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

by Geoff Baggett

She heard a deep, hollow cough from beyond the door.

  Little Pierre had heard the knock, as well. He darted from behind the bedroom curtain, clad in only a long indigo shirt and stocking feet. He grabbed the pistol that hung on a rack beside the fireplace, then cast a glance at his mother. Her eyes met her son’s as he stepped forward and placed his hand on the latch. She nodded to him.

  Pierre placed his face close to the rough planks of the door and whispered, “Who is there?”

  A familiar voice emanated from beyond the door, “It is I! The man of this house!”

  “Papa!” squealed little Pierre.

  He flung open the door and froze in horror at the sight of the filthy, hairy, smelly man who lurked in the shadows of their covered porch. Genevieve appeared instantly at her son’s side. She, too, froze in utter disbelief.

  Pierre coughed deeply and then spoke hoarsely, “Well … must I stand here in the frigid night, or might I come inside and visit with my family for a while?” He grinned, revealing a gleaming row of pearly teeth behind the whiskers and grime.

  Genevieve, still clutching her infant daughter, tumbled into Pierre’s arms. She wept. Young Pierre quickly closed the door behind his father and then jumped and shouted in celebration.

  The other children, curious as to the identity of their nighttime visitor, quickly spilled from behind the privacy curtain. When they saw their mother in the visitor’s arms they realized that it could only be their father. They descended with childlike enthusiasm upon their long-absent papa. Pierre hugged and kissed each one of them.

  Genevieve held the baby in front of her husband. “Pierre Grimard, I would like for you to meet your daughter, Genevieve.” She smiled. The baby wailed from hunger.

  Tears began to streak Pierre’s filthy cheeks. He turned his head to the side and coughed. He looked lovingly at the baby and then into the eyes of his wife. “It is a girl?” he asked in disbelief.

  “Yes, my love. We finally have a baby girl in the family.”

  He examined the child. “Is she well? Does she have all of her fingers and toes?”

  Genevieve giggled. “She is perfect!”

  Pierre took the infant in his arms. She cried even louder. He held the little girl’s face close to his and kissed her gently on her tiny, pink nose. He cried from absolute joy.

  Genevieve joined in his weeping, and then babbled through her tears, “I do not understand, Pierre. From whence did you come? Why are you here? You know how dangerous it is for you to be in Vincennes!”

  Pierre, holding the baby in the crook of his right arm, pulled his wife closer with his left.

  “I am not alone, my love. I have come back with the army of the Long Knives.”

  She pushed back from his chest and stared wide-eyed. “The Americans are here?” she hissed.

  “Yes. Colonel Clark’s army is on the outskirts of the village. They will soon invade the town and launch their attack on the fort. I came under orders to deliver a message to Captain Bousseron so that he might instruct the local families to remain concealed inside their homes.”

  Genevieve lay her head against Pierre’s shoulder. “How long will you stay?”

  “I am released until dawn tomorrow, when I must report back to the Colonel and join in the fighting. So tonight, I am allowed to stay here in my own home.”

  He smiled warmly. “But the other answer to your question is, ‘forever.’ I am never leaving Vincennes or you or my children again.”

  Genevieve released herself from his embrace and marched very deliberately toward her rocking chair. She wiped her tears as she went. She declared, “Well, if that is the case, you are going to have to do a bit of cleaning up if you plan to sleep in my clean house tonight.” She plopped down into the chair with an air of authority. “Bring me my hungry daughter, please.”

  Pierre complied, smiling from ear to ear. His eyes twinkled with delight.

  “Junior!” she barked.

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “Hang a pot of water over the fire. Your papa must do some bathing. Once I am finished with Genevieve I will shave his shaggy face and dispose of those horrible, prickly whiskers.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “And fetch your father some fresh clothes. We are going to have to burn these filthy rags he is wearing.”

  “All right, Mama,” responded Pierre as he darted to the shelf to find a clean shirt and breeches for his father.

  “Pierre, are you hungry?”

