabitants was trembling with abject terror before a force of some two hundred resolute men, who had captured it without shedding a drop of blood, by the pure moral influence of fear.
The main body of the invaders lay at the edge of the town, by their bivouac fires, which burned brightly at the expense of all the neighboring fences. There was bluff Simon Kenton, who had left his old friend Boone in Kentucky, to share the perils and glories of the Kaskaskia expedition, and who was lolling on his back, laughing over the night’s adventures to a group of borderers.
“Golly, Bill,” said he, to Harrod, who was devouring a huge chunk of corn-bread with great relish, “how them French Britishers do skeer, to be sure! I b’lieve ef we’d axed them fur all thar money last night, instead of their shootin’-irons, they’d ’a’ guv it jest as easy.”
“Don’t you b’lieve it, Sime,” said Harrod, dryly. “It takes a powerful skeer to git a feller’s money. But, Gosh, boys, that thar little cuss of a adjutant of ours, he did fly round amazin’ last night. Jest like a bug on a hot griddle, he war. And ef it hadn’t b’en fur him, Lord knows ef we’d ’a’ tuk the fort at all.”
“Who is that adjutant?” inquired Major Bowman, who was sitting close by them, in republican simplicity, guiltless of military etiquette when off duty. “I never saw him in Kentucky; but he seems to be a great favorite with Clark.”
“He’s some relation of Governor Henry’s,” said Captain Helm, a stout, jolly, red-faced officer from Virginia. “Clark told me he brought a letter from Henry to him, which asked him, as a personal favor, to make Frank his adjutant. The colonel hesitated, on account of the lad’s being so young, but I must say, gentlemen, I don’t ever remember seeing a smarter officer of his inches.”
“Thar’s the little cuss now,” cried Harrod, laughing, as the little officer rode out of a by street and came up to the bivouac. “I tell you, gentlemen, he are gritty, if he are small. Don’t he sit his hoss pritty? Gosh, if he war only a gal, wouldn’t he make a reg’lar ringtailed snorter! I c’u’d hug him myself.”
“He are pretty ’nuff fur a gal, that’s as true as Gospel, boys,” said Kenton, meditatively. “But, no gal c’u’d dash around the way he does; and he’s got the grit of a dozen wildcats.”
Here little Frank galloped up, on a very handsome mustang, which he rode in among the recumbent borderers with delicious coolness, causing them to tumble out of the way in a terrible hurry.
Had any one else in the command done such a thing, he would have been plucked off his animal and soundly beaten in a twinkling; but the little adjutant and his pony were general favorites, and seemed able to go anywhere, without offense.
“Well, Bowman,” cried the youngster, gayly, “your men are not good for much to search for arms, after all. Here’s a building, not fifty feet from your bivouac, with twelve Indians in it, every man fully armed and in his war-paint.”
“Oh, nonsense, Frank,” said the major, disbelieving him; “how could that be, and we not know it?”
“Ah, major, you’re not supposed to know every thing,” said the boy, saucily. “I heard all about it last night, but I didn’t want our stupid-heads to know it; for you couldn’t disarm those fellows in a hurry.”
“Are you serious, Frank?”
“Never more so.”
The adjutant pointed to a large building near the government house, the identical one in which Ruby Roland and her red escort had been quartered the night before. The doors and windows were shut, and there was no appearance that the place was tenanted.
“There they are,” said the boy; “and with them a great Indian princess, who came to the Governor with a message from Tobacco, head chief and Grand Door of the Wabash. I heard all about it last night, when I was spying about the town.”
“How did you get in, adjutant?” asked Helm, curiously. “You’re not a Frenchman, are you?”
“I’m a little of every thing,” said the boy, laughing. “At all events, I can talk French well enough to fool a habitan. And I can fool an Indian, too. What will you bet I don’t send the whole lot, princess and all, out of that building, before your eyes, in twenty minutes?”
“A hundred dollars, even, you don’t,” said Helm, eagerly. He was a skilled Indian-trader and interpreter, himself, and thought he knew all about Indians.
“Done!” said Frank, promptly.
He rode up the steps of the house he had indicated, and knocked loudly at the door with the butt of a pistol.
Immediately it was flung open, and a stately Indian chief, in scarlet blanket, was revealed to the doubting gaze of the officers. As coolly as if doing a commonplace thing, the little adjutant rode straight into the house, the door clanged to, and all was again still and silent.
“Wal,” exclaimed Kenton, rubbing his eyes, “that ’ar little cuss do beat the deuce, I sw’ar. How did he know them Injuns was thar?”
“Why, of course, some of the townspeople told him,” said Helm, in a snappish tone. “Perhaps the Governor let it out to Clark. I suppose these fellows are there on some embassy. I wonder where the colonel is?”
“Quartered at Rocheblave’s,” said Bowman. “What do you want?”
“I want to know what we ought to do about these savages,” said Helm. “They may murder that boy, in there, and it’s not safe to leave them the way they’re left now.”
“Oh, nonsense, Helm; that youngster’s able to take care of himself. You’re bound to wait your twenty minutes, you know, on account of your bet.”
“Well, if he doesn’t come out then, I’m going in after him,” said Helm, firmly. “I fear the lad’s run into a trap.”
“All right, when the time’s up,” said Bowman; “but I don’t believe that boy’s born to be murdered.”
They continued gazing at the mysterious building in deep doubt for some time, till, just as Helm’s patience was exhausted, the big door flew open once more, and forth rode, in all the splendor of an Indian princess, Ruby Roland, bewildering in her beauty, and, wheeling her horse sharp round to the right, galloped off up the street, followed by her retinue of chiefs, among whom the little adjutant could be seen, with a tall chief on each side of him, as the cavalcade dashed out of the hall and down the steps, all mounted as they were, like a whirlwind. Up the street they went, toward the government house, ere Helm had fully recovered from his amazement.
