Long Knife

by JAMES ALEXANDER Thom

  “What is it you want o’ me?” George finally had to ask.

  “Sir, I am Father Pierre Gibault. I have been asked by the people of this town to make an appeal to your sense of humanity and beseech you not to harm their cherished families.” George did not answer, and at length the priest continued: “As they expect to be separated and perhaps never allowed to meet again, they beg that they might be permitted to spend some time in the church to take leave of each other.”

  “I have no objection to that. Gather ‘em there if you like, and while they’re assembled tell ’em that not a one is to try to venture out of town.”

  The priest bowed, his great bulging eyes going moist. “Thank you, Colonel. I … I presume that our religion is obnoxious to you, but to us it is all …”

  “Mister Gibault, I have no concern with your church and have nothing to say to it. Now, if you please, I am not at leisure.”

  The priest backed off quickly, still bowing, and led out the gentlemen, who followed him like a flock of sheep.

  Within a few minutes the streets were full of grim people making their way down to the church. Mothers went carrying babies in their arms and followed by little knots of subdued, red-eyed children. They went with downcast eyes, led by their menfolk; no one talked as they flowed through the streets past the American sentries. George watched this procession from an upstairs window. Soon the church was closed up with more people in it than one could have imagined it would hold, and all the houses in the town stood open and vacant, the people apparently having given up any hope for retaining their property. George sent out an order that no American was to enter any house in the people’s absence.

  The townspeople remained in the church for more than an hour, and except for the endless dry whirring of locusts, the town lay in utter silence as the sun rose higher and grew hot. George could easily imagine the woeful consultations going on inside that handsome little stone building. Now and then mournful snatches of song and chanting could be heard issuing from the place.

  WHILE THE POPULACE WAS IN THE CHURCH, GEORGE STROLLED OUT to the place where Rocheblave sat ignominiously on the ground chained to an elm tree, his wife kneeling beside him and commiserating. George looked down at him for two minutes, hard-eyed, several times reaching for his sword and drawing it a few inches out of its scabbard, as if trying to decide whether to let him live. At length Rocheblave, white as flour, opened his mouth to speak, but George snapped, “Not a word, man!

  “From what I hear about you from your own people here,” he continued after a moment, “y’re a haughty and arrogant man, more British than French in your heart, and if I was to take ballots among the townsfolk, not many would vote to keep you alive.” He contemplated him for another minute, then shoved the sword violently back into its scabbard. “I’ve been ordered by Governor Henry to be as humane as I can in my treatment of you, so I’ll let you live long enough to be taken back to Williamsburg. But let me advise you that any one of my boys would enjoy taking a patch of your contemptible hide, in payment for what their people have suffered at the hands of your Indians, and I can’t guarantee what mightn’t happen to you when my back is turned.”

  He walked away then. That should be warning enough for him, he thought. God, how can I spare the men to transport him back east?

  Captain Harrod met him at the door of the Rocheblave house. “George, that Spanish gent and his party been askin’ whether they can go.”

  “Them! By heaven, I’d forgot about ’em altogether. I must be getting faint in the head. Come in and sit with me while I have some breakfast. Then maybe I can think straight.”

  “I gather they’re pretty important folk over on the Spanish side o’ the Missipp,” said Harrod, as George broke apart a small roasted hen and began pulling the tender leg meat off the bones with his teeth. Chew it up slow if you aim to keep it down, he reminded himself. Your belly may not remember what food is. A small portion of the bird and two bites of bread went wild in his stomach; he forced down a wave of nausea, and soon felt all right. He eyed longingly a decanter of liquor that stood on the sideboard, but decided that one sip of it in his condition would probably floor him. I’m going to be needing whatever wits I have left before these next few days are over, he thought.

  “All right, Bill,” he said. “Bring on that Spaniard.”

