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

by Geoff Baggett

  The French guards were very respectful of the emotional, mourning family. Father Gibault noticed tears in their eyes. Clearly, the Canadian Frenchmen were not in favor of the execution of one of their distant countrymen. The Father smiled within his heart, for he knew that their ruse was working.

  As they neared the blockhouse the guard released Genevieve to Father Gibault’s grip and reached into his leather bag to retrieve a large key. He stuck the key into an enormous lock that hung on a newly forged iron latch.

  As the French guard opened the door he mumbled to Genevieve, “Madame, I will secure the gate in one hour. You may have that much time to spend with your husband. I will come and fetch you before we close the fort for the night.”

  Genevieve and Father Gibault nodded. Just as they were about to enter the cell another Frenchman approached them with a lighted candle lantern. The tall candle glowed brightly inside its glass casing. In his other hand he carried a small three-legged stool.

  The man bowed as he handed the lantern to Genevieve. “Madame, you will need this lantern. It is very dark inside the room. And you will need this stool to sit upon, as well. I assume that your boys can all sit on the floor.” He smiled glumly at the forlorn woman and handed the stool to Father Gibault.

  Genevieve wiped her ample tears and snotty nose with a linen handkerchief as she muttered, “Thank you, sir. Your kindness will not be forgotten.”

  Father Gibault escorted Genevieve into the blockhouse. The boys followed. After the heavy timber door slammed shut behind them an emotional family reunion began to take place inside the dark, low-ceilinged room.

  A deep, congested cough gurgled in the darkness. Pierre’s weak voice mumbled from the far corner, “Genevieve? My love! Is that you? Or is it an angel that has come to visit me and take me on to heaven?” He coughed another deep, thunderous cough.

  “It is I, husband. And I have brought your boys.”

  The two youngest lads screamed, “Papa!” as they swarmed their father. The youngsters embraced him and showered him with kisses.

  “Oh, my boys! My boys! My boys! I am so glad to see you! I have missed you so!”

  “Papa, you have big whiskers,” teased Charles, giggling.

  “I grew them to tickle your skinny little neck, Master Charles.” He grabbed the boy and buried his chin beneath the lad’s soft neck, causing him to emit a delighted squeal.

  Tears filled the man’s eyes. He struggled to stand.

  “Do not try to get up, Pierre. Stay where you are. Conserve your strength. We will join you, instead,” encouraged Father Gibault.

  The priest placed the stool next to the wall beside Pierre and helped Genevieve get seated comfortably beside her husband. Pierre draped his arm across her lap and buried his face into her side. He wept openly and without shame.

  “My darling, I have missed you so much that it hurts.” His tears flowed. He coughed.

  Genevieve stroked her husband’s stringy hair and wept with him. She felt of his forehead. “Oh, my Lord! You have a high fever! I need to get you home and take care of you properly. This cold has moved into your bones and afflicted your throat and chest.”

  Pierre removed his face from his wife’s soft, fragrant dress and wiped his cheeks with his sleeves. He took hold of his wife’s tiny hand. He coughed again, deeply.

  “How I wish that were possible, my love. But you and I both know the injustice that confronts us in the morning. I have heard the gallows being built outside the gate. I have endured the teasing and taunting of my British captors. They plan to hang me tomorrow at noon. There is no escape for me. See … my son has brought me my last meal. Come here, Pierre.”

  The solemn boy walked over to his father, leaned down, and gently hugged him. He kissed his papa’s cheek. Pierre grabbed his son and pulled him close and tight.

  “How is my big boy? Have you been taking care of your mother?”

  “Yes, Papa. Mama says that I have been an excellent ‘man of the house.’”

  Pierre chuckled and hugged his son again.

  “You must have faith, my son, that you will be delivered,” declared the priest, interrupting the father-son embrace.

  “My faith has escaped me, Father. I see no other possible outcome for me. I am afraid that you will bury me in your churchyard before sundown tomorrow.”

