More than half a month later.
On a rammed-earth path east of the Creek Tribe's town, Father Vigne was drawn by the distant cries of "Awooo-lulu!" He looked up to see dozens of serious-faced Native American youths carrying Flintlock Guns, charging forward in a disorderly rush before striking aiming poses. Knowing they were Native American warriors drilling, he lowered his head and continued on his way. The chief priest Stone Eagle's residence was still five or six kilometers away, and he regretted not asking Chekilli for a few horses.
Beside him, Father Lorier frowned at those Native American cavalry and shook his head. "Do they actually think that counts as a formation charge? Father Vigne, perhaps we should tell them they ought to fight in an Infantry Line.
"As they are now, I'm afraid they'll have a hard time holding back an American Militia attack."
"They cannot defeat the Americans." Father Vigne pressed a hand against the cloth bundle he carried and quickened his pace. "They have too few people. Besides, we are not here to train armies."
The newly established Creek Alliance had a population of fewer than fifty thousand. Even if every able-bodied man went to war, they could only scrape together an army of three thousand. With their exceedingly primitive training and command, once the Americans began large-scale reprisals, they would swiftly be crushed.
Father Lorier froze for a moment, then hurried after him. "Then why did we come here? To watch them be defeated?" Vigne cast him a sidelong glance and calmly said, "We are here to preach, of course."
"But if their tribe is going to be crushed, what meaning is there in our preaching?"
"At the very least, the Lord's radiance will have shone upon this place."
Though Vigne said so, he was indeed