The next day, the 31st of October, 1753, George set forth on his
arduous mission. He had before him nearly six hundred miles of
travelling, much of it through an unbroken wilderness, where snow
and ice and rain and hail at that season were to be expected. In the
conference with the governor and his advisers, which lasted until
after midnight, George had been given _carte blanche_ in selecting
his escort, which was not to exceed seven persons until he reached
Logstown, when he could take as many Indians as he thought wise. He
quickly made up his mind as to whom he wanted. He wished first a person
of gentle breeding as an interpreter between himself and the French
officers. He remembered Captain Jacob Vanbraam, a Dutch officer, now
retired, and living at Fredericksburg, who might be induced to make
the journey. Then there were Gist and John Davidson. It was thought
best, however, to take an Indian along as interpreter for the Indians,
as they might complain, in case of a misunderstanding, that Davidson
had fooled them. In regard to the other three persons George concluded
that it would be well to wait until he reached Greenway Court, which
was directly in the route of his outward journey, as he would be
most likely to find in that vicinity a person better used to such an
expedition than in the lower country. Armed with full credentials by
the governor, and with a belt around his body containing a large sum
in gold and negotiable bills, George at daylight took the road he had
traversed the night before.
He determined not to take Billy on the expedition, but he rather
dreaded the wild howlings and wailings which he thought it was certain
Billy would set up when he found he could not go. George therefore
thought it well as they trotted along to make Billy ride up with him,
and describe all the anticipated hardships of the coming journey. He
did not soften one line in the picture, and enlarged particularly upon
the scarcity of food, and the chances of starving in the wilderness,
or being scalped and roasted by Indians. Billy’s countenance during
this was a study. Between his devotion to George and his terror of the
impending expedition Billy was in torment, and when at last George told
him he must remain at either Mount Vernon or Ferry Farm, Billy did not
know whether to howl or to grin.
George reached Fredericksburg that night, and went immediately to
Captain Vanbraam’s house. The Dutchman, a stout, middle-aged man, yet
of a soldierly appearance, at once agreed to go, and, in the few hours
necessary for his preparations, George took the opportunity of crossing
the river, and spending the night with his mother and sister and
brothers at Ferry Farm. His mother was full of fear for him, but she
realized that this brave and gifted son was no longer solely hers--his
country had need of him as soon as he came of age. Next morning Betty
went with him across the river, and bade him good-bye with the smiling
lips and tear-filled eyes that always marked her farewells with George,
her best beloved. Billy wept vociferously, but was secretly much
relieved at being left behind. Four days afterwards George and Captain
Vanbraam reached Greenway Court, having sent an express on the way to
Gist and Davidson, who lived on the Great North Mountain.
When George burst into Lord Fairfax’s library one night about dusk the
earl knew not whether to be most delighted or surprised. He immediately
began to tell the earl of his forthcoming plan, thanking him at the
same time for procuring him such preferment. “And I assure you, sir,”
he said, with sparkling eyes, “although at first I felt a strange
sinking of the heart, and was appalled at the idea that I was unequal
to the task, as soon as the command was laid upon me I felt my spirits
rise and my fears disappear. If I succeed I shall be very happy, and
if I fail the world will say I was but a boy, after all. Why did his
excellency send an inexperienced young man on such an errand? But I
shall certainly do my best.”
“Angels can do no more,” the earl quoted.
George’s eagerness and his boyish enthusiasm pleased the earl, who had
no taste for solemn youngsters; and he listened, smiling, as George
poured forth his hopes, plans, and aspirations. When he spoke of the
additional men to be taken, Lord Fairfax said:
“I know of two capable ones. Black Bear would make an excellent Indian
interpreter, and Lance would be the very man to note the French
fortifications. He has as good a military eye as I ever knew.”
George gasped with delight.
“Do you mean, sir,” he cried, “that you will really let me have Lance?”
“Go and ask him.”
The young major, who had impressed the governor and councillors with
his gravity and dignity, now jumped up and ran to the armory, bawling
“Lance! Lance!” at the top of a pair of powerful lungs. Lance promptly
appeared, and in three words George told him the plan. Old Lance nearly
wrung George’s hand off at the news.
“Well, sir, it makes me feel nigh thirty years younger to be going
among the mounseers again. Maybe you think, sir, I never saw a French
fort; but I tell you, sir, I have seen more French forts, aye, and been
at the taking, too, than they have between here and Canada.”
