The woodsmen stood silent as hunters in a blind, their deadly long rifles already lying across the top of the palisades. They were so still that the enemy might well have supposed the fort deserted. The eastern sky began to thin from black to gray; the stars faded; the brittle buzz insects hung in the cool air; then birds began to awaken, and trees, fields, fences, houses, and roads began to separate themselves from the fading gloom and take shape. Even before the leading rim of the sun had winked over the horizon, most of the frontiersmen had with their practiced eyes already picked out shapes and shadows in the fields below as their particular targets.
Behind every man on the parapet slouched another rifleman, ready to step forward and shoot while his alternate stood back to reload. A morning breeze stirred, and along the walls eddied a scent of lived-in buckskins, tobacco-tainted breath, and gunpowder.
“I wager they’ll move just as th’ sun peeks up,” George whispered.
“Aye,” whispered McCarty.
Down by the river now there came a trundling sound, which presumably was cannon being rolled off boats or up shore gravel. “Soon as you can get a location on their cannon, spot ’em for the artillery,” George whispered to his brother. “Maybe we can knock one or two out even before they get a fix on us.” Richard nodded and disappeared, silent as a ghost.
A spark of sun winked on the eastern horizon; a meadow-lark’s clear notes rippled through the air. And as George watched over the wall, the fields outside seemed to come alive with movement; Indians were rising as if to a man at that meadowlark’s song, rising into their low, crouching run, some carrying ladders, obviously believing they were going to reach the walls undetected. George shuddered in the morning air, thinking, God, what if we hadn’t known they were coming! Some of the Indians in front paused as they heard scores of flintlocks being cocked above them, a tiny rattle of clicks; and then George yelled in a voice that shattered the morning:
“Now, boys!”
Fifty long rifles cracked and flashed almost simultaneously around the perimeter of the fort; a rankling cloud of blue smoke billowed and rose, and fifteen or twenty Indians in the foreground pitched, reeled, groaned, or screamed, some killed, some wounded, some merely stunned. The rest stopped, looked to each other or dropped to the ground for cover, or surged forward with their pulsating, ululating war screams, only to be spattered with another hailstorm of hot lead.
Now it was the defenders’ turn to shrill the murderous high-pitched cry, and as the Indians milled about in the field, crawling, firing wildly at the fort, grabbing up their wounded brothers, or sprinting for safety of distance, they were pelted by a third withering volley as the first rank of riflemen returned to the palisade and discharged their reloaded weapons.
“Pick your targets and fire at will!” George yelled, joyously urging the defenders to do what they already were doing with relish, and at the same time he waved at the drummer boy, who began beating an excited tattoo. In that moment, two of the fort’s cannon belched flame, and out of the corner of his eye George caught the sight of a boat flying apart at the river’s edge and tiny men falling. Miscalculating their landing in the dark, the attackers had beached several vessels in full sight of the fort. A cannon flashed and fumed from the edge of a copse of sycamores near the water’s edge, and a ball whiffed over the rampart, ten feet too high; immediately another of the fort’s cannon billowed smoke and noise in reply and the enemy cannon leaped up and fell in the light of its own exploding powder cartridges. Good boy, Dickie! George thought with a rush of pride. It was as if he himself had done something just right, this pride in the alacrity of another Clark. The cannon of the fort erupted several more times in the next few minutes; the riflemen on the ramparts practiced their deadly skill on the figures retreating to the boats, and the enemy seemed to be in full rout.
For a few minutes then as the sun rose red and shimmering in the east, there was no more shooting, and the men craned and watched, congratulating themselves in low voices and with whickering laughter, and George passed praise along the line. Ten minutes later, sporadic firing rattled at a far corner of the fort, and George hurried there just in time to see another salient of enemy braves and troops, who had tried to shove in from a point farther down the river, disintegrate and turn tail under the deadly fire.
That, George thought, ought to do it.