Then the party could be seen dismounting and entering the government house, when Bowman said:
“By Jove, gentlemen, one thing’s certain. Frank’s found an angel for us. That girl is a perfect Algonquin Venus.”
And plain Captain Bill Harrod said:
“Gosh, Bowman, don’t be flingin’ dictionaries at us. What in Old Scratch is a Algonquin Venus?”
Says Simon Kenton:
“It’s Latin for a nice little gal, sweet as maple-syrup. And by Gosh, boys, I’d give a hull farm to hug that gal.”
To which Bill elegantly replied:
“She wouldn’t look at sich a ornary cuss as you. Go ’way, Sime. She don’t know you.”
Simon jumped up excitedly.
“And by Gosh, I’ll bet my rifle ag’in’ your’n that I know her, and that she knows me. That gal’s Ruby Roland, darter of old Tobacco; and you may jist bet she knows me and Cunnel Boone like a book, you ornary squirrel-picker. So thar.”
Colonel Clark was seated in the great drawing-room of the government house, with Rocheblave near him, a sentry at the open door, and one of the principal inhabitants standing in an humble attitude before him. Clark’s face was stern and cold, for he was yet playing a part, and desired to frighten the people of Kaskaskia to the utmost.
“Well, sir,” he said, sternly, “and so you will not confess who is the principal instigator of these Indian atrocities? Beware, for I can order you out to be shot in one minute.”
“And if you shoot me ten times over, monsieur,” said the other, in a shaking voice, “I could tell no more. I am but a poor dealer in snuff and tobacco, and know nothing of Indian plots. Ask Monsieur Rocheblave. He knows all. There was an Indian embassy came to him only yesterday evening.”
Rocheblave, at the first mention of his name, had been signaling the other to keep quiet, but in vain.
“No, you need not wink at me, monsieur; I shall tell the American General all I know. I will not be shot to please you. There were twelve chiefs from the Wabash, monsieur, with Mademoiselle Rubie, the daughter of the Grand Door, and they were quartered in the old arsenal for the night, if they have not escaped.”
Clark turned grimly on Rocheblave.
“Why did I not know this, sir?”
“Indeed, monsieur le colonel, I meant no harm,” said Rocheblave, hastily; “and, indeed, these fellows are only friends of a cousin of my wife’s, Mademoiselle Rubie Roland.”
“Ruby Roland,” repeated Clark, slowly; “is that the adopted daughter of old Tabac?”
“The same, monsieur,” said the snuff-merchant, eagerly.
“Then, if she is here, I am glad,” said Clark, quietly. “You can go back home, sir; but do not stop to speak to a soul. The patrol has orders to shoot any citizen standing still in the streets. Go, and remember.”
The snuff-merchant bowed down to the very ground, and backed from the room, just as a tremendous clatter of hoofs outside announced the arrival of Ruby Roland and her cavalcade.
Clark hurried to the window, somewhat startled, and beheld the twelve stalwart Indians and the girl springing off their horses.
The sight of his boy adjutant’s uniform among them reassured him of their intentions, for Clark had grown to feel almost a superstitious confidence in this reckless lad.
He returned to his seat, then, with measured steps, for he knew the importance of preserving dignity before the stately Indians. With perfect patience he remained sitting, waiting for his new guests, while Rocheblave, who felt his position keenly, fidgeted about uneasily in his chair.
In a few minutes more the sentry at the door challenged, as the sound of moccasined feet approached.
“Let them pass, sentry,” said Clark, quietly; and into the room swept Ruby Roland, in a perfect blaze of splendor, followed by her dusky escort.
Involuntarily Clark rose, and bowed with the deepest respect to the beautiful creature. It seemed to him as if he beheld her for the first time.
It was not quite true, as he had told Frank, that Ruby had failed to leave any impression on his mind the year before, when he had seen her under the disadvantages of fatigue and hunger, which had reduced her features to gauntness. Still, his own mind had been so much preoccupied at the time with his Kaskaskia scheme, that he apparently noticed little else.
Now, however, in the moment of his triumph, when this beautiful girl approached him, dressed like a princess, the bold leader, for the first time in his life, felt a curious throbbing at his heart, as he bowed before her to the very ground, at least as deep as the obsequious snuff-merchant.
To his surprise, Ruby returned the courtesy with the very least inclination of the head, then turned and addressed a few words to her retinue, who gravely seated themselves in a line on the floor, in front of the door.
Then the girl advanced to Rocheblave, who stood undecided what to do, and gravely embraced him in the French fashion.
“My cousin,” she said, “I have heard of your misfortune. Why did you not listen to my words? I warned you that the door would be shut; but you see I have come, as I promised.”
“You might as well have stayed away,” said the ex-Governor, sulkily. “You must have known these people were coming, and would not warn your old allies.”
“Our old ally was my father’s king,” said Ruby, proudly; “and it was to please him that I did not betray the Big-Knives. I have been with them on their march when they knew not, and my warriors have watched every step they took. Where were your senses, that you only watched the river? The road over the prairie from Fort Massac is straight. A child could follow it to Kaskaskia.”
“Spare me your sneers, mademoiselle,” said Rocheblave, not without dignity; “there is my captor, if you wish to turn to the rising sun. I can entertain no further proposals, for I am a prisoner.”