  Once again Pierre coughed deeply. There was a hollow, resonating gurgle in his throat and lungs. “I ate some bread and milk at Bousseron’s store just a little while ago. But I am still famished. We have been starving for over a week. We ran out of food during the trek.”

  “I suspected as much. You look like a malnourished ghost. There is some venison stew still

  in the warming pot. Help yourself to it and the bread.”

  Pierre coughed deeply.

  Genevieve shook her head. “That cough sounds terrible. I will coat you down with salve and mint after you are clean.”

  “Yes, Madame General,” replied Pierre sarcastically as he lifted his right hand for a crisp salute. He leaned down and kissed his wife on the forehead. “It is so very good to be home.”

  Genevieve grinned with delight.

  ~

  Pierre and his brothers were too excited to sleep. They asked their father dozens of questions. He told them the amazing story of how the starving army of Virginians, the Long Knives under Colonel George Rogers Clark, had waded and swam through over a hundred miles of cold water to reach Vincennes. Pierre tried to imagine what it must have been like to take part in such a heroic journey. How he wished he had been there!

  His father was in the middle of telling them a most amazing story. He told about two nights previous when his clothing had frozen to his body during the night. He was just getting to the climax of his story when gunfire erupted in the town.

  Genevieve flinched and jerked her hand at the sudden and nearby blast of the rifles. Her razor nicked Pierre’s chin, drawing blood. There were over a dozen thunderous shots in quick succession.

  “I am so sorry, husband!” She reached for the small cloth that floated in the steaming hot shave water.

  Pierre simply grinned and plugged the cut with his thumb. He was about to respond to her apology, but was interrupted by a chorus of screeches and howls in the night. Moments later it sounded as if hundreds of savage voices had joined in the horrible, fearful din. At least two dozen howling, screaming men ran past the front gate of the Grimard house.

  Genevieve’s lip quivered. It appeared that she was on the verge of tears. “Is it the Indians? Are they attacking our village?”

  Pierre placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “No, my darling. Those are our friends from Virginia and the brave Frenchmen from the villages to the west. The attack has commenced.”

  Soon more shots thundered from throughout the village, all aimed at the walls of Fort Sackville.

  chapter fourteen

  cannon balls and musket balls

  Pierre could barely sleep. He was too excited. Besides, the entire world outside was so loud, how could anyone sleep? Beyond the walls of his home gunfire raged as the Virginians and Frenchmen poured their musket and rifle fire into the walls of the fort. He tried to envision how frightened those British soldiers concealed within the fort must be.

  But what was most exciting was the fact that his father was home! He could only imagine the adventures that he and his band of spies would have after the sunrise. They would, most definitely, have to perform missions and tasks to support the fighting. The American army would need help to win back the fort for the British.

  As Pierre dozed he dreamed about the great battle. The sounds of the real muskets outside the house made it the most vivid dream he had ever experienced. There was even the great boom of artillery …

  A sudden explosion and the crack of shattering wood ripped little Pierre from his slumber. He jumpe
d up from his mattress and ran past the curtain to where his parents slept.

  “Papa, was that thunder?”

  “No, son. The British are firing their cannons. We have to move someplace safe. Get dressed as quickly as you can and then help your mother to get your brothers ready.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Another explosion jarred their home. This time dust fell from the rafters and shingles overhead.

  Genevieve inquired frantically as she tied the cords of her skirt around her waist, “Where will we go? To the church?”

  Her husband shook his head. “It is not safe there, either. The church is closer to the fort and the fighting. We must move east, out of the line of fire from their towers. Bousseron’s store is far enough in that direction. Quickly, let us get the children dressed and go there. Perhaps he will give us shelter. But we need to make sure everyone is dressed warmly. We may be outside for quite a while.”

  Pierre shouted at his sons behind their curtain, “Boys, wear your coats and caps! Dress as if you were going on a hunting trip with me.”

  The boys responded, “Yes, Papa!”

