Wind Dancer (7 page)

But he had loved her in a sudden, unmastered way. He'd thought her lovely, had anticipated the night to come with a young man's blood.

Their wedding night, though, had only bewildered him. He knew he had been clumsy and she, so still and stiff in his arms. He hadn't known what to do, falling asleep, feeling like a boy instead of a man. He remembered her in the sitting room with his mother and sisters the next day, bent over her sewing, smiling with them at some silly joke that had her turning pink and him feeling like an elephant in the room. She'd never, not once in the months to follow, crossed to the other side of the room to
stand beside
him
. She hadn't understood him, his restless energy, his occasional attempts at teasing her that only led to a doe-eyed confusion. But how easily she had melded into that woman-life that ran its own course during the day.

She was a terrifying mystery causing him to feel that his wanting of her, his thinking of her during the day and wanting to reach for her every night, was some dark spot on her happiness. So he'd begun to make up excuses to be away, afraid of the overwhelming passion that was bursting inside him. Afraid he would somehow destroy her … and he had. He must have gotten her pregnant that first time. There had been little other opportunity.

Sara had been his family's choice of a wife, fitting so well in that life of Virginia plantation living, a place that left him feeling anchored, unchallenged, a square peg surrounded by round holes. And then she had died after a ghastly battle to birth his daughter. It was all a cloudy memory. But he would never forget her last words … her last word.
Isabelle
.

He thought she meant to name the child Isabelle. So he had done so, not knowing what to do with the squalling infant. The way she moved in his trembling hands, the way she turned her head toward the sound of his voice and opened dark eyes, the way she looked at him like she had come from a place with all of the answers. As he held the newborn at arm's length, his eyes blurred over, and he found himself shaking his head. His wife's lifeless body was just feet away! Why had they thrust this infant into his hands as if he would rejoice and find solace in this small bit of flesh? He turned, stricken and sick, to the midwife, knowing that if he held the child any longer he would drop her. The woman reached for the babe, but there was great unease in her eyes.

He couldn't bear it. Not the bed where his wife lay so still and pale. Not the infant, unknown flesh of his flesh. Not the
midwife's eyes that said he should be more. So he left the infant in the woman's capable hands … and fled.

He walked away after the funeral service, turned his back on the grave site, his home, then finally, his entire inheritance. He joined the Virginia militia, rising quickly in the ranks with each bloody battle, becoming their finest sharpshooter and an unsurpassed tracker. It was here that he discovered a talent deep within that at first had terrified him. Something that left him leagues ahead of the other soldiers and, soon, commander of his own force. It was little but a sixth sense, a gut instinct for what was coming up ahead, around the next bend, through an open valley or wooded copse, some prophetic vision of things to come. He didn't know how or why he possessed this gift. But he learned how to use it, and it never failed him.

And now there was another Isabelle. A small part of him, that gut instinct, rose up to ask the question: Had Sara known something of the future? Had she known he would meet and love another woman? A woman called Isabelle?

Broad sunbeams filtered down through the smoke over the little village of Kaskaskia. Tents and smoldering campfires lined the bank of the Kaskaskia River where
coureurs de bois
, runners of the woods, stood talking to one another and gesturing toward two canoes filled with trade goods. A tall, grizzled man with a walking stick nodded to Samuel, curiosity sparking his hooded eyes, as the frontiersman passed by with Julian and Isabelle in tow. Samuel looked into his eyes briefly, felt a shock of the familiar as they nodded once to each other, and looked away.
This man would support their cause.
The feeling that it was true flowed through him. Samuel found it was like that sometimes with a stranger, as though they had known one another in some other place and time.

He studied the village with instincts long honed during years of gathering intelligence. While traders camped on the riverbanks, the citizens, in their French-style peasant dresses and pilfered Indian garb, traveled along the main road in their various pursuits, so domestic, so quiet, so not expecting the army that was coming.

Kaskaskia was inhabited by the French, with what appeared to be a small British regiment holding down the fort. Not much in the way of artillery was visible. The commandant, Philippe de Rocheblave, a French nobleman, held a British commission to rule. It was rumored that de Rocheblave enjoyed little support from either the British or the French. One of the hunters Clark captured off Corn Island had reported that the British had not sent men or supplies for months and that de Rocheblave was running the office out of his own pocket.

Clark had grinned at that and said to Samuel, “That can't be making him too happy.”

“Nope.” A disgruntled commander was all the easier to defeat.

The church, a humble log building with a belfry, was easy to spot in the center of the town. Samuel stopped and waited for Isabelle to catch up. “Father Gibault has the books?” he asked, seeing her hot face and handing over his canteen.

Isabelle took it, turned slightly away from him, and nodded. She drank, then wiped the sweat from her face with her sleeve. “Yes, we should hurry to the church. I want to be sure that they are truly, safely arrived.”

“You're taking this mission pretty seriously,” Samuel said with quiet teasing.

“I am proving myself.” Isabelle looked up at him with something in her eyes that caused Samuel's heart to race.

