CHAPTER XVII.
A MARCH THROUGH COLD WATER
On the fifth day of February, 1779, Colonel George Rogers Clark
led an army across the Kaskaskia River and camped. This was the
first step in his march towards the Wabash. An army! Do not smile.
Fewer than two hundred men, it is true, answered the roll-call,
when Father Gibault lifted the Cross and blessed them; but every
name told off by the company sergeants belonged to a hero, and every
voice making response struck a full note in the chorus of freedom's
morning song.
It was an army, small indeed, but yet an army; even though so rudely
equipped that, could we now see it before us, we might wonder of
what use it could possibly be in a military way.
We should nevertheless hardly expect that a hundred and seventy
of our best men, even if furnished with the latest and most deadly
engines of destruction, could do what those pioneers cheerfully
undertook and gloriously accomplished in the savage wilderness which
was to be the great central area of the United States of America.
We look back with a shiver of awe at the three hundred Spartans
for whom Simonides composed his matchless epitaph. They wrought
and died gloriously; that was Greek. The one hundred and seventy
men, who, led by the backwoodsman, Clark, made conquest of an empire's
area for freedom in the west, wrought and lived gloriously; that
was American. It is well to bear in mind this distinction by which
our civilization separates itself from that of old times. Our heroism
has always been of life--our heroes have conquered and lived to
see the effect of conquest. We have fought all sorts of wars and
have never yet felt defeat. Washington, Jackson, Taylor, Grant,
all lived to enjoy, after successful war, a triumphant peace. "These
Americans," said a witty Frenchman, "are either enormously
lucky, or possessed of miraculous vitality. You rarely kill them
in battle, and if you wound them their wounds are never mortal.
Their history is but a chain of impossibilities easily accomplished.
Their undertakings have been without preparation, their successes
in the nature of stupendous accidents." Such a statement may
appear critically sound from a Gallic point of view; but it leaves
out the dominant element of American character, namely, heroic efficiency.
From the first we have had the courage to undertake, the practical
common sense which overcomes the lack of technical training, and
the vital force which never flags under the stress of adversity.
Clark knew, when he set out on his march to Vincennes, that he was
not indulging a visionary impulse. The enterprise was one that called
for all that manhood could endure, but not more. With the genius
of a born leader he measured his task by his means. He knew his
own courage and fortitude, and understood the best capacity of his
men. He had genius; that is, he possessed the secret of extracting
from himself and from his followers the last refinement of devotion
to purpose. There was a certainty, from first to last, that effort
would not flag at any point short of the top-most possible strain.
The great star of America was no more than a nebulous splendor on
the horizon in 1779. It was a new world forming by the law of youth.
The men who bore the burdens of its exacting life were mostly stalwart
striplings who, before the down of adolescence fairly sprouted on
their chins, could swing the ax, drive a plow, close with a bear
or kill an Indian. Clark was not yet twenty- seven when he made
his famous campaign. A tall, brawny youth, whose frontier experience
had enriched a native character of the best quality, he marched
on foot at the head of his little column, and was first to test
every opposing danger. Was there a stream to wade or swim? Clark
enthusiastically shouted, "Come on!" and in he plunged.
Was there a lack of food? "I'm not hungry," he cried.
"Help yourselves, men!" Had some poor soldier lost his
blanket? "Mine is in my way," said Clark. "Take it,
I'm glad to get rid of it!" His men loved him, and would die
rather than fall short of his expectations.
The march before them lay over a magnificent plain, mostly prairie,
rich as the delta of the Nile, but extremely difficult to traverse.
The distance, as the route led, was about a hundred and seventy
miles. On account of an open and rainy winter all the basins and
flat lands were inundated, often presenting leagues of water ranging
in depth from a few inches to three of four feet. Cold winds blew,
sometimes with spits of snow and dashes of sleet, while thin ice
formed on the ponds and sluggish streams. By day progress meant
wading ankle-deep, knee-deep, breast-deep, with an occasional spurt
of swimming. By night the brave fellows had to sleep, if sleep they
could, on the cold ground in soaked clothing under water-heavy blankets.
They flung the leagues behind them, however, cheerfully stimulating
one another by joke and challenge, defying all the bitterness of
weather, all the bitings of hunger, all the toil, danger and deprivation
of a trackless and houseless wilderness, looking only eastward,
following their youthful and intrepid commander to one of the most
valuable victories gained by American soldiers during the War of
the Revolution.
Colonel Clark understood perfectly the strategic importance of Vincennes
as a post commanding the Wabash, and as a base of communication
with the many Indian tribes north of the Ohio and east of the Mississippi.
