He slipped his long knife into its sheath, stood up amid his officers, looked at the distant bluish bluffs which stood high beyond the waving heads of the cane stalks, and listened to the voices of the militiamen and the steady rush of the Falls. An excellent place someday for mills, he thought, with all this falling water. The ground was dappled with dancing sunlight which angled through the quivering foliage. Overhead, puffs of light-limned cloud sailed up the valley. George took a deep breath. “Well, gentlemen, we are here. We are on land after these leagues of floating, and I must ask, have you ever seen a more picturesque and benign place?”
They grinned and looked around. Leonard Helm scratched his sweaty chest through the open collar of his shirt. “Y’d have to take care not t’ git too contented here,” he said, casting a sly glance aside at George. “Not if we’re supposed t’ to be gittin’ on, as I suspects we are.”
He’s fishing for those secret orders, George thought. I cannot put off telling them any longer. “We’ve about five hours of daylight left,” he said. “We’ve less than a third the manpower we expected, so we shall need to work ’em three times as hard. We’ll want as many trees dropped and trimmed as we can get today. Tonight we’ll gather the men right here for a big feed and powwow, and it’s then I’ll tell them what you’ve all been beggin’ to know: I mean our mission.” The officers all tried to speak at once, but George raised a hand. “When we picked up Smith’s recruits, I sent runners up to Harrodsburg and Leesburg and those places, asking their leaders to ride down and meet us here. I should like to have them here when I announce. If they aren’t here by tonight, I shall tell the men anyway. But I hope they’ll arrive.” He looked at Bill Harrod and Joseph Bowman, clasped his hands behind his back, and smiled. “It has been a long time since I saw your big brothers, boys. I tell you, I have the fondest hopes they’ll come down. Now, gents, I want to hear this place ring with the sounds of industry for the next few hours. Bill, there’s deer on this island, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those Nimrods o’ yours could bag tonight’s banquet without even going ashore. If you’d put a few on that, please.”
To George’s surprise, the men did not complain about having to work out the rest of the day. Relieved to be out of the confining boats and off the monotony of rowing, inspirited by the magnificent place where they now found themselves, they fell to in high spirits. Soon the island was resounding with the solid chunk … chunk of axes in hardwood, cheers, yells of warning, the great crackling rush and thump of falling trees, the thud, thud, thud, of mauls on splitting wedges, the sonorous and rhythmic ripping of two-man ripsaws. At the west end of the island, where the game animals had fled from this noisy invasion and were trying to swim or wade the narrow channel to shore, hunters’ rifles cracked periodically. George went among the working parties, watched the skillful broadax handlers straddle huge logs, squaring them into timbers as easily as whittlers; he saw sinewy men with razor-sharp axes lop the limbs off fallen poplars and ashes. He smelled the tang of fresh oak chips and the delicious aroma of sassafras sawdust. Here a ten-year-old boy swung a mallet, driving eight-inch lengths of split hickory through the sharp-edged hole in a small anvil to make the pegs which had to suffice here on the frontier where nails could not be had. “A good tune yo’re beating there, Dickie,” George smiled. The lad was Dick Lovell, an orphan he had found at Redstone and enlisted as the regimental drummer. The boy beamed, and pounded another peg through the hole.
A few feet away a one-legged old man, an elder in one of the families, sat on a log and deftly sharpened axes and saws and augers with a variety of files and stones, while a butterfly with iridescent blue-black wings stood on his hat folding and unfolding, as oblivious to the man’s labors as he was to its presence. Dust-motes swirled in the leaning afternoon sunbeams, and pungent steam billowed near the shore where women had set up kettles to boil long-unwashed garments.
George summoned Private Butler, who had returned from hunting, and went with him to the north shore of the island.
“What is the channel, Si?”
