Long Knife

by JAMES ALEXANDER Thom

  Hamilton looked at him with a cold eye. It was altogether odd that a vigorous siege of the fort should have been totally suspended just long enough to let him get in safely.

  Can I trust even LaMothe now? he wondered. Damn, damn, he thought. It’s my perdition to serve among faithless Frenchmen. Well, then. I’ll just have to watch him like the rest, he decided.

  THE SUN ROSE, MAKING A MORNING OF GLITTERING FROST, YELLOW winter grass, long blue shadows, and bright, clear targets. The sun came up behind the town, at the Americans’ backs, and shone blindingly into the eyes of the British defenders on the front wall of their fort.

  Behind a jumble of stacked logs, carts, and barrels in the meadow, scarcely thirty yards from the looming fort, a company of American sharpshooters in filthy buckskins, fur caps or black hats, and mud-caked leggings, their toes showing through split-seamed moccasins, stood or crouched or lay prone, their cheeks sunken, eyes glittering, keeping up a tireless round of firing and loading. Blue-white smoke billowed constantly along this breastwork. Sunlight gleamed dull on the oily blue metal of hexagonal rifle barrels. Brass and hickory ramrods slid in and out of muzzles. Black powder trickled from powderhorns into flintlock pans; dirty thumbs cocked the hammers; callused forefingers fissured black squeezed the triggers; sinewy shoulders absorbed the recoil. If their shooting had been intimidating by moonlight, it was awe-inspiring now in the sunlight. The cannon fired a few rounds toward the village, but by now the merest crack in a gun port would admit well-aimed rifle balls; a rifleman watching a chink of light between two palisade logs would send a ball spinning through it the instant it was darkened by the movement of a body within. Soon the fort was buttoned up so tightly against this deadly hail that the cannon fell silent.

  A young American private named Edward Bulger knelt behind the breastwork, diligently loading and firing. He trembled violently between shots, and sniffled constantly, but managed to pull his shivering body into a posture of statue stillness before each shot.

  A shadow fell across the lad’s gun as he reloaded, and a deep voice said:

  “Wipe your nose, Mister Bulger, lest you wet your gunpowder.”

  Looking up, the private saw Colonel Clark standing before him, grinning. The lad beamed, ran the sleeve of his hunting shirt under his nose, poked the muzzle over a log, rested his cheek on the rifle stock, closed one eye, squeezed the trigger and shot the hat off an Englishman on the parapet.

  Moving a few paces down the line, George and Bowman were amused at the sight of the lower half of a rifleman who lay firing from a prone position under an oxcart; the seat of his breeches was in shreds and his white buttocks shone through. Bowman laughed giddily. “Poor feller,” he said, “Wonder whether them was blowed out or rotted out!”

  “Now, Joseph,” George said, “I have some nice news for you. The ladies o’ Vincennes have kindly laid a great hot breakfast for us. If you’d relieve a half of your company at a time, so that they might go down and enjoy that welcome occasion …”

  His words were drowned out by cheers.

  “LORD HELP US, THEY’VE GOT MAISONVILLE, SIR!” EXCLAIMED A British officer.

  General Hamilton went up a ladder to the parapet and, eyelids trembling in anticipation of more of those precise American rifle balls, peered out through a gap in the palisade at a sight that made his blood run cold:

  A mere thirty yards in front of the fort gate, François de Maisonville, arms bound behind him, was being led to an upright post in front of the American breastwork by two hideous, whooping woodsmen. The two tied the handsome French Indian agent to the post, exposing his chest to the fort, then stood behind him and, using his shoulders as rifle-rests, began with an air of confidence and immunity to snipe cheerfully at the fort, while Maisonville screamed his name frantically and begged the British not to return their fire.

  Dear God, the wretch, Hamilton thought. He passed the word down the line not to risk hitting the captive. A shot fired by one of the snipers buzzed past General Hamilton’s cheek, but he remained there, fascinated by the incredible sight, growing more furious and frightened with each passing second as this bizarre incident wore on.