“I did not come here to reproach you, my cousin,” said Ruby, gently; “but for a kinder purpose by far. I will open the door again, if you will enter. See now, you were born a Frenchman, and the French king owned all this place. Now France and America are allies, and I call to you to return to your old allegiance; desert this sour-faced British nation, and be a gay friend of America as I am.”
“Never,” exclaimed Rocheblave, angrily—“never will I submit to be called a friend of these accursed rebel hounds. Let them do their worst. I have eaten the king’s bread, and I will never desert him. Go, tempt Coralie, if you like. I will not yield.”
“And where is Coralie?” asked Ruby, with a slight smile.
“In her chamber, which the rebel dogs dare not profane,” said the Governor, loftily. “Even there they had the insolence to penetrate last night.”
“They found but little, I venture to say,” answered Ruby. “I know Coralie too well to doubt her ability to hoodwink these men of Kentucky, who—between us, cousin—are easily blinded by a fine woman. By this time, I doubt not that the agreements with Blackfish and the Chickasaw chiefs are burnt. How much do you pay for white scalps this year, cousin?”
Clark had been a silent and interested listener to this brief colloquy, and he noticed that the Governor turned deadly pale at the home-thrust of the girl. Now he advanced himself and spoke to Ruby.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “I may possibly have passed out of your remembrance, but I have not forgotten the lady who came through such perils to Harrodsburg, to propose to me the alliance of the tribes of the Wabash. Whatever papers Madame Rocheblave may destroy, mademoiselle, it were better she should do it than that we should insult a lady. That is a point of honor with us rough Kentuckians.”
Ruby looked at him critically, and unconsciously Clark turned crimson under the glance. It seemed to him that he had never before seemed so dirty and unkempt in his life, as when he stood before this brilliant beauty, in his ragged campaign uniform, with his unshaven face.
“You Kentuckians have more mercy than we women,” she said. “I would have got those papers for you. But you Americans are easily worked on by a pretty face. I remember once when you were not so polite as now. You were rude to me, monsieur.”
And Clark, greatly confused, stammered that he “did not quite remember to what she referred,” as the straightforward beauty fixed him with her great dark eyes.
“I know,” she said. “I have a good memory, monsieur, and, if I have a mind, I can overturn all your fine expedition in the moment of success. Be polite now, for you will find that one year has made a great difference with Ruby Roland.”
Clark was about to answer deprecatingly, when the voice of the sentry at the lower door was heard challenging:
“Halt! you kurn’t pass here, mounseer. Colonel’s quarters.”
“But if I wish to see the colonel, my friend,” said a mild voice, “can not I go in? I am the parish priest, father Gibault.”
“Kurn’t help it,” said the sentry, sturdily. “My orders is to let no one pass. Sergeant give me a shakin’ up about lettin’ in them ’ere Injins, jest now.”
“But my dear friend,” said the priest, mildly, “I do but wish to ask permission to wait on the commander, with five of the oldest inhabitants of the town, to represent to him our cruel position.”
Clark, who had been listening intently to this dialogue, now spoke to the sentry at his own door.
“Sentry, is the adjutant outside? Call him in.”
“Please, colonel, the adjutant bean’t hyar,” said the man.
“Not here,” said Clark, surprised. “Why I saw him at the door. Where is he?”
Ruby Roland answered him:
“Your adjutant is a great friend of mine, colonel, and has gone on a message for me. In his absence, allow me to act for him, as I am responsible for his reappearance. What do you wish done?”
“I wish—but, mademoiselle, I could not think of giving you so much trouble.”
“I prefer it, colonel. You wish to send a message?”
“I wish to inform the gentleman below that I will receive him and his friends in half an hour; and I want to see all my officers here.”
“It shall be done, monsieur,” said the girl, quietly.
Then she turned to her grim escort, and spoke to them in their own tongue a few words. Every chief sprung up, saluted Clark with great gravity, and followed Ruby from the room.
Clark went to the window, and looked down. He saw an old man in a priest’s cassock, waiting by the gate; and very soon saw Ruby and the Indians come out and speak to him. Then the priest turned away, Ruby and the Indians mounted, rode down the streets toward the American camp, and all was still again.
Ten minutes after, Bowman, Harrod, and the principal officers, rode up to the door, and came up-stairs, when Clark dismissed the Governor, under guard, to his wife’s room, and awaited the return of the priest and his party.
Inquiring what had become of Ruby and the Indians, the leader was told that they had re-entered the arsenal and disappeared. The time passed in discussing their plans for the future; and then, punctually to the half-hour, they heard a horseman pull up outside, and the gay voice of the little adjutant, singing an old French hunting-song, as he came up stairs.
Then the small officer tripped into the room, saluted gayly, and said:
“Colonel, that little squaw princess detained me unwarrantably, but you know a Kentuckian must obey the ladies. There are a lot of gray-headed old gentlemen coming up the street, and I think they look like a deputation.”
Clark looked at the boy severely. Somehow he didn’t like the familiar way in which the latter spoke of Ruby.
“Young gentleman,” he said, “when you have more sense, you will esteem it an honor to wait on a lady, especially one so beautiful and modest as mademoiselle. Speak of her with proper respect, sir. She is no squaw.”
“I cry you mercy, colonel,” quoth the saucy lad. “I forgot that you had just seen her. You know you told me once you would not know her again. How is it now?”
“I should know her among a million,” said Clark, warmly.
The little adjutant burst out laughing, in defiance of all military etiquette.
“’Gad, gentlemen, I fear the colonel’s smitten to the heart,” he cried. “The invulnerable colonel’s fallen in love with this dusky princess; and he’s ready to cut any man’s throat that says a word against her.”