By eight o’clock buzzards were circling the fort in the morning sunlight, and the only sign that an attack had been made was the scattering of bodies in the fields around the fort, many of them in and near the great fallen council elms on the east side of the fort. George and several of his men went out into the field to inspect the dead. They wore the peculiar dress of western tribes, quilled headbands and moccasins, and among them were two half-breeds or Canadians in green-dyed buckskins and tricorn hats. An American private was bending to slice away a scalp when George grabbed him by the nape of the neck and propelled him back toward the fort.
At ten o’clock a stiff wind arose from the southwest, bringing a sharp-edged shelf of blue-black clouds pregnant with rain. Spoor detected along the bank of the Mississippi indicated that the enemy had retreated upstream on foot and in their boats. Without doubt we’ve disheartened them entirely, George thought. Traders and Canadians and western Indians, he thought with scorn. Bejesus, what a ragtag and immoral excuse for an army, born obviously in desperation by that fool Sinclair up in Michillimackinac.
MIDDAY OF MAY TWENTY-SIXTH CAME AND WENT, AND FERNANDO de Leyba paced the yard of his mansion under the ragged, dismal sky and began to believe that there would be no attack against St. Louis.
But at one o’clock in the afternoon, a rattle of musketry began down in the entrenchments, and he realized that the time of his ultimate test had come.
De Leyba kissed his sister and daughters, ordered them to stay within the safety of the house, and strode down across the grounds toward the new artillery platforms, which had been constructed on thick log pilings during the night according to George’s plans. The platforms gleamed white in the sunlight and smelled of raw new wood, and the cannon sat upon them, muzzles projecting between high, spoked wheels, aimed down over the stone wall and over the heads of the defenders in the entrenchments outside. De Leyba went up a ramp onto the platforms, was saluted by the gunners who stood sweating at attention around the weapons, and, his flesh almost twitching in anticipation of harm, looked down over the panorama: the lush meadow sweeping away to the north, fresh emerald green, white clouds of powder smoke drifting away over the trenches but constantly renewing itself as the muskets of the defenders rattled and roared. Ever the elegant horseman, Lieutenant de Cartabona was riding back and forth behind the trenches, shouting orders and encouragement, waving his saber, controlling with apparent ease his great white warhorse, which pranced and reared nervously amid the din of shouting and gunfire. At the bottom of the meadow another curtain of gunsmoke billowed in the strong breeze, and from its midst came a shrill keening of Indian war cries, barely audible because of the distance and the breeze. Much of the enemy fire was coming from a row of stone houses and garden walls at the foot of the meadow, where the attackers seemed to have fortified themselves. It appeared to de Leyba that most of the shooting was very ineffectual; he could see hardly any of the enemy, only a small dark figure now and then flitting from one sheltered place to another, and those were amorphous and indistinct in the drifting smoke.
De Leyba turned to the nearest gunnery officer, who stood looking nervously at him, apparently awaiting orders, and realized that he was, indeed, in charge of this defense and should not be standing here musing as a spectator. “Find the range and fire at will!” It truly is a magnificent vantage point, he congratulated himself, here on this platform commanding the meadow and the town. And to the east beyond the village lay the enormous yellow curve of the river, so open to surveillance from this point that any attempt by the enemy to flank St. Louis from the river side would be perceived long before it could begin. A stretch o
f fields and gardens to the south was being watched by the mounted patrols, who could alert the defenders at once if the enemy decided to shift their attack to that flank. Really, thought de Leyba, his pride beginning to swell as the cannon emitted their earthshaking booms beside him, I believe we have an admirable defense and a very good prospect of holding. The cannon thudded with regularity, jolting the gun platform; the gunners and loaders cheered and shouted, and geysers of earth and stone burst from the gardens and houses where the enemy lay, apparently discouraging them from any attempt to storm the hill. The Indians’ cries still came faintly from below with the distant crackle of their musketry; now and then a ball would whack into the platform or whish overhead, nearly spent by the distance. Twice the wind brought from the house the sound of smashing window glass and the pitiful wailing of the helpless refugees inside, and de Leyba prayed that Teresa and the girls were obeying his orders and staying low, away from those windows.
