Pierre inquired as they continued their monotonous work, “Has anyone heard from Quentin?”
The boys all cut their eyes at one another and shook their heads grimly.
“I hope that he is all right,” declared Adrien. “I heard that his house was hit by the cannon, too.”
“I heard the captain say that no one died from the cannon fire,” added Jean-Luc. “Perhaps he is helping his family at the mill.”
Pierre shook his head. “I took my family some food only a short while ago. His family was not there.”
“Then maybe they’re at the church,” suggested Gaspard.
“Could be,” responded Pierre. “But there’s no way for us to find out. I think we’re stuck here for a while.”
“Yeah,” agreed Jean-Luc. “I don’t expect that anyone will be volunteering to take our places any time soon.” The other boys groaned in agreement.
Captain Bousseron’s voice boomed from the front of the room. “Pierre Grimard! Come over here!”
Pierre jumped to his feet and ran to his captain. The militia commander stood beside a large barrel next to the front door. He held four large leather bags in his hands. There were eight powder horns stacked on top of the barrel.
The captain nodded at Pierre. “Son, how is your family?”
“They’re fine, sir. I took breakfast to them a short while ago. Papa was still sleeping when I left them at the mill. They got that piece of wood out of his back and bandaged the knot on his head. He’s tough. He will be just fine. Mama was taking care of the little ones.”
“Good. That is truly good to hear. You father is a good man … one of my best soldiers.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Pierre, you boys are doing a fine job with the cartridges, but we cannot seem to keep up with the needs of the soldiers. There are simply too many of them. We need to adjust our strategy.”
“What do you need me to do, sir?”
Captain Bousseron smiled and patted Pierre on the shoulder. “Always ready to volunteer, eh, Pierre?”
“Definitely, sir!”
Bousseron nodded his head toward Pierre’s friends. “The other boys are doing fine constructing the cartridges. I need you for another mission. I want you to take bags of lead balls and horns of powder out to the men on the line. But you must be careful! You need to stay low and keep behind the barricades that our men have built. Do not expose yourself to any enemy fire, do you understand?”
Pierre nodded. “I can do that.”
“Good.” Captain Bousseron pointed to the west. “Make your first run over toward the church and then work your way down the line. When you need more supplies, come back here and stock up. Leave full powder horns with the men who need them. Bring the empty powder horns back here to be refilled.”
“Yes, sir. While I’m over that way I will check and see if Quentin is at the church. There is too much ground for me to cover alone. I could use the help.”
The captain nodded. “That is a good idea. Just keep your head down. I do not think I could ever face your father and mother again if something happened to you.”
Pierre grinned. “I will be fine, Captain. You can count on me.”
“I know I can, Pierre. That is why I selected you for this job. You have earned the right to take part in this battle for your home and village.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“You’re welcome, Private Grimard. Now get loaded up and get moving!”
Pierre’s mind raced. His chest swelled with pride. The captain called him, ‘Private Grimard!’ He was officially in the militia! He quickly took off his hand-knit cap and draped two heavy leather bags full of lead balls over each shoulder. Next, he hung two horns of powder around his neck.
He chirped, “I’m ready, sir!”
“Good. Go out the back door. The front is too exposed to fire from the fort. I’ll be here when you return.”
Pierre saluted and answered, “Yes, sir!” He scampered through the store and bounded through the back door.
chapter fifteen
victory!
Pierre was thrilled when he found his friend Quentin safe and uninjured at the church. He hauled his fellow spy back to Bousseron’s store and loaded the boy down with bags full of musket and rifle balls and several powder horns.
The boys made deliveries along the front line throughout the morning. Soon their cargo began to include baskets full of snacks and food for the hungry soldiers. They also delivered canteens and buckets full of drinking water. The boys worked nonstop throughout the morning.
There had been a brief break in the fighting around mid-morning as the two forces met under the white flags of truce. Colonel George Rogers Clark attempted to coax Governor Henry Hamilton into surrendering his forces and giving up the fort. The conference ended quickly, however, and the battle soon resumed.
The elder Pierre Grimard, despite his wounded back and throbbing head, insisted on taking part in the fight. He, Francois Turpin, and Charles Rimbault joined the men on the front line a short time after the brief cease-fire. Soon they, too, were shooting at the walls of the fort.
Like everyone else, they were not firing at anything in particular. They simply shot at the fort. They could, on occasion, see movement along the tops of the walls or through the wider holes in the chinking, but it was silly to think that they could actually hit such difficult targets with their muskets. Their weapons were simply not accurate enough for such sharpshooting.
Charles Rimbault, the rough and wild river explorer, fired a few shots when they first joined the line, but he quickly became bored with shooting at logs. He decided, instead, to find a soft spot in the loose dirt and lie down until, as he stated, “There was something to shoot at that might actually bleed.” Amazingly, he made a nest behind the barricade and fell sound asleep in the midst of the constant thunder of gunfire. For the next hour Pierre and Francois continued to fire their muskets at nothing in particular.
“Charles is right!” Francois finally declared in disgust. “This is a monumental waste of powder and lead!”
