“Come on, boys, let’s go home!” someone shouted.
“We know the Invasion Law, Gen’l,” someone shouted. “We voted! Ye can’t do nothin’ to us!”
“Home, people! The general can’t starve us on th’ trail! Yih-ha!” They began drifting on around him, heading down the river bank toward Vincennes.
George, through eyes now blurred with tears of outrage, feeling all his power and honor slipping out of him, bellowed once more: “I want to see Barrett!” Meantime, the Fayette and Jefferson officers had ridden down alongside the flanks of the retreating mob, and began cursing them as cowards and traitors. A soldier, cocking his rifle, snarled at Captain Boone: “You ain’t my officer, Mister! Don’t y’ yell at me!” The dust and babble of the retreating mob rose in the glade, the shuffling of feet, clinking of cook-pans and canteens. They milled past the officers, sullen, insolent, some shame-faced, but most affecting high cheer, and George, slumped in his saddle, watched them flow by, and William felt as if he were standing in a stream of sewage. To see his brother’s dejection made his heart ache with pity. And it was more than the personal agony; even in his youthful inexperience, William could sense that some awful historical turn was happening here, as in stories he had read somewhere, of kingdoms toppled, of lordly reputations lost.
“Billy, come on,” he heard George saying. They spurred their horses and plunged out of the mob, scattering soldiers out of their path. When they burst out, Fayette officers were coming toward them, their faces contorted. “Gaines!” George yelled. “Crockett! Where do you stand in this?”
“We’re with you, sir! Damn sure!”
“Have you seen Barrett?”
“Not since an hour. Him and Robards, both lookin’ guilty as suck-egg dawgs,” Gaines answered.
“Ye think they did have a vote, likely?”
“Surely must have, sir, they’re in such accord.”
George was blinking hard and trying to keep his mouth firm, He had never in his life felt so hurt, so betrayed. Except when Teresa deLeyba had quit the country without leaving him so much as a word. Suddenly he reached over and grabbed Gaines’s arm in a powerful, desperate grip, nearly pulling him off his horse. “On your word of honor,” he demanded. “Did your regiment vote?”
The sudden hurt and hauteur in Gaines’s face vouched for his words: “God and my honor, sir, we didn’t!”
“Good. Thank you.” George released him. “Go tell Colonel Todd to call assembly. I’ll be there in five minutes. No, ten.” Then he started riding away, down toward the riverbank, toward a shady copse of sycamores and willows, putting the sight and sound of the stragglers behind him. William followed. George turned and said, “I don’t need you just now, Brother. No offense. I just need to think.”
“Aye.” William reined in and watched him ride into the shade. He sat his horse, gave it rein to graze, and tried to quell the dreadful, confused remorse and anger he felt. He listened to the horse’s teeth ripping grass, heard locust calls spinning through the sunlight, heard the cheer, we! cheer, we! of a bluebird and saw the flash of its indigo wings dart through a sunbeam. Somewhere nearby a warbler was saying whit chew whit chew whit chew whit! While down the shore, fainter and fainter, men’s voices were laughing and shouting. And up on the rise, a bugle sounded Assembly.
William waited, and suddenly began to have a strange dread about George. Once William had known a young man in Caroline County, a jilted swain who had gone out of sight and killed himself. He, too, had told his friends he needed to think. William jerked his horse’s head up and rode toward the sycamores, his heart in his throat.
In the deep, cool shade he could see no sign of George. Then he saw his horse, standing riderless. William rose in his stirrups and peered around in alarm.
Then he saw his brother, silhouetted against the river.
George was on his knees in the grass. His sword was jabbed into the earth in front of him and his hands were clasped over the hilt and his forehead was on his hands. He was all right after all. He was praying. Praying men don’t kill themselves.
William turned his horse and walked it silently back out into the sunlight. In a few seconds George rode out. His face was drawn and grim, but more composed now. “Let’s go up, Billy.” His voice was low, but the tremor was gone out of it. William still could not think of anything proper to say, and his own bewildered dumbness convinced him that he was still a boy, that manliness required more than just the size and strength to swing a sword; it required the wisdom to say right things.