The other officers, rough backwoodsmen all, save Bowman and Montgomery, used only to republican equality, made no scruple of joining in the laugh. Clark turned white with anger, and his voice was deep with concentrated rage, as he said:
“Adjutant Frank, go to your quarters under arrest. Gentlemen, the man that persists in this unseemly merriment becomes my enemy at any hazard. Do I command this expedition or not?”
In a moment there was a dead silence, broken only by Frank. Contrary to his usual custom, the boy seemed possessed with a perfect devil of impudence that day.
“All right, colonel,” he said, gayly. “The quarters are with the young lady at present. We’ll see what she says, when she hears that you vented the rage on your junior officer that you did not dare to show to her, or an equal.”
In a moment Clark strode forward to where the audacious officer stood, with a look of concentrated fury on his face. The backwoods leader possessed a furious temper, which he generally controlled only by exercise of an iron will. For a moment every one in the room thought that he was about to strike the boy down, and big Bill Harrod half-stepped forward to lay hands on his commander.
But, ere the big captain reached him, Clark had controlled his passion by a mighty effort, and spoke in a low, hoarse tone:
“Boy, while this expedition lasts, I command here. When it is over, I’ll give you satisfaction on equal terms. Think yourself lucky that I do not strangle you here. It is but your weakness protects you now. But do not dare again to breathe one word of disrespect toward the lady whom I saw this morning, or I will not answer for my forbearance. I have business. Go.”
He pointed to the door with a trembling finger, his face ashy pale, his eyes glittering dangerously. The little adjutant saluted, gravely, and went to the door.
At the door he turned and said, in a tone of indescribable insolency:
“What a coil, gentlemen, about a little squaw!”
Big Bill Harrod rushed at him with a stifled guffaw, and hustled him off, growling:
“You tarnation sarcy little cuss, d’yer want ter get killed? Cunnel’s madder than twenty wildcats now.”
And indeed the good-natured borderer’s action was the only thing that brought Clark to his senses, for the exasperated chief had already half drawn his sword.
But as Harrod carried the boy down-stairs, the other officers gathered round Clark, expostulating, and Kenton remarked:
“Cunnel, the little cuss hev gone crazy, you may bet. He never acted so afore, and it’s b’en a tearin’ hot day. I suspicion he’s b’en sun-struck.”
“Drunk, more likely,” said Helm, in a tone of contempt. “Those boys are not fit to trust with a bottle of applejack. They go cracked in five minutes.”
“Let it pass, gentlemen,” said Clark, impatiently. “Remember we have business to do, and this priest and his friends are at the gate by this time. I’ll attend to that boy in due time. Now get ready to receive this deputation.”
They settled themselves in chairs round the room, and soon Bill Harrod lumbered in, escorting father Gibault and five venerable citizens, who trembled as if their last hour had come, and remained near the door, bowing confusedly, and looking among the ragged, dirty figures before them as if doubting the evidence of their senses.
At last the priest faltered out to Harrod:
“Please, good monsieur, will you not tell me which of these honorable gentlemen is your leader?”
“That thar man in the big cheer, with the laced hat,” said Harrod, pointing with his thumb at Clark, whose battered head-covering had once been laced. “Spit out what you’ve got to say, lively.”
The poor curé looked from one to the other, as if doubting whether they were not playing a cruel practical joke on him. The faces of all the officers had been blackened in streaks with gunpowder and water, in a fashion which many of the grimly-humorous backwoodsmen had taken from the Indian war-paint. In dress they were no way superior to their men, and the wearing of swords was all that distinguished them. Such a looking set of ruffians might have frightened any one, much more the poor Frenchmen, whose minds had been industriously filled with horrible stories about the “rebels” by Hamilton’s and Rocheblave’s emissaries.
Clark, whose pity was excited by the evident terror of these feeble old men, came forward kindly enough, and said:
“I am Colonel Clark, of Kentucky, gentlemen, commander of this force. What is your business? Fear nothing. We will not kill you. Speak freely.”
Father Gibault, who seemed to be spokesman, was so much affected by the kind tone, that he faltered:
“God bless you, monsieur! God bless you! You are very kind, and we are very old.”
Clark waved his hand impatiently.
“Well, well, gentlemen, what is your business? Speak quickly, for I am busy.”
“Monsieur,” said the priest, earnestly, “we are well aware that your people do not belong to our church, and that you hold its doctrines in derision; but, monsieur, we beg leave to assure you that we are very quiet, harmless people. We know that the fortune of war has thrown us into your hands, and that we must expect to be separated from our happy homes, perhaps never to meet again. But, oh, monsieur, we beg, in the name of humanity, that you will allow us to meet once more, for the last time in our church, to hear one last mass, and to take leave of each other.”
And the five old men, with one accord, broke out weeping in the most piteous manner, crying:
“Oh, monsieur, for the love of God!” “Pity us!” “Indeed we did not know who you were.” “The commandant told us you were all savages.” “But we know better now.”
As if by one consent, the rough backwoodsmen jumped up and stamped away to the windows, while muttered exclamations of sympathy were heard.
Clark waved his hand for silence, for he had his face under more control than his subordinates, though he too was much affected by the spectacle of old men in tears.
Then he said, in a careless tone:
“I have nothing to say against your church, gentlemen. That is a matter we Americans leave every man to settle with his God. If your people wish to assemble in the church, they can do so; but at the same time, if they do, they must not venture out of town. I will withdraw the troops to let you assemble. Is that all?”
