The Crossing

by Winston Churchill

  CHAPTER XX. THE CAMPAIGN ENDS

  “If I am obliged to storm, you may depend upon such treatment as isjustly due to a murderer. And beware of destroying stores of any kind,or any papers or letters that are in your possession; or of hurting onehouse in the town. For, by Heaven! if you do, there shall be no mercyshown you.“To Lieutenant-Governor Hamilton.”

  So read Colonel Clark, as he stood before the log fire in MonsieurBouton’s house at the back of the town, the captains grouped in front ofhim.

  “Is that strong enough, gentlemen?” he asked.

  “To raise his hair,” said Captain Charleville.

  Captain Bowman laughed loudly.

  “I reckon the boys will see to that,” said he.

  Colonel Clark folded the letter, addressed it, and turned gravely toMonsieur Bouton.

  “You will oblige me, sir,” said he, “by taking this to GovernorHamilton. You will be provided with a flag of truce.”

  Monsieur Bouton was a round little man, as his name suggested, and themen cheered him as he strode soberly up the street, a piece of sheetingtied to a sapling and flung over his shoulder. Through such humbleagencies are the ends of Providence accomplished. Monsieur Bouton walkedup to the gate, disappeared sidewise through the postern, and we satdown to breakfast. In a very short time Monsieur Bouton was seen comingback, and his face was not so impassive that the governor’s messagecould not be read thereon.

  “‘Tis not a love-letter he has, I’ll warrant,” said Terence, as thelittle man disappeared into the house. So accurately had MonsieurBouton’s face betrayed the news that the men went back to their postswithout orders, some with half a breakfast in hand. And soon the rankand file had the message.

  “Lieutenant-Governor Hamilton begs leave to acquaint Colonel Clark thathe and his garrison are not disposed to be awed into any action unworthyof British subjects.”

  Our men had eaten, their enemy was within their grasp and Clark andall his officers could scarce keep them from storming. Such was thedeadliness of their aim that scarce a shot came back, and time and againI saw men fling themselves in front of the breastworks with a war-whoop,wave their rifles in the air, and cry out that they would have the Ha’rBuyer’s sculp before night should fall. It could not last. Not tuned tothe nicer courtesies of warfare, the memory of Hamilton’s war parties,of blackened homes, of families dead and missing, raged unappeased.These were not content to leave vengeance in the Lord’s hands, and whena white flag peeped timorously above the gate a great yell of derisionwent up from river-bank to river-bank. Out of the postern stepped theofficer with the faded scarlet coat, and in due time went back again,haughtily, his head high, casting contempt right and left of him. Againthe postern opened, and this time there was a cheer at sight of a manin hunting shirt and leggings and coonskin cap. After him came a certainMajor Hay, Indian-enticer of detested memory, the lieutenant of him whofollowed--the Hair Buyer himself. A murmur of hatred arose from the menstationed there, and many would have shot him where he stood but forClark.

  “The devil has the grit,” said Cowan, though his eyes blazed.

  It was the involuntary tribute. Lieutenant-Governor Hamilton staredindifferently at the glowering backwoodsmen as he walked the few stepsto the church. Not so Major Hay. His eyes fell. There was Colonel Clarkwaiting at the door through which the good Creoles had been wont to goto worship, bowing somewhat ironically to the British General. It was astrange meeting they had in St. Xavier’s, by the light of the candleson the altar. Hot words passed in that house of peace, the Generaldemanding protection for all his men, and our Colonel replying that hewould do with the Indian partisans as he chose.

  “And whom mean you by Indian partisans?” the undaunted governor haddemanded.

  “I take Major Hay to be one of them,” our Colonel had answered.

  It was soon a matter of common report how Clark had gazed fixedly atthe Major when he said this, and how the Major turned pale andtrembled. With our own eyes we saw them coming out, Major Hay as nearto staggering as a man could be, the governor blushing red for shame ofhim. So they went sorrowfully back to the gate.