Francis Vigo (may his name never fade!) had brought him a comprehensive
and accurate report of Hamilton's strength and the condition of
the fort and garrison. This information confirmed his belief that
it would be possible not only to capture Vincennes, but Detroit
as well.
Just seven days after the march began, the little army encamped
for a night's rest at the edge of a wood; and here, just after nightfall,
when the fires were burning merrily and the smell of broiling buffalo
steaks burdened the damp air, a wizzened old man suddenly appeared,
how or from where nobody had observed He was dirty and in every
way disreputable in appearance, looking like an animated mummy,
bearing a long rifle on his shoulder, and walking with the somewhat
halting activity of a very old, yet vivacious and energetic simian.
Of course it was Oncle Jason, "Oncle Jazon sui generis,"
as Father Beret had dubbed him.
"Well, here I am!" he cried, approaching the fire by which
Colonel Clark and some of his officers were cooking supper, "but
ye can't guess in a mile o' who I am to save yer livers and lights."
He danced a few stiff steps, which made the water gush out of his
tattered moccasins, then doffed his nondescript cap and nodded his
scalpless head in salutation to the commander.
Clark looked inquiringly at him, while the old fellow grimaced and
rubbed his shrunken chin.
"I smelt yer fat a fryin' somepin like a mile away, an' it
set my in'ards to grumblin' for a snack; so I jes thought I'd drap
in on ye an' chaw wittles wi' ye."
"Your looks are decidedly against you," remarked the Colonel
with a dry smile. He had recognized Oncle Jazon after a little sharp
scrutiny. "I suppose, however, that we can let you gnaw the
bones after we've got off the meat."
"Thank 'ee, thank 'ee, plenty good. A feller 'at's as hongry
as I am kin go through a bone like a feesh through water."
Clark laughed and said:
"I don't see any teeth that you have worth mentioning, but
your gums may be unusually sharp."
"Ya-a-s, 'bout as sharp as yer wit, Colonel Clark, an' sharper'n
yer eyes, a long shot. Ye don't know me, do ye? Take ernother squint
at me, an' see'f ye kin 'member a good lookin' man!"
"You have somewhat the appearance of an old scamp by the name
of Jazon that formerly loafed around with a worthless gun on his
shoulder, and used to run from every Indian he saw down yonder in
Kentucky." Clark held out his hand and added cordially:
"How are you, Jazon, my old friend, and where upon earth have
you come from?"
Oncle Jazon pounced upon the hand and gripped it in his own knotted
fingers, gazing delightedly up into Clark's bronzed and laughing
face.
"Where'd I come frum? I come frum ever'wheres. Fust time I
ever got lost in all my born days. Fve been a trompin' 'round in
the water seems like a week, crazy as a pizened rat, not a knowin'
north f'om south, ner my big toe f'om a turnip! Who's got some tobacker?"
Oncle Jazon's story, when presently he told it, interested Clark
deeply. In the first place he was glad to hear that Simon Kenton
had once more escaped from the Indians; and the news from Beverley,
although bad enough, left room for hope. Frontiersmen always regarded
the chances better than even, so long as there was life. Oncle Jazon,
furthermore, had much to tell about the situation at Vincennes,
the true feeling of the French inhabitants, the lukewarm friendship
of the larger part of the Indians for Hamilton, and, indeed, everything
that Clark wished to know regarding the possibilities of success
in his arduous undertaking. The old man's advent cheered the whole
camp. He soon found acquaintances and friends among the French volunteers
from Kaskaskia, with whom he exchanged creole gestures and chatter
with a vivacity apparently inexhaustible. He and Kenton had, with
wise judgement, separated on escaping from the Indian camp, Kenton
striking out for Kentucky, while Oncle Jazon went towards Kaskaskia.
The information that Beverley would be shot as soon as he was returned
to Hamilton, caused Colonel Clark serious worry of mind. Not only
the fact that Beverley, who had been a charming friend and a most
gallant officer, was now in such imminent danger, but the impression
(given by Oncle Jazon's account) that he had broken his parole,
was deeply painful to the brave and scrupulously honorable commander.
Still, friendship rose above regret, and Clark resolved to push
his little column forward all the more rapidly, hoping to arrive
in time to prevent the impending execution.
Next morning the march was resumed at the break of dawn; but a swollen
stream caused some hours of delay, during which Beverley himself
arrived from the rear, a haggard and weirdly unkempt apparition.
He had been for three days following hard on the army's track, which
he came to far westward. Oncle Jazon saw him first in the distance,
and his old but educated eyes made no mistake.
"Yander's that youngster Beverley," he exclaimed. "Ef
it ain't I'm a squaw!"
