CHAPTER XII. KASKASKIA.

The Fourth of July is generally a hot day. The Fourth of July, 1778, was a particularly hot day around the town of Kaskaskia, as it basked in the sun on the banks of two rivers, the tin roofs of its quaint old houses shining like mirrors. Kaskaskia, a hundred years ago, was like Quebec to-day, a quaint, rambling town of steep, narrow streets, nominally English, actually French in language and sentiment. Founded two years before Philadelphia, it was at that time the emporium of Indian trade, and far ahead of the infant St. Louis, eighty miles further up.

What changes a century makes! To-day Kaskaskia is a decayed village, and St. Louis a city of palaces.

On a rounded bluff opposite the town stood a handsome stone fort, with rows of bright brass guns trained on the place, and that so closely as to obviate the necessity of walls around the houses.

Kaskaskia was safe from the Indians for two reasons.

First, the fort frightened the thievish ones; second, the place was full of trappers and traders who had intermarried with every tribe in the West. This last point is the grand secret of the control which the French have always exercised over the Indians. At the present day it turns into friends and allies thousands of the same race in the Hudson’s Bay Territories, that are relentless foes to white men in the American Territories.

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In Kaskaskia, on that sultry Fourth, a hundred years ago, trader and Indian could be seen side by side in every shady place, smoking over bargains in furs like old friends.

The blazing sun at last dipped behind the western prairies, and a gentle breeze came sighing up the Mississippi, when Monsieur Rocheblave, the French-English Governor, who was sitting by the open window of the government house at the top of the hill, suddenly spoke to his wife.

“Coralie, ma chere, I do believe I see Mademoiselle Roland, and that she is coming hither. Yes, it is she indeed.”

Madame Rocheblave, who was lying on a sofa fanning herself languidly, bleated out, with a whining, querulous tone:

“Rubie? What can the girl want? I declare I wish my cousin Roland had done any thing in the world rather than leave that wild creature in the way he did, half the time for me to take care of, the other half to that ugly Indian they call the Grand Door of the Wabash. I wish he’d keep her altogether. She has lost all the manner of society, and tells the truth so quick and plain that she lacerates my feelings.”

M. Rocheblave had risen to look out of the window better.

“For all that, my angel,” he said, soothingly, “we must remember that mademoiselle your cousin is a very important person. She represents the union between us and the tribes, a link carefully forged by her illustrious father, at his own cost, which must be maintained. Therefore, Coralie, be polite to mademoiselle, who is about to become our guest. It is a great privilege you and I enjoy, to entertain a princess.”

“A princess!” said madame, ill-temperedly. “I’ve had enough of these wild princesses. What does she come for? It’s not time for her visit for two months yet.”

“I suppose that the visit portends something to us,” said the Governor. “At all events, I shall not be wanting in respect to our illustrious guest.”

And the Governor hastily arranged his costume, and left the room, to greet the approaching personage.

At the principal gate of the “palace,” as it was styled, he paused, to watch the progress of a cavalcade, coming up the street.

At the head rode, on a very handsome dappled mustang, our[53] little friend Ruby Roland, dressed in gorgeous velvets and brocades, heavily laced with gold, and loaded with jewelry. All the finery that the wealth of a tribe could lavish on her, was displayed on her trim figure, and she rode her spirited little horse like a man, with all a man’s ease and dexterity.

She carried no arms, but this was compensated for by her escort, consisting of twelve grim-looking chiefs, armed to the teeth.

The Governor bowed very low to this strangely-situated girl, at once perfect lady and Indian princess, and himself assisted her to dismount from her horse, while a score of obedient servants came running out to perform the same service to her escort.

For every one in the town knew by this time that a great embassy was come from “La Grande Porte.” The chiefs with Ruby were recognized as being the heads of twelve independent tribes, united under the great confederacy of the Wabash, and such chiefs always expected deferential treatment.

The Governor embraced his cousin by marriage in the most courtly French style, and shook hands with all the chiefs in turn, welcoming them with a string of French and Indian compliments together, and ushering them into the drawing-room.

Here Madame la Gouverneuse, who had recovered her outward equanimity, whatever her inward feelings, embraced Ruby with a cordiality that would have deceived any male beholder, and which the quick-witted girl herself penetrated in an instant.

Then, after a sumptuous feast on the most unsubstantial of French pastry and ice cream, articles devoured with intense relish by the wild sons of the prairie, the Governor opened negotiations by a delicate hint that business was in order.

Ruby at once became spokeswoman for her party, and proceeded to explain the object of her visit in a speech which excited general grunts of approbation from her stoical attendants.

“We have come,” said the girl, in the metaphorical Indian style, “from the banks of the great river to the east, to the father of all waters. We are few as a flock of antelopes, but behind us are our brothers, like the buffalo, without number.[54] From the great fresh sea on the north, by the country of the Michigans, to the great river Ohio, that never fails, we are one house, and that house has one door, who is our Red Father. The Grand Door has opened to let us forth, to bring great words to our French father. Tabac has spoken, and if our French Father listen to his words it is well. If not, we will go back, and the door will be shut.”

“The French Father is dead,” said Rocheblave, cautiously. “He can not hear my red brethren’s words. We have an English father now, who gives us blankets and guns. Let the chiefs talk to him.”

Rocheblave, though of French parents, was entirely devoted to the English government, and he hoped by speaking as he did, to check the proposition he felt, rather than saw, was coming.

Ruby proceeded with simple directness to her mission.

“The Great Spirit has sent a bird to his children,” she said, “to speak with a straight tongue and tell us the truth. He tells us that the French Father is not dead. He has been asleep for many years, but now is awake. He calls to his red-children to arouse and drive out the fork-tongued English who have stolen his lands, and hired the red-men to make war on the Big-Knives (Americans). The French Father has made friends with the Big-Knives, and has declared war against the English. My father is French and ought to love his French Father. The Grand Door is open, and if the Governor of Kaskaskia is wise, he will enter into our house, and forsake the fork-tongues forever, as we have. I have spoken.”

The Governor was astounded. This was the first intelligence he had received of the American alliance with France, so lately concluded. He could hardly credit it. Therefore, he said:

“Is my daughter sure that the bird spoke true? There are lying birds about, sent by the rebellious Big-Knives. Let my red brothers beware of such.”

“The bird spoke true,” said Ruby, firmly. “The tribes of the Wabash are ashamed to have served the English. Henceforth they befriend the Big-Knives, as their French Father wishes them. I have spoken.”

And the twelve chiefs grunted an emphatic assent.

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Rocheblave was puzzled, and temporized. He said:

“This is a grave matter. I must consult the old men and warriors. I will give an answer to the Grand Door at noon to-morrow. Is it good?”

“It is not good,” said Ruby, rising. “To-morrow we will come, but the Grand Door will be shut. The Governor of Kaskaskia must knock ere it be opened.”

So saying, she swept from the room, followed by her dusky escort, leaving Rocheblave astonished, while madame whined:

“Mon Dieu! Why did my cousin Roland make such a fool of himself? I told you she was a barbarian.”