December 16, 1753. A twenty-one year old major by the name of George Washington leads a small group of colonial soldiers and American Indians into the freezing winter air outside a French fort, Fort Le Boeuf, in what is now northwest Pennsylvania. Washington needs urgently to get back to Virginia and inform his superiors that the French have rejected the British demand to vacate the disputed area. This, most likely, means war.
It is not a good time of year to travel. Washington and his party navigate shallow, already-freezing rivers, at times smashing against the rocks and having to pull their canoes with ropes through the icy water. When, days later, they catch up with their advance party, with the horses, it brings little relief as the horses are so weak they have to be led by hand through the rugged countryside.
Washington, practically, swaps his colonial officer’s uniform for Indian walking clothes provided by his allies, the heavy blanket coat, mittens and leg gaiters keeping him alive in the snowy landscape. By Christmas Washington has become frustrated with the slow pace, and sets out with one other man to try to make better time by cutting through the woods towards the Allegheny river. Along the way they encounter another American Indian guide who claims to also be their ally and promises to lead them to the river. Washington chooses to trust the man, even accepting the man’s offer to carry Washington’s heavy pack.
All seems well for a while as the guide leads the two colonials towards what he swears is the river. But it’s taking too long and they seem to be going the wrong direction. Washington and his companion grow suspicious, but not quickly enough. Without warning, the warrior suddenly turns on them, spinning around to fire point blank at Washington with a musket. He misses, allowing Washington to tackle him to the ground and tie him up.
The man’s motivation has never been known. Maybe he was in the pay of the French. Maybe he had his own reasons for hating the British. Maybe he just wanted to opportunistically steal the colonials valuable gear. We’ll never know. What we do know is that his capture presented Washington with a dilemma. With only one companion with him, it wasn’t practical for Washington to take a prisoner. The easiest route would be to execute the prisoner. Indeed, that’s what Washington’s companion, a man by the name of Gist, suggested. However, Washington was in command and couldn’t bring himself to kill an unarmed prisoner in cold blood. After stripping the man of his weapons and giving him a compass, Washington set the prisoner free. Knowing the man could well come back with allies, Washington and Gist pressed all the harder to get to the Allegheny before they could be ambushed.
Finally, the men reach the river on December 29. There’s just one problem. Given the persistent freezing temperatures, they had expected to be able to walk over a frozen river. Unfortunately, the river is only half frozen, with chunks of ice floating treacherously down nearly freezing (but still running) water. They make use of the only tool at hand, a hatchet, to fell some trees and fashion a very crude log raft and a couple poles before pushing out into the current. They’re roughly halfway across when a particularly large chunk of ice smashes against Washington’s pole and sends him careening into the frigid water. Desperately, he scrambles his way back onto the raft, but he is still soaked.
It becomes apparent the ice is too clogged to make it across. What’s worse, the ice flow behind them makes returning to the bank they’ve come from just as impossible. Fortunately, they spot a tiny island in the middle of the river. They make for it, beaching the raft before spending a miserable night huddled in the middle of the frozen river. It is a testimony to the tall, brawny young Virginians near-legendary heartiness that Washington survives the night despite being soaked in freezing temperatures. But the cold has a silver lining. Washington and his companion awake to see the first rays of dawn illuminating a patch of uninterrupted ice between the island and the far shore. Gingerly, they walk across it. The ice holds.
Twice in one week Washington has come within a hair’s breadth of death, first at the end of a musket and then from mother nature’s furry. If either had killed him then nobody today would know his name, and United States history–if such a country even existed–would look very different. But Washington did survive, and after several more arduous weeks of travel he arrived in Williamsburg on January 16th, 1754, to report to his superiors and deliver a letter from the French rejecting British demands.
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