Thus the whole month of November went by in misery and toil, and Hamilton often fell asleep in his tent cursing Indians, cursing the drought, cursing the very terrain, and wondering whether after all this he would even reach Vincennes before a solid midwinter freeze of the Wabash. One thing is certain, he thought. If I make Vincennes in December, I shall winter us there. Never could an army cross the remaining two hundred and forty miles to Kaskaskia in midwinter. That would be impossible even for British regulars.
So that was settled. He would, if by miracle he reached Vincennes, wait there until the spring thaw to move against the rebels on the Mississippi.
At last, early in December, rains came and the Wabash began rising to a navigable depth. Hamilton stood on the bank, water trickling out of the three corners of his hat, and watched cheerfully the millions of raindrops making their circles on the rising brown water.
His satisfaction over the rising of the waters was short-lived; the flotilla was scarcely underway when bitter cold swept up the valley and the river froze from shore to shore in one night.
Well, by damn, the thought. We’ve not quite spent ourselves yet against this wretched climate, but we shall if we have to.
And so for the next few days, men stood in the prow of the leading boat, smashing at the ice with axes and pikes to make a channel, while General Hamilton stood grimly under an awning in the stern, watching the miles go by one foot at a time.
At last a few days’ journey from Vincennes, the cold spell broke, the ice turned mushy and deteriorated, and for the first time in seventy days General Hamilton’s fleet was borne toward its destination on smooth, deep, swift water.
Now, Colonel George Rogers Clark, or Long Knife, as your name may be, he thought, your ill-advised little adventure into the British domain is about to meet its inevitable outcome, which any intelligent man could have foretold.
FOUR FRENCH BUSHLOPERS, ONE A LIEUTENANT IN THE MILITIA, were making their way up the south shore of the Wabash just after dawn, trotting silently on the sodden brown turf, rifles at their sides. They wore winter suits of fur-lined skins, decorated with fur and beads, and fur caps, and carried bedrolls looped over their shoulders. They had been sent out by Captain Leonard Helm, the American commander at Vincennes, to investigate a rumor that a British force was in the valley. They were three days out of Vincennes and had not seen a soul, white man or Indian, in the wintry wilderness. Suddenly they sensed a great deal of movement around them, and stopped to find themselves surrounded by some twenty Indian braves in war paint, who had risen like ghosts from the brush along the path and stood with muskets trained on them. The men stood still, looking around and seeing that there was no gap through which to flee, then surrendered their weapons to a tall chieftain who came to where they stood. The Indians would answer no questions. They bound the Frenchmen’s wrists tightly behind their backs with thongs, then fell into a file and continued in the direction the scouts had been following.
Emerging through a copse of leafless cottonwoods and sycamores, the prisoners were astonished to see a large fleet of bateaux and pirogues tied at the river’s edge. A huge camp was being dismantled. White tents were being lowered; men were carrying equipment to the boats; food was being served from a steaming kettle over a huge bed of coals. The Frenchmen had never seen so many Indians in one place. There seemed to be hundreds of them.
And there were white men, in cloaks and red coats. Nearby troops of red-coated soldiers in tall, gold-trimmed hats were being formed into ranks. The glade was a buzz of activity.
The Indians led the Frenchmen to a slender, black-browed officer of apparent high rank, presented them to him, then stood back, apparently quite pleased with themselves.
The officer had the prisoners searched, and looked with avid interest at papers that were taken from the French lieutenant. He came to the lieutenant, appraising him with a mocking look.
“I find this rather remarkable,” he said in a tone of heavy sarcasm. “You have here an officer’s commission signed by my colleague Governor Abbot, and another officer’s commission signed by the American, Clark. Pray tell, isn’t it a bit confusing? Do you by chance know which side you are on?” The Frenchman’s eyes fell before this mockery. The Englishman continued: “Governor Abbot having left Vincennes some time ago, I must presume that the other commission is current and you’re in the pay of Congress?”
The Frenchman nodded.
