Wind Dancer (8 page)

“I think they're at supper,” Samuel said, panting, stopping in front of his commander and saluting with a big grin.

“So that's where you've been. Filling your stomach on enemy fare.”

Samuel shrugged. “Mrs. Coffman's a fair hand in the kitchen. Shall we join them?”

Clark nodded, smiling, looking around at the excitement on the men's faces. “Do you think they'll have enough?”

“I think they may be able to scrounge something up for Lt. Colonel Clark and his army when they see your grand forces.”

Clark laughed. “What have you learned?”

“They're a friendly sort. Kept me and a couple of new friends for the night last evening.”

“New friends and nice meals … you
have
been on holiday out here, Samuel. Have you learned anything to help my army?”

Samuel grasped Clark's shoulder, his eyes suddenly intense. “Aye. We should meet little resistance in Kaskaskia. The fort is just as the hunters said, held by few militia and fewer weapons. The town is almost … sleepy.”

“That
is
good news. And de Rocheblave?”

“Having dinner with the town's doctor when I left. He was very friendly toward me and gave me free reign to trade in Kaskaskia.”

“So you were a trader this time, eh?”

“A trader with a wife and brother-in-law in tow.” Samuel shook his head. “A story for another time.”

Clark nodded, mischievous interest in his eyes, “A wife, eh? I won't forget to hear that tale.” Turning toward his men he ordered them into marching lines. With a signal from his hand, they marched.

The farmhouse was large, with several outbuildings housing animals and grain. It had a large well, thank God, and a spring-house providing more water and a place to keep things cool. It was the perfect jumping-off point for the coming assault.

Clark had the men silently fan out and surround the place while he and Samuel strode to the front door. They knocked, then stood and waited, still and polite.

Henry Coffman opened the door, took in Samuel and his commander, and with terror mounting on his face, gazed over their shoulders to the army surrounding them. He backed up, his arms outstretched as if to ward them off. “What is this, Mr. Holt?” he sputtered in anger, confusion, and fear. “Please, don't kill us.”

Clark and Samuel entered, guns resting easy and ready in hand for effect. Clark said, “We're not here to spill the blood of good citizens, sir. Only to commandeer this residence, temporarily, for my men.”

The man had backed into the table where his wife sat unable to move, both looking to Samuel to explain. Clark removed his hat. Samuel followed suit. “We've need of water, some food if you have it, and a few hours' rest. We'll not molest your family if you cooperate.”

The man glared at Samuel. “You were
spying
on us?”

Samuel nodded but kept his stern demeanor. “You'll come to no harm, Henry. This is Colonel Clark. We are of the Americans, Illinois Regiment of Virginia.”

Missy gasped and put her hands to her face, a whispered phrase escaping her lips, “The Long Knives.”

Henry looked frightened anew, sinking back into his bones, pointing to his yard and nodding. “Take anything you need, Colonel Clark, anything at all.”

“My thanks.” Clark nodded his head at the man and then his wife. To Samuel he murmured, “Secure any weapons and see that they stay inside.”

Samuel nodded once and retrieved the rifle above the fireplace. As Clark stepped outside to take care of the army, Samuel silently gathered all the weapons in the house, then stood by the window, waiting for Clark's signal.

Missy rose and hurried to the stove to cook for them. “But Mr. Holt, where is your wife and her brother?”

Samuel glanced at the woman and grimaced. “She is not my wife, ma'am. I'm truly sorry for the deception, but . . . it seemed the best course at the time.”

Missy was staring at him wide-eyed, most likely remembering putting them up together in the attic. “Oh.” Her round cheeks were pink.

“I feel cheated.” Henry glared at him. “Why did you lie?”

Samuel gave him a hard look. “I didn't know who lived here, where your alliances might lie, and I couldn't risk others hearing about what was to come. There are things going on here that you have little understanding of. You will just have to trust me.”

“As if I have a choice,” muttered Henry, looking at his hands.

Samuel just nodded at him and returned to watching the men as they settled into camp. Missy would feed and house the officers, but the others would cook on small fires hidden by the house and then lay low for a few hours while they awaited the cover of night.

