“Citizens,” interrupted General Clark, sitting down before the ink-pot, “let us hear the Quartermaster's report of the supplies at Knob Licks, and Citizen Sullivan's account of the boats. But hold,” he cried, glancing around him, “where is Captain Temple? I heard that he had come to Louisville from the Cumberland to-day. Is he not going with you to New Orleans, St. Gré?”
I took up the name involuntarily.
“Captain Temple,” I repeated, while they stared at me. “Nicholas Temple?”
It was Auguste de St. Gré who replied.
“The sem,” he said. “I recall he was along with you in Nouvelle Orléans. He is at ze tavern, and he has had one gran' fight, and he is ver'—I am sorry—intoxicate—”
I know not how I made my way through the black woods to Fort Finney, where I discovered Jake Landrasse and his canoe. The road was long, and yet short, for my brain whirled with the expectation of seeing Nick again, and the thought of this poor, pathetic, ludicrous expedition compared to the sublime one I had known.
George Rogers Clark had come to this!