Long Knife

by JAMES ALEXANDER Thom

  I will play for him again, she thought. I will, if he wants me to!

  TERESA DID PLAY FOR ANOTHER HALF HOUR, FILLING THE ROOM with beauty and magic. She was playing only for the American colonel now, and the melodies were lilting ballads and gentle nocturnes. It soon was obvious even to the dullest guests in the room that George Rogers Clark was her whole audience.

  It was after two in the morning when de Leyba, mellow and affectionate, moderately drunk, and very pleased with his entertainment, began making arrangements for lodging the guests. Most, being soldiers, were satisfied to pile up three or four to a bedroom or stretch out on rows of pallets in the ballroom. Several of George’s men laid out their bedrolls in the corridor outside the upstairs guest room where he slept. Señora de Leyba agreed to give up the master bedroom to several of the lady guests, and stationed herself on a settee in the anteroom in Teresa’s bed-chamber, while the governor took to the daybed in his office downstairs.

  George, coat off, sweat-soaked shirt cooling against his skin, talked briefly to his officers, staying at large in the house as long as possible, in hopes of encountering Teresa somewhere. But she was put away for the night.

  He took a half-empty bottle of brandy to bed with him, drank it in an effort to stupefy his rioting fancies, blew out the lamp, and lay there tossing, imagining that Teresa’s bed must be exactly on the other side of the thick wall beside him. He held his palm against that wall; he listened; all he could hear was the cough of Señora de Leyba and the snores of sleeping men outside his door. At one point he contrived a daring plan for slipping into Teresa’s room and kneeling beside her bed to take her hand and hold it, and for some time he imagined that over and over.

  But then in his mind’s eye he saw his own guards, sleeping lightly, virtually stacked like cordwood in the hallway outside his door, and he saw Señora de Leyba, kept wakeful surely by her own pitiful coughing, encamped in Teresa’s antechamber. No. Impossible, he thought. Only the worst sort of a fool would try it.

  He chuckled at a thought. I can’t go to Detroit because I haven’t enough people. And I can’t go to Teresa because I have too many.

  He went to sleep at last, his head full of her face and her music.

  HE AWAKENED TO A STREAM OF BRIGHT SUNLIGHT BLAZING ON THE white bedding around him, and the sound of girls’ voices outside his window. He propped himself on an elbow, appalled that he had slept so late. Then Teresa’s plangent voice drifted in the window with the others, and, in a wave, the whole idea of Teresa—her face, her eyes, her hands, her music, the scent of her hair and her soap—invaded him.

  He lay for a moment looking at the square of pearly blue morning sky, recalling the night of sheer enchantment, smiling at the foolish, drunken fantasy to which he had fallen asleep—it was all so vague, now; he could just remember lying with his hand pressed against the wall—and listened to the voices, which were like music, ranging from lilting to grave tones as the conversation went on. Often as a youth he had lain awake in the sleeping loft of the Clark home in Virginia, listening to his little sisters chattering downstairs. But this was different. The words being Spanish and unintelligible to him, he was listening not to conversation but to the tones and timbres of voices, the inflections, and it was more like music than speech, rather, he thought, like the birdsongs of the morning.

  In the distant blue a tiny dark speck cut diagonally across the rectangular opening of the window, slanting downward and away. It was a hawk. It vanished, leaving again only the unbroken blue.

  He rose, naked, feeling rested and strong, stretched and loosened his arm and shoulder muscles washed his face quickly with cold water poured from a flowered pitcher into a porcelain bowl, dried on a small towel—which smelled like Teresa’s soap, he fancied, that subtle and indefinable blend of spice and flowers—then went closer to the window to look down on the green river valley, the rooftops of the village of St. Louis, some thatched, some of splitwood shakes, even a couple of red curved pantiles, and then into the garden and terrace where the young ladies of the de Leyba household were having what appeared to be their lessons. The little girls sat on a carved bench rather like a church pew, with an open book lying between them; Señora de Leyba, in a white, long-sleeved high-necked dress of white cotton, only those hollow eyes and phthisic hands hinting at her frail health, sat on a chair opposite them, now and then intercalating their recitations with her words, and Teresa, dressed likewise, sat slightly apart, her back to the squared yew hedge, concentrating on a square of white cloth stretched in a wooden frame she held in her lap, doing something to it with a needle. The sunlight shone on the cloth and bathed her face in a soft reflective glow, limning her throat and her long, delicate neck. As George watched her, watched her quiet absorption, he wondered whether he was in her thoughts. He preferred to believe that he was. It had seemed to him last night that his presence was as important to her as hers was to him.

