CHAPTER XVIII. “AN’ YE HAD BEEN WHERE I HAD BEEN”
We went back to Kaskaskia, Colonel Clark, Tom, and myself, and a greatweight was lifted from our hearts.
A peaceful autumn passed, and we were happy save when we thought ofthose we had left at home. There is no space here to tell of manyincidents. Great chiefs who had not been to the council came hundreds ofleagues across wide rivers that they might see with their own eyes thisman who had made peace without gold, and these had to be amused andentertained.
The apples ripened, and were shaken to the ground by the winds. The goodFather Gibault, true to his promise, strove to teach me French. Indeed,I picked up much of that language in my intercourse with the inhabitantsof Kaskaskia. How well I recall that simple life,--its dances, itssongs, and the games with the laughing boys and girls on the common!And the good people were very kind to the orphan that dwelt with ColonelClark, the drummer boy of his regiment.
But winter brought forebodings. When the garden patches grew bare andbrown, and the bleak winds from across the Mississippi swept over thecommon, untoward tidings came like water dripping from a roof, bit bybit. And day by day Colonel Clark looked graver. The messengers he hadsent to Vincennes came not back, and the coureurs and traders from timeto time brought rumors of a British force gathering like a thundercloudin the northeast. Monsieur Vigo himself, who had gone to Vincennes onhis own business, did not return. As for the inhabitants, some of themwho had once bowed to us with a smile now passed with faces averted.
The cold set the miry roads like cement, in ruts and ridges. A flurry ofsnow came and powdered the roofs even as the French loaves are powdered.
It was January. There was Colonel Clark on a runt of an Indian pony; TomMcChesney on another, riding ahead, several French gentlemen seated onstools in a two-wheeled cart, and myself. We were going to Cahokia,and it was very cold, and when the tireless wheels bumped from ridge togully, the gentlemen grabbed each other as they slid about, and laughed.
All at once the merriment ceased, and looking forward we saw that Tomhad leaped from his saddle and was bending over something in the snow.These chanced to be the footprints of some twenty men.
The immediate result of this alarming discovery was that Tom went onexpress to warn Captain Bowman, and the rest of us returned to a painfulscene at Kaskaskia. We reached the village, the French gentlemen leapeddown from their stools in the cart, and in ten minutes the streets werefilled with frenzied, hooded figures. Hamilton, called the Hair Buyer,was upon them with no less than six hundred, and he would hang them totheir own gateposts for listening to the Long Knives. These were buta handful after all was said. There was Father Gibault, for example.Father Gibault would doubtless be exposed to the crows in the belfry ofhis own church because he had busied himself at Vincennes and with othermatters. Father Gibault was human, and therefore lovable. He badehis parishioners a hasty and tearful farewell, and he made a cold andpainful journey to the territories of his Spanish Majesty across theMississippi.
Father Gibault looked back, and against the gray of the winter’stwilight there were flames like red maple leaves. In the fort the menstood to their guns, their faces flushed with staring at the burninghouses. Only a few were burned,--enough to give no cover for Hamiltonand his six hundred if they came.
But they did not come. The faithful Bowman and his men arrived instead,with the news that there had been only a roving party of forty, andthese were now in full retreat.
Father Gibault came back. But where was Hamilton? This was thedisquieting thing.
One bitter day, when the sun smiled mockingly on the powdered common, ahorseman was perceived on the Fort Chartres road. It was Monsieur Vigoreturning from Vincennes, but he had been first to St. Louis by reasonof the value he set upon his head. Yes, Monsieur Vigo had been toVincennes, remaining a little longer than he expected, the guest ofGovernor Hamilton. So Governor Hamilton had recaptured that place!Monsieur Vigo was no spy, hence he had gone first to St. Louis. GovernorHamilton was at Vincennes with much of King George’s gold, and manysupplies, and certain Indians who had not been at the council. Eighthundred in all, said Monsieur Vigo, using his fingers. And it wasGovernor Hamilton’s design to march upon Kaskaskia and Cahokia andsweep over Kentucky; nay, he had already sent certain emissaries toMcGillivray and his Creeks and the Southern Indians with presents, andthese were to press forward on their side. The Governor could donothing now, but would move as soon as the rigors of winter had somewhatrelented. Monsieur Vigo shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. Heloved les Américains. What would Monsieur le Colonel do now?
