Bill Croghan had been on furlough here since October and now it was Christmas morning, and he had been the first thought in her mind, the moment she awakened, on every single morning. Oh, what a prince he was, and how desperately she adored him.
She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated. Sometimes when she did this, remembering particular things he had said, she could hear the exact sound of his voice in her head: the depth of it, the tone, the lilt, just the way it had sounded in her ear. But it was hard to do. Any little sound in the dark bedroom could throw it off and she would have to start again: like that little snot-whistle noise in Elizabeth’s nostril just now. Lordy, I could put a pillow on ’er face, Lucy thought with a flare of impatience. Or like little Sister Fanny over there on the far side of the bed: just at the moment when Lucy would have Bill’s voice all ready to speak in her head, Fanny would snort in her sleep, or say “um” or “mum” or “giffle” or some child-sound like that, and Lucy would hiss an exasperated sigh and have to start all over again.
And sometimes even when there were no sounds at all in the room, Lucy still couldn’t create Bill’s voice in her head, because she would distract herself in some way. Like now, needing to get up for the chamberpot and having a shivering twinge at the mere thought of it. Mercy, she thought, I might as well get it over with.
And then back in bed a minute later, the warm pee-smell rankling in the cold air, her icy feet making Elizabeth’s bedwarm legs jerk, Lucy would try again to create Bill Croghan’s beloved voice. It was best if he had said something just the day before that she could remember word for word, because then it would be fresh in her mind just the way it had sounded. Yesterday he had said a very memorable thing to her in a very memorable way, and she concentrated on it now: “Lucy-luce, you silly goose, I’ll give you a kissmus on Christmas!”
A kiss! Today!
She could remember and hear the voice exactly now.
Bill Croghan had kissed her once before. It had been on Thanksgiving Day, she remembered: He had come to the table just as she was sitting down, and he had pushed her chair in under her as a true gentleman prince would do, and, as no one else had ever done that for her before, it had surprised her knees and she had plopped back onto the chair seat. Her mouth had dropped open and the family had laughed at her, and at that moment Bill had laughed behind her and said, “Ho, silly goose, your knees are loose!” and had kissed her right on top of her dust-bonnet. Then he had gone around to his side of the table, and while her father was saying the Thanksgiving Grace, she had sneaked a look across the table at Bill, and he had caught her looking at him and had wrinkled up his nose and made rabbit-nibble faces at her until she had almost laughed out loud—which would have been a serious crime during one of her father’s prayers.
It was such things as these that Bill Croghan did that made Lucy feel sure that he loved her as she loved him; they were like codes. Of course he couldn’t just come right forth and say he loved her, right here and now. He was twice her age now. But she had figured ahead by arithmetic and knew he wouldn’t always be. She would probably have to wait until she was fifteen to get married, as her mother had. By then the war probably would be over and Bill Croghan would come back to Virginia to stay.
Oh, Dear Lord, she thought now with such a heart-clench that tears squeezed out of her eye corners, may he be safe in the war!
But it was Christmas morning now and everyone was safe at home here at the Clark house—except George, who was almost always gone—and Lucy lay now spooned against Elizabeth’s back and thought about the present she had made for Bill. She wished it would hurry and be daylight so she could give Bill Croghan his gift. He would like it so much, that’s when he would give her the kiss, she knew, and not on the top of her bonnet this time, either, she was sure, but instead probably right on her cheek.
Lordylord, I’m too excited, she thought; I’ll never get back to sleep.
That was what she was thinking when she slipped off to sleep under the thick comforter in her sisters’ body-heat, and she slept so deeply she was the last one up on Christmas morning.
JOHN CLARK WAS ESPECIALLY PROUD THIS CHRISTMAS BECAUSE Parson Donald Robertson, the teacher of his sons, was here as guest for the holidays, and thus there would be a very proper and profound invocation before the giving of gifts.
Lucy Clark understood well enough what an honor this was, as she had been told so often—half of the Revolutionary leaders of Virginia, it was said, had been pupils of his—but on any Christmas, and especially this one, she would have dispensed with the honor gladly because Parson Robertson’s invocations were perhaps even longer than they were deep. His wife, Auntie Rachel, lately had developed the scandalous habit of dozing in the middle of them.
