Little Spy of Vincennes (Patriot Kids of the American Revolution Book 3)

by Geoff Baggett

  Francois Bousseron spoke quietly and respectfully. “Genevieve … I need your permission. I will not proceed without it. We have precious little time to make all of the arrangements.”

  Pierre rose from his chair and walked over to her. He placed his arm reassuringly around her shoulder and rested his cheek on the top of her head.

  “Mama, it will be all right. I promise you it will. I am not afraid. I will be brave.” He cupped her chin with his hand and turned her face toward him. “I have to do this, Mama. I do not want you to go anywhere near those bad men. Please let me go. Please let me help Papa.”

  Genevieve wiped the tears from her face and embraced her son. After a short while she released him and then rose from her bench. She walked over and peeked through the privacy curtains at the far end of the cabin. Beyond the thin cloth both of her younger sons slept peacefully on the floor on their shared feather mattress. She closed her eyes and uttered a silent prayer. She turned and faced the militia commander.

  “All right, Francois. Pierre will be your spy. Now … what must I do?”

  Francois grinned broadly. “You merely need to cook your husband a delicious dinner. What do you think he would like? Venison or beef?”

  ~

  The gates of Fort Sackville stood open. Four French-Canadian militiamen stood vigilant guard nearby. Father Gibault shuffled toward the entrance to the fort. The hem of his brown robe hovered just above the muddy ground. His very large belly jiggled with each step. He carried with him a basket containing a small bottle of wine, a round loaf of communion bread, and a gold drinking cup. Pierre walked one step behind him. The boy carried a rather large basket of food covered with a pale brown linen cloth.

  They were a mere ten steps from the fort when one of the Frenchmen confronted them. “Stop! I am sorry, Father, but you may proceed no further.”

  “Surely, my child, you will not inhibit the work of a servant of the Lord,” pleaded Father Gibault. “What is your name, boy?”

  The young soldier seemed somewhat ashamed. “Alain Dupuis, Father. I apologize, sincerely, but citizens of the village are not allowed inside the fort under any circumstances. Major Hay’s orders.”

  “My son, I have come to administer the Sacrament of Holy Communion to the men of this fort. Today is the Sabbath day, after all. It is my responsibility to minister to the men here, no matter their nationality or political allegiances.”

  The soldier’s eyes lit up. “We have not received communion for over three months, Father.”

  Father Gibault shook his head in an exaggerated gesture of shock and shame. “Just as I suspected. Your commanders departed Detroit without tending to the spiritual needs of their men. I did not even see a humble Brother or Friar among your troops.”

  The soldier nodded. “It is true, Father. And a shame it is, too. There are many Frenchmen here who would be most grateful for communion.”

  “So, we have ourselves something of a dilemma, do we not? I come to provide the ministry, but your commander will not allow me inside the fort. Do you think, perhaps, that we could make a small exception and beg for special permission for me to enter?”

  “What is the boy’s purpose in being here?” inquired the soldier.

  “He is merely here to assist me. I have received word that there is a man from Vincennes being held inside the fort under sentence of death. I have brought that condemned man a hot, satisfying meal.”

  “Yes, there is a man sentenced to hang on Christmas Day, but I am not sure that the major will allow any special treatment on his behalf.”

  “Might you summon an officer, perhaps even Major Hay, himself, so that I can appeal my case directly to his authority?” pleaded Father Gibault.

  “Of course, Father. I will fetch someone immediately.”

  The militiaman turned and gave brief instructions to his men and then walked quickly into the fort. He followed a path toward the commander’s office. Several minutes later he returned with a British officer.

  “I am Major Jehu Hay, commander of the military forces of Vincennes and Fort Sackville. The sergeant has explained to me that you have come to administer Holy Communion to the men.”

  “That is, indeed, the truth, Major. I would count it an honor to hold Mass and administer the Sacrament to my brethren within your ranks.”

