The Crossing [115]
drum us on to Detroit.''
Out of the gate rushed Cowan, the frightened villagers scattering right and left. Antoine had a friend who lived in this street, and in ten minutes there was rum in the powder-horns, and the toast was ``On to Detroit!''
Colonel Clark was sitting alone in the commanding officer's room of the garrison. And the afternoon sun, slanting through the square of the window, fell upon the maps and papers before him. He had sent for me. I halted 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, and does 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's affection 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, and Father Gibault, and Monsieur Gratiot, and the other good people who have trusted 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 have suffered.''
He ended abruptly, and sat for a while staring out of the window at the figures crossing and recrossing the muddy parade-ground.
``Tom McChesney goes to-night to Kentucky with letters to the county lieutenant. You are to go with him, and then I shall have no one to remind me when I am hungry, and bring me hominy. I shall have no financier, 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,'' he continued presently, ``I think you have a future, David, if you do not lose your head. Kentucky will grow and conquer, and in twenty years be a thriving community. And presently you will go to Virginia, and study law, and come back again. Do you hear?
``Yes, Colonel.''
``And I would tell you one thing,'' said he, with force; ``serve the people, as all true men should in a republic. But do not rely upon their gratitude. You will remember that?''
``Yes, Colonel.''
A long time he paused, looking on me with a significance I did not then understand. And when he spoke again his voice showed no trace of emotion, save in the note of it.
``You have been a faithful friend, Davy, when I needed loyalty. Perhaps the time may come again. Promise me that you will not forget me if I am--unfortunate.''
``Unfortunate, sir!'' I exclaimed.
``Good-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 before the early sun had set we were gliding down the Wabash in a canoe, past places 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.
BOOK II
FLOTSAM AND JETSAM
CHAPTER I
IN THE CABIN
The Eden of one man may be the Inferno of his neighbor, and now I am to throw to the winds, like leaves of a worthless manuscript, some years of time, and introduce you to a new Kentucky,--a Kentucky that was not for the pioneer. One page of this manuscript might have told of a fearful winter, when the snow lay in great drifts in the bare woods, when
Out of the gate rushed Cowan, the frightened villagers scattering right and left. Antoine had a friend who lived in this street, and in ten minutes there was rum in the powder-horns, and the toast was ``On to Detroit!''
Colonel Clark was sitting alone in the commanding officer's room of the garrison. And the afternoon sun, slanting through the square of the window, fell upon the maps and papers before him. He had sent for me. I halted 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, and does 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's affection 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, and Father Gibault, and Monsieur Gratiot, and the other good people who have trusted 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 have suffered.''
He ended abruptly, and sat for a while staring out of the window at the figures crossing and recrossing the muddy parade-ground.
``Tom McChesney goes to-night to Kentucky with letters to the county lieutenant. You are to go with him, and then I shall have no one to remind me when I am hungry, and bring me hominy. I shall have no financier, 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,'' he continued presently, ``I think you have a future, David, if you do not lose your head. Kentucky will grow and conquer, and in twenty years be a thriving community. And presently you will go to Virginia, and study law, and come back again. Do you hear?
``Yes, Colonel.''
``And I would tell you one thing,'' said he, with force; ``serve the people, as all true men should in a republic. But do not rely upon their gratitude. You will remember that?''
``Yes, Colonel.''
A long time he paused, looking on me with a significance I did not then understand. And when he spoke again his voice showed no trace of emotion, save in the note of it.
``You have been a faithful friend, Davy, when I needed loyalty. Perhaps the time may come again. Promise me that you will not forget me if I am--unfortunate.''
``Unfortunate, sir!'' I exclaimed.
``Good-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 before the early sun had set we were gliding down the Wabash in a canoe, past places 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.
BOOK II
FLOTSAM AND JETSAM
CHAPTER I
IN THE CABIN
The Eden of one man may be the Inferno of his neighbor, and now I am to throw to the winds, like leaves of a worthless manuscript, some years of time, and introduce you to a new Kentucky,--a Kentucky that was not for the pioneer. One page of this manuscript might have told of a fearful winter, when the snow lay in great drifts in the bare woods, when