THE LONG-KNIVES
Several days later Chief Minnemung sent word around that everyone was to
prepare for the annual trading trip to Cahokia. Soon the women were busy
sorting the fur pelts they had accumulated during the winter and spring,
and tying them in separate bundles according to kind. When all were
sorted, Jim was surprised to see how many bundles there were.
“This Cahokia, Wahbunou? What is it?” Jim asked. He and Wahbunou were
mounted on the horse ready to start on the journey.
Wahbunou smiled. “Cahokia is a French village a long way from here. We
go there every year about this time. The French have a trading post and
we’ll trade our furs for many supplies which we need.”
“What supplies, Wahbunou?”
“I’m not sure what we’ll get this trip, but sometimes we get food or
blankets. I think Chief Minnemung may want to trade for guns and some
powder. The French are our friends; we always stay a while in their
village. Then we’ll move on for the annual council of our tribe.”
A shadow crossed Jim’s face at mention of the council, because Minnemung
had told him the adoption ceremonies would take place there. Suddenly a
plan of escape from the Potawatomis occurred to him. Perhaps he might be
able to join the French while trading was going on; they might even help
him find his parents. But he said nothing to Wahbunou.
The Potawatomis had been wandering southeast, but now they turned about
and began riding in a westerly direction, bearing a little to the north.
It was so warm they didn’t try to cover many miles in a day. Sometimes
they stayed several days in their overnight camps. This was the season
for ripe berries, so the Indians stopped often to feast on wild
raspberries or dewberries.
One afternoon they happened upon a large berry patch bordering a heavy
forest. Everyone ate his fill of berries while the women and children
gathered some in their kettles and gourds to take with them. Wahbunou
told Jim they would be leaving the forests now and riding through wide
meadows of prairie grass. There would not be another opportunity to pick
berries this summer.
The two boys tethered their horse, scrambling farther and farther into
the brambles away from the rest of the Indians and seeking larger and
larger berries. All at once Jim looked back and saw the Potawatomis
riding away without them.
“Wahbunou!” he cried. “Look! Minnemung and the rest are leaving.”
Wahbunou glanced toward the disappearing group. “In a minute, Jim. We
can catch them easily. Let’s get just a few more berries.” He pointed to
a heavily laden bush nearby. “Let’s get those, then we’ll go.”
Jim glanced uneasily at the band of Indians now almost out of sight in
the tall prairie grass. He didn’t want to be left in this trackless
ocean of grass. “We’d better go, Wahbunou.”
Wahbunou tossed his head and laughed. “I can catch them easily, Jim. My
horse isn’t far away and he’s faster than any save Chief Minnemung’s.”
Then he turned again to the berries. The boys had been stuffing
themselves with the delicious fruit for perhaps ten minutes, when
Wahbunou’s horse suddenly began pawing the ground. Wahbunou cocked his
head to one side and listened.
“I hear the sound of many feet, Jim. I think it’s the feet of many men.”
Now it was Wahbunou’s turn to be alarmed.
Jim frowned. “I don’t hear anything, Wahbunou. Let’s be on our way.”
“You wait,” cautioned Wahbunou, seizing his horse’s bridle. “I don’t
hear any horses’ hoofs, just the sound of men.” He led his horse to the
edge of the berry patch, where he could see the broad expanse of
prairie. The grass was almost as tall as Jim’s head, it rippled
rhythmically in the wind, making it look like waves of the ocean. It had
a sort of singing sound which Jim had never heard before.
“I hear only a sort of singing,” Jim said. “I think it’s the wind in
this grass.”
Wahbunou put his finger to his lips. “Shh, Jim! They’re coming.” Then he
signaled to his horse to lie down at the edge of the grass.
The horse obeyed immediately and none too soon either. The next moment
the boys saw a band of white men marching out of the forest. And they
kept coming, more men than Wahbunou could count. Just before they
plunged into the thick prairie grass the boys could see they had long
rifles and wore sparkling long knives in their belts. The sun shining on
the knives made them visible even at this distance.
“_Shemolsea!_” gasped Wahbunou, dropping to his knees.
Jim also dropped down into the grass and turned to Wahbunou. “Wahbunou,”
he whispered, “what do you mean by _Shemolsea_? I remember you said that
word the day my father found you in the woods. And Chief Minnemung said
his rifle was _Shemolsea_.”
Wahbunou whispered, “_Shemolsea_—Long-Knife. Men who carry long knives.