“Oh, thanks, monsieur, thanks!” cried father Gibault, in a tone of great relief. “But, oh, monsieur, if you would only listen to us for a little while, I feel confident that we could convince you that our intentions have always been of the most innocent—”
“That will do,” said the colonel, sternly. “I have listened to you long enough, gentlemen. I have no leisure for further intercourse. The officer of the day will withdraw the men from the town and you can meet at the church. Good-day.”
He saluted stiffly, and turned away, while the overawed group of delegates left the room in mournful silence, the terror being at its utmost hight.
When they were fairly in the street, Clark turned to his officers, who stood silently round, and said, solemnly:
“Gentlemen, pray God that when this war is over we may never have another. This is a bad business, and were it not that I intend to change the mourning of these poor creatures to joy before to-morrow, I swear to you that I would march back to Kentucky to-night. No, I wouldn’t neither; but I hate to be looked on as a wild beast. Bowman, keep the men out of the houses, as soon as the people go to the church. I swear I feel sick at heart.”
It was nearly sunset before the people separated from the church. The windows were wide open, for it was still very hot and sultry, and the whole force of the Americans was drawn up near by, resting silently on their arms, auditors of all that passed and very respectful auditors.
They could hear the solemn voice of the old priest, chanting mass, the responses of the congregation broken by sobs and tears. Then several of the older inhabitants made long and pathetic speeches, urging to resignation under the will of Heaven, while women and children cried, and men groaned aloud.
And, outside of the church, the supposed barbarians, whom the terrified people within looked on as little better than their fierce Indian neighbors, were hushed in pitying silence, while some of the roughest broke down and blubbered secretly.
At last there was a deep hush, within and without, as the priest, with faltering voice pronounced the benediction, and a stir, that followed, announced that the people were coming out.
Suddenly Clark, who had been standing, gloomily leaning on his sword, started.
“Attention!” he shouted, sternly. “Stand to your arms there, men! Who gave you leave to fall out? Shoulder arms! Support arms! Silence in the ranks! Officers to your posts!”
Then, as the door opened, and father Gibault came out with a few of the principal inhabitants, they were met by the sight of a grim line of brown rifle-barrels, as the savage-looking frontiersmen obeyed their chief’s orders.
Clark, with drawn sword, stood rigidly in front of his men, looking at the priest, as the latter solemnly advanced with his little deputation, while the church door was full of pale, anxious people, afraid to advance a step further.
Father Gibault advanced to Clark, and said:
“Monsieur le colonel, to you and your brave comrades, I beg leave to offer, in the name of my flock, our deep gratitude for the indulgence we have received. Whether we live or die, we shall always remember and bless you for this kindness. And now, monsieur, at the prayer of my children, I beg leave to address you, our conqueror, on a subject dearer to us than any other. Monsieur, may I speak, before all?”
A pin might have been heard to drop as Clark said, briefly:
“Speak on, father.”
“Monsieur,” said the good old priest, clasping his hands, and with the tears streaming down his cheeks, as he spoke with impassioned earnestness, “we are sensible that our present situation is the fate of war, cruel merciless war. Monsieur, we are all ready to submit, to the loss of our property. But oh, monsieur, we beg only one thing. I beg for my poor children that they may not be separated from their wives and tender little ones. Our property and lives are yours, but, for the love of the good God, dear monsieur, spare us the sight of those little ones torn from us to starve, and if you must take us away for slaves, do not separate our families. If you have the further mercy to allow us some clothes and provisions for our support during the terrible journey before us, monsieur, God will bless you for it, and we shall never forget the indulgence.”
The old man paused a moment amid a breathless silence to look into the face of Clark. It was set into a stern frown, and the leader had his teeth dug into his under lip. But, not a sign of pity made its appearance on his pale countenance, and his eyes were glaring at the priest, as if the Kentuckian were in a perfect fury.
“Monsieur,” continued father Gibault, in a trembling tone, “I assure you that the conduct of our people during this war has been influenced by our commandants, whom we were always taught to obey. I am not sure, monsieur, that any of us, at this moment, clearly understand the cause of dispute between your own honorable country and his majesty of England. All that we know we have been told by our Governors, and as you are aware, dear good monsieur, there are but few opportunities, in these remote regions, of acquiring accurate information. Indeed, monsieur, with all our commandant’s stories to mislead and deceive us, there are very many among us, who have expressed themselves friendly to the gallant Americans, as much as they durst under the eyes of the Governor’s spies. Oh, monsieur, dear good monsieur, you must have a kind heart hidden beneath that rough frock. In the name of God whom I serve, spare my flock the cruelty of separation, have pity on their wives and little tender babes, and do not turn them out to starve.”
As the priest spoke he fell on his knees, and with him the whole deputation, while a wailing sob went up from the church-door, whence every word was distinctly audible.
The sob was echoed all along the rigid line of Americans, and you could see the muskets shake, while a hoarse murmur of sympathy rolled along the line.
Clark turned abruptly away, stamped his foot violently, and dashed the point of his sword into the earth, as if in a terrible passion.
“Silence in the ranks, you soft-headed fools!” he shouted. “Do you think George Rogers Clark does not know his own business?”
Then turning on the trembling Frenchmen, he cried fiercely:
“Gentlemen, do you mistake us for savages? I am almost certain you do from your language. Do you think that we Americans intend to strip women and children, or take the bread out of their mouths? My countrymen, gentlemen, disdain to make war upon helpless innocence. It was to prevent the horrors of Indian butchery upon our own wives and children, that we have taken arms and penetrated into this remote stronghold of British and Indian barbarity, and not for the despicable prospect of plunder. Now that the King of France has united his powerful arms with those of America, the war will not in all probability last long; but the inhabitants of Kaskaskia are at liberty to take which side they please, without the least danger to their property and families. Nor will your religion be any source of disagreement, as all religions are regarded with equal respect in the eye of the American law, and any insult to it shall be punished immediately. And now to prove my sincerity, please inform your fellow-citizens that they are quite at liberty to conduct themselves as usual, without the least apprehension. I am now convinced, from what I have learned since my arrival among you, that you have been misinformed and prejudiced against us by British officers; and all your friends that are in confinement shall immediately be released.”
