But when I was close to him he merely laid his
hand on my shoulder. "Yes, you may go, Davy."
He sighed, and presently turned to his writing again, and I went back
joyfully to my cleaning.
On a certain dark 4th of February, picture the village of Kaskaskia
assembled on the river-bank in capote and hood. Ropes are cast off, the
keel-boat pushes her blunt nose through the cold, muddy water, the oars
churn up dirty, yellow foam, and cheers shake the sodden air. So the
Willing left on her long journey: down the Kaskaskia, into the flood of
the Mississippi, against many weary leagues of the Ohio's current, and up
the swollen Wabash until they were to come to the mouth of the White
River near Vincennes. There they were to await us.
Should we ever see them again? I think that this was the unspoken
question in the hearts of the many who were to go by land.
The 5th was a mild, gray day, with the melting snow lying in patches on
the brown bluff, and the sun making shift to pierce here and there. We
formed the regiment in the fort,--backwoodsman and Creole now to fight
for their common country, Jacques and Pierre and Alphonse; and mother and
father, sweetheart and wife, waiting to wave a last good-by. Bravely we
marched out of the gate and into the church for Father Gibault's
blessing. And then, forming once more, we filed away on the road leading
northward to the ferry, our colors flying, leaving the weeping, cheering
crowd behind.
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