  “Are you the priest who regularly serves this village?”

  “I am, sir. I am well-known by all the residents here, having baptized most of their children. Any one of them can offer testimony to my office and ministry in the Holy Catholic Church.”

  The major exhaled slightly and considered the request. He looked judiciously into the priest’s eyes.

  “I suppose that your administration of communion would be acceptable to me, Father. What about this boy? What is his purpose in being here?”

  “You are holding a member of my church under sentence of death, Major. One of the women of our town has prepared him a hot meal. I invited this child to carry the basket and deliver it to the man.”

  The major raised an eyebrow. “He is a member of your church?”

  “Yes, Major. Everyone knows that you are holding Pierre Grimard and that he is to be hanged. No one questions your authority to do so. We would merely like to minister to our brother until such time as the unthinkable sentence is carried out.”

  “I suppose there is no harm in that,” responded the major. “Sergeant Grimard seems like a decent fellow. I am certain that he would enjoy the visit and the meal. We will, of course, have to inspect the contents of the basket.”

  “Of course, Major. You will discover that it is merely a bowl of venison stew, some slices of fresh bread, a small pie, and some wine.”

  “My man will examine the basket and then escort the boy to the blockhouse where the prisoner is being detained. You may set up your altar near the main office. I will notify the garrison of your availability.”

  “Thank you. You are most gracious, Major.” Father Gibault nodded respectfully.

  “And you are most welcome, Father,” responded the major. “Sergeant, please check the boy’s basket and then escort him to the prisoner’s quarters.”

  “Yes, Major!”

  The sergeant of the French militia flipped back the linen cover on little Pierre’s basket and examined the contents quickly. He seemed satisfied that they were safe enough.

  The sergeant mumbled, “Come with me, son.”

  Pierre walked obediently beside the strange, bearded Canadian. As he walked he scanned in every direction within the fort. Men were working feverishly throughout the post, repairing the palisades and building lookout positions high on the walls. Some were even building new buildings that looked like houses along the southern edge of the compound. Pierre made a mental note of it all so that he could make a thorough report to Captain Bousseron.

  The sergeant inquired quietly, “Do you know this man to whom you are delivering the food?”

  Pierre answered honestly, “He is my father.”

  The Frenchman grinned. “I suspected as much. I thought that I noticed a resemblance.” Pierre looked up at the man, who winked at him in return. “I will allow you to visit with your father for a nice, long while. It will be our secret … one Frenchman doing another a favor.”

  Pierre nodded and smiled.

  It took a couple of minutes for them to cross the compound. The man guided little Pierre toward a corner blockhouse. It was the structure nearest the Wabash River. When they reached the door, the guard pulled back the heavy iron latch and cracked the door to look inside at the elder Pierre Grimard. His face showed his pity for his fellow Frenchman being held prisoner.

  “I will give you as much time as I possibly can with your father. It may be the last time you ever see him, so make the most of it. I am very sorry.”

  He pushed the door open all the way and encouraged Pierre to step across the log threshold. It took a moment for the boy’s eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. Then he saw the dark outline of
a body lying against the wall to his right.

  “Papa!”

  His father raised up slowly onto one elbow. He stared in disbelief at his son. Little Pierre placed the basket on the ground and ran toward his father just as the heavy timber door slammed shut behind him.

  “Pierre! My boy! How did you get here?”

  Pierre tumbled into his father’s arms and hugged him tight.

  chapter ten

  pierre has a plan

  “And you are certain this is where he is being held?” inquired Captain Bousseron, pointing at his crude, hand-drawn map.

  The captain and all of the other people in the room stared intently at young Pierre. In addition to Bousseron, the meeting included Father Gibault, Genevieve Grimard, and two of Bousseron’s loyal militia lieutenants.

  Little Pierre nodded vigorously. “I am certain, Captain. It is the blockhouse that is to the left rear of the compound when you enter through the main gate. It is right along the river. You can even hear the sounds of the moving water from inside his room.”