“Then,” the officer continued, “while you’re in my care, I hope I can convince you of the error of your ways. Meantime, I give you a choice: You might sit with me and inform me of the state of things at Vincennes, or I could return you to your captors, and let them use you at their discretion. Which will it be, lieutenant?”
The Frenchman sighed unhappily. What a pity he could not take word of this army back to Vincennes. He had become so fond of the merry Captain Helm! But one must survive.
22
VINCENNES, WABASH VALLEY
December 17, 1778
LEONARD HELM STOOD ON THE PARADE GROUND IN FORT SACKVILLE, using all his self-control to hold back tears of rage. The French militiamen of the garrison were dispersing out through the fort’s main gate, carrying their personal effects, with all the shamefaced demeanor of whipped curs. They, who had been so cocky in parades and on guard duty, were deserting him en masse now that they had learned a British army was on its way.
Helm chewed tobacco furiously, his gray chin whiskers moving up and down with his ruminations, and watched the departing Frenchmen in disgust. He spat in their direction. He fingered the pistol in his belt and spoke to the American aide at his side.
“Last one out I got half a mind t’ shoot in th’ butt!”
“Aye.”
“But that wouldn’t do no good. Well, son, looks like that leaves you and me an’ a score of Frenchies who ain’t yet quite petrified, t’ defend this trap again’ General Hamilton’s army and a half-thousand redskins. Hope you’re feelin’ perty spunky.” The soldier nodded with a gray half smile. “Shut that gate once all th’ mongrels has gone,” Helm said, “an’ turn that cannon on it. Maybe we c’d at least give Mister Hamilton a taste of grape-shot when ‘e busts in. Now I got t’ go write a letter to Cunnel Clark. Get one o’ them lopers provisioned fer a quick run over t’ Kaskasky, an’ send ’im to me. One we can trust. If there is such a thing.”
The soldier saluted and Helm set off across the dismal compound to his quarters. He hated having to write letters of any kind, but this was going to be the most distasteful one ever.
Good ol’ George, he thought. This is gonna piss him somethin’ turrible.
God damn this place to hell anyway, he thought. He looked around at the decaying palisades, where there were gaps big enough to stick a fist through. There wasn’t a firing platform for marksmen. There wasn’t even a serviceable well. The British had neglected the place before they left it in the hands of the French, and the French had neglected it as they neglected, it seemed to Helm, everything but their pleasures. Helm himself had not been able to get repairs started on the place because of his constant negotiations with Wabash tribes.
Just as well it’s in this condition, he thought. Since we have no one to defend it, they’s no sense giving Hamilton a good stockade.
Helm went into his cold, bare office, drew a small sheet of paper onto his desk, and trimmed a quill. Chewing his lower lip with the effort, he wrote.
December 17, 1778
Dear Sir—
At this time there is an army within three miles of this place. I hear’d of their comin several days beforehand Sent spies to find the certainty the spies being taken prisoners I never got intelligence till they got within 3 miles of the town as I had calld the militia & had all assurance of their integrity I orderd at the fireing of a Cannon every man to appear, but I saw but few
Helm heard the rattle of drums in the distance and went to the door. Looking out over the palisade he could see a large body of men and flags coming over th
e brow of a rise beyond the town. He shook his head and started back inside. The courier he had sent for arrived at the door. Helm told him to wait and returned to his desk. The runner seemed very disconcerted by the sound of the drums. Helm dipped the quill again.
Ecuse hast as the army is in sight my Determination is to defend the Garrison though I have but 21 men but what has lef me
The army is in three hundred yd of village you must think how I feel not four men that I can really depend on but am determined to act brave think of my condition I know its out of my power to defend the town as not one of the militia will take arms thoug before sight of the army no braver men their is a flag at a small distance I must conclud
Yr humble servt
Leod Helm
Must stop.
Helm gave the letter to the courier. “Take it to Kaskaskia as quick as you can go, and go directly to Cunnel Clark. Answer him any questions as best ye can from what you’ve seen here. Godspeed, now!” The man nodded and vanished out the door.
