The Crossing [75]
grass. Prairie grass, is it?''
``Mo pas capab', Michie,'' said the cook, with a terrified roll of his white eyes.
``Herr Gott!'' cried Swein Poulsson, ``I am red face. Aber Herr Gott, I thank thee I am not a nigger. Und my hair is bristles, yes. Davy'' (spying me), ``I thank Herr Gott it is not vool. Let us in the kitchen go.''
``I am come to get something for the Colonel's breakfast,'' said I, pushing past the slave, through the open doorway. Swein Poulsson followed, and here I struck another contradiction in his strange nature. He helped me light the fire in the great stone chimney-place, and we soon had a pot of hominy on the crane, and turning on the spit a piece of buffalo steak which we found in the larder. Nor did a mouthful pass his lips until I had sped away with a steaming portion to find the Colonel. By this time the men had broken into the storehouse, and the open place was dotted with their breakfast fires. Clark was standing alone by the flagstaff, his face careworn. But he smiled as he saw me coming.
``What's this?'' says he.
``Your breakfast, sir,'' I answered. I set down the plate and the pot before him and pressed the pewter spoon into his hand.
``Davy,'' said he.
``Sir?'' said I.
``What did you have for your breakfast?''
My lip trembled, for I was very hungry, and the rich steam from the hominy was as much as I could stand. Then the Colonel took me by the arms, as gently as a woman might, set me down on the ground beside him, and taking a spoonful of the hominy forced it between my lips. I was near to fainting at the taste of it. Then he took a bit himself, and divided the buffalo steak with his own hands. And when from the camp-fires they perceived the Colonel and the drummer boy eating together in plain sight of all, they gave a rousing cheer.
``Swein Poulsson helped get your breakfast, sir, and would eat nothing either,'' I ventured.
``Davy,'' said Colonel Clark, gravely, ``I hope you will be younger when you are twenty.''
``I hope I shall be bigger, sir,'' I answered gravely.
CHAPTER XIV
HOW THE KASKASKEIANS WERE MADE CITIZENS
Never before had such a day dawned upon Kaskaskia. With July fierceness the sun beat down upon the village, but man nor woman nor child stirred from the darkened houses. What they awaited at the hands of the Long Knives they knew not,--captivity, torture, death perhaps. Through the deserted streets stalked a squad of backwoodsmen headed by John Duff and two American traders found in the town, who were bestirring themselves in our behalf, knocking now at this door and anon at that.
``The Colonel bids you come to the fort,'' he said, and was gone.
The church bell rang with slow, ominous strokes, far different from its gentle vesper peal of yesterday. Two companies were drawn up in the sun before the old Jesuit house, and presently through the gate a procession came, grave and mournful. The tone of it was sombre in the white glare, for men had donned their best (as they thought) for the last time,--cloth of camlet and Cadiz and Limbourg, white cotton stockings, and brass-buckled shoes. They came like captives led to execution. But at their head a figure held our eye,--a figure that spoke of dignity and courage, of trials borne for others. It was the village priest in his robes. He had a receding forehead and a strong, pointed chin; but benevolence was in the curve of his great nose. I have many times since seen his type of face in the French prints. He and his flock halted before our young Colonel, even as the citizens of Calais in a bygone century must have stood before the English king.
The scene comes back to me. On the one side, not the warriors of a nation that has made its mark in war, but peaceful peasants who had sought this place for its remoteness from persecution, to live and die in harmony with all mankind. On the other, the sinewy advance guard of a race that knows not peace, whose goddess of liberty carries in her hand a sword. The plough might have been graven on our arms, but
``Mo pas capab', Michie,'' said the cook, with a terrified roll of his white eyes.
``Herr Gott!'' cried Swein Poulsson, ``I am red face. Aber Herr Gott, I thank thee I am not a nigger. Und my hair is bristles, yes. Davy'' (spying me), ``I thank Herr Gott it is not vool. Let us in the kitchen go.''
``I am come to get something for the Colonel's breakfast,'' said I, pushing past the slave, through the open doorway. Swein Poulsson followed, and here I struck another contradiction in his strange nature. He helped me light the fire in the great stone chimney-place, and we soon had a pot of hominy on the crane, and turning on the spit a piece of buffalo steak which we found in the larder. Nor did a mouthful pass his lips until I had sped away with a steaming portion to find the Colonel. By this time the men had broken into the storehouse, and the open place was dotted with their breakfast fires. Clark was standing alone by the flagstaff, his face careworn. But he smiled as he saw me coming.
``What's this?'' says he.
``Your breakfast, sir,'' I answered. I set down the plate and the pot before him and pressed the pewter spoon into his hand.
``Davy,'' said he.
``Sir?'' said I.
``What did you have for your breakfast?''
My lip trembled, for I was very hungry, and the rich steam from the hominy was as much as I could stand. Then the Colonel took me by the arms, as gently as a woman might, set me down on the ground beside him, and taking a spoonful of the hominy forced it between my lips. I was near to fainting at the taste of it. Then he took a bit himself, and divided the buffalo steak with his own hands. And when from the camp-fires they perceived the Colonel and the drummer boy eating together in plain sight of all, they gave a rousing cheer.
``Swein Poulsson helped get your breakfast, sir, and would eat nothing either,'' I ventured.
``Davy,'' said Colonel Clark, gravely, ``I hope you will be younger when you are twenty.''
``I hope I shall be bigger, sir,'' I answered gravely.
CHAPTER XIV
HOW THE KASKASKEIANS WERE MADE CITIZENS
Never before had such a day dawned upon Kaskaskia. With July fierceness the sun beat down upon the village, but man nor woman nor child stirred from the darkened houses. What they awaited at the hands of the Long Knives they knew not,--captivity, torture, death perhaps. Through the deserted streets stalked a squad of backwoodsmen headed by John Duff and two American traders found in the town, who were bestirring themselves in our behalf, knocking now at this door and anon at that.
``The Colonel bids you come to the fort,'' he said, and was gone.
The church bell rang with slow, ominous strokes, far different from its gentle vesper peal of yesterday. Two companies were drawn up in the sun before the old Jesuit house, and presently through the gate a procession came, grave and mournful. The tone of it was sombre in the white glare, for men had donned their best (as they thought) for the last time,--cloth of camlet and Cadiz and Limbourg, white cotton stockings, and brass-buckled shoes. They came like captives led to execution. But at their head a figure held our eye,--a figure that spoke of dignity and courage, of trials borne for others. It was the village priest in his robes. He had a receding forehead and a strong, pointed chin; but benevolence was in the curve of his great nose. I have many times since seen his type of face in the French prints. He and his flock halted before our young Colonel, even as the citizens of Calais in a bygone century must have stood before the English king.
The scene comes back to me. On the one side, not the warriors of a nation that has made its mark in war, but peaceful peasants who had sought this place for its remoteness from persecution, to live and die in harmony with all mankind. On the other, the sinewy advance guard of a race that knows not peace, whose goddess of liberty carries in her hand a sword. The plough might have been graven on our arms, but