THE FIRST WHITE MAN OF THE WEST,
OR THE
LIFE AND EXPLOITS OF COL.
DAN'L. BOONE,
THE FIRST SETTLER OF
INTERSPERSED WITH INCIDENTS IN THE
EARLY ANNALS OF THE COUNTRY.
BY TIMOTHY FLINT.
1856.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
Birth of Daniel
Boone--His early propensities--His pranks at school--His
first hunting expedition--And
his encounter with a panther.--Removal of
the family to
fire hunting, in
which he was near committing a sad mistake--Its
fortunate
result--and his marriage.
CHAPTER II.
Boone removes to
the head waters of the Yadkin river--He meets with
Finley, who had
crossed the mountains into
explore the
wilderness west of the Alleghanies together.
CHAPTER III.
Boone, with Finley
and others, start on their exploring
expedition--Boone
kills a panther in the night--Their progress over the
mountains--They
descend into the great valley--Description of the new
country--Herds of
buffaloes--Their wanderings in the wilderness.
CHAPTER IV.
The exploring party
divide into different routes--Boone and Stewart
taken prisoners by
the Indians, and their escape--Boone meets with his
elder brother and
another white man in the woods--Stewart killed by the
Indians, and the
companion of the elder Boone destroyed by wolves--The
elder brother
returns to
wilderness.
CHAPTER V.
Boone is pursued by
the Indians, and eludes their pursuit--He encounters
and kills a
bear--The return of his brother with ammunition--They
explore the
country--Boone kills a panther on the back of a
buffalo--They
return to
CHAPTER VI.
Boone starts with
his family to
river--He conducts
a party of surveyors to the
build Boonesborough,
and removes his family to the fort--His daughter
and two of Col.
Calloway's daughters taken prisoners by the
Indians--They
pursue the Indians and rescue the captives.
CHAPTER VII.
Settlement of
Harrodsburgh--Indian mode of besieging and
warfare--Fortitude
and privation of the Pioneers--The Indians attack
Harrodsburgh and
Boonesborough--Description of a Station--Attack of
Bryant's Station.
CHAPTER VIII.
Boone being
attacked by two Indians near the Blue Licks, kills them
both--Is afterwards
taken prisoner and marched to Old Chillicothe--Is
adopted by the
Indians--Indian ceremonies.
CHAPTER IX.
Boone becomes a
favorite among the Indians--Anecdotes relating to his
captivity--Their
mode of tormenting and burning prisoners--Their
fortitude under the
infliction of torture--Concerted attack on
Boonesborough--Boone
escapes.
CHAPTER X.
Six hundred Indians
attack Boonesborough--Boone and Captain Smith go out
to treat with the
enemy under a flag of truce, and are extricated from a
treacherous attempt
to detain them as prisoners--Defence of the
fort--The Indians
defeated--Boone goes to
his family.
CHAPTER XI.
A sketch of the
character and adventures of several other
pioneers--Harrod,
Kenton, Logan, Ray, McAffee, and others.
CHAPTER XII.
Boone's brother
killed, and Boone himself narrowly escapes from the
Indians--Assault
upon Ashton's station--and upon the station near
Shelbyville--Attack
upon McAffee's station.
CHAPTER XIII.
Disastrous battle near
the Blue Licks--General Clarke's expedition
against the
Indian assaults
throughout the settlements--General Harmar's
expedition--Defeat
of General St. Clair--Gen. Wayne's victory, and a
final peace with
the Indians.
CHAPTER XIV.
Rejoicings on
account of the peace--Boone indulges his propensity for
hunting--
conflicting land
titles--Progress of civil improvement destroying the
range of the
hunter--Litigation of land titles--Boone loses his
lands--Removes from
to
CHAPTER XV.
Anecdotes of
Colonel Boone, related by Mr. Audubon--A remarkable
instance of memory.
CHAPTER XVI.
Progress of
improvement in
wife--He goes to
reside with his son--His death--His personal appearance
and character.
PREFACE.
Our eastern brethren
have entered heartily into the pious duty of
bringing to
remembrance the character and deeds of their forefathers.
Shall we of the
west allow the names of those great men, who won for us,
from the forest,
the savages, and wild beasts, our fair domain of
fertile fields and
beautiful rivers, to fade into oblivion? They who
have hearts to
admire nobility imparted by nature's great
seal--fearlessness,
strength, energy, sagacity, generous forgetfulness
of self, the
delineation of scenes of terror, and the relation of deeds
of daring, will not
fail to be interested in a sketch of the life of the
pioneer and hunter
of
we shall find him
in his way and walk, a man as truly great as Penn,
Marion, and
Franklin, in theirs. True, he was not learned in the lore of
books, or trained
in the etiquette of cities. But he possessed a
knowledge far more
important in the sphere which
to fill. He felt, too,
the conscious dignity of self-respect, and would
have been seen as
erect, firm, and unembarrassed amid the pomp and
splendor of the
proudest court in Christendom, as in the shade of his
own wilderness.
Where nature in her own ineffaceable characters has
marked superiority,
she looks down upon the tiny and elaborate
acquirements of
art, and in all positions and in all time entitles her
favorites to the
involuntary homage of their fellow-men. They are the
selected pilots in
storms, the leaders in battles, and the pioneers in
the colonization of
new countries.
Such a man was
Daniel Boone, and wonderfully was he endowed by
Providence for the
part which he was called to act. Far be it from us to
undervalue the
advantages of education: It can do every thing but assume
the prerogative of
Providence. God has reserved for himself the
attribute of
creating. Distinguished excellence has never been attained,
unless where nature
and education, native endowment and circumstances,
have concurred.
This wonderful man received his commission for his
achievements and
his peculiar walk from the sign manual of nature. He
was formed to be a
woodsman, and the adventurous precursor in the first
settlement of
Kentucky. His home was in the woods, where others were
bewildered and lost.
It is a mysterious spectacle to see a man possessed
of such an
astonishing power of being perfectly familiar with his route
and his resources
in the depths of the untrodden wilderness, where
others could as
little divine their way, and what was to be done, as
mariners on
mid-ocean, without chart or compass, sun, moon, or stars.
But that nature has
bestowed these endowments upon some men and denied
them to others, is
as certain as that she has given to some animals
instincts of one kind,
fitting them for peculiar modes of life, which
are denied to
others, perhaps as strangely endowed in another way.
The following pages
aim to present a faithful picture of this singular
man, in his
wanderings, captivities, and escapes. If the effort be
successful, we have
no fear that the attention of the reader will
wander. There is a
charm in such recitals, which lays its spell upon
all. The grave and
gay, the simple and the learned, the young and
gray-haired alike
yield to its influence.
We wish to present
him in his strong incipient manifestations of the
development of his
peculiar character in boyhood. We then see him on
foot and alone,
with no companion but his dog, and no friend but his
rifle, making his
way over trackless and unnamed mountains, and
immeasurable
forests, until he explores the flowering wilderness of
Kentucky. Already
familiar, by his own peculiar intuition, with the
Indian character,
we see him casting his keen and searching glance
around, as the
ancient woods rung with the first strokes of his axe, and
pausing from time
to time to see if the echoes have startled the red
men, or the wild
beasts from their lair. We trace him through all the
succeeding
explorations of the Bloody Ground, and of Tennessee, until so
many immigrants have
followed in his steps, that he finds his privacy
too strongly
pressed upon; until he finds the buts and bounds of legal
tenures restraining
his free thoughts, and impelling him to the distant
and unsettled shores
of the Missouri, to seek range and solitude anew.
We see him there,
his eyes beginning to grow dim with the influence of
seventy winters--as
he can no longer take the unerring aim of his
rifle--casting
wistful looks in the direction of the Rocky Mountains and
the western sea;
and sadly reminded that man has but one short life, in
which to wander.
No book can be
imagined more interesting than would have been the
personal narrative
of such a man, written by himself. What a new pattern
of the heart he might
have presented! But, unfortunately, he does not
seem to have
dreamed of the chance that his adventures would go down to
posterity in the
form of recorded biography. We suspect that he rather
eschewed books,
parchment deeds, and clerkly contrivances, as forms of
evil; and held the
dead letter of little consequence. His associates
were as little
likely to preserve any records, but those of memory, of
the daily incidents
and exploits, which indicate character and assume
high interest, when
they relate to a person like the subject of this
narrative. These
hunters, unerring in their aim to prostrate the
buffalo on his
plain, or to bring down the geese and swans from the
clouds, thought
little of any other use of the gray goose quill, than
its market value.
Had it been
otherwise, and had these men themselves furnished the
materials of this
narrative, we have no fear that it would go down to
futurity, a more
enduring monument to these pioneers and hunters, than
the granite columns
reared by our eastern brethren, amidst assembled
thousands, with
magnificent array, and oratory, and songs, to the memory
of their
forefathers. Ours would be the record of human nature speaking
to human nature in
simplicity and truth, in a language always
impressive, and
always understood. Their pictures of their own felt
sufficiency to
themselves, under the pressure of exposure and want; of
danger, wounds, and
captivity; of reciprocal kindness, warm from the
heart; of noble
forgetfulness of self, unshrinking firmness, calm
endurance, and
reckless bravery, would be sure to move in the hearts of
their readers
strings which never fail to vibrate to the touch.
But these
inestimable data are wanting. Our materials are comparatively
few; and we have
been often obliged to balance between doubtful
authorities,
notwithstanding the most rigorous scrutiny of newspapers
and pamphlets,
whose yellow and dingy pages gave out a cloud of dust at
every movement, and
the equally rigid examination of clean modern books
and periodicals.
CHAPTER I.
Birth of Daniel
Boone--His early propensities--His pranks at school--His
first hunting
expedition--And his encounter with a panther. Removal of
the family to North
Carolina--Boone becomes a hunter--Description of
fire hunting, in which
he was near committing a sad mistake--Its
fortunate
result--and his marriage.
Different
authorities assign a different birth place to DANIEL BOONE.
One affirms that he
was born in Maryland, another in North Carolina,
another in
Virginia, and still another during the transit of his parents
across the
Atlantic. But they are all equally in error. He was born in
the year 1746, in
Bucks county, Pennsylvania, near Bristol, on the right
bank of the
Delaware, about twenty miles from Philadelphia. His father
removed, when he
was three years old, to the vicinity of Reading, on the
head waters of the
Schuylkill. From thence, when his son was thirteen
years old, he
migrated to North Carolina, and settled in one of the
valleys of South
Yadkin.
The remotest of his
ancestors, of whom there is any recorded notice, is
Joshua Boone, an
English Catholic. He crossed the Atlantic to the
shores of the
Chesapeake Bay, with those who planted the first germ of
the colony of
Maryland. A leading motive to emigration with most of
these colonists,
was to avoid that persecution on account of their
religion, which
however pleasant to inflict, they found it uncomfortable
to endure. Whether
this gentleman emigrated from this inducement, as has
been asserted, or
not, it is neither possible, nor, as we deem,
important to
settle; for we cannot find, that religious motives had any
direct influence in
shaping the character and fortunes of the hero of
the woods. Those
who love to note the formation of character, and
believe in the hereditary
transmission of peculiar qualities, naturally
investigate the
peculiarities of parents, to see if they can find there
the origin of those
of the children. Many--and we are of the
number--consider
transmitted endowment as the most important link in the
chain of
circumstances, with which character is surrounded. The most
splendid endowments
in innumerable instances, have never been brought to
light, in defect of
circumstances to call them forth. The ancestors of
Boone were not
placed in positions to prove, whether he did or did not
receive his
peculiar aptitudes a legacy from his parents, or a direct
gift from nature.
He presents himself to us as a new man, the author and
artificer of his
own fortunes, and showing from the beginning rudiments
of character, of
which history has recorded no trace in his ancestors.
The promise of the
future hunter appeared in his earliest boyhood. He
waged a war of
extermination, as soon as he could poise a gun, with
squirrels,
raccoons, and wild cats, at that time exceedingly annoying to
the fields and
barn-yards of the back settlers.
No scholar ever
displayed more decided pre-eminence in any branch of
learning, than he
did above the boys of his years, in adroitness and
success in this
species of hunting. This is the only distinct and
peculiar trait of
character recorded of his early years. The only
transmitted fact of
his early training is presented in the following
anecdote.
In that section of
the frontier settlement to which Boone had removed,
where unhewn log
cabins, and hewn log houses, were interspersed among
the burnt stumps,
surrounded by a potato patch and cornfield, as the
traveller pursued
his cow-path through the deep forest, there was an
intersection, or more
properly concentration of wagon tracks, called the
"Cross
Roads,"--a name which still designates a hundred frontier
positions of a post
office, blacksmith's shop, and tavern. In the
central point of
this metropolis stood a large log building, before
which a sign
creaked in the wind, conspicuously lettered "Store and
Tavern."
To this point, on
the early part of a warm spring morning, a pedestrian
stranger was seen
approaching in the path leading from the east. One
hand was armed with
a walking stick, and the other carried a small
bundle inclosed in
a handkerchief. His aspect was of a man, whose whole
fortunes were in
his walking stick and bundle. He was observed to eye
the swinging sign
with a keen recognition, inspiring such courage as
the mariner feels
on entering the desired haven.
His dialect
betrayed the stranger to be a native of Ireland. He sat down
on the _stoup_, and
asked in his own peculiar mode of speech, for cold
water. A supply
from the spring was readily handed him in a gourd. But
with an arch pause
between remonstrance and laughter, he added, that he
thought cold water
in a warm climate injurious to the stomach and begged
that the element
might be qualified with a little whisky.
The whisky was
handed him, and the usual conversation ensued, during
which the stranger
inquired if a school-master was wanted in the
settlement--or, as
he was pleased to phrase it, a professor in the
higher branches of
learning? It is inferred that the father of Boone was
a person of distinction
in the settlement, for to him did the master of
the "Store and
Tavern" direct the stranger of the staff and bundle for
information.
The direction of
the landlord to enable him to find the house of Mr.
Boone, was a true
specimen of similar directions in the frontier
settlements of the
present; and they have often puzzled clearer heads
than that of the
Irish school-master.
"Step this
way," said he, "and I will direct you there, so that you
cannot mistake your
way. Turn down that right hand road, and keep on it
till you cross the
dry branch--then turn to your left, and go up a
hill--then take a
lane to your right, which will bring you to an open
field--pass this,
and you will come to a path with three forks--take the
middle fork, and it
will lead you through the woods in sight of Mr.
Boone's
plantation."
The Irishman lost
his way, invoked the saints, and cursed his director
for his medley of
directions many a time, before he stumbled at length
on Mr. Boone's
house. He was invited to sit down and dine, in the simple
backwoods phrase,
which is still the passport to the most ample
hospitality.
After dinner, the
school-master made known his vocation, and his desire
to find employment.
To obtain a qualified school-master in those days,
and in such a place,
was no easy business. This scarcity of supply
precluded close
investigation of fitness. In a word, the Irishman was
authorized to enter
upon the office of school-master of the settlement.
We have been thus
particular in this description, because it was the way
in which most
teachers were then employed.
It will not be
amiss to describe the school-house; for it stood as a
sample of thousands
of west country school-houses of the present day. It
was of logs, after
the usual fashion of the time and place. In
dimension, it was
spacious and convenient. The chimney was peculiarly
ample, occupying
one entire side of the whole building, which was an
exact square. Of
course, a log could be "snaked" to the fire-place as
long as the
building, and a file of boys thirty feet in length, could
all stand in front
of the fire on a footing of the most democratic
equality. Sections
of logs cut out here and there, admitted light and
air instead of
windows. The surrounding forest furnished ample supplies
of fuel. A spring at
hand, furnished with various gourds, quenched the
frequent thirst of
the pupils. A ponderous puncheon door, swinging on
substantial wooden
hinges, and shutting with a wooden latch, completed
the appendages of
this primeval seminary.
To this central
point might he seen wending from the woods, in every
direction of the
compass, flaxen-headed boys and girls, clad in
homespun, brushing
away the early dews, as they hied to the place, where
the Hibernian,
clothed in his brief authority, sometimes perpetrated
applications of
birch without rhyme or reason; but much oftener allowed
his authority to be
trampled upon, according as the severe or loving
humor prevailed.
This vacillating administration was calculated for any
result, rather than
securing the affectionate respect of the children.
Scarcely the first
quarter had elapsed, before materials for revolt had
germinated under
the very throne of the school-master.
Young Boone, at
this time, had reached the second stage of teaching the
young idea how to
shoot. His satchel already held paper marked with
those mysterious
hieroglyphics, vulgarly called _pot-hooks_, intended to
be gradually
transformed to those clerkly characters, which are called
hand-writing.
The master's throne
was a block of a huge tree, and could not be said,
in any sense, to be
a cushion of down. Of course, by the time he had
heard the first
lessons of the morning, the master was accustomed to let
loose his noisy
subjects, to wanton and bound on the grass, while he
took a turn abroad
to refresh himself from his wearying duties. While he
was thus unbending
his mind, the observant urchins had remarked, that
he always directed
his walk to a deep grove not far distant. They had,
possibly, divined
that the unequal tempers of his mind, and his rapid
transitions from
good nature to tyrannical moroseness, and the reverse,
were connected with
these promenades. The curiosity of young Boone had
been partially
excited. An opportunity soon offered to gratify it.
Having one day
received the accustomed permission to retire a few
minutes from
school, the darting of a squirrel across a fallen tree, as
he went abroad,
awakened his ruling passion. He sprang after the nimble
animal, until he
found himself at the very spot, where he had observed
his school-master to
pause in his promenades. His attention was arrested
by observing a kind
of opening under a little arbor, thickly covered
with a mat of
vines. Thinking, perhaps, that it was the retreat of some
animal, he thrust
in his hand, and to his surprise drew forth a glass
bottle, partly full
of whisky. The enigma of his master's walks and
inequalities of
temper stood immediately deciphered. After the
reflection of a
moment, he carefully replaced the bottle in its
position, and
returned to his place in school. In the evening he
communicated his
discovery and the result of his meditations to the
larger boys of the
school on their way home. They were ripe for revolt,
and the issue of
their caucus follows:
They were
sufficiently acquainted with fever and ague, to have
experimented the
nature of tartar emetic. They procured a bottle exactly
like the master's,
filled with whisky, in which a copious quantity of
emetic had been
dissolved. Early in the morning, they removed the
school-master's
bottle, and replaced it by theirs, and hurried back to
their places,
panting with restrained curiosity, and a desire to see
what results would
come from their medical mixture.
