After his arrival, on the twentieth of April, the commander kept patrols out, watching for the enemy. On the twenty-sixth, he was apprised that the advance guard was approaching. A few hours later, a number of white men and Indians appeared on the opposite shore, and coolly and critically inspected the fortification. On the twenty-seventh, a party of savages crossed to the south side of the stream, and annoyed the garrison with a desultory rifle-fire. But little damage was done; and the general and his men feverishly awaited the appearance of the main body of the enemy—which they knew was not far away. The morning of the twenty-eighth was clear, and gave promise of a beautiful day. But the wind sweeping up from the lake was raw and chill. The soldiers within the fort were astir at an early hour. To their unbounded surprise, they could discover nothing of their enemies of the day before. Some of the officers and men were of the opinion that the Indians, discouraged by their ill-success, had gone to meet their brethren and allies and inform them the place could not be taken. But General Harrison did not harbor such belief. On the contrary, he felt that the withdrawal of the small band of savages portended a systematic attack by a large force—an attack he was not well able to withstand. So he sent Captain Hamilton and a squad of men down the river, on a reconnoitering expedition. Then drawing his cloak around his shoulders, and restlessly pacing up and down the inclosure, he inwardly condemned the niggardly and dilatory policy of the government, and prayed that re-enforcements might arrive in time to save him from an ignominious surrender. His face wore an anxious and worried expression; but his thin lips were firmly set, his keen eyes shone with the fire of an indomitable purpose. The soldiers—every one of whom loved him and had unbounded confidence in him—looking upon him, knew that no white flag would float over Fort Meigs, as long as there was a man left to load and fire a gun. And each one of them—from the highest officer to the meanest subaltern—resolved to die like a hero. Near one of the blockhouses at the eastern extremity of the fort, stood a white man and an Indian. The former was slightly past middle age, tall, stooped, and ungainly. The latter was much younger, lithe, strong, and straight as an arrow. For some time they stood silently watching the commander, as he paced to and fro. At last the white man blew his long nose vigorously, wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his horny hand, and, screwing his homely features into a comical grimace, said in a drawling tone: “Injin, the sight o’ the ol’ Gener’l makes me sad—makes me think o’ him that’s dead an’ gone.” “Ugh!” his red companion grunted stolidly. But the copper-colored face twitched; the bare and brawny chest heaved.