So they all set out, this morning of the day that the English called the last day of November. There were Washington, Christopher Gist, John Davidson the trader who spoke Mingo, the funny, fat Jacob Vanbraam of Dutch Land who spoke French and poor English, Tanacharison the Half-King of the Mingos, old Juskakaka the councillor, White Thunder the Wampum Keeper, young Guyasuta or Standing Cross the first-class warrior, Robert the Hunter and four white men to drive the pack-horses and make camps.
The white men all rode, but the Indians marched afoot, and Robert left his horse at Logstown. In the woods one could hunt more easily afoot than ahorse.
That was indeed a tough journey. Venango, Tanacharison said, was sixty miles by summer trail but was farther now, by winter trail. Already the trees and meadows were white, and the nights were freezing cold. The weather seemed to get angry again, as if trying to close the road for Washington; it had been angry ever since he had started, he said.
On the day after the first camp out from Logstown the sleety rain began to fall, and clear to Venango they scarcely glimpsed the sun or the stars. The creeks were swollen, the trail was slippery, dry wood for burning was hard to find.
But Washington made no complaint. At night in his tent by the light of his smoky fire he put marks upon paper in a little book that he carried. After talking a while and listening to stories in Mingo and sign language by Tanacharison and old Juskakaka and White Thunder, he and Gist and Jacob Vanbraam rolled in their blankets inside the tent. The others slept outside under brush lean-tos covered with blankets.
“The Hunter is young. He may sleep in the tent and be warm between us,” Washington had invited. But Tanacharison answered:
“No. The boy is of warrior age. He shall sleep like an Indian, for he cannot carry a tent with him on the war trail. It is proper that you, the white chief, shall keep your message safe in your lodge. We know that you are strong.”
“If we meet with the French Indians, do we fight?” Guyasuta had asked.
“It seems to me a poor plan to lose scalps for these English when we don’t know what is going to happen,” said old Juskakaka.
“Those are small words,” Tanacharison reproved. “Washington is not a man to turn back. I see that. We have come to protect him and to show him the road. The French dogs must get out of the way. The war belt has been passed from the Mingo to Onondago of the Six Nations Council, and if the French refuse to quit the land, there is war. Pickawillanee of our brothers the Miami has been destroyed by the French. Already the Miami have taken Ottawa scalps, and the Wyandot have eaten ten white French and two French black men. If Washington fights we will fight, and show him we are standing with him and the English.”