The accustomed hour
for intermission came. The master took his usual
promenade, and the
children hastened back with uncommon eagerness to
resume their seats
and their lessons. The countenance of the master
alternately red and
pale, gave portent of an approaching storm.
"Recite your
grammar lesson," said he, in a growling tone, to one of the
older boys.
"How many
parts of speech are there?"
"Seven,
sir," timidly answered the boy.
"Seven, you
numscull! is that the way you get your lesson?" Forthwith
descended a shower
of blows on his devoted head.
"On what
continent is Ireland?" said he, turning from him in wrath to
another boy. The
boy saw the shower pre-determined to fall, and the
medicine giving
evident signs of having taken effect. Before he could
answer, "I
reckon on the continent of England," he was gathering an
ample tithe of
drubbing.
"Come and recite
your lesson in arithmetic?" said he to Boone, in a
voice of thunder.
The usually rubicund face of the Irishman was by this
time a deadly pale.
Slate in hand, the docile lad presented himself
before his master.
"Take six from
nine, and what remain?"
"Three,
sir."
"True. That
will answer for whole numbers, now for your fractions. Take
three-quarters from
an integer, and what remains?"
"The
whole."
"You
blockhead! you numscull!" exclaimed the master, as the strokes fell
like a hail shower;
"let me hear you demonstrate that."
"If I subtract
one bottle of whisky, and replace it with one in which I
have mixed an
emetic, will not the whole remain, if nobody drinks it?"
By this time the
medicine was taking fearful effect. The united
acclamations and
shouts of the children, and the discovery of the
compounder of his
medicament, in no degree tended to soothe the
infuriated master.
Young Boone, having paid for his sport by an ample
drubbing, seized
the opportune moment, floored his master, already weak
and dizzy, sprang
from the door, and made for the woods. The adventure
was soon blazoned.
A consultation of the patrons of the school was held.
Though young Boone
was reprimanded, the master was dismissed.
This is all the
certain information we possess, touching the training of
young Boone, in the
lore of books and schools. Though he never
afterwards could be
brought back to the restraint of the walls of a
school, it is well
known, that in some way, in after life, he possessed
himself of the
rudiments of a common education. His love for hunting and
the woods now
became an absorbing passion. He possessed a dog and a
fowling piece, and
with these he would range whole days alone through
the woods, often with
no other apparent object, than the simple pleasure
of these lonely
wanderings.
One morning he was
observed as usual, to throw the band, that suspended
his shot bag, over
one shoulder, and his gun over the other, and go
forth accompanied
by his dog. Night came, but to the astonishment and
alarm of his
parents, the boy, as yet scarcely turned of fourteen, came
not. Another day
and another night came, and passed, and still he
returned not. The
nearest neighbors, sympathizing with the distressed
parents, who
considered him lost, turned out, to aid in searching for
him. After a long
and weary search, at a distance of a league from any
plantation, a smoke
was seen arising from a temporary hovel of sods and
branches, in which
the astonished father found his child, apparently
most comfortably
established is his new experiment of house-keeping.
Numerous skins of
wild animals were stretched upon his cabin, as
trophies of his
hunting prowess. Ample fragments of their flesh were
either roasting or
preparing for cookery. It may be supposed, that such
a lad would be the
theme of wonder and astonishment to the other boys of
his age.
At this early
period, he hesitated not to hunt wolves, and even bears
and panthers. His
exploits of this kind were the theme of general
interest in the
vicinity. Many of them are recorded. But we pass over
most of them, in
our desire to hasten to the exploits of his maturer
years. We select a
single one of the most unquestionable character, as
a sample for the
rest.
In company with some
of his young companions, he undertook a hunting
excursion, at a
considerable distance from the settlements. Near
night-fall, the
group of young Nimrods were alarmed with a sharp cry
from the thick
woods. A panther! whispered the affrighted lads, in
accents scarcely
above their breath, through fear, that their voice
would betray them.
The scream of this animal is harsh, and grating, and
one of the most
truly formidable of forest sounds.
The animal, when
pressed, does not shrink from encountering a man, and
often kills him,
unless he is fearless and adroit in his defence. All
the companions of
young Boone fled from the vicinity, as fast as
possible. Not so
the subject of our narrative. He coolly surveyed the
animal, that in
turn eyed him, as the cat does a mouse, when preparing
to spring upon it.
Levelling his rifle, and taking deliberate aim, he
lodged the bullet
in the heart of the fearful animal, at the very moment
it was in the act
to spring upon him. It was a striking instance of that
peculiar self-possession,
which constituted the most striking trait in
his character in
after life.
Observing these
early propensities for the life of a hunter in his son,
and land having
become dear and game scarce in the neighborhood where he
lived, Boone's
father formed the design of removing to remote forests,
not yet disturbed
by the sound of the axe, or broken by frequent
clearings; and
having heard a good account of the country bordering upon
the Yadkin river,
in North Carolina, he resolved to remove thither.
This river, which
is a stream of considerable size, has its source among
the mountains in
the north-east part of North Carolina, and pursues a
beautiful
meandering course through that state until it enters South
Carolina. After
watering the eastern section of the latter state, it
reaches the ocean a
few miles above the mouth of the Santee.
[Illustration]
Having sold his
plantation, on a fine April morning he set forth for the
land of
promise--wife, children, servants, flocks, and herds, forming
a patriarchal
caravan through the wilderness. No procession bound to the
holy cities of
Mecca or Jerusalem, was ever more joyful; for to them the
forest was an
asylum. Overhung by the bright blue sky, enveloped in
verdant forests
full of game, nought cared they for the absence of
houses with their
locks and latches. Their nocturnal caravansary was a
clear cool spring;
their bed the fresh turf. Deer and turkeys furnished
their
viands--hunger the richest sauces of cookery; and fatigue and
untroubled spirits
a repose unbroken by dreams. Such were the primitive
migrations of the
early settlers of our country. We love to meditate on
them, for we have
shared them. We have fed from this table in the
wilderness. We have
shared this mirth. We have heard the tinkle of the
bells of the flocks
and herds grazing among the trees. We have seen the
moon rise and the
stars twinkle upon this forest scene; and the
remembrance has
more than once marred the pleasure of journeyings in the
midst of
civilization and the refinements of luxury.
The frontier
country in which the family settled was as yet an unbroken
forest; and being
at no great distance from the eastern slope of the
Alleghanies, in the
valleys of which game was abundant, it afforded fine
range both for
pasture and hunting. These forests had, moreover, the
charm of novelty,
and the game had not yet learned to fear the rifles of
the new settlers.
It need hardly be added that the spirits of young
Boone exulted in
this new hunter's paradise. The father and the other
sons settled down
quietly to the severe labor of making a farm,
assigning to Daniel
the occupation of his rifle, as aware that it was
the only one he
could be induced to follow; and probably from the
experience, that in
this way he could contribute more effectually to the
establishment, than
either of them in the pursuits of husbandry.
An extensive farm
was soon opened. The table was always amply supplied
with venison, and
was the seat of ample and unostentatious hospitality.
The peltries of the
young hunter yielded all the money which such an
establishment
required, and the interval between this removal and the
coming of age of
young Boone, was one of health, plenty, and privacy.
But meanwhile this
settlement began to experience the pressure of that
evil which Boone
always considered the greatest annoyance of life. The
report of this
family's prosperity had gone abroad. The young hunter's
fame in his new
position, attracted other immigrants to come and fix
themselves in the
vicinity. The smoke of new cabins and clearings went
up to the sky. The
baying other dogs, and the crash of distant falling
trees began to be
heard; and painful presentiments already filled the
bosom of young
Boone, that this abode would shortly be more pressed upon
than that he had left.
He was compelled, however, to admit, that if such
an order of things
brings disadvantages, it has also its benefits.
A thriving farmer,
by the name of Bryan, had settled at no great
distance from Mr.
Boone, by whose establishment the young hunter, now at
the period of life
when other thoughts than those of the chase of wild
game are sometimes
apt to cross the mind, was accustomed to pass.
This farmer had
chosen a most beautiful spot for his residence. The farm
occupied a space of
some hundred acres on a gentle eminence, crested
with yellow poplars
and laurels. Around it rolled a mountain stream. So
beautiful was the
position and so many its advantages, that young Boone
used often to pause
in admiration, on his way to the deeper woods beyond
the verge of human
habitation. Who can say that the same dreamy thoughts
that inspired the
pen of the eloquent Rousseau, did not occupy the mind
of the young hunter
as he passed this rural abode? We hope we shall not
be suspected of a
wish to offer a tale of romance, as we relate, how the
mighty hunter of
wild beasts and men was himself subdued, and that by
the most timid and
gentle of beings. We put down the facts as we find
them recorded, and
our conscience is quieted, by finding them perfectly
natural to the time,
place, and circumstances.
Young Boone was one
night engaged in a fire hunt, with a young friend.
Their course led
them to the deeply timbered bottom that skirted the
stream which wound
round this pleasant plantation. That the reader may
have an idea what
sort of a pursuit it was that young Boone was engaged
in, during an event
so decisive of his future fortunes, we present a
brief sketch of a
night _fire_ hunt. Two persons are indispensable to
it. The horseman
that precedes, bears on his shoulder what is called a
_fire pan_, full of
blazing pine knots, which casts a bright and
flickering glare
far through the forest. The second follows at some
distance, with his
rifle prepared for action. No spectacle is more
impressive than
this of pairs of hunters, thus kindling the forest into
a glare. The deer,
reposing quietly in his thicket, is awakened by the
approaching
cavalcade, and instead of flying from the portentous
brilliance, remains
stupidly gazing upon it, as if charmed to the spot.
The animal is
betrayed to its doom the gleaming of its fixed and
innocent eyes. This
cruel mode of securing a fatal shot, is called in
hunter's phrase,
_shining the eyes_.
The two young men
reached a corner of the farmer's field at an early
hour in the
evening. Young Boone gave the customary signal to his
mounted companion
preceding him, to stop, an indication that he had
_shined the eyes_
of a deer. Boone dismounted, and fastened his horse to
a tree.
Ascertaining that his rifle was in order, he advanced
cautiously behind a
covert of bushes, to reach the right distance for a
shot. The deer is
remarkable for the beauty of its eyes when thus
_shined_. The mild
brilliance of the two orbs was distinctly visible.
Whether warned by a
presentiment, or arrested by a palpitation, and
strange feelings
within, at noting a new expression in the blue and dewy
lights that gleamed
to his heart, we say not. But the unerring rifle
fell, and a
rustling told him that the game had fled. Something
whispered him it was
not a _deer_; and yet the fleet step, as the game
bounded away, might
easily be mistaken for that of the light-footed
animal. A second
thought impelled him to pursue the rapidly retreating
game; and he sprang
away in the direction of the sound, leaving his
companion to occupy
himself as he might. The fugitive had the advantage
of a considerable
advance of him, and apparently a better knowledge of
the localities of
the place. But the hunter was perfect in all his field
exercises, and
scarcely less fleet footed than a deer; and he gained
rapidly on the
object of his pursuit, which advanced a little distance
parallel with the
field-fence, and then, as if endowed with the utmost
accomplishment of
gymnastics, cleared the fence at a leap. The hunter,
embarrassed with
his rifle and accoutrements, was driven to the slow and
humiliating
expedient of climbing it. But an outline of the form of the
fugitive, fleeting
through the shades in the direction of the house,
assured him that he
had mistaken the species of the game. His heart
throbbed from a
hundred sensations; and among them an apprehension of
the consequences
that would have resulted from discharging his rifle,
when he had first
shined those liquid blue eyes. Seeing that the fleet
game made straight
in the direction of the house, he said to himself, "I
will see the pet
deer in its lair;" and he directed his steps to the
same place. Half a
score of dogs opened their barking upon him, as he
approached the
house, and advertised the master that a stranger was
approaching. Having
hushed the dogs, and learned the name of his
visitant, he
introduced him to his family, as the son of their neighbor,
Boone.
Scarce had the
first words of introduction been uttered, before the
opposite door opened,
and a boy apparently of seven, and a girl of
sixteen, rushed in,
panting for breath and seeming in affright.
"Sister went
down to the river, and a _painter_ chased her, and she is
almost scared to
death," exclaimed the boy.
The ruddy,
flaxen-haired girl stood full in view of her terrible
pursuer, leaning
upon his rifle, and surveying her with the most eager
admiration.
"Rebecca, this is young Boone, son of our neighbor," was
their laconic
introduction. Both were young, beautiful, and at the
period when the
affections exercise their most energetic influence. The
circumstances of
the introduction were favorable to the result, and the
young hunter felt
that the eyes of the _deer_ had _shined_ his bosom as
fatally as his
rifle shot had ever the innocent deer of the thickets.
She, too, when she
saw the high, open, bold forehead; clear, keen, and
yet gentle and
affectionate eye--the firm front, and the visible impress
of decision and
fearlessness of the hunter--when she interpreted a
look, which said as
distinctly as looks could say it, "how terrible it
would have been to
have fired!" can hardly be supposed to have regarded
him with
indifference. Nor can it be wondered at that she saw in him her
_beau ideal_ of
excellence and beauty. The inhabitants of cities, who
live in mansions,
and read novels stored with unreal pictures of life
and the heart, are
apt to imagine that love, with all its golden
illusions, is
reserved exclusively for them. It is a most egregious
mistake. A model of
ideal beauty and perfection is woven in almost every
youthful heart, of
the brightest and most brilliant threads that compose
the web of
existence. It may not be said that this forest maiden was
deeply and
foolishly smitten at first sight. All reasonable time and
space were granted
to the claims of maidenly modesty. As for Boone, he
was incurably
wounded by her, whose eyes he had _shined_, and as he was
remarkable for the
backwoods attribute of _never being beaten out of his
track_, he ceased
not to woo, until he gained the heart of Rebecca
Bryan. In a word,
he courted her successfully, and they were married.
CHAPTER II.
Boone removes to
the head waters of the Yadkin river--He meets with
Finley, who had
crossed the mountains into Tennessee--They agree to
explore the
wilderness west of the Alleghanies together.
After his marriage,
Boone's first step was to consider where he should
find a place, in
which he could unite the advantages of fields to
cultivate, and
range for hunting. True to the impulse of his nature, he
plunged deeper into
the wilderness, to realize this dream of comfort and
happiness. Leaving
his wife, he visited the unsettled regions of North
Carolina, and
selected a spot near the head waters of the Yadkin, for
his future home.
The same spirit
that afterwards operated to take Mrs. Boone to Kentucky,
now led her to
leave her friends, and follow her husband to a region
where she was an
entire stranger. Men change their place of abode from
ambition or
interest; women from affection. In the course of a few
months, Daniel
Boone had reared comfortable cabins upon a pleasant
eminence at a
little distance from the river bank, inclosed a field, and
gathered around him
the means of abundance and enjoyment. His dwelling,
though of rude
exterior, offered the weary traveller shelter, a cheerful
fire, and a
plentiful board, graced with the most cordial welcome. The
faces that looked
on him were free from the cloud of care, the
constraint of
ceremony, and the distrust and fear, with which men learn
to regard one
another in the midst of the rivalry, competition, and
scramble of
populous cities. The spoils of the chase gave variety to his
table, and afforded
Boone an excuse for devoting his leisure hours to
his favorite
pursuit. The country around spread an ample field for its
exercise, as it was
almost untouched by the axe of the woodsman.
The lapse of a few
years--passed in the useful and unpretending
occupations of the
husbandman--brought no external change to Daniel
Boone, deserving of
record. His step was now the firm tread of sober
manhood; and his
purpose the result of matured reflection. This
influence of the
progress of time, instead of obliterating the original
impress of his
character, only sunk it deeper. The dwellings of
immigrants were springing
up in all directions around. Inclosures again
began to surround
him on every hand, shutting him out from his
accustomed haunts
in the depths of the forest shade. He saw cultivated
fields stretching
over large extents of country; and in the distance,
villages and towns;
and was made sensible of their train of forms, and
laws, and
restrictions, and buts, and bounds, gradually approaching his
habitation. Be
determined again to leave them far behind. His resolve
was made, but he
had not decided to what point he would turn.
Circumstances soon
occurred to terminate his indecision.
As early as 1760,
the country west of the Cumberland mountains was
considered by the
inhabitants of Carolina and Virginia, as involved in
something of the
same obscurity which lay over the American continent,
after its first
discovery by Columbus. Those who spread their sails to
cross the sea, and
find new skies, a new soil, and men in a new world,
were not deemed
more daring by their brethren at home, than the few
hardy adventurers,
who struck into the pathless forests stretching along
the frontier
settlements of the western country, were estimated by their
friends and
neighbors. Even the most informed and intelligent, where
information and
intelligence were cultivated, knew so little of the
immense extent of
country, now designated as the "Mississippi Valley,"
that a book,
published near the year 1800, in Philadelphia or New York,
by a writer of
talent and standing, speaks of the _many_ mouths of the
Missouri, as
entering the Mississippi _far below the Ohio_.
The simple inmates
of cabins, in the remote region bordering on the new
country, knew still
less about it; as they had not penetrated its
wilderness, and
were destitute of that general knowledge which prevents
the exercise of the
exaggerations of vague conjecture. There was,
indeed, ample room
for the indulgence of speculation upon the features
which the
unexplored land was characterized. Its mountains, plains, and
streams, animals,
and men, were yet to be discovered and named. It might
be found the
richest land under the sun, exhaustless in fertility,
yielding the most
valuable productions, and unfailing in its resources.
It was possible it
would prove a sterile desert. Imagination could not
but expatiate in
this unbounded field and unexplored wilderness; and
there are few
persons entirely secure from the influence of
imagination. The
real danger attending the first exploration of a
country filled with
wild animals and savages; and the difficulty of
carrying a sufficient
supply of ammunition to procure food, during a
long journey,
necessarily made on foot, had prevented any attempt of the
kind. The Alleghany
mountains had hitherto stood an unsurmounted barrier
between the
Atlantic country and the shores of the beautiful Ohio.