  The American Captain McCarty, drawn to this scene by the Frenchman’s screams and the laughter of the riflemen, took one look at it, judged it as an unchivalrous way to use a prisoner, and ordered them to cease their amusement, untie the prisoner, and take him to the guard. The two men obeyed, but as they untied him, one of them, explaining to McCarty that this was the notorious Indian agitator Maisonville, drew his long knife, snatched a handful of hair and sliced off a patch of his scalp. Maisonville screeched in anguish and evacuated his bowels.

  “Hey, you, Hair-Buyer!” the woodsman shouted back at the fort as he led the stumbling Maisonville away, “You’re next, yer Lordship!”

  On the parapet in the fort, Hamilton paled, turned away, and went down the ladder, trying to shut out the abject wails of his French ally.

  He had paid for hundreds of scalps. But it was the first time he had ever witnessed a scalping.

  WHILE HIS SOLDERS ATE THE FIRST MEAL THEY HAD HAD IN SIX days, George sat on a bench in the church in the village and wet a quill in ink. He wrote:

  Lt. Governor Henry Hamilton Esqr

  Commanding Post St. Vincent

  Sir

  In order to save yourself from the Impending Storm that now Threatens you I order you to Immediately surrender yourself up with all your Garrison Stores &c. &c. for if I am obliged to storm, you may depend upon such Treatment justly due to a Murderer beware of destroying Stores of any kind or any papers or letters that is in your possession or hurting one house in the Town for by heavens if you do there shall be no Mercy shewn you.

  Feby 24th 1779

  G. R. CLARK

  At about nine o’clock the gunfire fell silent for the second time, as the Americans waved a flag of truce. General Hamilton crossed the parade, ordered one of the gates opened a few feet, and stood inside waiting for the message. Captain Cardinal of the Vincennes militia brought in the letter from Colonel Clark. Hamilton broke the seal and stood reading the letter. His face grew pale, then red. He looked up, scowling, at Cardinal.

  “Wait,” he said. Then he sent for all the officers of the garrison and had them come to his quarters, where he read them the letter. They listened, some chewing the insides of their lips, some pulling their noses; all were quite clearly frightened. Some of them doubtless were recalling the spectacle involving Monsieur Maisonville. Hamilton himself kept seeing that image. It was unsettling to think of oneself on the other end of the scalping knife, as it were, and that brutal act, always heretofore a remote abstraction in the business of governing, today seemed sickeningly real and proximate.

  “My intention,” Hamilton said, “is to undergo any extremity rather than give ourselves into the hands of such people. Has anyone an argument to that resolution? No? Good. Call assembly. I want to talk to the troops.”

  The occasion was brief. Hamilton read Colonel Clark’s letter, told the troops what he and the officers had determined, and was assured by the British regulars that they would defend the king’s colors to the last man. “Sir,” barked one senior sergeant with a bulbous nose and ruddy jowls, “as the saying is, we’ll stick to you like the shirt on your back, sir.” The ranks gave three cheers. Hamilton clenched his molars, swallowed hard, and raised his chin.

  “Thank you,” he said huskily, and turned back toward his quarters. The French militia had not joined in the spirit of the demonstration; they hung their heads and shuffled their feet.

  At his desk, Hamilton wrote:

  Govr Hamilton begs leave to acquaint Col. Clark that he and his garrison are not disposed to be awed into any action Unworthy of British subjects.

  H. HAMILTON

  He gave the letter to Captain Cardinal, then sat slumped in his chair, gazing absently at a distant corner of the floor, and wondering what he might be bringing down on his brave people by this piece of defiance. He envision
ed Captain Cardinal crossing the parade, going out through the gate, striding down the meadow to the American fortifications, handing the letter to Colonel Clark, the American reading it—

  At that moment the crackle of rifle fire resumed, the booming of cannon, the rattle of splinters and spent balls on walls and roofs everywhere, the yelp of a defender nicked by a bullet. Hamilton sat at his desk listening to this mayhem. From the volume of the fire, he estimated that Clark must indeed have nearly a thousand attackers. My people can’t stand in the face of that kind of fire long, he thought. Can’t even use the bloody cannon! Damn, damn! He slammed his fist on the desk.

  “Begging your pardon, Excellency,” said the orderly, “Captain LaMothe sends word that a large body of the villagers have thrown in with the rebels, sir, and are firing on the fort.”

  “Blast!” the general barked, slamming his fist on the desk again. “Frenchmen!”

