Reference ■A. "Pierre's House B TkeCUurcL C Mums Turfotn. sllousc T> Site of proposed Fort jr, CommAndantsHDu.se F Jesuits' Houses G To Indian Village Scale H = Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2012 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign http://www.archive.org/details/pierreofkaskaskiOObelt PIERRE OF KASKASKIA PIERRE OF KASKASKIA PIONEER BOY OF NEW FRANCE by Natalia Belting ILLUSTRATED BY PAUL BUSCH THE BOBBS-MF.RRILL COMPANY, INC. Indianapolis Publishers NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1951, BY THE BOBBS -M ERRIL L COMPANY, INC. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA First Bditwn To Reba and John Doran who like to write, too PIERRE OF KASKASKIA 4 9 4*4 9 4*4 9 4 e 4 e 4 5 4'4 9 4 5 4'4 5 4 i 4 s 4'4 e 4 s 4 5 4* e 4 8 4 i 4 se 3* r ^ e, ^ ? l ie 3! B i JLhey come. Boats. 'Way downstream." Little Shoes pointed. Little Shoes was an Indian and didn't like to waste words. "I see them ! Father, the convoy is coming ! See the boats, Father?" Pierre tugged at his father's arm. "Out, so they are." Sieur Dubois smiled at his son's excitement. "But it would be well, young one," he drawled, "if you did your jumping ashore. This dock isn't very wide. You'll jump once too often and come down in the river." "But, Father, aren't you excited? Has the convoy ever come so early before? And do you think they will have the new bell?" Pierre was a French boy. He lived in Kaskaskia in the Illinois country on the long narrow peninsula between the Kaskaskia and Mississippi rivers in the days when the whole of the Mississippi valley belonged to King Louis of France. In the winter his father hunted deer and bear and buffalo and beaver with the Indians. And in the sum- mer, after he had taken his load of fine skins all the way 9 io Pierre of Kas\as\ia down the Mississippi to New Orleans, he worked in his fields. The wheat Paul Dubois grew made the finest flour in the village. Pierre was a big boy. At least, he thought so. He was ten years old. But his mother still called him Ftsit Pierre, which meant Little Pierre. If his hair had been black and straight instead of yel- low and curly, Pierre might have been mistaken for an Indian. His skin was almost as brown as Little Shoes'. That was from being out in the hot summer sun. He was as straight and tall as Little Shoes, too. There wasn't much Little Shoes could do that Pierre couldn't. Of course, Pierre didn't wear a necklace of bright blue beads as Little Shoes did. He didn't have red and yellow and green tattooing all over his back either. But in the summer he went barefoot all day long, like Little Shoes. In the winter he wore soft leather moccasins. And he talked a lot more than Little Shoes did. Little Shoes spoke French as well as Pierre, but most of the time he just didn't speak at all. Now he simply stood and watched the tiny specks that were the boats growing a little bigger as they came up the Kaskaskia River. "Father, has the convoy ever come so early before?" Pierre asked again. Sieur Dubois took a long pull on his pipe. "A few times," he replied. "I remember the first fall after I came Pierre of Kaskaskja 1 1 to Kaskaskia from Quebec it arrived as early as the first of October." "But mostly it doesn't get here until January or Feb- ruary." "That is so. It is a great many leagues from New Orleans to our village here in the Illinois. The bateaux are loaded with goods, and it is hard to row them against the current. Even when the convoy leaves New Orleans in July, it often gets caught in the ice. Then it has to winter at the post of the Arkansas until the spring thaw." "And the bell, Father," Pierre reminded him. "Do you think the bell will be in the boats?" "Well, my son, I do not know whether they carry the new bell. Our good priests are expecting it, for the great nobleman who is giving it to our church wrote that it would come this year. But perhaps it did not arrive in New Orleans before the convoy left. Remember, it was cast in France, and France is far away across the sea." "Father " Pierre had just caught sight of the long, hollowed-out log that was their pirogue tied up beside the dock. "Father, couldn't we take your pirogue and go down to meet the convoy?" he begged. "My faith, you are impatient, lad. It will be only a short while. And it is too warm a day to pole that clumsy pirogue back upstream when one doesn't have to." 12 Pierre of Kas\as\ia "Then may Little Shoes and I go down along the shore to meet it?" "Best let him go, Paul," a deep voice behind them said. "He's likely enough to get a ducking if you don't get him away from this dock." Sieur Dubois turned, chuckling. "Joseph Aubuchon, my friend, you are right. One would think the convoy came but once a lifetime instead of once a year." "True," Sieur Aubuchon agreed. "But it is a feeling we all share, though perhaps we don't jig in our excite- ment. See, most of the village is gathered at the shore." Pierre looked at his father impatiently. "Run along, lads," Sieur Dubois consented. He turned back to Sieur Aubuchon. "Their empty stomachs will bring them back in time for lunch, at any rate." Pierre was already on the shore. "Come along, Little Shoes!" he called. "I'm coming, too." Pierre looked around. The voice belonged to Marie Amable, his cousin. She was just a year younger, but though she was the prettiest girl in the village, with long black curls and sparkling black eyes and the tiniest feet, Pierre didn't want her tagging along. But he didn't say it just that way. "You'll catch your skirt on the brambles," he said. "And we're in a hurry. You'd better stay here." Pierre of Kas\as\ia 13 "I can run every bit as fast as you, Pierre, and I shan't get my skirt caught. I'm coming with you." "Oh, well." Pierre didn't want to waste time arguing. Little Shoes led the way, trotting along the edge of the red clay banks until he came to the end of the village. Towering trees crowded close along the river. A hard- worn cattle path ducked in and out under the scarlet- trimmed branches that hung low. Marie Amable was only a few steps behind Pierre, holding her full blue skirts high and close. There was hardly a whisper of a sound as they hur- ried down the path. Once in a while a dry leaf rustled or a twig cracked under Pierre's foot. Two or three times when the path came right down to the water's edge, where the cattle had stopped to drink, the three of them would pause to look for the convoy. "There it is," Pierre shouted finally. "We'll be up to the first pirogues before very long!" Next time the path skirted the river Marie Amable called out, "Pierre, look ! There's a sycamore growing 'way out over the water. Why don't we crawl out on the trunk and watch the convoy come by? It isn't awfully far away now." "I guess that's a good idea," Pierre admitted, though he hated to have Marie Amable think of it ahead of him. "But Little Shoes and I'll get out on the end. You'll 14 Pierre of Kas\as\ia probably fall of? into the river. The bark is slippery. Anyway, girls don't know how to climb trees." "Laissez-donc, nonsense!" Marie Amable stamped her foot. "I can climb trees every bit as well as you and you know it!" By that time, though, Pierre was out at the far end of the trunk. Marie Amable sat down near the spreading roots and swung her feet over the shallow water. Little Shoes didn't say a thing. He just stepped over her and swung himself up into one of the branches above Pierre's head. "Here they come! That's Sieur Beauvais in the first pirogue. And Sieur Turpin is right back of him. Halloa ! Halloa!" The convoy was coming slowly. There must be a hun- dred boats. All the Illinois traders were supposed to travel together for protection against the fierce Chickasaw In- dians. The King sent soldiers along to keep the Indians away. Out in front were the long log pirogues of the mer- chants of Kaskaskia who were bringing all sorts of goods back from New Orleans. Each pirogue was poled by three or four men, most of them hardly more than boys. They set their long poles into the water and pushed hard against the river bed, shoving the pirogues up against the current. Pierre of Kas\as\ia *5 They were singing, setting their poles down to the beat of an old Canadian voyageurs or boatmen's song. "Coming along from pretty old Rochelle, ah ! Coming along from pretty old Rochelle, ah! I met three, each a pretty damozel, ah ! "It is the oar that impels us all along on, It is the oar that impels us on." JF 4fcZ ^ * m y IQ% JJjIJ.'l""!!"''! fp JJJ ^-^MJ-J- ^- Back of the pirogues came the huge bateaux, flat-bot- tomed and snub-nosed. Some of them had sails, but with not a bit of wind to fill them, they were tightly bound to the masts. Soldiers coming up to garrison Fort de Char- ties north of Kaskaskia, Negro slaves and young men hired as sailors worked the heavy oars. Across the stern 1 6 Pierre of Kas\as\ia of each bateau stout canvas was hooped. Underneath it Pierre saw the piled boxes and trunks that were filled with goods for the King's storehouse. "The pirogues are very full." Marie Amable was standing up now, too. "See how low they are in the water? The bateaux, too." The sun-bronzed, white-haired man in the first pirogue waved. "Hola, young ones ! " he called. "Bonjour, Monsieur Beauvais ! " Pierre shouted back. "Watch out!" Marie Amable cautioned her cousin. "You'll fall off!" But Pierre didn't hear her. Or anyway, he didn't pay any attention. Little Shoes reached out his hand to catch Pierre. But he wasn't quick enough. Splosh! Pierre fell off the trunk into the dirty brown water. He fell so hard he sat right down on the bottom of the stream. For a minute all Marie Amable and Little Shoes could see of him was a lock of hair standing straight up out of the water. "Urr, ugh!" Pierre sputtered as he scrambled to his feet. The water dripped off his hair and ran in muddy streaks down his face. His brown shirt clung tight to his skin and his leather breeches were full of water. Marie Amable had to hold onto a branch to keep from falling off herself, she laughed so hard. Pierre did look so funny ! Pierre of Kas\as\ia 17 "Helas!" Monsieur Beauvais drew his pirogue up close under the tree. "Lad, what a tumble you took ! " The men who were poling the pirogue were all laugh- ing. Pierre hung his head and said nothing. He hated to be laughed at. Especially by the voyageurs. Especially by Marie Amable. Little Shoes wasn't laughing, but that didn't make Pierre feel any better. Little Shoes would 1 8 Pierre of YLashashja never have fallen off the tree. Pierre hated to think that he wasn't so quick and skillful as an Indian. "Bien." Monsieur Beauvais scratched his gray head and sleeved the perspiration off his weathered face. He looked around at his heavily laden pirogue and the six boatmen. "Bien/' he repeated. "I think there's room enough for you young ones in here. Caron," he said to one of the rowers, "move that trunk up nearer the middle of the pirogue. Stuff the empty meal bags in around some of the boxes. That'll leave room enough in the stern for two of them if they sit very still. Marie Amable can sit here in the bow with me." "M'sieu! You mean you will take us up to the village with you?" Pierre forgot all about his shame for his clumsiness. Imagine coming up to the village with the convoy ! "Yes, but quick now. Grab hold of Caron's pole and let him help you in." "Now you, Marie Amable," he said as soon as Pierre was stowed in. "The pirogue is loaded too full to come up to the shore. Climb out on the end of the trunk. Be careful. Don't get the ducking Pierre did. There! I have you. I'll swing you out like this — " he grunted — "and here you are. Now you, Little Shoes." Sieur Beauvais turned back to the Indian lad, who had Pierre of Kas\askja 19 swung out to the very tip branch of the leaning tree. The voyageurs poled the pirogue a little ahead until the stern was almost under the tree. Little Shoes dropped into the boat beside Pierre, as lightly as a cat leaps from a branch. Sieur Beauvais gave a signal. His men pushed hard against the river bed with the long poles, sending the pirogue slowly and then more quickly back nearer the middle of the stream. Most of the pirogues of the convoy had gone ahead, but the great bateaux were still coming. Sieur Beauvais' pirogue pulled alongside one of them. It was the biggest bateau Pierre had ever seen. Ten soldiers and Negro slaves were poling it. Up front, in the bow, stood the commander of the convoy. His fresh white captain's uniform was gleaming among the soiled and tattered uniforms of the men. Under his black vel- vet hat with its two white plumes his brand-new wig was braided into a queue and fastened with a narrow red ribbon. "Did he wear clothes like that all the way from New Orleans?" Marie Amable asked in astonishment. "Mais non! He did not ! They have been in his trunk all the way until this morning," Sieur Beauvais answered, laughing. "Sieur Beauvais," Pierre called, "is the bell for our church in the convoy?" 20 Pierre of Kas\as\ia "It is indeed. And the finest bell I have ever seen. But look, we are almost to the village. "Beach the pirogue on the shore near the dock," he ordered the men. Slowly they turned the long pirogue toward the river- bank. Three of the men, their breeches pulled high above their knees, jumped into the shallow water and shoved the pirogue halfway into the sandy clay. Half a dozen villagers lent a hand to drag it all the way up. Sieur Aubuchon was one of them. "For mercy's sake, Pierre, you are soaking wet!" he exclaimed. "He fell out of a tree into the water." Marie Amable laughed as Sieur Aubuchon helped her out. "Humph!" Pierre shrugged his shoulders. "That lit- tle ducking! And, besides, if I hadn't fallen off, why, probably we wouldn't have got the chance to ride back with the convoy ! " He looked around for his father. There he was, up by the dock. A voyageur was speaking to him. The voy- ageur was a tall man, fair-haired, with a clear tanned skin, and he stood as straight as if he were wearing a uniform instead of that ragged blue shirt and those muddy leather breeches. "Men call me Louis le Parisien, monsieur," he was Pierre of Kas\as\ia 21 saying. "One of the other boatmen said that you some- times took lodgers." "Out, we do that. Did you come here to settle or to trade? You have not been a voyageur long, oui?" "I have just come from France, monsieur. I was in New Orleans only two days before the convoy started for Illinois. I have heard much about the beauty of this country and the richness of its soil and the great fur trade that is carried on here. So I came to see for myself." "Urn." Sieur Dubois took a long pull on his pipe. Then he turned. "Pierre," he said, "show M'sieu the way to our house. He is staying with us." "You come from France, M'sieu le Voyageur?" Pierre repeated as they set off up the wide dirt street to the house. "From Paris?" "Oui, I do," the Voyageur answered. "And you, Pierre, were you born in this village?" "Yes, but Father and Mother came from Quebec in Canada. They came down the rivers and lakes in a trading canoe. It took them eight months. And when I am grown," he went on, "I shall travel, too. I should like to see Paris." They turned up a side street. "There is our house, m'sieu." The Voyageur couldn't see much of it, except the long 22 Pierre of Kas\as\ia sloping roof. There was a high wall of sharp-pointed logs around it like the walls of a fort. All the houses in Kaskaskia had such palisades around them. If the fierce Fox or Iroquois Indians attacked the village, every house was a fort. Pierre led the way through the gate and up the cob- blestone walk. The house was long and low, built of enormous logs set upright in the ground. There was a wide porch all the way around under the wide sloping eaves. And right in the very middle of the roof was a great stone chimney. Madame Dubois opened the door. "Welcome, m'sieu," she said. The Voyageur bowed. "He has come to stay at our house, Mother," Pierre explained. "His name is Louis le Parisien. He comes from Paris." "M'sieu is most welcome. Help him carry his trunk to the bedroom, Pierre." When they had set the Voyageur's trunk down in a corner of the little room, the Voyageur looked around. "Eh, la, Pierre, that little leather-covered box I was car- rying ! I must have left it on the porch." "I'll get it." Pierre scampered back to the door. Yes, there was the box right on the edge of the porch where the Voyageur had set it down. Pierre picked it up. Pierre of Kas\as\ia "Oh, it slipped!" he exclaimed. And so it had. Every- thing in it was scattered on the steps. Pierre gathered them up. There were mostly papers; then he looked around to be sure he had everything. What was that on the ground beside the step? A medal ... a great golden cross with the lily of France set in between the cross-arms. Pierre picked it up and stared. Never in all his life had he seen anything like it, unless . . . He remembered. He had seen one like it. The time the Governor of Louisiana had visited Illinois, he had worn one on his uniform the night of the ball. And Pierre's father had said it meant the Governor was a chevalier of the Order of St. Louis — one of the highest honors in all France ! But what was the Voyageur doing with the cross? Only the greatest men in France were chevaliers — never 24 Pierre of Kas\as\ia poor boatmen ! Pierre slid it back into the box. Maybe the Voyageur had stolen it! But he didn't look like a thief. "Did you find the box, Pierre?" Pierre jumped. The Voyageur came out on the porch. "Y-yes, m'sieu." Pierre stuttered a little. "I found it right on the edge of the porch. I ... I ... it slipped and I had to pick the things up." The Voyageur looked at him. "You put everything back?" he demanded, and something in his voice fright- ened Pierre. "Yes, m'sieu." "You saw nothing but papers?" "There was a great golden cross. . . ." Pierre answered slowly. "You saw nothing but papers ! " The Voyageur looked straight into Pierre's eyes. "Yes, m'sieu," Pierre repeated. "I saw . . . nothing but papers." "Good." The Voyageur strode back into the house. Pierre sat down on the edge of the porch. He'd for- gotten all about his wet clothes. All at once his legs were weak. "I saw nothing but papers," he whispered to him- self. "But there was a cross, a wonderful golden cross of the Order of St. Louis. He knew I saw it. And he made me say I saw nothing but papers ! " 2 RRE ! " E "Yes, Mother?" "Be sure to wash behind your ears!" Pierre dipped a bucket of water from the well behind the house. He poured part of it into a shallow earthen- ware bowl. He didn't really like to wash behind his ears, but his mother was sure to look to see if he had. The soft, homemade soap stung his face like a horde of angry mosquitoes as he rubbed a bit of it on. He held his head in the water bucket for half a minute and came up sputtering and shaking. "Ugh," he growled into the huge linen towel. It was a week after the King's convoy had arrived in Kaskaskia. The goods had all been unloaded from the bateaux and the pirogues. And the soldiers, most of them, had already left the village for Fort de Chartres. It was twenty miles or so to the north along the Mississippi. A few soldiers were staying on at Kaskaskia in a small bar- racks near the Jesuit fathers' house. Pierre had had a wonderful week. He'd spent most of 25 26 Pierre of Kas\as\ia it on the beach watching the boats being unloaded. He'd seen the traders open boxes filled with shiny new mus- kets and beautiful Spanish saddles ornamented with silver leaves and flowers. Monsieur Beauvais had even let him help pile heavy bolts of brilliant scarlet and blue cloth up on the shelves of his trading house. Then one day Pierre had gone over to Monsieur Tur- pin's to borrow some candle molds for his mother. Mon- sieur Turpin was the richest man in all the Illinois coun- try, and he lived in a great three-story stone house right near the parish church. Madame Turpin had let him look into a huge leather- covered, hump-backed trunk that had come all the way from France. It was filled with marvelous things: a hoop- skirted dress for Madame Turpin of the palest violet satin; a silk habit for Monsieur that was the color of the marsh marigolds, with jeweled buckles on the knee breeches and an edging of fine white lace about the full coat cuffs; a pocket sundial in a gold case with a single fleur-de-lis, the lily of France, engraved on it; and a slender silver flute. But most exciting of all was the new bell. It was a heavy bell, and big, almost as big as Pierre himself. The church wardens had had a time when they tried to lift it out of the bateau. Finally they had built a ramp and rolled it off on some logs. Then they had had just as hard a time Pierre of Kas\as\ia 27 getting it up into Sieur Aubuchon's two-wheeled oxcart. Pierre had helped steady it. The Voyageur had been there watching. He hadn't said much, but just watched and given a hand when they needed an extra push. This evening, after vespers, Father Tartarin was going to baptize the bell. Everybody in the village was going to church. Pierre could hardly wait. 28 Pierre of Kaskas\ia He dried his face and wiped behind his ears. Then he hurried back to the house. Madame Dubois came out of the bedroom. "Your clothes are laid out on the bed, mon fils!" Pierre slipped out of his everyday shirt and breeches and into his next best clothes. Instead of the coarse blue shirts he wore most of the time, he put on a fine white one of batiste made like his father's. There was a thread of embroidery running through the front and the jabot that rippled from his throat down to his waist had a lace edging. His breeches were soft brown cloth and had tiny gilt buckles at the knee. His knee-length hose were white and his shoes were black, square-toed leather ones with silver buckles. Pierre swaggered a little as he went out into the kitchen. Marie Amable was there in her next-to-best dress of deep blue batiste, the color of the summer sky. She had a tiny white apron with little pink flowers embroidered on it over her full skirts and her black shoes had silver buckles, too. Uncle Pierre was wearing wine-colored breeches and Aunt Pelagie's dress was a dainty gray-pink. "Bon soirl" Pierre greeted them. "Bon soir, Pierre." Uncle Pierre began to chuckle. Pierre of Kas\asfya 29 Could it be that you have fallen into our Little River again?" he asked. "Mon onclel" Pierre protested. He'd been teased so many times this week. "I had to wash my face and be- hind my ears. That's why my hair is wet." The Voyageur came into the kitchen, buttoning his coat. He had changed his everyday leather breeches for dark blue wool ones that matched a fitted waistcoat, and he, too, had put on square-toed shoes and white stock- ings. "Bien, are we ready now?" Sieur Dubois inquired. "The sun is getting low in the sky. It will be time for vespers soon." Everybody was on the way to church. "Bon soir, bon soir," they greeted one another on the street. "How does everything go with you, monsieur, ma- dame?" they asked of their neighbors. "Have you seen Monsieur le Commandant?" "Here he comes now, down La Grande Rue, from the Fort de Chartres gate. How his sword sparkles in the sunshine! And see the plumes waving on his hat!" "Father—" Pierre turned to ask as they came near the church— "what are the soldiers doing in the square?" "It is a guard of honor for the Commandant." 