The heat of the day was beginning to cool, shadows starting to lengthen. Quaqui turned, slowly surveying Le Rocher and his people on it. He moved very slowly. The only thing making him move at all was responsibility. His responsibility not just to these people but to the proud history of the Illini. The burden was now his. His alone. It was becoming clear that his responsibility was shifting. When he first arrived, he thought Kitchesmanetoa had brought him here to save his people. But he no longer believed that. If they were to be saved, it was Kitchesmanetoa who must do it. He had done what there was to do and it was not enough. Without water they could not save themselves, and he could not save them from an implacable enemy who fought with a new set of eyes. Indians did not lay siege. Indians fought, preferably by ambush or with overwhelming odds, and then went home to hunt and prepare for winter. Who were these Ottawa who did not seem to care if their own women and children had a winter without meat? These Ottawa who just sat and stayed and waited. And waited. Without water he could not outwait them. And only Kitchesmanetoa could bring water.
But this new knowledge did not free him of responsibility. This land was Kitchesmanetoa’s, and he was Kitchesmanetoa’s agent. If he could not save these people, then it was for him to make certain Kitchesmanetoa’s land did not go to the Ottawa and the Potawatomi and the Kickapoo. And for that he would need others. He would need the French. Yes, these tribes he faced had been allies of the French before the French lost all their land east of the Mississippi to the British. But the French had been friends of the Illini even longer. And the French were still in St. Louis. That made the Illini their closest allies. They would help if he could get word to them. That was the responsibility that drove him now.
As he turned, his eyes took in what remained of his people. The women and children lay in a stupor with flies buzzing around their faces and no more than a periodic wave of the hand to drive them away. His warriors, to whom he had given the last cups of water this morning, all lay at their assigned places but lay so still he knew half were asleep. Well, he would wake them.
“Paskepaho.” He spoke the name to get the undivided attention of his son standing beside him. “Go to each of the warriors. Have one in three stay in place and bring all of the others to me. And make certain Grandfather comes as well.”
In ten minutes they were there, over sixty warriors representing a tradition of more history than any sitting before him could remember. They were what was left. It was for him to make them understand. He stood facing them all, a tall, proud man in his prime. He brought himself to his full height so all who heard would know they were led by a man of prowess and dignity. As he swept each of them with his eyes they came to stillness, all of their concentration on him.
“We are here, my warriors. Here. At Le Rocher. None of us needs me to tell you how we got here, but we are the fortunate remaining few. We are the Illini. Kitchesmanetoa has asked a strange thing of us. I do not know why it is us he asks, but he does. We are here and it is asked of us. Commanded of us. He has brought us a formidable enemy who fights with overwhelming power and in a strange, new way. And he makes us watch as the life-giving water passes us by, day by day. He brings each of us to this test. A test not just of you but of your nation. And we are the ones he has chosen to represent him and our nation.”
No one spoke, but Quaqui could see eyes looking from one to another and he could see postures become more erect. If he could instill purpose, this might just work. If it did not work, at least he could lead them to die for what they saw as a reason.
“You all know the great challenge we face. Kitchesmanetoa does not bring us the water we need for us, our women, our children, our nation to survive. But he brings far better than that. He brings us the ability to get it ourselves.”
And then a warrior in the back shouted, “He makes us Illini.” And then all sixty plus rose and their voices sang out together, “Illini!” Quaqui looked around Le Rocher. All eyes turned to them. Some perplexed, some smiling, but all awake.
It took him several minutes to calm them all down and then he addressed them again. This time he could sense every ear on Le Rocher tuned to his words. “Tonight, we will get water. We will have to fight for it. They will expect us. We will have to get down the path, fight our way to the river, fill as many buckets as we can, and fight our way back up.”
Quaqui stopped speaking for a moment until every eye was again focused on him. “I know what most of you want is to rush down the path, killing all before you. And even if it brings your death, you are thinking that is better than hiding on top of Le Rocher, starving to death.”