* * *

IT WAS DARK now, almost dawn. The men were fed, rested, and ready.

Ready for their first battle of the campaign.

Suppressed excitement held their faces, their bodies straining to keep the slow, steady pace Clark demanded as he led them toward the fort, just three miles away.

After crossing the river, the company made its way up the banks of the river to the edge of town. Splitting the men into two groups, Clark, Samuel, and a few hand-picked men bore down upon the fort. They crept up to the unmanned gate, entering the enclosure without being challenged by so much as a sentry. Samuel hand signaled to Clark the location of the commander's house, dark and silent as the rest of the buildings lining the small, narrow street. A small armed contingency first surrounded the house and then quietly broke the latch on the front door.

Clark led his men inside. “Commander de Rocheblave,” he said as the door slammed open against the wall, “your fort has
been surrounded by the Americans, and we request your immediate surrender.” Clark stated the fact almost politely.

The couple sat up in their bed, an abrupt movement of covers and clenched jaws. The wife clutched the covers to her chin, her cap askew. De Rocheblave's mouth opened and closed a moment before he snapped it shut and lifted his chin. “Who are you, sir? What is the meaning of this?”

Clark lifted the brim of his hat and grinned. “Colonel George Rogers Clark of the American army. Glad to make your acquaintance.” He laughed, low and deep, seeming to enjoy the scene. “I am here to take over your fort. This is American country now.”

The man looked ready to argue, then heaved a big breath and nodded. “
Personne ne sait qui le possède
.”

At Clark's puzzled brow he interpreted. “I only said that no one knows who owns it. But for now, yes, it appears the Americans have it. What will you do with our town, George Rogers Clark?”

George's face lit up with the question. “Why, open up the territory for hardworking folk. Now, if you and the missus wouldn't mind getting dressed, we'll see to the business of it, shall we?”

It didn't take long for Clark to have the town under his control. A Frenchman in the company was assigned the task of raising the alarm to the townsfolk by shouting throughout the streets of Kaskaskia that it had been taken and ordering the good people of the village, on the pain of death, to remain indoors. Before the first rays of daylight, the people were disarmed and fearful of their fate.

* * *

“CITIZENS OF KASKASKIA,” a French voice shouted in the street just feet from the window Isabelle was sleeping next to.
“Stay in your homes where it is safe. The Americans have taken the city.”

Isabelle reared up, clutching the thin blanket at her waist, straining to hear anything else. The man repeated the phrase in various ways, but the message was clear: Do not raise arms against the Americans.

The Long Knives, as they were called, had taken the fort.

Isabelle pressed her ear against the bedroom door trying without success to hear what the soldiers were saying to Father Gibault. She eased the door open a crack, and, still standing in her nightgown, her toes curled into the wood floor, she peered out.

“The colonel would like to meet with all the leaders of the community,” a tall, rough-clad officer was saying.

Father Gibault nodded, wrapping his sash about his priest's tunic. “Who has taken the city?” There was a quiver in his voice.

Isabelle strained to hear the answer.

“Colonel George Rogers Clark and the Americans, sir.”

Father Gibault's head jerked up to look at the man, and Isabelle gasped.

The Long Knives.

She had heard stories of their brutality, a bribe mothers used to coerce obedience from their children. “You'd better get yourself inside or the Long Knives will get ya.” Or, “Best eat all that dinner afore the Long Knives come to eat it up and you
with it.” Her own mother had never stooped to such levels, but Isabelle had heard the stories.

She watched as the priest followed the soldier out, then shut the bedroom door and gathered her clothing. Julian was still asleep on the floor, so she slipped quietly into her dress, knowing that if she woke him he would try to keep her from following Father Gibault. Taking up her rifle, which had been hidden under the covers with her during the night, she looked one last time at Julian and left the room.

The first rays of sun were brightening the sky. The air was sweet, with a breeze that blew her long, unbound hair into her face. Isabelle thought she should have taken time to stuff it under a bonnet, but little matter now. Skirting the edges of the buildings that made up the main street, she made her way to the center of town where a crowd of men had gathered. They were mumbling quietly, eyes darting here and there, feet shuffling, clothing in disarray from the hurry and panic of this meeting. Isabelle spotted Father Gibault near the front. He was turned away from her and talking to several men, gesturing with sweeping motions of his hands and an intense look in his eyes.