  THE AMERICANS AND THEIR ALLIES, NOW FED, WARMED BY THE sun, certain that they had their long-hated enemies in their power, surfeited with ammunition, and presented with this huge fort which was a shooting gallery of such varied challenges, began competing with themselves for smarter and smarter shooting, with the result that the defenders by late morning had altogether stopped trying to return fire, either cannon or musket. It seemed incredible to George, but even without artillery, his marksmen had actually been able to silence a strong, well-defended British fort. He had never heard of such a thing; he felt that no man ever had been so happy, and was wondering just how to exploit this advantage when a truce flag appeared above the palisade, and he ordered a cease-fire.

  The woodsmen reloaded and rested on their rifles as Governor Hamilton’s messenger was brought through the lines. George opened the letter and read:

  Lt Govr Hamilton proposes to Col. Clark a truce for three days during which time he promises there shall be no defensive works carried on in the Garrison, on condition Col. Clark shall observe on his part a like cessation of any offensive work that he wishes to confer with Col. Clark as soon as can be and further proposes that whatever may pass between them two and any other Person mutually agreed upon to be present, shall remain a secret till Matters be finally concluded—As he wishes that whatever the Result of their conference may be to the honor and credit of each party—If Col. Clark makes a difficulty of coming into the fort Lt Govr Hamilton will speak to him before the Gate

  24th Feby

  H. HAMILTON

  George pondered on the letter and passed it to his officers for their observations. He scratched his jaw, noting idly for the first time that a short but full-fledged beard had actually grown on him in the duration of this long and strenuous campaign. A fortnight since we left Kaskaskia, he thought. And not a moment’s ease in all that time. And here we have Hamilton strapped really far tighter than we could have hoped; he’s begging for a reprieve.

  “I fear it’s just a scheme t’get you inside that fort, George,” said Captain Bailey.

  “Aye,” said Captain Worthington. “You’d be a prize hostage, all right.”

  “No,” George replied. “A treachery of that nature would ruin his reputation. He wants those three days because—because—all I can see is, he has hopes of reinforcements by then.”

  “But so have we,” Bowman said. “The galley must be nigh by now. She’ll be on us in a day or two, if not this very afternoon.”

  “All’s I know is this,” said Captain McCarty. “Somethin’s got t’ change pretty soon. My boys is fed, fat, and sassy, an’ been enjoyin’ this shoot a whole lot, but some’s sayin’ they’d like t’ get into that fort there, an’ get to th’ heart o’ th’ matter with the Hair-Buyer.”

  “Mine too,” said Worthington. “I’m havin’ a time making ’em keep down. They can git pretty rash, as y’know.”

  “Pen and paper, then,” George said. He wrote:

  Colonel Clarks Compliments to Mr Hamilton and begs leave to inform him that Col. Clark will not agree to any other terms than that of Mr Hamilton’s surrendering himself and Garrison, Prisoners at Discretion—

  If Mr. Hamilton is Desirous of a Conference with Col. Clark he will meet him at the Church with Captn Helm—

  Feb 24th 1779

  G. R. CLARK

  General Hamilton watched the messenger clamber through the barricade and return up the road and prayed that the American commander had made a reasonable response. The fort, meadow, and village lay almost silent in the wintry midday sunlight, save for the distant murmur of conversation and laughter behind the American breastworks and the screech of a hunting hawk that was crossing the bright sky. Then, from the commons beyond the town came faint yells and war whoops, followed by the rattle of gunfire. The buildings of the town blocked the general’s view of that plain, and he had no idea what was happening there, but presumed that it might be one of his war parties returning from Kentucky, whooping in triumph and wasting ammunition. If it is, he thought, God help them now.

  The messenger had entered the fort. Hamilton quickly looked over Colonel Clark’s adamant letter, which was written with such sure, forceful slashes of the pen he thought he could sense its writer’s mood.

  Captain Helm was brought out of the guardhouse and escorted to General Hamilton’s office, where the general sat looking very morose. The wounded had been removed and the general was alone. Helm greeted him with a flashing smile.

  “Look at this,” Hamilton said, thrusting Clark’s letter at him. Helm read it, thrilling with pleasure at its forceful tone. He handed it back, smiling.