There were murmurs of agreement. He held up his hands to calm them.
“But while it is a warrior’s joy to die gloriously that is not a warrior’s purpose. His purpose is to protect the tribe.” Quaqui swept his arm in an arc to take in everyone on Le Rocher. “His job is to protect his own. Women and children. And if all of us in this little circle die gloriously, what happens to them? They will all be killed. There are four times as many of our enemies as us. How many of your mothers and sisters will be raped? How many killed slowly? And if we die, they will have that for their destiny, or they will jump to a quick death below. Do you want to see these women”—he again made a motion to encompass all on Le Rocher—“throw your children to their death and then leap to follow them?”
The joyous and foolhardy enthusiasm of young warriors shown just moments ago quieted. He hoped it quieted to a steely resolve that they would need.
“No, my warriors. Battle is not your task. Your task is not to bring your death but their life. And to do that you must bring up water. Now listen closely, my sons and warriors, this will take all of us.”
* * * *
The light of the moon was not so great as to shut out the glory of the stars overhead. Not even a cloud separated their beauty from the eyes of the two men who stood at the top of Le Rocher looking east at the campfires of the enemy.
“Grandfather, I will need you here, at the top of the path. The enemy is very wise in the ways of war. They have tested us here and found us too strong for their assault. But they also know we must come tonight for water. And they are wise enough to know that we will no longer trust our buckets with ropes.”
“Yes. They know. And you and I know they will be waiting down there, on that little strip of land where the cliff overhangs the river. I don’t think just the Chippewa will be there to greet you.”
Quaqui was surprised. “Grandfather, did I say I was going down?”
“No, but you are.”
“How do you know that?”
“My chief, you have been magnificent. You have given them hope. They will die with hope.”
“You think we will not succeed?”
They stood in the cool beauty of the summer night for a long time before the old one responded.
“This afternoon when you spoke, why did you explain to the warriors what choices their women would have if they died?” When Quaqui did not respond, the old warrior asked another question. “Let me ask it another way. To whom were you speaking when you explained?”
A sadness that overwhelmed him rooted Quaqui to the cliff. Just a black outline against a black sky. Something lifeless. But the old one knew and did not speak. The blackness that was Quaqui exhaled slowly until all the air that was in him had come out.
“The women have prepared more buckets and more ropes. Twenty of us will go down to fall upon those who await us on the little spit of beach. Twenty buckets will come down beside us. Once one of our warriors falls on top of the first Chippewa or Potawatomi waiting for us, it will become full-fledged battle. Perhaps we will get a bucket or two filled and the twenty pullers above may get a few up, but none of the warriors will come back. The Ottawa know we are weakened and tired. And they also know that we will weaken our defense of this path in our efforts to bring up water. They will be waiting to see if we are weak enough for them to succeed where they failed a few nights ago.”
Quaqui continued, pointing at the blackness below, “At this very moment, their warriors are crawling across that open meadow to be ready to charge up the path again. That is why you must be here: To ensure the young warriors do not abandon guardianship of the path and try to come help in the fight on the beach below. To make certain they do not rush down the path to a glorious death. To make certain they hold this path until the last of them falls.”
For the only time since Quaqui had known him, the old man seemed puzzled. “If all who go down the cliff will die, why do you go? You are needed here. Remember what you told the warriors. Their deaths must have a purpose.”
“Grandfather, we will all die here. All of us. But your death and mine will have purpose. Yours will be to ensure the Ottawa do not get up this path in the dark and take our women and children. They must have time to jump. To make their deaths quick and painless. And my job will be to see that the Ottawa and the Potawatomi do not hold Kitchesmanetoa’s land. That they do not hold the land of the Illini.”
“If we all die, Quaqui, how will you accomplish that?”
“One will get away. That will be Paskepaho. He must get to St. Louis and the French. He is my son. The last Illini chief. He can speak for us. He must ensure that the French do not let them stay. That our enemies do not thrive on the land Kitchesmanetoa has given to the Illini.”