You know your father had one. He is _Shemolsea_.”
“Oh! You mean all of us Kentucky settlers are Long-Knives?” Jim started
to stand up, but Wahbunou pulled him down. “Do you want them to kill
you, Jim?” he whispered in terror.
“Why, they wouldn’t kill us. Maybe I might know some of them.” Jim
raised up to take another look at the men. Their column had turned
southwest and Jim could no longer see their faces. There were so many
men Jim was afraid to call out to them. “I wonder who they are and where
they’re going,” he muttered, half to himself.
Wahbunou was whispering, “As soon as they’ve gone, we’ll have to ride
fast and tell Chief Minnemung about the many, many Long-Knives we’ve
seen.”
“I think I’ll go and join them,” Jim cried, scrambling up from the tall
grass.
Wahbunou tripped him and he fell headlong. “No, Jim. That you cannot do.
Chief Minnemung would kill me if anything happened to you. You must ride
back with me.”
Wahbunou looked so frightened that Jim hesitated. He wouldn’t want
Wahbunou punished by Chief Minnemung; nor would he want those
Long-Knives, whoever they were, to attack the little Potawatomi band.
For a few minutes he was silent. Then he said, “Wahbunou, I’ll go back
with you, if you’ll promise not to tell anyone we saw these Long-Knives.
Promise?”
“But maybe they’ll attack us,” Wahbunou replied doubtfully.
“Aw, those men aren’t marching after a small band of Indians,” Jim
replied. “Is there any town near here?”
“Kaskaskia is over that way.” Wahbunou pointed in the general direction
the column of men had taken. “It’s another French settlement. We do not
go through it on the way to Cahokia. Cahokia is north.”
Jim shook his head. He still wondered where those Long-Knives were
going—his Long-Knives. Why, they were his people! Suddenly he thought of
another plan of escape, this time without involving Wahbunou. Here was
his real chance. He turned to tell the Indian boy, but Wahbunou was on
his feet signaling to his horse.
“Come, Jim. The Long-Knives have gone. I think we can ride now.”
Wahbunou mounted his horse and Jim climbed on behind him.
As they rode through the prairie grass away from the column of
Long-Knives, Jim said, “Wahbunou, I can’t go through with it. I can’t
let Chief Minnemung adopt me into the Potawatomi tribe. My countrymen
are close at hand. I can join these white Long-Knives and perhaps they
will know something of my father and mother.”
Wahbunou trembled as he cried out, “Jim! You must not leave me. You must
go back to Chief Minnemung. He will kill me if I return without you.”
Jim became thoughtful; then he said, “Wahbunou, it wouldn’t be your
fault if I left the camp tonight.”
Wahbunou gulped. “You wouldn’t dare do that, Jim.”
Jim nodded. “Wouldn’t I? You did. You stole away from us and went back
to your people.”
The Indian boy urged his horse to a faster pace. “Yes, Jim, I did. My
people were going to a place I knew and I had a horse. You wouldn’t take
my horse?”
“No, Wahbunou, I wouldn’t steal your horse. But you must promise not to
tell anyone about seeing the Long-Knives. I’ll steal away at night. I’ll
find those men.”
“But, Jim, you’d get lost in the dark. And Chief Minnemung would hear
you. Indians have sharp ears.”
“I’ll have the stars to guide me. My father taught me to tell direction
by the stars. The Long-Knives certainly won’t march all night. I’ll find
them, never fear.” Jim clutched Wahbunou more firmly. “Now promise me—no
word about the Long-Knives.”
Wahbunou gulped and finally said, “It shall be as you say. Wahbunou will
say no word.”
Thus the two boys made a solemn pact riding back to the Potawatomi band.
When they finally arrived, the Indians had pitched camp in a small
thicket adjoining the prairie. It was almost dark and the women had
supper ready. Strangely enough no one had missed them, so the boys
didn’t have to explain their absence. Evidently the Indians had neither
heard nor seen the marching column of men, because they seemed as
carefree as usual.
After supper, as the Indians sat around the campfire, Chief Minnemung
suddenly took a notion to have Jim play his drum. “Jim,” he said, “get
your drum and play for us.”
Nothing could have pleased Jim more. If his Long-Knives were within
hearing distance and heard the roll of the drum, they might investigate
the sound. He didn’t want to see his Indian friends hurt, but he did
wish the Long-Knives would appear and take him with them. He rose
quickly. “Yes, Chief Minnemung, I’ll be glad to play for you.”
