We had evening hymn-singing every night after they'd
blown their pipe-smoke to the quarters of heaven. Where did we
go? I'll tell you, but don't blame me if you're no wiser. We took
the old war-trail from the end of the Lake along the East
Susquehanna through the Nantego country, right down to Fort
Shamokin on the Senachse river. We crossed the Juniata by Fort
Granville, got into Shippensberg over the hills by the Ochwick
trail, and then to Williams Ferry (it's a bad one). From Williams
Ferry, across the Shanedore, over the Blue Mountains, through
Ashby's Gap, and so south-east by south from there, till we found
the President at the back of his own plantations. I'd hate to be
trailed by Indians in earnest. They caught him like a partridge on a
stump. After we'd left our ponies, we scouted forward through a
woody piece, and, creeping slower and slower, at last if my
moccasins even slipped Red Jacket 'ud turn and frown. I heard
voices - Monsieur Genet's for choice - long before I saw anything,
and we pulled up at the edge of a clearing where some
niggers in grey-and-red liveries were holding horses, and half-a-
dozen gentlemen - but one was Genet - were talking among felled
timber.
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