It seemed that somewhere he could hear a lonesome drum calling.
4
TO THE FORKS OF
THE OHIO
There was the creek and there was the forest, both as old as time itself. Then there was the clearing and the storehouse, but they were only youngsters. The clearing had been cleared by workmen for the Ohio Company, and these men had built the storehouse for that company, and all in the name of trade. But now the scene had changed; now Wills Creek had become an animated camp for warfare.
Shad Holly led his little troop through the forest and into camp. There they paused and looked around with the bright fervent eye of youth.
Next to the storehouse was a small office building, and they were the only two constructions that looked permanent, or even habitable. There was a stretch of hutments—half-formed log cabins chinked with mud and roofed with canvas, and some of them had stubby chimneys made of sticks and mud and some didn’t. Then there was a collection of baggy-looking old tents. And a small artillery park; Matt counted a dozen light cannons, swivel guns mostly.
There were wagons and unmatched teams and profane-mouthed teamsters and greedy-eyed sutlers; soldiers—militia for the most part, backwoodsmen, scouts; here and there your eye would catch a bright dab of blue faced with scarlet—the blue-coated militia officers. And Indians, a spattering of them, feathered, unpainted, inscrutable spectators wondering what the enigmatical white men were up to. Men drilling, sergeants swearing, wagons rolling, riders coming, going . . .
It was a lusty place! Matt loved it. But Harry was not impressed. He grounded his musket and leaned on the barrel, staring at the camp activity with cool detachment.
“There you are,” he said quietly. “Washington’s warriors: illiterate backwoodsmen, as ragged as Falstaff’s army. Trash.”
Anger ignited in Matt’s head and he opened his mouth to admonish Harry, when a blue-coated ensign stepped from the office building and gave them a shout.
“You men! Where do you belong? What company are you?”
Shad, as amiable as a big bear heading for a honeycomb, led his companions over to the ensign. “First Pennsylvania Company, major. Cap’n Holly reporting!” he informed the junior-grade officer.
“Did you say First Pennsylvania?”
Shad nodded gaily. “The last, too.”
“Where’s the rest of you?”
Shad looked behind and around himself and scratched his head, tilting his cocked hat all askew. “You mean there’s supposed to be more?” he asked. “First I heard of it.”
“Come, come, my man!” the ensign snapped impatiently. “What is your business here? What is it you want?”
“Want! Want! We want a help Georgie whip them bug- and frog-eaters, that’s what we want! Ain’t that why all these other fellas is here? Or have we come to the wrong place?” Shad looked at Matt regretfully.
“Maybe we made a mistake, Matty. Maybe we just thought this was an army camp. Maybe it’s only the Ladies’ Wildlife Study Group. Say, you recall them marigolds we seen back in the woods a bit? I bet these here ladies would like to know about them! I bet these here—”
“Well!” a voice modulated with amusement cut in. “I thought I recognized your tone, Master Holly. Have you come to volunteer?”
Washington, in blue and buff and a tricorn hat, stood on the porch of the office smiling down at Shad.
“Colonel, I’m mighty glad to see you!” Shad bawled. “That’s what I been trying to explain to this Tidewater soldier: we’re the First Pennsylvania Volunteers!”
Washington lowered his head, swallowing a smile. “Ensign Peyroney, I’m acquainted with two of these men. I believe we shall accept the services of the First Pennsylvania contingent.”
“One moment,” Harry said sharply. “This man, Holly, has misrepresented himself as our officer. I want it understood that we are not under his command. We are independent volunteers.”
Washington studied the young volunteer for a stilled moment, then nodded abruptly. “Understood,” he said.
But Ensign Peyroney was still far from satisfied. He pointed to Tammy, saying, “Sir, that man’s wearing a sword. We can’t have that. A sword’s an emblem of authority. Only officers can wear swords.”
Tammy moved back a step, clutching the hilt of his old claymore.
“I’ll not give up my father’s claymore,” he murmured adamantly.
Shad gave his cocked hat a dangerous forward shove.
“Now look here,” he demanded. “If that sword was good enough to tan some English at Culloden Moor, it’s good enough to tan some French in Ohio, ain’t it? My goodness, what you expect that boy to fight ’em with—naughty words? daisy stems? dirt clods? That sword belonged to his daddy and—”
Washington held up his hand to stop the hurricane of words.
“One moment. I think I understand the situation.”
Matt had the impression that Washington’s right eye made an imperceptible wink.
“This young man either volunteers to serve us with his father’s sword, or else he refuses to volunteer. Is that correct?”
Shad opened his mouth and blinked. Then he said, “That’s right, colonel!”
Washington turned to the ensign. “Well, Mr. Peyroney, there you have it. We need volunteers desperately, can’t afford to reject a single man; and this young man seems to have us on the spot. I suggest we accept him, sword and all.”
Peyroney attempted to retain the last vestiges of his weakening authority. He pointed to Shad with a beseeching look.
“Well, but surely, colonel, that man’s gorget . . .”
Washington, Matt thought, was a good politician: he knew when to strike and when to pet. He smiled genially at Shad, saying:
“Quite right, Mr. Peyroney. A gorget on an enlisted man is too much. You agree, Private Holly?”
Shad wasn’t a bad politician either. He’d gained a big victory for a friend; he could now afford a minor defeat for himself. He grinned and removed the silver-plated gorget from his throat and offered it to the dour-faced Peyroney.
Washington turned away with a smile. “Let us get on to the Articles,” he said.
Ensign Peyroney sat behind a desk, Washington standing at his elbow, while the Pennsylvania volunteers stood before the desk.
“Name?” Peyroney asked.
“Stefen Caspary,” Stefen said.
Washington raised an eyebrow. “French?” he asked politely.
Stefen grinned. “Twice removed, sir. American born.”
“Sign here,” Peyroney instructed. “Name?”
“Tam—Thomas Ferguson.” And Tammy signed the Articles.
“Harold Curry,” Harry said, reaching for the pen.
Washington studied the somber youth again. “Is General Curry—”
“Yes,” Harry said stiffly. “My father.”
Then Matt signed and then it was Shad’s turn.
“Name?”
“Shad Holly.”
“Full name.”
“Shad