30 Pierre of Kas\as\ia "And in honor of the baptism of the bell," Madame Dubois added. Kaskaskia's Church of the Immaculate Conception was a huge old building of immense logs set up- right in the ground. The spaces between them were filled with a mortar of clay and straw and small stones. Its steep-hipped roof was covered with wooden shingles, and its eaves swept low toward the ground, making a porch along the two sides. The belfry, empty yet, was slender and pointed, raising a burnished cross high to- ward heaven. Pierre and Marie Amable followed their parents through the wide-flung doors and up to the family benches past the middle of the church. They knelt a moment and then settled themselves on the narrow board seats. Tall white candles flaming on the altars filled the dim church with the fragrance of the myrtleberry and threw deep shadows high into the arched ceiling. They were very special candles. Father Tartarin and the lay broth- ers had made them from the fine wax of the myrtleberry shrub that grew along the riverbanks. "See how the gold chalice gleams in the candlelight," Pierre whispered in his cousin's ear. "Oui, and how the crystal vases on the altar sparkle." The new bell was at the very head of the center aisle, 3i 32 Pierre of Kas\as\ia close to the chancel railing. Its shining surface was filled with twinkling stars from the dozens of candles. The church was filled now with the villagers in their gay clothes. There was a stir in back, by the door, the rustle of silken petticoats and the tiniest ring of a sword hilt striking metal. Pierre screwed around in his seat as far as he dared. "The Commandant is coming," he whispered, "with Madame Philippe!" "They're to be the godparents of the new bell," Marie Amable whispered back. "And they will sit right in front of us, on Monsieur's bench!" The Commandant, who was the governor of the Il- linois country, came to his pew. He was a tall man, taller even than Sieur Dubois who was one of the tallest men in Kaskaskia. His wig was freshly curled into tight little waves and piled high above his forehead. Across his breast, over the shining whiteness of his uniform, was fastened a brilliant scarlet sash. Pierre stared curiously at the Commandant. Yes, his father was probably right. The Commandant was on his very best behavior. "Eh, la, the Commandant will no doubt show us poor habitants how a man of rank conducts himself." Pierre remembered his father's words at the dinner table. "He Pierre of Kas\askja 33 will be most polite. He will pretend to forget that he considers us habitants so many cattle in the field. He will be most civil to the priests, as though he didn't hate the sight of their black gowns. Ah, yes, this afternoon he will be only our kind and gracious lord. After all, the baptism of the bell is an important occasion." The Commandant bowed low, almost sweeping the rough plank floor with the white plume of his hat. Madame Philippe seated herself on the bench and spread her gold-embroidered skirts like a fan around her. The fine white lace mantilla that covered her jet-black hair, Spanish style, fell in folds almost in Marie Amable's lap. "In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen." Father Tartarin began the service. Pierre shifted his weight from one knee to the other. Kneeling on the bare floor was hard on his knees, even though he was used to it. The vespers went on— first the words of the priest, then the murmured responses of the villagers. I shall be a soldier when I grow up, Pierre thought to himself. To wear a uniform like His Excellency's, the Governor's . . . "Pay attention to the service!" Marie Amable nudged him. The Voyageur, who was on the other side, turned and grinned at Pierre. 34 Pierre of Kas\as\ia "That's the second time you've said the Hail Mary when we were saying the Our Father," she finished. But the service was practically over then. "The Lord be with you." Father Tartarin gave them his benediction. There was a stir and a rustle as the villagers settled themselves again on their benches. "Now they will baptize the bell!" Pierre twisted and squirmed to see past the Commandant's head. He didn't want to miss anything. "This evening we are here to consecrate our new bell to the service of the good God," Father Tartarin began. "It is a gift to this parish from a marquis of France, Louis de Beaure, chevalier of the Order of St. Louis." "Chevalier of the Order of St. Louis." Pierre whispered it to himself, remembering the golden cross in the Voy- ageur's box. He glanced sideways. If the Voyageur did belong to the Order, then he perhaps knew the man who had given the bell ! But the Voyageur's face was turned away. "It is a beautiful bell," Father Tartarin was saying. "It comes from the foundry of the finest bellmaker in France. Its voice will call us to our prayers at dawn and noonday and sunset. It will give us news of births and of the passing of souls. It will help us celebrate marriages and make merry with us on feast days. And in time of danger it will warn us." Pierre of Kaskas\ia 35 Father Tartarin dipped a small brush into the holy water and touched the bell once on the outside and once on the inside, making the sign of a cross. Then he brushed the water over the whole of the shining bell. When he had finished, the altar boy wiped it dry with a snow-white towel. "Now the consecrated oil," the priest said. Once more, with the oil, he made the sign of the cross on the bell. He took the smoking censer and waved it three times above the bell, and then held it underneath until the bell was filled with the pungent fumes of the incense. "Who are to be the godparents?" he asked. The Commandant and Madame Philippe left their bench and stood by the bell. "I, Reverend Father," answered the Governor. "And I, Father," added Madame Philippe. "What name is to be given the bell?" Father Tartarin inquired. "Denis, in honor of the holy patron of France, St. Denis, whose feast day this is," the Commandant replied. Father Tartarin drew back the white ribbon that had been fastened to the clapper. Three times the deep voice of Denis filled the church, rolling back from the high rafters. Madame Philippe took the ribbon and three times more Denis rang out. Then His Excellency pulled the ribbon and the full 36 Pierre of Kas\as\ia tones piled up on one another until even the crystal vases on the altar tinkled. "Truly," the villagers said to one another, "it is a bell of miracles." " 'Tis the voice of the saint whose name it bears," Father Tartarin said as the wonderful tones finally died away. Madame Philippe picked up a package lying near by and unwrapped a large roll of pure white linen. Father Tartarin took it from her and swathed the bell in its folds. Then he took a roll of shimmering white silk from the Governor and bound it on the bell with long white ribbons. Marie Amable turned to her mother. "What will they do with the cloth they have put on the bell?" she asked. "Bien, the linen and silk were christening gifts from Madame Philippe and Monsieur le Commandant. When the bell is raised to the steeple, the cloth will be given to the Fathers for vestments. And Madame Philippe will give the dress she is wearing to them also for vestments and for altar cloths." Slowly the church emptied. Pierre and Marie Amable followed the others from the candlelit church into the October dusk. The notes of Denis were still ringing in their ears. Denis belonged to all Kaskaskia now. To- morrow the church wardens would hang it high in the steeple and with the Blessed Virgin, to whom the parish Pierre of Kas\as\ia 37 was dedicated, Denis would watch over the whole coun- tryside. Pierre spoke to the Voyageur. "It is a beautiful bell, is it not, m'sieu?" "Mais oui, it is." "M'sieu — " Pierre hesitated, getting up courage — "M'sieu, do you know the Marquis?" For a minute the Voyageur didn't answer. Then he said, "I have seen the Marquis." "In Paris?" Pierre asked. "Yes, why?" "Urn ... I just wondered." Pierre had a queer feeling that the Voyageur had really meant to say it was none of his affair. Could it be that the Voyageur had been one of the Marquis' servants and had stolen his master's golden cross? It was worth a great deal of money. "M'sieu," Pierre began again. "M'sieu . . ." But the Voyageur wasn't anywhere around. He'd been here just a minute ago, and now he was gone. Oh, there he was, across the street, talking to Sieur Aubuchon. Apparently the Voyageur didn't intend to tell him any- thing more about the Marquis, which was very strange. JLi: ierre didn't want to go to bed. He had too much to think about — about the Voyageur, and the strange way he acted; about Denis . . . Tomorrow the church wardens were going to hang Denis in the steeple. Pierre wanted to sit on the edge of the porch in the warm October evening and think about the next day. "Pierre." His mother, still in the crimson skirt and waist she had worn to the christening, was standing in the doorway. "Pierre!" He sighed. He knew his mother's tone of voice. She was getting impatient. But he didn't want to go to bed. He wished it was already tomorrow. Slowly he went into the house. Tomorrow was a long way off. . . . And then, all of a sudden, it was tomorrow. He rubbed his fist across his eyes. "Pierre!" It was his mother calling him again. "Pierre!" He shook his head and tried to think. Somehow the 38 Pierre of Kas\askja 39 Voyageur and the bell and a golden cross were all mixed up. . . . "Pierre! Helas! But you are a sleepy one!" Madame Dubois folded the buffalo robe across the end of the bed. "And it was you who wished not to go to bed last night ! " Then Pierre was wide awake. It was today — the day the church wardens were going to hang Denis! He'd have to hurry. Maybe they'd started work already; he could see the sun was even now climbing over the cliffs beyond the Little River. "Hurry now, my son," his mother ordered. "There is much work to be done today, and breakfast is on the table. Already your father and the Voyageur are eating." Pierre was into his shirt and breeches and moccasins in a minute. His mother was scarcely back in the kitchen before he was slipping into his place on the long wooden bench opposite the Voyageur. "Bon]our, Father," he said. "Bonjour, m'sieu," he said to the Voyageur. Madame Dubois set a gaily wreathed earthenware bowl in front of him. Then she filled it from the fat pitcher of foaming milk that stood in the center of the table. Pierre broke off a piece of the long twisted loaf of bread and soaked it in his milk. "Bien, Pierre," the Voyageur said, "what are you go- ing to do today? Is there school?" 40 Pierre of Kas\as\ia "Oh, no, m'sieu. No school. The Fathers have said nothing about school yet this fall. We do not have school until cold weather comes." "Then you have no schoolmaster?" "No, m'sieu. Just the Fathers, the priests." Sieur Dubois laid a wide white slice of onion on a piece of bread. "There was a time, m'sieu, when the village had a schoolmaster. The syndics hired him, and each pupil paid a fee. But it did not last long. He was a rest- less youth. One day he left and that was the end of our school." "The Commandant said he was an English spy," Madame Dubois concluded. She passed the plate of onions to Pierre. Her husband grunted. "The Commandant says that of every stranger to our village. Be careful, my friend," he added, turning to the Voyageur. "He may decide that you, too, are a spy." The Voyageur laughed. "I will beware of the Com- mandant." He smiled at the boy. '"Then, Pierre, if there is no school, how do you plan to spend the day?" "M'sieu — " Pierre gulped down the last mouthfuls of milk — "m'sieu, don't you remember? Today they are hanging Denis. Perhaps they have already started." "That I had forgotten for a moment." The Voyageur went on: "Tell me, Pierre, why are you so interested in this bell? Have you never seen one before?" Pierre of Kas\as\ia 41 "Not so big a bell, m'sieu. There is a bell at the fort, a small one. And there is one in the little Church of Ste. Anne in the village of the fort. It is even smaller." "You would like to make bells someday?" Pierre thought a moment. "I do not believe so, m'sieu. But I would like to see where they are made. When I am a man, m'sieu, I shall go to Quebec and to New Orleans— maybe even to the English colony of New York. Maybe . . . maybe . . . even to Paris ! When I am a man, m'sieu, I am going to see the world ! " Pierre closed his eyes, thinking of those wonderful days in the future, "Pierre!" He looked up at his mother. "Pierre, if you have finished breakfast, I want you to help with the washing." "Mother! The washing!" "But, yes, my son. There will not be many more days like this for washing. Soon the Little River will be too cold, and then we will have to wait until spring." "But, Mother, that is women's work!" "Bless me, but who wears the clothes then?" Sieur Dubois looked at Pierre. "It might be," he sug- gested, "Pierre thinks his ducking in the river was enough." "Mother ... the bell . . . Denis . . ." Pierre protested. "First the wash. If you had sisters, then you would not need to help. But you have no sisters. There is a great 42 Pierre of Kas\as\ia deal to be carried to the river's edge," she went on. "If you are through now, there is one basket by the door. You may take it dow T n. I will bring the other basket." His mother was not the only one who had decided to wash today. It seemed to Pierre that half the village women had decided the same thing. Even Marie Amable was down on her knees beside her mother, a great pile of dirty clothes between them. He set the basket down by the large flat rock at the stream's edge where he knew his mother liked to wash. "And you are the only man down here, eh, lad?" Pierre looked up. There w T as the Voyageur beside him. "M'sieu, you move as quietly as Little Shoes. I did not hear you." "Could it be rather because you were thinking black thoughts? But see, I have brought a basket, too. Your mother is right, Pierre. I do not know your Illinois weather, but surely there cannot be many days like this. And think how you would hate to wear dirty clothes until spring!" Pierre was still disgusted. "But, m'sieu, washing is not a man's work ! You see yourself ! There is not another man down here. It is a woman's work. Or a girl's work," he added, remembering Marie Amable. "And watching the hanging of the bell, that is man's work, Pierre?" Pierre of Kashas fya 43 "Well . . ." "Eh, bien, perhaps it is, Pierre. But a man must some- times wash, too. Do you suppose that Madame your mother will permit me to use some of her soap?" the Voyageur went on, setting down his basket of clothes. "M'sieu, you are going to wash?" Pierre suddenly real- ized what the Voyageur was doing. "If I do not, Pierre . . . well — " he spread his hands hopelessly, laughing — "you see for yourself how much they need washing. Four months at sea and three months coming up the river from New Orleans ..." "But most of the voyageurs have Madame LaTulipe wash for them." "Madame LaTulipe?" "She is the wife of one of the soldiers. She does laundry for the soldiers. And for anyone else who pays her for it," Pierre explained. "Another time maybe I will have her do mine, too. But today — " the Voyageur dipped a shirt into the stream — "today I shall keep you company and we will be two men among all these women. How will that be?" Pierre sighed. "Well, m'sieu . . . but there are so many dirty clothes." "Then, my son, the sooner you get started the sooner you will be finished." Pierre hadn't heard his mother come up. But there 44 Pierre of Kas\as\ia she was on her knees beside him, pulling her full brown skirts tight around her. She pointed to the basket between them. "Your clothes are in there. When you have done them, then you may go." All those clothes, all those dirty clothes, couldn't be- long to him, surely, Pierre thought dismally — all those breeches; those red and blue and brown and white shirts; and he hadn't had that many pairs of hose in his whole life. "Pierre, a wager!" The Voyageur was smiling. "A wager, m'sieu?" Pierre asked in a puzzled tone. "A wager, Pierre!" the Voyageur repeated, his eyes twinkling. "A wager that I can get this shirt of mine clean before you can finish that one of yours." He pointed to the wet shirt Pierre had spread on the rock in front of him. "Here," he continued, "we will break this bar of soap into two pieces ... so. One for you and one for me." "And the stakes, m'sieu? What will they be?" The Voyageur rested on his heels a minute, gazing out across the Little River to the gray-greenness of the op- posite cliffs. "If you win, I will wash a shirt of yours . . ." "And if you win, I will wash a shirt of yours!" Pierre laughed. "Oui, m'sieu, it is a wager!" "Settled then! One, two, three— go!" Pierre rubbed the soap into the shirt as hard as he Pierre of Kaskaskja 45 could. And then he rubbed the shirt across the stone. First this way and then that, on one side and on the other. In a few minutes his arms were aching. The strong soap stung the scratches on his hands. He soaked the shirt in the water an instant. How could he ever have got it so dirty ! More soap. More rubbing. The Voyageur's shirt was much bigger, but already it was getting white. Pierre could see that out of the corner of his eye. One big spot wouldn't come out. He rubbed more soap into it. Then he beat the shirt against the stone as his mother was do- ing with the petticoat she was washing. Then he rubbed it around and across and up and down on the stone. "Voila!" The Voyageur held up his shirt. "Would you say that was clean, Pierre?" Pierre regarded the shirt dolefully. "It is as clean as Mother gets my shirts," he agreed. Madame Dubois laughed. "M'sieu, perhaps you would like to do my washing? If that is a sample of your work, it is as good as Madame LaTulipe's. Indeed, it is as Pierre says — as good as I myself do. And I pride myself on my clean wash." Pierre picked up his shirt. That spot was still there. And it was going to take a lot more rubbing. Besides that, he'd have to wash one of the Voyageur's shirts. He'd never get done! "What do you say, Pierre?" The Voyageur laid his 4 6 Pierre of Kas\as\ia hand on Pierre's arm. "What do you say that we have another race, when you are finished with that shirt of yours ?" "M'sieu, I would only lose again." "But perhaps not! Perhaps another time I will have a bad spot. While you are finishing now, I will work on these breeches of mine. And then when you are done, we will take two more shirts." The spot took a good deal more rubbing. It seemed Pierre of Kas\as\ia 47 as though it would be noon before he finished that one shirt. Then, this time when he rinsed the shirt in the river and held it up — the spot was gone. "Eh, bien, Pierre, are you ready?" The Voyageur picked up another of his shirts. "But yes, m'sieu." "And the same stakes?" "Yes, m'sieu." Pierre didn't feel much like smiling back at the Voyageur. Already his arms were so tired. And he still had just as much washing to do as when he began, since he had lost the first race. "One, two, three — go!" The race was on again. Wet the shirt in the river, rub the strong yellow soap into the cloth, rub and rub and rub again on the stone. Squeeze the shirt in the river, rub on more soap, and rub even harder. Madame Dubois stopped scrubbing. "Well, P'stit Pierre," she said, leaning back and putting her hands on her hips, "I think it is you who have won this time. M'sieu le Voyageur still soaps his shirt." "I am the slow one this time." The Voyageur held his shirt at arm's length and frowned at it. "Indeed, I would say this shirt had been wrapped around a jar of bear grease, no, lined the jar of bear grease!" "Then we are even again." Pierre laughed. "And you, m'sieu, must do one of my shirts!" 