Nor did he parley further on the subject; but set off at a rickety
trot to meet and assist the fagged and excited young man.
Clark had given Oncle Jazon his flask, which contained a few gills
of whisky. This was the first thing offered to Beverley; who wisely
took but a swallow. Oncle Jazon was so elated that he waved his
cap on high, and unconsciously falling into French, yelled in a
piercing voice:
"VIVE ZHORSH VASINTON! VIVE LA BANNIERE D'ALICE ROUSSILLON!"
Seeing Beverley reminded him of Alice and the flag. As for Beverley,
the sentiment braced him, and the beloved name brimmed his heart
with sweetness.
Clark went to meet them as they came in. He hugged the gaunt Lieutenant
with genuine fervor of joy, while Oncle Jazon ran around them making
a series of grotesque capers. The whole command, hearing Oncle Jazon's
patriotic words, set up a wild shouting on the spur of a general
impression that Beverley came as a messenger bearing glorious news
from Washington's army in the east.
It was a great relief to Clark when he found out that his favorite
Lieutenant had not broken his parole; but had instead boldly resurrendered
himself, declaring the obligation no longer binding, and notifying
Hamilton of his intention to go away with the purpose of returning
and destroying him and his command. Clark laughed heartily when
this explanation brought out Beverley's tender interest in Alice;
but he sympathized cordially; for he himself knew what love is.
Although Beverley was half starved and still suffering from the
kicks and blows given him by Long-Hair and his warriors, his exhausting
run on the trail of Clark aad his band had not worked him serious
harm. All of the officers and men did their utmost to serve him.
He was feasted without stint and furnished with everything that
the scant supply of clothing on the pack horses could afford for
his comfort. He promptly asked for an assignment to duty in his
company and took his place with such high enthusiasm that his companions
regarded him with admiring wonder. None of them save Clark and Oncle
Jazon suspected that love for a fair-haired girl yonder in Vincennes
was the secret of his amazing zeal and intrepidity.
In one respect Clark's expedition was sadly lacking in its equipment
for the march. It had absolutely no means of transporting adequate
supplies. The pack-horses were not able to carry more than a little
extra ammunition, a few articles of clothing, some simple cooking
utensils and such tools as were needed in improvising rafts and
canoes. Consequently, although buffalo and deer were sometimes plentiful,
they furnished no lasting supply of meat, because it could not be
transported; and as the army neared Vincennes wild animals became
scarce, so that the men began to suffer from hunger when within
but a few days of their journey's end.
Clark made almost superhuman efforts in urging forward his chilled,
water-soaked, foot-sore command; and when hunger added its torture
to the already disheartening conditions, his courage and energy
seemed to burn stronger and brighter. Beverley was always at his
side ready to undertake any task, accept any risk; his ardor made
his face glow, and he seemed to thrive upon hardships. The two men
were a source of inspiration--their followers could not flag and
hesitate while under the influence of their example.
Toward the end of the long march a decided fall of temperature added
ice to the water through which our dauntless patriots waded and
swam for miles. The wind shifted northwesterly, taking on a searching
chill. Each gust, indeed, seemed to shoot wintry splinters into
the very marrow of the men's bones. The weaker ones began to show
the approach of utter exhaustion just at the time when a final spurt
of unflinching power was needed. True, they struggled heroically;
but nature was nearing the inexorable limit of endurance. Without
food, which there was no prospect of getting, collapse was sure
to come.
Standing nearly waist-deep in freezing water and looking out upon
the muddy, sea-like flood that stretched far away to the channel
of the Wabash and beyond, Clark turned to Beverley and said, speaking
low, so as not to be overheard by any other of his officers or men:
"Is it possible, Lieutenant Beverley, that we are to fail,
with Vincennes almost in sight of us?"
"No, sir, it is not possible," was the firm reply. "Nothing
must, nothing can stop us. Look at that brave child! He sets the
heroic example."
Beverley pointed, as he spoke, at a boy but fourteen years old,
who was using his drum as a float to bear him up while he courageously
swam beside the men.
Clark's clouded face cleared once more. "You are right,"
he said, "come on! we must win or die."
"Sergeant Dewit," he added, turning to an enormously tall
and athletic man near by, "take that little drummer and his
drum on your shoulder and lead the way. And, sergeant, make him
pound that drum like the devil beating tan-bark!"
The huge man caught the spirit of his commander's order. In a twinkling
he had the boy astride of his neck with the kettle-drum resting
on his head, and then the rattling music began. Clark followed,
pointing onward with his sword. The half frozen and tottering soldiers
sent up a shout that went back to where Captain Bowman was bringing
up the rear under orders to shoot every man that straggled or shrank
from duty.