  “Ol’ George ain’t changed a bit, I see. Is there sump’n about it you don’t get? Surely it’s plain enough.”

  “Obviously a rash and very stupid boy,” Hamilton snarled. “Does he think I am without honor?”

  “Guess he does.”

  “I … Damn you, Helm! Can’t you remember the day of December seventeenth when you stood at the gate right out there, virtually all by yourself in the face of my army, and demanded honorable terms? And did I not grant them to you?”

  “Yeah, you did, Guv’n’r,” Helm said laconically, “and I ’predated it. But y’ see, th’ big difference ’tween you and me is, I ain’t never bought th’ scalp of a woman or child.”

  Hamilton’s mouth fell open and he went purple with rage. But he trembled and managed once again to contain his impulse to draw his sword and impale Helm. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that piece of insolence. You will please stand by, Mister Helm, while I confer with my officers. Then you will escort me and Major Hay down to the church to meet with this crass boy colonel of yours.”

  “You mean I’m to be seen in company of Hay and yerself? Bless me, I don’t know if George’ll ever speak t’me agin!”

  CAPTAIN LAMOTHE’S VOLUNTEERS, HAMILTON LEARNED, WERE BEGINNING to mutter that it was difficult to be obliged to fight against their countrymen and relatives, who they now perceived had joined the Americans. LaMothe’s men made up nearly half the garrison, and after such expressions of doubt obviously could not be trusted. There were less than a company of British regulars still unscathed and able-bodied, and apparently no immediate way existed to rally the various parties of Indians in the vicinity. Those red men within the fort had proved of little value as defenders; they were fickle mercenaries and it was not their nature to stand trapped in one place and fight to the death for someone else’s honor. He fully expected them to go over the walls at nightfall and vanish.

  “In short,” he said to his officers now, “it appears that we have nothing much to expect from these rebels but the extremity of their revenge. Therefore I’m determined to go down and procure the most honorable terms I can, or else abide the worst.

  “I must add, gentlemen, that if the defense of this fort depended on the spirit and courage of Englishmen only, the rebels would labor in vain. That is all, dear sirs. If you would inform your men of my intentions. And have them stand ready to cover me with musket and cannon in case something should go amiss at the church …”r />
  The officers rose, swallowing hard, each harboring his personal sense of disaster.

  Alone, heavy with dread, Hamilton sat at his desk and wrote out his proposed terms for surrender:

  Lieutenant-Governor Hamilton engages to deliver up to Colonel Clark, Fort Sackville as it is at present with all the Stores, ammunition and provision, reserving only thirty-six rounds of powder & ball per man, and as many weeks’ provision, as shall be sufficient to subsist those of the garrison who shall go by land or by Water to their destination which is to be agreed on hereafter.

  The garrison are to deliver themselves up prisoners of War, and to march out with their Arms, accoutrements & Knapsacks …

  He asked for guides and horses to give the garrison safe transport to its destination, for three days’ time for baking bread and settling accounts with the Vincennes traders, and that prisoners with families should be permitted to swear neutrality and go to their homes, and concluded:

  … Sick and wounded are recommended to the humanity and generosity of Colonel Clark—

  Sign’d at Fort Sackville Feby 24th 1779

  H. HAMILTON

  “So you are Colonel Clark.”

  “And you’re General Hamilton.”

  They stood two yards apart facing each other, arms folded over their chests, in front of the battered church, each eagerly absorbing impressions of the other. George noted the Englishman’s sensuous, somewhat pouty mouth and his drilling, dark gaze. Hamilton looked at the Virginian’s imposing stature and his fierce, weathered, but surprisingly aristocratic countenance and felt a surprising kind of satisfaction. At least, he thought, no one can shame me for surrendering to a man like this!

  But Hamilton was determined not to be stared down, even by this eagle. He believed that the man who can make the other drop his gaze establishes his own superiority. He had faced down dozens of subordinates, enemies, and Indian chiefs over the years, and not once in the course of his career as a general officer had he been forced to lower his eyes. Bracing himself for it now, he was astonished to see the young man’s hard blue eyes suddenly crinkle, sparkle, glance aside at Leonard Helm, and wink. Clark stepped past Hamilton and embraced Helm, guffawing and pounding him on the back.