Monsieur le Colonel was grave, but this was his usual manner. He did nottear his hair, but the ways of the Long Knives were past understanding.He asked many questions. How was it with the garrison at Vincennes?Monsieur Vigo was exact, as a business man should be. They were nowreduced to eighty men, and five hundred savages had gone out to ravage.There was no chance, then, of Hamilton moving at present? MonsieurVigo threw up his hands. Never had he made such a trip, and he had beenforced to come back by a northern route. The Wabash was as the GreatLakes, and the forests grew out of the water. A fox could not go toVincennes in this weather. A fish? Monsieur Vigo laughed heartily. Yes,a fish might.
“Then,” said Colonel Clark, “we will be fish.”
Monsieur Vigo stared, and passed his hand from his forehead backwardsover his long hair. I leaned forward in my corner by the hickory fire.
“Then we will be fish,” said Colonel Clark. “Better that than food forthe crows. For, if we stay here, we shall be caught like bears in atrap, and Kentucky will be at Hamilton’s mercy.”
“Sacré!” exclaimed Monsieur Vigo, “you are mad, mon ami. I know whatthis country is, and you cannot get to Vincennes.”
“I will get to Vincennes,” said Colonel Clark, so gently that MonsieurVigo knew he meant it. “I will swim to Vincennes.”
Monsieur Vigo raised his hands to heaven. The three of us went out ofthe door and walked. There was a snowy place in front of the church allparty-colored like a clown’s coat,--scarlet capotes, yellow capotes,and blue capotes, and bright silk handkerchiefs. They surrounded theColonel. Pardieu, what was he to do now? For the British governorand his savages were coming to take revenge on them because, in theirnecessity, they had declared for Congress. Colonel Clark went silentlyon his way to the gate; but Monsieur Vigo stopped, and Kaskaskia heard,with a shock, that this man of iron was to march against Vincennes.
The gates of the fort were shut, and the captains summoned. Undauntedwoodsmen as they were, they were lukewarm, at first, at the idea ofthis march through the floods. Who can blame them? They had, indeed,sacrificed much. But in ten minutes they had caught his enthusiasm(which is one of the mysteries of genius). And the men paraded in thesnow likewise caught it, and swung their hats at the notion of takingthe Hair Buyer.
“‘Tis no news to me,” said Terence, stamping his feet on the flintyground; “wasn’t it Davy that pointed him out to us and the hair liftin’from his head six months since?”
“Und you like schwimmin’, yes?” said Swein Poulsson, his face like therising sun with the cold.
“Swimmin’, is it?” said Terence; “sure, the divil made worse things thanwather. And Hamilton’s beyant.”
“I reckon that’ll fetch us through,” Bill Cowan put in grimly.
It was a blessed thing that none of us had a bird’s-eye view of thatsame water. No man of force will listen when his mind is made up, andperhaps it is just as well. For in that way things are accomplished.Clark would not listen to Monsieur Vigo, and hence the financier had,perforce, to listen to Clark. There were several miracles before weleft. Monsieur Vigo, for instance, agreed to pay the expenses of theexpedition, though in his heart he thought we should never get toVincennes. Incidentally, he was never repaid. Then there were theFrench--yesterday, running hither and thither in paroxysms of fear;to-day, enlisting in whole companies, though it were easier to get tothe wild geese of the swamps than
to Hamilton. Their ladies stitchedcolors day and night, and presented them with simple confidence to theColonel in the church. Twenty stands of colors for 170 men, countingthose who had come from Cahokia. Think of the industry of it, of theenthusiasm behind it! Twenty stands of colors! Clark took them all,and in due time it will be told how the colors took Vincennes. This wasbecause Colonel Clark was a man of destiny.