Not far from this
period, Dr. Walker, an intelligent and enterprising
Virginian,
collected a small party, and actually crossed the mountains
at the Cumberland
Gap, after traversing Powell's valley. One of his
leading inducements
to this tour, was the hope of making botanical
discoveries. The
party crossed Cumberland river, and pursued a
north-east course
over the highlands, which give rise to the sources of
the lesser
tributaries of the important streams that water the Ohio
valley. They reached
Big Sandy, after enduring the privations and
fatigue incident to
such an undertaking. From this point they commenced
their return home.
On reaching it, they showed no inclination to resume
their attempt,
although the information thus gained respecting the
country, presented
it in a very favorable light. These first adventurers
wanted the
hardihood, unconquerable fortitude, and unwavering purpose,
which nothing but
death could arrest, that marked the pioneers, who
followed in their
footsteps. Some time elapsed before a second exploring
expedition was set
on foot. The relations of what these men had seen on
the other side of
the mountains had assumed the form of romance, rather
than reality.
Hunters, alone or in pairs, now ventured to extend their
range into the
skirts of the wilderness, thus gradually enlarging the
sphere of definite
conceptions, respecting the country beyond it.
In 1767, a
backwoodsman of the name of Finley, of North Carolina, in
company with a few
kindred spirits resembling him in character, advanced
still farther into
the interior of the land of promise. It is probable,
they chose the
season of flowers for their enterprise; as on the return
of this little
band, a description of the soil they had trodden, and the
sights they had
seen, went abroad, that charmed all ears, excited all
imaginations, and
dwelt upon every tongue. Well might they so describe.
Their course lay
through a portion of Tennessee. There is nothing grand
or imposing in
scenery--nothing striking or picturesque in cascades and
precipitous
declivities of mountains covered with woods--nothing
romantic and
delightful in deep and sheltered valleys, through which
wind clear streams,
which is not found in this first region they
traversed. The mountains
here stretch along in continuous ridges--and
there shoot up into
elevated peaks. On the summits of some, spread
plateaus, which
afford the most commanding prospects, and offer all
advantages for
cultivation, overhung by the purest atmosphere. No words
can picture the
secluded beauty of some of the vales bordering the
creeks and small
streams, which dash transparent as air over rocks,
moss-covered and
time-worn--walled in by the precipitous sides of
mountains, down
which pour numberless waterfalls.
The soil is rich
beyond any tracts of the same character in the west.
Beautiful white,
gray, and red marbles are found here; and sometimes
fine specimens of
rock-crystals. Salt springs abound. It has lead mines;
and iron ore is no
where more abundant. Its salt-petre caves are most
astonishing
curiosities. One of them has been traced ten miles. Another,
on a high point of
Cumberland mountain, has a perpendicular descent, the
bottom of which has
never been sounded. They abound in prodigious
vaulted apartments
and singular chambers, the roofs springing up into
noble arches, or
running along for miles in regular oblong excavations.
The gloomy
grandeur, produced by the faint illumination of torches in
these immense
subterranean retreats, may be imagined, but not described.
Springs rise, and
considerable streams flow through them, on smooth
limestone beds.
This is the very
home of subterranean wonders, showing the noblest caves
in the world. In
comparison with them, the celebrated one at Antiparos
is but a slight
excavation. Spurs of the mountains, called the
"Enchanted
Mountains," show traces impressed in the solid limestone, of
the footsteps of
men, horses, and other animals, as distinctly as though
they had been made upon
clay mortar. In places the tracks are such as
would be made by
feet, that had slidden upon soft clay in descending
declivities.
Prodigious remains
of animals are found near the salines. Whole trees
are discovered
completely petrified; and to crown the list of wonders,
in turning up the
soil, graves are opened, which contain the skeletons
of figures, who
must have been of mature age. Paintings of the sun,
moon, animals, and
serpents, on high and apparently inaccessible cliffs,
out of question the
work of former ages, in colors as fresh as if
recently laid on,
and in some instances, just and ingenious in
delineation, are a
subject of untiring speculation. Even the streams in
this region of
wonders have scooped out for themselves immensely deep
channels hemmed in
by perpendicular walls of limestone, sometimes
springing up to a
height of three or four hundred feet. As the traveller
looks down upon the
dark waters rolling so far beneath him, seeming to
flow in a
subterranean world, he cannot but feel impressions of the
grandeur of nature
stealing over him.
It is not to be
supposed, that persons, whose sole object in entering
the country was to
explore it, would fail to note these surprising
traces of past
races, the beautiful diversity of the aspect of the
country, or these
wonders of nature exhibited on every hand. Being
neither incurious
nor incompetent observers, their delineations were
graphic and vivid.
"Their teachers had been woods and
rills,
The silence, that is in the starry sky;
The sleep, that is among the lonely
hills."
They advanced into
Kentucky so far, as to their imaginations with the
fresh and luxuriant
beauty of its lawns, its rich cane-brakes and
flowering forests.
To them it was a terrestrial paradise for it was
full of game. Deer,
elk, bears, buffaloes, panthers, wolves, wild-cats,
and foxes, abounded
in the thick tangles of the green cane; and in the
open woods,
pheasants, partridges, and turkeys, were as plenty as
domestic fowls in
the old settlements.
Such were the materials,
from which these hunters, on their return
formed descriptions
that fixed in the remembrance, and operated upon the
fancy of all who
heard. A year after Finley's return, his love of
wandering led him
into the vicinity of Daniel Boone. They met, and the
hearts of these
kindred spirits at once warmed towards each other.
Finley related his
adventures, and painted the delights of
_Kain-tuck-kee_--for
such was its Indian name. Boone had but few
hair-breath escapes
to recount, in comparison with his new companion.
But it can readily
be imagined, that a burning sensation rose in his
breast, like that
of the celebrated painter Correggio, when low-born,
untaught, poor and
destitute of every advantage, save that of splendid
native endowment,
he stood before the work of the immortal Raphael, and
said, "I too
am a painter!" Boone's purpose was fixed. In a region, such
as Finley
described, far in advance of the wearying monotony of a life
of inglorious toil,
he would have space to roam unwitnessed, undisturbed
by those of his own
race, whose only thought was to cut down trees, at
least for a period
of some years. We wish not to be understood to laud
these views, as
wise or just. In the order of things, however, it was
necessary, that men
like Finley and Boone, and their companions, should
precede in the
wilderness, to prepare the way for the multitudes who
would soon follow.
It is probable, that no motives but those ascribed to
them, would have
induced these adventurers to face the hardships and
extremes of suffering
from exposure and hunger, and the peril of life,
which they
literally carried in their hand.
No feeling, but a
devotion to their favorite pursuits and modes of life,
stronger than the
fear of abandonment, in the interminable and pathless
woods, to all forms
of misery and death, could ever have enabled them to
persist in braving
the danger and distress that stared them in the face
at every advancing
step.
Finley was invited
by Boone permanently to share the comfort of his
fire-side,--for it
was now winter. It needs no exercise of fancy to
conjecture their
subjects of conversation during the long evening. The
bitter wintry wind
burst upon their dwelling only to enhance the
cheerfulness of the
blazing fire in the huge chimneys, by the contrast
of the inclemency
of nature without.
It does not seem
natural, at first thought, that a season, in which
nature shows
herself stern and unrelenting, should be chosen, as that in
which plans are
originated and matured for settling the destiny of life.
But it was during
this winter, that Boone and Finley arranged all the
preliminaries of
their expedition, and agreed to meet on the first of
May in the coming
spring; and with some others, whom they hoped to
induce to join them
for greater strength and safety, to set forth
together on an
expedition into Kentucky.
Boone's array of
arguments, to influence those whom he wished to share
this daring
enterprise with him, was tinctured with the coloring of rude
poetry. "They
would ascend," he said, "the unnamed mountains, whose
green heads rose
not far from their former hunting-grounds, since fences
and inclosures had
begun to surround them on all sides, shutting up the
hunter from his
free range and support. The deer had fled from the sound
of the axe, which
levelled the noble trees under whose shade they could
repose from the
fatigues of pursuit. The springs and streams among the
hills were bared to
the fierce sun, and would soon dry up and disappear.
Soon 'the horn
would no more wake them up in the morn.' The sons of
their love and
pride, instead of being trained hunters, with a free,
bold step, frank
kindness, true honor, and a courage that knew not fear,
would become men to
whom the pleasures and dangers of their fathers
would seem an idle
tale." The prospect spreading on the other side of
the mountains, he
pictured as filled with all the images of abundance
and freedom that
could enter the thoughts of the hunter. The paintings
were drawn from
nature, and the words few and simple, that spoke to the
hearts of these
sons of the forest. "The broad woods," he pursued,
"would stretch
beneath their eyes, when the mountain summits were
gained, one
extended tuft of blossoms. The cane was a tangle of
luxuriance,
affording the richest pastures. The only paths through it
were those made by
buffaloes and bears. In the sheltered glades,
turkeys and large
wild birds were so abundant, that a hunter could
supply himself in
an hour for the wants of a week. They would not be
found like the lean
and tough birds in the old settlements, that
lingered around the
clearings and stumps of the trees, in the topmost of
whose branches the
fear of man compelled them to rest, but young and
full fed. The trees
in this new land were of no stinted or gnarled
growth, but shot up
tall, straight, and taper. The yellow poplar here
threw up into the
air a column of an hundred feet shaft in a contest
with the sycamore
for the pre-eminence of the woods. Their wives and
children would
remain safe in their present homes, until the first
dangers and
fatigues of the new settlement had been met and overcome.
When their homes
were selected, and their cabins built, they would
return and bring
them out to their new abodes. The outward journey could
be regulated by the
uncontrolled pleasure of their more frail
travellers. What
guardians could be more true than their husbands with
their good rifles
and the skill and determination to use them? They
would depend, not
upon circumstances, but upon themselves. The babes
would exult in the
arms of their mothers from the inspiring influence of
the fresh air; and
at night a cradle from the hollow tree would rock
them to a healthful
repose. The older children, training to the pursuits
and pleasures of a
life in the woods, and acquiring vigor of body and
mind with every
day, in their season of prime, would feel no shame that
they had hearts
softened by the warm current of true feeling. When their
own silver hairs
lay thin upon the brow, and their eye was dim, and
sounds came
confused on their ear, and their step faltered, and their
form bent, they
would find consideration, and care, and tenderness from
children, whose
breasts were not steeled by ambition, nor hardened by
avarice; in whom
the beautiful influences of the indulgence of none but
natural desires and
pure affections would not be deadened by the
selfishness,
vanity, and fear of ridicule, that are the harvest of what
is called
_civilized and cultivated_ life." Such at least, in after
life, were the
contrasts that Boone used to present between social life
and that of the
woodsman.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
Boone, with Finley
and others, start on their exploring
expedition--Boone
kills a panther in the night--Their progress over the
mountains--They
descend into the great valley--Description of the new
country--Herds of
buffaloes--Their wanderings in the wilderness.
The first of May,
1769, Finley and Boone, with four others, whose names
were Stewart,
Holden, Mooney, and Cool, and who had pledged themselves
to the undertaking,
were assembled at the house of Boone, in readiness
to commence their
journey. It may be imagined that all the neighbors
gathered to witness
their departure. A rifle, ammunition, and a light
knapsack were all
the baggage with which they dared encumber themselves.
Provisions for a
few days were bestowed along with the clothing deemed
absolutely
necessary for comfort upon the long route. No shame could
attach to the
manhood and courage of Daniel Boone from the fact that
tears were said to
have rushed to his eyes, as he kissed his wife and
children before he
turned from his door for the last time for months,
and perhaps
forever. The nature of the pioneer was as gentle and
affectionate as it
was firm and persevering. He had power, however, to
send back the
unbidden gush to its source, and forcibly to withdraw his
mind from
enervating thoughts.
Beside, the natural
elasticity of his temperament and the buoyancy of
his character came
to his aid. The anticipation of new and strange
incidents operated
to produce in the minds of the travellers, from the
commencement of the
enterprise, a kind of wild pleasure.
With alert and
vigorous steps they pursued a north-west course, and were
soon beyond the
reach of the most distant view of their homes. This day
and night, and the
succeeding one, the scenes in view were familiar; but
in the course of
the four or five that followed, all vestiges of
civilized habitancy
had disappeared. The route lay through a solitary
and trackless wilderness.
Before them rose a line of mountains, shooting
up against the blue
of the horizon, in peaks and elevations of all
forms. The slender
store of food with which they had set out, was soon
exhausted. To
obtain a fresh supply was the first and most pressing
want. Accordingly,
a convenient place was selected, and a camp
constructed of logs
and branches of trees, to keep out the dew and rain.
The whole party
joined in this preliminary arrangement. When it was so
far completed, as
to enable a part to finish it before night-fall, part
of the company took
their rifles and went in different directions in
pursuit of game.
They returned in time for supper, with a couple of deer
and some wild
turkeys. Those, whose business it was to finish the camp,
had made a generous
fire and acquired keen appetites for the coming
feast. The deer
were rapidly dressed, so far at least as to furnish a
supper of venison.
It had not been long finished, and the arrangements
for the night made,
before the clouds, which had been gathering
blackness for some
hours, rolled up in immense folds from the point,
whence was heard
the sudden burst of a furious wind. The lightning
darted from all
quarters of the heavens. At one moment every object
stood forth in a
glare of dazzling light. The next the darkness might
almost be felt. The
rain fell in torrents, in one apparently unbroken
sheet from the sky
to the earth. The peals of thunder rolled almost
unheard amid this
deafening rush of waters. The camp of the travellers,
erected with
reference to the probability of such an occurrence, was
placed under the
shelter of a huge tree, whose branches ran out
laterally, and were
of a thickness of foliage to be almost impervious to
the rain. To this
happy precaution of the woodsmen, they owed their
escape from the
drenching of the shower. They were not, perhaps, aware
of the greater
danger from lightning, to which their position had
exposed them.
As was the
universal custom in cases like theirs, a watch was kept by
two, while the
others slept. The watches were relieved several times
during the night.
About midnight, Boone and Holden being upon the watch,
the deep stillness
abroad was broken by a shrill scream, resembling the
shriek of a
frightened woman or child more nearly than any other sound.
The two companions
had been sitting in a contemplative mood, listening
to the deep
breathing of the sleepers, when this cry came upon their
ears. Both sprang
erect. "What is that?" exclaimed Holden, who was not
an experienced
backwoodsman, in comparison with the others. "Hush!"
answered Boone;
"do not wake the rest. It is nothing but the cry of a
panther. Take your
gun and come with me."
They stole gently
from the camp and listened in breathless silence for a
repetition of the
cry. It was soon repeated, indicating the place where
the animal was.
Groping cautiously through the bushes in its direction,
frequently stopping
to look around, and holding their rifles ready for
an instantaneous
shot, they drew near the formidable animal. At length
they discovered at
a little distance before them, two balls that glared
with an intense
brightness, like that of living coals of fire. Boone,
taking deliberate
aim, in the best manner that the darkness would
permit, discharged
his rifle. The yell of pain from the animal, as it
was heard leaping
among the undergrowth in an opposite direction,
satisfied Boone
that his shot had taken sufficient effect to prevent a
second disturbance
from it, at least for that night, and he returned to
the camp with his companion.
The sleepers, aroused by the report of the
gun, were awaiting
him. The account of the adventure afforded
speculation,
touching the point, whether the animal had been killed or
would return again.
Early the next morning, some were dispatched to
bring in more game,
while others prepared and dried what had already
been obtained. The
whole day was spent in this way and the night
following passed
without any disturbance.
With the first
light of the sun on the succeeding morning, they threw
their knapsacks
over their shoulders, and leaving their temporary
shelter to benefit
any who might come after them, resumed their route.
They had not
proceeded far before an animal stretched on the ground
attracted
attention. It was a dead panther. By comparing the size of the
ball, which had
killed it, with those used by Boone, the party were
satisfied that this
was the same animal he had shot the night after the
storm.
During the day they
began the ascent of the ridge of the Alleghany, that
had for some days
bounded their view. The mountainous character of the
country, for some
miles, before the highest elevations rose to sight,
rendered the
travelling laborious and slow. Several days were spent in
this toilsome
progress. Steep summits, impossible to ascend, impeded
their advance,
compelling them to turn aside, and attain the point above
by a circuitous
route. Again they were obliged to delay their journey
for a day, in order
to obtain a fresh supply of provisions. This was
readily procured, as
all the varieties of game abounded on every side.
The last crags and
cliffs of the middle ridges having been scrambled
over, on the
following morning they stood on the summit of Cumberland
mountain, the
farthest western spur of this line of heights. From this
point the descent
into the great western valley began. What a scene
opened before them!
A feeling of the sublime is inspired in every bosom
susceptible of it,
by a view from any point of these vast ranges, of the
boundless forest
valleys of the Ohio. It is a view more grand, more
heart-stirring than
that of the ocean. Illimitable extents of wood, and
winding river
courses spread before them like a large map. "Glorious
country!" they
exclaimed. Little did Boone dream that in fifty years,
immense portions of
it would pass from the domain of the hunter--that it
would contain four
millions of freemen, and its waters be navigated by
nearly two hundred
steam boats, sweeping down these streams that now
rolled through the
unbroken forests before them. To them it stood forth
an unexplored
paradise of the hunter's imagination.
After a long pause,
in thoughts too deep for words, they began the
descent, which was
made in a much shorter time than had been required
for the opposite
ascent; and the explorers soon found themselves on the
slopes of the
subsiding hills. Here the hunter was in his element. To
all the party but
Finley, the buffaloes incidentally seen in small
numbers in the
valleys, were a novel and interesting sight. It had as
yet been impossible
to obtain a shot at them, from their distance or
position. It may be
imagined with what eagerness Boone sought an
opportunity to make
his first essay in this exciting and noble species
of hunting.
The first considerable
drove came in sight on the afternoon of the day
on which the
travellers reached the foot of the mountains. The day had
been one of the
most beautiful of spring. The earth was covered with
grass of the
freshest green. The rich foliage of the trees, in its
varied shading,
furnished its portion of the loveliness of the
surrounding
landscape. The light of the declining sun lay full on the
scene of boundless
solitude. The party had descended into a deep glen,
which wound through
the opening between the highlands, still extending a
little in advance
of them. They pursued its course until it terminated
in a beautiful
little plain. Upon advancing into this, they found
themselves in an
area of considerable extent, almost circular in form,
bounded on one half
its circumference by the line of hills, from among
which they had just
emerged. The other sections of the circle were
marked by the
fringe of wood that bordered a stream winding from the
hills, at a
considerable distance above. The buffaloes advanced from the
skirt of wood, and
the plain was soon filled by the moving mass of these
huge animals.
