Charles Haven Ladd Johnston - The Heroes of the Last Frontier

Two detachments from his small army captured a British post on the upper Wabash, garrisoned by forty men. This aroused the British to greater activity. The Kentuckians and French were coming too near for either pleasure or safety. Besides this, the savages had begun to waver in their allegiance to the British flag as they saw the success of the pioneers from across the Ohio River.

Vincennes, as you know, had gone over to the Americans, and there was but a small force there of French militia. Two Americans were in charge: a Captain Helm and a Mr. Henry. On the fifteenth day of December, 1778, the English Governor of Detroit appeared before the town with a large body of rangers and demanded its surrender. The French militiamen immediately ran up a white flag.

Hamilton approached the fort, and as he neared it, was surprised to find himself confronted by a cannon, behind which stood Captain Helm with a lighted match in his hand.

“Halt!” cried Hamilton. “My foolish fellow, I demand your instant surrender!”

“I’ll never surrender,” answered Helm, “until you settle upon the terms with me.”

“You’ll be allowed to march out with all the honors of war,” said the British Governor. “And you will be held a prisoner until exchanged. The militia will be disarmed and paroled.”

“All right,” answered Captain Helm. “These terms suit me exactly.”

Imagine the feelings of the good, old Governor. Instead of seeing a great body of men debouch from the fort, preceded by a brilliant staff, out marched a few ragged militiamen headed by Captain Helm, with one solitary private. It is said that the noble soldier could not help laughing. At any rate, he felt so well over the affair that he did not attempt the reduction of Kaskaskia and Kahokia—as he should have done—but was content to send parties of his men on forays against the settlements along the Ohio River. News was soon brought to Clarke of the capture of Vincennes. The old war-dog was much disconcerted. Hamilton in possession of Vincennes! It was almost past belief, yet runners soon came to him from the frontier, who confirmed the ill tidings. What was he to do? He had only two hundred men. Hamilton had three or four times that number. It was the middle of winter and he was short of all manner of supplies. The entire country was flooded. He had a single flat-bottomed batteau. Should he wait to be attacked, or should he attempt the seemingly impossible and endeavor to re-take Vincennes? He answered the question by turning, one day, to his compatriots, and saying:

“Whether I stay here or march against Hamilton—if I don’t take him, he will take me. By Heaven, I’ll take him!”

And to this his men cried:

“Lead on! Where you go we will follow!”

Now was such a march as the world had seldom seen before. The brave and valiant Arnold, who took his rangers through the depths of the Maine forest to the attack on Quebec at the outbreak of the American Revolution, was such a one as this lion-hearted pioneer. Arnold lost a great many men: Clarke did not lose any; but the difficulties of the journey were severe. Through the cold of winter, the chilling rain, the mud and icy water—the latter often three feet deep—marched the Kentucky rangers. They reached a miserable country called “the drowned lands,” and for miles were waist-deep in the water. The way was full of crevasses and mud-holes into which some of the men sank up to their necks. Clarke was always in the front, sharing the hardships of his followers, and outdoing them in the contempt for peril and suffering. An occasional spot of dry ground—a few yards in extent—was a welcome sight to the half-drowned rangers. Still they pressed onward upon their mission.

“On, boys!” said George Rogers Clarke. “We will take this post or die in the attempt!”

Splashing forward, the scouts and rangers soon reached the two branches of the Wabash River. Ordinarily three miles of solid ground lay between the two streams. Now there was a continuous sheet of water before their eyes. The command stopped, amazed. They had come to an apparently unsurmountable obstacle. But there were no obstacles to George Rogers Clarke.

Striding to the front, and holding his rifle aloft in order to keep the priming dry, he dashed into the stream. The rest followed with songs and with cheers. But the chilling water soon made these cease, for it became an irksome task to breathe. They staggered with fatigue, but their leader never faltered, and there was not a man who would have deserted him. On the seventeenth day of February they reached the eastern shore of the Wabash and came to the lowlands of the Embarrass River. It was nine miles to their goal: the fortress of Vincennes. Every foot of the way was covered with deep water.

The situation seemed to be desperate. Clarke, however, was not the one to despair. Taking a canoe, he made soundings to see if some path might not be discovered through this inland sea. There seemed to be none—the water everywhere reached to his neck. The men were alarmed. Their faces looked blanched and pale. Was their march of untold hardships to end in death by cold and starvation?

A surprising thing now took place. Whispering to those nearest to him to follow his example, Clarke poured some powder into his hand, wet it with water and blackened his face as a sign that he would succeed, or die in the attempt. Then—uttering a loud whoop—he dashed into the water. The frontiersmen gazed wonderingly at him. Then they broke into song, rushed after him, and made for a ridge of high ground, which was followed until an island was reached. Here they camped, but next morning the ice had formed to the thickness of three-quarters of an inch. You can well imagine what were their prospects!

But Clarke was never daunted or dismayed. Making a speech to his half-starved and half-frozen command, he again plunged into the water.

“We must do or die!” said he. “On to Vincennes!”

With a rousing cheer his followers dashed in after him—pushed through the broken ice—and waded ahead. The water became more and more deep. Clarke feared, therefore, that the weaker members of the party would be drowned. Luckily he had a few canoeists with him, and these picked up the fainting ones and carried them to hillocks of dry land. The strongest were sent forward with instructions to pass the word back that the water was getting shallow, and they were told to cry “Land! Land!” when they got near the woods.

This cheered the drooping spirits of the faint-hearted. The water never did get shallow. Woodland was certainly ahead, but when the men reached it water was up to their shoulders and they had to hang to the trees, bushes and logs, until rescued by the canoes. Some gained the shore in safety, some were so exhausted when they reached a small island that they could not climb up the bank and lay half in and half out of the water. Luck was with them, for a canoe came down the river in which were some Indian squaws and their children. They were captured, and with them was some buffalo meat, tallow, corn, and cooking utensils. Oh, lucky find! The weak were now rejuvenated by a hearty meal.

They were upon an island of ten acres. It was truly an Eden for these half-drowned frontiersmen. A long rest soon strengthened the weakest, and by means of the Indian canoe, and a few batteaus which had been brought with them, they ferried over to Warrior’s Island, within two miles of Vincennes, and within plain view of it. Every man feasted his eyes upon the log fortress and forgot that he had suffered.

Let me here quote from Clarke himself. He says:

“Every man forgot his troubles. It was now that we had to display our abilities. The plain between us and the town was perfectly level. The sunken ground was covered with water full of ducks. We observed several men out on horseback, shooting them, and sent out many of our active, young Frenchmen to decoy and take one prisoner—which they did.