“Ah!”—With animation.—“I remember you well now. You are the two men who went to his rescue, after he was captured by the Prophet’s band.”
“We are, Gener’l; an’ we’ve come to ask y’r p’rmission to go to his help ag’in.”
“Explain.”
Farley did so—in his loquacious, rambling way. Deep silence reigned in the tent, as the simple-minded fellow told his moving tale and begged to be allowed to go to the aid of his friend. When he had finished, tears were in many eyes.
“To whose command do you belong?” Harrison inquired in tremulous tones.
“We don’t belong to nobody’s command,” was the prompt reply. “We jest got away from the dang Winnebagoes—after bein’ pris’ners a year an’ a half—an’ come here. We hain’t ’nlisted yit. All the duty we’ve done was to go with Cap’n Oliver, to meet Gener’l Clay.”
“You were Captain Oliver’s guides?”
“We were, Gener’l.”
“You’re brave and true men,” the commander said kindly. “You’ve not hesitated to risk your liberty and your lives in the service of your country—not once, but many times. I appreciate your patriotism and your devotion to your friend. I’m very sorry to know he was in that—that dreadful fight across the river. But I can’t grant you permission to throw away your lives to no purpose. If your friend be dead, you can be of no service to him; if he be wounded or a prisoner, he has been removed to the British encampment, ere this. You can’t aid him. If he be alive, he will be exchanged in due time. Now I must bid you good-morning—I’m very busy. But, believe me, I sympathize with you more than you know. I remember your friend, and grieve to know that such misfortune has befallen him. Good morning.”