The troops had forgotten what it felt like to be dry. Every day, besides the constant wading in standing water, they had to ford creeks which had overflowed their banks, often crossing in water to their chests, holding their precious powder horns and food pouches high over their heads. Thus thoroughly drenched by the icy water, they would wade on through mire and rain which gave their clothes no opportunity to dry. Only by their constant movement and the consumption of huge quantities of meat could they generate enough heat from within to keep from succumbing to the penetrating chill.
On the afternoon of the tenth of February, in a chilling downpour, they came to the fording place of La Petite Riviere, and finding the water so high it was over their heads, they took axes from the pack animals and felled trees. The horses were unloaded. The men strapped their freight onto the trees, then hung onto them themselves to be carried across to the far shore. The horses were led into the water and swam across. So much strength was spent on this crossing that an early camp was made near the river. The men spent that night under an open sky, whipped with rain and high winds.
10th—Crossed the River of the Petet Ford upon Trees that we felled for the purpose the Water being so high there was no fording it; still raining and no Tents encamped near the River stormy and c.
The next day a similar crossing had to be made at the flooded Saline River, further draining their energies. Truly restful sleep was impossible because of the incessant rain and cold; George, being stronger and more vigorous than most of his men, had only to heed the painful exhaustion in his own legs and the bone-shaking shivers to comprehend what they were suffering.
11th—Crossed the Saline River nothing extraordinary this day
They went on in this wretched condition all the next day, crossing a plain that was flooded knee-deep or more for a seeming infinity. George sent the hunters out on horseback with little hope that they would find anything in this flood. He turned aside from the head of the column and watched the men come on. He was growing light-headed from cold and exhaustion, and the drab light played tricks on his vision. It was like watching a nightmare: the pewter-gray ocean of water with black tree trunks sticking up from it, here and there gray-green moss and patches of lichen on the tree bark; the woodsmen’s deerskins soaked black, their faces gray to white, lips and eye sockets bruise-blue, their whisker stubble wet with rain and snot, their red noses and knuckles providing the only color that indicated life in this dripping, hushing, flowing, gurgling universe.
And yet every one looked up at him and smiled or winked as they slopped past gasping for breath. His heart clenched; he swallowed and blinked, then turned his face away from them and splashed forward to the head of the column again, shouting he knew not what phrases of encouragement, every muscle in his legs and torso protesting with a pain like a silent scream.
“Play,” he said to the drummer. The lad began beating a cadence. The troops picked up the cadence and began singing soon, a long trail of voices faint over the splash and squish of their marching.
There I sat on Buttermilk Hill,
Who could blame me, cry my fill?
An’ every tear would turn a mill,
Johnny has gone for a soldier.
I’ll sell my flax, I’ll sell my wheel,
Buy my love a sword of steel,
So it in battle he may wield;
Johnny has gone for a soldier …
George found himself gaining strength from it. He hoped the soldiers would too. But it doesn’t fill a belly, he thought.
Night came on before they found a place high enough to camp on, the rain still pouring and the wind growing colder. He began to worry that some of the men might actually perish this night from exposure; there was no sign of the hunters with their life-giving red meat. Fires burned low and smoky because of the wetness of the fuel, and seemed to give too little heat to dry clothing or reach chilled muscle and aching bone. The weather showed no sign of improvement and the army was, he estimated, still some fifty miles from its destination, with two major rivers yet to cross.
And if we do get there, he thought, it’s not to rest but to fight a battle.
Teresa, he thought suddenly. Are you still alive in this same world with me?
A shout sounded in the darkness. “Buffalo!” cried the voice. It was the hunting party. “Hey boys! Enough steaks here t’ feed a thousand! Come on, boys!”
The wild-eyed horses emerged into the flickering fire light and smoke; their riders jumped down and began throwing off great red bloody haunches and briskets of meat they had strapped on behind the saddles. The camp had come back to life, roaring with laughter and war whoops, oaths in English and French. In moments the smoky wet glade was full of the maddening aroma of searing meat, the sizzle of dripping fat, and the almost delirious jabber of men on the very brink of anticipation.