But today the parson’s invocation was somewhat more interesting than usual, being, in effect, a lopsided history of the Revolutionary War to date, dwelling on the victories and ignoring the defeats, with about equal portions of credit for the victories being given to the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost, and General Washington. He thanked them for having forced General Howe to evacuate Boston, for the deliverance of Charles Town, and for the wisdom and principles that had resulted in the Declaration of Independence—not forgetting to hint that some of his former pupils had had a hand in its adoption. In his invocation, the parson chose to omit the bad news of the autumn: Washington’s loss of Long Island and his long, grim retreat, the losses of Fort Washington and Fort Lee, Arnold’s defeat on Lake Champlain. After all, it was Christmas time, and Reverend Robertson would not want to depress spirits by admitting that the American Revolution was almost a lost cause, that the Grand Army of the United Colonies had dwindled to a couple of thousand men, through captures, desertions, casualties, diseases, and expired enlistments. No, this was a time of joyous and noble beginnings, the time of the Saviour’s birth.
All through this, Lucy Clark stayed on her suffering knees and stole glances at Bill Croghan. And finally, when it was over, she scarcely noticed who was giving what to whom in the gift exchange, until Bill Croghan came over and gave her what he had made for her—a new leathern slingshot—and she gave him what she had made for him—a new leathern slingshot. They laughed at each other, and the rest of the family laughed at them. And Bill Croghan, wiping tears of hilarity from his cheeks, said, “Now, here’s your Christmas kissmus,” and gave her a peck on the forehead before she even had time to blush. “And,” he laughed, “a happy Christmas to you, Little Brother!”
She leaped up.
“Oh, but you’re an awful man!” she cried, fleeing the room in tears before the astonished family and guests. She stopped in the doorway and shouted back at him through sobs of mortification: “Here I am who’s going to marry you, and y’ still call me Little Brother!”
GEORGE WAS SLOGGING THROUGH MELTING SNOW IN A warming sunshine, two of his men panting at his heels. At this moment he had just remembered that this was Christmas Day, and was turning to say a greeting to them about it, when he was jolted to a halt by the crack of a gunshot nearby. It rolled in echoes through the hills. His scalp prickled and he was ready to drop behind cover, but then he saw the large brown form of a buck deer careen out of a thicket and fall in the snow in a clearing a hundred yards ahead. It had been a hunter’s gun; whether white man’s or Indians he was not sure, though it had sounded like a long rifle. With a motion of his hand he bade his companions take cover. He stood behind a large beech tree and cocked his rifle and watched the place where the deer lay twitching, watched for the hunter to come claim his prey. He watched for a long time, searching in vain among the bare trees for the figure of a man. Whoever this hunter was, he was cautious and apparently knew how to hunt in Indian country without becoming sudden prey himself.
The man who eventually stepped out of the woods into the edge of the clearing and advanced on the deer was a huge man. His shoulders looked a yard wide; his rifle was aslant across his chest, carried at ready. For all his great size he moved lightly and silently
as a wood spirit. There was no mistaking him. Grinning, George eased down the flintlock on his rifle, and called out:
“Butler!”
George stepped out from behind the beech and waved his hat. The big man’s gun was on him at once. “Don’t shoot, it’s me, Clark!”
Simon Butler uttered a whoop and came sprinting across the snowy clearing. They met each other halfway and they hugged and lifted each other off the ground, pounding each other’s backs with thumps that sounded as if they were beating oaken barrels, both laughing Christmas greetings into each other’s ears. George’s two men came out from cover and walked up hesitantly to see this scout who at twenty-three was already a legend.
Butler was two inches bigger in every dimension than even George. And he was handsome, though in a coarser way, with a jutting square chin, a long, bent-down nose that almost touched his lip, thick auburn hair, and skin so creased and permanently darkened by exposure that it looked like bootleather.
George introduced his men to Butler, then, while Butler was gutting the dead buck, explained the situation: the long-awaited gunpowder hidden at Limestone, the pursuing Shawnees. He told Butler that four of his men, including his cousin Joe Rogers and Assemblyman Jones, had been too fatigued to keep up and had been left to rest at an abandoned blockhouse on the east fork of the Kentuck River while George and these two had continued on this way to get help from Harrod’s Town.
