CHAPTER X. A FRONTIER CAMP.

The site of the present city of Louisville was but a desolate wilderness a hundred years ago; when forest and prairie divided the banks of the river, and the game roamed, unfrightened by white or red. Here, late in the month of June, 1778, a considerable camp was pitched, the rows of fires and tethered horses announcing the presence of several hundred men, while the woodland costume of the occupants proclaimed them to be unmitigated backwoods settlers and hunters.

A large, powerful man, black-haired and bearded, with tremendous shoulders, stood by the banks of the Ohio, in company with Boone and Kenton, all three watching the stream above them, where the outlines of Clark’s bateaux were readily discernible, coming down the river. Below them could be heard the roaring noise of those steep and dangerous rapids, now known as Louisville Falls; and at this point had Clark ordered a concentration of all the forces raised to defend Kentucky.

The big man was the renowned Captain Harrod, of Harrodsburg, whose company was one of those designed for the secret expedition, whose purpose was as yet unknown to all but the leader.

“I’m thinkin’ we’ll know all about the colonel’s plans middlin’ quick, when he comes in,” remarked Kenton, as he leaned on his rifle. “The boys are in fur a scrimmage, but they won’t go unless they know whar they’re goin’ to.”

“You may bet your boots on that,” said Harrod, dryly. “I hain’t no objections to tacklin’ Old Nick, ef I know whar I’m goin’; but I ain’t to be fooled with secret orders by no George Clark, when I c’u’d turn him over my knee and spank him.”

Daniel Boone turned his quiet blue eyes on Harrod, saying:

“Ain’t you a little hard on Colonel Clark, Billy? He ain’t[44] asked you to go on a wild-goose chase yet. I know you’re a good man of your hands, Billy, but Clark’s no boy. Wait till he tells us where we are to go, before you get mad. He holds the State commission, remember, to order us all.”

Harrod shook his head sulkily.

“He’s a good sodger, Dan’l, no discount on that; but I don’t like these hyar secret orders. Why don’t he come out and tell us whar he’s goin’ like a man?”

“Because there are spies round, Billy,” said Boone, boldly. “Who knows but what the British General at Detroit would hear all about his doings, if he divided the secret with a lot of fellows like them?” indicating the camp with a scornful gesture; “so full of whisky—when they can get it, that a child might suck them dry.”

“There are reason in cunnel’s words, Billy,” said Kenton, quietly. “Leastwise there ain’t no use talkin’, till Cunnel Clark comes. See, the head boat’s landin’ on Corn Island, and I guess we’ll hev to foller them into camp there.”

In fact, at this moment, Clark’s boats put in to an island that lay in the center of the river, and proceeded to disembark their crews, in sight of the Kentuckians.

Shortly after, a bark canoe shot out from the island, crossed the shallow belt of water that separated it from the south bank, and landed the same little officer already referred to as Adjutant Frank.

This smart little officer came strutting up to Big Bill Harrod, with a slender rapier clanking at his heels, and asked:

“Where shall I find Captain Bowman, the commandant, sir?”

Harrod looked down, half-contemptuously, at this tiny officer, whose head about reached his breast, and answered with a question:

“And what the Old Nick do you want of Joe Bowman, bubby? He ain’t used to suckin’ ’lasses candy.”

The little officer laughed merrily, without seeming in the least abashed.

“I see, you’re not Bowman, my man, for I was told he was a gentleman. Captain Kenton, where is Bowman?”

Kenton started.

[45]

“Why, how the Old Scratch do you know my name, sonny? I disremember ever seeing you before.”

“I am Colonel Clark’s adjutant, gentlemen,” said Frank, pulling up with considerable dignity, notwithstanding his small size. “If you’ve no civil answer to give me, I’ll go elsewhere! I carry orders!”

“Captain Bowman is down in camp, with Captain Dillard, sir,” said Daniel Boone, suddenly stepping forward and saluting the other with respect. “Don’t mind these rough fellows, adjutant; it’s their Kentucky way, and they mean no harm. I’ll go to the camp with you.”

“Hold on,” said Harrod, gruffly. “That younker said something about my not bein’ a gentleman. I ain’t goin’ to be talked to that way by none of George Clark’s whipper-snappers.”

In a moment the little officer had wheeled sharp round, and marched up to the huge borderer.

“Well, sir,” he said, defiantly, “I said you were no gentleman, to answer a civil question as you did. I repeat it. Now then, name your time and place, and I’ll fight you!”

For a moment the giant looked down at the slender form of this incarnation of pluck, pure and simple, as if he was puzzled. At last he burst into a roar of laughter, for he was a good-natured fellow after all, and said:

“I guess you’re right, arter all, little bantam. I durstn’t fight ye, that I know, for I couldn’t see to hit ye, ef ye stood edgewise. Let’s shake hands. I’m Bill Harrod of Harrodsburg, and by Gosh, I’m sorry I riled ye. Put it there.”

He held out a broad and horny palm, into which Frank insinuated his own diminutive hand, enduring a painful squeeze with great fortitude. Then all four, in perfect harmony, proceeded to the camp, where the senior captain, Joseph Bowman of Virginia, welcomed the little adjutant with great courtesy, and received the latter’s message.

“Colonel Clark’s compliments, gentlemen, and he has gone into camp on Corn Island. The river is fordable here, and he wishes you to bring over your companies and camp with him, when he will announce the object of the expedition, and call for volunteers.”

The news was spread from mouth to mouth with wonderful[46] rapidity, the half-disciplined frontiersmen crowding round their commanders to hear the message, in a manner that would have caused a martinet to despair of their military character.

Nevertheless, Bowman issued the order, like an old officer.

“Git ready to move camp, boys; and look sharp.”

Inside of ten minutes, three companies of mounted riflemen stood by their horses’ heads, silent and obedient, and when Bowman rode into the ford, there was not a single straggler left behind.

The little adjutant crossed in his canoe, and on the further bank they found three more companies, drawn up in front of their camp, all silent and orderly, and anxiously expecting the news, about to be promulgated, of the destination of the expedition.

Colonel Clark was the only mounted man on the island, and he rode up, and greeted his allies with great courtesy.

“You will go into camp at the other end of the island, captain,” he said, to Bowman. “There are too many of the enemy’s Indians about, to trust a camp on shore to their annoyances. Go into camp, dismount your men, and be ready for dress parade at sunset. I will then announce the orders.”

There was an evident disposition, among the rough borderers of Harrod’s and Dillard’s companies, to grumble at this order, but Clark checked it in a manner that showed his knowledge of frontier nature. Riding down the column, he called out:

“What, gentlemen, have we a lot of curious old women in the ranks? If so, please to ride home. I want nothing but brave men, where I am going. For shame! Don’t you know me well enough to know that George Clark has a meaning for whatever he says? Forward, gentlemen, and obey orders like men!”

In a moment a dead silence fell on the three companies, and the camp was formed with marvelous expedition and order.

An hour after that, at the call of the bugle, six hundred men were under arms in a hollow square, and the backwoods leader addressed them, amid intense anxiety from all to hear the news.