Darkness fell, and still we waited, impatient for the order.  And when at last it came the men bustled hither and thither to find their commands, and we picked our way on the unseen road that led down the bluff, our hearts thumping.  The lights of the village twinkled at our feet, and now and then a voice from below was caught and borne upward to us.  Once another noise startled us, followed by an exclamation, “Donnerblitzen” and a volley of low curses from the company.  Poor Swein Poulsson had loosed a stone, which had taken a reverberating flight riverward.

We reached the bottom, and the long file turned and hurried silently northward, searching for a crossing.  I try to recall my feelings as I trotted beside the tall forms that loomed above me in the night.  The sense of protection they gave me stripped me of fear, and I was not troubled with that.  My thoughts were chiefly on Polly Ann and the child we had left in the fort now so far to the south of us, and in my fancy I saw her cheerful, ever helpful to those around her, despite the load that must rest on her heart.  I saw her simple joy at our return.  But should we return?  My chest tightened, and I sped along the ranks to Harrod’s company and caught Tom by the wrist.

“Davy,” he murmured, and, seizing my hand in his strong grip, pulled me along with him.  For it was not given to him to say what he felt; but as I hurried to keep pace with his stride, Polly Ann’s words rang in my ears, “Davy, take care of my Tom,” and I knew that he, too, was thinking of her.  A hail aroused me, the sound of a loud rapping, and I saw in black relief a cabin ahead.  The door opened, a man came out with a horde of children cowering at his heels, a volley of frightened words pouring from his mouth in a strange tongue.  John Duff was plying him with questions in French, and presently the man became calmer and lapsed into broken English.

“Kaskaskia—­yes, she is prepare.  Many spy is gone out—­cross la riviere.  But now they all sleep.”

Even as he spoke a shout came faintly from the distant town.

“What is that?” demanded Clark, sharply.

The man shrugged his shoulders.  “Une fete des negres, peut-etre,—­the negro, he dance maybe.”

“Are you the ferryman?” said Clark.

“Oui—­I have some boat.”

We crossed the hundred and fifty yards of sluggish water, squad by squad, and in the silence of the night stood gathered, expectant, on the farther bank.  Midnight was at hand.  Commands were passed about, and men ran this way and that, jostling one another to find their places in a new order.  But at length our little force stood in three detachments on the river’s bank, their captains repeating again and again the part which each was to play, that none might mistake his duty.  The two larger ones were to surround the town, while the picked force under Simon Kenton himself was to storm the fort.  Should he gain it by surprise and without battle, three shots