cent plain, mostly prairie,
rich as the delta of the Nile, but extremely difficult to traverse. The
distance, as the route led, was about a hundred and seventy miles. On
account of an open and rainy winter all the basins and flat lands were
inundated, often presenting leagues of water ranging in depth from a
few inches to three of four feet. Cold winds blew, sometimes with spits
of snow and dashes of sleet, while thin ice formed on the ponds and
sluggish streams. By day progress meant wading ankle-deep, knee-deep,
breast-deep, with an occasional spurt of swimming. By night the brave
fellows had to sleep, if sleep they could, on the cold ground in soaked
clothing under water-heavy blankets. They flung the leagues behind
them, however, cheerfully stimulating one another by joke and
challenge, defying all the bitterness of weather, all the bitings of
hunger, all the toil, danger and deprivation of a trackless and
houseless wilderness, looking only eastward, following their youthful
and intrepid commander to one of the most valuable victories gained by
American soldiers during the War of the Revolution.

Colonel Clark understood perfectly the strategic importance of
Vincennes as a post commanding the Wabash, and as a base of
communication with the many Indian tribes north of the Ohio and east of
the Mississippi. Francis Vigo (may his name never fade!) had brought
him a comprehensive and accurate report of Hamilton's strength and the
condition of the fort and garrison. This information confirmed his
belief that it would be possible not only to capture Vincennes, but
Detroit as well.

Just seven days after the march began, the little army encamped for a
night's rest at the edge of a wood; and here, just after nightfall,
when the fires were burning merrily and the smell of broiling buffalo
steaks burdened the damp air, a wizzened old man suddenly appeared, how
or from where nobody had observed He was dirty and in every way
disreputable in appearance, looking like an animated mummy, bearing a
long rifle on his shoulder, and walking with the somewhat halting
activity of a very old, yet vivacious and energetic simian. Of course
it was Oncle Jason, "Oncle Jazon sui generis," as Father Beret had
dubbed him.

"Well, here I am!" he cried, approaching the fire by which Colonel
Clark and some of his officers were cooking supper, "but ye can't guess
in a mile o' who I am to save yer livers and lights."

He danced a few stiff steps,