  Lieutenant Oscar Hamelin added, “Father Gibault said that the British are improving the defenses of the fort. Did you notice that, as well?”

  “Yes, sir. There were dozens of men hard at work on the buildings and fort walls. They were sealing several wide places between the logs. One group of men was even building a series of small buildings along the wall on the western side.”

  The lieutenant looked grimly at Bousseron and said one word. “Barracks.”

  “Indeed,” responded Bousseron. “Our British friends are preparing themselves for a long, cold winter.”

  A frustrated Genevieve Grimard interrupted their military discussion. “That is all quite interesting, gentlemen, but what are you planning to do to free my husband? I care nothing about your talk of walls and barracks. They plan to hang my Pierre in five days!”

  “That corner blockhouse is thirty yards from the rear gate. It is a long way to move in the open, even under cover of darkness,” remarked Lieutenant Hamelin.

  “The new barracks are very close. I doubt that it would even be a possibility to enter the gate and reach the door of the blockhouse unseen,” stated Bousseron. “We must think differently.”

  “What are you saying?” inquired Father Gibault. “How else could we possibly get him out if not through a gate?”

  “I do not know!” exclaimed Bousseron, slamming his fist on the table. “I have absolutely no ideas! But we must do something! I cannot stand the notion of these uppity Redcoats hanging my friend!”

  The men stared in frustration at their map of the fort. The room became silent.

  Little Pierre’s high-pitched voice interrupted the silence. “What about that old shed down by the river?”

  “What old shed?” demanded Bousseron.

  “There is a very old, broken down shed between the fort and the river. Part of it has fallen down completely … the section closest to the water. That part was washed out by floodwaters, but most of it is still standing. I have never seen the building used for anything. I think it was there even before they built the fort.”

  “I have neither seen nor heard of such a structure,” retorted the captain.

  “You cannot see it from the fort. It is in that thick cluster of big cedar and pine trees right beside the corner blockhouse. But I have played in it for years. We children like to pretend that it is our own secret fortress.”

  Bousseron responded, “I know about the cluster of trees, but I was unaware of any building. Still, I do not see what use that information is to us, Pierre. Your father is imprisoned inside the fort walls. A shack beside the river is useless in our situation.”

  “We can dig him out,” Pierre announced with confidence. “We can dig a tunnel from the shack.”

  His words lingered dramatically in the dark, cold room. The adults tried to envision the execution of Pierre’s outlandish idea.

  “That is impossible,” responded Lieutenant David Aubin, another of Bousseron’s officers. “The distance is too great, and we would be discovered.”

  The little boy pointed at the map. “But it is not even twenty-five feet to the wall.” He grinned. “Besides, we have already started the digging for you.”

  “Whatever do you mean, Pierre?” demanded his mother.

  “We started digging a tunnel just for fun way back last winter. We were going to try to get into the fort and cause a little mischief among the British troops. We got about half-way to the wall but the sides kept crumbling.”

  “Good Lord!” his mother shouted.

  The boy pleaded innocently, “It is all right, Mama. We stopped as soon as the dirt started giving way. No one was hurt.”

  “Only by the grace of God!” she barked at him.

  Bousseron interrupted the mother-son argument. “I think the boy is onto something.” He looked to his lieutenants. “David, we could use the scrap lumber from the building to shore up the sides and roof of a tunnel. If what Pierre tells us is true, we only need to dig another ten to fifteen feet to reach inside the wall. The building is already well out of view. After all, none of us have ever even seen it! We could sneak into the shed under cover of darkness and have our men dig night and day.”

  Lieutenant Hamelin’s eyes widened. “We could even reach that spot by canoe if we need to. And we could toss the loose dirt into the river and simply let it wash away!” He looked with renewed confidence at his commander. “It might work!”