The exploring
adventurers perceived themselves in danger of what has
more than once
happened in similar situations. The prospect seemed to be
that they would be
trampled under the feet of the reckless and sweeping
body, in their
onward course.
"They will not
turn out for us," said Finley; "and If we do not conduct
exactly right, we
shall be crushed to death."
The inexperienced adventurers
bade him direct them in the emergency.
Just as the front
of the phalanx was within short rifle distance, he
discharged his
rifle and brought down one of the bulls, that seemed to
be a file leader,
by a ball between the horns. The unwieldy animal fell.
The mass raised a
deafening sort of bellow, and became arrested, as if
transfixed to the
spot. A momentary confusion of the mass behind ensued.
But, borne along by
the pressure of the multitudes still in the rear,
there was a gradual
parting of the herd direct from the front, where the
fallen buffalo lay.
The disruption once made, the chasm broadened, until
when the wings
passed the travellers, they were thirty yards from the
divisions on either
hand. To prevent the masses yet behind from closing
their lines, Finley
took the rifle of one of his companions, and
levelled another.
This changed the pace of the animals to a rout. The
last masses soon
thundered by, and left them gazing in astonishment, not
unmixed with joy,
in realizing their escape, "Job of Uz," exclaimed
Boone, "had
not larger droves of cattle than we. In fact, we seem to
have had in this
instance an abundance to a fault."
As this was an era
in their adventures, and an omen of the abundance of
the vast regions of
forests which they had descried from the summits of
the mountains, they
halted, made a camp, and skinned the animals,
preserving the
skins, fat, tongues, and choice pieces. No epicures ever
feasted higher than
these athletic and hungry hunters, as they sat
around their evening
fire, and commented upon the ease with which their
wants would be
supplied in a country thus abounding with such animals.
After feasting
again in the morning on the spoils of the preceding day,
and packing such
parts of the animals as their probable necessities
suggested, they
commenced their march; and in no great distance reached
Red river, a branch
of the Cumberland. They followed the meanders of
this river for some
miles, until they reached, on the 7th day of June,
Finley's former
station, where his preceding explorations of the western
country had
terminated.
Their journey to
this point had lasted more than a month; and though the
circumstances in
which they had made it, had been generally auspicious,
so long a route
through unknown forests, and over precipitous mountains,
hitherto untrodden
by white men, could not but have been fatiguing in
the extreme. None
but such spirits could have sustained their hardships
without a purpose
to turn back, and leave their exploration
unaccomplished.
They resolved in
this place to encamp, and remain for a time sufficient
to recruit
themselves for other expeditions and discoveries. The weather
had been for some
time past, and still remained, rainy and unpleasant;
and it became
necessary that their station should be of such a
construction, as to
secure them a dry sleeping place from the rain. The
game was so
abundant, that they found it a pleasure, rather than a
difficulty, to
supply themselves with food. The buffaloes were seen like
herds of cattle, dispersed
among the cane-brakes, or feeding on the
grass, or
ruminating in the shade. Their skins were of great utility, in
furnishing them
with moccasins, and many necessary articles
indispensable to
their comfortable subsistence at their station.
What struck them
with unfailing pleasure was, to observe the soil, in
general, of a
fertility without example on the other side of the
mountains. From an
eminence in the vicinity of their station, they could
see, as far as
vision could extend, the beautiful country of Kentucky.
They remarked with
astonishment the tall, straight trees, shading the
exuberant soil,
wholly clear from any other underbrush than the rich
cane-brakes, the
image of verdure and luxuriance, or tall grass and
clover. Down the
gentle slopes murmured clear limestone brooks. Finley,
who had some touch
of scripture knowledge, exclaimed in view of this
wilderness-paradise,
so abundant in game and wild fowls, "This
wilderness blossoms
as the rose; and these desolate places are as the
garden of God."
"Ay,"
responded Boone; "and who would remain on the sterile pine hills
of North Carolina,
to hear the screaming of the jay, and now and then
bring down a deer
too lean to be eaten? This is the land of hunters,
where man and beast
will grow to their full size."
They ranged through
various forests, and crossed the numerous streams of
the vicinity. By
following the paths of the buffaloes, bears, deer, and
other animals, they
discovered the Salines or _Licks_, where salt is
made at the present
day. The paths, in approaching the salines, were
trodden as hard and
smooth, as in the vicinity of the farm-yards of the
old settlements.
Boone, from the principle which places the best pilot
at the helm in a
storm, was not slow to learn from innumerable
circumstances which
would have passed unnoticed by a less sagacious
woodsman, that,
although the country was not actually inhabited by
Indians, it was not
the less a scene of strife and combat for the
possession of such
rich hunting grounds by a great number of tribes. He
discovered that it
was a common park to these fierce tribes; and none
the less likely to
expose them to the dangers of Indian warfare, because
it was not claimed
or inhabited by any particular tribe. On the
contrary, instead
of having to encounter a single tribe in possession,
he foresaw that the
jealousy of all the tribes would be united against
the new intruders.
These fearless
spirits, who were instinctively imbued with an abhorrence
of the Indians,
heeded little, however, whether they had to make war on
them, or the wild
beasts. They felt in its fullest force that
indomitable
elasticity of character, which causes the possessor, every
where, and in all
forms of imagined peril, to feel sufficient to
themselves. Hence
the lonely adventurers continued fearlessly to explore
the beautiful
positions for settlements, to cross and name the rivers,
and to hunt.
By a happy
fatality, through all the summer they met with no Indians,
and experienced no impediment
in the way of the most successful hunting.
During the season,
they had collected large quantities of peltries, and
meeting with
nothing to excite apprehension or alarm, they became
constantly more
delighted with the country.
So passed their time,
until the 22d of December. After this period
adventures of the
most disastrous character began to crowd upon them. We
forthwith commence
the narrative of incidents which constitute the
general color of
Boone's future life.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
The exploring party
divide into different routes--Boone and Stewart
taken prisoners by
the Indians, and their escape--Boone meets with his
elder brother and
another white man in the woods--Stewart killed by the
Indians, and the
companion of the elder Boone destroyed by wolves--The
elder brother
returns to North Carolina, leaving Boone alone in the
wilderness.
In order to extend
the means of gaining more exact information with
regard to this
beautiful country, the party divided, and took different
directions. Boone
and Stewart formed one division, and the remaining
three the other.
The two former had as yet seen few thick forests. The
country was much of
it of that description, now known by the name of
"Barrens,"
or open woods, which had the appearance of having been
planted out with
trees at wide and regular distances from each other,
like those of an
orchard, allowing the most luxuriant growth of cane,
grass, or clover
beneath them. They now passed a wide and deep forest,
in which the trees
were large and thick. Among them were many of the
laurel tribe, in
full verdure in mid winter. Others were thick hung with
persimmons, candied
by the frost, nutritive, and as luscious as figs.
Others again were
covered with winter grapes. Every thing tended to
inspire them with
exalted notions of the natural resources of the
country, and to
give birth to those extravagant romances, which
afterwards became
prevalent, as descriptions of Kentucky. Such were
Finley's accounts
of it--views which went abroad, and created even in
Europe an
impression of a kind of new El Dorado, or rather rural
paradise. Other and
very different scenes, in no great length of time,
disenchanted the
new paradise, and presented it in the sober traits of
truth.
They were never out
of sight of buffaloes, deer, and turkeys. At
night-fall they
came in view of Kentucky river, and admired in unsated
astonishment, the
precipices three hundred feet high, at the foot of
which, as in a
channel cut out of the solid limestone, rolled the dark
waters of the
beautiful stream. A lofty eminence was before them.
Thinking it would
afford them a far view of the meanderings of the
river, they
ascended it. This expectation was realized. A large extent
of country stretched
beneath them. Having surveyed it, they proposed to
commence their
return to rejoin their companions. As they were leisurely
descending the
hill, little dreaming of danger, the Indian yell burst
upon their ears. A
numerous party of Indians sprang from the cane-brake,
surrounded,
vanquished, and bound them, before they had time to have
recourse to their
arms. The Indians proceeded to plunder them of their
rifles, and every
thing in their possession but the most indispensable
articles of dress.
They then led them off to their camp, where they
confined them in
such a manner as effectually to prevent their escape.
Not knowing a word
of the speech of their captors, who knew as little of
theirs, they were
wholly ignorant of what fate awaited them. The Indians
next day marched
them off rapidly towards the north, compelling them to
travel at a rate
which was excessively annoying to captives in their
predicament-manacled,
in momentary apprehension of death, and plunging
deeper into the
wilderness in advancing towards the permanent abode of
their savage
masters. It was well for them that they were more athletic
than the savages,
equally capable of endurance, and alike incapable of
betraying groans,
fear, or even marks of regret in their countenance.
They knew enough of
savage modes to beware that the least indications of
weariness, and
inability to proceed, would have brought the tomahawk and
scalping-knife upon
their skulls--weapons with which they were thus
early supplied from
Detroit. They therefore pushed resolutely on, with
cheerful
countenances, watching the while with intense earnestness, to
catch from the
signs and gestures of the Indians, what was their purpose
in regard to their
fate. By the second day, they comprehended the words
of most frequent recurrence
in the discussion, that took place
respecting them.
Part, they perceived, were for putting them to death to
prevent their
escape. The other portion advocated their being adopted
into the tribe, and
domesticated. To give efficacy to the counsels of
these last, the
captives not only concealed every trace of chagrin, but
dissembled
cheerfulness, and affected to like their new mode of life;
and seemed as
happy, and as much amused, as the Indians themselves.
Fortunately, their
previous modes of life, and in fact their actual
aptitudes and
propensities wonderfully qualified them, along with their
reckless courage
and elasticity of character, to enact this difficult
part with a
success, which completely deceived the Indians, and gave the
entire ascendency
to the advice of those who proposed to spare, and
adopt them into
their tribe. Lulled by this semblance, the captors were
less and less
strict in their guard. On the seventh night of their
captivity, the
savages, having made a great fire, and fed plentifully,
all fell into a
sound sleep, leaving their prisoners, who affected to be
as deeply asleep as
themselves, wholly unguarded.
It need hardly be
said, that the appearance of content they had worn,
was mere outward
show; and that they slept not. Boone slowly and
cautiously raised
himself to a sitting posture, and thus remained a few
moments to mark, if
his change of position had been observed. One of the
sleepers turned in
his sleep. Boone instantly dropped back to his
recumbent posture and
semblance of sleep. So he remained fifteen
minutes, when he
once more raised himself, and continued sitting for
some time, without
noting a movement among the slumberers around him. He
then ventured to
communicate his purpose to his companion.
The greatest
caution was necessary to prevent disturbing the savages, as
the slightest noise
would awake them, and probably bring instant death
upon the captives.
Stewart succeeded in placing himself upon his feet
without any noise.
The companions were not far apart, but did not dare
to whisper to each
other the thought that occurred alike to both--that,
should they escape
without rifles and ammunition, they must certainly
die of hunger. The
place where their rifles stood had been carefully
noted by them, and
by groping their way with the utmost care, they
finally reached
them. Fortunately, the equipments, containing the usual
supply of powder
and ball, were near the rifles. The feelings with which
Boone and Stewart
stole forth from the circle of their captors may be
imagined. They made
their way into the woods through the darkness,
keeping close
together for some time, before they exchanged words.
It was not far from
morning when they began their attempt at escape; but
they had made
considerable progress from the Indian encampment before
the dawn. They took
their course with the first light, and pursued it
the whole day,
reaching their camp without meeting with any accident. As
the sun was
declining, forms were seen approaching the camp in the
distance. The
uncertain light in which they were first visible, rendered
it impossible for
Boone and Stewart to determine whether they were
whites or Indians;
but they grasped their rifles, and stood ready for
defence. The forms continued
to approach cautiously and slowly, until
they were within
speaking distance. Boone then hailed them with the
challenge,
"Who comes there?" The delight may be imagined with which
Boone and Stewart
heard the reply of "White men and friends!" "Come on
then," said
Boone. The next moment he found himself in the arms of his
brother, who,
accompanied by a single companion, had left North
Carolina, and made
his way all the distance from the Yadkin to the
Cumberland. They
had been wandering many days in the woods, in pursuit
of Boone and his
party, and had thus providentially fallen upon them.
Notwithstanding the
damp which it must cast on the spirits of these new
adventurers to hear
of the recent captivity of Boone and Stewart, and
the uncertain fate
of the rest of the company, this joyous meeting of
brothers and
friends in the wilderness, and this intelligence from home,
filled the parties
with a joy too sincere and unalloyed to be repressed
by apprehensions
for the future.
The four associates
commenced the usual occupation of hunting, but were
soon alarmed by
signs of the vicinity of Indians, and clear proofs that
they were prowling
near them in the woods. These circumstances strongly
admonished them not
to venture singly to any great distance from each
other. In the
eagerness of pursuing a wounded buffalo, Boone and
Stewart, however,
allowed themselves to be separated from their
companions. Aware
of their imprudence, and halting to return, a party of
savages rushed from
the cane-brake, and discharged a shower of arrows
upon them, one of
which laid Stewart dead on the spot. The first purpose
of Boone was to
fire upon them, and sell his life as dearly as possible.
But rashness is not
bravery; and seeing the numbers of the foe, the
hopelessness of resistance,
and the uselessness of bartering his own
life for the
revenge of inflicting a single death--reflecting, moreover,
on the retaliation
it would probably bring down on the remainder of his
companions, he
retreated, and escaped, amidst a flight of arrows, in
safety to the camp.
One would have
supposed that this party would have needed no more
monition to keep
them together, and always on their guard. But,
forgetful of the
fate of Stewart, the partner of the elder Boone, who
had recently
arrived, allowed himself to be beguiled away from the two
Boone's, as they
were hunting together. The object of his curiosity was
of little
importance. In pursuit of it, he wandered into a swamp, and
was lost. The two
brothers sought him, long and painfully, to no
purpose.
Discouraged, and perhaps exasperated in view of his careless
imprudence, they
finally concluded he had chosen that method of
deserting them, and
had set out on his return to North Carolina. Under
such impressions,
they relinquished the search, and returned to camp.
They had reason
afterwards to repent their harsh estimate of his
intentions.
Fragments of his clothes, and traces of blood were found on
the opposite side
of the swamp. A numerous pack of wolves had been heard
to howl in that
direction the evening on which he had been lost.
Circumstances
placed it beyond a doubt, that, while wandering about in
search of his
companions, these terrible animals had come upon him and
torn him in pieces.
He was never heard of afterwards.
The brothers were thus
left alone in this wide wilderness, the only
white men west of
the mountains; as they concluded the remainder of the
original party had
returned to North Carolina. But they were neither
desponding nor
indolent. They held pleasant communion together--hunted
by day, cooked
their game, sat by their bright fires, and sung the airs
of their country by
night, as though in the midst of the gayest society.
They devoted,
beside, much of their time and labor to preparing a
comfortable cabin
to shelter them during the approaching winter.
They were in want
of many things. Clothing and moccasins they might
supply. With bread,
sugar, and salt, though articles of the first
necessity, they
could dispense. But ammunition, an article absolutely
indispensable, was
failing them. They concluded, too, that horses would
be of essential
service to them. They finally came to the resolution
that the elder
Boone should return to North Carolina, and come out to
the new country
with ammunition, horses, and supplies.
The character of
Daniel Boone, in consenting to be left alone in that
wilderness,
surrounded by perils from the Indians and wild beasts, of
which he had so
recently and terribly been made aware, appears in its
true light. We have
heard of a Robinson Crusoe made so by the necessity
of shipwreck; but
all history can scarcely parallel another such an
instance of a man
voluntarily consenting to be left alone among savages
and wild beasts,
seven hundred miles from the nearest white inhabitant.
The separation came.
The elder brother disappeared in the forest, and
Daniel Boone was
left in the cabin, so recently cheered by the presence
of his brother,
entirely alone. Their only dog followed the departing
brother, and Boone
had nothing but his unconquerable spirit to sustain
him during the long
and lonely days and nights, visited by the
remembrance of his
distant wife and children.
To prevent the
recurrence of dark and lonely thoughts, he set out, soon
after his brother
left him, on a distant excursion to the north-west.
The country grew
still more charming under his eye at every step of his
advance. He
wandered through the delightful country of the Barrens, and
gained the heights
of one of the ridges of Salt river, whence he could
look back on the
Alleghany ridges, lifting their blue heads in the
direction of the
country of his wife and children. Before him rolled the
majestic Ohio, down
its dark forests, and seen by him for the first
time. It may be
imagined what thoughts came over his mind, as the lonely
hunter stood on the
shore of this mighty stream, straining his thoughts
towards its
sources, and the unknown country where it discharged itself
into some other
river, or the sea. During this journey he explored the
country on the
south shore of the Ohio, between the Cumberland and the
present site of
Louisville, experiencing in these lonely explorations a
strange pleasure,
which, probably, none but those of his temperament can
adequately imagine.
Returning to his
cabin, as a kind of head quarters, he found it
undisturbed by the
Indians. Caution suggested to him the expedient of
often changing his
position, and not continuing permanently to sleep in
the cabin.
Sometimes he slept in the cane-brake sometimes under the
covert of a limestone
cliff, often made aware on his return to the cabin
that the Indians
had discovered it, and visited it during his absence.
Surrounded with
danger and death, though insensible to fear, he
neglected none of
those prudent precautions of which men of his
temperament are
much more able to avail themselves, than those always
forecasting the
fashion of uncertain evils. He was, however, never for
an hour in want of
the most ample supply of food. Herds of deer and
buffaloes were
seldom out of his sight for a day together. His nights
were often
disturbed by the howling of wolves, which abounded as much as
the other forest
animals. His table thus abundantly spread in the
wilderness, and
every excursion affording new views of the beautiful
solitudes, he used
to affirm afterwards that this period was among the
happiest in his
life; that during it, care and melancholy, and a painful
sense of
loneliness, were alike unknown to him.