  Father Gibault leaned closer and whispered, “I do not think so, Pierre. In fact, I quite expect that you will be far away from Vincennes before dusk on our Lord’s birthday.” The priest’s eyes gleamed with mischief and joy. His face erupted into a wide, plump grin.

  Pierre glanced at Genevieve. He could see her equally huge smile in the warm glow of the lone candle.

  “What is he talking about, Genevieve?”

  She leaned toward him and took his chin in her hand. She hissed quietly, “We are breaking you out of this prison tonight, my love.”

  “What? How?” Pierre exclaimed a bit too loudly.

  Father Gibault threw his finger up to his lips. “Shhhh! There are curious ears beyond these walls.”

  Now Pierre was excited. He felt new energy creeping into his limbs. He scrambled onto his knees.

  “Tell me … what is going on?” He coughed again.

  Father Gibault nodded at Genevieve.

  Genevieve whispered into his ear, “Captain Bousseron and his men are getting you out tonight. They have tunneled beneath the wall and have reached a point directly underneath this room. Tonight after dark they will dig upward to reach you and set you free.”

  Pierre’s eyes grew wide with disbelief. He stared at the floor. “They are under this room?”

  “Yes, Pierre,” responded the priest. “At this very moment. They started from beneath an old shack just beyond the wall. It is a secret place down by the river.” He paused. “It was all little Pierre’s idea.”

  Pierre glanced proudly at his son. “Is that so?”

  The boy glowed with pride. He nodded silently at his father.

  Pierre whispered to his wife, “What happens once I am free?”

  “The men will have a canoe hidden at the river’s edge beyond the shed. Thick brush, pine trees, and cedar trees conceal the entire area very well. Your canoe will be stocked with extra clothing, blankets, food, and weapons. You must go south on the river

  and then make your way west to Kaskaskia and the protection of the Virginians.”

  Again, tears began to flow down Pierre’s tired, filthy cheeks. He simply could not believe the news that his family had brought to him. His joy was quickly overshadowed by a series of violent coughing spasms.

  He managed to get out a single question through the coughing. “When will they come?”

  “Late tonight, after the garrison is bedded down. That will give you several hours head start on the river before sunrise. You will be well beyond their reach by dawn and will leave no trail,” answered Father Gibault.

  Pierre whispered, “I am so excited, I do not think I will be able to eat this fine meal!”

  His wife tenderly pushed back the hair from his eyes. “You must eat, Pierre. You need strength. I have a small jar of rum, and I have some fragrant salve in my bag. I will coat your neck and chest with the ointment. The aroma should help loosen up that horrid cough.”

  Father Gibault assumed his priestly authority. “Before you eat, my son, we will pray for your meal, and for your health, and for our little conspiracy. And then you can eat while your family catches you up on all of their latest news. Afterwards, when we leave, Genevieve and the children will have to wail and cry with convincing despair and emotion. We need the British to hear how brokenhearted you all are about Pierre’s appointment with the gallows tomorrow. Do you all think you can do that?”

  Every member of the family grinned and nodded vigorously.

  “Good!” responded the priest. “Now, let us pray.”

  ~

  Pierre was finally warm. The moist cold of the blockhouse had been torturous for the past week, but his two n
ew blankets provided him with a cocoon of luxurious warmth. At first Pierre found it difficult to sleep. He was too excited. Even as he slumbered fitfully he continued to awaken and glance around the room, searching for any sign of his rescuers. After almost an hour of tossing and turning he finally faced the wall and surrendered to a deep, restful sleep.

  Then he felt his leg shaking.

  A voice hissed in the darkness, “Pierre!”

  He thought he was dreaming until he received a harsh slap on the shoulder.

  “Pierre! Wake up! It is time to go!”

  He rolled over onto his back and stared into a very familiar and unexpected face in the darkness. It was his good friend, neighbor, and compatriot Francois Turpin.

  “Francois! I cannot believe it is you!”

  Pierre tossed his blankets aside and embraced his friend.

  “I am not alone, Pierre. I have a brave assistant with me.”