“This meat’s for Harrod’s Town,” Butler said, hoisting the eviscerated animal across his shoulders and tying its front and hind feet together in front of him. “I’ll come with ye.” He led them off in a southerly direction, and even though the buck he carried must have weighed nearly two hundred pounds, the other three men almost had to run to keep up with him.
JOSEPH ROGERS FELT HE WAS CAUGHT IN A WHIRLWIND IN the wilderness this Christmas Day. He was riding fast up the Licking River bank with eleven other armed horsemen. They were heading back up toward Limestone, with five pack horses to fetch the hidden gunpowder. Seven men had shown up at the blockhouse the day before, a hunting party led by the settler John Todd. Assemblyman Jones had talked them into going up for the cached powder. And now the band was thundering through the woods toward the Ohio, the cold wind making their eyes water, bare twigs whipping their frozen ears and cheeks as they plunged through thickets. Cousin George was going to be pleasantly surprised when this group showed up at Harrod’s Town with the powder; George was probably just now down there trying to organize a pack train. They’d likely meet on the trail someplace, those going north for the powder and these already coming down with it. A great Christmas gift for Kaintuck, and Joe Rogers was delighted to think that he would be one of the bearers. Meanwhile, it was all he could do to stay on the galloping horse in these woods, hanging on its back like a burr, his heart in his throat. He had, after all, come for adventure, and it was adventure he was—
The gray woods ahead suddenly sputtered orange sparks and puffed smoke. The horses reared, whinnying, stumbling, falling. The last thing Joe Rogers saw before his horse fell sideways was John Gabriel Jones pitching out of his saddle, blood spurting through the smashed left lens of his spectacles.
Joe thrashed in the snow and dead leaves, trying to get his right leg out from under the weight of his horse. His rifle had fallen out of his reach. He unsheathed his knife. Ahead, howling Indians came running through the gunsmoke. Around him lay struggling horses and groaning white men; behind him, the rest of John Todd’s men were galloping desperately back out of the ambush, shouting curses and confused commands. Joe slashed left and right with his knife as two painted Indians loomed over him. Ruthless strong arms pinioned him to the ground and tore the knife from his hand. Elbows and palms smashed against his nose and eyes. He was dragged from under the horse, yelping in pain and fury. Yelling and running sounds swirled around him. Hoofbeats were fading into the distance. More blows made his ears ring and his brain flash, and treetops tilted against the sky. His clothing was being cut and torn from him and then his wrists were being bound, cruelly tight, behind his back. He blinked a curtain of flowing blood out of his eyes and saw a kneeling warrior slicing the scalp off of Assemblyman Jones.
The next thing Joe Rogers was aware of was that he was very cold, naked, sitting backward astride a trotting horse, his feet tied under it to keep him from jumping or falling off. On the next horse he saw the white backside of another prisoner. The horses were being led swiftly through the snowy woods, by a file of what seemed to be about forty exuberant braves with painted faces.
Joe Rogers felt like the sorriest excuse for an adventurer who had ever lived. He thought of the promises Cousin George had had to make to his father.
It was Christmas Day and Joe Rogers was sure it would be his last day.
GEORGE, WITH SIMON BUTLER AND A LARGE MOUNTED party from Harrod’s Town, rode up toward Limestone to get the hidden ammunition. On their way they met John Todd and the bandaged survivors of the Christmas Day ambush. Over a horse’s back hung the mutilated bodies of John Gabriel Jones and one of Todd’s men, named Graden. George sat listening to Todd’s report of the ambush and the ensuing fight with knives and tomahawks and rifles used as clubs, and then the escape of these few.
“And my cousin Joe,” he interrupted. “Where’s he?”
“We couldn’t find ’im. Just some of his clothes.” Todd’s gaze dropped.
George worked his jaw muscles mightily. He was seeing Joe’s cheerful, round face and his fair Rogers hair. He remembered the guarantee he had given Uncle George. Then he made his eyelids hard, and said, “Pray those Shawnee haven’t wrung out of ’em anything about that powder. Let’s go look.”
All the way up toward the Ohio he had to make himself stop seeing images of Joe being tortured in the ways he knew Shawnees did such things.
