The Kentuckians around the cannon, who obviously felt they had obeyed long and well enough, were breaking their rank now, disregarding the commands of their officers, and running down the slope to collect scalps from the dead and wounded Indians they had just mowed down. They swooped down like vultures on the scattered casualties in the waving grass, wielding their long hunting knives, slashing viciously and lifting hair. George watched this breach of discipline with disgust, watched Logan’s regiment marching gallantly toward an empty fort while several hundred Shawnee, Wyandot, Mingo, and Delaware braves stole unseen around him and swarmed through a ravine which led out of the valley and into the safety of the surrounding high forest land.
The sun was setting now, illuminating the whole disorderly scene with a rich, tawny glow. Shadows of the leaping and hooting soldiers were long and distorted; the distant drums and fifes sounded like some ironic, meaningless air to another war somewhere, as remote and detached from his own battle, George felt, as the eternal movements of Washington and Greene and Steuben and Sullivan in the east. Everything was out of kilter somehow; somehow Logan had been so tardy that he had robbed the force of a decisive victory; somehow these riflemen had just demonstrated a sloppy disobedience which marred their generally commendable performance throughout the day, and it came as a great insult to George in a way he would have been unable to define. He had defeated the Shawnees, of course, and by burning their crops and villages now would forestall any more raids on Kentucky for the year. But the victory was ignoble somehow, a mockery compared to the miraculous victory over Hamilton in ’79 …
Ah, he thought, as the shadows purpled and Logan’s men marched on in the distance, the distant fife-notes somehow off-key, that’s it, I reckon; maybe you just can’t be satisfied that well but once. It spoils you for anything that follows …
These thoughts, unlike anything he had ever considered before, had flickered through his head in a moment, making him feel old and bitter in the midst of what others seemed to be enjoying as a triumph, and as he was bringing his attention back from that reverie he thought he heard someone calling him by his first name in the distance, beyond the cackling and cheering of the troops: “George! George!” came a young voice into the margins of his attention. He turned in the direction of the sound, as did several of the frontiersmen nearby, and saw an inexplicable sight: one lone Shawnee, in breechclout and moccasins and war paint, running toward him up the slope in a plunging, lunging stride, like some crazed fiend on a sacred suicidal mission. Some of the troops and officers gathered nearby also deduced immediately that an assassin was almost upon their commander; and with the instant reflexes of Indian fighters leveled their rifles at him and fired.
Six rifle balls struck Joseph Rogers in the chest, hurling him backward and blinding him with a silver-blue blot of pain and knocking all the breath out of him.
Joseph lay on his back in the long grass, feeling numb and smashed inside, hearing blood gurgling in his lungs with every attempt to breathe, seeing the evening azure sky overhead go silvery, then black, then silvery, then black. In a part of his mind he reprimanded himself for having forgotten to shout what he had rehearsed: I am a Virginian! I am a Virginian!
Silhouetted faces under felt hats and coonskin hats and cocked hats loomed between him and the fluctuating sky, and voices came from the silhouettes, talking about somebody being a white man, not an Indian. Then an arm was slipped under his shoulders and he was raised up a little, and there was a face close over him now, and damned if it wasn’t Cousin George, big Cousin George holding his head cradled and looking at him with such an agonized expression in his face that Joseph felt pity for him. Joseph choked back and swallowed the salty blood that seemed to keep filling his mouth up like brine, and took a bubbling breath into his hot wet numb chest and said, “George …” He couldn’t say the rest yet because the brine was filling him up again and he swallowed and swallowed, determined to get it said.
George was looking down on him and said, “In the name o’ God eternal, Joe, why didn’t you slip out last night and come to us? Why’d you wait till now?”
Joseph kept swallowing and swallowing the brine, looking up into those dark blue eyes, those Rogers eyes, until he felt able to say what he had meant to say. “George,” he gurgled as the sky went from silvery to black one last time, “I am a Virginian.”