And the unmasked stoic, who had played his part of tyrant with so much imposing fierceness, broke down at last, and shook hands with the agitated old men, the tears streaming down his face.
A mighty cheer broke from the borderers, and in a moment, all discipline disappeared, as French and Americans fraternized in a grand burst of joy.
At an early hour on a day of the following week, all Kaskaskia was astir. Great changes had taken place during that week. The undeceived citizens had found out the true nature of their invaders, and had not only welcomed them, but had taken the oath of allegiance to the United States Government, and become its warmest friends.
Not only that, but they had actually assisted them by force of arms to complete that surprising conquest of Illinois, which was made without the effusion of a drop of blood. When Clark dispatched Major Bowman with half his force, to reduce Cahokia, an important trading-station higher up the river, the major was accompanied by two bodies of French militia, with restored arms, who were the first to enter the place and inform the astounded inhabitants of the change of masters. The enterprise was completely successful, the fort at Cahokia was garrisoned with Americans, and the conquest of Illinois was virtually over.
Then, for the first time, Clark was able to turn his attention to pacifying and regulating his suddenly acquired conquests, and toward the question of reducing the second of the great chain of posts from the lakes to the Mississippi, St. Vincent’s.
The Indian chiefs from the Wabash, with their beautiful princess, were also constantly in his thoughts; and almost every day a grand council was held, at which were settled the preliminaries of those treaties which were to secure Kentucky from savage barbarity.
In all these councils, Ruby Roland acted as interpreter and chief at once of her dusky delegation, and the intercourse between her and the American leader was constant and quite familiar. The girl invariably insisted on the presence of father Gibault, who had become an ardent ally of the Americans, and the counsels of the two were of the utmost use to Clark, in the novel position in which he found himself placed.
And all this while the backwoods leader, who had been at the very first struck by Ruby’s beauty, found himself falling quickly and surely into the meshes of a love-net, from which it was impossible to extricate himself.
Ruby, whose manner toward him had been cold and distant at first, had retained her coldness, varied by bursts of great apparent friendliness, in public.
But on one or two occasions, when Clark had endeavored, at the close of business, to engage her in conversation, she had invariably repelled him with the utmost haughtiness. While father Gibault was present, she would talk freely, displaying all the graces of a cultivated woman; but to Clark alone she was as cold and cutting as a north-west wind.
Ruby Roland was indeed a strange compound of civilization and barbarism. Father Gibault himself, who had given her the greater part of her education, was often puzzled at her moods. The Indian warrior and the polished lady were about equally mixed in her manner. Of the humble, submissive squaw there was no trace, for dignity and pride were in every motion.
At last Clark grew desperate. It was at the end of the last council, on the day when Bowman returned from Cahokia, when a final treaty of peace and amity had been concluded between the tribes of the Wabash on the one hand, and the Americans on the other. When the chiefs rose to depart, after shaking hands with the colonel, Clark laid his hand on Ruby’s arm, as she was about to follow them, and said, in a clear voice:
“Mademoiselle Roland, with the chief’s daughter my business is over. With the French lady I desire a few minutes’ conversation.”
Ruby looked at him from head to foot as she withdrew her arm from his touch.
“You can not be much acquainted with French customs, monsieur,” she said, icily, “if you are not aware that unmarried girls do not hold conversation with bachelors, alone.”
“I invite father Gibault to be present,” said the Kentuckian, steadily determined not to be beaten. “There can be no impropriety in our talking before your religious instructor.”
Ruby smiled very provokingly.
“There may be no impropriety, sir, but you will please to note that I belong to the delegation with which I came, and as a chief of the Wabash I have a duty to my friends. I can not leave them. So I wish you good morning.”
“Stay, madam,” cried Clark, excitedly. “In heaven’s name, how am I to take you? Are you chief or lady? Keep to one character, I beseech you. Which is it to be?”
Ruby drew her little figure up, and threw her velvet mantle over one shoulder, Indian fashion, with an air of the most ineffable pride.
“It is to be any thing, monsieur, which will keep me from speaking to you, who have avenged yourself on a poor boy for the cruelties you dare not resent from me.”
And she was at the door ere Clark had recovered from his astonishment. Then he rushed forward, crying:
“Mademoiselle, only one single word. If I forgive the adjutant, will you grant me one single interview?”
“Try it, and see,” was the unsatisfactory reply, as the girl stepped haughtily from the room.
“Helas, mon ami, it is no use,” said father Gibault, elevating his shoulders to his ears in a truly French shrug. “You can not drive that child from her own way. I remember when she was little, before her father died—rest his soul, poor Captain Roland—she would roam away alone among the Indians, and they were more dangerous then than now. She would go up to the grimmest warrior in his war-paint, and pull his scalp-lock as he sat by the fire; and ’twas her wonderful boldness that first gained her the love of the old chief, Tabac. She was made a chief before she was ten years old, and formally adopted as head Medicine chief. They looked on her with superstition, and reverenced her knowledge. In faith, monsieur, she knows all that I do in the way of science and art, and moreover, she is the head of all Indian woodcraft and magic. But you can not turn her out of the way, any more than the sun in heaven. She is immutable.”
