During the long hours of this trying day Clark had kept up the spirits of
his men in every way he could. In telling about it later, he said: "I
received much help from a little antic drummer, a boy with such a
fun-loving spirit that he made the men laugh, in spite of their weariness,
at his pranks and jokes."
On starting out again the next morning some were so weak and famished that
they had to be taken in the canoes. Those who were strong enough to wade
came to water too deep to walk through, and, painfully struggling, began
to huddle together as if all hope had fled.
Then Clark had to do something to rouse them. Suddenly he blackened his
face with gunpowder and, sounding the war-whoop like an Indian brave,
fearlessly sprang forward. His men plunged in after him without a word.
By dusk they were still six miles from Vincennes. Their clothing was
drenched, their muscles ached with weariness, and they were well-nigh
exhausted from lack of food. To make matters worse, the weather that day
was bitterly cold. Yet the worst experience of the whole trying march was
to come.
For before them stretched a shallow lake, four miles in extent. With
something like a score of the strongest men just behind him, Clark plunged
into the ice-cold water, breast-deep.
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