We must not,
however, suppose that the lonely hunter was capable only of
feeling the stern
and sullen pleasures of the savage. On the contrary,
he was a man of the
kindliest nature, and of the tenderest affections.
We have read of
verses, in solid columns, said to have been made by him.
We would be sorry
to believe him the author of these verses, for they
would redound
little to his honor as a poet. But, though we believe he
did not attempt to
make bad verses, the woodsman was essentially a
poet. He loved
nature in all her aspects of beauty and grandeur with the
intensest
admiration. He never wearied of admiring the charming natural
landscapes spread
before him; and, to his latest days, his spirit in old
age seemed to
revive in the season of spring, and when he visited the
fires of the sugar
camps, blazing in the open maple groves.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
Boone is pursued by
the Indians, and eludes their pursuit--He encounters
and kills a
bear--The return of his brother with ammunition--They
explore the
country--Boone kills a panther on the back of a
buffalo--They
return to North Carolina.
Boone's brother had
departed on the first of May. During the period of
his absence, which
lasted until the twenty-second of July, he considered
himself the only
white person west of the mountains. It is true, some
time in this year,
(1770,) probably in the latter part of it, an
exploring party led
by General James Knox, crossed the Alleghany
mountains. But this
exploring expedition confined its discoveries
principally to the
country south and west of the river Kentucky. This
exploration was desultory,
and without much result. Boone never met with
them, or knew that
they were in the country. Consequently, in regard to
his own estimation,
he was as completely alone in this unexplored world,
as though they had
not been there.
He never allowed himself
to neglect his caution in respect to the
numerous savages
spread over the country. He knew that he was exposed
every moment to the
danger of falling into their hands. The fate of
Stewart had served
as a warning to him. It is wonderful that he should
have been able to
traverse such an extent of country as he did, and live
in it so many
months, and yet evade them. It required no little
ingenuity and
self-possession to take such measures as insured this good
fortune.
About mid-day, near
the close of the month of June, he paused in one of
his excursions for
a short time under the shade of a tree. As he looked
cautiously around
him, he perceived four Indians advancing openly
towards him, but at
a considerable distance, and apparently without
having yet seen
him. He did not delay to recommence his course through
the woods, hoping
by short turns, and concealing himself among the
hills, to prevent
an encounter with them, as the chance of four to one
was too great an
odds against him. He advanced in this way one or two
miles; but as he
cast a glance behind, he saw, with pain, that they
sedulously followed
in his trail at nearly their first distance, showing
the same
perseverance and sagacity of pursuit with which a hound follows
a deer. When he
first perceived them, he was in such a position that he
could see them, and
yet remain himself unseen. He was convinced that
they had not
discovered his person, although so closely pursued by them.
But how to throw
them off his trail, he was at a loss to conjecture. He
adopted a number of
expedients in succession, but saw the Indians still
on the track
behind. Suddenly a method occurred to his imagination,
which finally
proved successful. Large grape vines swung from the trees
in all directions
around him.
Hastening onward at
a more rapid pace, until he passed a hill that would
serve to conceal
him for a few moments, he seized a vine sufficiently
strong to support
his weight; and disengaging it from the roots,
climbed it a few
feet, by bracing against the tree to which it was
attached. When he
had attained the necessary height, he gave himself so
strong an impulse
from the tree, that he reached the ground some yards
from the spot where
he left it. By this expedient he broke his trail.
Resuming his route
in a course at right angles from that he had
previously
followed, as fast as possible, he finally succeeded in
entirely distancing
his pursuers, and leaving them at fault in pursuing
his trail.
Boone soon after
this met with a second adventure in which he actually
encountered a foe
scarcely less formidable than the savage. Rendered
doubly watchful by
his late escape, none of the forest sounds escaped
his notice. Hearing
the approach of what he judged to be a large animal
by the noise of its
movement through the cane, he held his rifle ready
for instant use,
and drew from its sheath a long and sharp knife, which
he always wore in
his belt. He determined to try the efficacy of his
rifle first. As the
animal came in sight it proved to be a she bear.
They are exceedingly
ferocious at all times, and their attack is
dangerous and often
fatal; but particularly so, when they are surrounded
by their cubs, as
was the case in this instance.
As soon as the
animal perceived him it gave indications of an intention
to make battle.
Boone levelled his rifle, and remained quiet, until the
bear was
sufficiently near to enable him to shoot with effect. In
general his aim was
sure; but this time the ball not reach the point at
which he had aimed;
and the wound it inflicted only served to render
the animal mad with
rage and pain. It was impossible for him to reload
and discharge his
gun a second time before it would reach him; and yet
he did not relish
the idea of grappling with it in close fight. His
knife was the
resource to which he instantly turned. He held it in his
right hand in such
a position that the bear could not reach his person
without receiving
its point. His rifle, held in his left hand, served as
a kind of shield.
Thus prepared, he awaited the onset of the formidable
animal. When within
a foot of him, it reared itself erect to grasp him
with its huge paws.
In this position it pressed upon the knife until the
whole blade was
buried in its body. Boone had pointed it directly to the
heart of the
animal. It fell harmless to the ground.
[Illustration]
The time fixed for
the return of his brother was drawing near. Extreme
solicitude
respecting him now disturbed the hitherto even tenor of his
life. He remained
most of his time in his cabin, hunting no more than
was necessary for
subsistence, and then in the direction in which his
brother would be
likely to approach. It was not doubt of his brother's
compliance with his
promise of return, that disturbed the woodsman--such
a feeling never
even entered his mind. He was confident he would prove
faithful to the
trust reposed in him; but the difficulties and dangers
of the way were so
great for a solitary individual upon the route before
him, that Boone
feared he might fall a victim to them, notwithstanding
the utmost exertion
of self-possession and fortitude.
Day after day
passed, after the extreme limit of the period fixed by the
elder Boone for his
return, and still he came not. It may be imagined
that Boone had need
of all the firmness and philosophy of character,
with which he was
so largely endowed by nature, to sustain him under the
pressure of anxiety
for the safety of his brother, and to hear through
him from his
family. He suffered, too, from the conviction that he must
soon starve in the
wilderness himself, as his ammunition was almost
gone. He could not
hope to see his family again, unless his brother or
some other person
furnished him the means of obtaining food on his way
to rejoin them. His
rifle--his dependence for subsistence and
defence--would soon
become entirely useless. What to others would have
been real dangers
and trials--a solitary life in the wilderness,
exposure to the
attacks of the savages and wild beasts--were regarded by
him as nothing; but
here he saw himself driven to the last extremity,
and without
resource. These meditations, although they made him
thoughtful, did not
dispirit him. His spirit was unconquerable. He was
sitting one
evening, near sunset, at the door of his cabin, indulging in
reflections naturally
arising from his position. His attention was
withdrawn by a
sound as of something approaching through the forest.
Looking up, he saw
nothing, but he arose, and stood prepared for
defence. He could
now distinguish the sound as of horses advancing
directly towards
the cabin. A moment afterwards he saw, through the
trees, his brother
mounted on one horse, and leading another heavily
laden.
It would be useless
to attempt to describe his sensations at this sight.
Every one will feel
instantly, how it must have operated upon all the
sources of joy.
More unmixed happiness is seldom enjoyed on the earth,
than that, in which
the brothers spent this evening. His brother brought
him good news of
the health and welfare of his family, and of the
affectionate remembrance
in which he was held by them; and an abundant
supply of
ammunition, beside many other articles, that in his situation,
might be deemed
luxuries. The brothers talked over their supper, and
until late at
night, for they had much to relate to each other, and both
had been debarred
the pleasure of conversation so long that it now
seemed as though
they could never weary of it. The sun was high when
they awoke the
following morning. After breakfast, they held a
consultation with
respect to what was next to be done. From observation,
Boone was satisfied
that numbers of Indians, in small parties, were then
in the
neighborhood. He knew it was idle to suppose that two men,
however brave and
skilful in the use of their weapons, could survive
long in opposition
to them. He felt the impolicy of wasting more time in
roaming over the
country for the mere purpose of hunting.
He proposed to his
brother that they should immediately set themselves
seriously about selecting
the most eligible spot on which permanently to
fix his family.
This done, they would return together to North Carolina
to bring them out
to the new country. He did not doubt, that he could
induce a sufficient
number to accompany him, to render a residence in it
comparatively safe.
That they might accomplish this purpose with as
little delay as
possible, they proceeded the remainder of the day to
hunt, and prepare
food sufficient for some time. The following day they
completed the
necessary arrangement, and settled every thing for
departure on the
next morning.
They directed their
course to Cumberland river. In common with all
explorers of
unknown countries, they gave names to the streams which
they crossed. After
reaching Cumberland river, they traversed the region
upon its banks in
all directions for some days. Thence they took a more
northern route,
which led them to Kentucky river. The country around the
latter river
delighted them. Its soil and position were such as they
sought; and they
determined, that here should be the location of the new
settlement. Having
acquainted themselves, as far as they deemed
necessary, with the
character of the region to be revisited, their
returning journey
was recommenced. No incidents, but such as had marked
all the period of
their journeyings in the wilderness, the occasional
encounter of
Indians by day and the cries of wild beasts by night had
happened to them,
during their last exploration.
Upon the second day
of their advance in the direction of their home,
they heard the
approach of a drove of buffaloes. The brothers remarked,
that from the noise
there must be an immense number, or some uncommon
confusion among
them. As the buffaloes came in view, the woodsmen saw
the explanation of
the unusual uproar in a moment. The herd were in a
perfect fury,
stamping the ground and tearing it up, and rushing back
and forward upon
one another in all directions. A panther had seated
himself upon the
back of one of the largest buffaloes, and fastened his
claws and teeth into
the flesh of the animal, wherever he could reach
it, until the blood
ran down on all sides. The movements of a powerful
animal, under such
suffering, may be imagined. But plunging, rearing,
and running were to
no purpose. The panther retained its seat, and
continued its
horrid work. The buffalo, in its agony, sought relief in
the midst of its
companions, but instead of obtaining it, communicated
its fury to the
drove.
The travellers did
not care to approach the buffaloes too closely; but
Boone, picking the
flint of his rifle, and looking carefully at the
loading, took aim
at the panther, determined to displace the monster
from its seat. It
happened, that the buffalo continued a moment in a
position to allow
the discharge to take effect. The panther released its
hold, and came to
the ground. As generally happens in such cases, this
herd was followed
by a band of wolves. They prowl around for the remains
usually found in
the train of such numbers of animals. Another rifle was
discharged among
them, for the sport of seeing them scatter through the
woods.
[Illustration]
The brothers left
such traces--or blazes as they are technically
called--of their
course, as they thought would enable them to find it
again, until they reached
the foot of the mountains. They tried various
ascents, and
finally discovered a route, which, with some labor might be
rendered tolerably
easy. They proposed to cross the families here, and
blazed the path in
a way that could not be mistaken. This important
point settled, they
hastened to the settlement, which they reached
without accident.
CHAPTER VI.
Boone starts with
his family to Kentucky--Their return to Clinch
river--He conducts
a party of surveyors to the Falls of Ohio--He helps
build Boonesborough,
and removes his family to the fort--His daughter
and two of Col.
Calloway's daughters taken prisoners by the
Indians--They
pursue the Indians and rescue the captives.
The next step was
to collect a sufficient number of emigrants who would
be willing to
remove to the new country with the families of the Boones,
to give the
settlements security and strength to resist the attacks of
the Indians. This
was not an easy task. It may be readily imagined that
the Boones saw only
the bright side of the contemplated expedition. They
painted the
fertility and amenity of the flowering wilderness in the
most glowing
colors. They described the cane-brakes, the clover and
grass, the
transparent limestone springs and brooks, the open forests,
the sugar maple
orchards, the buffaloes, deer, turkeys and wild fowls,
in all the fervid
colors of their own imaginations. To them it was the
paradise of the
first pair, whose inhabitants had only to put forth
their hands, and
eat and enjoy. The depredations, captivities, and
scalpings, of the
Indians; the howling of the wolves; the diseases, and
peculiar trials and
difficulties of a new country, without houses,
mills, and the most
indispensable necessaries of civilized life, were
all overlooked. But
in such a case, in a compact settlement like that of
the Yadkin, there
are never wanting gainsayers, opposers, gossips, who
envied the Boones.
These caused those disposed to the enterprise to
hear the other
part, and to contemplate the other side of the picture.
They put stories in
circulation as eloquent as those of the Boones,
which told of all
the scalpings, captivities, and murders of the
Indians, magnified
in a tenfold proportion. With them, the savages were
like the ogres and
bloody giants of nursery stories. They had pleasant
tales of
horn-snakes, of such deadly malignity, that the thorn in their
tails, struck into
the largest tree in full verdure, instantly blasted
it. They scented in
the air of the country, deadly diseases, and to
them, Boone's
paradise was a _Hinnom, the valley of the shadow of
death_.
The minds of the
half resolved, half doubting persons, that meditated
emigration,
vibrated alternately backwards and forwards, inclined or
disinclined to it,
according to the last view of the case presented to
them. But the
natural love of adventure, curiosity, fondness for the
hunting life,
dissatisfaction with the incessant labor necessary for
subsistence on
their present comparatively sterile soil, joined to the
confident eloquence
of the Boones, prevailed on four or five families to
join them in the
expedition.
All the necessary
arrangements of preparing for this distant expedition,
of making sales and
purchases, had occupied nearly two years. The
expedition
commenced its march on the 26th of September, 1773. They all
set forth with
confident spirits for the western wilderness, and were
joined by forty
persons in Powell's Valley, a settlement in advance of
that on the Yadkin,
towards the western country. The whole made a
cavalcade of nearly
eighty persons.
The three principal
ranges of the Alleghany, over which they must pass,
were designated as
Powell's, Walden's, and Cumberland. These mountains
forming the barrier
between the old settlements and the new country,
stretch from the
north-east to the south-west. They are of great length
and breadth, and
not far distant from each other. There are
nature-formed
passes over them, which render the ascent comparatively
easy. The aspect of
these huge piles was so wild and rugged, as to make
it natural for those
of the party who were unaccustomed to mountains, to
express fears of
being able to reach the opposite side. The course
traced by the
brothers on their return to Carolina, was found and
followed. The
advantage of this forethought was strongly perceived by
all. Their progress
was uninterrupted by any adverse circumstance, and
every one was in
high spirits, until the west side of Walden's ridge,
the most elevated
of the three, had been gained. They were now destined
to experience a
most appalling reverse of fortune.
On the tenth of
October, as the party were advancing along a narrow
defile,
unapprehensive of danger, they were suddenly terrified by
fearful yells.
Instantly aware that Indians surrounded them, the men
sprang to the
defence of the helpless women and children. But the attack
had been so sudden,
and the Indians were so much superior in point of
numbers, that six
men fell at the first onset of the savages. A seventh
was wounded, and
the party would have been overpowered, but for a
general and effective
discharge of the rifles of the remainder. The
Indians,
terror-struck, took to flight, and disappeared.
Had the numbers of
the travellers allowed it, they felt no inclination
to pursue the
retreating Indians. Their loss had been too serious to
permit the
immediate gratification of revenge. The eldest son of Daniel
Boone was found
among the slain. The domestic animals accompanying the
expedition were so
scattered by the noise of the affray, that it was
impossible again to
collect and recover them. The distress and
discouragement of
the party were so great, as to produce an immediate
determination to
drop the projected attempt of a settlement in Kentucky,
and return to
Clinch river, which lay forty miles in their rear, where a
number of families had
already fixed themselves.
They then proceeded
to perform the last melancholy duties to the bodies
of their
unfortunate companions with all decent observances which
circumstances would
allow. Their return was then commenced. Boone and
his brother, with
some others, did not wish to forsake the undertaking
upon which they had
set out; but the majority against them was so great,
and the feeling on
the subject so strong, that they were compelled to
acquiesce. The
party retraced, in deep sadness, the steps they had so
lately taken in
cheerfulness, and even joy.
Daniel Boone
remained with his family on Clinch river, until June, 1774;
when he was
requested by the governor of Virginia to go to the falls of
Ohio, to act as a
guide to a party of surveyors. The manifestations of
hostility, on the
part of the Indians, were such, that their longer stay
was deemed unsafe.
Boone undertook to perform this service, and set out
upon this journey,
with no other companion than a man by the name of
Stoner. They
reached the point of destination, now Louisville, in a
surprisingly short
period, without any accident. Under his guidance the
surveyors arrived
at the settlements in safety. From the time that Boone
left his home, upon
this enterprise, until he returned to it, was but
sixty-two days.
During this period he travelled eight hundred miles on
foot, through a
country entirely destitute of human habitations, save
the camps of the
Indians.
In the latter part
of this year, the disturbances between the Indians
north-west of the
Ohio, and the frontier settlers, grew to open
hostilities. Daniel
Boone being in Virginia, the governor appointed him
to the command of
three contiguous garrisons on the frontier, with the
commission of
captain. The campaign of the year terminated in a battle,
after which the
militia were disbanded. Boone was consequently relieved
from duty.
Col. Henderson, of
North Carolina, had been for some time engaged in
forming a company
in that state, for the purpose of purchasing the lands
on the south side
of the Kentucky, from the southern Indians. The plan
was now matured,
and Boone was solicited by the company to attend the
treaty to be made
between them and the Indians, at Wataga, in March,
1775, to settle the
terms of the negociation. The requisite information,
in respect to the
proposed purchase, was given him, and he acceded to
the request. At the
appointed time, he attended and successfully
performed the
service intrusted to him. Soon afterwards the same company
applied to him to
lay out a road between the settlements on Holston
river and Kentucky
river. No little knowledge of the country, and
judgment were
requisite for the proper fulfilment of this service. A
great many
different routes must be examined, before the most
practicable one
could be fixed upon. The duty was, however, executed by
Boone, promptly and
faithfully. The labor was great, owing to the rugged
and mountainous
country, through which the route led. The laborers, too,
suffered from the
repeated attacks of Indians. Four of them were killed,
and five wounded.
The remainder completed this work, by reaching
Kentucky river, in
April, of the same year. They immediately proceeded
to erect a fort
near a salt spring, where Boonesborough now stands. The
party, enfeebled by
its losses, did not complete the erection of the
fort until June.