  Colonel Clark stood at the steps of the church, looking after them.

  “What was that firing?” he demanded sharply. “I gave orders for atruce.”

  We who stood by the church had indeed heard firing in the direction ofthe hills east of the town, and had wondered thereat. Perceiving acrowd gathered at the far end of the street, we all ran thither save theColonel, who directed to have the offenders brought to him at MonsieurBouton’s. We met the news halfway. A party of Canadians and Indians hadjust returned from the Falls of the Ohio with scalps they had taken.Captain Williams had gone out with his company to meet them, had luredthem on, and finally had killed a number and was returning with theprisoners. Yes, here they were! Williams himself walked ahead with twodishevelled and frightened coureurs du bois, twoscore at least ofthe townspeople of Vincennes, friends and relatives of the prisoners,pressing about and crying out to Williams to have mercy on them. As forWilliams, he took them in to the Colonel, the townspeople pressing intothe door-yard and banking in front of it on the street. Behind all atragedy impended, nor can I think of it now without sickening.

  The frightened Creoles in the street gave back against the fence, andfrom behind them, issuing as a storm-cloud, came the half of Williams’company, yelling like madmen. Pushed and jostled ahead of them were fourIndians, decked and feathered, the half-dried scalps dangling from theirbelts, impassive, true to their creed despite the indignity of jolts andjars and blows. On and on pressed the mob, gathering recruits at everycorner, and when they reached St. Xavier’s before the fort half theregiment was there. Others watched, too, from the stockade, and whatthey saw made their knees smite together with fear. Here were fourbronzed statues in a row across the street, the space in front of themclear that their partisans in the fort might look and consider. What waspassing in the savage mind no man might know. Not a lip trembled noran eye faltered when a backwoodsman, his memory aflame at sight of thepitiful white scalps on their belts, thrust through the crowd to cursethem. Fletcher Blount, frenzied, snatched his tomahawk from his side.

  “Sink, varmint!” he cried with a great oath. “By the etarnal! we’ll paythe H’ar Buyer in his own coin. Sound your drums!” he shouted at thefort. “Call the garrison fer the show.”

  He had raised his arm and turned to strike when the savage put up hishand, not in entreaty, but as one man demanding a right from another.The cries, the curses, the murmurs even, were hushed. Throwing backhis head, arching his chest, the notes of a song rose in the heavy air.Wild, strange notes they were, that struck vibrant chords in my ownquivering being, and the song was the death-song. Ay, and the life-songof a soul which had come into the world even as mine own. And somewherethere lay in the song, half revealed, the awful mystery of that CreatorWhom the soul leaped forth to meet: the myriad green of the sun playingwith the leaves, the fish swimming lazily in the brown pool, the doegrazing in the thicket, and a naked boy as free from care as these; andstill the life grows brighter as strength comes, and stature, and powerover man and beast; and then, God knows what memories of fierce loveand fiercer wars and triumphs, of desires gained and enemiesconquered,--God, who has made all lives akin to something which He holdsin the hollow of His hand; and then--the rain beating on the forestcrown, beating, beating, beating.

  The song ceased. The Indian knelt in the black mud, not at the feet ofFletcher Blount, but on the threshold of the Great Spirit who rulethall things. The axe fell, yet he uttered no cry as he went before hisMaster.

  So the four sang, each in turn, and died in the sight of some whopitied, and some who feared, and some who hated, for the sake of landand women. So the four went beyond the power of gold and gewgaw, andwere dragged in the mire around the walls and flung into the yellowwaters of the river.

  Through the dreary afternoon the men lounged about and cursed theparley, and hearkened for the tattoo,--the signal agree
d upon by theleaders to begin the fighting. There had been no command against tauntsand jeers, and they gathered in groups under the walls to indulgethemselves, and even tried to bribe me as I sat braced against a housewith my drum between my knees and the sticks clutched tightly in myhands.