Clark stood ruminating awhile over the priest’s words. At last he answered:
“Father, give me your advice what to do.”
He detailed the history of his quarrel with the adjutant, and concluded by saying:
“What less could I do, sir, than put under arrest the young insolent, who insulted her and me alike? Is it just, sir, for mademoiselle to visit this on me as a crime?”
Father Gibault took a pinch of snuff, and was silent.
“Why do you not answer, monsieur?” said Clark, pettishly.
“Monsieur le colonel,” said Gibault, dryly, “it is obvious to me that your experience of women is limited. I never expect from them such a cold and severe article as justice.”
“Then what am I to do, in heaven’s name, sir?” asked the colonel, in a tone of desperation.
Gibault once more took snuff, and reflected a little.
“I think,” he said, at last, “that if I were you, (while I am not, for I am a priest in orders, bound to celibacy) I should take the hint the lady gave me, and—”
“Release the adjutant?” asked Clark, as the priest paused.
“Monsieur, as a priest, I can not give you any advice which would tend toward uniting a good Catholic and yourself.”
And father Gibault gave the borderer a curious look, that was compounded of sly humor and triumph.
Clark started back in amazement. So much was he engrossed with what he thought mademoiselle’s injustice, that he had not clearly understood whither he was tending.
“What do you mean?” he said, stammeringly.
“I mean,” said the priest, quietly, “that every one in Kaskaskia, except Colonel Clark, is fully aware that he has fallen in love with Mademoiselle Roland, and that he is jealous of a mere boy, because that boy is a favorite of mademoiselle’s. Why, colonel, they are making songs about it in the streets.”
Even as the priest spoke, they heard a chorus of lads in the street, as the young rascals passed under the windows, singing at the top of their voices a doggerel ditty, to the old air of “Malbrook,” better known nowadays as “We won’t go home till morning.” Clark listened, and turned red and pale alternately, as he clutched his sword-hilt; for the boys were coupling his own name with Ruby’s in the disrespectful manner common to French gamin and New York “bhoy” alike.
For the benefit of our readers we append the song, with a free translation:
“Le Colonel Clark est brave,
Mais il n’est qu’un esclave
Sous la main si douce et suave
De Mademoiselle Rubie Roland,
La demoiselle sauvage et belle-elle-elle,
La belle et sauvage demoiselle-elle-elle.
“Car Mademoiselle Rubie, la belle,
Le pousse debout de sa selle
Cette brave et sauvage demoiselle,
La demoiselle Rubie Roland,
La demoiselle Rubie Roland—and—and, etc.”
No English words can convey, however, the mocking accent of the refrain in the chorus, and Clark was so much enraged that he would have rushed out into the street, had not father Gibault thrown himself into the way, crying:
“Hold, monsieur, in heaven’s name what are you about to do? Consider, that you will make yourself ridiculous. These people must sing, or they will plot.”
The colonel saw the folly of which he had nearly been guilty, and restrained himself. A moment later, he saw cause to congratulate himself, for, as he stood by the window, looking down at the impudent boys, the old French town constable made his appearance in the nick of time, and promptly collared two of the young scamps.
“You see, monsieur,” said father Gibault, pointing, “you did well to leave our old authorities in force. The old people will not suffer you to be insulted. See old Antoine. He knows hows to deal with the Kaskaskia boys.”
In effect, old Antoine seemed to be equal to the occasion, for he was a very strong old man, and he knocked the heads of the two boys together several times, with a force that made them howl again, while the rest of the lately uproarious group looked on, from afar off, in great dismay.
Clark, who had been standing by the open window, put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar, which he threw down to the old constable, with a—
“Merci, mon ami.”
Old Antoine pulled off his hat, made a low bow, and pocketed the coin with many genuflexions, while the border leader turned away to Gibault, saying:
“My eyes are opened, father. The boys are right, after all; but what shall I do about my adjutant? If it should really happen that she loved him, I believe I should kill them both.”
“How old is this adjutant?” inquired father Gibault, quietly. “Remember, my son, that you lovers are apt to be jealous about trifles, and that is foolish. How old is he?”
“A mere boy, not sixteen, and small for his age,” said Clark, not without confusion. “But you must not fancy I am jealous of him, father—a little whipper-snapper, whom I could turn over my knee. No, sir; but you have no conception of the insolence with which he referred to mademoiselle. It was for that I placed him under arrest, and he kept talking back, with a manner perfectly indescribable. By heavens, sir, I wonder I did not kill him on the spot.”
Father Gibault smiled.
“I do not think you need be afraid of this boy, monsieur, unless, indeed, you make a martyr of him. I would advise you to follow mademoiselle’s hint, as a friend, not as a priest.”
“I’ll do it, father,” said the Kentuckian, promptly. “Here, orderly, go to the arsenal where the Indian chiefs lodge, and say to Adjutant Frank, with my compliments, that I wish to see him.”
The orderly left, and the commander paced up and down the room impatiently, waiting for the arrival of the culprit adjutant.
In a short time after, the orderly rapped at the door, and on being told to enter, announced:
“Please, colonel, the adjutant says as how he wants to know ef he’s released from arrest?”
“Did he dare to ask you that?” inquired Clark, sharply; and as he spoke his eye flashed.
“Please, sir, they wouldn’t let me see him,” said the man.
“Who wouldn’t let you see him?”
The commander was growing very angry, for he was a strict disciplinarian, and this sounded terrible in his ears.
The orderly hesitated.
“Speak quick, man! Who wouldn’t let you see him?”
