“Well?” he shouted when he was within earshot.
“General Scott—cholera—had to give up!” was the cheering intelligence.
“Forward!” shouted Atkinson, and the company hastened over the hill, at the foot of which a pitiable state of things awaited them. Soon after the start of 112 Scott’s troops, cholera, in its most malignant form, had broken out among the party. In less than two days seven men were dead, and now the remainder had been obliged to abandon their march, for there was scarcely a trooper of them who was not more or less afflicted by the horrible malady. As some little consolation for these tidings, General Scott reported that he had dislodged a party of Sac and Fox Indians from a ravine, and that these had fled collectively towards Bad Axe River.
Leaving behind the few men that he could spare to guard and nurse the sick, Atkinson hastily drew his force to a safe distance from the cholera camp, and, after a few hours’ rest, marched for the nearest reach of the river, and along the bank, northwards.
Indian chasing does not permit of lengthy rest; the cavalry did not stop again till long after nightfall, and were off again before dawn. That afternoon, as they came to a wider strip of river, the General realised—and not for the first time—that it is the unexpected that usually happens. Barely a mile ahead, a schooner, towed by three cutters, was moving slowly northward. Atkinson galloped ahead, but before he had overtaken the vessel the men in the boats had long ceased rowing, and she was heading more towards the opposite bank.
“Who are you?” was suddenly shouted from her after-deck.
“General Atkinson. Who are you, and what are you about here? Seen any Injuns?”
“The Warrior—Captain Throckmorton.—All right, sir; I’m sending a boat ashore for you.”
This was the first that Atkinson had heard of a river expedition having been sent. He knew Captain Throckmorton as a very distinguished young officer, and a clever linguist, master of several native dialects. While he was speculating as to what had brought the schooner here, and, further, as to the meaning of a white, flag-like object which—as he looked past the vessel’s stern—he could see waving on the opposite bank, one of the cutters had pulled ashore and was waiting for him. A lieutenant met him at the gangway.