  TERESA DE LEYBA HAD BEEN NEAR HYSTERIA SINCE MIDNIGHT; only by praying hour upon hour with her sister-in-law had she kept from giving in entirely to her terror. She and Maria had knelt and huddled together through the morning hours in a small downstairs room, saying Hail Marys over and over, now and then dozing with exhaustion but awakening from barbaric nightmares and hearing the frightful commotion out in the streets. Once, shortly before dawn, Teresa had at last drifted off to a deeper, calmer sleep, but had been jarred awake by Maria’s terrible coughing. Crossing herself, she had risen and crept to the window, and through a narrow crack between its shutters could see only one person in the street a few feet outside the house, and the sight of him renewed her terror. He was one of the Americans, standing sentinel. His eyes were sunk deep in dark, pouchy sockets. Black hair hung in greasy strands to his shoulders, and from his cheekbones to his chin his face was hidden by patchy stubble. Around his head he wore a filthy band of homespun rag. He chewed slowly and absently, like a ruminating cow, and occasionally spat vile-looking gouts into the street. His hands were folded over the muzzle of his long rifle and now and then he stopped chewing and rested his chin on his knuckles. He seemed to be wearing little besides dried mud and weapons; a powder horn, sheath knife, and bullet pouch hung from leather thongs over his shoulders, and the long slender handle of a tomahawk stuck through the waistband of his breechclout. The man was incredibly thin and rangy, muscled like a racing dog, his ribs standing out under taut, smudged, oily-looking skin. In her two months in this territory she had never seen an Indian of any tribe, even the scruffy, parched ones from the plains, who looked as evil and murderous as this American.

  Teresa turned from the window, pressing her palm over her mouth to keep from crying. Maria was asleep on the divan. The graying light of early morning was beginning to seep into the shuttered room, and Teresa had a premonition that the whole population would be led into the open and slaughtered at the rising of the sun, perhaps even cannibalized. The man outside the window looked capable of that, and there were rumors that the Americans did eat the flesh of their victims, though her brother had chided her foolishness in believing such tales. “Governor Galvez is sympathetic to the Americans,” he had scoffed. “Would he have dealings with cannibals?”

  Teresa curled herself into a large soft chair and closed her eyes and held a handkerchief to her nose for comfort as was her habit. Beyond the door she could hear the men and officers talking, her brother’s voice and Lieutenant de Carbatona’s among them, but could not make out their words, just the murmuring of voices. They had been talking for hours, all night, sometimes excitedly, sometimes angrily, sometimes in low voices. Her brother’s voice remained calm and reasonable at all times. He always reassures, she thought. He always expects the best to happen. He believes people are good because he is good. And he is so brave.

  She huddled in the chair and thought of her brother’s courage. She remembered how he had walked directly over to that gigantic, fierce American with red hair and spoken to him, while de Cartabona had hung back, sweating with fright.

  Teresa shuddered at the memory of that moment, when she had feared that her brother would be struck and killed on the spot; and now the awesome image of that intruder stepped in through the door of her memory for the hundredth time, frightening and troubling her.

  It was more than just fear of the man that was unsettling her. She kept remembering her own reaction to the sight of him. It was strange, something she had never experienced before. Though she had been stunned by his very murderous appearance, by the air of tension that had seemed to crackle about him, by his filthy, haggard look, she had nonetheless been
shaken by a keen thrill and a flushing of blood all through her body. He was, in his terrible way, the most splendid man she had ever seen, one whose presence could, she feared, brush away as lightly as cobwebs all the reliable old defenses about her inner self, both those of her ingrained personal-reserve and those of Spanish social custom, to strip her very soul and make it stand vulnerable. He was, somehow, like a keen-edged knife. And Teresa had always feared knives. She saw her father lying shirtless on a table, gushing crimson blood from a wound received in a duel …

  “Maria! Maria! Teresa!” She awoke to the sound of her brother’s voice and a rapping on the door, surprised that she had slept. She got up from the chair, nearly falling because one of her legs was asleep, hobbled to the door and unlocked it. Narrow stripes of sunlight, coming through the shutters, traced across the floor to Maria, who was beginning to stir.

  Don Fernando de Leyba pulled his sister to him and put his lips to the part of her hair, and then knelt beside his wife and pressed his cheek to hers.