Furthermore, Colonel Clark was off the next morning at dawn to buy aMississippi keel-boat. He had her rigged up with two four-pounders andfour swivels, filled her with provisions, and called her the Willing.She was the first gunboat on the Western waters. A great fear came intomy heart, and at dusk I stole back to the Colonel’s house alone. Thesnow had turned to rain, and Terence stood guard within the doorway.
“Arrah,” he said, “what ails ye, darlin’?”
I gulped and the tears sprang into my eyes; whereupon Terence, indefiance of all military laws, laid his gun against the doorpost andput his arms around me, and I confided my fears. It was at this criticaljuncture that the door opened and Colonel Clark came out.
“What’s to do here?” he demanded, gazing at us sternly.
“Savin’ your Honor’s prisence,” said Terence, “he’s afeard your Honorwill be sending him on the boat. Sure, he wants to go swimmin’ with therest of us.”
Colonel Clark frowned, bit his lip, and Terence seized his gun and stoodto attention.
“It were right to leave you in Kaskaskia,” said the Colonel; “the waterwill be over your head.”
“The King’s drum would be floatin’ the likes of him,” said theirrepressible Terence, “and the b’ys would be that lonesome.”
The Colonel walked away without a word. In an hour’s time he came backto find me cleaning his accoutrements by the fire. For a while he didnot speak, but busied himself with his papers, I having lighted thecandles for him. Presently he spoke my name, and I stood before him.
“I will give you a piece of advice, Davy,” said he. “If you want athing, go straight to the man that has it. McChesney has spoken to meabout this wild notion of yours of going to Vincennes, and Cowan andMcCann and Ray and a dozen others have dogged my footsteps.”
“I only spoke to Terence because he asked me, sir,” I answered. “I saidnothing to any one else.”
He laid down his pen and looked at me with an odd expression.
“What a weird little piece you are,” he exclaimed; “you seem to havewormed your way into the hearts of these men. Do you know that you willprobably never get to Vincennes alive?”
“I don’t care, sir,” I said. A happy thought struck me. “If they see aboy going through the water, sir--” I hesitated, abashed.
“What then?” said Clark, shortly.
“It may keep some from going back,” I finished.
At that he gave a sort of gasp, and stared at me the more.
“Egad,” he said, “I believe the good Lord launched you wrong end to.Perchance you will be a child when you are fifty.”
He was silent a long time, and fell to musing. And I thought he hadforgotten.
“May I go, sir?” I asked at length.
He started.
“Come here,” said he. But when I was close to him he merely laid hishand on my shoulder. “Yes, you may go, Davy.”
He sighed, and presently turned to his writing again, and I went backjoyfully to my cleaning.
On a certain dark 4th of February, picture the village of Kaskaskiaassembled on the river-bank in capote and hood. Ropes are cast off, thekeel-boat pushes her blunt nose through the cold, muddy water, the oarschurn up dirty, yellow foam, and cheers shake the sodden air. So theWilling left on her long journey: down the Kaskaskia, into the flood ofthe Mississippi, against many weary leagues of the Ohio’s current, andup the swollen Wabash until they were to come to the mouth of the WhiteRiver near Vincennes. There they were to await us.
Should we ever see them again? I think that this was the unspokenquestion in the hearts of the many who were to go by land.
The 5th was a mild, gray day, with the melting snow lying in patches onthe brown bluff, and the sun making shift to pierce here and there. Weformed the regiment in the fort,--backwoodsman and Creole now to fightfor their common country, Jacques and Pierre and Alphonse; and motherand father, sweetheart and wife, waiting to wave a last good-by. Bravelywe marched out of the gate and into the church for Father Gibault’sblessing. And then, forming once more, we filed away on the road leadingnorthward to the ferry, our colors flying, leaving the weeping, cheeringcrowd behind. In front of the tall men of the column was a wizenedfigure, beating madly on a drum, stepping proudly with head thrown back.It was Cowan’s voice that snapped the strain.
“Go it, Davy, my little gamecock!” he cried, and the men laughed andcheered. And so we came to the bleak ferry landing where we had crossedon that hot July night six months before.