Now it was the old man who froze to stone against the night sky. “It is a terrible burden to impose on any man, much less one so young.”
“Grandfather, it is not I who puts such a burden on Paskepaho’s back. Kitchesmanetoa puts it there.”
* * * *
“Father, I am pleased you included me among the nineteen to go down with you. I will not fail you or embarrass you. You know that or you’d not have selected me.”
They stood looking down into the inky black below. The light of the not-yet-set moon created depth and shadow on their faces, but it was low enough that the trees stopped its light at the base of the cliff. There was darkness below. Quaqui had to look down slightly, just slightly, to peer into his son’s eyes. He could see excitement and pride there and perhaps just a touch of fear. But then Paskepaho is not a fool. Courage is not lack of fear. Lack of fear is madness. Courage is feeling fear and overcoming it.
“Walk with me, my son.” Quaqui turned and walked away without acknowledgment. When he had traveled twenty paces away from the group of warriors gathered at the edge of Le Rocher, he slowed and put his arm around the shoulders of the youth and walked a few paces more. He was as far away from others as the confines of Le Rocher’s top would allow when he stopped and turned to face Paskepaho.
“What you are about to do is the hardest thing you will ever have to do. But it is required.”
“I know, Father,” the youth said solemnly.
“No, Paskepaho. No, you do not know.” He looked into his son’s now puzzled face. “You are not going down that cliff to fight.”
“But, Father.”
Quaqui cut him off before he could say more. “What you are doing, my son, is far more difficult than that. And what’s more, you must do it alone.” He could see Paskepaho’s face become ever more puzzled. “You are leaving.”
The face changed instantly to defiance. “I will not!” he said with a firmness that surprised and pleased his father.
Quaqui did not growl or command. He merely said, “It is required of you. Not by me but by the nation that is the Illini.”
Paskepaho’s face changed once more in the moonlight. The face was all of confusion.
“Listen to me, my son. We will all die here. No. Say nothing. Just listen. They will meet us at the bottom. They will know we are coming. They know we have no choice. If we do not get water by this time tomorrow, they will simply walk up the path and kill us all. They know that. They know we must come. And we may get a bucket or two of water up. But that is not why we go down.”
“Then why?”
“We go down to get our messenger into one of those very fast Chippewa canoes. The messenger who will go to the French. The French who are ever our friends. Only the French can save Kitchesmanetoa’s land from the Ottawa and the Potawatomi and their allies. And that messenger is you. You must speak for all the Illini. You must rip our land from the victorious fingers of your enemies.”
There was a long stillness between them in the quiet silver light of the moon before Paskepaho spoke.
“Father, if we all die here, who will be left for the French to give the land to?”
“That I do not know, my son, but I know who they must take it from. Your job is to make certain that happens. That the Potawatomi and the Kickapoo and the Ottawa do not live here. Who does live here is for Kitchesmanetoa to decide.
“We go down now. Stay with me. We, you and I, will get past the beach to a canoe and get you off. You must get at least a musket shot away from the shore before daylight. Travel near the far bank in the shadow of the trees when possible.”
“Where is St. Louis?”
“Once the Illinois joins the Mississippi, stay toward the right bank. You will know the Missouri when you cross it because it is as wide as the Mississippi and as muddy as the Mississippi is clean. As soon as you cross the mouth of the Missouri, St. Louis will be on the right bank. Once there, insist you have messages from the principal chief of the Illini and they will take you to the governor. Now come. It is time to go down.”
He embraced his son. A long embrace. And then turned and strode erect and strong to the waiting warriors. The ropes of the descending warriors were each fixed to a rock or some still unrotted portion of the old fort. Each warrior had a musket strapped to his shoulder and close fighting weapons in his belt. Most preferred tomahawks but a few carried war clubs. All had scalping knives. Quaqui handed the rope adjacent to him to his son, looked at each of the others, and then slid over the side. Quaqui was astonished that all landed quietly on the small spit of land. He gave a hard tug on his own rope, the designated signal to those above, and almost instantly ten buckets slid down the cliff to their right. The two warriors closest to the buckets started filling them. The others turned to the left along the slip of beach to hold against any attack.
