Читать книгу The Soldier from Virginia - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 9

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Mr. Washington, with forty men and a number of Indian allies and guides, pushed on through the forests from the camp at Great Meadows; starting in the pitch darkness and in heavy rain.

Early on the second day he received news from an Indian scout of the near advance of a detachment of French under Coulon de Jumonville, and toward evening, having emerged from a forest, through which they had been obliged to make slow progress, leading their horses, they came out into an open valley not far from where the French had just built Fort Duquesne, having now left Maryland for Pennsylvania.

There the Virginians halted, waiting the return of a party of Indians who had been sent to reconnoitre.

When these returned they reported that De Jumonville and his force had been close on the track of the Virginians all day, and were now endeavouring to slip away through the forest unperceived, doubtless with the idea of bringing a larger force from Fort Duquesne to utterly overwhelm the few men Mr. Washington led.

But the woodcraft of the friendly Indians was as skilful as that of their Canadian rivals; they conducted the Colonists in single file through a great plantation of beech and oak, and brought them out in a little glade across which the French were bound to pass on their return to the valley of the Ohio.

Nor had they long to wait; from their concealment behind the huge trunks they presently beheld the enemy, one by one, ride out from the scattered trees opposite, and with a light swiftness, down the green slope that was flooded with the strong purple-gold light of the setting sun. Mr. Washington sprang silently into the saddle, and rode forward into the open.

Remembering the elegant officers at Venango and Fort le Boeuf, he looked eagerly for some similar figure, to whom, as the leader of the troop, he could address himself.

But all these men were Indians, in Indian array, riding the wild Indian horses—unshod, with flowing tails and manes, and equipped only with hair-rope bridles and skin saddles.

A magnificent warrior, in full battle array, appeared to be the leader; at sight of Mr. Washington he drew up his splendid white horse, and his keen eye swept the gleam of the muskets showing in the ambush of the trees behind the young commander.

He appeared to recognise that evasion or flight was useless, for he gave a signal to his followers (who by now had all emerged from the wood and were even less in number than the Americans) and they halted behind him.

Mr. Washington waited.

Slowly, in silence and in a very stately fashion, the little troop of Indians advanced down the slope and up again, till they were in easy speaking distance of the men waiting for them, indeed, no more than a few yards away. Mr. Washington looked closely at the leader, who appeared a brave of high rank; he was a man of great height and powerful figure, crowned with a huge coronal of eagle's feathers, and painted on breast, arms and face with red, blue and yellow in a grotesque pattern; round his waist was a silk sash of many colours, and his leather trousers with their long fringes were ornamented with glittering beads; several. Indian weapons hung at his deer-skin saddle and at his waist; in his right hand he carried a long elegant musket.

Mr. Washington touched his hat.

"Which are you?" he asked, in his clear young voice. "England or France?"

"France!" came the answer, in good English. "And you, messieurs?"

Mr. Washington started: the voice, the accent, the manner of speaking betrayed the European; that the resplendent chief was a Frenchman, as were at least half his stained and painted followers, became evident.

"British," said the Virginian. "I am George Washington, holding a commission from the Governor of Virginia to build and hold forts in the Ohio Valley."

The other smiled and threw up his head, shaking the long eagle feathers.

"I am Coulon de Jumonville, holding the commission of the Governor of Canada to demand the withdrawal of all Americans and their allies from the Ohio Valley."

The two young men eyed each other in silence, each sitting very erect, very alert; each with his followers silent and watchful behind him.

The inexperienced land surveyor who represented England was not unmindful of the importance this moment might have in history; he knew perfectly well; and in the swift instant of silence that followed the answer of De Jumonville, visualised perfectly clearly the significance of this meeting and the effect it might have, one way or another, on the history of two nations. He was aware that the decision of peace or war between the two greatest countries in the world did not rest in the hands of the famous politicians at Westminster and Versailles, nor even in the hands of Dinwiddie at Williamsburg, or Duquesne at Montreal; but with him—and the Frenchman in paint and feathers.

All the issues that had hung long and vaguely between France and England might now reach their culmination or be again evaded, again postponed—that was to be decided not in any councils nor in the consultations of any statesmen, but here, in the wild open, in the midst of untracked country, in an obscure part of the world, between two unknown men.

Even as this thought swept over George Washington, he knew what use to make of his opportunity; his clear eyes narrowed and fixed in a penetrating way on De Jumonville; was that man prudent, was he cautious?—but the Virginian read, in the flashing glance the Frenchman returned him, a reckless spirit with the same purpose as his own.

He rode a little farther from the trees where his men waited.