They wolfed the meat half-raw, gorging themselves, their chins and hands shiny with grease. They clamored for the fat-riddled meat of the buffalo humps instinctively, knowing it was the best fuel for their clammy bodies. George ordered rum broken out.
The orgy of feasting subsided after a few minutes, and soon the entertainments began again, rowdy, boastful, punctuated by mighty belches, and George stood back, watched these great childlike celebrants, who had seemed near death an hour before, now cured by the miraculous medicine of full bellies. He grinned and watched them caper and shout, the warmth of life beginning to steal through his veins again, as the ruddy light of the fire illuminated the tree trunks and leafless branches overhead. He squinted into the high treetops, at the rain that came spitting into the fireglow, sniffed the wet and smoky smells, listened to the fine manly voices. There was a great knot in his throat.
Dear God, he thought. Thank thee for this thy bounty.
12th—Marched across bad plain saw and kilted number of Buffaloe the Roads very bad from the immense Quantity of Rain that had fallen, the Men much fatigued, encamped at the Edge of the Wood, this plain or Meadow being fifteen or more Miles across—it was late in the Night before the Troops and baggage got together—Now 21 leagues from St. Vincent.
A few hours’ strenuous marching in sleet on the morning of the thirteenth of February brought the troops to the bank of the western branch of the Little Wabash. Here, according to maps and scouts, the two branches of this tributary ran parallel to each other some three miles apart. From the heights of one to the heights of the other was about five miles, and George saw, with a sinking heart, that the entire distance was under muddy, flowing water. The forests throughout the valley stood two to four feet deep in muddy flood. Bits of wood debris and rafts of spongy, half-melted ice moved slowly downstream among the trees.
Faith, he thought. We’ve got to cross this flood just to reach two greater rivers and then cross those. Is this possible?
He had the companies make camp on the height and set about entertaining themselves, so that they might not think about what lay ahead. His officers looked at him with eyes full of doubt, but he said nothing to them, and walked to the edge of the flood alone. He stood there for a few minutes, looking at the awful sheet of water.
“Come, man,” he murmured finally. “You’re doubting.”
Afraid to hear a word from his officers for fear they would shake what little resolve he had left, he went back to the camp, ordered a party of men to get axes and adzes, and led them to a great poplar that stood on the shore. “Drop that tree,” he said, “and hollow out a pirogue. We’ll need it to scout up the easiest way across this puddle, boys.”
Two men stood on opposite sides of the tree and, alternating their strokes, began cutting. The trunk was four feet thick. Two more men went to the tree to spell the workers. The axes chunked rhythmically for the greater part of an hour; then there were shouts and the rattling crash of branches, and a thump which made the soggy ground quake in the camp. The chopping then continued on the fallen trunk as a section twenty feet long was cut away. Soon the men had that section on blocks, and a team of f
our, wielding pikes and adzes and broadaxes, were removing the bark, hewing away the upper curve of the trunk and hollowing the log. A floor of fragrant yellow chips and shavings began to build up on the wet black ground.
George walked about in the camp, sat now and then to confer laconically with the officers, paced to the river’s edge and looked across the expanse of water, then returned to the camp. A haggard woodsman, leaning against a tree near one of the campfires, looked at him and smiled. “Colonel, suh, be we lost?”
“Nay, Oreer. Not lost. Not a bit of it.”
“Well, suh, if we do git lost, you can use me t’ git th’ bearin’s. I got moss growin’ on m’ north side!”
The men around the fire laughed. George grinned. “So I see. We’ll refer to you then, Oreer, if we do get confused.”
Night was coming on. George ordered a fire built near the workmen so that their hewing could continue until late.
Captain McCarthy came and squatted near George to watch the workers. “Dunno, Colonel,” he said. “One pirogue t’ ferry a regiment. That be a slow process.”