Inside the one-room church their eyes took a moment to adjust. The meager light, provided by two small windows, revealed a simple wooden platform and altar and four wooden pews on either side of a narrow aisle.

Father Gibault turned from his place at a low desk in the corner of the church as they entered. Isabelle made her way toward him, her sturdy boots ringing on the wood floor.

“Father Gibault?”

The man stood and smiled, reaching out his hands toward her. “You must be Isabelle Renoir,” he said with a proud grin and grasped her hands in welcome. Turning to Samuel and Julian, he repeated the action. “And you are Julian; I can see the family resemblance at once. But you, sir, do not look like the Indian described in the letter I received from Father Francis.”

Samuel shook hands with the man. “No sir, I am Samuel Holt. I met the Renoirs en route to Kaskaskia. Quiet Fox was guiding them but disappeared the morning after I joined the party.”

“Well, it was providential that you were there to help, was it not? We should thank the Father who watches out for all His children.” He smiled again and motioned them over to a shelf. With a grand sweep of his hand he indicated about ten small, ancient-looking books. “Father Francis's books. I vow, I have been enjoying the use of them since they arrived and will miss them.”

Isabelle nodded. “Such a fine library. Father Francis will be so pleased they have arrived safely. And I am certain he will lend you some when you come to Vincennes.”

“Yes. I haven't been to Vincennes in some time, but I should go. I should go,” he repeated, almost to himself. “Come though, you must all be tired, and hungry, eh?” He looked to Julian who was glaring expectantly at Samuel.

Father Gibault led them across the dirt street to a small but neat home. It was a typical bachelor's dwelling that lacked the warmth of rugs, window coverings, or knickknacks, save an old, ornate clock that ticked loudly like a welcoming pet. There was plenty of food though, and the priest soon busied himself roasting ham over an open flame and served it with thick slices of bread, apples, and some early garden peas.

Samuel said, “I noticed the gate was unmanned when we came into the village.”

Father Gibault nodded. “We have little need for an active sentry.”

“That's welcome news. I've just come up through Kentucky country where the Shawnee are attacking the settlers left and right. Have you had no problems with the Indians here?”

Father Gibault's eyes lit with interest on Samuel. “We are British held. The Indians of this area are aligned with the British and so do us no harm.”

“But the citizens are French?”

“Yes, the British have mostly left us to ourselves. They've allowed us to keep our commander, de Rocheblave, a good man. But they've not given him much support. I daresay our little village is mostly forgotten by everyone save God.”

Samuel nodded. The intelligence Clark had received appeared accurate. Wanting to see more of the town, Samuel finished his meal, drank down his mug of water, and stood. “I would like to see the village, make some inquires into a trading business.”

“Are you a trader, then?” Father Gibault asked.

Samuel's glance took in Julian's stare. “Of a kind,” he replied simply.

Isabelle looked up from her plate. “I should like to see the village. Can I join you?”

“Isabelle,” Julian interrupted, “we have just arrived. Let Samuel go.”

The flat line of her mouth and glare she shot her brother made clear to all her feelings of being so commanded.

Samuel grinned. “She can come. I'm just having a look around.”

“Well, in that case, I should come too.”

The priest laughed as Julian pushed back from the table, all noticing Isabelle's scowl.

* * *

CLARK MARCHED HIS men in a long, serpentine line through the tall grasses of an open field. Men who weeks ago couldn't command their legs to walk for more than a few hours at a time now had taken on the appearance of a shabby but semi-disciplined force—raw recruits on their way to becoming soldiers. Like wild-eyed pirates united in the quest for treasure—filthy, reeking, and, more often than not, cursing or, in the next phrase, giving praise to God—these men were determined to become everything that their leader said they could be.

The journey from the Falls of the Ohio to Kaskaskia had taken ten days thus far and had not been without certain struggles. At the outset, one hundred and seventy-eight men had smeared mud on their faces, checked their weapons, and boarded the canoes that lined the banks of Corn Island. They hunkered down into the belly of the vessels, feeling the light summer breeze and the warmth of the sun on their faces, belying the dangers ahead. They paddled, scanning the riverbanks for movement, their long rifles trained and ready as they slipped through the British-controlled country toward Kaskaskia.

Then a sudden shadow had appeared overhead, as if a great bird had flown over them and blocked the sun. Clark looked up at the sound of the men gasping. It took a moment to comprehend what he was seeing, then his heart sped up. The sun was darkening, slice by slice, becoming black. The light around them turned a silver color that bathed his army's stunned faces in an eerie glow.

“An eclipse,” Clark said, as if to himself, staring rapt at the phenomenon. He had read of such a thing but had never thought
to see it. Clark tore his gaze away from the sight and scanned his troops. Many sat with their jaws open, terror in their eyes. All paddling had ceased, which caused the canoes to bunch up on one another. Then the sound of rushing water brought Clark to his feet.

“Men! The falls! Man your canoes!”