Now the firing was subsiding, and there were cheers from the entrenchments. De Leyba looked down over the meadow and saw that the puffs of musket smoke from the enemy positions were diminishing. Down at the entrenchments, de Cartabona was still galloping to and fro, now waving his hat instead of his sword, and pointing with it down a street of the village through which numbers of the attackers could be seen withdrawing.
For the first time in months, some of the weight of hopelessness began to lift off Fernando de Leyba’s soul. If he actually had repulsed this enemy, if he had been successful in his first trial by war, surely Governor Galvez and his homeland would not let him suffer the disgrace of financial ruin; surely his conduct here at St. Louis on this day would vindicate him and Galvez would underwrite his credit as he had underwritten that of his friend Don Jorge Clark. Thinking how proud his friend would be of his conduct, just beginning to breathe deeply with the joy of this returning hope, and the joy of realizing that his daughters and sister might yet be saved from the atrocities of the Indians, Fernando stood tall and stepped to the forward edge of the platform, when he was staggered by a sharp bolt of pain under his right jawbone and a red flash in his vision. His legs caved in under him, and as the gunfire dropped off to a few sporadic rounds, he lay looking up at the dirty gray clouds, against which loomed the silhouettes of his artillery officers who bent over him. He felt his own hot blood leaking into the collar of his tunic, and the awareness of it made him nauseous. He strained to keep from gagging and felt a chilly sweat spread like dew over his face and body.
ACROSS THE RIVER AT CAHOKIA, GEORGE STOOD ON THE PARAPET of the fort and strained to listen to the distant sounds of combat at St. Louis. But the wind, blowing out of the southwest, carried the noise away from his ears. Now and then, faint as the sound of fingertips tapping on a tabletop, would come a patter of musketry, and at random intervals the thud of cannon. He paced with his anxiety about Teresa and her brother. But he was certain that the signal guns had not been fired. And by midafternoon even those indefinite sounds of battle had subsided to stillness. Now George lingered in an excruciating state of suspense, not knowing how to interpret that quick cessation of fire. “They’ve either repulsed the attack mighty quick, or given up with hardly a struggle. Damnation! I wish I knew!”
“I don’t know,” mused Dickie, shaking his head. “That Spaniard surely didn’t impress me as a lionheart.”
“I know,” George admitted with a look of pain and sadness. “And that does worry me.”
As the afternoon wore on, the damp wind brought an occasional crackle of musket fire across the river but no cannon, and now it sounded as if it came from an area south of St. Louis. “What d’you take that to mean, George, to make a guess?”
“Guess is all I can do. Knowing the Indians, I’d have to reckon they broke off from St. Louis when they found a strong defense, and are taking out their spite by raiding the countryside. That’s how they always did in Kentucky.”
Soon George’s scouts began bringing in deserters from the enemy force, mostly French-Canadians, and these were interrogated in the middle of the little parade ground. They confirmed the earlier report that Captain Bird was on his way from Detroit to Kentucky with nearly a thousand English and Indian troops and a train of artillery. The news agitated George visibly. “I’ve got to go there as quick as I can,” he told his officers. “If they overrun our people at the Falls and the inner frontier, the Illinois and Fort Jefferson as well are cut off, as good as doomed.” He paced the room, grim with frustrated energy, waiting for information upon which to act.
Shortly before dark it came. A Spanish courier from St. Louis had braved the infested valley to cross the river in a canoe and bring word from Governor de Leyba. George clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from shaking as the messenger’s report was translated for him.
“The enemy turned back from St. Louis after about two hours,” he said. “We had only three or four wounded. The enemy was more like a mob than an army. Governor de Leyba is certain they will not attack the town again. Most of them have been seen retreating up the river. But there are hundreds ravaging the plantations along the riverside. That God may have pity on those who did not take refuge in St. Louis.” He crossed himself.
“Then the governor and his family are safe?”
The courier’s eyes shifted when he heard the question. “Excellency,” he said, “the governor asked me not to tell you, but he was struck in the neck by a splinter of wood. It is not serious; it cut no artery. He was sitting up when I saw him, propped on pillows at his headquarters.”
