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
and commander-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—­”