  Birds twittered everywhere, shot among the hedges, hopped forward on the still damp grass in the shady places, looking for late worms. From the other side of the house he heard the voice of one of his own lieutenants drilling the guard. At that moment one of the children apparently said something funny in her recitation; Teresa and the Señora broke into trilling laughter and the girls began squirming and giggling. Teresa looked up as she laughed, and her glance caught him staring at her; their eyes met for an instant, then bounced away from each other like billiard balls. When he returned his gaze to her she was bent further over her needlework in elaborate concentration, and there seemed to be high color on her sun-washed neck.

  George stood there for another full five minutes, wickedly trying to will her to look up again, determined that he would not look away next time.

  She, perhaps by an equally strong exercise of will, did not look up once.

  GOVERNOR DE LEYBA, AFTER SHARING A SUMPTUOUS BREAKFAST of fresh fruits, melons, and thin strips of peppery fried venison with the American officers, announced cheerfully that he had arranged a contest of marksmanship for midday, on a meadow north of the town, saying he had to see the frontiersmen’s skill which Bowman had so lauded at dinner the night before. The officers met this with cheers and laughter. George and de Leyba then went down to an arbor in the corner of the grounds, sat in the shade of grape leaves amid the drunken drone of bees, and discussed matters of trade and supply. Encouraged by de Leyba’s cheerfulness and his repeated offers to help the Americans, George told him of the poverty of his expedition, its lack of gold, currency, or goods, and the frustrating silence that prevailed in the direction of Williamsburg. He told him how Pollock and Vigo and even Cerré were extending their credit on his behalf, and then described his own method of signing his name personally on all bills for the provisioning of his army. But, he added, even in this short time the traders were becoming leery of accepting his personal notes. “Quite frankly,” he said, “I brought my army to this place with nought but the shirts on our backs, and I’m not sure how long I can keep us alive if money doesn’t come soon from Virginia.”

  “My dear Don Jorge!” exclaimed de Leyba, reaching across the table and putting a hand on George’s wrist. “Trust me, I would not stand by and watch a great soldier and friend expend his faculties on such a mundane matter as credit! My name, sir, as of this moment, is pledged to underwrite yours. I have absolute faith in you and in Don Patrick Henry, and in the state of Virginia which has mothered such men.”

  George swallowed hard. “I cannot ask for such a kindness, Excellency.”

  “You are not asking for it, my friend. It is my pleasure to offer it. I know Governor Galvez would condone it; I know his sympathies. And believe me, it is small recompense for the hope and inspiration you have brought to us in this corner of exile.”

  “I’ll use it sparingly,” George said. “My people need no extravagances. But they do eat heartily, as you’ve seen, and they’re about as naked now as an army ever was.”

  “Yes,” de Leyba said. “Now tell me, is it true t
hat they shoot as Captain Bowman says?”

  George grinned. “You’ll see that for yourself this afternoon. Excellency,” he added as they rose to leave the arbor, “I must mention one other matter that is very much in my thoughts now.”

  “What is it?” de Leyba asked, pretending not to know.

  “As my leisure permits, and with your blessing, sir, I should like to call now and then on your sister, who is surely the most … the most …”

  “Nothing could please me more,” said de Leyba, clasping his hands behind his back and taking a deep breath of the fragrant air. “Yes.” He looked at the mansion as they strolled toward it. “You do have my blessing.”

