THE END IN SIGHT
The country beyond Great Meadows was exceeding mountainous, and we could
proceed only a few miles each day, and that with the greatest
difficulty. The horses were by this time well-nigh useless, and at every
little hill half the men were compelled to ground arms and take a hand
at the wagons. It was work fatiguing beyond description, and our sick
list grew larger every day, while those who remained upon their feet
were in scarce better plight.
On the evening of the twenty-sixth, we reached the pass through which had
come the party of French and Indians to attack us at Fort Necessity. They
must have thought for a time to oppose us here, for we came upon traces
of a camp just broken up, with embers still glowing in the hollow, over
which they had prepared their food. Both French and Indians had been
present, for the former had written on the trees many insolent and
scurrilous expressions,--which gave me a poorer opinion of them than I
had yet entertained,--and the Indians had marked up the number of scalps
they had taken, some eight or ten in all. Whatever their intention may
have been, the sight of our strength had frightened them away, and we
saw no sign of them as we descended into the valley on the other side.
We toiled on all the next day over a road that was painfully familiar to
most of us, and in the evening came to Christopher Gist's plantation.
Spiltdorph and I made a circuit of the place that night, and I pointed
out to him the dispositions we had made for defense the year before. The
French had burned down all the buildings, but the half-finished trenches
could yet be seen, and the logs which were to have made the breastwork
still littered the ground.
Beyond Gist's, it was a new country to all of us, and grew more open, so
that we could make longer marches. We descended a broad valley to the
great crossing of the Yoxiogeny, which we passed on the thirtieth. The
general was under much apprehension lest the French ambush us here, and
so advanced most cautiously, but we saw no sign of any enemy. Beyond the
river was a great swamp, where a road of logs had to be built to support
the wagons and artillery, but we won through without accident, and two
days later reached a place called Jacob's cabin, not above thirty miles,
as the bird flies, from Fort Duquesne. Here the rumor ran through the
camp that we were to be held till Colonel Dunbar's division could be
brought up from the Little Meadows, and there was much savage comment at
our mess that evening.
"Why," cried Peyronie, who voiced the sentiment of all of us, "'twould
take two weeks or more to bring Dunbar up, and what are we to do
meantime? Sit here and eat this carrion?" and he looked disgustedly at
the mess of unsavory beef on the table, which was, to tell the truth,
most odoriferous. "'Tis rank folly to even think of such a course."
"So the general believes," said a pleasant voice, and I turned with a
start to see a gallant figure standing by the raised flap of the tent.
"Captain Orme!" I cried, springing to my feet, and I brought him in and
presented him to all the others. We pressed him to sit down, and though
he laughingly declined to partake of our rations, against which, he said,
Peyronie's remark had somehow prejudiced him, he consented to join us in
a glass of wine,--where Waggoner found the bottle I could never
guess,--in which we pledged the success of the campaign.
"So we are not to stop here?" asked Peyronie, when the toast was drunk.
"No," and Orme set down the glass. "The suggestion was made by Sir John
St. Clair, and a council was held half an hour since to consider it. It
was agreed without debate that we could not afford the delay, as the
provision is running low, and so we shall press on at once."
"'Tis the wiser course," said Waggoner. "We have men in plenty."
"So the general thinks," said Orme. "He has learned that there is only a
small garrison at the fort, which can scarce hope to resist us. But 'twas
not to talk of the campaign I came here. I had a note this evening from
Colonel Washington, which I knew Lieutenant Stewart would wish to see."
"Oh, yes!" I cried. "What says he, sir?"
Orme glanced about at the circle of attentive faces.
"I see Colonel Washington has many friends here," he said, with a smile.
"He writes that he is improving, and hopes soon to join us, and implores
me not to neglect to warn him so that he can be present when we meet the
French. I shall not neglect it," he added.
"Captain Orme," said Peyronie, after a moment, "I am sure I speak for all
these gentlemen when I say we deeply appreciate your kindness in coming
here to-night. There is not one of us who does not love Colonel
Washington. We thank you, sir," and Peyronie bowed with a grace worthy of
Versailles.
"Nay," protested Orme, bowing in his turn, "it was a little thing. I,
too, think much of Colonel Washington. Good-evening, gentlemen," and we
all arose and saluted him, remaining standing till he was out of sight.
"A gentleman and a soldier, if ever I saw one!" cried Peyronie. "A man
whom it is a privilege to know." And we all of us echoed the sentiment.
So, the next morning, the order was given to march as usual, and we made
about five miles to a salt lick in the marsh, where we camped for the
night. The next day we reached a little stream called Thicketty Run, and
here there was a longer halt, until we could gain some further
information of the enemy. Christopher Gist, by dint of many gifts and
much persuasion, had secured the services of eight Iroquois, lazy dogs,
who up to the present time had done little but eat and sleep. But we were
now so near the enemy that it was imperative to reconnoitre their
position, so, after much trouble, two of the Indians were induced to go
forward, and Gist himself was sent after them to see that they really did
approach the fort and not try to deceive us. This was the fourth of July,
just one year since we had marched away from Fort Necessity. All the next
day we remained at Thicketty Run, waiting for the scouts to come in, but
they did not appear until the sixth.
