It was May-day, and shortly after dawn we slipped into the quiet water which is banked up for many miles above the Falls.The Captain and I sat forward on the deck, breathing deeply the sharp odor which comes from the wet forest in the early morning, listening to the soft splash of the oars, and watching the green form of Eighteen Mile Island as it gently drew nearer and nearer.And ere the sun had risen greatly we had passed Twelve Mile Island, and emerging from the narrow channel which divides Six Mile Island from the northern shore, we beheld, on its terrace above the Bear Grass, Louisville shining white in the morning sun.Majestic in its mile of width, calm, as though gathering courage, the river seemed to straighten for the ordeal to come, and the sound of its waters crying over the rocks far below came faintly to my ear and awoke memories of a day gone by.Fearful of the suck, we crept along the Indian shore until we counted the boats moored in the Bear Grass, and presently above the trees on our right we saw the Stars and Stripes floating from the log bastion of Fort Finney.And below the fort, on the gentle sunny slope to the river's brink, was spread the green garden of the garrison, with its sprouting vegetables and fruit trees blooming pink and white.
We were greeted by a company of buff and blue officers at the landing, and I was bidden to breakfast at their mess, Captain Wendell promising to take me over to Louisville afterwards.He had business in the town, and about eight of the clock we crossed the wide river in one of the barges of the fort and made fast at the landing in the Bear Grass.But no sooner had we entered the town than we met a number of country people on horseback, with their wives and daughters--ay, and sweethearts--perched up behind them: the men mostly in butternut linsey hunting shirts and trousers, slouch hats, and red handkerchiefs stuck into their bosoms; the women marvellously pretty and fresh in stiff cotton gowns and Quaker hats, and some in crimped caps with ribbons neatly tied under the chin.Before Mr.Easton's tavern Joe Handy, the fiddler, was reeling off a few bars of ``Hey, Betty Martin'' to the familiar crowd of loungers under the big poplar.
``It's Davy Ritchie!'' shouted Joe, breaking off in the middle of the tune; ``welcome home, Davy.Ye're jest in time for the barbecue on the island.''
``And Cap Wendell! Howdy, Cap!'' drawled another, a huge, long-haired, sallow, dirty fellow.But the Captain only glared.
``Damn him!'' he said, after I had spoken to Joe and we had passed on, ``HE ought to be barbecued; he nearly bit off Ensign Barry's nose a couple of months ago.
Barry tried to stop the beast in a gouging fight.''
The bright morning, the shady streets, the homelike frame and log houses, the old-time fragrant odor of cornpone wafted out of the open doorways, the warm greetings, --all made me happy to be back again.Mr.Crede rushed out and escorted us into his cool store, and while he waited on his country customers bade his negro brew a bowl of toddy, at the mention of which Mr.Bill Whalen, chief habitue, roused himself from a stupor on a tobacco barrel.Presently the customers, having indulged in the toddy, departed for the barbecue, the Captain went to the fort, and Mr.Crede and myself were left alone to talk over the business which had sent me to Philadelphia.
At four o'clock, having finished my report and dined with my client, I set out for Clarksville, for Mr.Crede had told me, among other things, that the General was there.Louisville was deserted, the tavern porch vacant;but tacked on the logs beside the door was a printed bill which drew my curiosity.I stopped, caught by a familiar name in large type at the head of it.
``GEORGE R.CLARK, ESQUIRE, ``MAJOR-GENERAL IN THE ARMIES OF FRANCE ANDCOMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE FRENCH
REVOLUTIONARY LEGION ON THE
MISSISSIPPI RIVER.
``PROPOSALS
``For raising volunteers for the reduction of the Spanish posts on the Mississippi, for opening the trade of the said river and giving freedom to all its inhabitants--''
I had got so far when I heard a noise of footsteps within, and Mr.Easton himself came out, in his shirt-sleeves.
``By cricky, Davy,'' said he, ``I'm right glad ter see ye ag'in.Readin' the General's bill, are ye? Tarnation, Ireckon Washington and all his European fellers east of the mountains won't be able ter hold us back this time.
I reckon we'll gallop over Louisiany in the face of all the Spaniards ever created.I've got some new whiskey I 'low will sink tallow.Come in, Davy.''
As he took me by the arm, a laughter and shouting came from the back room.
``It's some of them Frenchy fellers come over from Knob Licks.They're in it,'' and he pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the proclamation, ``and thar's one young American among 'em who's a t'arer.Come in.''
I drank a glass of Mr.Easton's whiskey, and asked about the General.
``He stays over thar to Clarksville pretty much,'' said Mr.Easton.``Thar ain't quite so much walkin' araound ter do,'' he added significantly.
