The Indians demanded
to know it. Mantet and Sainte-Helene replied that they were going to
Albany. The Indians demurred. "How long is it," asked one of them,
"since the French grew so bold?" The commanders answered that, to
regain the honor of which their late misfortunes had robbed them, the
French would take Albany or die in the attempt. The Indians listened
sullenly; the decision was postponed, and the party moved forward
again. When after eight days they reached the Hudson, and found the
place where two paths diverged, the one for Albany and the other for
Schenectady, they all without farther words took the latter. Indeed,
to attempt Albany would have been an act of desperation. The march was
horrible. There was a partial thaw, and they waded knee-deep through
the half melted snow, and the mingled ice, mud, and water of the
gloomy swamps. So painful and so slow was their progress, that it was
nine days more before they reached a point two leagues from
Schenectady. The weather had changed again, and a cold, gusty
snow-storm pelted them. It was one of those days when the trees stand
white as spectres in the sheltered hollows of the forest, and bare and
gray on the wind-swept ridges. The men were half dead with cold,
fatigue, and hunger.
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