A tall, redheaded man came out of the trading post with three other men flanking him. He wore buckskins from head to toe, the color of honey with fringe swaying as he walked. He was quite tall, but there was something in his carriage that made him seem enormous. A rare authority sat upon his shoulders, lending him the air of a king. King of the Long Knives.

Isabelle's breathing caught in awe as the colonel towered over the men from the porch of the trading post.

One man cried out in a loud voice, “Don't kill us! Let us be your slaves, lord.”

Isabelle bit down on her bottom lip, straining to hear but unable to make out more than the sounds of the citizenry begging
for mercy. Crouching down, she crept to a tall water barrel and hunkered behind it. Another sideways dodge and she was barely hidden behind the doctor's front-porch pillar and a wooden rocking chair. Peeking between the slats in the chair she could now see and hear.

“Citizens of Kaskaskia,” the colonel began in the pained voice of one offended, “I am mortified to learn of your low opinion of the Americans. We do not come to enslave, but to set free. You have heard tales that are false. Let me tell you the truth of the Americans.”

Isabelle listened in growing astonishment as Clark declared that the Americans were taking the fort from the British. They intended to stop the bloodshed by the Indians of the Illinois country and Kentucky, and they hoped to break the alliance between the British and the Indians. He explained that the Americans—yes, the Long Knives—were here to free the people of Kaskaskia from British tyranny to live the life of their hearts in this new land where anything was possible.

Isabelle strained to see the faces of the French citizens. They had been shocked into silence. Rising before she had time to really consider what she was doing, she moved closer, dashing toward a watering trough right next to Clark.

His gaze swung to her, piercing blue, full of fire and ice, outrage, and weighing judgment. Isabelle froze, still crouched, grasping her weapon in her right hand with a terrorized grip. All eyes turned toward her. Suddenly a man materialized from Clark's side and she lifted her gaze into the point of a rifle, her rifle being torn from her grasp.

“Isabelle?”

Isabelle looked up from the rifle into the eyes of Samuel Holt. Exhaling with relief, she gave him a tight smile. “I'm … sorry?”

Samuel hauled her to her feet and marched her over to Clark, where she stood with her hair blowing around her shoulders and into her face like a great black veil. With her right hand she held her hair back from her face and lifted her eyes to Clark's.

“What do we have here, Sam? This wouldn't be your
wife
, would it?”

He said it low, and Isabelle thought that possibly no one else had heard him, but it so infuriated her that she kicked out at Samuel's shins and hissed at the colonel, “I'm no wife of his, sir.”

“Then why aren't you with the other obedient citizens who are waiting
patiently
in their houses?” Clark demanded.

Isabelle took a breath, started to speak, then changed her mind and admitted with a resigned tone, “I've always had somewhat of a problem with obedience, sir.”

Clark looked shocked for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “Take her to my headquarters, Samuel. I think we can come up with some practice lessons for her, don't you?”

Samuel nodded, scowling at her for the kick. With a tight grip on her upper arm and her rifle gripped in the other, he pulled her along to the doctor's house where Clark had set up his office. Once inside Isabelle turned on him, hackles raised and fluttering.

“You're with
them
? You are one of the
Americans
.”

Samuel gave her a quick nod, staring hard at her.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I couldn't. It was a scouting mission, Isabelle.”

“So you used us, Julian and me, as a front.” She stopped suddenly, eyes widening. “That's why you told those people we were married!”

Samuel had the decency to flush and shrug one shoulder. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

“How convenient for you.”

“I'm sorry.”

Isabelle stared out the window at the men still listening to Clark. “You got what you wanted, didn't you?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“So what are you going to do now? Or is that a secret too?”

“Isabelle …” Samuel sighed. “I am sorry.”

Isabelle turned away from the sight of this tall and handsome scout. She didn't want to soften. She was confused by the events and didn't know what to think of them. “Will they let Julian and me go? We were planning to head back to Vincennes today.”