48 Pierre of Kas\as\ia The Voyageur scratched his head. "We could have another race," he suggested, in a mournful voice that had a trace of a chuckle in it. "I will race you through the whole wash, m'sieu," Pierre offered instead. "So be it!" At least, Pierre thought, having a race was one way to make the job go faster. Only it still seemed as if he'd never get done. Right now — for the first time — he wished Marie Amable was his sister instead of his cousin. Then he wouldn't have to be doing this at all . . . this girl's work. He couldn't imagine Antoine helping his mother with the wash. Antoine Milot was his best friend, but some- times he and Antoine didn't get along very well. He was glad Antoine had gone with his father to the lead mines across the Mississippi. Antoine had five sisters. Antoine would laugh at Pierre's having to help his mother wash. He wondered how his mother and the other women ever stood it, though. It was such hard work. But they seemed to like it. They washed and visited and their arms went just as fast as their tongues and he was so tired he couldn't even talk with the Voyageur. It was all he could do to scrub. Every little bit he had to stop and rest, to get his breath. The sun was high above the river cliffs. That meant it Pierre of Kas\ashja 49 was almost noon. Once the bell was hung, they wouldn't be saying it was "almost noon." Then they'd know. Because the priests, who had a clock, would ring Denis at noon, to tell the villagers it was time to stop and say their midday prayers. "Your thoughts are far away, Pierre." Pierre stopped rubbing and looked blankly at the Voy- ageur. "That sash ... if you wash it much longer, you won't have a sash." Pierre stared at the blue sash on the stone. It was the one he liked to wear around his waist to church on Sun- days. The blue matched the turban he wore sometimes, and it meant that he came from the Illinois country, or his parents did. Lots of the hunters wore turbans in the woods in summer, and you knew by the color what province they lived in. "I guess I was thinking about Denis." "And did you notice the basket beside you is empty?" the Voyageur went on. Pierre gasped. "I did not notice ! I thought . . ." "Eh f bien, Pierre, you are speedier than you thought ! Perhaps you should take in washings!" "M'sieu!" That was an awful idea. Pierre got stiffly to his feet. "You would not like that, then." The Voyageur 50 Pierre of Kas\as\ia grinned. "Well, I think I do not blame you." He turned to Pierre's mother. "Madame, I am convinced. A man is no match for a woman. Even two men are no match ! I would rather pole the heaviest pirogue upriver all day than do such a washing again. And yet you, and all these others — " he waved his hand toward the rest of the village women — "why, you go on as if it were nothing ! " "La, la!" Madame Dubois laughed. "It could be that we do it more often, could it not? But get along, the two of you. I will see that your clothes are spread on the bank to dry. Get along now. See if the bell is in the steeple yet, or if they need your help to raise it." Pierre was already halfway up the bank. "Hurry, m'sieu ! Denis has not rung yet. Perhaps they have not got it up. Perhaps we will be in time." "Pierre, except that you do it, too, I would think I was getting old," the Voyageur complained as they turned on to the Street of the Church. "I do what, m'sieu?" Two steps ahead of the Voyageur, Pierre looked back. "Walk stiffly. You do also." Pierre hardly heard the answer, for there was the church ahead and it looked as if the bell were already in the steeple — else there would be men about. And there was no one near the church. Only Father Francois strid- ing across the Place d'Armes in front of the church. Pierre Pierre of Kaskaskja 51 knew it was Father Francois. In spite of his black cassock which billowed out like a sail behind him, he looked like an Indian, tall and straight, with thick black hair and fine sharp features which were little like a Frenchman's. That was not so strange, after all, for Father Francois was half Indian. And he'd been born right here in Kaskaskia in the very first days of the settlement. "Father Francois! Father Francois!" Pierre called anxiously. The priest turned, then stopped and waited. "Bonjour, Pierre." He smiled. "Bonjour, m'sieu." "Father Francois . . . Father Francois . . ." Pierre could hardly get the words out. "Father Francois- Denis, is Denis already in the steeple?" "Mais oui, my son." Father Francois pointed. "Can you not see him hanging there? The church wardens finished their task but half an hour ago. I go now to ring him for our noontime prayers." "Oh." Pierre couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice. The Voyageur put his arm across the boy's shoulders. "It is too bad, Pierre," he sympathized. He looked at Father Francois. "I wonder, Father," he said, "could this lad here help ring Denis this noon?" The priest smiled. "That could be arranged, I think. The beadle is sick, else he would be ringing Denis. Pierre, would you like to ring the bell for the first time?" 52 Pierre of Kas\as\ia He could hardly believe his ears. "Father Francois! M'sieu!" "Well, then, hurry. It is but a few minutes to noon." In less than a minute Pierre was inside the church door, his hands on the thick rope that hung down through a round hole in the ceiling of the vestibule. "Now, Father?" he asked excitedly. Pierre of Kas\as\ia 53 "Now, Pierre," Father Francois agreed. Pierre pulled hard. "Let the rope swing up," the Voyageur ordered. Pierre let it slide up through his hands. Clang! "Pull down hard." Pierre pulled hard again, until he was almost bent double. A lock of his hair touched the floor. clang. Denis' voice was louder this time. "Up ... up, Pierre ! Now down !" Clang-clang! Clang-clang! Clang-clang! He was getting the rhythm now. Pull down hard, very hard, now up, up . . . but don't let go of the rope. Down again. Up — down — Up. He forgot how tired his arms were. He, Pierre, was ringing Denis ! Wait until he told Antoine ! 4 B ut Antoine wasn't much impressed. Pierre was disgusted with him. It was two days later. Pierre, Antoine, Marie Amable and Little Shoes were out in front of the Dubois' house. Antoine was swinging on the big gate, his feet tucked in an open space between the mulberry logs. The others were just sitting at the end of the cobblestone walk. "What is so wonderful about ringing the bell?" An- toine asked again. "Wouldn't you like to ring Denis?" Marie Amable asked. "I'd rather go to the lead mines. Anybody can ring Denis." "Not unless the priests let them," Marie Amable retorted. "And anybody can go to the lead mines," Pierre added. "Have you ever been to the lead mines?" "No, but I will someday." "Lead mines not far. Only on other side of Big River," Little Shoes put in. 54 Pierre of Kas\askja 55 Antoine swung the gate back hard against the palisade. "They're farther than the salt springs. It took us a day and a half to get there. And we rode." "I'd rather ring Denis." Marie Amable was disgusted with Antoine, too. "How did it feel to ring Denis, Pierre? Was it hard?" "The lead mines are very important. Father says " "Here comes the Voyageur," Marie Amable inter- rupted, jumping to her feet. "Bonjour, m'sieu." She greeted him with a curtsy. "You don't have to curtsy to him. He's only a river boatman." The Voyageur smiled at Marie Amable. "But it was a very pretty curtsy, Antoine," he answered. "Mother says it's always right to curtsy to a grownup." Marie Amable glared at Antoine. "Antoine just wants to talk about the lead mines. He doesn't think ringing Denis is anything," Pierre ex- plained as he scrambled to his feet. "Eh, bien, perhaps someday Antoine can tell me about the lead mines. But right now I think I should like to see your village. Would you be my guides?" the Voyageur finished. "All of us, m'sieu?" Marie Amable knew the boys didn't like her tagging along. "All of you. Pierre? You, Little Shoes? And Antoine?" 56 Pierre of Kaskas\ia "Oh, yes, m'sieu." "I come." "I guess so." Antoine jumped of? the gate. "There's nothing else to do. I wish Father had let me stay at the lead mines. Lots of the men are working there, making bullets. Father says we'll need them when the English start a war " Antoine stopped. Nobody was listening. In fact, they'd already started down the street. "Kaskaskia isn't much of a town," he said as he caught up with the others. "It's just a trading post the Indians and the traders founded. Not like Quebec or Paris. Father says " "Kaskaskia is a pretty town ! " Pierre was angry. Kas- kaskia was pretty even on such a hot afternoon, when the sun felt as it did in midsummer, and nothing was mov- ing — except for the five of them and a stray pig that was rolling in the dust ahead. Even the masons who were building Joseph Doza's new stone house on the riverbank across from the Jesuits' were taking a nap in the shade of the big chimney. "Ah, yes, Pierre, Kaskaskia is a pretty town," the Voy- ageur agreed. "I like the houses ... so much alike, and yet so different. I have heard of log houses built by piling the logs one on top of another, but never until I reached here did I know houses were built of logs set upright in the ground. And these porches around the houses. All Pierre of Kas\as\ia 57 the way around so many houses; they are wonderful for such a day as this." "You can't see the houses. They've all got palisades around them." Antoine was feeling out of sorts. The Voyageur grinned. "Antoine, Antoine! Was it your dinner that did not agree with you?" "Kaskaskia is an important town, too, m'sieu." Pierre was not paying any attention to Antoine. "All of the fur traders of the Mississippi valley bring their pelts here to ship to New Orleans, the fur traders of the Ohio valley, also. Even from so far away as Pennsylvania they bring furs. And they sell them here to the King's agent, or to merchants like Monsieur Turpin, or take them in the spring convoy themselves to merchants at New Orleans. My father is a fur trader, m'sieu. Did you know that?" "Most of the men in Kaskaskia are fur traders. That's nothing!" 58 Pierre of Kashas kja This time nobody paid any attention to Antoine. Pierre continued, "When Christmas and New Year's are over, he will go hunting with the Kaskaskia Indians. Now he's helping Monsieur Turpin carry his goods to Fort de Chartres and Prairie du Rocher and Ste. Gene- vieve." "My father is a fur trader, too," Marie Amable ex- plained. "But now he is helping Sieur Gervais grind the wheat they bring to his mill. See, m'sieu," she added, pointing to a road that wound away to the north, "that road leads to the mill. It leads to the fort, too." "There's another road to the fort, m'sieu," Pierre said. "It goes out from the end of La Grande Rue. It is the main road to the fort. It's called the King's Highway." "And this street, Pierre, this long street that stretches so far back from the Little River. What is it called?" "The Street of St. Louis, m'sieu. But it is not the longest street. La Grande Rue is even longer. More houses are built on La Grande Rue, too." "I know how many houses there are in the whole village," Antoine put in. He didn't like being left out of the conversation this way. After all, he knew about Kaskaskia, too. "Bien, Antoine. I have wondered about that also. How many houses are there in Kaskaskia?" "Eighty-five. Not counting the Jesuits' house and the Pierre of Kas\as\ia 59 little house Monsieur Turpin has lent to the soldiers for a barracks. Twenty of them are stone houses. The others are built of posts. I know," he added. "The other day I counted them — the day you were so busy looking in Monsieur Turpin's trunks, Pierre." "Monsieur Turpin's house is the largest." Marie Am- able turned back in the direction from which they'd come. "See, m'sieu? You can see the roof even from here." "The house near the church? I see. Only the bell tower rises above it." "It's such a fine house that they call the street the Street of Louis Turpin." "It has three stories. And the galerie is around the second story." "Indeed? This house I must see. How about this little street, Pierre? Can we go across here toward Monsieur Turpin's?" the Voyageur asked. "Mais oui, m'sieu. We are close to the end of the Street of St. Louis. This way we will come to La Grande Rue. And then we can go back toward the Little River to the corner where Monsieur Turpin's house stands." "Indeed," the Voyageur exclaimed again when they had come to Monsieur Turpin's house. "Indeed, it is a very large house. Monsieur Turpin must be a wealthy man." 'Father says Monsieur Turpin is the wealthiest man 60 Pierre of Kas\as\ia in the whole Illinois country," Antoine said. "And Father says Monsieur Turpin no doubt trades with the English. That is why he is so wealthy." "Monsieur Turpin does not trade with the English!" Pierre denied angrily. "That is against the law. He would be a traitor if he did! And Monsieur Turpin is no traitor!" "Monsieur Turpin good Frenchman," Little Shoes agreed. "Ah, Antoine, to accuse a man of being a traitor to his king is a grave matter," the Voyageur put in. "My father says it is not possible for a Frenchman to have so much money unless he trades with the English. And anyway," Antoine added, "my father says there are many in the village who trade with the English. He says some of the voyageur s are English spies." Pierre started to speak. Then he stopped. For a minute there was such a queer expression on the face of the Voy- ageur. He couldn't quite explain to himself what kind of expression it was. Maybe he imagined it, because now the Voyageur was laughing at Antoine. "Antoine, mon fils, this afternoon you are bound to dispute whatever we say, are you not? But let us not spoil this fine afternoon by quarreling. I should like to climb to the top of the cliffs yonder across the Kaskaskia River. Could we do that?" Pierre of Kas\askja 61 Even Antoine agreed to that, for it was great fun to take a heavy pirogue from the beach and pole it across the narrow stream. Sometimes, when the river was high and the current strong, it was hard work to cross to the east bank. But after the dry summer they'd had, there was hardly any water in the river at all. Hardly enough to float the pirogue. You could almost wade across the Little River this afternoon, Pierre thought, pushing his pole into the muddy bed and sending the pirogue quickly over the water. "Excellent, Pierre ! " The Voyageur clapped him on the back as they beached the pirogue on the opposite bank. "You handle the pole like a voyageur" "I can do that, too," Antoine exclaimed. "My father taught me." Smiling, the Voyageur agreed. "No doubt you can, Antoine. And you shall pole us back when we have climbed to the top of the cliff." A narrow, rocky path led up the side of the limestone bluffs. Pierre went first. Then Marie Amable. And Antoine. And Little Shoes. And the Voyageur. Some places they had to be very careful, because if they stepped on loose rocks they might go sliding right down the face of the cliff. Some places the wild grapevines were like thick coils of rope tying all the underbrush together. There they almost had to crawl on hands and knees. Some 62 Pierre of Kas\as\ia 63 places it was almost easier to pull themselves up from one rock ledge to the one above than to follow the path. Pierre watched each step. He didn't want Antoine and Little Shoes and the Voyageur and Marie Amable to have a chance to laugh at him for being clumsy. Marie Amable held her skirts close to her with one hand so she wouldn't trip and fall. Even Antoine was quiet, saving his breath for the climbing. The Voyageur went care- fully, too. Only Little Shoes climbed as if the trail were as straight and smooth and level as a forest path. Then at last they were all at the top. The Voyageur stopped to catch his breath. "Helas! But that was a climb. Is there no other way to the top?" "But, yes, m'sieu, there is. Farther downstream. A path for horses. It is much longer, though, to the top." Pierre went on, "You can see all of Kaskaskia from here. The church, and Monsieur Turpin's house. The road to Fort de Chartres and the road to the mill. See, even our house, there to the north, just beyond the Street of St. Louis." "There are the commons south of the village, too," Marie Amable added, "where the village animals graze. Oh, and the fields beyond the commons' fence. They look like ribbons from here." "Can sometimes even see the Mississippi," Little Shoes contributed. "But clouds come now in west. Make it hard 64 Pierre of Kas\as\ia to see far. Clouds black. Full of wind. Rain," he added. "Come fast now, too." The Voyageur took a scrap of paper from his pocket and a piece of charred wood. "What are you going to do, m'sieu?" Pierre asked curiously. "Draw a picture," he answered smilingly, "A picture of your village to send to my friends in Paris. So they will know what your Kaskaskia is like." He leaned back against a great boulder and started to sketch. The chil- dren watched him interestedly. "From here, m'sieu, the village looks like the harrow Father uses on his fields," Marie Amable suggested. The Voyageur thought for a moment. "You have the eyes of an artist, Marie Amable," he said. "You see that which others do not see. The village does indeed look like a harrow. The Street of St. Louis and La Grande Rue that run from the river to the western edge of the village are the side beams. The short cross streets and the houses on them are the bars and the teeth that dig into the plowed soil to rake it smooth." Little Shoes interrupted. "Men come. Soldiers " "It's the Commandant!" "And some of the officers from the garrison ! " "They must have come up the other way!" "But what would the Commandant come to the top of Pierre of Kas\as\ia 65 this cliff for?" the Voyageur wondered aloud. He stopped his sketching to watch the men coming toward them. "There is talk in the village, m'sieu, that the King is planning to build a fort up here," Pierre explained. "To protect Kaskaskia from the English and their Indian allies," Antoine added. "Father says there will be war soon in all the Ohio valley. And Fort de Chartres would not be enough protection." With a few long strides the Commandant was up to them. "Comment!" he barked. "What is this?" "What is what, Your Excellency?" the Voyageur asked innocently. "The top of the cliff, I think. And that is the village of Kaskaskia you see beyond the Little River. It is beautiful, is it not?" For half a minute the Commandant was speechless. Then he bellowed, "like an angry buffalo," Sieur Dubois suggested later when Pierre told him what had happened, and added, "Our Commandant could indeed teach the buffalo, I think!" "What insolence is this?" The Commandant laid his hand threateningly on the small pistol in his belt. "You, sieu, who are you?" 'Men call me Louis le Parisien, Your Excellency." 'Your business?" Oh, at this time, a voyageur, Your Excellency." 'At this time? What do you mean, 'At this time'?" 