“It is all for a strategic purpose,” answered Pierre. “At least the British are keeping their heads down. I have not heard a single shot from inside the fort since we arrived on the line. I think that is what Colonel Clark wants us to do … keep the enemy hunkered down and out of the battle.” He frowned. “Because it will be bloody, indeed, if we actually have to attack and storm the walls of that fort.”
Francois shuddered at the notion. “I want no part of that.”
A high-pitched voice interrupted their conversation. “Do you need anything, Papa?”
Pierre spun around and saw his son, Pierre, kneeling behind him and holding a large basket covered with a white linen napkin. He also carried two large leather bags under each arm. It was a wonder that the spunky nine-year-old was able to walk at all with such a heavy load of cargo.
“Pierre! Son! What are you doing wandering among the earthworks and defenses? Do you not understand how dangerous it is up here?”
“I was careful, Papa. Anyhow, there has not been a shot from inside the fort since the parley earlier this morning.” The boy grinned triumphantly at his father.
Pierre growled in disgust. “How in the world do you know about military matters? You are but a lad!” He pointed to a small depression behind a large log. “Stay low and sit down right there.” His voice was harsh.
The boy complied. His grin never left his face.
“What is in the basket?” asked Charles from beneath the hat that still covered his face. Young Pierre gave the man a puzzled look. He had no idea how the supposedly sleeping Frenchman even knew that he was carrying a basket.
“Just some food for the soldiers on the line, Mr. Charles. I have been making deliveries. There is bread and jam, and a little bit of smoked, dried buffalo.”
“What is in the bags?” asked Francois.
Little Pierre grinned and patted the bags on his right side. “.69 caliber Charleville musket b
alls on this side and .44 caliber rifle balls on the other.”
Francois chuckled and shook his head. “Have you seen my son?”
“I left Gaspard with the other boys who were pouring lead and rolling cartridges. He seemed happy and content inside Bousseron’s store. There is a warm fire and hot tea in there.”
“Have you seen your mother recently?” asked his father as he reloaded his musket.
Little Pierre nodded. “I checked on them a short time ago. She is fine, and the children are well. They have actually returned home with Mrs. Turpin. Jean and Charles are sound asleep.”
Little Pierre nodded toward Francois. “Sir, your wife said that the mill was no place for the little ones. Now that the town seems safe from the cannons, most of the women have returned to their homes and warm fires. She invited our family to share your home until ours is repaired.”
Francois nodded and smiled. “She’s a good woman … my Josephine.”
His father smiled, as well. “That is good news, indeed. What about you, son? How are you holding up?”
“I am a bit tired, but I will be fine. I have been working hard throughout the night and morning. This is my last trip to the line for a while. I plan to go to Mr. Turpin’s house as soon as I finish my rounds and all of my bags are empty. I could use a nap.”
A voice soon bellowed from a Virginia officer down the line, “Maintain fire on the fort! You gentlemen can rest when the war is over!” They looked in the direction of the voice. It was clear that the man was talking directly to them.
Pierre winked at his son as he poured a touch of powder from his horn into his pan. “We need to get back to work, son. You can leave us some of that bread before you go.”
Little Pierre nodded and grabbed a foot-long loaf of bread from the basket, along with a small crock of apple jam. He hesitated briefly and appeared to have something to say.
“What is the matter, son?”
“I was just wondering …”
“Wondering what?”
“I was just wondering what it is like to actually fight … you know … to shoot at the fort. All I’ve done is deliver stuff.” He looked longingly at his father. There was a moment of awkward silence and expectation.
“Let the boy fire your musket, Pierre,” encouraged Francois. “You know he deserves it. He has served as much as any other man of Vincennes throughout the night.” Francois turned, aimed, and fired his weapon. A billowing cloud of white smoke swirled over the top of them.
“Francois is right,” chimed Charles from beneath his hat. “Let the lad shoot a time or two. He can shoot at lumber just as well as you fellows.”
Pierre pondered his friends’ words for a moment and then grinned at his boy. “Put your basket down and come over here.”
Little Pierre eagerly dropped his basket to the ground and crawled toward his father. He made sure to keep his head behind the protection of the logs, boards, and earth.
“I have a perfect little hole over here that you can fire through. But I do not want you to raise your head above this pile of dirt. You can just aim at the logs of the fort and then shoot … one time. All right?”
Little Pierre nodded.
“Get on your knees right here and hold the stock against your shoulder. I will help you.”
Pierre stuck the barrel of the musket through the firing hole. He helped his son get into position and then knelt behind him.
“Can you see the wall?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Try to pick a large crack between the logs and aim for it.”
Little Pierre nodded.
“All right, I am pulling the lock back to full cock. Now, remember … it is going to kick hard. It might hurt your shoulder.” He tugged on the hammer until it locked with a hollow ‘click.’ “You can shoot whenever you are ready.”
Little Pierre paused as he aimed at a small hole in the wall of the fort. He could almost swear that he saw movement beyond the hole. The boy was trembling with excitement and anticipation. He thought, “There must be a British soldier behind that wall!” He could scarcely breathe or even think.