36
ST. LOUIS, UPPER LOUISIANA TERRITORY
September 20, 1780
“BUT YOU MUST COME WITH US! THERE IS NOTHING LEFT FOR YOU here but loneliness and sickness and danger!”
Lieutenant de Cartabona paced back and forth in the parlor of the de Leyba house, emphasizing each word by flinging his hands downward, palms upturned. He had been pleading thus with Teresa for two days. He had used every means of persuasion he could think of, from tender cajolery and logical arguments to dire warnings and, a time or two, outbursts of anger. But Teresa responded the same way to all the different manners of entreaty: She sat looking at her small white hands clenched on the lap of her black mourning dress and shook her head or simply gave no sign of hearing at all.
Now de Cartabona knelt before her, as he had many times, looked into her face, and wrung his hands. “Listen, Teresa. Your dear brother and his wife are dead, God take them. There is no one here to take care of you. There will be no money coming here for your keep. The nieces who are all the family you have left in this world are packed to go to New Orleans on the boat tomorrow. They themselves plead with me to make you consent. They cannot bear to have you stay behind, as you are just as much their whole family as they are yours! For their sakes, Teresa, if no other form of good sense will move thee!”
Only a twinge of pain passing over her brow indicated that she was even hearing him. She seemed to have put a wall of adamant about herself; she seemed to be bearing all this begging as one bears a siege: determined not to surrender to it, waiting with stolid patience for the assailant to go away.
“Think of these things, then,” he pleaded. “It is September. Soon it will be cold. Do you not remember the suffering last winter in this country? We with Spanish blood are not meant to huddle at fireplaces, shivering and choking on smoke! In New Orleans it is not like that in the winter.
“And then if one survives the winter without dying of consumption, or starving, Teresa, all one can expect in the spring is more war from the British and Indians. They will come down the rivers as fast as the melting snow. And this time we can expect no help from the Americans. Your Clark is far to the east in an Indian war. He will never come here again, and it is foolish to believe …”
“He will!” Her voice was small but emphatic. She laved her hands and shook her head back and forth, eyes squeezed tightly shut, and de Cartabona gritted his teeth with pain and annoyance, not only because she would respond to nothing but her lover’s name but because she had such unshakable faith in him as the savior of any circumstance.
“He will not!” he exploded in exasperation. Even his mute devotion to Teresa was tried beyond patience by her stubborn, blind faith in that Virginian. The lieutenant had sworn to himself that he would protect her with his life, and felt that he had indeed done so in May. It was your brother and I, not Clark, who defended St. Louis, he wanted to shout at her.
“He will be here, Francisco,” she said with finality, getting up suddenly and leaving him for a moment kneeling awkwardly by the divan. She left the room as he was rising, and pulled the door shut after her.
It may become necessary, he thought, to drug her and place her aboard the boat. Could he do that? It was a hateful thought, a shameful thought, but it seemed better somehow than having to force her aboard, screaming and crying, as she probably would be. Obviously she was not going to be persuaded in these remaining hours to go willingly.
Either way, he thought, she is going to hate me for doing this in her interest. That was the worst of it. He had always nurtured a hope that her indifference to him might someday revert to affection if the accurs
ed American finally dropped out of her life. But if he had to do something like this which would make her hate him …
De Cartabona sat at the lieutenant governor’s desk, tracing his front tooth with a thumbnail and looking at the small vial of laudanum left over from de Leyba’s sufferings, when he heard hoofbeats outside the house. In a moment, a servant ushered in one of the American couriers from Cahokia. The man had two letters from Colonel Clark, one for de Cartabona and one addressed to Teresa. “I shall see that the Señorita gets this,” he said. “Please have a cup of brandy while I see whether I need reply.” He put Teresa’s letter on the desk and broke the seal of his own, as the rough-looking messenger helped himself to a draught of liquor that should have knocked an ordinary man off his feet.