  IT WAS A PERFECT DAY AND PLACE FOR SHOOTING. THE AIR WAS clear and cooler than it had been for days, with barely enough breeze to move the awnings of the blue and white pavilion that had been set up on the meadow to shade the ladies of the party, and not enough to complicate the aim of a long rifle. The meadow was flat, about two hundred yards across, and beyond it nothing but the river.

  George had harangued his marksmen for a half hour before the ride out, telling them that their reputations in these parts, and the veracity of Captain Bowman, rested upon their skills and concentration. “And if that isn’t enough for you,” he had added with a hard-edged smile, “there’s my pride to consider. And as you know, gents, I’m sorely jealous of my pride.”

  On the field, he provided a jug of taffia for the use of those who believed it whetted their eyesight or steadied their hands. The ladies spread a table with sweetmeats and other morsels, with a cloth over it to baffle the flies.

  As the Americans loaded and primed their flintlocks, George looked for an opportunity to say something to Teresa. She busied herself at the center of the table while he stood at the end of it watching his marksmen. In a moment he heard the rustling of cloth close behind him. Seeming to be preoccupied with spreading the table cover, she had moved to the end of the table where he stood.

  “Teresa,” he said in a whisper, she looked up as if surprised to find him there. He searched her eyes, seeing in sunlight for the first time that they were not absolutely black, but burnished with a tinge of hazel. “For once,” he said, “we don’t have to look up or down through windows at each other, with a wall between us!”

  She blushed at the reference and looked down at the table. “It’s true,” she murmured. “There is no wall between us, is there?”

  “I hope never again,” he whispered.

  She went away then and joined the other girls and women under the pavilion’s shade, patting her breast with a straw fan, and de Leyba came forward.

  “My guard,” he said, indicating the four Spanish soldiers who stood at ease nearby, “would be willing to shoot against yours, and make it thus a competition instead of an exhibition.”

  George looked at them and considered it; his people loved competition. But, he thought, from a diplomatic standpoint it might not be good for this kind but naive Spaniard to see his soldiers humiliated. “No doubt that would be an exciting match, Excellency,” he ventured. “Your lads certainly look sharp enough. But if I may say so, it would be an unfair contest not of men but of weapons, I mean muskets against long rifles.”

  De Leyba professed to see the validity of that, and soon enough he was glad he had not insisted on the contest. The targets were peeled green willow switches stuck into the ground, each with a scrap of colored cloth tied to its upper end like a small banner. Standing at first for the short-range shots, then kneeling and finally lying prone as the switches were planted farther and farther away, the marksmen unerringly cut me yellow wands off with their bullets until the meadow grass for fifty yards out was littered with splinters and scraps of cloth.

  The Spaniards watched, incredulous, as each frontiersman in his turn would step to the line in silence, level his slim, heavy weapon, take half a breath, and without pause send the ball cracking to its target. The only thing the sharpshooters seemed unable to control was their ungentlemanly whooping and howling of triumph, which drifted across the field as often as the puffs of blue-white gunsmoke. George had forgotten to warn them against their customary use of expletives.

  Oh, well, he thought. Thank God these Spaniards have never heard those words before and couldn’t know what they mean.

  “I am duly impressed,” de Leyba exclaimed. “God help any Indian who won’t sign your peace treaties! But, ah, as for your own eyes, Don Jorge—I observe that you carry one of those remarkable long guns as well as your pistols … Do I presume that you shoot so well, too?”

  “Tolerable, tolerable.”

  “Would you mind …”

  “If you wish it. Key,” he called, turning to his sergeant, “would you fetch me my piece?” The sergeant brought it to him. “And now if you’d plant me a target, out there at the farthest line … nay, maybe ten yards beyond.” Key started off, and when the woodsmen saw that their colonel was going to shoot beyond their marks, they raised a good-humored jeering, first about his certain inability to do it, then about how unfair it would be if he did. George only grinned at them, shook his head at their remarks, loaded and tamped the charge, and primed the pan.

  “What a fine-looking weapon,” mused de Leyba, who stood close by. “May I try it, Don Jorge?”

  George gave it to him. He didn’t know whether his new Spanish friend was actually going to try a shot with it or not. He hoped he would not.