  “The colonel of the Virginians has sent for me at last,” he said. “I am going to the fort now to talk with him.” He saw the panic in her eyes and smiled his ever-assuring smile. “He will give us safe passage, I am certain. We will be on the river to St. Louis by afternoon, and this unpleasantness can be forgotten.”

  “I’m afraid for you,” Maria said with fervor. “I’m afraid for all of us!”

  “Nonsense, Maria. As far as we can discern, these so-called ‘barbarians’ have not harmed one person, nor taken so much as a loaf of bread without asking for it. If you knew about war, you would realize how remarkable that is. Their commandant, this Colonel Clark, must be a superb fellow.”

  Clark, Teresa thought. No. Surely that is not the terrible one we saw last night. Such a person could not be a gentleman of rank.

  “I know in my heart there is something unspeakable in store for us,” Maria groaned.

  “Only being frightened half out of our sense,” Don Fernando insisted, rising to leave. Despite his vigil through the night, his eyes shone with excitement. Maria searched his face, uncomprehending, shaking her head.

  “You seem to be actually happy about this awful thing!”

  “As a soldier I can only be stirred by it,” he exclaimed. “Think of it! The distance! The surprise! His Excellency will be delighted to hear of it. Maria, I am truly impatient to meet this Virginia colonel. You two go out in the salon now, and take some refreshment. All the townsfolk have gone to a meeting in the church. I’ll be back for you shortly and we’ll be going home.” He kissed her.

  When he went out, Maria sank to her knees and pulled Teresa down beside her. They began praying for his safety.

  But even over the fervor of her praying Teresa kept seeing the image of the Virginian with the red hair. And so she had to beg forgiveness for the profanation of her prayer.

  DON FERNANDO DE LEYBA WAS STARTLED TO SEE PHILLIPPE DE Rocheblave in chains in the shade of the elm tree, but was not led close enough to him to speak to him. In truth, he was glad. It would have been awkward.

  Stepping smartly into the parlor of Rocheblave’s mansion, de Leyba found about ten of the frightful-looking half-naked Americans standing or sitting about. It was immediately obvious that, despite their slovenly appearance, a very brisk and efficient command post was being operated here. Curt, spirited conversations were being conducted at a desk at the far end of the room. As one man left, another would go forward to the desk. Here, apparently, we meet this Colonel Clark at last, thought de Leyba, and he gathered his compliments on the tip of his tongue.

  He was led straight through the mass of frontier soldiers, who were so malodorous in the close room that he had to breathe through his mouth. “George,” Captain Harrod said loudly, parting the group and pulling de Leyba through by an arm, “here’s the Spaniard who wants t’ see you.”

  Don Fernando was astonished to see that the man who sat behind the desk with a quill pen in his hand was none other than the formidable youth who had interrupted the dance last midnight. Somehow he was surprised to see that the fellow could write. “Good morning,” he said in his best English, glancing about for some sign of a uniformed officer. “I would be very happy to speak with Colonel Clark, if I may.”

  The young giant poked the quill point into its stand, then rose to his feet. “Then you should be a happy man, sir, because you’re speaking to him. I am George Rogers Clark, and you are …”

  The Spaniard covered his confusion quickly, clicking his heels and dipping his head. “Don Fernando de Leyba, lieutenant governor of Louisiana. What a pleasure to see you again, Colonel. Forgive me for not knowing you …”

  The youth looked at him for a moment, eyes widening for an instant, waved the rest of the statement aside, and reached across to take de Leyba’s hand, in a very firm and warm handshake. “We’re honored to have you here, Governor. I hope we haven’t distressed you any, but I really was a little too busy last night to hear you out.” He broke into an engaging grin which shone through his unkempt aspect, and de Leyba, infected by it, smiled in return.

  “It is a privilege, Colonel, to compliment you on a most enviable coup. I’m grateful that I happened to be here to see it.”

  Several of the listening frontiersmen looked from one to another blankly, and said, “Coo?”