Black Bear was across the mountain, but a messenger was sent at once
for him, and he was told to bring another trusty Indian along. Within
two days from reaching Greenway Court the party was ready to start.
Lord Fairfax saw George set off, in high health and spirits, and full
of restrained enthusiasm. He wore the buckskin shirt and leggings of a
huntsman to make the journey in, but in his saddle-bags was a fine new
major’s uniform of the provincial army, and he carried the rapier given
him many years before by Lord Fairfax.
Seven days’ hard travelling, at the beginning of the wintry season,
brought the party to Logstown, not far from what is now Pittsburg.
The journey had been hard, snow having fallen early, and, the fords
being swollen, the party were obliged to swim their horses across the
mountain streams. But George had not found time heavy on his hands.
Captain Vanbraam and Lance discovered that they had served in different
campaigns in the same region, and, without forgetting the status
between an officer and a private soldier, they were extremely good
comrades, much to George’s delight.
On their arrival at Logstown, Black Bear at once went in search of
his father, the great chief of one of the Six Nations, and the other
chiefs were assembled in the course of a day or two. George found them
much incensed against the French, but, like all their tribe, before
they could act they had to have many meetings and a great oratorical
display. George, who loved not speech-making, made them but one brief
address, and by using all his powers managed to get Tanacharison and
representatives of the other tribes off, and in a few days more they
arrived at a French outpost. It was merely a log-house with the French
colors flying over it. George, waiting until dusk, and leaving his
Indian allies out of sight, taking only with him Vanbraam and Lance,
as his servant, rode up to the door and knocked. Three French officers
appeared, and, on seeing two gentlemen in uniform, the senior, Captain
Joncaire, civilly asked them, in broken English, to alight and sup with
them.
George, with equal politeness, told them that he was the bearer of a
letter to M. de St. Pierre, the commandant at the French fort farther
up, but would be pleased to accept their hospitality.
Inside the house was quite comfortable, and the party, except Lance,
who waited on the table, soon sat down to supper. As George had
frankly informed them of his mission, it behooved them to be prudent,
and so they were until the wine began to flow. Captain Vanbraam had
not thought it his duty to let on that he understood French, and the
conversation had been conducted in such English as the French could
command. George, although he could not speak French, could understand
it a little, especially with the help of the abundant gestures the
French used.
He had always had a contempt for men who “put an enemy in their mouths
to steal away their brains,” and the spectacle soon presented by the
French officers made him swear inwardly that never, so long as he
lived, would he put himself in the condition they were in then. These
men, brave and otherwise discreet, passed the bottle so often that they
soon lost all sense of prudence, and, turning from broken English to
French, told things in regard to their military plans which they would
have died rather than betray. Captain Joncaire, forgetting, in his
maudlin state, that George had said he did not understand French well,
turned to him and said, in French:
“Ah, you English mean to drive us out. Well, let me tell you, we are
not to be driven out. We expect to go to war with your country soon,
and this is a good place to begin. We know that you can raise two men
to our one, but you have a dilatory, foolish governor in Virginia, and
he will let us overrun the country before he does anything to stop us.”
As he kept on, giving information about his people that he should never
have done, and which George partly understood, such keen contempt
came into George’s eyes that a gleam of soberness returned to Captain
Joncaire, and for a few minutes he said no more. But “when the wine is
in the wit is out,” and the Frenchmen continued to talk in the foolish
manner which awaits the wisest man when he makes a beast of himself
with liquor.
At ten o’clock George and Captain Vanbraam had to tear themselves away
from the Frenchmen, who, drunker than ever, tried to hold them back by
embracing them.
As they made their way back to their camp Captain Vanbraam repeated
every word the drunken officers had said. George spoke little. The
spectacle was not only disgusting but painful to him.
Next morning, early, Captain Joncaire sought out their camp, and
professed great surprise at seeing the Indians, whom he declared to be
his friends. He invited them to the house, where George well knew there
would be liquor and cajolery in plenty for them.
“My dear Major Washington,” cried Joncaire, after a while, and coloring
slightly as he spoke, “I am afraid you had us at a disadvantage last
night. We talked rather wildly, I fancy, but don’t put too much
confidence in what we said when the wine was flowing.”