Captain Helm took off his buckskin coat, hung it on a peg, and pulled on his blue uniform coat. He put on a black three-cornered hat, smoothed down with his hands the whiskers which tended to stick out in every direction from his jaws, and went out toward the gate. His few remaining French militiamen, pale and morose, looking as if they wished they had left with the others, hung about the walls, staring through the firing ports.
Climbing onto the platform, Helm looked out over the sharpened log-ends of the palisade and saw the entire village overrun with Indians, all hanging back and waiting near the cover of the village houses and watching the fort. A regiment of enemy militia was drawn up in ranks along the far edge of the sloping plain that lay between the fort and the town, and a company of redcoated regulars stood in a square slightly in advance of them. Four drummers and a flag-bearer stood in front and the drums chattered. A chilly rain mixed with snow was now falling. God, Helm thought. Hopeless.
A mounted British officer, seeing Helm, raised a red flag and rode slowly across the field toward the gate. The drums stopped. The officer reined in his horse within speaking distance.
“My I speak with your commandant, please?” he called.
“You are.”
“I am Major Hay. I …”
“You mean Jehu Hay?” Helm snarled.
“The same.”
“If it wasn’t fer that truce flag, Major, I’d shoot you plumb out of that saddle, you brigand,” Helm twanged.
“Come, come, sir!”
“Come, come yerself,” Helm retorted. “I won’t talk to you. If you have a civilized officer among you, send him to talk.”
Hay hesitated, red with anger, then turned his horse and rode back. Soon he returned with another officer, a slight man with a long loose jaw and dark brows.
“I am General Henry Hamilton,” this man said. “Whom am I addressing?”
“Captain Leonard Helm. Militia of Virginia.”
“Captain Helm, good day. In the name of his Britannic Majesty King George, I order you to surrender this post. I’m aware of the straits you are in; it would be futile to resist.”
Helm went down from the parapet, his heart racing, and ordered the private to throw open the gate. Hamilton found himself staring into the barrel of a cannon, beside which stood the American captain and a private holding a lighted fuse match. The captain said:
“Surrender on what terms, your Britannic lordship?”
Hamilton stared in amazement at the shaggy old man, then smiled. Jove, what guts this one has, he thought. “With the full honors of war, Captain.”
Helm stood and looked at General Hamilton. What would George do now? he wondered. It was impossible to imagine him surrendering. But then I don’t reckon he’d’ve ever let those Frenchies cower out the way I done. Miserable, he turned and looked around the compound. The only living creatures within were a score of trembling French militiamen, and thirty-two horses in a temporary corral. He turned again and looked at the hundreds of armed men in the distance.
One thing George don’t like, he thought, is wastin’ blood.
“If I let you and them savages of yourn come in this fort, can you keep ’em under control?”
“Certainly, Captain.”
“That’s a promise?”
“A promise.”
“In that case, I accept your terms.” He walked out the gate, tears running into his whiskers.
In fifteen minutes the British colors were again flying over Post Vincennes.
JUST BEFORE HIS ARRIVAL AT VINCENNES, GENERAL HAMILTON HAD dispatched Indian bands to lie along the trails leading from Vincennes to Kaskaskia and to the Falls of the Ohio, in order to intercept any communications the rebels might attempt along those routes.
Such a band was encamped, without a fire, in a thicket five miles west across the Wabash from Vincennes. Hearing a call in imitation of a barred owl, they rose swiftly and glided to the edge of the growth. One of their braves lay there, and he pointed toward an approaching figure in the gray distance: a white man trotting swiftly along the trail. As he drew near they recognized him as one of the Big Knives. Flintlocks clicked as five muskets were cocked and aimed. As the runner drew abreast of the ambush, several muskets fired in a ragged volley. He dropped to his knees, struck in several places in the body, and tried to raise his rifle, then dropped it. When the Indians surrounded him he was on hands and knees, coughing and spewing blood onto the path. One of the warriors, laughing, ran to him, grabbed the tail of his muskrat cap and snatched it off. Then he wound his fingers into the man’s yellow hair, jerked his head up, and with two swift strokes of his red-handled knife, sliced a circular cut on the scalp. Then he yanked the hair, and the trophy came off with a soft pop.