George rode so slowly that William could feel his reluctance to face the rest of the army after this disgrace. The seven hundred militiamen of Fayette and Jefferson counties were in a large ring around a field table. Several captains and majors stood with Todd near the table. Todd saluted as George rode in with William behind him. George saluted and stopped, but did not dismount.
“Colonel,” he said, “I want you to put it to all these people whether they’re still with me or not.”
“Yes, sir.” Todd turned and bellowed: “Every man who’s still with General Clark step forward and say aye.”
The whole circle, to a man, surged inward with a deafening roar.
Todd looked up at George and saw tears running down his cheeks. William, a few yards back, had to bite the insides of his lips to keep from crying.
“Sir,” Todd said then. “Some of the men have already begged permission to go after the deserters and force ’em to come back.”
That so moved George that he was speechless for several more seconds. Then he smiled through his tears and answered, “That’s like music to me, Mr. Todd. But o’ course”—he swallowed—“we can’t have two Kentucky armies fighting each other ten leagues from the enemy. We’d best council on what to do. We’re up a creek, frankly. We’ve got but half an army here. The savages are three to our one now, and defending their own ground, they’d fight like furies.” He dismounted. “Let’s talk, gentlemen.”
ABOUT HALF THE SENTIMENT WAS FOR GOING ON TO ATTACK the Indians, even with the reduced force. But the chances of succeeding in that—even surviving it—were finally deemed too slim, and the vote was to return to Vincennes. And so they rode and marched out of camp at midday, not toward the enemy towns but away from them, following the messy trail of the deserters, every footprint, every gnawed bone, every cast-away bag or keg, every fly-blown turd or scrap of refuse along the trailside a reminder of the morning’s disgrace. For the first two hours of the ride, George slumped in his saddle, the unfamiliar weight of failure feeling like a boulder on his back. He looked up and listened only when scouts came in to tell about Indian signs. The Kentuckians were being followed and watched by a few Indians, twenty scouts or so. But there was no large force anywhere near. George thanked them and led on, still thinking of the awful sight that morning of the deserters’ backs going down through the trees in their cloud of dust, and the pack horses. He thought of the spectacle as it would look through the eyes of those Indian scouts, and thought of the report, the astonishing report, that they would carry to Little Turtle and Pacane and the other chiefs—the Shawnees too probably were among them by now, after all that delay—the astonishing report that Long Knife’s army had come within a day’s march of the battlefield and then had turned back. That’ll puzzle them for a while, he thought. Worse, forbid it Heaven, they’ll learn about the mutiny! Long Knife, he thought. He had fought and schemed and suffered for eight years for the Long Knife’s reputation. But he knew how fast fame can blow away once a warrior has suffered a defeat or turned from a contest. Again he saw through the Indian scouts’ eyes, saw these 1200 Kentuckians going back whence they had come. He tried to imagine Little Turtle receiving this news. He could remember the chief’s candid, intelligent face. He tried to imagine what the chief’s keen wit would make of it.
Soon George was stroking his jaw thoughtfully. He was not used to thinking defeated, and knew that if he did give this all up, the tribes would plunge into Kentucky with
magnified boldness. While he was here in their territory, surely he could do something. He had sent war belts, but then had turned back before battle. Incomprehensible! He thought of Pacane taking the red belts, he remembered Pacane’s appeal for peace, which he had spurned as insincere.
Suddenly, he sat straighter in his saddle, his brow knit in concentration. A notion had begun to gleam like a coal in the dark ashes of his despair. He had begun thinking of Pacane, of white-beaded peace belts. And it was starting to come together in his mind; the coal of an idea was being fanned into brightness.
“Colonel Todd,” he called back, suddenly turning in his saddle, “have the troops look sharp! Get up a song.” And soon they were swinging and singing down the bank of the Wabash, looking not at all like a retreating army, teaching each other bawdy verses they knew to “Yankee Doodle.”