“I am compelled to put confidence in what Captain Joncaire and his
officers say, drunk or sober,” was George’s reply, delivered not
without sarcasm, at which Captain Joncaire winced. The Frenchmen
invited the Indians to their post, and George had the mortification
of seeing them all carried off, except Tanacharison and his son Black
Bear; and when, in the evening, he sent for the chiefs, they returned
to him stupidly drunk and loaded with presents from the French.
“We must get them away as soon as possible,” said George to his white
followers and his two faithful Indians. Tanacharison, a venerable
old chief and a man of great eloquence, watched the Indians in their
drunken sleep, and when they wakened, although it was near sundown, so
worked upon them by a speech he made them that they agreed to leave
with the rest of the party. George and Captain Vanbraam went to the
French post to bid the officers a polite farewell.
Captain Joncaire said many civil things to them, and sent them a
handsome present of provisions, but was evidently chagrined at the
Indians being carried off under his very nose.
Eleven days more of travelling through intense cold, with the snow deep
on the ground, brought the party to Fort Le Bœuf, on French Creek,
about fifteen miles from Lake Erie. This was commanded by M. Lagardeur
de St. Pierre, an old French officer of great ability, and a chevalier
of the military order of St. Louis.
The party reached the fort late in the evening and found it a stout
place, well adapted for defence. George rode up to the gate--his
horse now a sorry-looking creature--and asked to be conducted to the
commandant. As soon as the message was delivered M. de St. Pierre came
out in person, and, receiving the letter from the Governor of Virginia
with great respect, raising his hat in taking it, invited Major
Washington’s party in.
Although strictly attending to the commandant’s conversation, George
used his keen eyes to the utmost advantage, and he felt sure that Lance
was doing the same thing. There were over a hundred soldiers in the
fort, and not less than thirty officers.
George and his party were led through a courtyard, around which were
barracks and officers’ quarters, protected by bastions well provided
with artillery. Arrived at the commandant’s quarters, M. de St. Pierre
said, courteously, in English:
“When you and your party have refreshed yourselves for a day or
two, Major Washington, we will discuss the matters contained in the
governor’s letter.”
Now this was just what George did not desire. He knew that every
artifice would be practised on his Indian allies to win them to the
French, as Captain Joncaire had done, with much greater prospect
of success. How would he persuade them to leave the good food, the
seductive liquor, and the presents that he felt sure the French were
ready to shower upon them? His only dependence was upon Tanacharison
and Black Bear. How often did he rejoice inwardly over that bucket
of water he had given Black Bear the night of the attack at Greenway
Court, six years before! His reply, therefore, to the French commandant
was polite but positive:
“I thank you, sir, for your kindness, but I am ready, at this moment,
to proceed to the consideration of his excellency’s letter.”
This slightly disconcerted M. de St. Pierre, who had some inward
contempt for the youth of the ambassador sent by the governor.
“I shall have to send for my second in command, Captain Reparti,” he
said, “who left us this morning to visit another post.”
“I hope, monsieur, that you will send for him at your earliest
convenience, for my orders are peremptory--to deliver the letter and
return with an answer at the earliest possible moment.”
“If I send this evening,” remarked M. de St. Pierre, “my messenger
might lose his way in the darkness.”
“If you will kindly give me the directions, sir,” answered George,
with much politeness, “I have men in my party who can make the journey
by night, although they have never traversed this part of the country
before.”
“I will send, however, immediately,” said M. de St. Pierre, coloring
slightly, and comprehending that he was dealing with a natural
diplomatist.
After a very agreeable dinner George was shown to his room, where
Lance, as his servant, awaited him. Scarcely was the door closed before
George began, anxiously:
“Where are the Indians?”
“In the barrack-room, sir. The French soldiers are promising them guns
and powder and shot and hatchets, and pouring liquor down all of them
except Tanacharison and Black Bear, who won’t drink, and who mean to be
true to us. But, sir, you can’t blame the poor devils for taking what
the French give them.”
“We must get away from here as soon as possible,” cried George. “What
have you noticed in the fort, Lance?”
“That it’s mighty well made, sir; the mounseers are fine engineers, and
they know how to build a fort. They have eight six-pounders mounted in
the bastions, and a four-pounder at the gate-house. But they have got a
lot more places pierced for guns, and you may depend upon it, sir, they
have a-plenty more guns than they choose to show stowed away somewhere.”