Pierre yanked the trigger. The massive musket belched fire and smoke and kicked hard against his shoulder, knocking him backwards into his father’s chest. He lowered the stock and rubbed his sore shoulder. The soot of the gunpowder ignition streaked and stained his face.
Charles Rimbault lifted his hat from his own face and grinned broadly. “Congratulations, Pierre. You killed a dead tree.” He winked at the boy.
Francois looked at the lad and chuckled. “Well, just look at that! Little Pierre, musketeer and Patriot of the Vincennes Militia!”
Pierre smiled so big that his face ached.
~
Later that Afternoon
The guns around the fort were silent. Another cease-fire had been called. Pierre and the other boys among his band of spies gathered at the front of the store and watched as three men left the fort and met Colonel Clark and two of his officers in front of the Catholic Church. Captain Bousseron stood beside Pierre.
“What are they doing, Captain?” asked Quentin.
“Hopefully they are negotiating a surrender,” responded Bousseron. “I certainly hope so. Taking this fort will be difficult and deadly otherwise.”
“I heard my papa say that it would be very bloody if it came down to that,” declared Pierre.
“Indeed, it would, son. Very bloody. Many men on both sides will die. Let us hope that these officers can come to an agreement that will spare the lives of both our men and theirs.”
Captain Bousseron looked proudly at the five boys. “You lads have done excellent work today. We could not have fought this battle without you. I’m proud to have all of you serving under my command.”
The lads grinned and their faces flushed red from embarrassment.
“I want you boys to go home and get some food and rest. We are all caught up on ammunition and food for now. If you do not hear any more shooting today, you may remain off-duty and at home. But report back to me first thing in the morning. Understood?”
The boys screeched, “Yes, sir!”
“Good. Now get out of here!” The captain swatted Gaspard on the behind. He laughed as the five lads jumped off of the porch and ran toward their homes.
~
February 25, 1779
10:00 A.M. - Near the Gates of Fort Sackville
The fighting had stopped. The battle was over. Governor Hamilton finally realized that he could not win against the Long Knives and their French allies. He accepted the terms of surrender.
Colonel Clark agreed to hold a formal surrender ceremony directly in front of the fort. The rugged Virginians and their French compatriots stood at attention in two long columns outside the main gate.
Sergeant Pierre Grimard occupied in his place of authority in the line of Vincennes militiamen. Little Pierre stood proudly to his father’s left. Charles Rimbault and Francois Turpin stood to their sergeant’s right. The other four members of the youthful ring of Vincennes spies stood in line beside their own fathers.
The sharp crack of a pistol signaled that the hour of surrender had arrived. Moments later a drum sounded a slow march from behind the gate. The doors swung open wide as Lieutenant Governor Henry Hamilton and Major Jehu Hay led the procession of defeated defenders. The red-coated soldiers of Great Britain followed behind their commanders. The French militia from Canada and a handful of Indians brought up the rear.
Little Pierre could not believe that he was taking part in such a historic event! He and his friends were all under ten years of age, yet they had each played an important part in the victory. They had gone on spy missions, rolled cartridges for the soldiers, and delivered supplies to the firing line. Pierre had even helped his father escape from the British jail!
Pierre worried that he might never again have such an amazing adventure. But still, he was so very proud to be a member of the Vincennes militia. Not many boys his age would ever have
such exciting stories to tell. He and his friends had taken part in an important battle of the American Revolution! They had actually taken part in winning the freedom of the United States of America! They were proud citizens of a brand new nation.
Pierre was filled with emotion. He was so very proud of his spy friends and the men of Vincennes. He wanted to celebrate. He wanted to cheer! So, just as Governor Hamilton walked in front of him, Pierre reached up and removed his hat, and waved it high in the air. Then he shouted in his native French, “Vive les États-Unis d'Amérique! Vive la liberté!”
In English his words meant, “Long live the United States of America! Long live liberty!”
All of the people gathered outside the fort stared at him with bewildered looks. The British stopped marching and stared. The Virginia Long Knives stared. Even the Frenchmen of Vincennes stared at this spunky little French boy who had shouted such bold, patriotic words in the face of the fearsome Governor Hamilton.
Then, quite suddenly, both rows of the exhausted, filthy, proud Patriots erupted into wild cheers and a chorus of, “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” They screamed and howled and waved their hats and muskets in the air.
The men standing close to Pierre patted his shoulders and rubbed his head. Pierre’s father wrapped a proud arm around him and hugged him tight. Gaspard Turpin gave a huge wink. Little Pierre just stood and smiled his mischievous smile.
Governor Hamilton seemed to be very offended by the disrespectful little boy and all of the cheering. He thrust his chest out and held his chin high as he and Major Hay continued their march toward the awaiting Colonel George Rogers Clark.
After a long, humiliating walk they stopped two paces in front of the victorious officer. The drum cadence ceased. The enemy soldiers halted as both Hamilton and Hay dutifully removed their swords and presented them to the Colonel Clark.
Little Spy of Vincennes (Patriot Kids of the American Revolution Book 3) Page 11