“I am Ensign Ward, sir, of Captain Trench’s company.”
“From the fort at the meeting of the Alleghany and Monongahela?” asked George.
“Ah, sir,” cried the young officer, with tears in his eyes, “the fort is no longer ours. A French force, consisting of nearly a thousand men, appeared while we were at work on it, and opened fire on us. We were but forty-one, and we were forced to hoist the white flag without firing a shot.”
This was, indeed, dreadful news. It showed that the French were fully alive to the situation, if not beforehand with the English. Even a small detachment of the French force could cut off and destroy this little band of four companies. George’s mind was hard at work while young Ward gave the details of the surrender. His only comment was:
“We must push on to a point I have marked on the Monongahela, and there build the fort instead of at the junction of the rivers.”
After passing Will’s Creek they were in the heart of the wilderness. The transportation of the guns, ammunition, and baggage was so difficult, owing to the wildness of the country, that they were fourteen days in making fourteen miles. But the men, animated by their commander, toiled uncomplainingly at work most distasteful to soldiers—cutting down trees, making bridges, and dragging the guns over rocks when wheels could not turn. Even Billy worked for the first time in his life. One night, after three weeks of this labor, an Indian stalked up to the camp and demanded to see the commander. George happened to be passing on his nightly round of inspection, and in a moment recognized his old friend Tanacharison. “Welcome!” cried the chief in the Indian tongue, and calling George by his Indian name of “Young White Warrior.”
“Welcome to you,” answered George, more than pleased to see his ally.
“This is no time for much talk,” said the Indian. “Fifty French soldiers with Captain Jumonville are concealed in a glen six miles away. They are spies for the main body—for the French have three men to your one—and if they find you here you will be cut to pieces. But if you can catch the French spies, the main body will not know where you are; and,” he added, with a crafty smile, “if they should meet Tanacharison, he will send them a hundred miles in the wrong direction.”
George saw in a moment the excellence of the old chief’s advice. Tanacharison knew the road, which was comparatively easy, and offered to guide them, and to assist with several of his braves. It was then nine o’clock, and rain had begun falling in torrents. George retired to his rude shelter of boughs, called together his officers, and announced his intention of attacking this party of fifty Frenchmen. He made a list of forty picked men, and at midnight he caused them to be wakened quietly, and set off without arousing the whole camp.
The wind roared and the rain changed to hail, but still the Virginians, with Washington at their head, kept on through the woods. Sometimes they sank up to their knees in quagmires—again they cut their feet against sharp stones; but they never halted. At daybreak they entered the glen in two files, the Indians on one side, the Virginians on the other, George leading. It was a wild place, surrounded by rocks, with only one narrow cleft for entrance. Just as the last man had entered the alarm was given, and firing began from both parties at the same time. The French resisted bravely, headed by Captain Jumonville, who was the first man to fall; but a quarter of an hour’s sharp fighting decided the skirmish, and the French called for quarter. This was George’s baptism of fire, and it was the beginning of war between France and England, which was to last, with but a few years’ intermission, for more than fifty years.