Next morning, Captain Reparti having arrived, M. de St. Pierre and
his officers considered the governor’s letter privately, and then,
admitting George, with his interpreter, Captain Vanbraam, an answer
was dictated denying the right of the English to any part of the
country watered by the Ohio River. This was an important and dangerous
announcement, and, although not a word was said about war, yet every
man present knew that if this contention were maintained England and
France must fight, and the country must be drenched with blood. George,
with perfect composure, received the letter, and, rising, said:
“My mission, sir, is accomplished. I have delivered the governor’s
letter, and your reply, M. de St. Pierre, shall be conveyed not only to
the governor but to his Britannic majesty. I am now ready to take my
leave.”
“Do not be in so great a hurry to leave us, Major Washington,” said M.
de St. Pierre, suavely. “Some of my young officers promised a few guns
to your Indian allies, by way of making them satisfied to remain during
our negotiation, which I thought would be longer, and the guns cannot
arrive until to-morrow morning.”
As George knew the impossibility of getting the Indians off without the
guns, he consented with the utmost readiness to remain; but he would
have given half his fortune to have got off.
The day was one of intense nervous strain on him. His sole dependence
in managing the Indians were Tanacharison and Black Bear. And what if
they should betray him? But at night the old chief and his son came
to him and promised most solemnly to get the chiefs away as soon as
the guns should arrive in the morning. George had a luxurious bed in
his rude though comfortable quarters, but he slept not one wink that
night. By daylight he was up. Soon after Lance sidled up to him in the
courtyard, and said:
“Sir, the guns have come--I saw them myself; but the Frenchies will not
say a word about it unless they are asked.”
Just then M. de St. Pierre, wrapped in a great surtout, appeared,
coming out of his quarters.
“Good-morning, Major Washington!” he cried.
“Good-morning, M. de St. Pierre!” replied George, gayly. “I must give
orders to my party for an early start, as the guns you promised the
Indians have arrived, and I have no further excuse for remaining.”
“Sacre bleu!” burst out M. de St. Pierre; “I did not expect the guns so
soon!” At which he looked into George’s eyes, and suddenly both burst
out laughing. The Frenchman saw that his _ruse_ was understood.
The party was soon collected, and after a hearty breakfast George
took his leave, and, much to the chagrin of the French, succeeded in
carrying off all his Indian allies with him. They rapidly retraced
their road, and when they made their first halt, ten miles from Fort Le
Bœuf, George exclaimed, aside to Lance:
“This is the first easy moment I have known for twenty-four hours!”
“’Tis the first I have had, sir, since we got to the first post,
fourteen days ago!”
It was now the latter part of December. The horses, gaunt and
starved, were no longer fit for riding, and George set the example of
dismounting and going on foot. Their progress with so large a party was
not rapid, and George determined to leave Captain Vanbraam, with the
horses and provisions, to follow, while he, in his health and strength,
set off at a more rapid gait, in order that he might reach Williamsburg
with M. de St. Pierre’s defiant letter as soon as possible. Lance,
with his experience as a foot-soldier, easily proved his superiority
when they were reduced to walking, so George chose him as a companion.
Christmas Day was spent in a long, hard march, and on the next day
George, dressing himself in his buckskin shirt and leggings, with
his gun and valuable papers, and giving most of the money for the
expedition to Captain Vanbraam, struck off with Lance for a more rapid
progress.
The two walked steadily all day, and covered almost twice as much
ground as the party following them. At night with their flints they
struck a roaring fire in the forest, and took turns in watching and
sleeping. By daylight they were again afoot.
“I never saw such a good pair of legs as you have, sir, in all my
life,” said Lance, on this day, as they trudged along. “My regiment
was counted to have the best legs for steady work in all the Duke of
Marlborough’s army, and mine were considered the best pair in the
regiment, but you put me to my trumps.”
“Perhaps if you were as young as I you would put me to _my_ trumps,
for--”
At this moment a shot rang out in the frozen air, and a bullet made
a clean hole through George’s buckskin cap. One glance showed him an
Indian crouching in the brushwood. With a spring as quick and sure as
a panther’s, George had the savage by the throat, and wrenched the
firelock, still smoking, from his hand. Behind him half a dozen Indian
figures were seen stealing off through the trees. Lance walked up, and,
raising a hatchet over the Indian’s head, said, coolly:
[Illustration: “GEORGE HAD THE SAVAGE BY THE THROAT”]
“Mr. Washington, we must kill him as we would a rattlesnake.”