"In the name of His Majesty King George," he said, "I command you to withdraw from British territory."

Coulon de Jumonville laughed; at the sound of it Mr. Washington laughed too,—laughed at the sheer joy of the approaching conflict, at his own strength and courage that he felt surging up within him, triumphantly, to meet the moment, at the feel of the pure west wind on his face, and all the glorious prospect of wood and land that glimmered away before his eyes to the flaming sunset—all seemed so much more beautiful, magnificent and proud than it had ever seemed before; and he represented the power that owned this land—that would defend it.

"Were you sent," he asked, "to defy us?"

"I 'was not sent to welcome you," smiled Coulon de Jumonville.

"Will you retire?" demanded Mr. Washington.

The Frenchman raised his hand and let it fall.

"Will you surrender?" he asked; and the Virginian saw that he was being covered by the French muskets, on the gleaming bores of which the sun sparkled red. "Will you surrender?" repeated De Jumonville.

For answer Mr. Washington took his commission from his breast with his left hand, and with his right raised his hat from his bright hair as he proceeded to read the King's commands to the loyal colonies to prevent and expel the French from the British frontier.

He was the unprotected target for over thirty marksmen, French and Indian, who leaned forward from their motionless horses, ready to fire.

"I give you five minutes," said De Jumonville.

The Virginian's young voice continued unshaken, unmoved.

"I warn you," said De Jumonville; he drew a toylike watch, strangely out of keeping with his savage attire, from his belt and glanced at it.

The Virginians behind the trees were waiting, watching the erect figure of Mr. Washington, for orders.

He serenely finished reading his commission, restored it to his pocket, and replaced his hat.

"Now, sir, do you propose to withdraw?" he said courteously, as if he did not even see the array of guns pointed at him from behind De Jumonville.

The Frenchman looked at his watch again; it gleamed in his dark hand a second.

"You are very foolhardy!" he exclaimed.

"Will you withdraw?" repeated Mr. Washington.

"No!" thundered De Jumonville. "No, monsieur!"

"Fire!" said Mr. Washington, looking over his shoulder at his men.

Instantly the musketry cracked in front of him and behind him; the glade was full of smoke and flashes of flame; he put his hand to the pistol in his holster and rode at De Jumonville, feeling the bullets on his saddle, passing his cheek, and thudding on the ground near him.

The French officer's white horse reared through the smoke; his rider let go the long hair-rope bridle and flung up his bare painted arms as if he saluted the setting sun; the tawny eagle feathers nodded against the sky, the ornaments of beads and fringes tossed as the horse sprang to one side; then Coulon de Jumonville fell backward from the saddle, the horse dashed wildly free down the glade, and Mr. Washington was bending from the saddle looking down into the dying face of the Frenchman.

He had two bullets in his bare breast, and the scarlet blood was trickling through the scarlet paint and the collar of purple beads.

"So it was your chance, not mine," he smiled, looking up. "Ah, mon Dieu, ayez pitie de moi, un pecheur—"

He turned over and buried his face in the long, soft, pure grass.

"I am sorry," said Mr. Washington; he was rather pale; his colour had not changed at the contemplation of his own danger, for personal fear never occurred to him; but he felt a generous regret at this sudden ending of another gallant life.

The little affair was soon over; when the smoke cleared it was found that ten French had been killed and two Americans. The rest of De Jumonville's little force was captured and disarmed; it was ended before the sun was set; the first shot fired, the first blood shed, the first prisoners taken—war made inevitable.

Mr. Washington's mind flew again to London and Paris—those men there were committed now: these few minutes and these two young unknown men—one already dead and never to be known now—had decided the policies of two great nations.

The Virginian looked at the trampled grass, red not only with the sun glints, but with bedabbled blood, at the silent captives, at the dead, at his own men—flushed, excited, reloading with wad, bullet and powder.

He became very pale indeed: the sense of what he had put his hand to was almost overwhelming; the swift translation of thought and resolve into action and fact was almost terrifying; he was very young for such a responsibility, and his quick imagination flew wide and foresaw all the possible consequences of his action in the years to come.

He gave his orders to return to the camp at Great Meadows; but, as the dark was falling fast, and there was no moon, he commanded that they should wait till dawn and bury the dead before they started.

He watched with wide, inscrutable eyes of youthful gravity, as Coulon de Jumonville was lifted up and carried between two Virginians into the dark shade of the trees; then he followed, dismounted, wrapped himself in his cloak and lit his pipe.

As he smoked he gazed thoughtfully at the long streaks of red between the tree trunks that marked the setting of the sun.