“Two and two may go to bed,
Two and two together
And if there isn’t room enough,
Lay one atop o’t’ other!”
(slap, slap, slap slap slap)
“Dolly Bushel let a fart,
Jenny Jones she found it,
Ambrose carried it to mill,
And there the miller ground it!”
(slap, slap, slap slap slap)
William kept glancing out of the corner of his eye at his brother, who, though his face was still pained and solemn, was concentrating on his thoughts and now and then showed a wry smile. George was up to something.
VINCENNES WAS IN A STATE OF ALARM.
The Kentucky army they thought had come up to scatter the nearby Indian confederacy had instead come straggling back, half of it, an unruly mob demanding food. Then, learning that the general was close behind them, they had headed out in small groups bound for home. Few of them wanted to be around when he got there.
George, immediately on his arrival, occupied the old fort, summoned Major LeGras and went into a secret council with him and Levi Todd and a few of the faithful officers. William stayed by him as his aide and messenger, and at last it became evident what George had been plotting during the march. “Sometimes, Billy, there’s nowt to do but bluff. Now I reckon I’ve won as many contests that way as I have by force, and it might work again now.”
William listened in amazement as George dictated a message to be taken to the Wabash tribes.
“To the chiefs and warriors of the different nations on the Wabash:
“The frequent murders your young men have committed on our women and children have obliged us to take up the hatchet, and we are determined not to lay it down until the roads are perfectly cleared. Our women and children may cry, but the more they weep the more we shall seek revenge. We are now in your country and will not go far out of it till this be completed.
“I sent you the other day, by my friend Pacane, a red belt to let you know that we are here. You sent back the red with some strings of white wampum and a pipe for us to smoke. You also prayed to hear from us before I saw you. This determined us to return down our road, though we were already three days’ journey towards you.”
He winked, then went on:
“To convince you we are not devoid of humanity, I send you today some strings of white, and invite you to come to a grand council at Clarksville on the twentieth of November, when we shall endeavor to agree upon terms of peace and friendship.… If you do not come, I will conclude that you are still for war. But you may rest assured, if you do continue the war, that we shall adopt measures to take possession of your lands and make a conquest of them forever, without showing you any mercy … If you have any intention of coming to treat, let me know it without delay, and I shall provide everything necessary for your reception. Be not afraid; there will be no danger for you in our towns.
“I am, etcetera.”
And then LeGras dictated his own letter to the tribes, a totally separate document:
“I have received the good words you sent me by Pacane.… All your brothers the French, having a tender heart, enjoined me to send after Long Knife’s army to invite it to return, which, with a great deal of intreaty, we obtained, promising them that you would remain quiet on your lands. Do not make us liars! Had I not stopped the Americans, the birds of prey would eat your women and children and your towns would be confounded with the wilderness.
“Hearken therefore to the speech your brothers, the Americans, send you. Though you spill their blood every day, they have pity. Let us all have but one dish. The women and children have long enough slept in fear.”
So that’s it, William thought. They’re to believe this is why we turned back!
And now he understood why George had wanted the army to return with such a demonstration of spirit.
When the interpreter had left with the messages, George got about the business of establishing a garrison at the fort. He was able to keep only 140 men; the rest had to return to Kentucky for harvests. He sent a letter to the governor of Virginia demanding an investigation of the mutiny, and suggested that Todd also insist on it. “There’s going to be lies and excuses thick as a bee swarm when those Lincoln County boys go slinkin’ home. They’ll try to fault me as a bungler and a jug-sucker, as they used to whenever something went wrong in the war.”
Word came to Vincennes in a few days that Colonel Logan’s expedition against the Shawnee towns had been a success—of sorts. With most of their warriors gone to join the Wabash confederacy, the towns had been defenseless against Logan’s 790 horseman. One of the militia leaders, a Colonel Kennedy, had chased down seven fleeing squaws and hacked them to death one by one with his broadsword. The good, ancient chief Moluntha, having surrendered and holding the Fort Finney treaty to his breast, had been tomahawked between the eyes by Captain Hugh McGary.