The powder was all there where they had buried it. They loaded the precious kegs one by one onto the pack horses, while Simon Butler stood at the top of the cliff watching for Indians. Jim Harrod rode alongside George as the last keg was being loaded. He put a big hand on George’s shoulder. Harrod’s eyes were glinting. “Boy,” Harrod said, “this stuff’s the salvation o’ Kentuck. Thankee.” His hand tightened. “Thankee,” he said again, and then rode off.
THERE WAS JUBILATION IN HARROD’S TOWN WHEN THE POWDER was brought in. Harrod made a speech and ordered a barrel of whiskey opened. George supervised the division of the powder supply among the few remaining settlements. Soon afterward, a courier came from Fort Pitt. Harrod assembled the townspeople for another meeting. He stood George up beside him and said:
“This word came today. The Assembly declared Mister Henderson’s land company illegal. They made Kentuck a county.” The crowd of red-nosed, muddy-footed listeners in the room began to grin and buzz. Harrod held up his hand. “That means,” he went on, “we got power to have a government, and raise a militia for defense. And,” he added, throwing a heavy arm over George’s shoulders, “you folks all know Mister Clark here, our assemblyman. You’ll be glad to know he’s a major now as well, and he’s in command of the Kentuck militia. And his headquarters will be right here in my town. I don’t know about you folk, but that makes me feel god damned good!”
The room shook with yells and whistles and stomping, and the settlement that night consumed another barrel of whiskey. And George Rogers Clark, just lately turned twenty-four, came to be called not just Assemblyman Clark and Major Clark, but the Father of Kentucky.
At a court martial of all the officers of the county: Prest, Geo. R. Clark, Danl Boone, Jas. Harrod, Jn Todd:
Ordered that any perfon called into service by the Invafion Law, as is the cafe with all now in this county, in cafe he leaves the service be looked upon as a deferter, & the Commanding Officer is defired to advertife all such throughout the colony, as deferters, in the moft public manner.
G. R. CLARK, Presd.
That, George thought, looking at the handbill, won’t apply to many. Those who are still here aren’t the des
erting sort. But this should discourage any who might.
There weren’t many still in Kentuck. The settlements of Leesburg—which George had laid out, it seemed now, so long ago—and Danville, and McClelland’s and Hinkson’s stations, had been abandoned. Even brave Benjamin Logan had closed his little fort and had brought his folk—about twenty men and their families—to Harrod’s Town.
Now there were only two settlements still occupied in all of Kentuck: Harrod’s Town and Boonesboro, fort towns within twenty miles of each other on the Kentuck River. Between them they could muster barely a hundred fighting men, three-quarters of whom manned the bigger and stronger fort at Harrod’s Town. The whole population of the new Virginia County of Kentuck had been reduced to about three or four hundred stubborn souls. There were more women, children, sick, and wounded in the two settlements than there were able-bodied men. All these had to be fed, but almost any venture outside the palisades for meat or corn resulted in more dead and wounded defenders. Cattle and pigs the Indians had not yet killed or stolen were brought inside the walls, where they made filth and added to the crowding.
Thus the year 1777 had opened. Kentuck was overrun with larger bands of warriors, better led and equipped than they ever had been. They had good English guns and plentiful English ammunition, warm blankets of English wool, and scalping knives of English steel. They left printed English handbills at the sites of their attacks: leaflets printed at Detroit, offering reconciliation and security to any who would abandon the Rebel heresy and come to live as good, loyal subjects in British Canada. The Indians were being paid handsomely for scalps and prisoners taken west of the Alleghenies. It was terribly plain that Kentuck was now the Revolution’s western front, and that the British meant to sweep all the settlers out of the western lands. In a short time they had driven thousands back over the mountains and forced the rest into these two little fortified settlements. The new county was under siege, and Major George Rogers Clark found himself in charge of the hopeless task of holding it. Simon Butler came in from a patrol one day with the news that he had seen Black Fish, one of the most able of all Shawnee warrior chiefs, encamped near the Ohio with a very large body of braves. Now that the smaller bands had scoured the countryside of isolated families and small outposts, it was almost certain that they were being combined into a force of several hundred, which Black Fish would throw upon these last two islands of defense: Harrod’s Town and Boonesboro.