Butler pointed his long arm straight upstream and cleared his throat elaborately. “Wal, suh, you have t’ paddle up th’ river ’bout a mile fust, an’ it’s a hard row. Then you ’proach t’ ’bout two hunnerd yards o’ th’ north bank. That gits you inter the proper channel fur enough up from th’ Falls. Then y’ turn around quick an’ come fast, stayin’ ’bout a couple hunnerd yards offshore. Y’row a-hellin’, t’ keep from gittin’ sideways, an’ y’ beeline f’r that gap thar—y’ see th’ white water ’bout halfway crost? You dassn’t miss it—an’ go inter that, an’ hang onter y’r hat, suh, cause hit’s like th’ world falls out from under you. Then y’ go asplooshin’ an’ asplashin’ mebbe five hunnerd yards, abearin’ sorta right toward the shore, t’ avoid that big knob-rock y’ see down thar, go smooth another half-mile er so, astayin’ in that northerest channel thar; then that drops you through another chute o’ white water right under yon high bluff-point, see it? At th’ bottom o’ that, they’s a big ol’ churnin’ eddy that y’ have to ride out of, an’ y’ do that by tryin’ t’ row right at th’ foot o’ th’ Falls. Th’ current will carry you then straight inter th’ last funnel; you sort of fall through that for a long spell, an’ then th’ river jest sort of spits y’ out slick as a cherry pit inter the smooth water below, an’ ye’re home safe. Soaked through, prob’ly, but safe.” After that long discourse, Butler had to spit into the river, and his gob headed off toward the Falls. George looked at him, retraced by eye the channel he had described, then looked at him again, took off his hat, and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. He cleared his throat, then said:
“As simple as that, eh?”
Butler grinned, nodded, and spat again into the river.
“Well,” George went on, “would you say that boatloads of troops could make it down that route without spilling?”
Butler gave him a thoughtful sideways look, then gazed back down over the roaring waters. “Wal, suh, some o’ them likely might spill in th’r drawers. But a loaded boat would go through thar, yes, suh. If th’ helmsman knows how t’ git inter that gap thar, an’ the water’s runnin’ high like t’day. Yup. It would be possible.”
“I thank you, Si. Now, promise me you won’t tell any of the men about our conversation here?”
Butler gazed at him through his canny light blue eyes, and shifted his quid to the other cheek. “Certainly, Cunnel.” He grinned and grunted, looked over the rampaging rapids, and shook his head. “They wouldn’t b’lieve y’re thinkin’ ’bout such a thing nohow. Heh!”
COLONEL JOHN BOWMAN, JOE’S BROTHER, APPEARED ON THE south bank on horseback before sunset; with him were James Harrod, the founder of Harrodsburg, and a score of gentlemen and leaders from the Kentucky frontier settlements. They picketed their horses and were ferried across to the island, where they enjoyed a maudlin, back-thumping reunion with their brothers and friends, and gulped cup after cup of rum taffia as the sun descended in the spume of the Falls and the entire island seemed to ripen in an enchanting, cross-lighted glow of warm gold.
George, warm and expansive with rum, led the officers and gentlemen away to the north shore where he had stood with Private Butler a few hours before, seated himself with them on the bank, the thunder of the Falls behind him, the laughter and voices of his little army audible from the center of the island, and read and explained Governor Henry’s secret orders, then sat and awaited their reactions.
They were silent at first, looking at him with ruddy faces that could not mask their astonishment. Then they began to stir with excitement and eagerness, and agreed that the plan, if carried out in total surprise, could be successful. John Bowman, like his brother a man of eerie indigo eyes, made it clear at once that he was not enthusiastic. Several of the gentlemen exchanged glances. John Bowman’s jealousy of George was well known. “I worry for the small size of your army,” he growled, “and it pains me I can’t spare a man for you.”
Among those who seemed particularly agitated by the prospects of the raid was a fine-looking young lieutenant named Hutchings, from Smith’s contingent. He said nothing, but his whipstock of a body seemed to strain with eagerness and his intelligent face fairly shone with excitement. That one, George thought, might well make a special mark in this campaign. I’ll watch him.