We were soon on the prairies, and in the misty rain that fell and fellthey seemed to melt afar into a gray and cheerless ocean. The soddengrass was matted now and unkempt. Lifeless lakes filled the depressions,and through them we waded mile after mile ankle-deep. There was a littlecavalcade mounted on the tiny French ponies, and sometimes I rode withthese; but oftenest Cowan or Tom would fling me, drum and all, on hisshoulder. For we had reached the forest swamps where the water is thecolor of the Creole coffee. And day after day as we marched, the softrain came out of the east and wet us to the skin.
It was a journey of torments, and even that first part of it was enoughto discourage the most resolute spirit. Men might be led through it, butnever driven. It is ever the mind which suffers through the monotoniesof bodily discomfort, and none knew this better than Clark himself.Every morning as we set out with the wet hide chafing our skin, theColonel would run the length of the regiment, crying:--
“Who gives the feast to-night, boys?”
Now it was Bowman’s company, now McCarty’s, now Bayley’s. How thehunters vied with each other to supply the best, and spent the daysstalking the deer cowering in the wet thickets. We crossed the Saline,and on the plains beyond was a great black patch, a herd of buffalo.A party of chosen men headed by Tom McChesney was sent after them, andnever shall I forget the sight of the mad beasts charging through thewater.
That night, when our chilled feet could bear no more, we sought out apatch of raised ground a little firmer than a quagmire, and heapedup the beginnings of a fire with such brush as could be made to burn,robbing the naked thickets. Saddle and steak sizzled, leather steamedand stiffened, hearts and bodies thawed; grievances that men had nursedover miles of water melted. Courage sits best on a full stomach, and asthey ate they cared not whether the Atlantic had opened between themand Vincennes. An hour agone, and there were twenty cursing laggards,counting the leagues back to Kaskaskia. Now:--
“C’était un vieux sauvage Tout noir, tour barbouilla, Ouich’ ka! Avec sa vieill’ couverte Et son sac à tabac. Ouich’ ka! Ah! ah! tenaouich’ tenaga, Tenaouich’ tenaga, ouich’ ka!”
So sang Antoine, dit le Gris, in the pulsing red light. And when,between the verses, he went through the agonies of a Huron war-dance,the assembled regiment howled with delight. Some men know cities andthose who dwell in the quarters of cities. But grizzled Antoine knewthe half of a continent, and the manners of trading and killing of thetribes thereof.
And after Antoine came Gabriel, a marked contrast--Gabriel, five feetsix, and the glare showing but a faint dark line on his quivering lip.Gabriel was a patriot,--a tribute we must pay to all of those braveFrenchmen who went with us. Nay, Gabriel had left at home on his littlefarm near the village a young wife of a fortnight. And so his lipquivered as he sang:--
“Petit Rocher de la Haute Montagne, Je vien finir ici cette campagne! Ah! doux échos, entendez mes soupirs; En languissant je vais bientôt mouir!”
We had need of gayety after that, and so Bill Cowan sang “Billy of theWild Wood,” and Terence McCann wailed an Irish jig, stamping thewater out of the spongy ground
amidst storms of mirth. As he desisted,breathless and panting, he flung me up in the firelight before the eyesof them all, crying:--
“It’s Davy can bate me!”
“Ay, Davy, Davy!” they shouted, for they were in the mood for anything.There stood Colonel Clark in the dimmer light of the background. “Wemust keep ‘em screwed up, Davy,” he had said that very day.
There came to me on the instant a wild song that my father had taughtme when the liquor held him in dominance. Exhilarated, I sprang fromTerence’s arms to the sodden, bared space, and methinks I yet hear myshrill, piping note, and see my legs kicking in the fling of it. Therewas an uproar, a deeper voice chimed in, and here was McAndrew flinginghis legs with mine:--
“I’ve faught on land, I’ve faught at sea, At hame I faught my aunty, O; But I met the deevil and Dundee On the braes o’ Killiecrankie, O. An’ ye had been where I had been, Ye wad na be sae cantie, O; An’ ye had seen what I ha’e seen, On the braes o’ Killiecrankie, O.”