George blinked at the sting of tears. A wave of pride for his poor tragic friend swept through him. So, he thought, thank God he was no coward after all. “And his family?”
“Quite safe. His daughters and his sister. They hover over him like nuns. No man could be better comforted.”
WHEN DARKNESS FELL, FERNANDO DE LEYBA ASKED TO BE MOVED out of the hot and noisome house onto the terrace so that he might breathe fresh air. His chair was carried out by two burly soldiers, and Teresa took a seat by his side. A torch was lighted a few feet away and the soldiers retreated into the shadows. From the house came the murmur of the refugees’ many voices, less panicky now but still full of woe and commiseration. The wind had diminished to a light breeze from the west, whence it brought whiffs of smoke from the burning plantations and cabins outside St. Louis. In the distant countryside here and there burned a dirty red glow, and faint on the wind would come distressing sounds of gunfire and human screams. Though St. Louis had successfully repelled its attackers, it was still only an island of security in a sea of enemies, and all its defenders remained at their posts in the entrenchments and on the parapets. Lieutenant de Cartabona had been placed in direct command of all the defenders, but was still responsible to his wounded commandant.
He came through the house now and paused at the doorway to the patio, looking at de Leyba and Teresa, whose backs were to him. De Leyba’s neck was encased in a thick white bandage which reached up to his chin and earlobes. Teresa, still in her soiled smock, sat at his left side and held his hand. Beyond them, moths circled the smoky flame of the torch. De Cartabona sighed, then came forward into their view, saluting de Leyba and then bowing to Teresa, his eyes dark with that eternal hopeless devotion.
“Ah, Francisco,” gurgled de Leyba. Talking and swallowing were painful to him. “Tell me what goes.”
“It’s quiet, Excellency,” said de Cartabona. He paraded himself a bit self-consciously before Teresa, showing rather proudly the powder smudges on the legs of his tight white breeches and on his jaw, which was shiny with oil and sweat. He did look heroic, he thought, and fittingly so, having proved his courage and ability during the defense at the trenches. De Leyba smiled fondly at the young officer’s posturings.
“You are a fine soldier indeed, Francisco. We owe you more than I can say. To you and Colonel Clark, I would say, goes the credit for our survival.” Then he saw the twinge of anger in the young man’s face and realized he should not h
ave mentioned the American at that moment. “Take a glass of the Madeira there, sit,” he coughed, “and tell me what you think.”
“The men are in a growing rage,” said de Cartabona. “They hear the sounds of murder out there,” he swung the decanter out to indicate the countryside, “and are helpless to put a stop to it”
“Sí. But it would be suicidal to go out there. The Ingleses and their savages are five times our number. But Francisco, we defeated them today!” Again the saliva gurgled in his throat, and he fell silent.
“Will they attack again?” Teresa asked. She was not certain that she could endure another day of the noise and bloodiness. Her brother did not know it, but she had been forced to crawl under a table and bite down on the cloth of her sleeve today to keep from coming unhinged when the wounded were brought in. Her jaws still ached from that long, desperate clenching.
“I think not,” the lieutenant said. “They failed today at Cahokia and here. Their army is disintegrating, retreating up the river. Their Canadians desert, ashamed, and surrender to us for amnesty. They were no army, but a crowd of opportunists, with neither bravery nor honor.” De Cartabona contemptuously spat a mouthful of the Madeira into the bushes. “No, they’ll be gone by morning, I’ll wager, with the scalps of those poor innocents out there!” Teresa shuddered at the mention of scalping. “Half of our people at a time are posted on guard,” the lieutenant continued. “Now, by your leave, Excellency, Señorita, I bid you good night.” He saluted, bowed, and left them.
The dear fool, Teresa mused. He could still call me by my name, but never has, since George came …
George, she thought, with an exquisite pain in her heart, as if a velvet noose were being squeezed around her heart
“What, Teresa?” her brother said.
“What?”
“You sigh. One who loves you must always inquire into your sighs.” He squeezed her hand.
Long Knife Page 52