At twilight, in the new clearing which would become the parade ground of the fort but was as yet only trampled earth littered with woodchips and leaves and studded with fresh stumps, stacked logs, and half-hewn timbers, a huge bonfire blazed, its flames leaping ten feet high; around it, sitting, standing, lounging against tree trunks, even perched in the branches of trees at the clearing’s edge, more than a hundred and fifty men were gathered. They drank their ration of rum, laughed, told tall tales, and sang in small groups, waiting for Colonel Clark to come out and say what it was he had assembled them to hear. Davey Pagan had produced a hornpipe out of his shirt and was playing a jig for a small group of stomping, whooping dancers. But they had rowed and worked hard all day and soon flopped to the ground, laughing, and Pagan returned the pipe into his shirt. From a sentry-post fire on the shoreward side of the island a jew’s-harp faintly buzzed and twanged. Near the big fire a fifer then drew his fife out from his knapsack and began playing sweet, nonmilitary airs, home songs full of longing, and the crowd of tired men was subdued and mellow when George came out to speak to them. He mounted a platform made of raw new planks fastened on barrelheads, the officers standing on the ground around him, waited for complete stillness, and then began:
“Now I ask: Is there a man here who’s not somehow suffered the wrath of an Indian raid? Who does not know of a woman widowed, or a child orphaned, by savages out of the woods?” Throughout the mass of fire-warmed faces ran an angry, assenting murmur. “We have at least one among us,” he went on, “who has personally felt the scalping knife …”
“Don’t we know that, though!” cried a raucous voice from the shadows, and a roar of laughter went up all around. Sergeant Crump, leaning against a tree near the fire, threw a ferocious gesture in the direction of the voice, but was grinning. George laughed with them, but soon his face darkened and the troops grew still.
“Many of you were free to join this company because you’d been made homeless by torches and fire-arrows, or because you lost your families. Many are here wanting revenge on the savages.” The glowering eyes attested. He raised a fist, and shouted:
“You shall have it!”
A cheer went up, but it was followed by a loud, sarcastic voice from the rear.
“Yah! But when?”
The eyes demanded now. The only sounds were the distant rush of the Falls and the crackling of the bonfire. George knew the men were remembering his refusal to help at Fort Randolph; he waited and let them think of it. Then, turning slowly so that they all might see, he drew from his tunic a piece of folded paper. He shook it open and held it high, and the nearer ones could see printing on it, and ruddy streaks and spots.
“You see this,” he said. “This is a piece of British paper, with the blood of an American woman on it.” He turned again, letting them gaze on it. “This was left on the body of a woman whose womb had been ripped open by …” he paused, “by British steel!”
A fierce, confused muttering swept around him; the men’s hatreds were fixed upon Indians, and here he was talking of British.
“This is British paper, printed with a threat to Americans,” he resumed. “That knife was of British steel. Both were delivered at Point Pleasant by the hands of a Shawnee warrior.” He paused to let that imagery sink in. “Now, gents: It is true, the Indians do not like us. We all know that.” He swept his arm full circle. “They call this their country, and they see us coming in to take it. They have always tried to stop us from that. They make a general war against us, now and then resting on a treaty. But they have a natural fear of us. And why should they not? We cut down forest, we kill and drive out game, we build cabins and stay.” The men shifted and frowned. What they did not want now was to hear of legitimate Indian grievances. “But I ask you this: Why, with this war for freedom, are there suddenly so many more Indian raids than ever before? I ask you, why is there an English paper handbill and an English steel knife in the hands of the red warrior?” He paused again and let them think on that, then he continued.
“The Indians carry British knives with red handles and bloody blades. When they get those knives, only the handles are red; the blades are clean and new. Do you know that the savages are given those red-handled knives by the British lieutenant governor of Detroit, a dandy named Henry Hamilton? Henry Hamilton.” He repeated the name so that even some half-listening Indian-hater with a mind gorged on bloody vengeance might grasp it. Then he lowered his voice to a menacing, steely hiss, which the men strained forward for, but could hear, to a man.