Louisville, 23 August 1780
Dear Sir:
I must presume that the command of St. Louis has fallen to You upon the Tragick death of our Great Friend Governor de Leyba words can not Express my Feelings of Remorse at the Loss of that Brave Man I am certain that you are similarly Distraut having lost not only his Friendship but his wise Leadership as well.
The News came to me on the Eve of a Successfull expedition from which I have Lately Returnd in which with the Force of a thousand Kentuckie settlers the Principal Shawnese towns were invaded & Destroyd crops burned & some 70 Indian scalps lifted by the Kentuckians who went burning for the Revenge of Atrosities done Hereabouts in June, these Ohio tribes I Suspect will be too busy Hunting and Foraging to make any Mischief before next Year of our People 17 were Killd & some 40 wounded, the battle at Pickaway haveing continued hotly through the whole of a day with very Clever and Confident resistance on the part of Chief Blackhoof who escaped with most of his Warriors due to a Piece of Mismanagement in one of our Divisions, tho’ I had entertained a thought of proceeding with that large Body of Men to reduce Detroit I was forced to abandon that perennial Hope once again the men for the most part haveing left their Settlements and Homes unguarded and not being of the same Temper as those that marched with me 2 Years Ago. Also the extream heat Uncertainty of Provision shortness of the Season &c
I hope you will inform my good Friends Vigo Gibault Cerré & all on the Spanish side that tho every part of the Western Department under my responsibility is in desperate Straits undermanned impoverishd &c &c I will try to come to that place before Depth of winter. I send by this same Express a letter to Miss Terese offering my Condolences which I know will be Insufflet on the death of her Brother.
A great deal of business awaiting me on my Return to the Head Quarters here I can not Continue at more Length in This let’r but anticipate a personal audience with you in the near Future.
I am Sir you most hbl & obdt Serv
G. R. CLARK
De Cartabona, pensive, put aside that letter and fingered the one addressed to Teresa. In all of his life he had never opened a letter addressed to someone else. But never before in his life had he suffered a strong enough temptation to do so. Everything he was trying to do toward carrying Teresa out of this place could be undone by one mere hint that Clark might come to St. Louis. And surely this letter to her would contain such a hint.
He slipped her letter under his own, and picked up both. “Rest,” he said to the messenger, who had dispatched his gill of brandy and was huffing and blowing and rocking on the balls of his feet. “Have another potion, and I shall be with you presently.”
“Thankee, suh,” the ruffian exclaimed, reaching for the decanter.
Stepping into the adjacent anteroom, de Cartabona crossed himself and made a small prayer pertaining to the matter of using foul means to a fair end, and broke the seal of the second letter.
Louisville, 23 August 1780
My Dear Teresa
I was embarked on a Major Expedition at the time of receipt of the unhappy news of Fernando’s death. I could not even attempt to express to you then my Consternation & Sadness, nay, I can not even now But I am return’d safe from that adventure, in whose duration I had some Moments to reflect upon what course might be most Agreeable to Human Nature regarding our present Circumstance & have decided that the Time is upon us when I must take you under my personal Protection as my Wife
This place is probably somewhat more Secure than St. Louis tho its Accomodations are rough and wanting Niceties After a brief Respite here from the River Journey I would then take you to my Family in Virginia where you would enjoy the most Compleat comforts & Safety & their incomparable Devotion until my Responsibilities in this department of the War shall have been done.
I expect to Journey to Virginia in the coming Winter to petition for all the Necessaries for one more Attempt on Detroit and that trip would enable me to take you to Virginia in my own company and with an Armed escort for your Safety
I implore you therefore my Beloved to wait for me in St. Louis for the few weeks it will take me to come for you. This War can not go on much longer & it will be my Pleasure then to lay down my Arms haveing served my Countrey as Energetically & Faithfully as I was able & abide in Peace for ever & ever with you at my side according to those dreams we have shared
With the tenderest concern for Your Happiness & Well being I am Yr devoted
GEO.