  “Here’s a Spanish dollar for a couple o’ taps, Davy,” shouted JackTerrell.

  “Come on, ye pack of Rebel cutthroats!” yelled a man on the wall.

  He was answered by a torrent of imprecations. And so they flung itback and forth until nightfall, when out comes the same faded-scarletofficer, holding a letter in his hand, and marches down the street toMonsieur Bouton’s. There would be no storming now, nor any man sufferedto lay fingers on the Hair Buyer.

  I remember, in particular, Hamilton the Hair Buyer. Not the fiend myimagination had depicted (I have since learned that most villains do notlook the part), but a man with a great sorrow stamped upon his face. Thesun rose on that 25th of February, and the mud melted, and one of ourcompanies drew up on each side of the gate. Downward slid the lion ofEngland, the garrison drums beat a dirge, and the Hair Buyer marched outat the head of his motley troops.

  Then came my own greatest hour. All morning I had been polishing andtightening the drum, and my pride was so great as we fell into line thatso much as a smile could not be got out of me. Picture it all: Vincennesin black and white by reason of the bright day; eaves and gables,stockade line and capped towers, sharply drawn, and straight above thesea stark flagstaff waiting for our colors; pigs and fowls straying hitherand thither, unmindful that this day is red on the calendar. Ah! hereis a bit of color, too,--the villagers on the side streets to see thespectacle. Gay wools and gayer handkerchiefs there, amid the joyous,cheering crowd of thrice-changed nationality.

  “Vive les Bostonnais! Vive les Américains! Vive Monsieur le ColonelClark! Vive le petit tambour!”

  “Vive le petit tambour!” That was the drummer boy, stepping proudlybehind the Colonel himself, with a soul lifted high above mire andpuddle into the blue above. There was laughter amongst the giants behindme, and Cowan saying softly, as when we left Kaskaskia, “Go it, Davy,my little gamecock!” And the whisper of it was repeated among the ranksdrawn up by the gate.

  Yes, here was the gate, and now we were in the fort, and an empire wasgained, never to be lost again. The Stars and Stripes climbed the staff,and the folds were caught by an eager breeze. Thirteen cannon thunderedfrom the blockhouses--one for each colony that had braved a king.

  There, in the miry square within the Vincennes fort, thin and bronzedand travel-stained, were the men who had dared the wilderness in ugliestmood. And yet none by himself would have done it--each had come herecompelled by a spirit stronger than his own, by a master mind thatlaughed at the body and its ailments.

  Colonel George Rogers Clark stood in the centre of the square, underthe flag to whose renown he had added three stars. Straight he was, andsquare, and self-contained. No weakening tremor of exultation softenedhis face as he looked upon the men by whose endurance he had been ableto do this thing. He waited until the white smoke of the last gun haddrifted away on the breeze, until the snapping of the flag and thedistant village sounds alone broke the stillness.

  “We have not suffered all things for a reward,” he said, “but becausea righteous cause may grow. And though our names may be forgotten,our deeds will be remembered. We have conquered a vast land that ourchildren and our children’s children may be freed from tyranny, and wehave brought a just vengeance upon our enemies. I thank you, one andall, in the name of the Continental Congress and of that Commonwealthof Virginia for which you have fought. You are no longer Virginians,Kentuckians, Kaskaskians, and Cahokians--you are Americans.”

  He paused, and we were silent. Though his words moved us strongly, theywere beyond us.

  “I mention no deeds of heroism, of unselfishness, of lives saved at theperil of others. But I am the debtor of every man here for the years tocome to see that he and his family have justice from the Commonwealthand the nation.”

  Again he stopped, and it seemed to us watching that he smiled a little.

  “I shall name one,” he said, “one who never lagged, who nevercomplained, who starved that the weak might be fed and walk. DavidRitchie, come here.”