The Indians troubled them exceedingly, and killed one
man. The fort
consisted of a block-house, and several cabins, surrounded
by palisades.
The fort being
finished, Boone returned to his family, and soon after
removed them to
this first garrison of Kentucky. The purpose on which
his heart had so
long been set, was now accomplished. His wife and
daughters were the
first white women that ever stood on the banks of
Kentucky river. In
our zeal to blazon our subject, it is not affirmed,
that Boone was
absolutely the first discoverer and explorer of Kentucky,
for he was not. But
the high meed of being the first actual settler and
cultivator of the
soil, cannot be denied him. It was the pleasant season
of the close of
summer and commencement of autumn, when the immigrants
would see their new
residence in the best light. Many of its actual
inconveniences were
withheld from observation, as the mildness of the
air precluded the
necessity of tight dwellings. Arrangements were made
for cultivating a
field in the coming spring. The Indians, although far
from friendly, did
not attempt any immediate assault upon their new
neighbors, and the
first events of the settlement were decidedly
fortunate. The game
in the woods was an unfailing resource for food. The
supplies brought
from their former homes by the immigrants were not yet
exhausted, and
things went on in their usual train, with the added
advantage, that
over all, in their new home, was spread the charm of
novelty.
Winter came and
passed with as little discomfort to the inmates of the
garrison as could
be expected from the circumstances of their position.
The cabins were
thoroughly daubed, and fuel was of course abundant. It
is true, those who
felled the trees were compelled to be constantly on
their guard, lest a
red man should take aim at them from the shelter of
some one of the
forest hiding places. But they were fitted for this way
of getting along by
their training, natures, and predilections. There
was no want of
excitement during the day, or even night--nothing of the
wearying monotony
to which a life of safe and regular occupation is
subject. Spring
opened. The trees were girdled, and the brush cut down
and burned,
preparatory to ploughing the field. A garden spot was marked
off, the virgin
earth thrown up and softened, and then given in charge
to the wives and
daughters of the establishment. They brought out their
stock of seeds,
gathered in the old settlements, and every bright day
saw them engaged in
the light and healthful occupation of planting them.
They were protected
by the vicinity of their husbands and fathers, and
in turn cheered
them in their severer labors. The Indians had forborne
any attacks upon
the settlers so long, that, as is naturally the case,
they had ceased in
a degree to dwell upon the danger always to be
apprehended from
them. The men did not fail to take their rifles and
knives with them
whenever they went abroad; but the women ventured
occasionally a
short distance without the palisades during the day,
never, however,
losing sight of the fort. This temerity was destined to
cost them dear.
Colonel Calloway,
the intimate friend of Boone, had joined him in the
course of the
spring, at the fort, which had received, by the consent of
all, the name of Boonesborough.
He had two daughters. Captain Boone had
a daughter also,
and the three were companions; and, if we may take the
portraits of the
rustic time, patterns of youthful bloom and loveliness.
It cannot be
doubted that they were inexpressibly dear to their
parents. These
girls, at the close of a beautiful summer day, the 14th
of July, were
tempted imprudently to wander into the woods at no great
distance from their
habitations, to gather flowers with which to adorn
their rustic
fire-places. They were suddenly surrounded by half a dozen
Indians. Their
shrieks and efforts to flee were alike unavailing. They
were dragged
rapidly beyond the power of making themselves heard. As
soon as they were
deemed to be beyond the danger of rescue, they were
treated with the
utmost indulgence and decorum.
This forbearance,
of a race that we are accustomed to call savages, was
by no means
accidental, or peculiar to this case. While in battle, they
are unsparing and
unrelenting as tigers--while, after the fury of its
excitement is past,
they will exult with frantic and demoniac joy in the
cries of their
victims expiring at a slow fire--while they dash the
tomahawk with
merciless indifference into the cloven skulls of mothers
and infants, they
are universally seen to treat captive women with a
decorous
forbearance. This strange trait, so little in keeping with
other parts of
their character, has been attributed by some to their
want of the
sensibilities and passions of our race. The true solution
is, the force of their
habits. Honor, as they estimate it, is, with
them, the most
sacred and inviolable of all laws. The decorum of
forbearance towards
women in their power has been incorporated with
their code as the
peculiar honor of a warrior. It is usually kept sacred
and inviolate.
Instances are not wanting where they have shown
themselves the most
ardent lovers of their captives, and, we may add,
most successful in
gaining their voluntary affection in return. Enough
such examples are
recorded, were other proofs wanting, to redeem their
forbearance from
the negative character resulting from the want of
passions.
The captors of
these young ladies, having reached the main body of their
people, about a
dozen in number, made all the provision in their power
for the comfort of
their fair captives. They served them with their best
provisions, and by
signs and looks that could not be mistaken, attempted
to soothe their
agonies, and quiet their apprehensions and fears. The
parents at the
garrison, having waited in vain for the return of their
gay and beloved
daughters to prepare their supper, and in torments of
suspense that may
easily be imagined, until the evening, became aware
that they were
either lost or made captives. They sallied forth in
search of them, and
scoured the woods in every direction, without
discovering a trace
of them. They were then but too well convinced that
they had been taken
by the Indians. Captain Boone and Colonel Calloway,
the agonizing
parents of the lost ones, appealed to the company to
obtain volunteers
to pursue the Indians, under an oath, if they found
the captors, either
to retake their daughters, or die in the attempt.
The oath of Boone
on this occasion is recorded: "By the Eternal Power
that made me a father,
if my daughter lives, and is found, I will either
bring her back, or
spill my life blood." The oath was no sooner uttered
than every
individual of the males crowded round Boone to repeat it. But
he reminded them
that a part of their number must remain to defend the
station. Seven
select persons only were admitted to the oath, along with
the fathers of the
captives. The only difficulty was in making the
selection.
Supplying themselves with knapsacks, rifles, ammunition, and
provisions, the
party set forth on the pursuit.
Hitherto they had
been unable to find the trail of the captors. Happily
they fell upon it
by accident. But the Indians, according to their
custom, had taken
so much precaution to hide their trail, that they
found themselves
exceedingly perplexed to keep it, and they were obliged
to put forth all
the acquirement and instinct of woodsmen not to find
themselves every
moment at fault in regard to their course. The rear
Indians of the file
had covered their foot prints with leaves. They
often turned off at
right angles; and whenever they came to a branch,
walked in the water
for some distance. At a place of this sort, the
pursuers were for
some time wholly unable to find at what point the
Indians had left
the branch, and began to despair of regaining their
trail. In this
extreme perplexity, one of the company was attracted by
an indication of
their course, which proved that the daughters shared
the sylvan sagacity
of their parents. "God bless my dear child,"
exclaimed Colonel
Calloway; "she has proved that she had strength of
mind in her
deplorable condition to retain self possession." At the same
instant he picked
up a little piece of ribbon, which he instantly
recognized as his
daughter's. She had evidently committed it unobserved
to the air, to
indicate the course of her captors. The trail was soon
regained, and the
company resumed their march with renewed alacrity.
They were
afterwards often at a loss to keep the trail, from the extreme
care of the Indians
to cover and destroy it. But still, in their
perplexity, the
sagacious expedient of the fair young captives put them
right. A shred of
their handkerchief, or of some part of their dress,
which they had
intrusted to the wind unobserved, indicated their course,
and that the captives
were thus far not only alive, but that their
reasoning powers,
unsubdued by fatigue, were active and buoyant. Next
day, in passing
places covered with mud, deposited by the dry branches
on the way, the
foot prints of the captives were distinctly traced,
until the pursuers
had learned to discriminate not only the number, but
the peculiar form
of each foot print.
Late in the evening
of the fifteenth day's pursuit, from a little
eminence, they
discovered in the distance before them, through the
woods, a smoke and
the light of a fire. The palpitation of their
parental hearts may
be easily imagined. They could not doubt that it was
the camp of the
captors of their children. The plan of recapture was
intrusted entirely
to Boone. He led his company as near the enemy as he
deemed might be
done with safety, and selecting a position under the
shelter of a hill,
ordered them to halt, with a view to passing the
night in that
place. They then silently took food as the agitation of
their minds would allow.
All but Calloway, another selected person of
their number, and
himself, were permitted to lie down, and get that
sleep of which they
had been so long deprived. The three impatiently
waited for
midnight, when the sleep of the Indians would be most likely
to be profound.
They stationed the third person selected, on the top of
the eminence,
behind which they were encamped, as a sentinel to await a
given signal from
the fathers, which should be his indication to fly to
the camp and arouse
the sleepers, and bring them to their aid. Then
falling prostrate,
they crept cautiously, and as it were by inches,
towards the Indian
camp.
Having reached a
covert of bushes, close by the Indian camp, and
examined as well as
they could by the distant light of the camp-fires,
the order of their
rifles, they began to push aside the bushes, and
survey the camp
through the opening. Seventeen Indians were stretched,
apparently in sound
sleep, on the ground. But they looked in vain among
them for the dear
objects of their pursuit. They were not long in
discovering another
camp a little remote from that of the Indians. They
crawled cautiously
round to take a survey of it. Here, to their
inexpressible joy,
were their daughters in each others arms. Directly in
front of their camp
were two Indians, with their tomahawks and other
weapons within
their grasp. The one appeared to be in a sound sleep, and
the other keeping
the most circumspective vigils.
The grand object
now was to get possession of the prisoners without
arousing their
captors, the consequence of which it was obvious, would
be the immediate
destruction of the captives. Boone made a signal to
Calloway to take a
sure aim at the sleeping Indian, so as to be able to
despatch him in a
moment, if the emergency rendered that expedient
necessary. Boone,
the while, crawled round, so as to reach the waking
Indian from behind;
intending to spring upon him and strangle him, so as
to prevent his
making a noise to awaken the sleeper. But, unfortunately,
this Indian instead
of being asleep was wide awake, and on a careful
look out. The
shadow of Boone coming on them from behind, aroused him.
He sprang erect,
and uttered a yell that made the ancient woods ring,
leaving no doubt
that the other camp would be instantly alarmed. The
captives, terrified
by the war yell of their sentinels, added their
screams of
apprehension, and every thing was in a moment in confusion.
The first movement
of Boone was to fire. But the forbearance of
Calloway, and his
own more prudent second thought, restrained him. It
was hard to forego
such a chance for vengeance, but their own lives and
their children's
would probably pay the forfeit, and they fired not. On
the contrary, they
surrendered themselves to the Indians, who rushed
furiously in a mass
around them. By significant gestures, and a few
Indian words, which
they had learned, they implored the lives of their
captive children,
and opportunity for a parley. Seeing them in their
power, and
comprehending the language of defenceless suppliants, their
fury was at length
with some difficulty restrained and appeased. They
seemed evidently
under the influence of a feeling of compassion towards
the daughters, to
which unquestionably the adventurous fathers were
indebted, that
their lives were not instantly sacrificed. Binding them
firmly with cords,
and surrounding them with sentinels, the Indians
retired to their
camp, not to resume their sleep, but to hold a council
to settle the fate
of their new prisoners.
What were the thoughts
of the captive children, or of the disinterested
and brave parents,
as they found themselves bound, and once more in the
power of their
enemies--what was the bitter disappointment of the one,
and the agonizing
filial apprehension of the other--may be much more
readily imagined
than described. But the light of the dawn enabled the
daughters to see,
in the countenances of their fathers, as they lay
bound and
surrounded by fierce savages, unextinguishable firmness, and
undaunted
resolution, and a consciousness of noble motives; and they
imbibed from the
view something of the magnanimity of their parents, and
assumed that
demeanor of composure and resolute endurance which is
always the readiest
expedient to gain all the respect and forbearance
that an Indian can
grant.
It would be
difficult to fancy a state of more torturing suspense than
that endured by the
companions of Boone and Calloway, who had been left
behind the hill.
Though they had slept little since the commencement of
the expedition, and
had been encouraged by the two fathers, their
leaders to sleep
that night, the emergency was too exciting to admit of
sleep.
Often, during the
night, had they aroused themselves, in expectation of
the return of the
fathers, or of a signal for action. But the night wore
away, and the
morning dawned, without bringing either the one or the
other. But
notwithstanding this distressing state of suspense, they had
a confidence too
undoubting in the firmness and prudence of their
leader, to think of
approaching the Indian camp until they should
receive the
appointed signal.
It would naturally
be supposed that the deliberation of the Indian
council, which had
been held to settle the fate of Boone and Calloway,
would end in
sentencing them to run the gauntlet, and then amidst the
brutal laughter and
derision of their captors, to be burnt to death at a
slow fire. Had the
prisoners betrayed the least signs of fear, the least
indications of a
subdued mind, such would in all probability have been
the issue of the
Indian consultation. Such, however, was not the result
of the council. It
was decreed that they should be killed with as little
noise as possible;
their scalps taken as trophies, and that their
daughters should
remain captives as before. The lenity of this sentence
may be traced to
two causes. The daring hardihood, the fearless
intrepidity of the
adventure, inspired them with unqualified admiration
for their captives.
Innumerable instances have since been recorded,
where the most
inveterate enemies have boldly ventured into the camp of
their enemy, have
put themselves in their power, defied them to their
face and have
created an admiration of their fearless daring, which has
caused that they
have been spared and dismissed unmolested. This sort of
feeling had its
influence on the present occasion in favor of the
prisoners. Another
extenuating influence was, that hostilities between
the white and red
men in the west had as yet been uncommon; and the
mutual fury had not
been exasperated by murder and retaliation.
As soon as it was
clear morning light, the Indian camp was in motion. As
a business
preliminary to their march, Boone and Calloway were led out
and bound to a
tree, and the warriors were selected who were to despatch
them with their
tomahawks. The place of their execution was selected at
such a distance
from their camp, as that the daughters might not be able
to witness it. The
two prisoners were already at the spot, awaiting the
fatal blow, when a
discharge of rifles, cutting down two of the savages
at the first shot,
arrested their proceedings. Another and another
discharge followed.
The Indians were as yet partially supplied with fire
arms, and had not
lost any of their original dread of the effects of
this artificial
thunder, and the invisible death of the balls. They were
ignorant, moreover,
of the number of their assailants, and naturally
apprehended it to
be greater than it was. They raised a yell of
confusion, and
dispersed in every direction, leaving their dead behind,
and the captives to
their deliverers. The next moment the children were
in the arms of
their parents; and the whole party, in the unutterable
joy of conquest and
deliverance, were on their way homewards.
[Illustration]
It need hardly be
added that the brave associates of the expedition who
had been left in
camp, having waited the signal for the return of Boone
and Calloway, until
their patience and forbearance was exhausted, aware
that something
serious must have prevented their return, reconnoitered
the movement of the
Indians as they moved from their camp to despatch
their two
prisoners, and fired upon them at the moment they were about
to put their
sentence into execution.
About this time a new
element began to exasperate and extend the ravages
of Indian warfare,
along the whole line of the frontier settlements. The
war of Independence
had already begun to rage. The influence and
resources of Great
Britain extended along the immense chain of our
frontier, from the
north-eastern part of Vermont and New York, all the
way to the
Mississippi. Nor did this nation, to her everlasting infamy,
hesitate to engage
these infuriate allies of the wilderness, whose known
rule of warfare was
indiscriminate vengeance; without reference to the
age or sex of the
foe, as auxiliaries in the war.
As this
biographical sketch of the life of Boone is inseparably
interwoven with
this border scene of massacres, plunderings, burnings,
and captivities,
which swept the incipient northern and western
settlements with
desolation, it may not be amiss to take a brief
retrospect of the
state of these settlements at this conjuncture in the
life of Boone.
CHAPTER VII.
Settlement of
Harrodsburgh--Indian mode of besieging and
warfare--Fortitude
and privation of the Pioneers--The Indians attack
Harrodsburgh and
Boonesborough--Description of a Station--Attack of
Bryant's Station.
A road sufficient
for the passage of pack horses in single file, had
been opened from
the settlements already commenced on Holston river to
Boonesborough in
Kentucky. It was an avenue which soon brought other
adventurers, with
their families to the settlement. On the northern
frontier of the
country, the broad and unbroken bosom of the Ohio opened
an easy liquid
highway of access to the country. The first spots
selected as landing
places and points of ingress into the country, were
Limestone--now
Maysville--at the mouth of Limestone creek, and Beargrass
creek, where
Louisville now stands. Boonesborough and Harrodsburgh were
the only stations
in Kentucky sufficiently strong to be safe from the
incursions of the
Indians; and even these places afforded no security a
foot beyond the
palisades. These two places were the central points
towards which
emigrants directed their course from Limestone and
Louisville. The
routes from these two places were often ambushed by the
Indians. But
notwithstanding the danger of approach to the new country,
and the incessant
exposure during the residence there, immigrants
continued to arrive
at the stations.
The first female
white settlers of Harrodsburgh, were Mrs. Denton,
McGary, and Hogan,
who came with their husbands and families. A number
of other families
soon followed, among whom, in 1776, came Benjamin
Logan, with his wife
and family. These were all families of
respectability and
standing, and noted in the subsequent history of the
country.
Hordes of savages
were soon afterwards ascertained to have crossed the
Ohio, with the
purpose to extirpate these germs of social establishments
in Kentucky.
According to their usual mode of warfare, they separated
into numerous
detachments, and dispersed in all directions through the
forests. This gave
them the aspect of numbers and strength beyond
reality. It tended
to increase the apprehensions of the recent
immigrants,
inspiring the natural impressions, that the woods in all
directions were
full of Indians. It enabled them to fight in detail,--to
assail different
settlements at the same time, and to fill the whole
country with consternation.
Their mode of
besieging these places, though not at all conformable to
the notions of a
siege derived from the tactics of a civilized people,
was dictated by the
most profound practical observation, operating upon
existing
circumstances. Without cannon or scaling ladders, their hope of
carrying a station,
or fortified place, was founded upon starving the
inmates, cutting
off their supplies of water, killing them, as they
exposed themselves,
in detail, or getting possession of the station by
some of the arts of
dissimulation. Caution in their tactics is still
more strongly
inculcated than bravery. Their first object is to secure
themselves; their
next, to kill their enemy. This is the universal
Indian maxim from Nova
Zembla to Cape Horn. In besieging a place, they
are seldom seen in
force upon any particular quarter. Acting in small
parties, they
disperse themselves, and lie concealed among bushes or
weeds, behind trees
or stumps. They ambush the paths to the barn,
spring, or field.