The men bent to their paddles, straining to see the bubbling head of the rapids ahead of them. A strange stillness descended on them as they crested the peak of water. Then, as if falling from a hilltop, they dropped, boat by boat, tilting over the edge into a frothy stream that carried them, splashing, into a river head pool below.

Clark demanded they keep rowing, not giving their imagination time to dwell upon the superstitious implications of the darkening sun.

Once the small flotilla rested in calmer waters, they stopped paddling and gazed skyward, where the sun was reappearing by slow degrees. The murmurs of the men now reached Clark's ears.

“It's a curse of God. A sign. We should turn back,” said a tall, lanky man.

“What if it's a blessing?” said another.

“We're cursed, I tell you. We'll never beat those redcoats now. We have to turn back.”

“Perhaps the heavens stopped moving just to watch us,” another opined.

Clark's gaze swept the men and saw that several were wide-eyed and fearful, others were agitated, and a few were looking for anyone to explain what they had never seen before.

He stood in his canoe as the waters around them calmed and waited until he held their attention. “It was merely an eclipse of the sun by the moon, my good men,” Clark assured them. “But let us not look to the right or to the left or even above us. You men
are the future of this nation, and nothing, not even signs from the heavens, will detract us from our mission.”

There were a few cheers.

“We may see new things ahead, things that grip our hearts with fear. But mighty men see only their mission and their leader. Follow me. I will not lead you astray.”

That night several men deserted despite Clark's assurances of faith and future victory. Clark remembered the Bible story of Gideon and how God commanded that Gideon's army be winnowed to a mere three hundred men. Clark didn't send a party out to find the deserters, though everything within insisted that he needed every man, every hand, every weapon. Instead, he decided that God had tested them, separating the mighty from those weak ones who might endanger their mission with unbelief.

* * *

AT FORT MASSAC the army abandoned their boats. Clark would have preferred to travel from the old fort by way of the Mississippi up the Kaskaskia River. That would only require seven miles of riverboat travel, but the risks were simply too great. The river was being watched by the British, the Indians, and maybe even the Spanish. This part of the country was valuable for its rivers, meaning trade and commerce. Clark doubted the inhabitants of small, quiet communities like Kaskaskia, Vincennes, and Cahokia understood the value of their presence here. But the British knew. That was why they had built forts and stationed an army to control the trade and the flow of the river all the way from Detroit and the headwaters of the Great Lakes down to the Gulf of Mexico.

So instead Clark pushed his remaining men overland to Kaskaskia, a hundred-mile journey north through fields and bogs with little rest. One night, after the men had bedded down in the
deep grass, Clark walked a little ways from the camp and soon found himself on one knee, his buckskin pants growing wet and soggy in the damp earth. He turned his face heavenward, toward the diamond-inlaid velvet of the night sky, knowing that the One who called this dazzling firmament into existence had also made him, for this time, for this purpose.

“Dear God, one hundred and fifty men. To take a kingdom. I'll not do this alone!” he cried out, recognizing the utter hopelessness of his plan. “I can't do this alone.” He bent his head over his raised knee, his breath coming in quick and short gasps, the night insects accompanying his prayer in song.

Now, after several days of marching, Clark surveyed his troops and couldn't help but grin. They looked like a pack of dogs, rising up and wagging their tails at him, ready for adventure.

Clark was holding it all together with the strength of his voice and the cadence of his conviction. He had convinced them that they could walk on water, if need be, by the Great God of heaven who was on their side. He led his men at the head, sloughing through the mire of stagnant water and weeds, bugs and snakes and nettles attacking them, marching through swamp and prairie. The days were marked by blazing sun with little water, the moonlit nights by too little sleep.

When they lagged in strength, Clark instinctively knew it and called out in a bellowing voice, “Who will follow me, boys? Who will match my steps?”

And as one they would respond. “We will, Colonel Clark. The Long Knives will follow you anywhere!” Then and every time they said it, a feeling that it was
true
would rise up in their hearts to keep their feet moving forward. Somehow they all knew that, together, they could do anything their redheaded leader would demand of them.

They were sore and tired. They were poor and wretched—but invincible.

On July 4 they came upon the farmhouse located just three miles from their first target, the small but important fort of Kaskaskia, the old French capital of the Illinois country. But Clark hesitated to proceed until he heard from Samuel Holt. Where was he? He was concerned that his scout had run into trouble; it wasn't like him to be anything less than efficient.

His men were crouched around him in the tall grass, listening to the crickets come out and watching the sun set on the horizon. Clark held his hand over his eyes, squinting as he scanned the area, weighing his decision whether to wait or proceed. The farmhouse was quiet, looked an easy target, but it would be far better to know the lay of the land. So they waited.

Then a flash of light caused Clark's face to break into a big grin. Samuel was running around the edge of the farm toward them, signaling with a mirror as he ran. The ragtag soldiers waited, quiet and intense, as Samuel tore across the flat field at an unbelievable gait. The sun was now low in the sky, the wind whipping about them, cooling their sweat-soaked faces and necks.