At the morning parade, from my wonted place at the end of the line, I watched him with astonishment, reviewing the troops as usual.  For the very first day I had crossed the river with Terence, climbed the heights to the old fort, and returned with my drum.  But no sooner had I beaten the retreat than the men gathered here and there in groups that smouldered with mutiny, and I noted that some of the officers were amongst these.  Once in a while a sentence like a flaming brand was flung out.  Their time was up, their wives and children for all they knew sculped by the red varmints, and, by the etarnal, Clark or no man living could keep them.

“Hi,” said one, as I passed, “here’s Davy with his drum.  He’ll be leadin’ us back to Kaintuck in the morning.”

“Ay, ay,” cried another man in the group, “I reckon he’s had his full of tyranny, too.”

I stopped, my face blazing red.

“Shame on you for those words!” I shouted shrilly.  “Shame on you, you fools, to desert the man who would save your wives and children.  How are the redskins to be beaten if they are not cowed in their own country?” For I had learned much at headquarters.

They stood silent, astonished, no doubt, at the sight of my small figure a-tremble with anger.  I heard Bill Cowan’s voice behind me.

“There’s truth for ye,” he said, “that will slink home when a thing’s half done.”

“Ye needn’t talk, Bill Cowan; it’s well enough for ye.  I reckon your wife’d scare any redskin off her clearin’.”

“Many the time she scart me,” said Bill Cowan.

And so the matter went by with a laugh.  But the grumbling continued, and the danger was that the French would learn of it.  The day passed, yet the embers blazed not into the flame of open mutiny.  But he who has seen service knows how ominous is the gathering of men here and there, the low humming talk, the silence when a dissenter passes.  There were fights, too, that had to be quelled by company captains, and no man knew when the loud quarrel between the two races at Vigo’s store would grow into an ugly battle.

What did Clark intend to do?  This was the question that hung in the minds of mutineer and faithful alike.  They knew the desperation of his case.  Without money, save that which the generous Creoles had advanced upon his personal credit; without apparent resources; without authority, save that which the weight of his character exerted,—­how could he prevent desertion?  They eyed him as he went from place to place about his business,—­erect, thoughtful, undisturbed.  Few men dare to set their will against a multitude when there are no fruits to be won.  Columbus persisted, and found a new world; Clark persisted, and won an empire for thoughtless generations to enjoy.

That night he slept not at all, but sat, while the candles flickered in their sockets, poring over maps and papers.  I dared not disturb him, but lay the darkness through with staring eyes.  And when the windows on the orchard side showed a gray square of light, he flung down the parchment he was reading on the table.  It rolled up of itself, and he pushed back his chair.  I heard him call my name, and leaping out of bed, I stood before him.