They discharge their rifle or let fly their arrow, and
glide away without
being seen, content that their revenge should issue
from an invisible
source. They kill the cattle, watch the watering
places, and cut off
all supplies. During the night, they creep, with the
inaudible and
stealthy step dictated by the animal instinct, to a
concealed position
near one of the gates, and patiently pass many
sleepless nights,
so that they may finally cut off some ill-fated
person, who
incautiously comes forth in the morning. During the day, if
there be near the
station grass, weeds, bushes, or any distinct
elevation of the
soil, however small, they crawl, as prone as reptiles,
to the place of
concealment, and whoever exposes the smallest part of
his body through
any part or chasm, receives their shot, behind the
smoke of which they
instantly cower back to their retreat. When they
find their foe
abroad, they boldly rush upon him, and make him prisoner,
or take his scalp.
At times they approach the walls or palisades with
the most audacious
daring, and attempt to fire them, or beat down the
gate. They
practice, with the utmost adroitness, the stratagem of a
false alarm on one
side when the real assault is intended for the other.
With untiring
perseverance, when their stock of provisions is exhausted,
they set forth to
hunt, as on common occasions, resuming their station
near the besieged
place as soon as they are supplied.
It must he
confessed, that they had many motives to this persevering and
deadly hostility,
apart from their natural propensity to war. They saw
this new and hated
race of pale faces gradually getting possession of
their hunting
grounds, and cutting down their forests. They reasoned
forcibly and
justly, that the time, when to oppose these new intruders
with success, was
to do it before they had become numerous and strong in
diffused population
and resources. Had they possessed the skill of
corporate union,
combining individual effort with a general concert of
attack, and
directed their united force against each settlement in
succession, there
is little doubt, that at this time they might have
extirpated the new
inhabitants from Kentucky, and have restored it to
the empire of the
wild beasts and the red men. But in the order of
events it was
otherwise arranged. They massacred, they burnt, and
plundered, and
destroyed. They killed cattle, and carried off the
horses;--inflicting
terror, poverty, and every species of distress; but
were not able to
make themselves absolute masters of a single station.
It has been found
by experiment, that the settlers in such predicaments
of danger and
apprehension, act under a most spirit-stirring excitement,
which,
notwithstanding its alarms, is not without its pleasures. They
acquired fortitude,
dexterity, and that kind of courage which results
from becoming
familiar with exposure.
The settlements
becoming extended, the Indians, in their turn, were
obliged to put
themselves on the defensive. They cowered in the distant
woods for
concealment, or resorted to them for hunting. In these
intervals, the
settlers, who had acquired a kind of instinctive
intuition to know
when their foe was near them, or had retired to
remoter forests,
went forth to plough their corn, gather in their
harvests, collect their
cattle, and pursue their agricultural
operations. These
were their holyday seasons for hunting, during which
they often
exchanged shots with their foe. The night, as being most
secure from Indian
attack, was the common season selected for journeying
from garrison to
garrison.
We, who live in the
midst of scenes of abundance and tranquillity can
hardly imagine how
a country could fill with inhabitants, under so many
circumstances of
terror, in addition to all the hardships incident to
the commencement of
new establishments in the wilderness; such as want
of society, want of
all the regular modes of supply, in regard to the
articles most
indispensable in every stage of the civilized condition.
There were no
mills, no stores, no regular supplies of clothing, salt,
sugar, and the
luxuries of tea and coffee. But all these dangers and
difficulties
notwithstanding, under the influence of an inexplicable
propensity,
families in the old settlements used to comfort and
abundance, were
constantly arriving to encounter all these dangers and
privations. They
began to spread over the extensive and fertile country
in every
direction--presenting such numerous and dispersed marks to
Indian hostility,
red men became perplexed, amidst so many conflicting
temptations to vengeance,
which to select.
The year 1776 was
memorable in the annals of Kentucky, as that in which
General George
Rogers Clark first visited it, unconscious, it may be, of
the imperishable
honors which the western country would one day reserve
for him. This same
year Captain Wagin arrived in the country, and
_fixed_ in a
solitary cabin on Hinkston's Fork of the Licking.
In the autumn of
this year, most of the recent immigrants to Kentucky
returned to the old
settlements, principally in Virginia. They carried
with them strong
representations, touching the fertility and advantages
of their new
residence; and communicated the impulse of their hopes and
fears extensively
among their fellow-citizens by sympathy.
The importance of
the new settlement was already deemed to be such, that
on the meeting of
the legislature of Virginia, the governor recommended
that the
south-western part of the county of Fincastle--so this vast
tract of country
west of the Alleghanies had hitherto been
considered--should
be erected into a separate county by the name of
Kentucky.
This must be
considered an important era in the history of the country.
The new county
became entitled to two representatives in the legislature
of Virginia, to a
court and judge; in a word, to all the customary
civil, military,
and judicial officers of a new county. In the year
1777, the county
was duly organized, according to the act of the
Virginia
legislature. Among the names of the first officers in the new
county, we
recognize those of Floyd, Bowman, Logan, and Todd.
Harrodsburgh, the
strongest and most populous station in the country,
had not hitherto
been assailed by the Indians. Early in the spring of
1777, they attacked
a small body of improvers marching to Harrodsburgh,
about four miles from
that place. Mr. Kay, afterwards General Kay, and
his brother were of
the party. The latter was killed, and another man
made prisoner. The
fortunate escape of James Kay, then fifteen years
old, was the
probable cause of the saving of Harrodsburgh from
destruction. Flying
from the scene of attack and the death of his
brother, he reached
the station and gave the inhabitants information,
that a large body
of Indians was marching to attack the place. The
Indians themselves,
aware that the inhabitants had been premonished of
their approach,
seem to have been disheartened; for they did not reach
the station till
the next day. Of course, it had been put in the best
possible state of
defence, and prepared for their reception.
The town was now
invested by the savage force, and something like a
regular siege
commenced. A brisk firing ensued. In the course of the day
the Indians left
one of their dead to fall into the hands of the
besieged--a rare
occurrence, as it is one of their most invariable
customs to remove their
wounded and dead from the possession of the
enemy. The besieged
had four men wounded and one of them mortally. The
Indians,
unacquainted with the mode of conducting a siege, and little
accustomed to open
and fair fight, and dispirited by the vigorous
reception given
them by the station, soon decamped, and dispersed in the
forests to supply
themselves with provisions by hunting.
On the 15th of
April, 1777, a body of one hundred savages invested
Boonesborough, the residence
of Daniel Boone. The greater number of the
Indians had fire
arms, though some of them were still armed with bows
and arrows. This
station, having its defence conducted by such a gallant
leader, gave them
such a warm reception that they were glad to draw off;
though not till
they had killed one and wounded four of the inhabitants.
Their loss could
not be ascertained, as they carefully removed their
dead and wounded.
In July following,
the residence of Boone was again besieged by a body
of Indians, whose
number was increased to two hundred. With their
numbers, their
hardihood and audacity were increased in proportion. To
prevent the
neighboring stations from sending assistance, detachments
from their body
assailed most of the adjacent settlements at the same
time. The gallant
inmates of the station made them repent their
temerity, though,
as formerly, with some loss; one of their number
having been killed
and two wounded. Seven of the Indians were distinctly
counted from the
fort among the slain; though, according to custom, the
bodies were
removed. After a close siege, and almost constant firing
during two days,
the Indians raised a yell of disappointment, and
disappeared in the
forests.
In order to present
distinct views of the sort of enemy, with whom Boone
had to do, and to
present pictures of the aspect of Indian warfare in
those times, we
might give sketches of the repeated sieges of
Harrodsburgh and
Boonesborough, against which--as deemed the strong
holds of the _Long-knife,_
as they called the Americans--their most
formidable and
repeated efforts were directed. There is such a sad and
dreary uniformity
in these narratives, that the history of one may
almost stand for
that of all. They always present more or less killed
and wounded on the
part of the stations, and a still greater number on
that of the
Indians. Their attacks of stations having been uniformly
unsuccessful, they
returned to their original modes of warfare,
dispersing
themselves in small bodies over all the country, and
attacking
individual settlers in insulated cabins, and destroying women
and children. But
as most of these annals belong to the general history
of Kentucky, and do
not particularly tend to develop the character of
the subject of this
biography, we shall pretermit them, with a single
exception. At the
expense of an anachronism, and as a fair sample of the
rest, we shall
present that, as one of the most prominent Indian sieges
recorded in these
early annals. It will not be considered an episode, if
it tend to convey
distinct ideas of the structure and form of a
_station_, and the
modes of attack and defence in those times. It was in
such scenes that
the fearless daring, united with the cool, prudent, and
yet efficient
counsels of Daniel Boone, were peculiarly conspicuous.
With this view we
offer a somewhat detailed account of the attack of
Bryant's station.
As we know of no
place, nearer than the sources of the Mississippi, or
the Rocky
Mountains, where the refuge of a _station_ is now requisite
for security from
the Indians; as the remains of those that were
formerly built are
fast mouldering to decay; and as in a few years
history will be the
only depository of what the term _station_ imports,
we deem it right, in
this place, to present as graphic a view as we may,
of a station, as we
have seen them in their ruins in various points of
the west.
The first
immigrants to Tennessee and Kentucky, as we have seen, came in
pairs and small
bodies. These pioneers on their return to the old
settlements,
brought back companies and societies.--Friends and
connections, old
and young, mothers and daughters, flocks, herds,
domestic animals,
and the family dogs, all set forth on the patriarchal
emigration for the
land of promise together. No disruption of the tender
natal and moral
ties; no annihilation of the reciprocity of domestic
kindness,
friendship, and love, took place. The cement and panoply
of affection, and
good will bound them together at once in the social
tie, and the union
for defence. Like the gregarious tenants of the air
in their annual
migrations, they brought their true home, that is to say
their charities
with them. In their state of extreme isolation from the
world they had
left, the kindly social propensities were found to grow
more strong in the
wilderness. The current of human affections in fact
naturally flows in
a deeper and more vigorous tide, in proportion as it
is diverted into
fewer channels.
These immigrants to
the Bloody Ground, coming to survey new aspects of
nature, new forests
and climates, and to encounter new privations,
difficulties and
dangers, were bound together by a new sacrament of
friendship, new and
unsworn oaths, to stand by each other for life and
for death. How often
have we heard the remains of this primitive race of
Kentucky deplore
the measured distance and jealousy, the heathen rivalry
and selfishness of
the present generation, in comparison with the unity
of heart, dangers
and fortunes of these primeval times--reminding one of
the simple
kindness, the community of property, and the union of heart
among the first
Christians!
Another
circumstance of this picture ought to be redeemed from oblivion.
We suspect that the
general impressions of the readers of this day is,
that the first
hunters and settlers of Kentucky and Tennessee were a
sort of
demi-savages. Imagination depicts them with long beard, and a
costume of skins,
rude, fierce, and repulsive. Nothing can be wider from
the fact. These
progenitors of the west were generally men of noble,
square, erect
forms, broad chests, clear, bright, truth-telling eyes,
and of vigorous
intellects.
All this is not
only matter of historical record, but in the natural
order of things.
The first settlers of America were originally a noble
stock. These, their
descendants, had been reared under circumstances
every way
calculated to give them manly beauty and noble forms. They had
breathed a free and
a salubrious air. The field and forest exercise
yielded them
salutary viands, and appetite and digestion corresponding.
Life brought them
the sensations of high health, herculean vigor, and
redundant joy.
When a social band
of this description had planted their feet on the
virgin soil, the first
object was to fix on a spot, central to the most
fertile tract of
land that could be found, combining the advantages
usually sought by
the first settlers. Among these was, that the station
should be on the
summit of a gentle swell, where pawpaw, cane, and wild
clover, marked
exuberant fertility; and where the trees were so sparse,
and the soil
beneath them so free from underbrush, that the hunter could
ride at half speed.
The virgin soil, as yet friable, untrodden, and not
cursed with the
blight of politics, party, and feud, yielded, with
little other
cultivation than planting, from eighty to a hundred bushels
of maize to the
acre, and all other edibles suited to the soil and
climate, in
proportion.
The next thing,
after finding this central nucleus of a settlement, was
to convert it into
a _station_, an erection which now remains to be
described. It was a
desirable requisite, that a station should in close
or command a flush
limestone spring, for water for the settlement. The
contiguity of a
salt lick and a sugar orchard, though not indispensable,
was a very
desirable circumstance. The next preliminary step was to
clear a
considerable area, so as to leave nothing within a considerable
distance of the
station that could shelter an enemy from observation and
a shot. If a spring
were not inclosed, or a well dug within, as an
Indian siege seldom
lasted beyond a few days, it was customary, in
periods of alarm to
have a reservoir of some sort within the station,
that should be
filled with water enough to supply the garrison, during
the probable
continuance of a siege. It was deemed a most important
consideration, that
the station should overlook and command as much of
the surrounding
country as possible.
The form was a perfect
parallelogram, including from a half to a whole
acre. A trench was
then dug four or five feet deep, and large and
contiguous pickets
planted in this trench, so as to form a compact wall
from ten to twelve
feet high above the soil. The pickets were of hard
and durable timber,
about a foot in diameter. The soil about them was
rammed hard. They
formed a rampart beyond the power of man to leap,
climb, or by
unaided physical strength to overthrow. At the angles were
small projecting
squares, of still stronger material and planting,
technically called
_flankers_, with oblique port-holes, so as that the
sentinel within
could rake the external front of the station, without
being exposed to
shot from without. Two folding gates in the front and
rear, swinging on
prodigious wooden hinges, gave egress and ingress to
men and teams in
times of security.
In periods of alarm
a trusty sentinel on the roof of the building was so
stationed, as to be
able to descry every suspicious object while yet in
the distance. The gates
were always firmly barred by night; and
sentinels took
their alternate watch, and relieved each other until
morning. Nothing in
the line of fortification can be imagined more easy
of construction, or
a more effectual protection against a savage enemy,
than this simple
erection. Though the balls of the smallest dimensions
of cannon would
have swept them away with ease, they were proof against
the Indian rifle,
patience, and skill. The only expedient of the red men
was to dig under
them and undermine them, or destroy them by fire; and
even this could not
be done without exposing them to the rifles of the
flankers. Of
course, there are few recorded instances of their having
been taken, when
defended by a garrison, guided by such men as Daniel
Boone.
Their regular form,
and their show of security, rendered these walled
cities in the
central wilderness delightful spectacles in the eye of
immigrants who had
come two hundred leagues without seeing a human
habitation. Around
the interior of these walls the habitations of the
immigrants arose,
and the remainder of the surface was a clean-turfed
area for wrestling
and dancing, and the vigorous and athletic amusements
of the olden time.
It is questionable if heartier dinners and profounder
sleep and more
exhilarating balls and parties fall to the lot of their
descendants, who
ride in coaches and dwell in mansions. Venison and wild
turkeys, sweet
potatoes and pies, smoked on their table; and persimmon
and maple beer,
stood them well instead of the poisonous whisky of their
children.
The community, of
course, passed their social evenings together; and
while the fire
blazed bright within the secure square, the far howl of
wolves, or even the
distant war-whoop of the savages, sounded in the ear
of the tranquil
in-dwellers like the driving storm pouring on the
sheltering roof
above the head of the traveller safely reposing in his
bed; that is,
brought the contrast of comfort and security with more
home-felt influence
to their bosom.
Such a station was Bryant's,
no longer ago than 1782. It was the nucleus
of the settlements
of that rich and delightful country, of which at
present Lexington
is the centre. There were but two others of any
importance, at this
time north of Kentucky river. It was more open to
attack than any
other in the country. The Miami on the north, and the
Licking on the
south of the Ohio, were long canals, which floated the
Indian canoes from
the northern hive of the savages, between the lakes
and the Ohio,
directly to its vicinity.
In the summer of
this year a grand Indian assemblage took place at
Chillicothe, a
famous central Indian town on the Little Miami. The
Cherokees,
Wyandots, Tawas, Pottawattomies, and most of the tribes
bordering on the
lakes, were represented in it. Besides their chiefs and
some Canadians,
they were aided by the counsels of the two Girtys, and
McKee, renegado
whites. We have made diligent enquiry touching the
biography of these
men, particularly Simon Girty, a wretch of most
infamous notoriety
in those times, as a more successful instigator of
Indian assault and
massacre, than any name on record. Scarcely a
tortured captive
escaped from the northern Indians, who could not tell
the share which
this villain had in his sufferings--no burning or murder
of prisoners, at
which he had not assisted by his presence or his
counsels. These
refugees from our white settlements, added the
calculation and
power of combining of the whites to the instinctive
cunning and
ferocity of the savages. They possessed their thirst for
blood without their
active or passive courage--blending the bad points
of character in the
whites and Indians, without the good of either. The
cruelty of the
Indians had some show of palliating circumstances, in the
steady encroachments
of the whites upon them. Theirs was gratuitous,
coldblooded, and
without visible motive, except that they appeared to
hate the race more
inveterately for having fled from it. Yet Simon
Girty, like the
Indians among whom he lived, sometimes took the freak of
kindness, nobody
could divine why, and he once or twice saved an unhappy
captive from being
roasted alive.
This vile renegado,
consulted by the Indians as an oracle, lived in
plenty, smoked his
pipe, and drank off his whisky in his log palace. He
was seen abroad
clad in a ruffled shirt, a red and blue uniform, with
pantaloons and
gaiters to match. He was belted with dirks and pistols,
and wore a watch
with enormous length of chain, and most glaring
ornaments, all
probably the spoils of murder. So habited, he strutted,
in the enormity of
his cruelty in view of the ill-fated captives of the
Indians, like the
peacock spreading his morning plumage. There is little
doubt that his
capricious acts of saving the few that were spared
through his intercession,
were modified results of vanity; and that they
were spared to make
a display of his power, and the extent of his
influence among the
Indians.