In the morning Clark himself would be the first off through the grayrain, laughing and shouting and waving his sword in the air, and I afterhim as hard as I could pelt through the mud, beating the charge on mydrum until the war-cries of the regiment drowned the sound of it. For wewere upon a pleasure trip--lest any man forget,--a pleasure trip amidststark woods and brown plains flecked with ponds. So we followed himuntil we came to a place where, in summer, two quiet rivers flowedthrough green forests--the little Wabashes. And now! Now hickory andmaple, oak and cottonwood, stood shivering in three feet of water onwhat had been a league of dry land. We stood dismayed at the crumblingedge of the hill, and one hundred and seventy pairs of eyes were turnedon Clark. With a mere glance at the running stream high on the bank andthe drowned forest beyond, he turned and faced them.
“I reckon you’ve earned a rest, boys,” he said. “We’ll have gamesto-day.”
There were some dozen of the unflinching who needed not to be amused.Choosing a great poplar, these he set to hollowing out a pirogue, andhimself came among the others and played leap-frog and the Indian gameof ball until night fell. And these, instead of moping and quarrelling,forgot. That night, as I cooked him a buffalo steak, he drew near thefire with Bowman.
“For the love of God keep up their spirits, Bowman,” said the Colonel;“keep up their spirits until we get them across. Once on the fartherhills, they cannot go back.”
Here was a different being from the shouting boy who had led the gamesand the war-dance that night in the circle of the blaze. Tired out, wewent to sleep with the ring of the axes in our ears, and in the morningthere were more games while the squad crossed the river to the drownedneck, built a rough scaffold there, and notched a trail across it; tothe scaffold the baggage was ferried, and the next morning, bit by bit,the regiment. Even now the pains shoot through my body when I thinkof how man after man plunged waist-deep into the icy water toward thefarther branch. The pirogue was filled with the weak, and in the end ofit I was curled up with my drum.
Heroism is a many-sided thing. It is one matter to fight and finish,another to endure hell’s tortures hour after hour. All day they wadedwith numbed feet vainly searching for a footing in the slime. Truly, theagony of a brave man is among the greatest of the world’s tragedies tosee. As they splashed onward through the tree-trunks, many a joke wentforth, though lips were drawn and teeth pounded together. I have notthe heart to recall these jokes,--it would seem a sacrilege. There werequarrels, too, the men striving to push one another from the easierpaths; and deeds sublime when some straggler clutched at the bole ofa tree for support, and was helped onward through excruciating ways.A dozen held tremblingly to the pirogue’s gunwale, lest they falland drown. One walked ahead with a smile, or else fell back to lend ahelping shoulder to a fainting man.
And there was Tom McChesney. All day long I watched him, and thanked Godthat Polly Ann could not see him thus. And yet, how the pride would haveleaped within her! Humor came not easily to him, but charity and courageand unselfishness he had in abundance. What he suffered none knew; butthrough those awful hours he was always among the stragglers, helpingthe weak and despairing when his strength might have taken him farahead toward comfort and safety. “I’m all right, Davy,” he would say, inanswer to my look as he passed me. But on his face was written somethingthat I did not understand.
How the Creole farmers and traders, unused even to the common ways ofwoodcraft, endured that fearful day and others that followed, I knownot. And when a tardy justice shall arise and compel the people of thisland to raise a shaft in memory of Clark and those who followed him, letnot the loyalty of the French be forgotten, though it be not understood.
At eventide came to lurid and disordered brains the knowledge that theother branch was here. And, mercifully, it was shallower than the first.Holding his rifle high, with a war-whoop Bill Cowan plunged into thestream. Unable to contain myself more, I flung my drum overboard andwent after it, and amid shouts and laughter I was towed across by JamesRay.
Colonel Clark stood watching from the bank above, and it was he whopulled me, bedraggled, to dry land. I ran away to help gather brush fora fire. As I was heaping this in a pile I heard something that I shouldnot have heard. Nor ought I to repeat it now, though I did not need theflames to send the blood tingling through my body.