“We’ll use her for scouting, mainly,” said George. “We’re going to have to wade most of that, and just ferry over the channels when we find ’em. Maybe send ’er downriver to find the Willing. We could sure use her right now.”
“Aye. Them rivers scares me, George, runnin’ fast like that. Don’t reckon they’s ten men in th’ bunch as can swim. Even if they could, their gear’d drag ’em under.”
“Come on now, Dick. We don’t need dubious talk. This water’s just a little diversion for these boys.”
“Right y’ are. Sorry, George.” McCarty got up and walked away.
13th—Arrived early at the two Wabashes altho a league asunder they now make but one—We set to make a Canoe.
The chunking and ringing of the tools resumed early the next day. The troops stayed in camp, resting as well as they could in the rain and mud. Hunters were out all day but found little because of the flooding. Game had gone to higher country. Now and then George would find a man standing on the bank looking out over the flood, condensing breath drifting from his mouth like smoke in the dank air. He would joke with such men and turn them back toward the camp. He didn’t want them spending too much time considering it.
But he could imagine the thoughts going through their heads as they watched the water. Likely some of them were aware that once across these rivers, any hope of a retreat would be done away with. Once across this, he thought, they’ll likely be happy to go forward and risk anything rather than suffer again what they’ve already experienced.
He looked up at the spitting gray skies. We’ve been lucky to have no freezing, he thought. A freeze would make the crossing impossible, unless the ice were strong enough to support us, and no chance of that.
14th—Finished the Canoe and put her in the Water about four o clock in the afternoon.
At daylight the next day George walked to the water’s edge with the scouts who were to man the pirogue. “Now listen well, boys. I want you to pole the water for depth all the way. Find where the river channel lies. Find the opposite shore, and build a scaffold there to put baggage on so’s we can swim the horses over to pick it up. Got that? Blaze the route on tree trunks so you can find your way back here. And mind this, now: Whatever it’s like out there, you bring me back a favorable report. I don’t want this army going into that water with any doubts in their heads. D’ you follow me?”
The scouts looked at each other with raised eyebrows, then back to him, and nodded. They clambered into the fresh yellow trough of the vessel and he shoved them out into the stream. “She floats like a swan, sir!” exclaimed the man in the bow, who stood holding a long sounding-pole. The soldiers on the bank sent up a cheer and hopeful laughter. The expanse of water looked less formidable now that they understood it would not be an absolute unknown. The canoe moved slowly away and soon was out of sight among the trees.
Camp was struck and the men loafed on the ground waiting for the return of the scouts. Finally, about midmorning, there was a shout. “Here she comes!” The boat, now smeared with brown mud, came slowly back, the scouts pausing at a tree every few yards to swing a tomahawk and chip away a spot of bark.
The scouts were in good humor. “Found the channel, sir,” they reported. “About thirty yards wide in all. Rest of the way the water’s two to four feet deep. We found t’other shore an’ put up a scaffold like you said, in about three feet of water.”
“Fine work! All right, lads!” George shouted. “Let’s get this fine ship loaded with the baggage, and we’re off!”
The loaded pirogue, burdened so heavily that her gunwales were almost awash, moved out onto the flood again and George waded into the brown water to follow her. “Come on in, boys! Time t’ get your feet wet again!” He braced his spirit against the shock of the icy water that flowed into his moccasins and crept further up his legs with every step.
“Yowee! Hoo ha!” the men shouted as they waded in after him, one by one, gasping.
The file waded for an hour, the land disappearing behind them, the bottom squishy and invisible under their feet. They carried their rifles across their shoulders and their powder horns around their necks. The water reached their knees, their thighs, their hips, their waists, eventually their chests as they struggled onward toward he river channel. Every breath was a gasp through chattering teeth. Their skin grew too numb to feel; the pain of the cold advanced inward to their bones and joints.