Wahbunou’s mother had to unpack the drum from her housekeeping
belongings, but she did not protest because Chief Minnemung had ordered
Jim to play.
Jim beat the drum with all his might, executing some long rolls and
difficult ruffles. Now and then he would toss a drumstick into the air
and catch it again without missing a beat. At this the Indians grinned
in glee at his skill.
Jim played until he was exhausted, all the while hoping to see the
Long-Knives coming to the camp. But no one came, and nothing broke the
stillness of the summer night save the beating of his drum.
At last Chief Minnemung signaled for him to stop playing. Immediately
all the Indians lay down to sleep. Wahbunou’s mother forgot to pack
Jim’s drum away, so he put it carefully down on the ground between him
and Wahbunou. Then he lay down and pretended to sleep.
He listened for a long time until he felt sure everyone was asleep; then
he took his drum and began to crawl slowly from his place on the ground.
But Wahbunou was not asleep. At Jim’s first move he whispered, “Jim, are
you leaving?”
Jim turned and patted Wahbunou’s shoulder. “Shh! Yes. Thanks, Wahbunou.
I’ll never forget you.”
Wahbunou sighed but did not reply, so Jim felt sure his secret was safe
with his Indian friend. Wahbunou would not fail him.
He continued to inch along the ground with the drum, stopping every few
feet to see if any of the other Indians had awakened; but save for
Wahbunou, the camp was silent.
When he was certain he was far enough away not to be seen, Jim stood up;
he fastened his drum and drumsticks to the belt encircling his long blue
shirt, and looked at the sky. It was a beautiful summer night and the
sky was filled with stars.
He studied them for a few minutes until he located the North Star and
the Big Dipper. Then he began walking southwest, the way the Long-Knives
had marched in the afternoon. Except for twinkling stars, the night was
very black, because there was no moon.
Jim trudged along and was soon beyond the little thicket, which broke
the vast prairie. All through the long night, he made his way through
the high prairie grass, hearing no sound save the singing of the wind.
When morning finally came, he found himself in the midst of a trackless
ocean of grass, with no sign of any Long-Knives, no telltale path
through the grass or sign of the Indians’ camp. There was only singing,
swaying prairie grass, stretching toward the horizon in all directions.
Jim sighed, but walked steadily on, now and then scaring up a flock of
prairie chickens which rose squawking into the air. Taking his bearings
from the sun now, he knew he was going west.
The sun grew unbearably hot, making Jim very thirsty, but there was no
water anywhere. Now and then he would look back to see if the Indians
could be pursuing him. But he needn’t have worried. His slight figure
left no trail through the prairie grass.
As the day wore on he became thirstier, and very hungry. He began to
wonder if he had made a mistake to leave the Indians and try to find a
band of strange men in this trackless country. Late in the afternoon he
thought he saw a line of trees in the distance. He couldn’t be sure,
because this steaming prairie grass played tricks with his eyes and he
was afraid he saw a mirage. If he could only make it to those trees, he
would lie down in the shade and rest a bit.
The trees proved to be real enough, and when Jim reached them he fell
into their cool shade and fell asleep.
He was awakened after dawn by someone prodding his foot and a rough
voice saying, “Get up, boy. Who are you? Where did you come from?”
Jim opened his eyes and saw two men standing over him. They were dressed
in dirty, torn buckskins, with long knives hanging to their belts. The
taller man was prodding him with a rifle.
Jim sprang up, his eyes shining. “Oh, you’re the _Shemolsea_—the
Long-Knives.”
“Never mind who we are,” the man said crossly. “Who are you in that
Indian outfit? What are you doing here?”
“I’m Jim Hudson. I escaped from the Indians last night and I’ve been
trying to find you all day.”
“A likely story,” muttered the shorter man. “Probably you’re some spy
sent out by the Indians.”
Jim shook his head. “No, sir. I saw a big band of Long-Knives yesterday
and I’ve been trying to find them.”
“Let’s take him to Colonel Clark,” the shorter man suggested.
Jim’s eyes sparkled. “Clark, did you say? George Rogers Clark? Is he
red-haired?”
The tall soldier spoke again. “Say, boy, you know too much. Come on, get
going.”