“McChesney,” said the Colonel, “we must thank our stars that we broughtthe boy along. He has grit, and as good a head as any of us. I reckon ifit hadn’t been for him some of them would have turned back long ago.”
I saw Tom grinning at the Colonel as gratefully as though he himself hadbeen praised.
The blaze started, and soon we had a bonfire. Some had not the strengthto hold out the buffalo meat to the fire. Even the grumblers andmutineers were silent, owing to the ordeal they had gone through. Butpresently, when they began to be warmed and fed, they talked of othertrials to be borne. The Embarrass and the big Wabash, for example. Thesemust be like the sea itself.
“Take the back trail, if ye like,” said Bill Cowan, with a loud laugh.“I reckon the rest of us kin float to Vincennes on Davy’s drum.”
But there was no taking the back trail now; and well they knew it. Thegames began, the unwilling being forced to play, and before they fellasleep that night they had taken Vincennes, scalped the Hair Buyer, andwere far on the march to Detroit.
Mercifully, now that their stomachs were full, they had no worries. Fewknew the danger we were in of being cut off by Hamilton’s roving bandsof Indians. There would be no retreat, no escape, but a fight to thedeath. And I heard this, and much more that was spoken of in low tonesat the Colonel’s fire far into the night, of which I never told the rankand file,--not even Tom McChesney.
On and on, through rain and water, we marched until we drew near to theriver Embarrass. Drew near, did I say? “Sure, darlin’,” said Terence,staring comically over the gray waste, “we’ve been in it sinceChoosd’y.” There was small exaggeration in it. In vain did our feet seekthe deeper water. It would go no higher than our knees, and the soundwhich the regiment made in marching was like that of a great flatboatgoing against the current. It had been a sad, lavender-colored day, andnow that the gloom of the night was setting in, and not so much as ahummock showed itself above the surface, the Creoles began to murmur.And small wonder! Where was this man leading them, this Clark who hadcome amongst them from the skies, as it were? Did he know, himself?Night fell as though a blanket had been spread over the tree-tops, andabove the dreary splashing men could be heard calling to one another inthe darkness. Nor was there any supper ahead. For our food was gone,and no game was to be shot over this watery waste. A cold like that ofeternal space settled in our bones. Even Terence McCann grumbled.
“Begob,” said he, “‘tis fine weather for fishes, and the birrds are thatcomfortable in the threes. ‘Tis no place for a baste at all, at all.”
Sometime in the night there was a cry. Ray had found the water fallingfrom an oozy bank, and there we dozed fitfully until
we were startled bya distant boom.
It was Governor Hamilton’s morning gun at Fort Sackville, Vincennes.
There was no breakfast. How we made our way, benumbed with hunger andcold, to the banks of the Wabash, I know not. Captain McCarty’s companywas set to making canoes, and the rest of us looked on apatheticallyas the huge trees staggered and fell amidst a fountain of spray in theshallow water. We were but three leagues from Vincennes. A raft wasbound together, and Tom McChesney and three other scouts sent on adesperate journey across the river in search of boats and provisions,lest we starve and fall and die on the wet flats. Before he left Tomcame to me, and the remembrance of his gaunt face haunted me for manyyears after. He drew something from his bosom and held it out to me, andI saw that it was a bit of buffalo steak which he had saved. I shook myhead, and the tears came into my eyes.
“Come, Davy,” he said, “ye’re so little, and I beant hungry.”
Again I shook my head, and for the life of me I could say nothing.
“I reckon Polly Ann’d never forgive me if anything was to happen toyou,” said he.
At that I grew strangely angry.
“It’s you who need it,” I cried, “it’s you that has to do the work. Andshe told me to take care of you.”
The big fellow grinned sheepishly, as was his wont.
“‘Tis only a bite,” he pleaded, “‘twouldn’t only make me hungry,and”--he looked hard at me--“and it might be the savin’ of you. Ye’llnot eat it for Polly Ann’s sake?” he asked coaxingly.
“‘Twould not be serving her,” I answered indignantly.
“Ye’re an obstinate little deevil!” he cried, and, dropping the morselon the freshly cut stump, he stalked away. I ran after him, crying out,but he leaped on the raft that was already in the stream and began topole across. I slipped the piece into my own hunting shirt.