“No,” replied George, “I will not have him killed.”[B]
The Indian, standing perfectly erect and apparently unconcerned,
understood well enough that the question of his life or death was under
discussion, but with a more than Roman fortitude he awaited his fate,
glancing indifferently meanwhile at the glittering edge of the hatchet
still held over him.
George took the hatchet from Lance’s hand, and said to the Indian, in
English:
“Though you have tried to kill me, I will spare your life. But I will
not trust you behind me. Walk ten paces in front of us in the direction
of the Alleghany River.”
The Indian turned, and, after getting his bearings, started off in a
manner which showed he understood what was required of him.
The Indians have keen ears, so that George and Lance dared not speak in
his hearing, but by exchanging signs they conveyed to each other that
there were enemies on their path, of whom this fellow was only one.
Steadily the three tramped for hours, Lance carrying the Indian’s gun.
When darkness came on they stopped and made the Indian make the fire,
which he did, scowling, as being squaw’s work. They then divided with
him their scanty ration of dried venison, and George, taking charge of
the guns, Lance slept two hours. He was then wakened by George, who lay
down by the fire and slept two hours, when he too was wakened. George
then said to the Indian, who had remained sleepless and upright all the
time:
“We have determined to let you go, as we have not food enough for three
men. Go back to your tribe, and tell them that we spared your life; but
before you go pile wood on the fire, for we may have to remain here, on
account of the rise in the river, for several days.”
This was a _ruse_, but the Indian fell at once into the trap. After
replenishing the fire he started off in a northwesterly direction. As
soon as George and Lance were sure that he was out of sight they made
off in the opposite direction, and after some hours of trudging through
snow and ice they found themselves on the bank of the river. They had
hoped to find it frozen over, but, instead, there was only a fringe of
ice-cakes along the shores and swirling about in the main channel.
Lance looked at George in some discouragement, but George only said,
cheerfully:
“It is lucky you have the hatchet, Lance. We must make a raft.”
The short winter day was nearly done before a rude raft was made,
and on it the two embarked. The piercing wind dashed their frail
contrivance about, and it was buffeted by the floating ice. The
Indian’s gun was lost, but their powder, in an oilskin knapsack, which
George carried on his back, escaped wetting, although he himself,
as well as Lance, was drenched to the skin. They could not make the
opposite shore, but were forced to land on an island, where they spent
the night. The hardships told on the older man, and George saw, by the
despairing look in Lance’s eyes, that he could do no more that day.
Wood, however, was plentiful, and a great fire was made.
“Cheer up, Lance!” cried George, when the fire began to blaze; “there
is still some dried venison left. You shall sleep to-night, and in the
morning the river will be frozen over, and one more day’s march will
bring us to civilization.”
Lance was deeply mortified at his temporary collapse, but there was
no denying it. George had no sleep that night, except about two
hours after midnight, when Lance roused of himself. By daylight they
were astir, and crossed the river on the ice. Five days afterwards,
at a fork in the road twenty miles from Greenway Court, the two
parted--Lance to return to Greenway Court, and George to press on to
Williamsburg. By that time they had secured horses.
“Good-bye, my friend,” said George. “Tell my lord that nothing but the
urgency of the case prevented me from giving myself the happiness of
seeing him, and that no day has passed since he sent you with me that I
have not thanked him in my heart for your company.”
A subtile quiver came upon Lance’s rugged face.
“Mr. Washington,” he said, “I thank you humbly for what you have said;
but mark my words, sir, the time will come, if it is not already here,
that my lord will be thankful for every hour that you have spent with
him, and proud for every step of advancement he has helped you to.”
“I hope so, my friend,” cried George, gayly, and turning to go.
Lance watched the tall, lithe young figure in hunting-clothes, worn
and torn, riding jauntily off, until George was out of sight. Then he
himself struck out for Greenway Court. Four days afterwards a tattered
figure rode up to Mount Vernon. The negroes laughed and cried and
yah-yahed at seeing “Marse George” in such a plight. Spending only one
night there, in order to get some clothes and necessaries, he left
at daybreak for Williamsburg, where he arrived and reported to the
governor exactly eleven weeks from the day he started on this terrible
journey.