66 Pierre of Kas\as\ia "Until I am tired of being a voyageur, Your Excellency. Then I shall be something else." "An English spy, perhaps?" the Commandant sug- gested, still roaring. "What do you draw? Maps of the village for your masters? A map of this hilltop?" The Voyageur looked down at the drawing in his hand. "Your Excellency does me an injustice. I draw only for my friends at home. As for what I shall be," he went on, "that I have not considered. Do the English pay well?" For another long space nobody said a thing. The Voyageur, smiling, still leaned easily against the boulder. The Commandant's hand stayed on his pistol. His face was red with rage. The soldiers' mouths hung open. Pierre and Marie Amable and Antoine and Little Shoes stared — first at the Voyageur and then at the Comman- dant, then at one another. No one spoke to the Comman- dant of the Illinois country that way. Lots of the villagers would have liked to, Pierre added to himself. His father was one of them. Even Monsieur Turpin and Monsieur Charleville and Captain Philippe who commanded the village militia. Nobody liked the Commandant — except perhaps the Commandant himself. And the villagers said what they thought about the Commandant when he wasn't around. They didn't even obey his orders if they could find a way not to. And when he put them in jail at Fort de Chartres, usually they managed to escape. Pierre of Kas\as\ia 6j But to talk back to the Commandant the way the Voyageur was doing. . . ! Nobody, nobody dared do that. The Commandant opened his mouth to speak. A deafening crack of thunder swallowed his words. Little Shoes was right. The storm had been coming fast. And now with the wind suddenly whipping through the trees and great streaks of lightning flashing from the clouds, the rain came down in solid gray sheets. Whatever the Commandant was going to say, Pierre thought much later as he and the Voyageur dried them- selves before the roaring fire at home, he didn't have the chance then. The boy stole a curious glance at the Voyageur. "M'sieu, what did you mean when you said you'd be something else when you were tired of being a voyageur?" "What, Pierre?" The Voyageur looked up from the fire. "Eh, la, I meant that when I was tired of being a voyageur, I should be something else. That is all." "That is all. That is all." The words went back and forth through Pierre's head. But was that all? he won- dered. All those questions the Voyageur had asked about the town, the map he'd drawn. Wanting to go to the top of the cliff. He might have known about the plans to build a fort up there. Antoine's father wasn't the only one who was saying that the English would attack the French 68 Pierre of Kas\as\ia posts one day. Lots of the bullets they were making at the lead mines were intended for Englishmen, not wild animals. Could the Voyageur be an English spy? The Com- mandant had suggested that. And the Voyageur had not denied it. He'd only asked, "Do the English pay well?" Pierre looked at the Voyageur again. He wasn't a common river boatman, Pierre was certain. But who was he, and what was he doing in the Illinois country? p JLierre knew Antoine was thinking the same thoughts. He knew Antoine was sitting there on the end of the bench waiting for them to finish breakfast and thinking that the Voyageur was an English spy. Antoine was just staring at the Voyageur— in the most impolite way pos- sible. But the Voyageur didn't seem to mind at all. In fact, he didn't act as if he knew Antoine was staring at him. Even if I weren't a spy, Pierre thought to himself, if I were the Voyageur, I'd be scared. The Commandant was furious yesterday. He doesn't forget things like that. It was just the storm coming up suddenly that kept the Commandant from arresting the Voyageur right then. Pierre was positive. He studied the Voyageur while he soaked up the last of his milk with a thick slice of bread. The Voyageur didn't look scared. He didn't look as if he were thinking about what happened on the hill or what the Commandant was likely to do to him. "How many cows are you to bring back?" Madame Dubois' question interrupted Pierre's thoughts. 69 70 Pierre of Kas\as\ia "Twelve," his father answered. "The order from the Commandant asked for twelve young ones." "How many men are going out?" the Voyageur inquired. "Ten, I think. Sieur Turpin and his nephew, and LaFleur, and Jean Chauvin and his two apprentices. With four of us that makes ten." "My father couldn't come. He had business in Ste. Genevieve, across the river," Antoine put in. Sieur Dubois got up from the table and slung his leather jacket about his shoulders. "Hurry, my son," he said. "I'm through." Pierre gulped down the last bite. He and Antoine caught up the well-filled lunch basket Madame Dubois had prepared. They dashed outdoors along the path to the stable where the oxen were already yoked to the high, lumbering, two-wheeled cart. "Are you going to ride with us?" Pierre asked the Voyageur. "Mais non. Your father is letting me ride the chestnut mare." The two boys clambered into the cart. "Father must realize how big and strong we are to let us help round up the wild cows this year," Pierre said as he settled himself among the chunks of salt and the heavy coils of rope. Nobody owned the cows who foraged the year through Pierre of Kas\as\ia 71 on the banks of the Mississippi above the village. When- ever a villager wanted a pair to train to draw his carts or to add to his own herd that he kept penned up on the commons south of Kaskaskia, he went to the prairie and picked out the best-looking animal he could find. But it was hard, exciting work to catch the beasts. "What does the Commandant want with the steers?" Antoine asked Sieur Dubois as they started along the street. Sieur Dubois took the long pipe from his mouth. "They are to be driven across the Missouri country to our King's post on the Arkansas River. Cattle are much scarcer down there." At the end of La Grande Rue where the street became the King's Highway, the other men were waiting. Soon the group was off along the winding road. Pierre and Antoine, who were much the youngest, chattered to each other. "The Voyageur rides well," Pierre whispered. "Better than voyageurs ride," Antoine agreed. He went on, "But he is no voyageur" "The King sends lots of criminals to this country instead of putting them in jail." Pierre was thinking out loud. "Maybe he's a thief. Or a murderer," Antoine sug- gested. 72 Pierre of Kas\as\ia "I don't think so. He doesn't look like a thief or a murderer. He looks like a gentleman, even in those clothes he wears." "Gentlemen can be thieves and murderers," Antoine said. "But I don't think he's a thief or a murderer, either. I think " He lowered his voice. The Voyageur had turned back and was riding up to the side of the cart — "I think," Antoine finished almost in a whisper, "that the Voyageur is a spy." "Pierre," the Voyageur called out. "Is that a wayside shrine there by the road?" "Mais oui, m'sieu," Pierre answered. His father pulled the oxen to a stop in front of the weathered crucifix. A garland of meadow daisies hung about the figure. "Why is the shrine 'way out here?" the Voyageur asked. "I have seen no others in the Illinois country." "The Fathers set it here to mark the spot where they first celebrated Mass for the French traders and Indians who founded our village." "Father Francois showed me the first entry Father Marest made in the parish register," Antoine put in. "Father Marest? The parish register?" The Voyageur was puzzled. "Father Marest was the priest to the Kaskaskia Indians. He came down with them from their old hunting grounds on the Illinois River," Antoine explained impor- Pierre of Kas\as\ia 73 tantly. "And the first entry says 'April 1703, we came to the Metchigamia River.' " Pierre broke in. He knew the story, too. "They called the Kaskaskia River the Metchigamia River. That is, until the Kaskaskia Indians settled on its banks." "Then the French started calling the river the Kas- kaskia." Pierre scowled at Antoine. "Bien, I was the one who started to tell the Voyageur ! " Antoine answered Pierre's scowl. "Pierre! Antoine! Peace!" The Voyageur broke in warningly. "This is no place to be quarreling ! " Sheepishly the boys jumped out to kneel before the shrine. Then, when all had repeated prayers and the oxen were rested, they started out again. "Alio!" Pierre jumped. Antoine's head jerked up. They both had been dozing. It must have been the hot sun and the way the cart jolted and rocked, Pierre decided. Sieur Turpin pulled his cart up by theirs. "Eh, la, there are the beasts," he said, pointing. There they were indeed. Hundreds of cattle, grazing quietly across the prairie and on the riverbanks like one of the great buffalo herds. And Pierre knew that the cat- tle were nearly as wild as the buffalo, too, though usually they weren't so hard to capture. 74 Pierre of Kas\as\ia "Well, this is a good spot to tie up." Sieur Dubois drove into a clump of oaks and willows that fringed a thin prairie stream. The rest of the men tethered their horses close by. Antoine was out of the cart first. "Here," he called to his friend, "hand me the salt and the ropes." As soon as each man had his lasso and chunk of salt, everyone set off in a different direction except the Voy- ageur, who had never rounded up cattle before. He stayed with Sieur Dubois. "Keep close to me, Pierre, Antoine," Sieur Dubois ordered. "Don't make any more noise than you can help. We don't want to frighten the animals away." Near a small knoll Sieur Dubois halted. "That young steer out there looks like a good one. We'll have a try at catching him. Which of you wants to put the salt down?" "Let me," both of the boys begged. Sieur Dubois chuckled. "I guess both of you can help. Come along. But no talking." They stopped at a spot where the grass was eaten off short. "Put the cake of salt down there," he said. Then he laid a rope noose down around it and spread the rope out a foot or so on all sides. "Now, m'sieu, we'll take this end of the rope and go back to that thicket," he explained in a low voice to the Voyageur. "Careful, boys. Don't move that rope. I want it just so." Pierre of Kas\as\ia 75 The four of them backed silently into the bushes and lay down. Sieur Dubois kept a tight hold on the rope. Pierre and Antoine held their breath. "He's coming up to the salt," whispered Pierre finally. "Now he's stopping." "He's afraid it's a trap," Antoine whispered back. "No, he's going up to the salt again ! " "There, his forefeet are inside the noose. See, he's licking the salt. He likes it." "That's because there isn't any lick on this side of the river where the cattle can get salt." Sieur Dubois pulled the rope slowly toward him. The noose, one side of which he had looped around a near-by stake, pulled together about the steer's front legs. "Houp-la\" he exclaimed. "I have him now." With a jerk, he tightened the rope and the surprised beast found himself caught fast. "He's going to get away!" Antoine shouted. "Father will get him! Come along!" Pierre jumped to his feet. Sieur Dubois approached the bellowing steer carefully, keeping well away from the flying hoofs. Suddenly he lunged and caught hold of the short horns. Quickly he slipped a rope collar around the animal's neck. Then as swiftly he slid the noose free from its legs. "You two — " Sieur Dubois was panting with the hot j6 Pierre of Kas\as\ia work — "take this rope and lead him over to the trees. I'll stay behind and see that he follows. Watch now ! The rope will be hard to hold." His father was right. Pierre had all he could do to keep hold of the rope. Antoine was having just as hard a time. Even with the Voyageur helping it was a hard job. From behind, his father goaded the animal with a slender switch. "We have him ! " Pierre shouted finally. "We'll have him tied to the tree in half a minute," Antoine added. But all at once the steer bellowed with fright. He flung his hind hoofs straight back, catching Sieur Dubois in the pit of his stomach and sending him rolling. "Watch out!" The Voyageur jumped for the rope as the bucking animal jerked it from their hands. Pierre stumbled and fell hard. Antoine made a vain grab for the rope. "Keep away, Antoine ! " the Voyageur ordered. "He'll catch you with his hoofs ! " "M'sieu, you can't hold him!" "Do as I say ! Keep away now ! " The steer jumped and pulled. But the Voyageur managed to stay on his feet. Then the wild beast swerved, so quickly the Voyageur didn't have time to get away. Half a dozen times the long rope wound around his legs. Pierre of Kas\askja 77 "He'll be killed! "Pierre cried. The Voyageur was helpless as the steer dragged him over the ground. "Here come the others!" Antoine called excitedly. "And Sieur Chauvin has a gun!" But he didn't have to use it. Head down, the steer ran right into the midst of the men. Sieur Turpin grabbed his head on one side. Sieur Chauvin grabbed his horns. The rest got hold of the rope. Among them they stopped the steer. Then, they cut the rope from the Voyageur's legs. The steer, with a bellow, loped away toward the river. "M'sieu!" Sieur Dubois had got his breath back. "M'sieu, you are hurt badly ! " The Voyageur's shirt was torn into little strips and his 78 Pierre of Kas\as\ia legs were cut and bleeding. He wiped his scratched face with the back of his dirty hand. "Eh, la" he half-laughed, "not too badly hurt, I think. I am still in one piece, am I not?" He sat up. "Except my leg," he added with a little groan. Sieur Dubois ran his fingers along the bone. "I think it is only bruised. It is a miracle, m'sieu, that it is not broken." " Tis a miracle you were not killed." Sieur LaFleur shook his head. "Your good angel must, of a certainty, be watching over you." "You should go back to the village " Sieur Dubois was thinking out loud. "Father, Antoine and I can take the Voyageur back in the wagon. I know how to drive the oxen." Pierre waited impatiently. It wasn't often he had a chance to drive the oxcart. And the Voyageur surely wouldn't feel like waiting until the rest of the cattle were rounded up to go back to the village. "Well, now " Sieur Dubois began. "Halloa, what's this?" "Soldiers!" Pierre cried out. "Soldiers from the fort." "They're coming across the field to us," Antoine added. "What do you suppose they want?" But suddenly Pierre was very sure that he knew. Pierre of Kas\as\ia 79 "We'll find out soon enough," Sieur Dubois answered. "They're almost upon us." Just then the nearest soldier called out, "Are you Sieur Dubois?" Pierre stared curiously at the men. "They look like galley slaves," he whispered to his friend. "Maybe they are," Antoine whispered back. "Father says the King sends lot of men off prison ships to Louisi- ana as soldiers." Pierre knew what his father thought of the soldiers at the fort. They were a rowdy lot, always making trouble in the village. And likely as not to steal a man's horse, or the coat off his back. "Bien, now you have found us, state your business." Sieur Dubois sounded gruff. "You Sieur Dubois?" the leader asked again. "Yes." "You have a lodger " "He calls himself Louis le Parisien," put in one of the other soldiers. The Voyageur spoke up. "I am that man. What do you wish?" "We have orders to arrest you." The speaker walked over to the Voyageur, still sitting on the grass. "Come along now. Get started for the fort." 80 Pierre of Kas\as\ia The Voyageur didn't move. "Come along!" The second soldier moved threaten- ingly toward the Voyageur. Sieur Dubois put out his hand. "Wait a moment. Why are you arresting him?" "He is an English spy." Pierre glanced quickly at the Voyageur. He thought the Voyageur looked pale. But probably that was from the accident. "An English spy!" Sieur Dubois bit the words off. "Every stranger in the country is an English spy ! " He turned to the Voyageur. "And what do you say, m'sieu?" The Voyageur shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands impatiently. "What good would it do to deny it? These men have their orders." "Well, he is a man of sense ! " the first soldier sneered. "Strange to find an Englishman sensible. Come along then," he added, grabbing the Voyageur's arm. "The fort's a good long way and we've not got all day." Stiffly the Voyageur stood up. "But, Father," Pierre put in, "he can't walk all the way back to the fort." Sieur Dubois stopped the soldier. "The man has had an accident. A wild steer dragged him. He is badly 'bruised. Let me take him back to my house. When he is well, I will bring him myself to the Commandant." Pierre of Kas\as\ia 81 "And what would keep him from getting away?" "If I gave my word ..." the Voyageur suggested. "He could not get far, bruised as he is," explained Sieur Dubois. "What good is the word of an Englishman? And you habitants, how good is your word?" The soldier sneered 82 Pierre of Kas\as\ia again. "You obey the Commandant as if you were English yourselves. No, Sieur Dubois, he shall go with us. A walk will do him good." He gave a nasty little laugh. "A walk will keep him from getting stiff. These English dogs," he said, and gave the Voyageur a shove with his musket, "these English dogs think they are so strong. Well, we shall see just how strong this one is." "But " Pierre protested. The Voyageur turned. "Don't worry, lad. The soldier is right. The walk will do me good. And perhaps they will not hold me so long at the fort." JLather, do you think the Voyageur is an English spy?" Pierre stepped up to lay a new log on the campfire. The wild cattle had all been rounded up and driven into an enclosure of posts. Tomorrow the men would drive them into Kaskaskia. Awhile ago the faint voice of Denis, borne on the south wind, had called them to their evening prayers. Now everyone was resting around the fire. A thin column of steam rose from the kettle of sagamite, the corn mush that cooked for their supper. "Faith, lad, that's the dozenth time you've asked that question ! How could one know whether he is a spy or not?" "He says he comes from Paris, does he not?" Sieur Mercier asked. Sieur Mercier was a blacksmith at Fort de Chartres. He had been on his way home from Kaskaskia when they had asked him to stop and eat with them. Pierre answered, "He says he is Louis of Paris." Sieur Mercier stared into the fire. "It is strange. When the bell was baptized, I saw the man. And I was sure that I had seen him someplace before." 