All day the men who were too weak to swing axes sat listless on thebank, watching in vain for some sight of the Willing. They saw a canoerounding the bend instead, with a single occupant paddling madly. Andwho should this be but Captain Willing’s own brother, escaped fromthe fort, where he had been a prisoner. He told us that a man namedMaisonville, with a party of Indians, was in pursuit of him, and thenext piece of news he had was in the way of raising our despair alittle. Governor Hamilton’s astonishment at seeing this force here andnow would be as great as his own. Governor Hamilton had said, indeed,that only a navy could take Vincennes this year. Unfortunately, Mr.Willing brought no food. Next in order came five Frenchmen, trapped byour scouts, nor had they any provisions. But as long as I live I shallnever forget how Tom McChesney returned at nightfall, the hero of thehour. He had shot a deer; and never did wolves pick an animal cleaner.They pressed on me a choice piece of it, these great-hearted men whowere willing to go hungry for the sake of a child, and when I refused itthey would have forced it down my throat. Swein Poulsson, he that oncehid under the bed, deserves a special tablet to his memory. He was forgiving me all he had, though his little eyes were unnaturally bright andthe red had left his cheeks now.
“He haf no belly, only a leedle on his backbone!” he cried.
“Begob, thin, he has the backbone,” said Terence.
“I have a piece,” said I, and drew forth that which Tom had given me.
They brought a quarter of a saddle to Colonel Clark, but he smiled atthem kindly and told them to divide it amongst the weak. He looked at meas I sat with my feet crossed on the stump.
“I will follow Davy’s example,” said he.
At length the canoes were finished and we crossed the river, swimmingover the few miserable skeletons of the French ponies we had broughtalong. We came to a sugar camp, and beyond it, stretching between us andVincennes, was a sea of water. Here we made our camp, if camp it couldbe called. There was no fire, no food, and the water seeped out of theground on which we lay. Some of those even who had not yet spoken nowopenly said that we could go no farther. For the wind had shifted intothe northwest, and, for the first time since we had left Kaskaskia wesaw the stars gleaming like scattered diamonds in the sky. Bit by bitthe ground hardened, and if by chance we dozed we stuck to it. Morningfound the men huddled like sheep, their hunting shirts hard as boards,and long before Hamilton’s gun we were up and stamping. Antoine pokedthe butt of his rifle through the ice of the lake in front of us.
“I think we not get to Vincennes this day,” he said.
Colonel Clark, who heard him, turned to me.
“Fetch McChesney here, Davy,” he said. Tom came.
“McChesney,” said he, “when I give the word, take Davy and his drum onyour shoulders and follow me. And Davy, do you think you can sing thatsong you gave us the other night?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” I answered.
Without more ado the Colonel broke the skim of ice, and, taking some ofthe water in his hand, poured powder from his flask into it and rubbedit on his face until he was the color of an Indian. Stepping back, heraised his sword high in the air, and, shouting the Shawanee war-whoop,took a flying leap up to his thighs in the water. Tom swung me instantlyto his shoulder and followed, I beating the charge with all my might,though my hands were so numb that I could scarce hold the sticks.Strangest of all, to a man they came shouting after us.
“Now, Davy!” said the Colonel.
“I’ve faught on land, I’ve faught at sea, At hame I faught my aunty, O; But I met the deevil and Dundee On the braes o’ Killiecrankie, O.”
I piped it at the top of my voice, and sure enough the regiment took upthe chorus, for it had a famous swing.
“An’ ye had been where I had been, Ye wad na be sae cantie, O; An’ ye had seen what I ha’e seen’ On the braes o’ Killiecrankie, O.”
When their breath was gone we heard Cowan shout that he had found apath under his feet,--a path that was on dry land in the summer-time. Wefollowed it, feeling carefully, and at length, when we had suffered allthat we could bear, we stumbled on to a dry ridge. Here we spent anothernight of torture, with a second backwater facing us coated with a fullinch of ice.
And still there was nothing to eat.
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