It had been a disgraceful performance. But Colonel Logan was boasting of it, as it had destroyed more than 200 of the Shawnees’ dwellings and virtually all their winter food supply. That would put the Shawnee nation out of the warring business for the rest of the year. The barbarous acts would further harden the Shawnees’ hatred against the Kentuckians. But at least the eastern theater of George’s strategy had worked: the Shawnee warriors, on hearing of the raids, had turned away from the Wabash confederacy and hurried back to their own ravaged country. That would have disappointed Little Turtle and perhaps would make him a little more susceptible to the audacious bluff that George and LeGras had prepared. “We’ll all be on tenterhooks here till their answer comes,” George told William. “But we’ll be too busy to worry. What we’ve got to do now is make some way to support this garrison here.” Winter was coming on. George appointed a commissary officer. He sent a request to the French in Kaskaskia and Cahokia for flour. He sent a letter to Benjamin Logan asking him to impress food and clothing from the Kentucky counties for the outpost at Vincennes. But he saw little hope of obtaining anything soon, if ever, by those measures. And so he turned to an expedient closer to hand.
Lying at wharf in the low water of the Wabash just below Vincennes was a large Spanish row galley, full of rum, clothing, shoes, ammunition, and merchandise. The cargo had been brought up from New Orleans for a Spanish trader named Bazadone, who had set up business in Vincennes, and who was suspected to be supplying ammunition to the Wabash tribes. Bazadone did not have a passport to trade in this country. Furthermore, his presence was an affront to both the French and the Americans, whose own trade down the Mississippi had been totally blockaded by the Spanish at New Orleans.
Because the Spaniard was trading without authorization, it seemed that the garrison commandant could, by military law, appropriate his cargo. So a court-martial was convened, of four captains who knew the law. Bazadone was questioned under oath, and when he admitted that he was trading without passport, the court ordered his goods confiscated, and put in the commissary store to be issued directly to the troops or auctioned publicly, with proceeds going to the support of the garrison. After studying the ruling and being satisfied that it was not irregular, George signed it. Bazadon
e, squealing protests through his black beard and yellow teeth, was given a receipt signed by General Clark, relieved of his goods, and advised to leave. “That,” George told William, “is how ye may have to support your troops sometimes, when your government is far removed or little concerned. I know it looks somewhat like robbery, but it’s legal. I know one thing: it would be morally worse to dissolve the garrison for want of supply and leave this town at the mercy of the tribes. Now, Billy, such proceedings do leave a polecat taste in my mouth, and I’m going to wash it out with a sip o’ Spanish taffia, of which we seem to have acquired several hogsheads. Would ye care to join me in my quarters?”
“I sh’d be delighted, Brother Long Knife. This soldierin’—if that’s what we’re doing—does tend to parch a man out.”
George drank and talked cheerfully enough for a while. But after a few drinks of rum, he revealed to William that the day of the mutiny had been the worst day of his life. “When a disgrace like that happens,” he said, “y’ start losing your name. And by God, my name is the main thing I’ve got! D’ye know, there’s rumors back East that I’m not competent. That I like this stuff too much. For the life o’ me, I can’t trace the rumors. But my name’s shrinking back there.”
William was ill at ease with such discouraging talk, which was not Clark-like, and even less like George. Wanting to turn him away from it, he said, “I thought I’d turn over when ye told those fifteen hundred Indians to come down and talk peace or else, and here’s us in this ol’ rickety coop outnumbered ten to one! You really do be some snorter! They’ll come, won’t they?”
“I don’t know. It depends what’s left o’ the Long Knife’s name. But I’m getting nervous. It’s been a week and no answer. Like as not they’ll come with their hatchets out. Little Turtle is no fool. He’s a better man than anyone here, except you and me. I expect he’s waiting to see if we leave. Count on this, though: He won’t be goin’ off to raid Kentucky as long as we sit this close to his towns.”
From Sea to Shining Sea Page 61