Samuel stepped closer, standing just behind her shoulders, leaning toward her head a little. “I don't know. I'll speak with Clark about it.”

She turned, looking up into his eyes, studying his face for truth. “He doesn't really plan to keep me here and teach me a lesson, does he?”

Samuel grinned, looking at her mouth. “I won't let him torture you.”

“Hmph. That's not likely, in any case.”

“Do you fear nothing?” he asked in a soft whisper.

“I heard what he said. He wants peace. And … and freedom.” She smiled at him, her voice lowering. “There is only one thing I fear.”

“What is that?”

She debated, staring into his eyes, wanting him to read the answer inside hers, to see her hopes and fears where he was concerned.

She was saved from having to answer by Clark walking in the door and chuckling. “Am I interrupting something, Samuel?”

Samuel turned and gave his colonel a slow smile. “Would that you were.” Bringing Isabelle forward, her waist in his grasp, he introduced her. “This is Isabelle Renoir. From Vincennes.”

Interest lit Clark's eyes. “And what is the lovely lady doing in Kaskaskia?”

Isabelle swallowed past the lump in her throat and chose to answer for herself. “I'm on an errand of books, sir. My priest sent me and my brother to fetch them from Father Gibault.”

“Hmm. A good man, Father Gibault, I think.” He looked thoughtful as if no longer in the room with them. Then his gaze suddenly locked with Isabelle's. “How is it, miss, that you remained armed when my men checked the houses for weapons?”

Isabelle shrugged, unable to help the smile that curved her lips. “I doubt they checked the priest's house.” She paused, looking to Samuel. “Besides, I sleep with my rifle. They wouldn't check a lone woman's bed, would they?”

Clark laughed, and Samuel scowled. “A worthy quality in a wife, I'd say. I think you might consider making it permanent.”

Samuel ignored the comment. “She and her brother plan to leave with the books for Vincennes tomorrow. I'm thinking of accompanying them.”

Clark nodded, thoughtful. “A worthy ruse.”

Isabelle took a step forward. “You'll not use my brother and me again for spying. Do you intend to go after Vincennes next?”

Samuel put his hand on his hip. “Have no fear. We will not travel as a married couple this time. I will merely be your guide.”

“We can take care of ourselves.”

Clark smiled. “Perhaps.” He nodded, looking out the far window of the house, looking lost in sudden, intense thought. Then he turned his gaze back to her, so blue and reading every nuance of her response. “But can you be trusted with such knowledge? Do you understand what we are about here, Miss Renoir?” Clark's face was suddenly grave and intense.

“I will not be detained, sir. I am on a mission of old and musty books, nothing else. I will speak of nothing else.” She
paused, looking into these two faces, bold and daring, sure and strong … and something else—something that told her this was important, that something vast and beyond her understanding was happening. She gripped her skirt by both sides, imbuing her words with passion. “But no, to answer your question, I don't really know what the Long Knives want with our little towns.”

Clark walked over, poured her a drink of water from a pitcher, and bade her sit down. “Mayhap I can enlighten you.”

That he was taking the time and effort to explain it to her, a woman, and not even a citizen of this place, had her sinking into a chair, grasping the water glass in a tight fist, looking up into the colonel's taut face as he told her about the Americans and their fight for freedom. As he explained it in his eloquent way, she found herself engulfed, overcome with emotions that she had not known she'd suppressed. This man, George Rogers Clark, spoke of a new land where any cost for this vision of freedom was small and light. He spoke of it like a deliverance, from monarch on foreign soil, from attack by enemies seen and unseen, to a place like … heaven.

Isabelle found it hard to breathe as she listened, everything else forgotten as he spoke into the room, his words resounding. They bounced about her, ideas unformed, but some internal knowing rising up to say that he was right. She found herself nodding and agreeing, willing to put to use any skill she might have for his cause. What if he was right? What if this land was meant for something greater than these European countries were scrabbling at? What if, as Americans, they were meant for more?

She found her heart shouting a resounding “yes!”. She found, within this man's impassioned speech, a new purpose.