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."