83 84 Pierre of Kas\as\ia "You know him?" Pierre asked excitedly. "Mais non, Pierre." Sieur Mercier smiled. "I said I was sure I had seen him. But where I do not know. Paris is a very large city. ..." "You mean you think you saw him in Paris?" "Well, I have not been long in New France myself. And if this Voyageur of yours has come just now from Paris, then it must have been there." Sieur Mercier rubbed the stem of his pipe behind his ear. "But of course," he admitted, "it may only be that he resembles someone else." "The Commandant had him arrested for being an English spy." "Bien, spy he could be," Sieur Chauvin commented. Pierre looked at his father. "But, Father, why?" "Why a spy?" Sieur Dubois leaned back against one of the heavy wheels of the cart. "Why, because England would like to know how strong our King's western posts are." "So the English soldiers could take them away from us ! " Antoine declared. "Mais oui. That would suit the English fine ! " Sieur LaFleur joined in. "Would it not ! To have the whole rich valley of the Ohio for their own." "To have all the fine furs they could find there," added Sieur Chauvin. "How they would like that!" Pierre of Kas\askja 85 "But, Father, the Voyageur doesn't talk like an Englishman ! He talks like a Frenchman ! " "It could be, my son, that he is a Frenchman. And still an English spy. There are French in the English colonies that have no love for our King." "It could be he is from the Carolinas." Sieur Chauvin took a long pull on his pipe and went on, "I myself in my youth went beyond the eastern mountains into the English colonies and talked with many as French as we. But they had fled our country rather than worship God as we do. Huguenots, Protestants, they are." "If the Voyageur is an English spy," Antoine asked, "what will the Commandant do to him?" Sieur Dubois stirred the sagamite. "It is done, I think," he decided, tasting a bit of the corn mush from the side of the spoon. "Eh, la" he continued, as Pierre handed him a bowl from the wagon, "eh, la, Pierre, Antoine, can you talk of nothing else but the Voyageur and English spies? Truth, we have heard nothing save that since the soldiers took the Voyageur away! The Commandant will question the Voyageur, no doubt. And try him, perhaps, before the military court." "Or send him to New Orleans, to the Governor of Louisiana?" Pierre suggested. Sieur LaFleur grunted. "If I know our Commandant, he is more likely to hang the man first and ask questions 86 Pierre of Kas\as\ia afterward. It would look well in his official report — the execution of an English spy. He sees a spy in every stranger that comes into the country, anyway." "But I thought that everybody who came to the Illinois country had to have a permit from the Governor of Canada." "Or the Governor of Louisiana, if he comes from New Orleans," Antoine finished. "That is what the Fathers told us in class." The men around the fire smiled. That knowing smile of grownups, Pierre thought. The same kind of smile he saw on his parents' faces sometimes. As if I were a simpleton, he said to himself. His father dished up the last bowl of the sagamite. "That is the law, my son," he explained, taking a place on the ground beside Pierre. "Many persons, though, come into the country without permits. Some of us think the law a foolish one. And that is the only way we can show the Governor what we think — by refusing to obtain permits when we wish to travel." Sieur Chauvin nodded in agreement. "And even if we would, sometimes when we are ready to leave Quebec or New Orleans, the Governor has gone off somewhere and the other officials are away, too, and there is nobody around to issue the permit. It is not all our fault if we disobey the law." "He won't hang the Voyageur, will he, Father? The Pierre of Kas\as\ia 87 Commandant, I mean?" Pierre was worried. "Like Sieur LaFleur said?" "There has been enough talk, Pierre, about this Voy- ageur. It could be as Sieur LaFleur has said, for our Com- mandant is a strange man — not one who should be in command of men, I think. An ambitious man wanting only to impress those above him. But — " Pierre's father sighed — "there is nothing we can do, so let us have an end to all this. It is time we slept. Today has been hard. To- morrow will have its work also." Pierre lay down on the buffalo robe they had brought along, and pulled a second one over him. He closed his eyes. His father was right. Today had been a hard day. It was good to stretch full length and smell the sweet, damp grass all around. But he couldn't stop thinking about his friend. By now the Voyageur must be in the guardhouse at the fort where there was only the hard-packed dirt floor to lie on. Pierre remembered the time his father had gone to the fort on business and taken him. They had seen the guardhouse then. It wasn't a pleasant place. Had the Commandant questioned the Voyageur yet? Or would he do that in the morning? Or . . . Pierre didn't want to remember what Sieur LaFleur had said. Surely the Commandant wouldn't hang the Voyageur. He couldn't. "Hang him. Hang him. Hang him." The words went 88 Pierre of Kas\as\ia round and round Pierre's brain. He couldn't stop think- ing. He couldn't stop seeing the Voyageur hanging on the scaffold that stood by the far gate of the fort. And when he opened his eyes, the bare branches of the distant trees against the full moon made shapes like scaffolds. When Pierre closed his eyes he saw the scaffold at the fort again, and the face of the Voyageur. No, not the face of the Voyageur. The face of Little Shoes. Little Shoes bending over him. Little Shoes say- ing something to him. Pierre sat up. It was Little Shoes. "Wh— ?" Little Shoes laid a strong hand across Pierre's mouth and shook his head. He pointed toward the grove of trees in the direction of the Indian village. Then he straightened up and beckoned Pierre to follow him. Pierre looked at Antoine, still asleep on the buffalo robe, and then at Little Shoes. Little Shoes shook his head again. "You come," he whispered. "Not Antoine." Pierre glanced around again. His father and the rest of the men were sleeping soundly near the smoldering embers. Antoine hadn't moved. Pierre wondered if he himself were dreaming. But there was Little Shoes, already beyond the circle of men, still beckoning to him to follow. Pierre picked his way quietly around the fire. Little Shoes was still ahead. Pierre hurried to catch up. Little Pierre of Kas\as\ia 8 9 Shoes was moving faster now. Once or twice he looked back to see if his friend was coming, then moved even faster. Pierre felt as if he were following a shadow that slipped over the broad prairie, still and quiet in the moon- light. The grove of trees that bordered the Little River was closer now. Pierre could see the separate trunks, the coil- ing grapevines that laced back and forth through the tops. And Little Shoes had stopped. Pierre had to wait to catch his breath. "What ..." He could hardly get the words out. "What ..." he tried again. 90 Pierre of Kas\as\ia But Little Shoes had moved off again — down the cattle path by the riverbank. Little Shoes wasn't waiting. Pierre sputtered. He might let people catch up with him. Why did he have to act like an Indian, anyway? Little Shoes stepped out of sight, right by the big boulder that marked the turn in the path. Was he going on down the path? Pierre was running now. His mocas- sins made a flat pat-pat on the hard ground. Pierre came around the boulder. And there was Little Shoes kneeling beside something, something almost hid- den by the tall grass and the overhanging vines. Little Shoes looked around and pointed. "Him Voyageur!" It was the Voyageur ! Lying in the shadows with his eyes closed. Pierre went down on his knees beside Little Shoes. "Is he dead?" "Not dead. Sick. Evil spirits in him. Burn him." Pierre touched the Voyageur's hand, then his forehead. Little Shoes was right. The Voyageur had a fever. He was muttering. Pierre listened but he couldn't under- stand the words. "He must have escaped from the soldiers!" "That not hard. Soldiers stop to talk, maybe. Easy to get away." "He could hide in the tall grass. The soldiers would never find him." Pierre of Kas\as\ia 91 Little Shoes agreed. "Easy to get lost on prairie. Even Indian horse sometime get lost." "He could hide in the grass until it was dark. And then get away." Pierre went on figuring. "That must have been what he did." "Him sick," Little Shoes repeated. "He must have been hurt more than we thought." "Hurt inside, maybe." "We've got to help him. And hide him, so the soldiers won't find him and take him back to the fort." "Could hide in Indian village. Not far. Plenty of place there if soldier come." "Only how are we going to get him there? We can't carry him." Both boys were silent, thinking. Suddenly Pierre had an idea. "Father Francois ! We could ask him to help us. He knows all about medicine." "Him have brother in Indian village. Know Indian medicine too." "That's what we'll do!" Pierre decided. "You go to Kaskaskia and get Father Francois. I'll stay here with the Voyageur and watch." Little Shoes looked at the Voyageur and at his friend. Then, without saying a word, he was off down the river path and out of sight. 92 Pierre of Kas\as\ia Pierre leaned against the boulder. Without being seen himself, he could see if any soldiers came along the path. If they did, he could back into the underbrush. In the shadows that lay heavy across the path, they'd not be likely to see him or the Voyageur. If the Voyageur didn't move. Or make any sound. Right now, he was doing both. Moving as if something were bothering him. Trying to say something, though his eyes were still closed. Pierre leaned over. "Must tell . . . must ..." Pierre tried to make out the words. "Must tell ..." That was all the boy could understand. The Voyageur must tell somebody something. Strange! What was it that he had to tell? And to whom did he have to tell it? Was he really an English spy? Now the Voyageur was quiet again, no longer mutter- ing or moving about. Pierre waited, thinking all kinds of thoughts, but mostly about the soldiers. They must be out looking for the Voyageur. They wouldn't be very far away either, probably. The Voyageur must have got away from them soon after they'd arrested him. Pierre peered anxiously up and down the path. It must be almost time for Little Shoes to be getting back. How long would it take him to go to Kaskaskia? Half an hour perhaps? It seemed more than an hour Pierre of Kas\askja 93 since he'd left. Maybe he had had trouble finding Father Francois. At this time of night, Father Francois ought to be sleeping at the Jesuits' house. But perhaps somebody had been sick and needed a priest. Father Francois just had to be in the village. He had to come back with Little Shoes. He was the nicest of all the priests at Kaskaskia. Maybe that was because he'd been born and had grown up there. He wasn't like Father Tartarin and Father Simon, who had come from France and who were awfully strict about things like learning the catechism exactly right. Father Francois didn't mind if the boys got a few words out of place. Somehow he seemed to know God much better, too. He was always talking as if the good God was a friend of his and was walking right along beside him. What was that? Pierre held his breath. Someone was coming up the path. He'd learned from Little Shoes the trick of hearing even a twig breaking underfoot. He slid back into the bushes and waited. He hardly dared breathe. Then he saw Little Shoes and Father Francois coming into a path of moonlight. In a moment the priest was I kneeling beside the Voyageur, feeling his hot skin, run- ning his long slender fingers over the Voyageur's body. Pierre and Little Shoes watched anxiously. "Is he badly hurt?" Pierre finally could stand the 94 Pierre of Kas\askja silence no longer. "Father and the other men didn't think he was. Father said there weren't any bones broken. Just that he was bruised." "Mais non, Pierre," Father Francois answered. "I think it was not the accident that makes the trouble. I think it is the marsh fever your Voyageur has. 'Twould not be strange, for this is the time of the year for it and he has not been long in the country. It would be stranger if he did not get it." Pierre nodded. He knew about marsh fever. There were always many in the village sick with it in the fall of the year. Especially when the weather was as wet as it Pierre of Kas\askja 95 had been this fall. Anybody could get it. One minute you'd feel fine; the next you'd be awfully sick. Pierre had had it himself last year. He knew about marsh fever. "What will you do?" "With the Voyageur?" Father Francois asked. "That is the question I have been trying to answer. Little Shoes told me how the man escaped from the soldiers and how he found him tonight. I should call the Kaskaskia guard." "But, Father Francois," Pierre protested, "what if the Voyageur isn't a spy? The Commandant thinks he is. And he'll hang him first and then ask questions." "What's this? About hanging?" Pierre explained. "That's what Sieur LaFleur said. And my father said, yes, the Commandant might do that." Father Francois considered. "It might be as your fa- ther says. At least, I have heard our Commandant is given to making hasty judgments. For myself, I do not know since I have been in Quebec these last few months." "The Voyageur's too nice to be a spy ! " "Him friend," Little Shoes commented. "Antoine's father says he's certain the Voyageur is a spy. Antoine says his father says English traders are stirring up the Indians along the Ohio River to attack Frenchmen. He says it was Englishmen who made the Indians kill that family last month, the family that was 96 Pierre of Kas\as\ia coming from Quebec to the Illinois country. He says he thinks the Voyageur is one of those Englishmen ! An- tione says his father says the Voyageur has probably come to stir up the Indians against the French here!" "Kaskaskia Indians friends of Frenchmen." "They are indeed, Little Shoes," Father Francois agreed. "As they have been ever since my mother per- suaded her father, the Chief Rouensa, and all our tribe to listen to the words of the Black Gowns about the good God." "Mother buried in church," Little Shoes added. He knew the story as well as anybody. Father Francois' mother had married a French fur trader and lived with the French until she died. Then, to honor her, the priests had buried her inside the church, under her bench. Just remembering what Antoine had said made Pierre angry. Antoine's father didn't know any more than the Commandant did whether the Voyageur was a spy. "The Voyageur isn't any English spy!" he sputtered angrily. "I think," he added. Father Francois heard him whisper the last words. He laid his hand over Pierre's. "Believe in your Voyageur, my son. It is good to believe in our friends until we know they are false. Because there is something mysterious about this Voyageur, 'tis no reason to think he is a spy. Pierre of Kas\as)(ia 97 There may be another explanation for his actions. We will wait and see. Until he is well, at any rate." "You won't tell the soldiers?" For a long minute the priest said nothing. Finally he shook his head. "Perhaps I am being foolish," he said. "I do not know this Voyageur. Only what you and Lit- tle Shoes have told me. I think he is no common river boatman. He bears no mark of heavy work on his hands. Nor does he speak like a man without education. And from what I have heard, our Commandant is a stern man, hard to convince and violent. I think, if he should seize me, I, too, should try to escape. Let us leave it to the good God. And may He forgive me if I do wrong," he added, raising his eyes to the moonlit sky and crossing himself. "But come," Father Francois continued, rising to his feet. "We must be getting him to the Indian village. He must have a drink of bark medicine quickly and warm coverings." While he spoke, he lifted the unconscious Voyageur as easily as if he had been a child, and laid him across his shoulders. Pierre started ahead, down the forest path. The Indian village was only a little distance up the river. "Pierre." Father Francois stopped him. "It would be best, perhaps, if you would go back to the camp." "But, Father Francois . . ." Then Pierre stopped. He 98 Pierre of Kas\as\ia did want to go to the village. He wanted to see the Voyageur safely hidden away. But if his father, or any of the men, or Antoine, waked up and found him gone . . . "They'd all start looking for me!" he finished out loud. "And then they'd find the Voyageur, too!" That was what Father Francois was thinking. He could help the Voyageur better by going back to camp now! "Another day I can come. Isn't that right, Father Francois?" He smiled. "Another day, Pierre." 7 IP -LLierre wished something would happen! Then Fa- ther Simon would have to leave. Then school would be out. He almost wished Denis would begin tolling. Not that Pierre wanted anybody to be dying. But if someone was sick and was going to die anyway . Denis would start ringing very slowly and sadly. Then Father Simon would have to go. Right now all the other priests were out of town among the Indians, or on business to one of the near-by villages, and a dying person had to have a priest to give the last sacrament. Denis would toll all the time; and everybody that heard would start pray- ing for the person who was dying. If it were a man, Denis would ring longer than if it were a woman dying, because men needed more prayers to get them into heaven. Pierre squirmed on his bench. He guessed he didn't really want anybody to die. But he did wish Father Simon would get through. The sun was out now but it might be raining by afternoon. That was all it had done all week— rain. Not the gentle fall rains Kaskaskia usually had, but downpours, cloudbursts. The Little 99 ioo Pierre of Kaskas\ia River was at the top of its banks and the streets were like rivers themselves. Nobody had gone out if he didn't have to. Pierre hadn't wanted to stay in. He'd wanted to go to the Indian village, to see the Voyageur. Of course, Little Shoes had told him each day how the Voyageur was getting over the marsh fever. But Pierre wanted to talk to the Voyageur. "Please, Mother," he had asked every day, "please, Mother . . ." "Little Shoes is an Indian," she had replied. Just as if that settled everything. Little Shoes could go out in the rain if he wanted to. Pierre had to stay home and stay inside. He didn't dare tell his mother about the secret either. He and Little Shoes and Father Francois were the only ones who knew where the Voyageur was. Everybody was wondering what had happened to him, though. Antoine was sure the Voyageur was a spy now. "If the man wasn't a spy, why did he run away?" Antoine kept asking. "Father says . . ." Pierre was tired of hearing what Antoine' s father had said. He looked over at Antoine on the next bench. Antoine wasn't so smart. His father didn't know so much. Father Francois didn't think the Voyageur was a spy. . . . Pierre of Kas\as\ia 101 Wouldn't Father Simon ever be through with the geography lesson? There wasn't any regular school building in Kaskaskia so the priests sometimes held classes in their own house, sometimes in one of the vil- lagers' homes. And this morning class was in Pierre's home. Antoine and Little Shoes and Jacques and Raphael Beauvais and Jean Baptiste Richard and Robert Bien- venue and the four Olivier brothers — Laurent and Charles and Richard and Alexandre — were all there. There weren't any girls. The girls didn't go at all, except long enough to learn the catechism and how to write their names. They had to learn how to bake bread and roast venison and sew and do all the other household tasks. They didn't have time to go to school. Many of the Kaskaskia boys didn't go either. They went only if their fathers paid the priests for teaching them. The priests taught Little Shoes without being paid, because he was an Indian. Most of the time Pierre liked school. Someday, he often thought, if I learn my lessons very well . . . He remem- bered telling the Voyageur, "When I am grown, m'sieu, I shall go to Quebec and New Orleans and New York and maybe even to Paris ! " But this morning ! How he wished school were over ! He screwed around on the bench and stared out the 102 Pierre of Kas\as\ia window. The sun was still shining. But he couldn't be sure. There might be clouds coming up in the west. He wished the geography lesson were over. He wished class were over. He wished Father Simon would stop talking. In fact, he wished right now there weren't any such thing as school. All he could think about was the Voyageur. He hadn't seen the Voyageur for almost a week now, because of the rain. And it had been two weeks since the roundup and the exciting night Little Shoes had found the Voyageur by the river path. Little Shoes said the Voyageur was almost well and the bark medicine had cured him of the fever. The sol- diers hadn't searched the Indian village yet, either. They had searched most of Kaskaskia, though. . . . "Pierre!" He jumped. His little leather-bound atlas slipped out of his hands. Antoine snickered. "Pierre." Father Simon was calling him. "Pierre, what is the name of the river which flows through Paris?" "River? Paris?" He tried to remember what they were studying about. "Eh, bien, Pierre, tell us what interests you so much out the window." Father Simon was cross. He didn't like day dreamers. "The sun, I suppose? Since we haven't seen it for a week now?" Pierre of Kas\askja 103 Antoine snickered again. So did some of the other boys. "I — I was . . . just — just thinking, Reverend Father," Pierre stammered, red-faced. "Not about the geography lesson. That is obvious," Father Simon scolded. Then he stopped. For Denis had begun to ring. It was noon. Class was over. At last! The boys stood up. Together they repeated the Hail Mary and the Our Father before Denis stopped ringing. Pierre could hardly wait for dinner to be over, in spite of the fact that he dearly loved the huge onion sand- wiches his mother had fixed, and the meat stew, and the spicy pumpkin pie. It seemed hours before he could go out with Little Shoes. They picked their way along the path. "Ugh ! Mud ! " Pierre grinned. As usual Little Shoes had understated the case. Walking down the path was like walking on the bottom of a muddy creek. Not that it bothered Pierre. He had left his moccasins at home and was barefoot. And he was thinking so hard about the Voyageur he hardly noticed the mud. Ever since the night of the roundup, Pierre had been figuring. If the Voyageur weren't a spy, what could he be doing in the Illinois country? Wasn't he really a voyageur? Pierre remembered what Father Francois had said that night — "His hands bear no marks of heavy 104 Pierre of Kas\as\ia work." It was true. The Voyageur had long, slender hands. They were fine hands, not rough and knotted and scarred like a real voyageur s. And he spoke French like Father Tartarin and Father Simon, as if he had had a good education. No, the Voyageur was plainly something more than a boatman. And if he weren't a spy, why had he drawn that map of Kaskaskia? And why had he been so inter- ested in how many people lived in the village, and how many houses there were? And going up on top of the cliff that afternoon ... he must have heard the talk in the village that the King intended to build a fort up there. And the way he had talked back to the Commandant . . . "There village." Little Shoes interrupted Pierre's thoughts. He hadn't realized how close they were. But