“He’s mad as a medicine man, is Clark, to go into that country with less than two hundred rifles.  And he’ll force us, will he?  I’d as lief have the King for a master.”

He brought every man in our circle to his feet,—­Ray, McCann, Cowan, and Tom.  But Tom was nearest, and words not coming easily to him he fell on the Boonesboro man instead, and they fought it out for ten minutes in the firelight with half the regiment around them.  At the end of it, when the malcontents were carrying their champion away, they were stopped suddenly at the sight of one bursting through the circle into the light, and a hush fell upon the quarrel.  It was Colonel Clark.

“Are you hurt, McChesney?” he demanded.

“I reckon not much, Colonel,” said Tom, grinning, as he wiped his face.

“If any man deserts this camp to-night,” cried Colonel Clark, swinging around, “I swear by God to have him chased and brought back and punished as he deserves.  Captain Harrod, set a guard.”

I pass quickly over the rest of the incident.  How the Holston men and some others escaped in the night in spite of our guard, and swam the river on logs.  How at dawn we found them gone, and Kenton and Harrod and brave Captain Montgomery set out in pursuit, with Cowan and Tom and Ray.  All day they rode, relentless, and the next evening returned with but eight weary and sullen fugitives of all those who had deserted.

The next day the sun rose on a smiling world, the polished reaches of the river golden mirrors reflecting the forest’s green.  And we were astir with the light, preparing for our journey into the unknown country.  At seven we embarked by companies in the flatboats, waving a farewell to those who were to be left behind.  Some stayed through inclination and disaffection:  others because Colonel Clark did not deem them equal to the task.  But Swein Poulsson came.  With tears in his little blue eyes he had begged the Colonel to take him, and I remember him well on that June morning, his red face perspiring under the white bristles of his hair as he strained at the big oar.  For we must needs pull a mile up the stream ere we could reach the passage in which to shoot downward to the Falls.  Suddenly Poulsson dropped his handle, causing the boat to swing round in the stream, while the men damned him.  Paying them no attention, he stood pointing into the blinding disk of the sun.  Across the edge of it a piece was bitten out in blackness.

“Mein Gott!” he cried, “the world is being ended just now.”

“The holy saints remember us this day!” said McCann, missing a stroke to cross himself.  “Will ye pull, ye damned Dutchman?  Or we’ll be the first to slide into hell.  This is no kind of a place at all at all.”

By this time the men all along the line of boats had seen it, and many faltered.  Clark’s voice could be heard across the waters urging them to pull, while the bows swept across the current.  They obeyed him, but steadily the blackness ate out the light, and a weird gloaming overspread the scene.  River and forest became stern, the men silent.  The more ignorant were in fear of a cataclysm, the others taking it for an omen.