  Pierre looked over the man’s shoulder and saw his son, little Pierre, hovering beside the escape hole. Tears of pride filled the man’s eyes.

  “Come quickly, Papa. We have no time to waste. The tunnel is over here beside the fireplace. We barely made it into the room, but we made it. Close enough, eh?” He smiled.

  Pierre crawled over to the small hole in front of the tiny fireplace. He embraced his son and then peered down into the hole. The opening was barely big enough for a man to fit through. He looked curiously at his boy. “What must I do?”

  “It is simple, Papa. Just go down feet first. It is only a three-foot shaft down to the tunnel. We dug out a larger room below.” He grinned. “It is not really a room, but it is big enough for you be able to bend over and get down onto your belly. Then all you must do is crawl toward the moonlight. It is about twenty-five feet. Take your time and do not worry. We will be right behind you.”

  “There are men waiting at the other end?”

  “Yes, Papa. You have friends there waiting for you. Now … enough of the talk. Let’s go!”

  Francois and little Pierre helped the sick man lower himself into the tiny hole. They held on to Pierre’s hands for a moment and then released him into the tunnel below. Pierre scraped against the coarse, rocky sides of the vertical shaft and landed in the bottom of the tunnel with a jarring thud.

  He knelt down for a moment to compose himself and get his bearings. He quickly located the shaft that led to the shack. He bent forward and lay down on his belly. Once he was pointed toward the exit he did not waste any time. Pierre crawled with reckless abandon toward the dull blue glow of moonlight at the far end of the tunnel.

  It was a long, painful, energy-sapping endeavor. When at long last he reached the end, a set of strong hands pulled him out of the shaft. The invisible assistant steadied Pierre and helped him stand upright. His legs were weak and trembling from the sudden exercise involved in crawling such a long distance. Pierre looked into the man’s face and recognized Lieutenant Oscar Hamelin of the militia.

  “Oscar!” He hugged his friend.

  “It is good to see you, Pierre.”

  “You cannot imagine how good it is to see you, Oscar.”

  “What about me?” inquired another voice from the darkness. It was Captain Bousseron.

  “Francois! You are here as well!” hissed Pierre.

  “There was no way that I was going to miss seeing you off this night,” retorted the captain. “We have worked much too hard for this. Our men needed a victory after the humiliation of our shameful surrender.” The captain hugged Pierre.

  Francois Turpin’s head soon poked out of the end of the shaft. “Give a fellow a hand!” he whispered.

  The men grabbed his arms and helped him out of the hole.

  “The boy is right behind me,” declared Turpin.

  Moments later little Pierre crawled out of the hole and then stood proudly beside his father.

  The captain declared, “We have no time to waste.” He moved closer to Pierre. “You need to get moving right now. We have the canoe ready. You will launch immediately. Drift south until you reach the mouth of the Embarrass River, then turn and head upstream. Go to Indian Creek and paddle two miles west. There is an old cabin on a small hill near the creek. You can hide out at that location until you feel a little better. But you need to move on to Kaskaskia as soon as possible.”

  “I understand the plan, Francois. It is a good one. But I am very weak. I do not know if I have the muscle or strength to paddle against a current, even the minor current of the Embarrass River. Will someone go with me? Francois Turpin, perhaps?”

  A deep voice muttered from the darkness in the far corner of the shack, “What good will that city boy do you in the backwoods?”

  Pierre recognized that gruff voice, even though it was one that he had not heard in many months. His lips broke into a broad smile when the face of his good friend, Charles Rimbault, appeared in the moonlight. Charles was a boatsman and voyageur who lived on the rivers of the Illinois Country. He had departed for New Orleans almost eight months ago and Pierre had not seen him since.

  “Charles, you old skunk! Where have you been? You should have returned from New Orleans a month ago!” He shook hands with his long-absent friend. The rugged river man grabbed Pierre and hugged him with a warm embrace. Emotional tears flowed down Pierre’s cheeks. Though he would never admit it, old Charles had tears of joy, as well.