here were the cabins clustered on the edge of the grove and the prairie. Here was the Indian village of the Kaskaskias. "Rains hard on cabins," Little Shoes remarked. Pierre nodded. Some of the woven rush mats had been washed right off the oval framework of saplings to which they had been fastened. Pierre counted half a dozen cabins with wide holes in their sides. He never could understand why Little Shoes liked to live in a house like that. Whenever there was hard rain, it wasn't much drier inside than outside. And in the Pierre of Kas\as\ia 105 winter the animals in his father's stable were warmer than the Indians in their cabins. "Voyageur in there." Little Shoes pointed to the long cabin in front of them. Pierre lifted the wolfskin that covered the entrance. The cabin was dark and gloomy and smoky. In the dim light he saw the Voyageur at the far end, leaning against a stout post. "M'sieu — " Pierre almost blurted it out — "M'sieu, who are you?" The Voyageur chuckled, and his grin made two deep lines in his cheeks. "Eh, Id, Pierre, so finally you must ask. I have seen the question in your eyes since the day I came to your home as a lodger. But pray, why now are you bold enough to speak?" he asked teasingly. With one toe Pierre traced a circle in the dirt floor. Now that the question was out, he was a little embar- rassed. He could almost hear his mother's voice: "The Voyageur is our guest. And if he wanted us to know more about himself, he would tell us. What he has said is enough — that he wants to see the Illinois country. That he is a voyageur. In this new country one need not know all about his neighbor's reasons for leaving France. In- deed, it is better sometimes if we do not know. For we all begin new here." "Pierre?" The Voyageur put a question into the name. 106 Pierre of Kas\as\ia "Because — because m'sieu," Pierre rushed on, "be- cause of all that has happened. Because the Commandant is searching for you. Because he has a big notice on the door of the church in Kaskaskia about you. Because — " Pierre stopped a minute, then went on — "because of the golden cross that fell out of your box when I dropped it that day." He hadn't intended to say that last. But the words were out finally. And he was glad. "Many men come from Paris to settle in the Illinois country, Pierre, do they not?" "Mais oui, m'sieu." "And you want to know more?" "Yes, m'sieu. Why did you come to the Illinois country?" The Voyageur thought a moment. Then he answered, "Because of something that happened when I was a boy, Pierre, a boy about your size." "Yes, m'sieu?" Pierre caught his breath. "I was born in Paris, Pierre, and grew up there. And one day in the home of some friends of my father I saw some Indians." "Indians in Paris?" "Indians, Pierre. From the Illinois country. Eleven of them — five women and six men. Nobody had ever seen such a sight. Not even my father, who had traveled many places. They were tall and brown. Not the color of the Pierre of Kas\as\ia 107 Spanish slaves we sometimes saw but rich golden brown. Their hair was as black and soft as the night shadows, and straight. The men wore garlands, crowns, of bird feathers in their hair. I had never seen such feathers, Pierre." "Like our Kaskaskia Indians wear?" "But yes, such as you see all the time. But there was nothing like them in France. The Indians' bodies were covered with curious designs — birds and fishes and long jagged lines, tattooed and painted into their skin. And they wore collars and earrings of little stones, cut like precious gems — red and blue and white." "Little Shoes wears collars like that." "I walked around and around them. I thought they must be men and women from another world. I asked my father. He laughed. 'Mais non, my son,' he said, 'these are Indians. Men and women from land our King owns beyond the western sea. They live by a great river they call Mississip, which means in their language "Father of Waters."'" The Voyageur closed his eyes for a minute. He was still remembering, Pierre decided, those days when he was a boy, which must have been very long ago. "Then I talked to the priests who had come with the Indians. They told me about this beautiful country. One of them said it was 'an earthly Paradise.' They said there were great fields, prairies, wider than all the parks in 108 Pierre of Kas\as\ia Paris. And deep streams that were clear like crystal to the very bottom. They told me about the beaver, the strange little animal with the great tail whose fur was used to make the hats my father wore. About a great animal like a cow, only larger, with a hump on his back, and long straggly brown hair." "The buffalo? But, m'sieu, are there no beaver in Paris? Or buffalo? No prairies ?" The Voyageur chuckled again. "No, Pierre. Nothing like that. Paris is a great city with more people than there are in the whole of Louisiana." "Like Quebec?" "But much larger, Pierre, and many centuries older." "The King lives in Paris." "Eh, la, he does. Though much of the time he spends in the country on one of his great estates." "Have you ever seen the King, m'sieu?" "Mais oui, Pierre. All Paris has seen the King." Pierre was silent, trying to imagine what Paris might be like. Where there were no beaver or buffalo or prairies or Indians. Where the King lived. Truly, he would have to go to Paris someday. Suddenly Little Shoes was beside them. Pierre hadn't even realized that the Indian boy had gone out. "Soldiers come ! " he was saying. "Down the path from Kaskaskia." Pierre of Kas\askja 109 Pierre jumped up. "M'sieu! They are after you. You must hide!" He and Little Shoes helped the Voyageur to his feet. "I cannot go far, I fear. The fever is over, but my legs are very weak." "They'll search the cabins!" "This cabin have door in back. Go out. Soldiers not be able to see." Little Shoes held back the skin covering the opening. Outside Pierre looked around hurriedly. The Voyageur could not walk far enough to hide in the woods or even in the prairie grass. Nobody was around to help him either. Nobody . . . An Indian woman was taking the cabin next to them apart. It had been ruined by the rains. She was untying the mats made of rushes and piling them on the ground. "M'sieu," Pierre said suddenly, "you can hide under the mats ! Lie down quickly. We can pile them on top of you. The soldiers will never think of looking there!" Quickly Pierre and Little Shoes covered the Voyageur with the mats. "We'll have to leave a space for air." "Him hold breath, maybe. Soldiers not stay long." Pierre laid the last mat down. He hoped the pile didn't look suspicious. It was too late to do anything more now. The soldiers were already in sight. no Pierre of Kas\as\ia As if they had the same idea at the same time, Little Shoes and Pierre turned to the Indian woman. "We help." For once Pierre spoke as shortly as Little Shoes. The woman said nothing, but Pierre thought the gleam in her eyes was a smile. His fingers were clumsy as he untied the thongs that fastened the mats to the frame. Little Shoes had two mats off before Pierre had one. The soldiers were close now. Pierre turned to stare as if he had not even known they were around. They must be soldiers from the fort. They weren't the Kaskaskia guard. He didn't know any of them. That made it easier. He could play dumb. The sergeant came up. He was a burly, cruel-looking man with a long scar that pulled his nose to one side and lifted one corner of his lip. "You there ! " he thundered. Pierre let his mouth drop open. He didn't say anything. "You French boy. We're looking for a spy ! A white man — an Englishman. You seen any white man around this village?" Pierre kept his mouth open and pretended he couldn't speak. He pointed to his mouth and shook his head. The soldier grunted in disgust. He turned to Little Shoes and repeated his question. Little Shoes said nothing for a moment. Then he Pierre of Kas\as\ia in began talking . . . fast ... so fast the words seemed to tumble from his mouth ! Pierre's mouth really did hang open then. Little Shoes talking? Little Shoes talking as much as Pierre ever did? He must be dreaming! But Pierre had not the faintest idea what Little Shoes was saying, because he was speaking in his own language. H2 Pierre of Kas\as\ia The soldiers didn't understand either. For a minute more they stood. Then, glaring at the boys as if he would like to whip them both, the sergeant gave up. Pierre and Little Shoes watched the soldiers finish their search of the cabins. Half a dozen times some of them went past the pile of mats. Once the sergeant stooped and peered through the side of the cabin the Indian woman was taking apart. Pierre's heart rattled like a stone in a wooden shoe. He was sure the sergeant could hear it. But : no . . . with a scowl at him and Little Shoes, the sergeant turned away. In a few minutes more the soldiers had given up and marched away. The Voyageur had escaped them again ! p ILiERRE melted a hole on the frost-covered kitchen window with his finger and stared moodily out into the blizzard-swept world. Last week it had rained every day except that one when he and Little Shoes had helped the Voyageur hide from the soldiers. This week . . . ! Not rain, but snow. Five days of it, driven by winds that pounded out of the north. It was wet snow that piled up in huge drifts everywhere. It was so wet that he got soaked to the skin if he so much as stepped off the porch. It was too deep for even Little Shoes to come in. Pierre turned back to the room. Sieur Dubois, who had just come in, stamped the snow from his feet and backed up to the roaring fire on the hearth. " Tis like crossing the Little River on foot just to walk to the stable. A man could get no wetter." "The animals? How are they?" Madame Dubois looked up from the steaming kettle of broth she was stirring. "Eh bien, fine. Warm and dry in their straw, with no will to stir out ! " IX 3 114 Pierre of Kas\askja Pierre counted on his fingers. "Five days. Already this blizzard has lasted five days." "Never have I seen such weather." Sieur Dubois shook his head. "There was scarcely a week all fall when we did not have much rain. And now this snow. And 'tis hardly snow. If the wind should change suddenly and come from the south — why, the Little River would never carry off all the water. We should have a flood for certain." "Father?" "Yes, Pierre?" "Where do you suppose the Voyageur is?" He had started to ask if his father thought the Voyageur was still in the Indian village. He'd caught himself just in time. Sieur Dubois looked at his wife and sighed. Pierre heard the sigh. He knew what it meant but he didn't care. He was worried about the Voyageur even if his parents weren't. "Pierre, help me with this tray of bread," his mother ordered. She swung open the heavy wooden door of the hearth oven, and opened the smaller iron door inside. "Take hold of the paddle and draw it out slowly," she went on. "And, if you please, let us have a rest from the Voyageur. You tire us to death. We know no more than you. If the soldiers had found the Voyageur we would have heard of it, you may be sure." Pierre of Kaskaskja 115 "Very likely they have not been searching at all since the blizzard began," his father added. "And if it is true, as the Commandant says, that he is an English spy ..." "Father!" Sieur Dubois shrugged his shoulders. "I say only what half the village says, my son. Truth, I do not know what to think about the Voyageur. But if he is a spy, then he has no doubt left the Illinois country altogether, and we shall see him no more." Pierre said nothing. He went on thinking about the Voyageur, remembering the narrow escape the man had had from the soldiers last week. Surely his father was wrong. Why, the Voyageur's clothes, his trunk, his little leather box — they were still here. Pierre pulled out the long wooden shovel with its five narrow, crisp loaves. He lifted it to slide them onto the table. They slid onto the floor, instead. "Pierre!" That was his mother. "pierre ! " That was his father. Pierre went back to the window bench. Snow was still falling. For a long time there was no sound but the crackling of the logs on the fire, and occasionally the clank of the heavy iron stirring spoon on the side of the kettle. The way thoughts went whirling around inside Pierre's head, they should have made a noise, too. The little black n6 Pierre of Kas\as\ia box. He'd forgotten about it. There were papers in it. Papers besides the golden cross . . . unless the Voyageur had taken them out. The box was still in the room where the Voyageur had slept. If the Voyageur was gone, if he were truly a spy, if he weren't coming back, it wouldn't be wrong to look into the box and see what the papers said. Would it? He wondered if he dared ask his mother. Just then she spoke. "Helas! With the storm we almost forgot. Today is Ste. Barbara's day. We must plant some wheat." "That we must," his father agreed. "And hope that it will be thick and green by Christmas. Then we shall not fear that our crops next summer will not be thick also." Pierre pulled himself back from the Voyageur. "Does everybody plant wheat on Ste. Barbara's day?" he asked, watching his father go over to the bin in the corner of the kitchen. His mother looked at him questioningly a moment. Then she replied, "No. At home in Quebec your aunts and I brought in great branches of flowering trees and set them in pails of water. And if they bloomed by Christ- mas morning, it was a sign we would be married before another Ste. Barbara's day." "I like this better," Pierre commented gloomily. Madame Dubois laughed. "The charm does not work Pierre of Kas\as\ia 117 for men, my son. Only for girls. You will have to plant wheat with your father." "Here is a bit of grain." Sieur Dubois scooped up a handful from the bin. "The rest I stored away until spring." "And here is the yellow bowl we always use." Madame Dubois took a shallow crockery bowl from the buffet. "Pierre, take a fork and dig some soil out of the box of onion sprouts there on the window. You can get enough from the edge of the box." Pierre took the bowl and the fork. The soil was moist. It was as muddy as the path to the Indian village last week. With the bowl filled he started away from the box. Crash! His elbow caught the corner of the window box. Onions and wet earth littered the floor. "Pierre!" PIERRE ! Once again there was silence in the kitchen with only the crackling of a log to break it. Madame Dubois took the bowl without a word. Sieur Dubois sprinkled the handful of wheat in it. Pierre just stood. Hours later, it seemed, his father sighed. "Bien" he said, "we must have a prayer." The three of them bowed their heads and folded their hands. 1 1 8 Pierre of Kas\as\ia "In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost," Sieur Dubois repeated. "Amen," Madame Dubois finished, crossing herself. "Amen," Pierre added, and crossed himself. "Saint and Virgin, Holy Barbara," Sieur Dubois con- tinued, "look down upon thy humble servants. Bless us. And send the shining warmth of thy glory upon the grain we have planted in thy name, that our fields may be golden and full at harvesttime. Amen." "Amen." "Amen." Clang-clang. Clang-clang. Clang-clang. Denis' voice ringing midday was added to the "Amens." Madame Dubois looked up. "Even Denis prays with us," she said. "Take care of the Voyageur," Pierre whispered, half to Ste. Barbara, half to Denis. Perhaps Ste. Barbara didn't know the Voyageur, but Denis did. Ste. Barbara must have heard the prayer. About the wheat, anyway. For even in the sunless December days that followed the wheat sprouted quickly and the black soil in the bowl was hidden by a thick green carpet. About the Voyageur, nobody knew. At least, there was no news that the soldiers had found him. The placard was still on the church door where the Commandant had had it nailed. It offered a reward for the capture of the Pierre of Kas\as\ia 119 English spy. Snow, and sometimes rain, kept on falling, and none of the Indians, not even Little Shoes, came into Kaskaskia. But the season of Advent went quickly. Pierre had to admit that. There was much hustling and bustling to get ready for Christmas. Then all at once it was Christmas Eve, and everybody was on his way to church for Midnight Mass, wading through the soggy, drift-piled streets. Pierre was glad at Christmastime that the Dubois benches were near the front of the church. They were a good deal nearer than Antoine's family had theirs, he thought with satisfaction. He and Antoine weren't get- ting along well together any more, now that Antoine was so sure the Voyageur was a spy. From where Pierre sat, he could look right into the creche the Fathers had built on the altar steps. Father Francois had carved the figures of the Baby and the Virgin and St. Joseph from wood from trees along the river. There were woolly lambs, too. "See that one?" Pierre pointed it out to Marie Amable beside him. "Father Francois carved it," he whispered. "Then I fastened wool from our sheep on it." The other farm animals were all there, too. Pierre and Marie Amable loved to look at them : the gentle-eyed oxen on their knees, a funny round pig, a horse, a dog 120 Pierre of Kas\as\ia sitting up on his haunches to look over the edge of the manger at the Baby Christ in the straw. There were shep- herds also, and the figure of a little Indian boy. "Father Francois carved that, too. He carved it this fall. He said he thought the little Jesus would like to have an Indian boy at His cradle." "It looks like Little Shoes," Marie Amable whispered back. "Doesn't it?" Pierre looked again. He hadn't noticed before. But the figure did look like Little Shoes with his blue bead collar and the red feather in his black hair. "I like the star best of all." Pierre thought he did, too. It was such a wonderful one, a great, shining, silver, star-shaped shield fastened in front of a tall Christmas candle. The Mass was long and magnificent. The myriad candles burning on the altars and in the high, branched candlesticks flickered shorter and shorter. It was hard to keep up with the responses. Pierre kept forgetting. There were so many things to look at. The creche and the star and the candles. All the people, too. All of Kas- kaskia, dressed in their very best clothes. All the Indians from the Indian village were there, too. "I see Little Shoes." Marie Amable was looking at the people, too. Pierre of K.as\ashja 121 Pierre tried to locate him. "Where?" "There." Marie Amable nodded toward the far side of the church. "Over there in the shadows. 'Way over there. Don't you see him?" Pierre looked. Yes, he could see Little Shoes on his knees. Pierre looked again. "The Voyageur ! There's the Voyageur ! Beside Little Shoes!" "Sh." Marie Amable put her finger on her lips. Then she saw the Voyageur, too. "It is the Voyageur ! " It was a good thing the Mass was almost over, for Pierre couldn't pay attention to the service. He could hardly wait for Father Tartarin to pronounce the benediction. "Father, Father !" he said, pulling his father's sleeve. "]oyeux Noel, Neighbor Dubois!" Everybody was coming up to say Merry Christmas. Pierre pulled his father's sleeve again. "Father!" Sieur Dubois turned around, "Bien, my son, what is it?" "Father, there is the Voyageur, there with Little Shoes!" Sieur Dubois stared across the dim, crowded church. "Mais oui, it is indeed the Voyageur. He runs risks, coming to the village this way." "But the Commandant is not here tonight." 