As they walked single file through the woods, they made Jim walk between
them. After stumbling over fallen trees and brambles for about a mile,
they came upon a group of ragged men sitting and standing in the dense
shade along a river.
“Colonel Clark, sir,” began the tall soldier, “we’ve found a white boy;
he says he was a prisoner of the Indians. But he knows too much. Must be
some trick here.”
A ragged, commanding figure with red hair turned from the men and walked
over to Jim. His stern, hazel eyes seemed to penetrate Jim’s whole body
as he said, “Well, lad, who are you? What are you doing here?”
Jim was so excited he could scarcely talk. “Colonel Clark, I’m Jim
Hudson. I don’t suppose you remember me, sir, but I remember your red
hair. I met you late last year with my father at Coon Hollow. We had
been hunting and had bagged a deer. You advised my father to go to
Harrodsburg until the Indian scare was over.” Jim looked hopefully at
the colonel.
Colonel Clark seemed to be turning something over in his mind. Finally
he smiled. “I remember. But how do you happen to be out here in the
Illinois country?”
Then Jim told the long story of how he and Pa and Ma had been captured
by the Shawnees on the way to Harrodsburg; how later he had been traded
to the Potawatomis, with whom he had spent the winter. When he was
telling of seeing the column of Long-Knives, Colonel Clark interrupted
him.
“Just a minute, boy. Did the Indians with you see us?”
Jim shook his head. “No, sir, only Wahbunou. We had stayed behind the
rest to eat more berries. Wahbunou promised me he would not tell he had
seen the Long-Knives.”
Colonel Clark looked puzzled. “That’s hard to believe, Jim. I wouldn’t
trust an Indian not to warn his people of an army of white men near
them.”
The tall soldier scowled, as did several others. But no one spoke a
word.
“But, sir,” Jim replied, “we saved Wahbunou’s life, so he promised not
to tell about the Long-Knives. He knew of my plan to escape.” Jim
explained how the Hudsons found Wahbunou near their clearing and of
Chief Minnemung’s decision to adopt Jim. “That’s why I ran away, sir. I
didn’t want to be a Potawatomi. I hope to find my parents, but I don’t
know if they’re alive.”
George Rogers Clark nodded. “I trust they are, Jim, and I can’t blame
you for not wanting to be a Potawatomi. For the present you’ll go with
us and be a part of my volunteer army. We’re crossing the river tonight
and marching on Kaskaskia.”
“I see you have a drum. Perhaps we’ll need a drummer before this night
is over.” He turned and motioned to the tall soldier. “This is Simon
Kenton, Jim. You are to go with him and do whatever he says.”
“Yes, sir.”
Simon Kenton inclined his head toward the river bank. “Come on, Jim.
We’ll have a look at Kaskaskia from this side of the river. Have a care
though. We don’t want any of those Frenchmen over there to see us.”
As Jim and Kenton approached the river’s edge, Kenton dropped to the
ground. “We have to crawl now, Jim, so’s we can see without being seen.”
At the edge of the bank they could see the little town of Kaskaskia. It
lay in a kind of amphitheatre of woods and bluffs. They could also see
the fort with a stockade built around it, the steeple of a church, and
some thatched roofs and stone houses shining in the afternoon sun.
“Gee, it’s bigger than the settlements I’ve seen in Virginia!” Jim
exclaimed.
“Yep,” Kenton replied. “This is one of the oldest and best of the French
villages. I’ve heard it called the Paris of the West. See that British
flag flying above the fort? Tomorrow, God willing, it’ll be flying the
American flag.
“You see, Jim, Colonel Clark has to take this country from the British
to make our Kentucky settlers safe from Indian attack. Commander
Hamilton at Detroit has been stirring up the Indians against our
people.”
“Yes, sir, I know. I think that’s how my parents and I happened to be
captured.”
For a while they watched the town. Nothing unusual was going on, so
Simon Kenton told Jim he thought no one there suspected the presence of
Clark and his army directly across the river. Then they crawled back to
the main group of soldiers.
Jim didn’t think the men in this motley, exhausted army could capture a
town during the night. Several of them had taken off their shoes and
were nursing their painful, swollen feet. They were suffering from scald
foot, a wilderness malady brought on by dampness, heat and too much
marching.
Jim wondered if they could put on their shoes when it came time to cross
the river. All of them were hungry besides, as they had eaten nothing
but berries for many days. Could such an army capture a well-fed town
like Kaskaskia?
[Illustration: uncaptioned]