  Young Pierre sat on his feather-stuffed mattress as he slipped his fur-lined moccasins onto his feet. Suddenly the deafening sound of shattering wood filled the entire house. The wall to his left seemed to disappear as it tumbled inward. He heard his mother scream. He heard his father cry out in pain. His little brothers screamed and cried, as well.

  A British cannon ball decimated the Grimard home. Pierre’s nostrils filled with dust as the walls of the house collapsed around him. He and his brothers were, miraculously, in the one corner of the house that was not completely destroyed.

  Pierre reached out through the smoke and haze and felt for his brothers.

  “Jean! Charles! Are you all right?”

  Jean-Baptiste responded, “I am fine.”

  Charles whimpered, “My head hurts.”

  “Come toward my voice,” Pierre commanded them.

  Seconds later his little brothers emerged from beneath two large boards that were leaning against a nearby shelf. The boards appeared to be pieces of the roof that had fallen into the collapsed house. Pierre grabbed each of the boys by the arm.

  “Come with me. We have to find a way out of here. Do not let go of one another.”

  Pierre turned and made his way toward an open spot in the rubble of the house. There was fire everywhere. He somehow managed to weave his way through the debris. His brothers followed close behind him. They soon emerged into the cold air and darkness outside.

  The yard was bathed in an eerie orange-yellow light from several small fires. Pierre scanned the area around him. It appeared that there were at least three other houses or shops nearby that were on fire.

  Francois and Josephine Turpin appeared out of the darkness, running from the direction of their home. “Pierre! Boys! Are you injured?”

  Pierre helped his brothers climb over a pile of loose, smoking boards. “We are all right, Mr. Turpin. Charles was hit in the head, but I think he will be fine.”

  “Pierre, you’re bleeding!” exclaimed Josephine, pointing to his right leg.

  Pierre looked down and saw blood flowing from a cut just above his knee. He knelt down and examined the wound. “It’s nothing, Mrs. Turpin … just a scratch.”

  “Where are your parents?” asked Francois.

  Pierre shook his head and coughed. The smoke was beginning to irritate his throat and lungs. “I have not seen them. They must be beneath the house.”

  Francois began to shout, “Help! Help us! The Grimards are buried! Help!”

  “You boys come over here with me,” urged Josephine. “We must keep you warm.”

  She almost dragged Jean-Baptiste and Charles across the street, where she made them sit on a neighbor’s porch. She squatted down between them and, like a mother hen, draped the blanket that was wrapped around her shoulders across both boys to help keep them warm. She shouted, “Pierre, come keep warm with us!”

  Pierre, standing in the debris that was once his home, yelled back, “I have to find Mama and Papa!” He joined Francois and a growing group of other men who were pulling boards and stones from the smoldering pile.

  The gunfire near the fort continued, but the cannon fire had stopped. For a while, at least, Pierre forgot about the battle. He paid no attention to the shooting. All he could think about was his family.

  Several minutes later one of the men exclaimed, “They are over here! I have found them!”

  Pierre and the other searchers swarmed to the spot. As Pierre got closer to the rescue team he could hear baby Genevieve crying. The infant’s angry wail made him smile. His baby sister had survived! Then he heard one of the men shout in celebration, “They are all alive!”

  A gigantic cheer filled the night. Within minutes the men had safely removed Pierre’s mother and baby sister from the wreckage. He ran to them. His mother, clutching her baby in her arms, smiled when she saw her oldest son.

  She cried out, “Pierre! Are my boys safe?”

  “We are all safe, Mother. Mrs. Turpin has Jean and Charles across the street.” He examined his mother. She did not appear to have any injuries. “How is Papa?”

  She shook her head. “I do not know. I never heard him speak, even when we were trapped next to one another beneath the timbers. Please check on him, Pierre!”

  The boy nodded. He turned and climbed up on top of the pile to get closer to the men who were digging his father out. He shouted, “Mr. Turpin! Is my father all right?”

  Francois answered from the darkness, “He is alive, Pierre, but unconscious. I believe he was hit in the head. We almost have him free. We will know more in a moment.”