122 Pierre of Kas\as\ia "That is true. There was too much snow between here and the fort." Sieur Dubois looked around the church. "Nor do I see any of his officers." "I don't see any soldiers at all," Marie Amable put in. "Father, I'm going to speak to the Voyageur." "I shall also." Sieur Dubois pushed through the crowd. "M'sieu," he greeted the Voyageur, "]oyeux Noel." "]oyeux Noel, Sieur Dubois, and to you, Pierre and Marie Amable," the Voyageur replied with a smile. Sieur Dubois moved a bit closer. "M'sieu, you run risks coming here tonight." "Should stay in Indian village." Little Shoes spoke up for the first time. "But this is Christmas Eve ! And I was right. There was too much snow for the Commandant. Or his soldiers. Of course," the Voyageur added, "perhaps one of the villagers might turn me over to the soldiers." Sieur Dubois shook his head. "No danger of that this night, m'sieu. We like the Commandant no better than you," he added in a lower voice. "And besides, 'tis the birthday of Our Savior. This is a night to rejoice. M'sieu," he went on, "you must come home with us. For le reveillon, our Christmas breakfast." "Oh, yes, m'sieu, do come with us!" Pierre begged. "This is not the time to go back to the Indian village," Sieur Dubois went on, as the Voyageur hesitated. "And Pierre of Kas\as\ia 123 you will be safe enough with us. In the darkness no one will notice you going home. There will be only our family and friends. You need not fear them." "May Little Shoes come, too?" Pierre asked. "And I, may I come also?" Pierre looked up. Father Francois was standing close beside them. "But of course! Of course!" Sieur Dubois included both the Indian boy and the priest. The Voyageur smiled. "Merci, Sieur Dubois. Many thanks for your invitation. I shall come home with you." "You see, it is as I said it would be!" Sieur Dubois spoke to the Voyageur as they crossed the kitchen to stand by the warm fire. "It is Christmas Day. You are one of us." Pierre grinned. "We are certainly filling up the house ! " All the relatives were there. Aunt Pelagie and Uncle Pierre and Marie Amable and Uncle Louis and Uncle Jean and a whole flock of cousins. There were also some friends. Sieur Mercier from Fort de Chartres had come. He had been in Kaskaskia on business, and decided the snow was too heavy for him to try to get back to the fort. "Do you think everybody will be able to get in?" the Voyageur asked. "Who is that at the door?" Pierre laughed. "That is Cousin Timothe ! " 124 Pierre of Kas \as\ia The Voyageur chuckled. "He's having a hard time getting through, I would say." The house was full. Uncle Louis, laughing, said to nobody in particular, "We could hang the little ones on the rafters! That would give us a bit more room!" But Cousin Timothe was not one of the little ones. "He would make three big men," Pierre went on. "And now he's stuck in the door !" "Pretending, I think," put in Father Francois. "An ax! Get an ax!" Uncle Jean was shouting with laughter. "We shall have to chop down the door to let poor Timothe in!" "Ho! That you will not!" Cousin Timothe roared good-naturedly. He was used to everybody making fun of his size. It was something to be the very biggest man in the whole province. "I take a long breath, like this — " Cousin Timothe drew himself up — "and then I slide in . . . like this . . . sideways ! Ah, now where is the food?" "Go along with you." Madame Dubois shooed him away with her apron. "Breakfast is not yet ready. Not a bite do you get until it is ! Get along now ! " "A song, then!" Cousin Timothe turned back to the other room. "Get your fiddle, Jean!" he ordered. Uncle Jean perched himself on a little table in the corner and started. Pierre of Kas\askja 125 Willie, take your little drum, With your whistle, Robin, come ! When we hear the fife and drum, Ture-lure~lu, pata-pata-pan, When we hear the fife and drum, Christmas should be frolicsome. Thus the men of olden days Loved the King of kings to praise: When they hear the fife and drum, Ture-lure-lu, pata-pata-pan, When they hear the fife and drum, Sure our children won't be dumb ! God and men are now become More at one than fife and drum. When you hear the fife and drum, Ture-lure-lu, pata-pata-pan, When you hear the fife and drum, Dance, and make the village hum ! JJJJ i .rJJ f S*'S -Q-wt ?-+* ■UJjjJJ l Wj &£ ~Q- 126 Pierre of Kas\as\ia The Voyageur sat by the fireplace and listened for a while. Then he began singing, too. Pierre stopped singing to listen. Cousin Timothe stopped. Uncle Pierre stopped. Everybody stopped to listen. Uncle Jean was so amazed he almost forgot to keep on fiddling. "Parbleu ! Such a voice ! " Sieur Dubois exclaimed. "More, m'sieu, more!" Pierre begged when the Voya- geur came to the last line. "Yes, m'sieu, sing some more ! " "Like song ! " Even Little Shoes had said something. Uncle Jean played the song Pierre liked best. He had learned it almost as soon as he could talk, for all the villagers loved it. In that poor stable How charming Jesus lies, Words are not able To fathom his emprise ! No palace of a King Can show so rare a thing In history or fable As that of which we sing In that poor stable. "The Voyageur is a great singer!" Uncle Louis said. "Does anyone know who he is?" Pierre of Kas\askja 127 "Louis le Parisien, he calls himself," Father Francois answered. "Yes, Father, I know. But that means only Louis of Paris." Uncle Louis turned. "Do you know anything about him, Dubois?" Sieur Dubois took a long suck on his pipe. "No more than you." Pierre said, "The Commandant thinks he is an English spy-" "What's this? What's this? I have missed something?" "You were out on the hunt with the Indians when it all happened," Pierre explained. "Then the man runs great risks coming here to the village," Uncle Louis commented. "Some, of course," Sieur Dubois agreed, "but the sol- diers did not come down tonight from the fort. And we are all friends here." Sieur Mercier spoke up, glancing curiously at the Voya- geur across the room. "I am more certain than ever that I have seen the man. It bothers me not to know where. It is like a name on your tongue. You know it and yet cannot speak it." Just then Madame Dubois came to the doorway. "Ho!" Cousin Timothe was always shouting "Ho!" as if he had discovered a silver mine. "Ho ! Can it be the feast is waiting?" Pierre of Kas\as\ia 129 "It is, Timothy !" "But what a feast ! " the Voyageur exclaimed. There were bowls of steaming beef stew, plates of delicious pork chops, enormous platters of mutton and veal and venison and four of the very biggest roast tur- keys. Pierre counted them on his fingers. For dessert there were tempting-looking mince pies and dried-apple > pies, and heaps of sweet rolls, and deep bowls filled to their very brims with sugary waffles. Pierre ate and ate. So did the Voyageur and Uncle Louis and Cousin Timothe and Father Francois. Little Shoes, too. Finally nobody could eat a single bite more. Except Cousin Timothe, of course. He was still eating long after Pierre had swallowed the last waffle he could possibly get down. Cousin Timothe was still eating when Sieur Dubois at last lifted his wife's finest crystal goblet filled with sparkling red wine. "]oyeux Noel!" Sieur Dubois said. "A toast now, to the King!" "To the King ! " everybody repeated. "I think," said the Voyageur, as the toast was finished, "I think that I have eaten enough to last me a very long time. Perhaps till New Year's ! " e£* <-2* p** e*« e$» e*» e|K«U eig» e2« e&s e2»e^»e3»?2* c-2» &^p^^^^l*s^^^?J»e^e^9i^»e^9e^9 JLhe second day after Christmas the wind changed. At first Pierre hardly noticed the shift. All he could think of was his plan to see Sieur Mercier. Sieur Mercier knew the Voyageur ! Pierre had to talk to him. Maybe if they talked, Sieur Mercier would think of the man's name, would remember where he had seen the Voyageur. Pierre couldn't stand not knowing any longer. It was like one of those curious Chinese puzzles Father Tartarin had showed him; there were lots and lots of pieces and some had the same shapes and some were different, and if you knew the trick, you could put them all together to make a square box. Pierre had all kinds of pieces for the puzzle of the Voyageur: He had come on the fall convoy, the convoy that had brought Denis to the village. There was a gold cross of the Order of St. Louis in a little black box, along with some papers. The Voyageur was not really a voya- geur, not even a laborer; his hands proved that. He had a good education, his French was as good as the priests spoke. He asked all kinds of questions about the village 130 Pierre of Kaskaskja 131 of Kaskaskia ... he even drew a map. He wasn't afraid of the Commandant. . . . Pierre had gone over all the things he knew about the Voyageur until he was dizzy. He had made up his mind that he had to talk to Sieur Mercier. And since Sieur Mercier had gone back to Fort de Chartres, Pierre would have to go there to talk to him. "Go to Fort de Chartres?" his mother repeated unbe- lievingly when he asked her. "You want to go to Fort de Chartres?" "Mais oui. To see Sieur Mercier, to ask him about the Voyageur." "Do you realize that Fort de Chartres is twenty miles from here? And that the road to the fort is filled with drifts?" "Sieur Mercier came through all right two days before Christmas. Father has gone to Prairie du Rocher. That's almost as far. There's just as much snow." "Sieur Mercier and your father are men, and they had horses. Do you think you could walk? Why, you could not walk that in a day in good weather." Madame Dubois shook her head. "Pierre, sometimes I think . . . Can it be that my only child is a simpleton?" "But, Mother " "This I cannot understand," his mother went on. "Why is it you must find out who this Voyageur is? If 132 Pierre of Kas\as\ia he wanted you to know, surely he would have told you." "Perhaps he cannot prove who he is. Perhaps that is why. Perhaps he has lost his permit to come to the Illinois country. Or perhaps he doesn't have one. Sieur LaFleur says many men come to Illinois without permits from the Governor." "Eh, bien, and suppose that is true?" "Then perhaps Sieur Mercier can help him prove who he is. The Voyageur can come back to Kaskaskia. The soldiers won't be able to arrest him if he can prove he's not an English spy." "Do you not suppose the Voyageur heard what Sieur Mercier said? He could not have helped but hear Sieur Mercier say that he knew him. Sieur Mercier did not lower his voice when they talked before the fire on Christmas morning." Madame Dubois took the iron lantern with the pointed cap from the mantelpiece. "So," she finished, holding the lantern out to Pierre, "the Voyageur can himself talk to Sieur Mercier. As for you, Pierre, take this and see that the animals are safely bedded down in the straw. "Take care," she called after him. "The wind is strong." With the lighted lantern in his hand, Pierre hurried down the cobblestones to the stable. The night air was thick and wet and hot. The wind had changed as his Pierre of Kas\as\ia 133 father had feared it would. It would turn the banks of snow into water in a few hours. He came out again from the stable, and the shrieking wind, like a Fox Indian on the warpath, came howling from the forests south of the village. The lantern was twisted from his hand and hurled far into the darkness. When he swung the kitchen door open, the wind banged it against the side of the house; then slammed it back so that he fell halfway across the floor. Later he was glad to sink down in the deep feather bed and pull a comforter high around his head in spite of the warm night. He wanted to hide from the wind. Out- side the whine grew louder and louder. Wind whipped around the corners of the house, and now and then there was the clatter of a shingle being ripped from the roof. Suddenly Pierre woke up. He sat straight up in bed. Had his mother called? No. He listened. There was not a sound in the house, or if there were, the noise of the gale drowned it. Something had wakened him. Not the wind, for one was used to storm winds in Illinois. Pierre had a queer feeling, as if someone had spoken, or shouted to waken him. He listened again. The wind roared. For a moment it stopped. But that was only for a moment, to gather its breath. Then its whistling rose higher and higher. 134 Pierre of Kas\as\ia Now Pierre heard another sound. It was the voice of Denis, the bell, calling wildly. "Bong, bong, bong-bong!" Denis' deep voice rose now even above the wind. Some- thing was wrong. Denis had never rung in the middle of the night before. "Danger, danger, danger," cried Denis. Pierre jumped out of bed. He slipped into his leather breeches and pulled his capot, or hooded jacket, over his shoulders. He slipped his feet into his moccasins. "Pierre." His mother was at the door. "Pierre, you heard it, too? Denis, the bell?" "It was Denis that woke me up ! Something must be wrong. I'll go out into the street. Perhaps I can find out." Pierre ran to the door and lifted the latch. With his fa- ther gone, Pierre must look after his mother. His mother hurried after him. "I will go out, too," she said. With the wind pushing hard against the palisade gate, the two of them had all they could do to swing it open. "Pelagie!" Madame Dubois caught sight of her sister running toward the church. Aunt Pelagie stopped and turned around. Marie Am- able was with her. "What is the matter? Why is the bell ringing?" Pierre shouted. Pierre of Kas\as\ia 135 "Maybe it's an Indian attack," Marie Amable shouted back. "No!" Pierre was sure of that. "The Indians are out hunting. Even our enemies, the Foxes ! " Aunt Pelagie didn't know either. "I was asleep," she said, "and the bell ringing waked me ! " All along the street people were rushing out of their houses. Pierre could see the soldiers of the guard dashing out of their barracks, fastening their tunics as they ran. Everybody was running to the church. "Danger, danger, danger," warned Denis. The priests in their long black robes ran up the steps into the church. One of the soldiers had been ahead of them. Now he came back into the stormy night. "No one is ringing the bell," he cried. "No one ! " "The bell rings itself?" "Mais oui. There is no hand on the rope, yet Denis keeps ringing." Madame Dubois crossed herself. All the villagers in the square crossed themselves. "Danger, danger, danger," Denis was still calling above the sweep of the wind. Then suddenly, on the wind, came the thundering of a horse's hoofs flying over the road from the Indian vil- lage. The rider came out of the gray darkness. Tugging J 3 6 Pierre of Kas\as\ia and straining he reined to a stop in front of the church. Pierre tried to see who he was, but the night was too dark. "The Little River!" the rider shouted. "It is out of its banks ! It will flood the village ! " Pierre jumped. That voice ! The rider was the Voya- geur ! Pierre hardly heard the rest of the warning. "Already the Little River has flooded the Indian village. Get to the cliffs! You will have time, if you hurry!" Pierre of Kas\ashja 137 The villagers didn't stop to ask questions. There had been floods before. They did not often come at this time of the year but later, in February, when the ice broke up. This year the rivers hadn't even frozen. But nobody was surprised. Nobody had any time to be surprised. Everybody turned and headed for the riverbanks where their pirogues were. Except Pierre. He stood rooted to the spot. The Voya- geur would be arrested. The Kaskaskia guard would seize him. "Pierre! Pierre !" His mother grabbed his arm. "Are you daft? You heard! We must cross the Little River before the flood is upon us!" The Voyageur slipped from the Indian pony. "Get along, lad," he said in a gruff voice that wasn't his natural voice at all. "Get along with your mother." Madame Dubois hadn't recognized the Voyageur. "Merci, m'sieu. I do not know what to make of the boy. Pierre!" she ordered. Pierre turned then and ran. He hardly noticed where he was going, though. Once he slipped and fell headlong in the muddy street. Marie Amable and Madame Dubois and Aunt Pelagie ran beside him, holding their skirts high. Already the current in the Little River was running faster. 138 Pierre of Kas\as\ia "We will never be able to cross," Aunt Pelagie cried in despair. "The waters will carry us off!" "Silence," Madame Dubois ordered. "Help Pierre push the pirogue to the water's edge. We can only try. The good God will guide us safely to the other shore." Pierre took the pole from the bottom of the pirogue. The nose of the boat touched the water. The rushing flood caught it. Pierre jammed the pole into the bank, held the pirogue while his mother and aunt and cousin climbed in. By now there were other pirogues in the river. But even the men were almost powerless to guide them. The waters swirled faster and faster. Once, when their pirogue was whirling around like a windmill, Pierre caught sight of the Voyageur. Nobody was left on the bank except the Voyageur. He was shov- ing a clumsy, flat-bottomed craft out into the swollen river. It was the ferry they used to take cattle and horses across to the fields on the east bank of the Kaskaskia. Then Pierre lost sight of him. The current, faster than ever now, caught one of the pirogues beside them and sent it flying down the stream. Unless they touched the other bank in a few minutes . . . Pierre didn't dare think of what might happen. The power of the water nearly tore the pole from his hands. His arms ached worse than they had ached the day he'd Pierre of Kas\as\ia had to help his mother wash. With all his strength he pushed the pole into the river. With luck, he hit a mud bar not far beneath the surface. Marie Amable crossed herself and prayed to the Virgin. On the storm wind still came the booming voice of Denis, warning of the danger. And then their pirogue bumped and jarred into the far bank. Pierre jumped ashore and tugged the boat closer. His mother and Aunt Pelagie and Marie Amable crawled out. All of them helped pull and tug until the pirogue was well up on the rocks and lodged as tightly as possible between two boulders. "If we are lucky, the flood will not take it off," Pierre gasped. 140 Pierre of Kas\as\ia But the Voyageur — where was the Voyageur? The night was so wet and foggy Pierre couldn't see very far. The villagers were only shadows scrambling up the limestone cliffs to safety. There was Antoine running toward him. "Pierre!" he shouted. "Pierre," he repeated hoarsely. "Are you going to the top of the cliffs? My father says this is the worst flood he's ever seen at Kaskaskia. My father says ..." One of the Kaskaskia soldiers stopped. "You boys," he ordered, "get up to the top of the cliff." The boys turned around — and ran right into the man behind them. "M'sieu!" Pierre shouted. He caught himself just before he added "the Voyageur." "M'sieu!" Antoine recognized him, too. "M'sieu the Voyageur. Father said you had gone back to the English!" "Antoine, be still!" Pierre clamped his hand over Antoine's mouth. But it was already too late. The soldier who had just spoken had heard. "Voya- geur? English?" he yelled. He lunged for the Voyageur. Pierre dropped the pole he still held — right in front of the soldier. The soldier tripped and sprawled on the rocky ground. Pierre of Kas\as\ia 141 Angrily he got to his feet. But the Voyageur had disappeared into the dark. Pierre, who was almost too tired to grin, grinned. Antoine had almost spoiled things — almost, but not quite. The Voyageur was safe from the soldiers again ! A JTjx s quickly as the flood waters had swept in on the village, they drained away. Pierre, slipping and sliding around in the ooze, and sometimes almost getting bogged down in the knee-deep mud of the streets, collected all kinds of surprising things the flood had left behind. He and Marie Amable were having a contest. Antoine was collecting things also, but Pierre was not speaking to Antoine. It was not Antoine's fault that the Voyageur was not hanging at the end of a rope even now ! Now, two days before the New Year, Pierre already had quite a collection: a cartwheel, an Indian bow, an iron pot, a hunting knife, the mud-filled skull of a buffalo. The most surprising thing, though, he didn't find in the streets at all. And it wasn't a "thing" either. It was the Voyageur, sitting on Pierre's bed. "Bonjour" The Voyageur smiled. "I did not startle you, I hope. But when I found no one home, I came in, anyway." "Mais non, m'sieu." Pierre took a minute to get over his surprise. "You did not startle me. You are most wel- 142 Pierre of Kas\as\ia 143 come. My mother is helping Aunt Pelagie clean up from the flood. Father has gone down to the fields to see if there was damage to the little barn." "Pierre." "Yes, m'sieu?" "Pierre, you are going to burst with those questions." "Questions?" The Voyageur laughed. "Questions ! Every time I see you there are more questions in your eyes. You have had them since the day I arrived and this little box spilled open on your porch." He touched the box on his lap. Pierre stared. "But, but M'sieu, the box . . ." he stam- mered. "The box, Pierre? What about the box?" "The day after the flood, M'sieu, the Commandant's soldiers came. They searched the house and this room. Your trunk, M'sieu. Madame my mother tried to stop them. But she could not " "Well, so the Commandant sent his soldiers to search my belongings, did he? At that I am not surprised. I am only surprised that he did not do it sooner." "But, M'sieu . . ." Pierre was still staring at the box. "I was here — in this room — when they searched. And they found nothing. There was no black box. Only clothes in the trunk." The Voyageur grinned. "Ah, then perhaps I am a 144 Pierre of Kas\as\ia magician, eh, Pierre? Here," he went on, "look into this trunk." Pierre watched curiously as the Voyageur lifted out his clothes — a few coarse white shirts and a few pairs of heavy woolen breeches. Then the Voyageur was feeling in the corners of the trunk. "Behold, Pierre!" he exclaimed. "Behold, what you see is not really the bottom of the trunk. I will lift it out like this. . . ." The Voyageur straightened up, holding the bottom of the