Now came a time when not a mouthful of food was left. A whole day
they floundered on, starving, growing fainter at every step, the
temperature falling, the ice thickening. They camped on high land;
and next morning they heard Hamilton's distant sunrise gun boom
over the water.
"One half-ration for the men," said Clark, looking disconsolately
in the direction whence the sound had come. "Just five mouthfuls
apiece, even, and I'll have Hamilton and his fort within forty-
eight hours."
"We will have the provisions, Colonel, or I will die trying
to get them," Beverley responded "Depend upon me."
They had constructed some canoes in which to transport the weakest
of the men.
"I will take a dugout and some picked fellows. We will pull
to the wood yonder, and there we shall find some kind of game which
has been forced to shelter from the high water."
It was a cheerful view of a forlorn hope. Clark grasped the hand
extended by Beverley and they looked encouragement into each other's
eyes.
Oncle Jazon volunteered to go in the pirogue. He was ready for anything,
everything.
"I can't shoot wo'th a cent," he whined, as they took
their places in the cranky pirogue; "but I might jes' happen
to kill a squir'l or a elephant or somepin 'nother."
"Very well," shouted Clark in a loud, cheerful voice,
when they had paddled away to a considerable distance, "bring
the meat to the woods on the hill yonder," pointing to a distant
island-like ridge far beyond the creeping flood. "We'll be
there ready to eat it!"
He said this for the ears of his men. They heard and answered with
a straggling but determined chorus of approval. They crossed the
rolling current of the Wabash by a tedious process of ferrying,
and at last found themselves once more wading in back-water up to
their armpits, breaking ice an inch thick as they went. It was the
closing struggle to reach the high wooded lands. Many of them fell
exhausted; but their stronger comrades lifted them, holding their
heads above water, and dragged them on.
Clark, always leading, always inspiring, was first to set foot on
dry land. He shouted triumphantly, waved his sword, and then fell
to helping the men out of the freezing flood. This accomplished,
he ordered fires built; but there was not a soldier of them all
whose hands could clasp an ax-handle, so weak and numbed with cold
were they. He was not to be baffled, however. If fire could not
be had, exercise must serve its purpose. Hastily pouring some powder
into his hand he dampened it and blacked his face. "Victory,
men, victory!" he shouted, taking off his hat and beginning
to leap and dance. "Come on! We'll have a war dance and then
a feast, as soon as the meat arrives that I have sent for. Dance!
you brave lads, dance! Victory! victory!"
The strong men, understanding their Colonel's purpose, took hold
of the delicate ones; and the leaping, the capering, the tumult
of voices and the stamping of slushy moccasins with which they assaulted
that stately forest must have frightened every wild thing thereabout
into a deadly rigor, dark's irrepressible energy and optimism worked
a veritable charm upon his faithful but almost dying companions
in arms. Their trust in him made them feel sure that food would
soon be forthcoming. The thought afforded a stimulus more potent
than wine; it drove them into an ecstasy of frantic motion and shouting
which soon warmed them thoroughly.
It is said that fortune favors the brave. The larger meaning of
the sentence may be given thus: God guards those who deserve His
protection. History tells us that just when Clark halted his command
almost in sight of Vincennes--just when hunger was about to prevent
the victory so close to his grasp--a party of his scouts brought
in the haunch of a buffalo captured from some Indians. The scouts
were Lieutenant Beverley and Oncle Jazon. And with the meat they
brought Indian kettles in which to cook it.
With consummate forethought Clark arranged to prevent his men doing
themselves injury by bolting their food or eating it half- cooked.
Broth was first made and served hot; then small bits of well broiled
steak were doled out, until by degrees the fine effect of nourishment
set in, and all the command felt the fresh courage of healthy reaction.
"I ain't no gin'ral, nor corp'ral, nor nothin'," remarked
Oncle Jazon to Colonel Clark, "but 'f I's you I'd h'ist up
every dad dinged ole flag in the rig'ment, w'en I got ready to show
myself to 'em, an' I'd make 'em think, over yander at the fort,
'at I had 'bout ninety thousan' men. Hit'd skeer that sandy faced
Gov'nor over there till he'd think his back-bone was a comin' out'n
'im by the roots."
Clark laughed, but his face showed that the old man's suggestion
struck him forcibly and seriously.
"We'll see about that presently, Oncle Jazon. Wait till we
reach the hill yonder, from which the whole town can observe our
manoeuvres, then we'll try it, maybe."
Once more the men were lined up, the roll-call gone through with
satisfactorily, and the question put: "Are we ready for another
plunge through the mud and water?"