  I trembled, my teeth chattered as the water had never made them chatter.I believe I should have fallen but for Tom, who reached out from theranks. I stumbled forward in a daze to where the Colonel stood, and thecheering from the ranks was a thing beyond me. The Colonel’s hand on myhead brought me to my senses.

  “David Ritchie,” he said, “I give you publicly the thanks of theregiment. The parade is dismissed.”

  The next thing I knew I was on Cowan’s shoulders, and he was tearinground and round the fort with two companies at his heels.

  “The divil,” said Terence McCann, “he dhrummed us over the wather, an’through the wather; and faix, he would have dhrummed the sculp fromHamilton’s head and the Colonel had said the worrd.”

  “By gar!” cried Antoine le Gris, “now he drum us on to Detroit.”

  Out of the gate rushed Cowan, the frightened villagers scattering rightand left. Antoine had a friend who lived in this street, and in tenminutes there was rum in the powder-horns, and the toast was “On toDetroit!”

  Colonel Clark was sitting alone in the commanding officer’s room ofthe garrison. And the afternoon sun, slanting through the square of thewindow, fell upon the maps and papers before him. He had sent for me. Ihalted in sheer embarrassment on the threshold, looked up at his face,and came on, troubled.

  “Davy,” he said, “do you want to go back to Kentucky?”

  “I should like to stay to the end, Colonel,” I answered.

  “The end?” he said. “This is the end.”

  “And Detroit, sir?” I returned.

  “Detroit!” he cried bitterly, “a man of sense measures his force, anddoes not try the impossible. I could as soon march against Philadelphia.This is the end, I say; and the general must give way to the politician.And may God have mercy on the politician who will try to keep a people’saffection without money or help from Congress.”

  He fell back wearily in his chair, while I stood astonished, wondering.I had thought to find him elated with victory.

  “Congress or Virginia,” said he, “will have to pay Monsieur Vigo, andFather Gibault, and Monsieur Gratiot, and the other good people who havetrusted me. Do you think they will do so?”

  “The Congress are far from here,” I said.

  “Ay,” he answered, “too far to care about you and me, and what we havesuffered.”

  He ended abruptly, and sat for a while staring out of the window at thefigures crossing and recrossing the muddy parade-ground.

  “Tom McChesney goes to-night to Kentucky with letters to the countylieutenant. You are to go with him, and then I shall have no oneto remind me when I am hungry, and bring me hominy. I shall have nofinancier, no strategist for a tight place.” He smiled a little, sadly,at my sorrowful look, and then drew me to him and patted my shoulder.“It is no place for a young lad,--an idle garrison. I think,” hecontinued presently, “I think you have a future, David, if you do notlose your head. Kentucky will grow and conquer, and in twenty years bea thriving community. And presently you will go to Virginia, and studylaw, and come back again. Do you hear?”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  “And I would tell you one thing,” said he, with force; “serve thepeople, as all true men should in a republic. But do not rely upon theirgratitude. You will remember that?”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  A long time he paused, looking on me with a significance I did notthen understand. And when he spoke again his voice showed no trace ofemotion, save in the note of it.

  “You have been a faithful friend, Davy, when I needed loyalty. Perhapsthe time may come again. Promise me that you will not forget me if Iam--unfortunate.”

  “Unfortunate, sir!” I exclaimed.

  “G
ood-by, Davy,” he said, “and God bless you. I have work to do.”

  Still I hesitated. He stared at me, but with kindness.

  “What is it, Davy?” he asked.

  “Please, sir,” I said, “if I might take my drum?”

  At that he laughed.

  “You may,” said he, “you may. Perchance we may need it again.”

  I went out from his presence, vaguely troubled, to find Tom. And beforethe early sun had set we were gliding down the Wabash in a canoe, pastplaces forever dedicated to our agonies, towards Kentucky and Polly Ann.

  “Davy,” said Tom, “I reckon she’ll be standin’ under the ‘simmon tree,waitin’ fer us with the little shaver in her arms.”

  And so she was.