The Indians returned early in the morning, bringing with them the scalp
of a French officer they had killed near the fort, and stated that they
had seen none of the enemy except the one they had shot, and that the
French possessed no pass between us and Duquesne, and had seemingly made
no preparation to resist us. Gist got back later in the day, having
narrowly escaped capture by two Delawares, and confirmed this story. Such
carelessness on the part of the French seemed incredible, as the country
was very favorable to an ambuscade, and the officers were almost
unanimously of the opinion that it was their purpose to abandon the fort
at our approach.
These reports once received, we again broke camp and advanced toward the
Monongahela. An unhappy accident marked the day. Three or four men who
had loitered behind were surprised by some Indians, and killed and
scalped, before assistance could be sent them. This so excited our
scouting parties that they fired upon a body of our own Indians,
notwithstanding the fact that they made the preconcerted signal by
holding up a green bough and grounding arms. The son of Chief Monakatuca
was killed by the discharge, and it was feared for a time that the
Indians would leave in a body. But the general sent for them, condoled
with them and made them presents, ordered that Monakatuca's son be given
a military burial, and, in a word, handled them so adroitly that they
became more attached to us than ever. Additional scouting parties were
thrown out to right and left, and every precaution taken to prevent
further mishap.
The next day we endeavored to pass a little stream called Turtle Creek,
but found the road impracticable, so turned into the valley of another
stream, known as Long Run, and on the night of the eighth encamped within
a mile of the Monongahela, and only about ten from the fort. Here General
St. Clair, who seems from the first to have feared for the result,
advised that a detachment be sent forward to invest the fort, but it was
finally judged best to send the detachment from the next camp, from which
it could be readily reinforced in case it were attacked. We were to ford
the Monongahela at Crooked Run, march along the west bank to the mouth of
Turtle Creek, ford it a second time, and advance against the fort. Both
fords were described by the guides as very good ones and easy of
passage, while if we attempted to advance straight ahead on the east bank
of the river, we should encounter a very rough road, beside passing
through a country admirably fitted by nature for an ambuscade. Colonel
Gage was to march before daybreak to secure both fords, and the men
turned in with full assurance that the battle so long deferred and so
eagerly awaited was not far distant.
That night it so happened that I was placed in charge of one of the rear
pickets, and I sat with my back against a tree, smoking lazily and
wondering what the morrow would bring forth, when I heard a horse
galloping down the road, and a moment later the sharp challenge of a
sentry. I was on my feet in an instant, and saw that the picket had
evidently been satisfied that all was well, for he had permitted the
rider to pass. As he reached the edge of the camp, he emerged from the
shadow of the trees, and I started as I looked at him.
"Colonel Washington!" I cried, and as he checked his horse sharply, I was
at his side.
"Why, is it you, Tom?" he asked, and as I took his hand, I noticed how
thin it was. "Well, it seems I am in time."
"Yes," I said. "The battle, if there be one, must take place to-morrow."
"Why should there not be one?" he questioned, leaning down from his
saddle to see my face more clearly.
"The French may run away."
"True," he said, and sat for a moment thinking. "Yet it is not like them
to run without striking a blow. No, I believe we shall have a battle,
Tom, and I am glad that I am to be here to see it."
"But are you strong enough?" I asked. "You have not yet the air of a
well man."
He laughed lightly as he gathered up his reins. "In truth, Tom," he
said, "I am as weak as a man could well be and still sit his horse, but
the fever is broken and I shall be stronger to-morrow. But I must report
to the general. He may have work for me," and he set spurs to his horse
and was off.
I turned back to my station, musing on the iron will of this man, who
could drag his body from a bed of sickness when duty called and yet think
nothing of it. All about me gleamed the white tents in which the
grenadiers and provincials were sleeping, dreaming perchance of victory.
Alas, for how many of them was it their last sleep this side eternity!
The hours passed slowly and quietly. Presently the moon rose and
illumined the camp from end to end. Here and there I could see a picket
pacing back and forth, or an officer making his rounds. At headquarters
lights were still burning, and I did not doubt that an earnest
consultation was in progress there concerning the orders for the morrow.
At midnight came the relief, and I made the best of my way back to our
quarters, crawled into the tent, whose flaps were raised to let in every
breath of air stirring, and lay down beside Spiltdorph. I tried to move
softly, but he started awake and put out his hand and touched me.
"Is it you, Stewart?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, "just in from picket. Colonel Washington reached camp an
hour ago, to be here for to-morrow's battle."
"To-morrow's battle," repeated Spiltdorph softly. "Ah, yes, I had forgot.
Do you know, Stewart, if I were superstitious, I should fear the result
of to-morrow's battle, for I had a dream about it."
"What was the dream?" I asked.
"No matter, we are not women," and he turned to go to sleep again.
"Good-night."
"Good-night," I said, and in a few moments his deep breathing told me he
was again in the land of dreams. It was long before my own eyes closed,
and my dreams were not of battle, but of a bench upon the river's bank,
and a figure all in white sitting there beside me.