The answer came in the affirmative, with a unanimity not to be mistaken.
The weakest heart of them all beat to the time of the charge step.
Again Clark and Beverley clasped hands and took the lead.
When they reached the next high ground they gazed in silence across
a slushy prairie plot to where, on a slight elevation, old Vincennes
and Fort Sackville lay in full view.
Beverley stood apart. A rush of sensations affected him so that
he shook like one whose strength is gone. His vision was blurred.
Fort and town swimming in a mist were silent and still. Save the
British flag twinkling above Hamilton's headquarters, nothing indicated
that the place was not deserted. And Alice? With the sweet name's
echo Beverley's heart bounded high, then sank fluttering at the
recollection that she was either yonder at the mercy of Hamilton,
or already the victim of an unspeakable cruelty. Was it weakness
for him to lift his clasped hands heavenward and send up a voiceless
prayer?
While he stood thus Oncle Jazon came softly to his side and touched
his arm. Beverley started.
"The nex' thing'll be to shoot the everlastin' gizzards outen
'em, won't it?" the old man inquired. "I'm jes' a eetchin'
to git a grip onto that Gov'nor. Ef I don't scelp 'em I'm a squaw."
Beverley drew a deep breath and came promptly. back from his dream.
It was now Oncle Jazon's turn to assume a reflective, reminiscent
mood. He looked about him with an expression of vague half tenderness
on his shriveled features.
"I's jes' a thinkin' how time do run past a feller," he
presently remarked. "Twenty-seven years ago I camped right
here wi' my wife-- ninth one, ef I 'member correct--jes' fresh married
to 'r; sort o' honey-moon. 'Twus warm an' sunshiny an' nice. She
wus a poorty squaw, mighty poorty, an' I wus as happy as a tomtit
on a sugar- trough. We b'iled sap yander on them nobs under the
maples. It wus glor'us. Had some several wives 'fore an' lots of
'm sence; but she wus sweetes' of 'm all. Strange how a feller 'members
sich things an' feels sort o' lonesome like!"
The old man's mouth drooped at the corners and he hitched up his
buckskin trousers with a ludicrous suggestion of pathos in every
line of his attitude. Unconsciously he sidled closer to Beverley,
remotely feeling that he was giving the young man very effective
sympathy, well knowing that Alice was the sweet burden of his thoughts.
It was thus Oncle Jazon honestly tried to fortify his friend against
what probably lay in store for him.
But Beverley failed to catch the old man's crude comfort thus flung
at him. The analogy was not apparent. Oncle Jazon probably felt
that his kindness had been ineffectual, for he changed his tone
and added:
"But I s'pose a young feller like ye can't onderstan' w'at
it is to love a 'oman an' 'en hev 'er quit ye for 'nother feller,
an' him a buck Injin. Wall, wall, wall, that's the way it do go!
Of all the livin' things upon top o' this yere globe, the mos' onsartin',
crinkety-crankety an' slippery thing is a young 'oman 'at knows
she's poorty an' 'at every other man in the known world is blind
stavin' crazy in love wi' 'er, same as you are. She'll drop ye like
a hot tater 'fore ye know it, an' 'en look at ye jes' pine blank
like she never knowed ye afore in her life. It's so, Lieutenant,
shore's ye'r born. I know, for I've tried the odd number of 'em,
an' they're all jes' the same."
By this time Beverley's ears were deaf to Oncle Jazon's querulous,
whining voice, and his thoughts once more followed his wistful gaze
across the watery plain to where the low roofs of the creole town
appeared dimly wavering in the twilight of eventide, which was fast
fading into night. The scene seemed unsubstantial; he felt a strange
lethargy possessing his soul; he could not realize the situation.
In trying to imagine Alice, she eluded him, so that a sort of cloudy
void fell across his vision with the effect of baffling and benumbing
it. He made vain efforts to recall her voice, things that she had
said to him, her face, her smiles; all he could do was to evoke
an elusive, tantalizing, ghostly something which made him shiver
inwardly with a haunting fear that it meant the worst, whatever
the worst might be. Where was she? Could she be dead, and this the
shadowy message of her fate?
Darkness fell, and a thin fog began to drift in wan streaks above
the water. Not a sound, save the suppressed stir of the camp, broke
the wide, dreary silence. Oncle Jazon babbled until satisfied that
Beverley was unappreciative, or at least unresponsive.
"Got to hev some terbacker," he remarked, and shambled
away in search of it among his friends.
A little later Clark approached hastily and said:
"I have been looking for you. The march has begun. Bowman and
Charleville are moving; come, there's no time to lose."