  De Leyba held the rifle in both hands, turning it this way and that in the sunlight, admiring the lustrous golden-striped maple of the stock and the intricate scrollwork chased in the steel. “Very handsome,” he murmured. Then he raised the barrel and sighted along it toward the willow switch, which from this distance looked narrow as a hair. George thought the governor really was going to try to shoot, until he noticed that the barrel was dipping. The Spaniard was having difficulty holding it up. His arm was trembling. Instead of shooting, then, he held it up before his eyes again and nodded. “Very handsome piece,” he said again, handing it to George. “Surprisingly heavy, eh?”

  “Makes for a steadier aim, Excellency.”

  George took his stance now, eyeing the target, de Leyba standing behind him, nodding, a little embarrassed. I believe he was going to try, George thought, but he couldn’t hoist it. Hm.

  He raised the rifle, and just as he brought the sights to bear on the tiny distant scrap of red, a flicker of movement off to the left caught his eye. A large rabbit had run onto the meadow toward the shooting party, had suddenly become aware of them, had stopped in confusion, then had leaped off at a sharp angle and was scampering toward the far edge of the meadow.

  “The hare!” de Leyba cried excitedly. “Get him!”

  George, responding to the lifelong instinct of one who hunts for food, was already bringing the muzzle around onto the fleeing animal; he led the scurrying brown shape by about half a foot and squeezed the trigger. The rifle roared and recoiled against his shoulder, and through the dissipating smoke he saw the animal tumble along the ground, flinging guts, then twitch and lie still.

  At the same moment, a feminine voice emitted a shrill, short cry, followed by the huzzahs of the frontiersmen. Lowering the rifle, George glanced back at the pavilion to see Teresa turning toward her sister-in-law, her hands clapped over her eyes in horror. Instantly his satisfaction was overwhelmed by a pang of remorse, then anger at himself, for having so thoughtlessly exposed her to this needless instant of killing.

  De Leyba himself was applauding and exclaiming in wonder at the shot, his voice raised along with those of the woodsmen, who were extremely and profanely proud of their colonel. But the deep, hopeful contentment George had been feeling since the previous evening was ruined. He had shocked Teresa, and couldn’t imagine what he would be able to do to atone for it.

  He was listening to de Leyba’s joy and looking at Teresa’s anguish when Lieutenant de Cartabona cantered onto the field, leading one of the American couriers.

  The man brou
ght word that Mister Black Bird of the Chippewas had arrived in Cahokia that morning and was awaiting his opportunity to meet with the Long Knife.

  As George took the message and began making his excuses to Lieutenant Governor de Leyba, he saw askance that de Cartabona had wandered to the pavilion and was paying his compliments to the ladies there. Swallowing, frowning, feeling absolutely wretched, George watched the dashing little Spanish officer bow and kiss Teresa’s hand.

  And when George went to the pavilion to kiss the ladies’ hands and take his leave for Cahokia, he felt Teresa try to withdraw her fingers from his just a telltale instant before he would have released them. She dropped her eyes when he tried to look into them, and just perceptibly turned her face aside.

  “Until I have the honor of seeing you again,” he said.

  But he felt that there was a wall between them once more.

  18

  DETROIT

  August 1778

  DETROIT WAS SWELTERING. GOVERNOR HENRY HAMILTON WAS working in his shirt-sleeves. All of the windows of his office were open, inviting any afternoon breeze which might come along.

  Hoofbeats pounded to a halt outside, punctuated by the slobbery blowing of a winded horse. Hamilton leaned back in his chair, picked up a paper fan and tried to create a breeze of his own with it, wondering meanwhile what sort of fool would be riding so hard in this heat. Craning his neck, he could see through the window a bay horse caked with dust and lather, its sides heaving, and an equally dusty man dismounting. It looked like Maisonville, one of his agents for Indian affairs from the Wabash country. What the deuce is he doing here? Hamilton wondered.

  Boot steps and heavy breathing sounded in the vestibule, and voices; the orderly stepped in and saluted.

  “It is Mister François de Maisonville, wishing to see you at once, sir.”