  Charles broke the embrace and gave Pierre an enthusiastic slap on the arm. “I got tangled up in Kaskaskia, old friend. The town is full of those strange, interesting men from Virginia. I have been there for three weeks enjoying their company and their rum and relieving them of what little money they carried. It seems that none of them have any skill at cards or dice.” He winked. “I only returned this very evening. Captain Bousseron informed me of your situation and the mission … so here I am. Fresh as a daisy. Are you ready?”

  “You are going with me?” Pierre asked in disbelief.

  “Nothing could keep me from it.”

  Pierre smiled. “Then I am ready.”

  He turned and faced his son. Little Pierre was crying. The proud father knelt beside the boy and wrapped his arms around him in a huge bear hug. “I am so very proud of you, son. And I am grateful for what you have done. I know that you have worked so very hard to set me free.”

  The boy wiped his tears. “Just come home as soon as you can, Papa, and bring the Virginians with you. We have a fort and a town to take back. We will be waiting for you.”

  He hugged his boy again.

  “We must go, Pierre,” urged Charles Rimbault.

  Pierre released his son from his embrace. His friends helped him walk to the edge of the water and climb clumsily into the canoe. Charles insisted that he lie down in the bottom in the front of the boat and cover up with the blankets that awaited him there. The river adventurer took up a paddle and seated himself in the rear steering position.

  “Good luck, and Godspeed,” whispered the captain.

  The captain and Francois Turpin both waded thigh-deep into the water and gave the heavy, cargo-laden canoe a vigorous shove out into the current of the Wabash River. They watched with pride as the canoe that carried their liberated compatriot disappeared silently into the winter darkness.

  Part III

  The Battle for Vincennes

  chapter twelve

  Hamilton’s revenge

  Young Pierre made his way toward home after his father made his escape into the darkness of the December night. It took a long time for him to creep through the dark forests on the outskirts of Vincennes. It was only a couple of hours before dawn when he tumbled onto his soft, warm mattress beside his two little brothers.

  The noise of life in the Grimard house awakened Pierre some time during the early morning. His brothers were up and running noisily throughout their small house. There was the crisp crackling of the warm fire inside the fireplace.

  Pierre smelled food cooking … smoked pork and fresh bread. His mother was, no doubt, p
reparing a huge feast for their family Christmas celebration. And what a celebration it would be!

  There were no presents to exchange this year, but Pierre did not care. He received the very best present of all when he saw his father drift downriver in that canoe. His father was free! And he had the wonderful satisfaction of knowing that he had helped him escape execution at the hands of the British.

  There was joy inside the Grimard house this Christmas. The members of the frontier family were very happy. It was going to be a great day.

  Suddenly there came a loud banging on the door of the house. An angry voice called from outside, “Open this door, by order of His Majesty’s governor! We are here to search this house!” The banging resumed.

  Pierre darted from behind the privacy curtain. He clumsily donned his breeches and tucked in his shirt. His mother’s eyes met his. She was seated in her rocking chair near the fire. She was obviously terrified. Pierre moved toward the door.

  His mother hissed, “Do not open it, Pierre!”

  “Mama, they will knock it down if I do not open it.” He frowned, and then whispered, “They are looking for Papa. You must act surprised when they tell you he is gone. You have to pretend like you don’t know anything.”

  She nodded grimly.

  Again, the voice called from the other side of the door, “Open up now, or we will be forced to break this door!”

  Pierre screeched angrily, “I’m coming! Give me a moment!”

  He took a deep breath and then walked to the door. He released the latch and began to open it slowly. The door flew open in his face with a tremendous force, knocking him to the floor. The boy’s head hit the hard floor with a loud thud.

  Genevieve screamed, “There is no need for your violence!”

  “What took you so long?” boomed Major Jehu Hay, the commander of the British soldiers.

  Pierre stood and rubbed the back of his throbbing head. He responded, “We were scared to open the door. We are not accustomed to fists banging on our house and soldiers shouting at us in the early morning.”