When the water was to his chest, George heard a chorus of shivery laughter behind him. He turned to look. The men, their faces gray-blue, were watching Dickie Lovell, the little drummer boy, who had hauled himself up onto his drum and was lying on his stomach upon it, floating, hanging with one hand onto the fringe of Sergeant Crump’s coat and thus being towed across. Responding to their laughter, the boy grew antic, splashing with his feet, grinning, finally letting loose of Crump’s coat, and paddling himself along with his hands. George roared with happiness and turned to continue ahead, seeking the bottom carefully one step after another with his benumbed feet. His heart thudded rapidly in his breast and now and then a terrific shudder would shake him the whole length of his body. He turned again to look back and saw them coming on, their arms held high, each one close behind the other, rain dripping from their hats and noses, concentrating on their footing, not a one complaining or straggling. Some of the shorter men were immersed to their very necks, only their heads and forearms and hands above the surface. The current was becoming perceptible as the column crept closer to the channel of the river.
At last the scouts stopped the pirogue. “Here we are, sir, the channel!” George stopped the column. The men braced themselves against tree trunks or held on to the branches of scrub and waited while the pirogue was paddled across to the scaffold and unloaded. Then it came back; five or six men at a time were hauled into the dugout, an equal number threw in their guns and powder and then hung on to the gunwales with both hands to be towed across the depths.
In two hours of this, while those standing in wait gritted their teeth and fought with all their will to keep the last embers of life-warmth from ebbing out of their bodies, the ferrying of the troops was completed. The horses were swum wild-eyed over to the scaffold, found their footing, and standing belly-deep in the water, were loaded again.
And the march resumed up the gradually sloping bottom, the men growing more and more cheerful as the water level dropped below their waists. They began joking and cursing merrily as they went along. There was still no land in sight, but the awful fear of slipping under the murky waters and being drowned was past, and they grew intoxicated with that heady joy of having survived what had been for many the worst experience of their lives.
The column waded on for another three miles, a little warmed by their exertions again, but now feeling that awful gnawing emptiness in their bellies and knowing that there were no hunting parties out this day to bring them fresh meat for su
pper. Most had only a little corn and a few scraps of yesterday’s meat in their pouches. “What’re we eatin’ tonight, sergeant?” somebody asked.
“Y’ might search through yer clothes,” came the reply. ’Y’may’ve picked up a catfish ’r two along th’ way.”
“Hey, Colonel Clark!” somebody called from back in the file. “Sir, where was all this water last July when we was a’goin’t’ other way crost Illynoy?”
“Hey, you remember that, do you?”
“Aye!”
“Well, think on it hard, then, and maybe that’ll warm you a bit!”
“Ha ha!”
In that spirit they reached the channel of the second river, wading down again to their chests, then crossing in the pirogue or clinging to it, and it was a quicker crossing than the first, this river being not quite so wide nor deep and the men more familiar with the procedure. Dickie Lovell entertained them by floating on his drum once more, letting the boat tow him across.
By evening they were encamped on a half-acre knoll, the trackless water behind them. They were in high spirits, all laughing at each other in recollection of things that had happened in the course of what they were now casually referring to as “this ferrying business.” George moved among their camps and encouraged their joking, here and there laying on a bit of praise. By nightfall they had begun to think themselves superior to other men, boasting that neither the rivers nor seasons could stop their progress. Their whole conversation now was about what they would do when they got to the enemy. They now began to view the Big Wabash ahead as a creek, and had no doubt that such men as themselves could find a way to cross it. They wound themselves up to such a pitch that they soon took Vincennes in their fancies and divided up the spoils, and before bedtime were far advanced on their way to Detroit.
George listened to all this with a catch in his throat, watched them feed themselves on imagination instead of hot food, watched them warm their gaunt, chilled bodies before the bonfires, and marvelled that they could laugh so, being now as it were stranded in enemy country with no way to retreat if the British or Indians should discover them, unless by some long chance they should fall in with the Willing. He was now convinced that they would find the whole low country of the Wabash drowned, and that today’s accomplishment was but a prelude to what they would face in the next few days.
Long Knife Page 36
