Governor Rocheblave was roused from a dream, in which he was being decorated with the Grand Cross of the Bath for eminent services to his Britannic majesty, by the sound of whoops, yells, and rifle-shots under his very house. Then came the crash of glass and plaster, as several bullets came through his window, and sent pieces of ceiling spattering over the floor.
The Governor jumped out of bed, scared out of his wits, and madame began to scream at the top of her voice, a scream echoed from every quarter of the “palace,” as the maid-servants heard the racket in the streets.
Then came the boom of four or five cannon, and a louder crash than before, as the big chimney of the government house, struck by a six-pound shot, toppled down over the roof in a mass of ruins.
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Then a stillness perfectly awful succeeded for several minutes, followed by the banging of opening windows, as the terrified inhabitants began to look out.
As for Governor Rocheblave, he remembered the bullets too well to dare go to his own windows; and presently came the clatter of hoofs on the pavement below, as a horseman pulled up from full speed. Then a stentorian voice bellowed, in horribly bad French:
“Fusillez tout homme dans la rue! Fermez fenetres!”
But fear is a quick translator, and every one knew the meaning of those words.
“Shoot every man in the street! Shut windows!”
A disinterested person would have admired the alacrity with which the windows banged to, in obedience to the order; but the people of Kaskaskia were too keenly alive to their own perils to admire any thing.
In a moment Governor Rocheblave came to his senses, and understood every thing. At first he had thought of an Indian rising, but the cannon-shots and bad French convinced him that a more formidable foe was at hand.
“Coralie, it is the barbarous Americans. What shall we do?” he faltered, as he gazed, panic-stricken, at his wife. “The papers—the agreements with the chiefs—they will find them, and I shall be shot.”
“Not so fast,” said madame, more coolly. “I know these men, if they are Americans. They are fools, where women are concerned. Where are the papers?”
“In the box,” said the trembling Governor, pointing to a casket of mahogany, open on the table.
In a moment the quick-witted woman pounced on the box, bore it to her bed, and swept up the loose papers to the same receptacle. She had hardly time to jump in after them when a clatter of weapons was heard on the staircase, and a loud knock was heard at the front door.
“Who’s there?” screamed madame, excitedly. “Are these barbarians that insult the privacy of a lady’s chamber? Go away!”
There was a short, whispered consultation outside, and a voice spoke, in very bad French:
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“Open the door, Governor. We know you’re here. We will not hurt the lady, but we must have the Governor.”
“Monsieur Rocheblave has fled,” cried the lady, angrily, as her husband, quaking with fear, turned up the light and moved toward the door. “Have you no manners, pigs, that you do not believe a lady? Go away!”
The only answer was a blow that burst the fastening of the door, and into the room stalked Major Bowman, second in command to Clark, who advanced to Rocheblave with a cocked pistol in his hand, saying:
“Monsieur, you are my prisoner. Surrender your papers.”
Rocheblave sunk trembling into a chair.
“I surrender, monsieur. Spare my life, and pray do not insult my wife, if you are gentlemen.”
“We are gentlemen,” said Bowman, quietly. “Madame is safe; but you must dress and come with me to the commander. No excuses, sir. I give you five minutes to dress. Then you must come with us as you are. Where are your papers?”
Rocheblave pointed to an open bureau, littered with the more unimportant papers of his government, and the Kentuckian advanced to inspect them, while the Governor finished his dressing under the eye of a burly sergeant at the door, whose rifle looked remarkably ready for action at a moment’s notice.
But as the Governor found that he was quite unmolested, his spirits began to recover from the first shock of surprise, and he asked:
“Are you not going to give me my parole, sir? I suppose that you make war like honorable soldiers.”
Bowman made no reply till he had made a hasty examination of all the loose papers, finding nothing worthy of note.
Then he turned round to Rocheblave, who was now dressed:
“In five minutes, sir, my commander will be here. He can answer your question. I find you have hidden your papers.”
Here madame, who had ducked under the bed-clothes, put out her head to listen. There was considerable galloping to[62] and fro in the streets, and a great clattering, as if a party were dismounting at the gate.
Rocheblave, who quickly saw that he had fallen into the hands of organized troops, notwithstanding their rough exterior, began to assume a more haughty tone, as became a British officer.
“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” he said, angrily. “You have come into my house, like a parcel of rebel thieves, as you are, and I have given up my papers. Are you not satisfied, but do you wish to insult a prisoner?”
Madame, who had taken her cue, cried out:
“They want the silver, Auguste—that’s what they want, these thieves. Show them the plate-chest, and you will hear no more of papers. I know them well.”
Bowman, who was a chivalrous Kentucky gentleman, was very much embarrassed by the lady’s bitter tongue, and was greatly relieved by hearing the voice of his commander on the stairs. He rose and retreated sheepishly to the door, while madame exchanged a triumphant glance with her husband, and fired a volley of spiteful sarcasms at the abashed soldier.
The next moment Clark entered the room, followed by the boy adjutant.
A conference, in low tones, took place between the three officers, at the end of which Clark advanced to the Governor.
The border leader, haggard and unshorn, with dirty, ragged dress, was by no means a reassuring sight. The moment madame laid eyes on him, she trembled for her papers. While Clark was speaking to the Governor, the little adjutant, whose face had been blacked all over, so that he looked worse than his leader, went peering about the room in a manner very different from that of his restrained and dignified chiefs.
“Governor,” said Clark, “Major Bowman tells me you have hidden all the valuable papers of your office. Where are they? Give them up, and I give you your parole. Refuse, and I put a guard over you.”
“Who are you, sir?” asked Rocheblave, sulkily.
“I am Colonel Clark of Kentucky,” said the other. “I have taken your town, and your people are being disarmed[63] as fast as my men can pile the weapons. Where are your papers?”
“I know, colonel,” said the quiet voice of Adjutant Frank. As he spoke he pointed to madame, who sat up in the bed, guarding her treasures. The lady screamed indignantly.
“Wretches, barbarians, do you bring boys with you to insult ladies? The Governor has no papers. I swear it. These are but my private jewels and trinkets, and let me see a man dare to touch them.”
Little Frank was actually approaching the lady, to take the papers his sharp eyes had discovered, when the deep voice of Clark broke in:
“Hold, Mr. Frank. Better that she should hide any amount of papers, than that a gentleman should insult a lady. Governor, you’re a close prisoner till I see those papers. Gentlemen, clear the room. To our other duties.”