De Cartabona, sweating, inflamed by jealousy and guilt, folded the paper into his own letter and stood for a moment in the little room, pulling his nose and squinting. Then he returned to the waiting messenger. “A brief reply,” he said, and sat down to write.
San Luis, September 20, 1780
Sir:
Thank you for yours of 23 August and Compliments on still another Conquest, the particulars of which were most impressive. As for passing your sympathies to the Señorita …
He paused here and prayed silently for the audacity to do this. If anyone were to find this out! he thought. But I shall be in New Orleans. And this is after all a private matter, not public business. His hand trembled as he wrote:
being left without Family or Guardians in this harsh & remote corner of the Domain and wrapped in the most inconsolable dolour, she begged to be returned to the comfort of her Mother Country and is by now well on her way, probably being at or near New Orleans by this time. I fear that she left no message for you, only expressing her horror at the bloodiness of this wilderness and its denizens both white & native.
Your most humble Svt.
de C.
He scrawled the last with such a flourish as to make it illegible, then folded and sealed the paper and addressed it to Colonel Clark at Louisville, Falls of the Ohio.
The lieutenant stood at the window and watched the messenger fling himself into the saddle with all the agility of a sober man, and watched him gallop down the road and out through the gate, past the artillery platforms which had been left standing since the battle in May.
Then, in a state of awful, guilty excitement, trembling like a criminal, he tore both of Colonel Clark’s letters into quarters, knelt, and dropped them on the small fire that burned in the hearth. He stood up, feeling a little dizzy, leaned on the mantel until he felt steady, went to the decanter and sloshed a strong measure of brandy into a glass, threw it to the back of his throat, swallowed, poured another, and gulped it. Eyes watering, he drew a kerchief out of his sleeve and daubed at his eyes and nose. He picked up the vial of laudanum and slipped it into a pocket. He squared his shoulders, repeated to himself his conviction that he was doing all this for the welfare of Teresa, flung open the double doors, and strode through the great foyer, now scuffed and scarred from the occupancy of the refugees, and mounted the steps leading to her room. He paused outside the door, took a deep breath, and rapped softly. There was no answer. He turned the latch and pushed inward, and found her kneeling before her little altar with the black lace veil over her head and face.
He shut the door and moved to her side. Her lips were moving. At last she crossed herself and looked up at him.
“Teresa …” He reached for her hands and held them as she arose. Behind the veil her eye
s were large and unblinking, as if she were in a fervid trance. “Sit,” he said. “I have something to say.” She obeyed, sitting on the edge of her bed. He stood before her, still holding her wrists, which she seemed not to notice. “Now hear me,” he said, “and may God help you. An American messenger was here. He brought forlorn news. Your Colonel Clark fought in a battle with the Indians of Ohio …” Her eyes were beginning to return from their otherworldly stare now, were seeing him, and were beginning to dart over his face, the eyelids trembling as if she anticipated a slap. “And he was shot to death,” de Cartabona blurted out. God forgive me, he prayed, as he watched the serene mask of her faith crumble, watched her hands go into claws, felt the stiffening in her arms and body and waited, ready to stifle her screams, ready to fight her into submission if necessary, ready to dose her with the sedative.
But no scream erupted from her slack lips; no whimpering sounded; she did not struggle. It was worse. In total silence, as he stared at her face, something seemed to snap behind her eyes, that elemental strand of spirit which connects the inner and outer worlds of a sentient being. With his words he had severed that as surely as if he had cut it with a knife.
It would have been better if she had shrieked and protested and fought it with disbelief. But this, this abject, helpless, silent break … it had been like smothering a baby under its pillow.
The lieutenant shivered and began to sob. Then he stumbled to his feet, groping toward her washstand. She sat on the side of her bed with an idiot’s incomprehension in her face and her hands lying palms up on the lap of her black skirt while the lieutenant retched dryly over her porcelain washbowl.
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