As they did, the night sky opened with a roar of flame and explosions as muskets fired almost in unison from their left. The first screams of his warriors were in pain, and four fell onto the sand. Instantly his other warriors screamed their war cries and rushed into the night down the small strip of beach. Paskepaho screamed with them and started to rush by.
Quaqui gripped his shoulder hard. “No. With me. Remember. You must.”
Beside the screams and yells of grappling warriors, Quaqui moved his son out into the river until they were chest deep. On the beach behind them, flashes of light from fired muskets showed his remaining warriors, shoulder to shoulder, their rush met by a body of warriors whose mass extended deeper into the night than the fire from Illinois muskets penetrated. While it showed him the force waiting for them was overwhelming, it also illuminated their path. He could see the silhouettes of canoes just up the beach and no Chippewa warriors guarding them. He pulled his feet up from the bottom and with a gentle but powerful stroke pulled himself forward in the water.
Any noise they made swimming was covered by the screams of pain and triumph just twenty feet to their left. Heads low, they silently pulled past the violence of death just feet away. There was no longer musket fire to illuminate their path, but down against the water, the setting sliver of a moon gave light enough to see they were near the last of the canoes. Quaqui changed the direction of his strokes and pulled himself onto the beach, motioning Paskepaho to remain with his head above the water. Quaqui felt in the bottom of the last canoe to make certain there was a paddle. With jubilation his exploring fingers found the prize he sought. He immediately stood taller to drive power into his legs and pulled on the gunnel of the canoe to slide it off the beach and into the river. It cleared the beach to flotation just as it reached Paskepaho, who with the lithe strength of youth pulled himself over the gunnel and into the boat. Paskepaho unslung his musket and placed it in the bottom of the boat. Finding the paddle and picking it up, he kneeled in the rear of the birchbark canoe. Quaqui also unslung his musket and dropped it into the boat, along with his powder horn and shot bag. The powder will be wet but tomorrow Paskepaho can dry it all and have two loaded weapons to use. Quaqui gave one hard shove to push his son toward the current without even a word of goodbye. Then he pulled his tomahawk from his belt and stepped to the next canoe.
The last he saw was his son’s strokes pulling the boat into the current and pointing it downstream. Paskepaho needed to be gone into the safety of the night quickly. Quaqui stepped to the next canoe and with one powerful blow of his tomahawk punctured the bottom of the craft. And then the next. With each stroke he reduced the chance of pursuit overtaking the last hope of the Illini. And each stroke took him closer to the dying sounds of struggle up the beach. He could hear the victorious cries of the Chippewa as they slaughtered the last of his warriors. He was now close enough to strike the Chippewa in the rear, but it was the remaining two canoes he needed to strike. He had to get them both. With only a few minutes’ start, Paskepaho would be overtaken before dawn by any four men paddling any of these canoes. His tomahawk swung past the shoulder of the closest warrior and smashed into the bottom of one of the two remaining canoes. Even in the near dark the warrior turned to the threat. Quaqui raised his tomahawk from the bottom of the boat and with a backhand motion smashed it into the jaw of a warrior, not a Chippewa but an Ottawa. I was right. They knew we were coming.
The Ottawa cried in pain as he fell, a warning to the two closest warriors, who turned instantly to stare into the glimmering light at the threat poised behind them. Quaqui knew he had to cripple that last canoe. Instead of facing his enemy he vaulted over the canoe he’d just struck to land in the middle of the remaining one. His back to his enemies, he swung the tomahawk into the bottom of the last canoe just as he felt an immense blow on his back. The blow caused him to stagger forward into the canoe, his thighs against the prow the only thing holding him upright. The last thing Quaqui felt was the overwhelming power and pain of another blow on his back and then the cool comfort of the water of his river as he fell into it.