Simon Kenton inclined his head toward the river bank. “Come on, Jim. We’ll have a look at Kaskaskia from this side of the river. Have a care though. We don’t want any of those Frenchmen over there to see us.”
As Jim and Kenton approached the river’s edge, Kenton dropped to the ground. “We have to crawl now, Jim, so’s we can see without being seen.”
At the edge of the bank they could see the little town of Kaskaskia. It lay in a kind of amphitheatre of woods and bluffs. They could also see the fort with a stockade built around it, the steeple of a church, and some thatched roofs and stone houses shining in the afternoon sun.
“Gee, it’s bigger than the settlements I’ve seen in Virginia!” Jim exclaimed.
“Yep,” Kenton replied. “This is one of the oldest and best of the French villages. I’ve heard it called the Paris of the West. See that British flag flying above the fort? Tomorrow, God willing, it’ll be flying the American flag.
“You see, Jim, Colonel Clark has to take this country from the British to make our Kentucky settlers safe from Indian attack. Commander Hamilton at Detroit has been stirring up the Indians against our people.”
“Yes, sir, I know. I think that’s how my parents and I happened to be captured.”
For a while they watched the town. Nothing unusual was going on, so Simon Kenton told Jim he thought no one there suspected the presence of Clark and his army directly across the river. Then they crawled back to the main group of soldiers.
Jim didn’t think the men in this motley, exhausted army could capture a town during the night. Several of them had taken off their shoes and were nursing their painful, swollen feet. They were suffering from scald foot, a wilderness malady brought on by dampness, heat and too much marching.
Jim wondered if they could put on their shoes when it came time to cross the river. All of them were hungry besides, as they had eaten nothing but berries for many days. Could such an army capture a well-fed town like Kaskaskia?