  It took several more minutes to extract his father from the remnants of his home. When the men finally pulled him out he was quite a mess. They carried him from the debris pile and laid him on the porch of a nearby house. Genevieve left her baby with Josephine and quickly joined the rescuers.

  Pierre had a large chunk of wood embedded in his back. There was also a huge knot and bleeding cut on the back of his head. He remained unconscious, but his breathing was strong and steady, despite the gurgle of fluid deep in his lungs.

  Francois frowned. “This sickness in his chest is not going to help things one bit.”

  Little Pierre wasn’t worried about that. He was too busy examining his father’s wounds. “How did that piece of wood get in his back?”

  “Shrapnel from the cannon blast,” Francois surmised. “When the cannon ball exploded inside your home it shattered some of the timbers into small fragments. This one stuck in your papa’s back, almost like a huge splinter.”

  “Can you get it out?” wailed Genevieve.

  “Most definitely. But that is the least of our worries. I am more concerned about the injury to his head. Right now we need to get him some place safe … away from the cannons and the fighting,” declared Francois Turpin. “But where can we take him?”

  “How about the mill?” suggested Pierre. “It is a strong building made of stone and far from the fort.”

  “That’s an excellent idea, Pierre!”

  Francois stood and cupped his hands to his mouth. “Take all of the injured people to the grain mill! Anyone who needs shelter … go to the mill! We will set up a hospital there!”

  Word began to spread instantly about the aid station that was to be established at the mill. People began walking in that direction.

  Francois knelt down beside the injured Pierre. He brushed back the hair from the man’s face and whispered, “Hang in there, old friend. We will take good care of you. I promise.”

  Three men appeared with a large wool blanket. They unfolded the blanket flat on the ground and then carefully lifted Pierre and placed him in the center of it. Francois joined the three men, each one of them grabbing a corner of the blanket. They lifted the makeshift stretcher off of the ground and began running down the street toward the mill.

  ~


  Eight Hours Later

  The Morning of February 24, 1779

  “No, Gaspard. Like this … tuck in the little flap right here.” Pierre knelt down beside his friend and demonstrated once more the fine art of rolling a paper cartridge.

  Just outside the building where they worked the Americans and the French militia continued their assault upon the fort. The battle was less than fifty yards away. The sun had been up for about a half-hour. Pierre noticed that the amount of shooting around the fort had increased dramatically in the early morning daylight.

  The young spies inside Bousseron’s store were lucky compared to the soldiers who were outside in the freezing cold. In addition to the warm fire, Captain Bousseron even provided the boys with mugs full of warm milk and hot tea. Overall, it was not bad duty.

  Pierre and his friends were assigned to the cartridge-rolling crew. Several of the older teen-age boys of Vincennes were working at the fireplace, melting lead in ladles and pouring the molten metal into bullet molds. Together the two teams provided much-needed ammunition for the men engaged in the battle for Fort Sackville.

  The boys worked feverishly to keep their little assembly line moving. These individual loads of ammunition for the army muskets were critical for the success of the American and French soldiers. Each cartridge had to be constructed properly and hold exactly the right amount of gunpowder. The American forces were counting on these boys to do the job right.

  It had been a long night. After making sure his family was safely inside the protection of the mill, Pierre was the first one to make his way to Captain Bousseron’s store. The captain initially put him to work as a runner. The other boys of the young spy network began to trickle in throughout the night to offer their services to the militia.

  At first the captain scolded the boys for being out in the streets while a battle was raging. Then, when he was finished with his lecture about safety and how a “battle was no place for boys,” he immediately put them to work pouring lead and rolling cartridges.

  Pierre and Gaspard rolled dozens of hollow paper tubes, Jean-Luc carefully measured gunpowder and filled the tubes, and lastly Adrien added the lead ball and tied the ends with thread. When completed, each rolled cartridge was ready for immediate use in the battle. Men in need of ammunition came in and out of the store on a regular basis. Each time they entered the building they grabbed every cartridge that the boys had finished and then ran back out the door.