  Bousseron grinned and slapped a happy hand on the tabletop. “Yes, it will work! We begin tonight! We only have four days to dig a tunnel to free our fellow compatriot.” He playfully tapped his fist against Pierre’s chin. “Let us see if we can get inside those walls and cause some mischief. Eh, Pierre?”

  The boy beamed with pride and pleasure.

  ~

  Captain Bousseron had joined the daytime shift of tunnel diggers in the pre-dawn darkness. It was Christmas Eve. Pierre Grimard was scheduled to be hanged at noon on Christmas Day. Some rough gallows had been completed just outside the main gate of the fort. Governor Hamilton had already issued a summons to all citizens of Vincennes. He expected every man, woman, and child of the village to attend the execution of this enemy of the Crown. Bousseron knew that his men were working against the clock. He wanted to personally check on their progress.

  The men had worked diligently for three days and nights. Eighteen men volunteered to take part in digging the tunnel. The men progressed steadily over the three-day time period. They believed that they had dug enough to be exactly under Pierre’s cell, so they called in Captain Bousseron to measure and verify their progress. He crawled inside the tunnel with a length of string and a small candle. Several minutes later he emerged from the tunnel and measured his string. It totaled just over twenty-seven feet.

  Captain Bousseron grinned and then whispered, “That is it, gentlemen. We are beneath his room!”

  “What do we do now, Captain?”

  “We dig no further. But we need to widen the spot at the end of the tunnel. It needs to be a slightly larger box so that a man can drop down from above and turn his body in order to move toward the exit. That is your job for today. But do not dig upward! Pierre does not know that we are coming, yet. We must inform him today. Tonight we will dig up through the floor and get him out of there. Excellent work, men!”

  The captain shook the hands of the three tunnelers and then donned his hat, coat, and bags and scurried out of the old shack. He made his way quietly through the thick trees toward the south and then circled around the outskirts of the village and entered Vincennes from the northeast. He headed straight for the Grimard home.

  ~

  “I do not make this request lightly, Francois,” replied Genevieve, her voice firm and her chin held high. “I should take the final meal to Pierre. His captors will think it odd that his wife has not been to see him during his imprisonment. They will be doubly suspicious if I do not go to see him this afternoon.”

>   “But Genevieve, I still do not like the notion of you going inside that fort.”

  “You worry too much, Francois. Father Gibault will accompany me, as well as my boys. We need to make the British believe that we have accepted his execution. They will expect that his family would visit him before he goes to the gallows.”

  “She is right, Francois,” chimed in Father Gibault. “We need to keep the British distracted and not even entertaining the notion of a possible escape. They will, most certainly, expect his family to visit him today. I will make all of the necessary arrangements.”

  Captain Bousseron inhaled deeply, shifting his gaze between the priest and Genevieve. “Do you think you can convince them of your despair? How good of an actor are you?”

  Genevieve sported a devilish grin. “Oh, they will believe me, Francois. I will become a wailing, emotional, hysterical wife. They will enjoy the show.”

  Captain Bousseron chuckled. Father Gibault smiled mischievously.

  chapter eleven

  escape!

  The family made their way slowly across the compound. The mud inside the fort was thick and sticky. Father Gibault supported Genevieve as best he could. She wailed and cried every step that she took across the fort grounds. He soon found himself unable to support her weight.

  “Sergeant, can you please assist me?” he implored the French militiaman walking beside them.

  “Of course, Father.” The soldier reached and took hold of Genevieve’s other arm.

  The woman wailed even more ferociously when the strange man touched her. The younger boys, Charles and Jean-Baptiste, both cried, as well. They didn’t know why they were crying. The fact that their mother was so upset was enough to bring them to tears.

  Pierre marched proudly beside the two adults. He carried his father’s “final” meal in a beautifully decorated basket. The French guards had inspected it diligently, but were careful not to disturb the contents. The two younger boys each carried a wool blanket. The guards inspected them, as well.