“This British Henry Hamilton, this ‘civilized’ English gentleman who is in charge of Detroit … D’you know that he gives these red knives to the Indians? D’you know that he assigns British officers to lead them south against Kentucky? That he pays the Indians a bounty for every American scalp they bring back to him? D’you think Hamilton does not know the difference between a man’s scalp and the long hair of a woman, or the white hair of a grandmother, or the fine hair of a child? Of course he can tell the difference! But he pays his bounty equally for them all!”
The men were seething. Their eyes glowed like coals with the reflected firelight. They were all turned inward now, turned as much to their inner burning fury as to this tall red-haired orator beside the bonfire in the center of their circle, who now resumed in that menacing, sharp-edged tone:
“Now consider this fine, red-coated British gentlemen, who hires Indians to come and kill women and children in Kentucky. He has agents who help him with this bloody business. His Indian agent is Major Jehu Hay, a renegade American. Jehu Hay. This is another name to remember.
“But for now let us consider only Henry Hamilton, this learned English gentleman. Lads, I know witnesses who have seen that man curry the favor of Indian chiefs by …” here his voice fairly curdled with contempt, “by stripping himself to do their war dance and lead their war song!”
He stopped again and raised the bloody paper above his head and listened to the outraged babble around the fire. He had given them a series of unforgettable pictures for their minds’ eyes: mutilated women and children, bloody leaflets of propaganda, red knives, and now the ridiculous vision of a lordly Englishman’s white nakedness posturing around a war post.
“I demand to know,” he boomed, “who are the real savages in this game? A warrior with a passion to preserve his lands, or a British official, calculating to buy that passion for his own use, trading for it with guns and knives, pots and cloth, mirrors and liquor? Oh, I make no excuses for a blood-crazy, painted savage who guts a praying woman and throws her unborn baby in the fire. But I’ll tell you who the real savages are! Their names are Henry Hamilton, and Jehu Hay, and Philippe de Rocheblave, Hamilton’s agent on the Mississippi. Boys, those are the people who murder your families and burn your property! I mean Hamilton the Scalp-Buyer and his Indian agents!” He snarled this through bared teeth and his piercing eyes drilled the message home. The men leaned in toward him, their hearts pounding with rage at this revelation, which they seemed to understand for the first time; but they were not sure what it had to do with their presence here.
“Men,” he began now in a confiding sort of tone, “I don’t know of anybody lower than a British fop in a white wig hiring Indians to fight a war that he’s too weak or cowardly to fight for himself, do you? Why does he have to buy them with gifts, or prance with ’em in a war dance, if he isn’t weak? Why, he wouldn’t, if he had the strength of a man about him!” The men were looking at each other and nodding.
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“And so in case you haven’t guessed it by now for yourselves,” he said loudly, “I’m going to tell you what we’ve come so far to do.” An attentive silence settled in the crowded, firelit circle; he passed an intense dark stare around, to make each man feel he was being addressed personally. “I have the pleasure to tell you now,” he said, “that each one of you who serves with me will get a passel of three hundred acres of new land if we’re successful ….” A great murmur of astonishment went up. Without stopping to dwell upon that happy news, which confirmed the rumor they had heard of it, he waved them to silence and went on:
“You’re strong men. You want revenge. Now you shall have it … but not by ranging over Kentucky, picking off a few hired Indians at a time! No, by heavens! In the name of the Commonwealth of Virginia, I am authorized to take you into the Illinois country and strike once and for all at the center of the British vipers’ nest!”
He had chosen his words carefully. He expected, at worst, an immediate hubbub of consternation, at best, a patient attendance for more explanation.
Instead, the men, the whole sweat-stained, haggard, unshaven force of them, mulled on this staggering portion of brave but appalling news for a mere three or four seconds, then rose to their feet whooping and cheering.
He felt almost faint with relief. He stood there on the crude platform sweating and smiling as the men began to come forward, milling about their officers, whooping, swearing, and whistling, asking for facts.
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