trunk. Only, just as he said, it wasn't the bottom of the trunk at all. It was a wooden cover that looked like the bottom of the trunk. And underneath was another whole layer. Pierre could see a piece of crimson cloth sticking out from under a worn jacket that was tucked over and around the pile. "See, Pierre — " the Voyageur pointed out — "the black box was here all the time. You can see even yet the place where it rested, there in the corner. I feared perhaps the soldiers would come. And to tell the truth, I was not sure my little box was safe even in its hiding place." "The soldiers are easy to fool, M'sieu," Pierre com- mented. Then he was silent. He did so want to ask the Voyageur another question! "Pierre, mon fils," the Voyageur laughed again. "You will burst with your questions. Bien, I think soon now Pierre of Kas\as\ia 145 you will know the answers. But first I think perhaps you can help me." "Help you, m'sieu?" The Voyageur took a folded paper from the little box. "This, Pierre, is my passport. But I am afraid now that I have angered the Commandant, and he is so sure that I am an English spy, he will accuse me of having forged it, or stolen it, perhaps. If there were somebody in the Illinois country who might recognize me and identify me " "Sieur Mercier ! He said he was sure he had seen you someplace else." "The man who was at your house for Christmas break- fast? I thought I heard him say that but I was not sure." " 'I am more certain that ever that I have seen the man.' " Pierre repeated Sieur Mercier's words. " 'It is like a name on your tongue. You know it and yet cannot speak it.' " Pierre went on, "That was not the first time, either, m'sieu. The night of the roundup he said he had seen you someplace." "Where does he live?" "In the village of Fort de Chartres, m'sieu." "Then I shall go to him and see if he can help. Do you know where in the village he lives?" "Right on the edge, on the road from Kaskaskia. I could show you, m'sieu ! " 146 Pierre of Kas\as\ia The Voyageur thought a minute. "Your parents? Would they allow you to go?" Pierre slid off the bed impatiently. "M'sieu, I am sure it would be all right." "We would not get back before tomorrow." "I shall leave a message for them. And we can take Father's horse." "That we cannot do, Pierre." The Voyageur put the passport in his jacket pocket. The box containing the cross he put back into the trunk. "Besides," he continued, straightening up, "I have an Indian horse that I borrowed from Little Shoes' father. He can carry us both." The Voyageur was right about not being able to get Pierre of Kas\as\ia 147 back to Kaskaskia before the next day. The road was as muddy as the river bed. Many times the Voyageur and Pierre turned from the road to the firmer prairie sod. Even then the horse had to pick his way carefully. Two or three times they had to take a roundabout path to avoid soldiers. Night came early, too, and traveling was even slower. But finally they reached Sieur Mercier's house. The Voyageur explained why he had come. For a long time the two men chatted. Pierre, stretched on a straw pallet before the fire, wondered if they were ever going to talk about the Voyageur. "You have not been long in the Illinois country, then," the Voyageur said. "No, m'sieu, I have been here only a year." "You like the country?" "Indeed, I never want to return to France. Here a man is free. Here he may hold his own land, with no one to tell him how he must plant his crops or to take the best grain of his harvest in rent." "And the Commandant?" "Bien, the Commandant." Sieur Mercier took a puff on his pipe. "I do not care for the Commandant, that is true. So haughty he is — as though he is of noble birth when he is no better than we. He likes to think he is a lord here — and the inhabitants his serfs to do whatever 148 Pierre of Kas\as\ia he wills. Stupid, too. No fit man to govern anywhere. Always talking about spies and letting the fort fall into ruin while he complains that the King won't send him enough money to repair it. Bah ! " Sieur Mercier almost spat the word. "Bah! I think he uses the King's money on clothes. More vain a man I have never seen. Ah, well," he went on, smiling, "you know how one can out- wit his soldiers. 'Tis not difficult, either, to escape from the prison of the fort. One needs only to dig beneath the walls. For the rest, we French do about as we please. There is not too much the Commandant can do to us. Mais oui, but we are free here in the Illinois country, in spite of the Commandant and his soldiers." That was the last Pierre remembered. The next thing he knew it was morning and the Voyageur was standing beside him. He scrambled up. "Bonjour, Pierre." The Voyageur smiled. "It is time we were returning to Kaskaskia. Sieur Mercier is going with us." Going back was even slower than coming had been. More rain had fallen in the night and the mud was deeper. Noon came and then it was afternoon and sha- dows were already falling across the drowned prairies. For a long time Pierre and the Voyageur and Sieur Mercier rode along in silence. Suddenly Pierre spoke. "M'sieu ! There is the village Pierre of Kas\as\ia 149 ahead. But see the men there where the road ends? They look like soldiers ! " "Hilasl They do look like soldiers!" "No doubt of it," Sieur Mercier agreed, pulling his horse to a stop. "We can go in by another road," Pierre suggested. "I know a way. Not a road exactly, a path across the prairie. We can go around and come into Kaskaskia from the south." The Voyageur turned to Sieur Mercier. "What do you think?" "M'sieu, that should be your decision. I do not doubt that they are waiting for you. Though you can prove your identity, there will be delay. Perhaps until tomor- row, if the captain of the guard is not about." "Then we shall take Pierre's path," the Voyageur decided. "After all," he said to the boy, "there is a ball at your house this evening, is there not? A New Year's Eve ball? We do not want to miss that!" Pierre pointed out the cattle trail crossing the road ahead. Carefully the Voyageur and Sieur Mercier guided their horses along it. "Bien, I am glad it is not darker," Sieur Mercier ex- claimed. "The path is all but invisible now." "And if it were much wetter," the Voyageur added, "the horses would be swimming ! " 150 Pierre of Kas\as\ia Pierre watched for the groves of trees that were land- marks. Trees and boulders and a fallen log. He and Little Shoes and Antoine knew every path that crossed the prairie west of the village. A clump of sycamores where the trail turned screened them from the soldiers. A few minutes later they were riding into Kaskaskia. They turned from the Street of the Church into the street that ran past Monsieur Turpin's house, and then into the street that ran past Pierre's house. "M'sieu!" "The Kaskaskia guard ! It fills the street in front of the Dubois house." "Pierre, you led us around one body of soldiers. ..." "M'sieu, if the soldiers have not found it, there is a small gate at the back, near the stable." "Men, we shall try that." At the gate Pierre slid from the horse. "Is it fastened on the inside?" Sieur Mercier whispered anxiously. "Oui, but there is a trick— a way." Pierre paused, pulled at a leather thong that barely showed between the logs. "A way of lifting the latch. There ! " He swung the gate open and fastened it quickly behind them. At the back door they waited a minute to listen. "Already the guests have come," Sieur Mercier said. "We could crawl into my room through the window," Pierre of Kas\as\ia 151 Pierre suggested. "Then they would not see us." The two men followed him around the wide porch that circled the house. The casement window swung open at a touch. "Good ! Good ! " The Voyageur stepped into the room. "No one has heard us. We will have time to dress." Pierre grinned. "M'sieu, with that noise they couldn't hear anything. Uncle Jean has begun the music." Pierre hurried into his new suit. He was proud of it. It was a New Year's gift from his mother. The breeches and waistcoat were made of fine blue wool, and there was a cuff of white lace on each sleeve. The shirt was of fine white cloth with long full sleeves gathered into a tight cuff and a lace-edged jabot that rippled from the neck to the waist. Suddenly there was a commotion in the other room. "Go along out, Pierre," the Voyageur suggested. "I shall be ready shortly." Pierre saw his father open the door and heard him shout, pretending to be astonished, "The Masquerade ! " In marched the queerest assortment of creatures Pierre had ever seen. Since last New Year's, he corrected himself. There were monkeys and buffalo and bears and giants that nearly knocked their heads on the rafters and shapes that Pierre couldn't even put a name to. Around and around the room they marched, singing at the top of their lungs to a tune the monkey fiddled: 152 Pierre of Kas\as\ia "Good evening to the master and the mistress And all the people of the household. For the first day of the year you owe us The Guignolee ! If you haven't much to give us Tell us so. A chine of pork ninety feet long Isn't much. Besides we don't ask much. Only the eldest daughter of the house. We will feed her well And keep her feet warm. We greet all the company And beg forgiveness If we have been foolish. 'Tis only fun and frolic. Another time we will take care When it is time for us to come back again. Let us dance the rag-dance, the rag-dance, the rag-dance ! " At that everybody joined hands and jumped and danced around the room. "Like so many imps of Satan," Pierre heard Father Francois gasp laughingly as he at last sank onto a bench to rest. "All this, messieurs, and I have no daughter!" Sieur Dubois protested when he could get his breath. Pierre of Kas\as\ia 153 "Then these will do," the monkey replied. And before anybody could say another word the maskers had kissed every girl in the room. The monkey waved his fiddle. "Now, Sieur Dubois," he called, "donations for the Twelfth Night Ball, if you please ! " "Anything to get you ruffians out of here," Sieur Dubois scolded. "Here, here is a chunk of brown sugar. A measure of flour for the cakes. Careful," he added as one of the giants dumped the gifts into his sack. "If you spill the flour, you'll get no more here." Across the room Pierre saw his mother come in with a tray of mugs. "Cider for you all, and a sugared waffle apiece," she said. "Then out of the house you go, you beggars!" The spicy fragrance of the hot cider reminded Pierre that he was very hungry. And he must tell his mother he was back. "Bonjour." Pierre looked around. It was Antoine. "Bonjour" he returned the greeting, as if Antoine were a perfect stranger. "You're back," Antoine said. "Mais oui." "Father said if you went to Fort de Chartres ..." Pierre didn't wait to hear what Antoine's father had 154 Pierre of Kas\as\ia said this time. It was going to be a long time before An- toine and he were friends again. He started to pick his way through the guests. Then as suddenly as before, the front door, which had just closed on the maskers, swung open again. "Dubois!" There stood the Commandant of the Illinois country. Half a dozen soldiers were behind him. "Your Excellency!" Pierre's father started back in surprise. "Dubois!" The Commandant strode into the room, his long black cape swirling angrily behind him. He was a tall man, and the long ostrich plumes on his high- crowned hat made him even taller. One white-gloved hand rested on the carved gold sword hilt. The other he shook threateningly toward Sieur Dubois. "Dubois!" he repeated the third time. "You have defied the King long enough ! You are under arrest. I personally have come to see my order carried out ! " "Arrest, Your Excellency? I do not understand." "You habitants! You are all alike!" Red-faced, the Commandant glared at the guests around the room. "You think you can defy me! Do whatever you please. But this you cannot do! You cannot consort with English spies. You are traitors ! All of you!" "Your Excellency!" Father Francois interrupted. Pierre of Kas\as\ia 155 The Commandant stared at him furiously. "Silence, priest ! You are no better than these curs here. Indeed, I suspect you encourage their defiance. We shall see, Reverend Father," he added sarcastically. "The day will come when France will rid herself of you Black Gowns. You will see that day come ! "As for you, Dubois ! " "But, Your Excellency " Pierre's father tried again. "You want to know what you have done, I suppose?" the Commandant finished for him. "Bien! You have been harboring an English spy. Do not deny it!" He shook his fist again. "My men followed him. Do not believe we are so blind. He was seen to enter here yester- day. He has not left. So he is still here. And I mean to have him ! And you, for hiding him ! " The Commandant swung on his heel. "Guard," he ordered, "search this place. We will find that spy if we have to take the house apart." "Your Excellency!" Pierre looked in the direction of the voice. Everybody in the room turned. They stared in amazement. There was the Voyageur. His suit was crimson brocade. His shirt was of the finest white batiste, embroidered and lace-edged. His sword hilt was set with precious gems, and his fine leather shoes had broad silver buckles. His wig was tightly curled and i 5 6 Pierre of Kas\as\ia tied with a narrow gold ribbon. And on his coat was fastened the gold cross of the Order of St. Louis. "Your Excellency was looking for me?" he inquired, as he crossed the room. Pierre of Kas\as\ia 157 The Commandant opened his mouth, but no words came. The Voyageur looked around. "Pierre," he said, "come stand beside me." Without a word, Pierre walked to the Voyageur's side. He wondered if he were dreaming. But no, the Voya- geur was speaking, holding a folded paper to the Com- mandant. "Your Excellency, permit me. My passport." The Commandant took it. He looked at the seal and the signature. "Signed by the Minister of Colonies!" With an angry gesture he waved it toward the Voyageur. "So, you think to fool me now with a forged passport! Even one signed by the King's Minister ! " The Voyageur grinned at Pierre. Then he turned to Sieur Mercier. Sieur Mercier came forward. "Your Excellency, there is no forgery. I know this man. It is as he says. He is the Marquis Louis de Beaure, chevalier of the Order of St. Louis." "The Marquis Louis de Beaure!" Pierre repeated the name. "The Marquis Louis de Beaure!" He stared up at the Voyageur. Everyone was staring, repeating the words, "The Mar- quis Louis de Beaure!" "M'sieu!" 158 Pierre of Kas\as\ia "Yes, Pierre?" The Voyageur laid his arm across the boy's shoulder. "Yes, Pierre ?" he asked again. "It was you who gave the bell, Denis, to the village?" "It was I, Pierre," the Voyageur agreed. The Commandant interrupted. "You, sir — " he ad- dressed Sieur Mercier — "who are you that I should accept your word?" "Jean-Baptiste Mercier, Your Excellency. I have but this year come from France. I lived in Paris. The Marquis was well known there. And I worked in the iron foun- dry where the bell for Kaskaskia was fashioned. The Marquis came often to inspect our work." "Indeed!" "Excellency!" It was the captain of the Kaskaskia guard. "Yes! What have you to say?" The Commandant demanded. "Your pardon, Excellency. But I, too, recognize the Marquis. I had not seen him before in the village. But at the King's court, when I served there, I saw him often." "But, m'sieu ..." All the questions Pierre had been storing up were coming out now. "Yes, Pierre?" "If you are a marquis of France, why did you pretend to be a poor boatman? And let the Commandant's soldiers arrest you?" Pierre of Kas\as\ia 159 "Eh, la, Pierre, it was as I told you the day I came to Kaskaskia. As I told you that day in the Indian village. I wanted to see the Illinois country, the Indians, the prairies, the beaver and the buffalo. I wanted to see the church where my bell would be hung. I wanted to know the people who would listen to my bell when it called them to prayers, or told them the hour of the day." "But, m'sieu ..." "That was part of the story, Pierre. When I decided to come to the Illinois country, I thought I should like to forget I was a marquis of France. I thought I should get to know people better that way. Besides, Pierre — " the Voyageur fingered the cross — "I was weary of being a great nobleman. I thought perhaps I might find a new home in this country beyond the sea. And I would be just plain Louis Beaure, habitant." "Weary of being a marquis?" Pierre repeated wonder- ingly. "Mais oui, my son. Weary of being a marquis. But that I am afraid you will never understand. And I cannot explain. So let us forget about all that." The Voyageur looked at the Commandant. "I have other papers, Your Excellency. And a commission from the Minister of Colonies to investigate the administration of this colony. When he heard of my plans, he sent for me. He wanted me to investigate the Illinois country, l6 ° Pierre of Kas\as\ia both the land, to see if it was truly as fertile as the priests said, and the animals, especially the buffalo. He said there were men who wanted him to spend the King's money to build a factory in the Illinois country where yarn could be spun from the buffalo hair and woven into cloth. He wanted to know if buffalo wool could really be used that way." "The Kaskaskia Indians make yarn of buffalo wool," Pierre interrupted. "So they do. I watched the women spinning and weav- ing it while I was in the village. But I hardly believe that we French could make a prosperous business of it." "Was that all the Minister wanted to know?" The Voyageur laughed. "Pierre, I have met one per- son who could ask more questions than you. That was the Minister of Colonies ! No, that was not all he wanted to know. He wanted to know how strong the Illinois fort was, whether it could really hold back the English. He wanted to know about the Commandant. Because he had had many reports— some good, some bad." The Voyageur turned back to the Commandant. "I think, Your Excellency, that you will find it wise to withdraw your charges against me, and against Sieur Dubois." What happened then made Pierre laugh. For all at Pierre of Kas\as\ia 161 once the Commandant wilted. He collapsed like a pricked puffball. "Monseigneur, my lord!" The Commandant swept his plumed hat across the floor and bowed low. "Will you forgive me? I do not often make mistakes. A soldier cannot afford to make mistakes. This time I have. But not unnaturally in the circumstances. I must always be on guard against English spies who come to stir up our Indians against us. You understand, my lord?" Pierre thought his voice sounded like thick sirup. "I wish only to serve my King," the Commandant finished. For a moment the Voyageur said nothing. Then he said, "Let us talk about the matter another day, Excel- lency. When the holidays are over we shall talk again." "Mais oui, Monseigneur." The Commandant bowed again. "Now, if my lord will permit me, I must leave. There are other affairs I must attend to." "My lord," Sieur Dubois said when the door had shut behind the Commandant and the soldiers, "my lord, we did not guess." The Voyageur smiled, and his smile included the whole room. "You were not supposed to guess, Sieur Dubois. But you need apologize for nothing. You have treated me as one of yourselves, as a friend. A marquis of France can ask nothing more. Indeed, friends are often what a mar- *62 Pierre of Kas\as\ia quis has none of. And—" he looked at Pierre— "even when there was a chance I might be an enemy, an English spy, you treated me no differently. No, Sieur Dubois, you have nothing for which you need to apologize." For a minute no one spoke. Then the Voyageur drew Pierre closer to him. "Sieur Dubois, you have a bright lad. A brave son. Twice he saved me from the soldiers." He hesitated, then went on. "I have decided to settle in your Illinois country. But first I must return to France to arrange my business there, and take my report to the Minister of Colonies. I have been thinking that, with your permission, I should like to take Pierre with me. Would you like that, Pierre?" he asked. If he held his breath, Pierre thought, perhaps he could keep this wonderful moment forever. In the silence, Antoine came across the room. "Pierre . . . ?" he asked. It was hard to say he was sorry. The great logs in the hearth crackled and blazed up. Over the rooftops came the voice of Denis. Pierre counted, "One, two, three . . . twelve. M'sieu le Voyageur, it is the New Year ! " "Pierre . . . ?" "Happy New Year, Antoine ! Happy New Year ! " ~4 Tzuar of Kaskaskia fW^ -> ; iS, 03} taw firil* « **> Fort d*Ckartr*s v^sr^ Reference A ~PScrre'f Jfouse C ALrus Turfota. sHoust D Site of proposed Fort E Commandant's Route p Jesuits ' Houses G 7b Indian Village Scale 4*0 Caftytphit p*r ~Pjt»tiJt