“Colonel,” said the rough borderer, who was, after all, only a half disciplined, independent militia-man; “’tain’t my fault, honest; but them Injuns and the young lady was at the door, and the young lady she guv me the message from adjutant; and please, colonel, the boys are all in a crowd around the door, and they cheered her when she spoke, and it’s my belief, sir—”
“That will do,” said Clark, imperiously. “I understand you. There’s mutiny afoot, and you’re afraid. Out of the way.”
Before father Gibault could interfere to check him, the colonel was out of the room and half-way down-stairs. He was in a state of the greatest excitement, and shouted for his horse in a manner strangely unlike his usual quiet way. Two minutes after, he was galloping down the street toward the camp, which, as before, was pitched in front of the disused arsenal occupied by the Indians.
Around the door, as the orderly had said, the whole of the motley force of borderers were clustered; and from the murmurs that reached his ear, it was evident that an unusual excitement was going on.
As the colonel galloped up, a dead silence fell on all; but not a man stirred out of his way, and matters looked quite squally, for the rough backwoodsmen made no scruple of looking with open defiance at their leader.
The tact of Clark was infinite, or he would not have been the successful leader that he was. He saw now that he had made a mistake, and pulled up his horse by the crowd, saying, quietly:
“Stand out of my way, men. I want to enter that building.”
He looked at the door of the arsenal, and there stood beautiful Ruby Roland, with her savage allies round her, stern and impassive, looking straight at him.
Not a man stirred out of his path. Some of them crowded closer in his way, and he saw that they all carried their rifles. For the first time in his life, Clark was at a loss what to do. The instinct of discipline impelled him to violence, but his experience of the reckless Kentuckians told him that such a step would be useless.
Moreover, Bowman and all his officers stood in a group at a fire near by, with their backs resolutely turned to the scene of disturbance. Clark was too intensely proud to call for assistance from them which he saw they were unwilling to grant. He was also too politic to precipitate a fight by attempting to ride into the crowd.
For fully a minute an ominous silence prevailed, and then Clark spoke to Ruby, in a clear, loud voice:
“Mademoiselle, is my adjutant in your quarters? If so, I call on you, as my ally, to deliver him up to me.”
Like a silver trumpet came back Ruby’s answer.
“He is here. He shall not go forth till he is released from arrest, except to be tried by a court-martial.”
Instantly a tremendous cheer burst from all the borderers, and Clark saw that he had not a friend left.
It was a bitter and humiliating thing for the proud leader, in the moment of his triumph over enemies; and Clark felt it keenly.
For one moment he looked reproachfully at Ruby, then on his rebellious men. There was something in his face that abashed the boldest there, for the anger had gone out of it entirely, and there was an expression of proud regret that seemed for the first time to suggest that there might be two sides to this question. Then the border leader put his hands to his holsters, drew forth his pistols, and cast them on the ground, amid a dead silence. He unbuckled his sword and held it up in his right hand, as he said:
“Mademoiselle, I see now who is my real enemy. God forgive you. Men, I never yet condescended to ask a favor of you. I have given you a new country. Keep it for yourselves. I am no longer your leader.”
He threw down the sword as he spoke, and wheeled his horse. Slowly and sadly, but with head proudly erect, he rode up the street to the government house, passed it, and walked his horse through the principal street out into the open prairie.
The men had conquered their commander.
But never in this world did men seem so utterly unable to take advantage of a victory. They looked at each other in silence and dismay, as the consequences of their acts dawned upon them. Never was leader more beloved than Clark, and only the still greater affection which they entertained for their little adjutant, and their impression that he had been harshly treated by Clark, had induced them to rebel. In that delicious ignorance of martial law, so characteristic of the American border militiamen, they had never conceived that they were doing any thing wrong; only that they were giving their colonel a gentle hint to release their favorite officer. Now, when it was too late, they all seemed bewildered, and none more so than Ruby Roland. She stood at the top of the steps, gazing blankly after Clark, as if unable to comprehend why he had not yielded.
Then, after the form of the colonel had gone almost out of sight, arose a confused hubbub of voices, as the borderers broke up into groups, and excitedly discussed the position.
As reverently as sacred relics, the weapons of their commander were lifted from the ground, and a large deputation besieged Major Bowman and the officers, to entreat the colonel to come back.
But to their great surprise, Bowman and the others were dead against them. The fact was that every one saw that they had made a mistake, and these very officers were mean enough to cast the blame off from their own shoulders, no matter where it lighted. Major Bowman was, in fact, the very meanest of all, for he threw off his sword and belt, saying:
“No, no, boys. I take no responsibility. You chose to listen to that gal over yonder, and now she’ll have to get you out of the snarl. I’ve naught to do with it. I told you not to make such a fuss about that boy; that it would end in harm. I’ll take no command of a mob like this. Go to your lady friend.”
And Big Bill Harrod was still more emphatic.
“I tell yer, boys, that Frank’s the sassiest little cuss ever I seen, and a good whipping would do him good. Ef yer think he’s wuth more than cunnel, let him go; but ef yer don’t, jest yer go over to that thur young lady, and ax her to go arter the cunnel, and tell him as how ye made a mistake, and ax his pardon. I guess he won’t be hard on little Frank, ef she begs fur him, and it’s my notion that nary a man in this hyar camp kin fotch him back so quick as that thar gal.”
The rough captain’s words were not without their effect on his audience, who involuntarily turned toward Ruby.
The girl was standing where she had been, but entirely deserted by the very men who, a moment before, had been cheering her. She seemed to realize that her brief reign of popularity was over, and that she too had made a mistake. As the soldiers timidly proffered their request, the august beauty yielded to it with grace, mounted her horse without a moment’s delay, and set off at full gallop after Clark, bearing the commander’s sword with her.