The victim rallied enough to stagger to his feet. His eyes glazed with dying, he drew his long-bladed hunting knife out of its sheath and staggered toward the Indian as if to retrieve his scalp by force. The Indian backed away, still laughing and taunting, shaking the scalp just out of his reach. The white man sank to his knees again, and the Indian began slapping him back and forth across the face with his own scalp. In moments the man’s face was smeared with blood and his eyes were full of it. As he began to fall forward, the other braves came close and each struck him a coup with tomahawk or warclub.
They searched his mutilated body and found a small, folded scrap of paper. They would take it with the scalp to the white father Hamilton. He would be very pleased and give them presents.
That was as far as Leonard Helm’s letter to George Rogers Clark went that day.
GENERAL HAMILTON HAD DECIDED DEFINITELY THAT HE MUST WINTER in Vincennes and wait until spring to start an expedition against the Illinois. The rivers were flooding, and covered with slabs of broken ice that would grind boats to pieces; the weather was raw and snowy. The ground was a chilly muck. Snow fell and melted, fell and melted again.
Hamilton scourged the Vincennes inhabitants with his tongue for their treachery and ingratitude in taking the oath to America, made them renounce that oath, and then read them a new one:
Vincennes, 19 December, 1778
We, the undersigned, declare and acknowledge to have taken the oath of allegiance to Congress, in doing which we have forgotten our duty to God and have failed in our duty to man. We ask pardon of God and we hope from the goodness of our legitimate sovereign, the King of England, that he will accept our submission and take us under his protection as good and faithful subjects, which we promise and swear to become before God and before man. In faith of which we sign with our hand or certify with our ordinary mark, the aforesaid day and month of the year 1778.
After hearing it read, the citizens of Vincennes kissed a crucifix at their altar and signed a copy of the oath. Hamilton perused the document in his new office with a sneer of disgust. This, he thought, is scarcely worth the paper it’s on. But the formality of it is done. And maybe even Frenchmen aren’t base enough to violate three oaths in a row.
Only
a small group of citizens refused to sign the paper, among them two militia officers named Bosseron and LeGras, and a younger brother of Father Gibault. These men were placed under constant surveillance, and the young Gibault was brought to Hamilton several times to hear his brother denounced as a blackguard and a traitor in papal skirts.
Hamilton decided to spend the winter placing the wretched Fort Sackville in a perfect state of repair. Working his men six days a week, he began building a new guardhouse and barracks for four companies, sank a well, ordered the construction of two large blockhouses of oak, with embrasures for five pieces of cannon each, altered and lined the stockades, set up firing platforms, and laid the parade ground with gravel. In the meantime he sent war parties out to set up posts near the Falls of the Ohio and the mouth of the Wabash, and messengers to summon the tribes for the great spring war council.
He also authorized one enterprising Ottawa chieftain to go across to the Illinois country above Kaskaskia with a large body of warriors and some French guides, conceal himself there, and lie in ambush for an opportunity to capture Colonel Clark, who was known to travel with regularity on the road between Kaskaskia and Cahokia and to go often across the river to the Spanish settlement at St. Louis.
“If you bring him to me,” Hamilton told the Ottawa, “you will have rewards beyond imagination. I will load you with gifts to make you rich, and all red men will speak your name forever. But you must bring him to me alive,” he added. With such rewards as those in prospect, he knew, the chieftain might—indeed, probably would—try to bring in any scalp or carcass and claim it was Clark’s. “Alive,” he repeated.
ON DECEMBER TWENTY-FOURTH, FRANCISCO VIGO RODE EASTWARD on horseback along the Kaskaskia-Vincennes trail, sleet lashing the back of his coat. The sky was the color of iron. He had been on the muddy road for six days.