The invitation being accepted with alacrity, the ark was steered close to the bank, and the Indians, running out on an uprooted snag which hung over the water, all leaped on the deck in safety. It made a jolly party from that moment on. The time passed happily, and many were the adventures and experiences en route. No stops of any consequence were made except at the mouth of Mianquank (Young Woman’s Creek), and Utchowig (now Lock Haven), until the Isle of Que was reached, where other arks and flats and batteaux were moored, and there were so many persons of similar pursuits that a visit on dry land was in order.
There was much conviviality at the public houses of Selin’s Grove, and the Germans amused themselves trying to carry on conversations with the native Pennsylvania Dutchmen, dusky, dark-featured individuals, who saw little affinity between themselves and the fair, podgy “High Germans.” In wrestling and boxing matches, throwing the long ball, running races, and lifting heavy weights, the Germans were outclassed by the native mountaineers, but they took their defeats philosophically. A shooting match was held, at which all the Indians except Abram Antoine held aloof, but his marksmanship was so extraordinary that he managed to tie the score for the up-river team. This was a consolation for the Germans, and they left the Isle of Que well satisfied with their treatment.
Other arks left their moorings at the same time, mostly loaded with grain or manufactured lumber from the Christunn and the Karoondinha, and the fleet was augmented by a batteau loaded with buffalo hides, at the mouth of the West Mahantango. This was the last consignment of Pennsylvania bison hides ever taken to Harrisburg, the animals having been killed at their crossing over the Firestone or Shade Mountains, the spring previous.
It was a picturesque sight to see the fleet of arks and other boats coming down the noble river, the flood bank high, driving up flocks of water birds ahead of them, while aloft like aeroplanes guarding a convoy of transports, sailed several majestic American Eagles, ever circling, ever drifting, and then soaring heavenward.
Out from the Juniata came several more arks, consequently the idlers in front of the rivermen’s resorts at “The Ferry,” as some of the old-timers still called Harrisburg, declared that they had never seen a flood bring in a larger flotilla at one time. All, however, were anxious to get in before the river closed up for the winter.
When the up-river ark with its load of Teutons and redmen made its moorings for the night near the John Harris tree, they noticed that all the flags were at half-mast–there were many displayed in those days–and there was a Sunday calm among the crowds lolling along the banks in the wintry sunshine.
“Who’s dead?” inquired Abram Antoine, as he stepped on the dock; his naval training had made him alert to the language of the flag.
“General Washington,” was the awed reply.
The big Stockbridge Indian’s jaw dropped, his lifetime ambition of conversing with the “first in the hearts of his countrymen,” and the purpose of the mission had been thwarted by a Higher Will.
Turning to the gaudy appareled chief behind him, he conveyed the unhappy message. The Indians shook their heads so hard that their silver earrings rattled, and were more genuinely sorry that Washington was no more than the failure of their quest. All ashore, they held a conclave under the old Mulberry tree, deciding that there was no use to go any further, but would spend a day or two in the thriving new town, Louisbourg or Harrisburg, whichever it was proper to call it, and then return home. There was no use going to Philadelphia again, and a new prophet sat in the chair of the Father of his Country at the Nation’s Capitol.