The next morning we took up our march silently with the dawn, the prairie grouse whirring ahead of us.  At last, as afternoon drew on, a dark line of green edged the prairie to the westward, and our spirits rose.  From mouth to mouth ran the word that these were the woods which fringed the bluff above Kaskaskia itself.  We pressed ahead, and the destiny of the new Republic for which we had fought made us walk unseen.  Excitement keyed us high; we reached the shade, plunged into it, and presently came out staring at the bastioned corners of a fort which rose from the centre of a clearing.  It had once defended the place, but now stood abandoned and dismantled.  Beyond it, at the edge of the bluff, we halted, astonished.  The sun was falling in the west, and below us was the goal for the sight of which we had suffered so much.  At our feet, across the wooded bottom, was the Kaskaskia River, and beyond, the peaceful little French village with its low houses and orchards and gardens colored by the touch of the evening light.  In the centre of it stood a stone church with its belfry; but our searching eyes alighted on the spot to the southward of it, near the river.  There stood a rambling stone building with the shingles of its roof weathered black, and all around it a palisade of pointed sticks thrust in the ground, and with a pair of gates and watch-towers.  Drooping on its staff was the standard of England.  North and south of the village the emerald common gleamed in the slanting light, speckled red and white and black by grazing cattle.  Here and there, in untidy brown patches, were Indian settlements, and far away to the westward the tawny Father of Waters gleamed through the cottonwoods.

Through the waning day the men lay resting under the trees, talking in undertones.  Some cleaned their rifles, and others lost themselves in conjectures of the attack.  But Clark himself, tireless, stood with folded arms gazing at the scene below, and the sunlight on his face illumined him (to the lad standing at his side) as the servant of destiny.  At length, at eventide, the sweet-toned bell of the little cathedral rang to vespers,—­a gentle message of peace to war.  Colonel Clark looked into my upturned face.

“Davy, do you know what day this is?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I answered.

“Two years have gone since the bells pealed for the birth of a new nation—­your nation, Davy, and mine—­the nation that is to be the refuge of the oppressed of this earth—­the nation which is to be made of all peoples, out of all time.  And this land for which you and I shall fight to-night will belong to it, and the lands beyond,” he pointed to the west, “until the sun sets on the sea again.”  He put his hand on my head.  “You will remember this when I am dead and gone,” he said.

I was silent, awed by the power of his words.