  “Boys, if you’d kindly back off into the hall for five minutes or so, I need to do some diplomatic business with the governor here, before his party leaves for St. Louis.” As they moved off, elbowing each other and cooing, George motioned de Leyba to a chair and sank back behind the ornate desk. “You’ve saved me the trouble of a trip up to St. Louis, Governor. I have greetings for you from Patrick Henry of Virginia.”

  “Thank you, colonel. I know Governor Galvez esteems his friendship highly. But I hope that this encounter need not preclude your visit to St. Louis at some time in the near future. We would be most pleased to show you our hospitality.”

  George studied this dark, elegant little man with ambivalent feelings. He was enjoying, after so many years on the frontier, that kind of gracious courtesy and polished speech which he had not experienced since his young years at Williamsburg and with George Mason’s students at Gunston Hall. His own body itched and clamored for the feel of clean linen and fine cloth; his ear yearned for polite speech and genteel music, and for a momentary reprieve at least from the responsibilities of wartime leadership. At the same time he felt a little scorn for the Spaniard’s apparent softness and delicacy, and for the political hypocrisy which he knew underlay Spain’s friendly overtures to the American rebels. It’s not for their love of us but their hatred of the British that they side with us, he was thinking. And by taking the Illinois from British control now I am just as much complicating Governor Galvez’s eventual designs on it. Still, diplomatic friendship is reliable to a point, and there is precious little else to rely on in these times.

  “There are two things I should like to mention before you embark, Governor,” he said. “The first, which you may or may not know of yet, is that King Louis of France has of late signed an alliance with the Colonies, which I intend to announce here as soon as I have got this place under better order.” The Spaniard’s eyebrows went up and surprise flickered through his eyes; then he smiled as if at good news.

  “You must be pleased,” said de Leyba. George nodded, and went on.

  “The other matter is that, although we’ve arrived here in considerable force …” he was careful not to smirk at his own lie, “we are nonetheless surrounded by a host of Indian nations whose minds have long been poisoned by the British. We hope that, in the unlikely event we should sometime be overwhelmed by their numbers, we might be assured asylum on your side of the Mississippi while we would regroup and await reinforcements from our army at the Falls of the Ohio.” Again, at the thought of this imaginary force, he bit back his mirth.

  “Be assured,” said de Leyba. “I should be honored to serve you in any way I can.” The Spaniar
d’s expression and tone seemed sincere, and George felt a rush of real appreciation for him.

  “Good, then. And I likewise am at your disposal, Governor, should you ever have need of me.” In saying this, George suddenly had to gulp down an unexpected wave of emotion. I must be overly tired, he thought I’m getting maudlin. He stood up quickly and went around the desk to grasp de Leyba’s hand and go with him to the door. “When I have a proper government here,” he said, “I will treat you to the ceremony that Virginians accord their worthiest associates. For now, forgive my informality. I’ll have a detail escort your party to your boats, and I bid you Godspeed.”

  The Spaniard paused in the foyer, looking up at him with glittering wide obsidian eyes, as if searching under the grime and stubble for an outline of the true gentleman he felt must be inside. He clicked his heels again and bowed quickly.

  “Until that day,” he said. He was already anticipating the joy of his wife and sister.

  CAPTAIN HELM, STANDING LIKE A SILHOUETTE IN THE WINDOW against the glare of the summer daylight outside, suddenly straightened up and turned to George. “Here comes that dang priest ag’in,” he said, “a-leadin’ his flock.” He chuckled. “An’ they look like he’s leadin’ ’em to th’ slaughter!” George got up and watched them arrive in the yard. From the looks of them, only their spiritual dependence on the priest was giving them the courage to stay upright and place one foot before the other. “Bring ’em in,” George said, returning to the desk and standing behind it. The delegation, now grown to about fifteen or twenty, followed the priest into the room, heads bared.

  “What will it be now, gentlemen?” George asked the priest.

  “Colonel,” Father Gibault began, “we come to return thanks for the indulgence you have shown us, and beg your permission to address you further on a matter that is more dear to us than anything else.”