The assemblage of
Indians bound to the assault of Bryant's station,
gathered round the
shrine of Simon Girty, to hear the response of this
oracle touching the
intended expedition. He is said to have painted to
them, in a set
speech, the abundance and delight of the fair valleys of
Kan-tuck-ee, for
which so much blood of red men had been shed--the land
of clover, deer,
and buffaloes. He described the gradual encroachment of
the whites, and the
certainty that they would soon occupy the whole
land. He proved the
necessity of a vigorous, united, and persevering
effort against
them, now while they were feeble, and had scarcely gained
foot-hold on the
soil, if they ever intended to regain possession of
their ancient,
rich, and rightful domain; assuring them, that as things
now went on, they
would soon have no hunting grounds worth retaining, no
blankets with which
to clothe their naked backs, or whisky to warm and
cheer their
desolate hearts. They were advised to descend the Miami,
cross the Ohio,
ascend the Licking, paddling their canoes to the
immediate vicinity
of Bryant's station, which he counselled them to
attack.
Forthwith, the mass
of biped wolves raised their murderous yell, as they
started for their
canoes on the Miami. Girty, in his ruffled shirt and
soldier coat,
stalked at their head, silently feeding upon his prowess
and grandeur.
The station against
which they were destined, inclosed forty cabins.
They arrived before
it on the fifteenth of August, in the night. The
inhabitants were
advertised of their arrival in the morning, by being
fired upon as they
opened the gates. The time of their arrival was
apparently
providential. In two hours most of the efficient male inmates
of the station were
to have marched to the aid of two other stations,
which were reported
to have been attacked. This place would thus have
been left
completely defenceless. As soon as the garrison saw themselves
besieged, they
found means to despatch one of their number to Lexington,
to announce the
assault and crave aid. Sixteen mounted men, and
thirty-one on foot,
were immediately despatched to their assistance.
The number of the
assailants amounted to at least six hundred. In
conformity with the
common modes of their warfare, they attempted to
gain the place by
stratagem. The great body concealed themselves among
high weeds, on the
opposite side of the station, within pistol shot of
the spring which
supplied it with water. A detachment of a hundred
commenced a false
attack on the south-east angle, with a view to draw
the whole attention
of the garrison to that point. They hoped that while
the chief force of
the station crowded there, the opposite point would
be left
defenceless. In this instance they reckoned without their host.
The people
penetrated their deception, and instead of returning their
fire, commenced
what had been imprudently neglected, the repairing their
palisades, and
putting the station in a better condition of defence. The
tall and luxuriant
strammony weeds instructed these wary backwoodsmen to
suspect that a host
of their tawny foe lay hid beneath their sheltering
foliage, lurking
for a chance to fire upon them, as they should come
forth for water.
Let modern wives,
who refuse to follow their husbands abroad, alleging
the danger of the
voyage or journey, or the unhealthiness of the
proposed residence,
or because the removal will separate them from the
pleasures of
fashion and society, contemplate the example of the wives
of the defenders of
this station. These noble mothers, wives, and
daughters, assuring
the men that there was no probability that the
Indians would fire upon
them, offered to go out and draw water for the
supply of the
garrison, and that even if they did shoot down a few of
them, it would not
reduce the resources of the garrison as would the
killing of the men.
The illustrious heroines took up their buckets, and
marched out to the
spring, espying here and there a painted face, or an
Indian body
crouched under the covert of the weeds. Whether their
courage or their
beauty fascinated the Indians to suspend their fire,
does not appear.
But it was so, that these generous women came and went
until the reservoir
was amply supplied with crater. Who will doubt that
the husbands of
such wives must have been alike gallant and
affectionate.
After this example,
it was not difficult to procure some young
volunteers to tempt
the Indians in the same way. As was expected, they
had scarcely
advanced beyond their station, before a hundred Indians
fired a shower of
balls upon them, happily too remote to do more than
inflict slight
wounds with spent balls. They retreated within the
palisades, and the
whole Indian force, seeing no results from stratagem,
rose from their
covert and rushed towards the palisade. The exasperation
of their rage may
be imagined, when they found every thing prepared for
their reception. A
well aimed fire drove them to a more cautious
distance. Some of
the more audacious of their number, however, ventured
so near a less
exposed point, as to be able to discharge burning arrows
upon the roofs of
the houses. Some of them were fired and burnt. But an
easterly wind
providentially arose at the moment, and secured the mass
of the habitations
from the further spread of the flames. These they
could no longer
reach with their burning arrows.
The enemy cowered
back, and crouched to their covert in the weeds;
where, panther-like,
they waited for less dangerous game. They had
divided, on being
informed, that aid was expected from Lexington; and
they arranged an
ambuscade to intercept it, on its approach to the
garrison. When the
reinforcement, consisting of forty-six persons, came
in sight, the
firing had wholly ceased, and the invisible enemy were
profoundly still.
The auxiliaries hurried on in reckless confidence,
under the
impression that they had come on a false alarm. A lane opened
an avenue to the
station, through a thick cornfield. This lane was
way-laid on either
side, by Indians, for six hundred yards. Fortunately,
it was mid-summer,
and dry; and the horsemen raised so thick a cloud of
dust, that the
Indians could fire only at random amidst the palpable
cloud, and happily
killed not a single man. The footmen were less
fortunate. Being
behind the horse, as soon as they heard the firing,
they dispersed into
the thick corn, in hopes to reach the garrison
unobserved. They
were intercepted by masses of the savages, who threw
themselves between
them and the station. Hard fighting ensued, in which
two of the footmen
were killed and four wounded. Soon after the
detachment had
joined their friends, and the Indians were again
crouching close in
their covert, the numerous flocks and herds of the
station came in
from the woods as usual, quietly ruminating, as they
made their way
towards their night-pens. Upon these harmless animals the
Indians wreaked
unmolested revenge, and completely destroyed them.
A little after sunset
the famous Simon, in all his official splendor,
covertly approached
the garrison, mounted a stump, whence he could be
heard by the people
of the station, and holding a flag of truce,
demanded a parley
and the surrender of the place. He managed his
proposals with no
small degree of art, assigning, in imitation of the
commanders of what
are called civilized armies, that his proposals were
dictated by
humanity and a wish to spare the effusion of blood. He
affirmed, that in
case of a prompt surrender, he could answer for the
safety of the
prisoners; but that in the event of taking the garrison by
storm, he could
not; that cannon and a reinforcement were approaching,
in which case they
must be aware that their palisades could no longer
interpose any
resistance to their attack, or secure them from the
vengeance of an
exasperated foe. He calculated that his imposing
language would have
the more effect in producing belief and
consternation,
inasmuch as the garrison must know, that the same foe had
used cannon in the
attack of Ruddle's and Martin's stations. Two of
their number had
been already slain, and there were four wounded in the
garrison; and some
faces were seen to blanch as Girty continued his
harangue of menace,
and insidious play upon their fears. Some of the
more considerate of
the garrison, apprised by the result, of the folly
of allowing such a
negotiation to intimidate the garrison in that way,
called out to shoot
the rascal, adding the customary Kentucky epithet.
Girty insisted upon
the universal protection every where accorded to a
flag of truce,
while this parley lasted; and demanded with great assumed
dignity, if they
did not know who it was that thus addressed them?
A spirited young
man, named Reynolds, of whom the most honorable mention
is made in the
subsequent annals of the contests with the Indians, was
selected by the
garrison to reply to the renegado Indian negotiator. His
object seems to
have been to remove the depression occasioned by Girty's
speech, by treating
it with derision; and perhaps to establish a
reputation for
successful waggery, as he had already for hard fighting.
"You
ask," answered he, "if we do not know you? Know you! Yes. We know
you too well. Know
Simon Girty! Yes. He is the renegado, cowardly
villain, who loves
to murder women and children, especially those of his
own people. Know
Simon Girty! Yes. His father was a panther and his dam
a wolf. I have a
worthless dog, that kills lambs. Instead of shooting
him, I have named
him Simon Girty. You expect reinforcements and cannon,
do you? Cowardly
wretches, like you, that make war upon women and
children, would not
dare to touch them off, if you had them. We expect
reinforcements,
too, and in numbers to give a short account of the
murdering cowards
that follow you. Even if you could batter down our
pickets, I, for
one, hold your people in too much contempt to discharge
rifles at them.
Should you see cause to enter our fort, I have been
roasting a great
number of hickory switches, with which we mean to whip
your naked cut-throats
out of the country."
Simon, apparently
little edified or flattered by this speech, wished him
some of his hardest
curses; and affecting to deplore the obstinacy and
infatuation of the
garrison, the ambassador of ruffled shirt and soldier
coat withdrew. The
besieged gave a good account of every one, who came
near enough to take
a fair shot. But before morning they decamped,
marching direct to
the Blue Licks, where they obtained very different
success, and a most
signal and bloody triumph. We shall there again meet
Daniel Boone, in
his accustomed traits of heroism and magnanimity.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII.
Boone being
attacked by two Indians near the Blue Licks, kills them
both--Is afterwards
taken prisoner and marched to Old Chillicothe--Is
adopted by the
Indians--Indian ceremonies.
We return to the
subject of our memoir, from which the reader may
imagine we have
wandered too long. He had already conducted the defence
of Boonesborough,
during two Indian sieges. The general estimate of his
activity,
vigilance, courage, and enterprise, was constantly rising. By
the Indians he was
regarded as the most formidable and intelligent
captain of the
Long-knife; and by the settlers and immigrants as a
disinterested and
heroic patriarch of the infant settlements. He often
supplied destitute
families gratuitously with game. He performed the
duties of surveyor
and spy, generally as a volunteer, and without
compensation. When
immigrant families were approaching the country, he
often went out to meet
them and conduct them to the settlements. Such,
in general, were
the paternal feelings of the pioneers of this young
colony.
The country was
easily and amply supplied with meat from the chase, and
with vegetables
from the fertility of the soil. The hardy settlers could
train themselves
without difficulty to dispense with many things which
habit and long use
in the old settlements had led them to consider as
necessaries. But to
every form of civilized communities salt is an
indispensable
article. The settlement of Boonesborough had been fixed
near a lick, with a
view to the supply of that article. But the amount
was found to be
very inadequate to the growing demand. The settlement
deemed it necessary
to send out a company to select a place where the
whole country could
be supplied with that article at a reasonable rate.
Captain Boone was
deputed by the settlers to this service. He selected
thirty associates,
and set out on the first of January, 1779, for the
Blue Licks, on
Licking river, a well known stream emptying into the
Ohio, opposite
where Cincinnati now stands. They arrived at the place,
and successfully
commenced their operations. Boone, instead of taking a
part in the diurnal
and uninterrupted labor, of evaporating the water,
performed the more congenial
duty of hunting to keep the company in
provisions, while
they labored. In this pursuit he had one day wandered
some distance from
the bank of the river. Two Indians, armed with
muskets,--for they
had now generally added these efficient weapons to
their
tomahawks--came upon him. His first thought was to retreat. But he
discovered from
their nimbleness, that this was impossible. His second
thought was
resistance, and he slipped behind a tree to await their
coming within rifle
shot. He then exposed himself so as to attract their
aim. The foremost
levelled his musket. Boone, who could dodge the flash,
at the pulling of
the trigger, dropped behind his tree unhurt. His next
object W&B to
cause the fire of the Second musket to be thrown away in
the same manner. He
again exposed a part of his person. The eager Indian
instantly fired,
and Boone evaded the shot as before. Both the Indians,
having thrown away
their fire, were eagerly striving, but with trembling
hands, to reload.
Trepidation and too much haste retarded their object.
Boone drew his
rifle and one of them fell dead. The two antagonists, now
on equal grounds,
the one unsheathing his knife, and the other poising
his tomahawk,
rushed toward the dead body of the fallen Indian. Boone,
placing his foot on
the dead body, dexterously received the well aimed
tomahawk of his
powerful enemy on the barrel of his rifle, thus
preventing his
skull from being cloven by it. In the very attitude of
firing the Indian
had exposed his body to the knife of Boone, who
plunged it in his
body to the hilt. This is the achievement commemorated
in sculpture over
the southern door of the Rotunda in the Capitol at
Washington.
This adventure did
not deter him from exposing himself in a similar way
again. He was once
more hunting for the salt makers, when, on the
seventh day of
February following, he came in view of a body of one
hundred and two
Indians, evidently on their march to the assault of
Boonesborough--that
being a particular mark for Indian revenge. They
were in want of a
prisoner, from whom to obtain intelligence, and Boone
was the person of
all others whom they desired. He fled; but among so
many warriors, it
proved, that some were swifter of foot than himself,
and these overtook
him and made him prisoner.
By a tedious and
circuitous march they brought him back to the Blue
Licks, and took
their measures with so much caution, as to make
twenty-seven of the
thirty salt makers prisoners. Boone obtained for
them a
capitulation, which stipulated, that their lives should be
spared, and that
they should be kindly treated. The fortunate three,
that escaped, had
just been sent home with the salt that had been made
during their
ill-fated expedition.
The Indians were
faithful to the stipulations of the capitulation; and
treated their
prisoners with as much kindness both on their way, and
after their arrival
at Chillicothe, as their habits and means would
admit. The march
was rapid and fatiguing, occupying three days of
weather unusually
cold and inclement.
The captivity of
twenty-eight of the select and bravest of the Kentucky
settlers, without
the hope of liberation or exchange, was a severe blow
to the infant
settlement. Had the Indians, after this achievement,
immediately marched
against Boonesborough, so materially diminished in
its means of
defence, they might either have taken the place by
surprise, or,
availing themselves of the influence which the possession
of these prisoners
gave them over the fears and affections of the
inmates, might have
procured a capitulation of the fort. Following up
this plan in
progression, the weaker station would have followed the
example of
Boonesborough; since it is hardly supposable, that the
united influence of
fear, example, and the menace of the massacre of so
many prisoners
would not have procured the surrender of all the rest.
But, though on
various occasions they manifested the keenest
observation, and
the acutest quickness of instinctive cunning--though
their plans were
generally predicated on the soundest reason, they
showed in this, and
in all cases, a want of the combination of thought,
and the abstract
and extended views of the whites on such occasions. For
a single effort,
nothing could be imagined wiser than their views. For a
combination made up
of a number of elements of calculation, they had no
reasoning powers at
all.
Owing to this want
of capacity for combined operations of thought, and
their, habitual
intoxication of excitement, on the issue of carrying
some important
enterprise without loss, they hurried home with their
prisoners, leaving
the voice of lamentation and the sentiment of extreme
dejection among the
bereaved inmates of Boonesborough.
Throwing all the
recorded incidents and circumstances of the life of
Boone, during his
captivity among them, together, we shall reserve them
for another place,
and proceed here to record what befell him among the
whites.
He resided as a
captive among the Indians until the following March. At
that time, he, and ten
of the persons who were taken with him at the
Blue Licks, were
conducted by forty Indians to Detroit, where the party
arrived on the
thirteenth of the month. The ten men were put into the
hands of Governor
Hamilton, who, to his infinite credit, treated them
with kindness. For
each of these they received a moderate ransom. Such
was their respect,
and even affection for the hunter of Kentucky, and
such, perhaps,
their estimate of his capability of annoying them, that
although Governor
Hamilton offered them the large sum of a hundred
pounds sterling for
his ransom, they utterly refused to part with him.
It may easily be
imagined, in what a vexatious predicament this
circumstance placed
him; a circumstance so much the more embarrassing,
as he could not
express his solicitude for deliverance, without alarming
the jealousy and
ill feeling of the Indians. Struck with his appearance
and development of
character, several English gentlemen, generously
impressed with a
sense of his painful position, offered him a sum of
money adequate to
the supply of his necessities. Unwilling to accept
such favors from
the enemies of his country, he refused their kindness,
alleging a motive
at once conciliating and magnanimous, that it would
probably never be
in his power to repay them. It will be necessary to
contemplate his
desolate and forlorn condition, haggard, and without any
adequate clothing
in that inclement climate, destitute of money or
means, and at the
same time to realize that these men, who so generously
offered him money,
were in league with those that were waging war
against the United
States, fully to appreciate the patriotism and
magnanimity of this
refusal. It is very probable, too, that these men
acted from the interested
motive of wishing to bind the hands of this
stern border
warrior from any further annoyance to them and their red
allies, by motives
of gratitude and a sense of obligation.
It must have been
mortifying to his spirit to leave his captive
associates in
comfortable habitations and among a civilized people at
Detroit, while he,
the single white man of the company, was obliged to
accompany his red
masters through the forest in a long and painful
journey of fifteen
days, at the close of which he found himself again at
Old Chillicothe, as
the town was called.
This town was
inhabited by the Shawnese, and Boone was placed in a most
severe school, in
which to learn Indian modes and ceremonies, by being
himself the subject
of them. On the return of the party that led him to
their home, he
learned that some superstitious scruple induced them to
halt at mid-day
when near their village, in order to solemnize their
return by entering
their town in the evening. A runner was despatched
from their halting
place to instruct the chief and the village touching
the material
incidents of their expedition.
Before the
expedition made the triumphal entry into their village, they
clad their white
prisoner in a new dress, of material and fashion like
theirs. They
proceeded to shave his head and skewer his hair after their
own fashion, and
then rouged him with a plentiful smearing of vermilion
and put into his
hand a white staff, gorgeously tasselated with the
tails of deer. The war-captain
or leader of the expedition gave as many
yells as they had
taken prisoners and scalps. This operated as
effectually as
ringing a tocsin, to assemble the whole village round
the camp. As soon
as the warriors from the village appeared, four young
warriors from the
camp, the two first carrying each a calumet,
approached the
prisoner, chanting a song as they went, and taking him by
the arm, led him in
triumph to the cabin, where he was to remain until
the announcement of
his doom. The resident in this cabin, by their
immemorial usage,
had the power of determining his fate, whether to be
tortured and burnt
at the stake, or adopted into the tribe.
The present
occupant of the cabin happened to be a woman, who had lost a
son during the war.
It is very probable that she was favorably impressed
towards him by
noting his fine person, and his firm and cheerful
visage--circumstances
which impress the women of the red people still
more strongly than
the men. She contemplated him stedfastly for some
time, and sympathy
and humanity triumphed, and she declared that she
adopted him in
place of the son she had lost. The two young men, who
bore the calumet,
instantly unpinioned his hands, treating him with
kindness and
respect. Food was brought him, and he was informed that he
was considered as a
son, and she, who had adopted him, as his mother. He
was soon made
aware, by demonstrations that could not be dissembled or
mistaken, that he
was actually loved, and trusted, as if he really were,
what his adoption
purported to make him. In a few days he suffered no
other penalty of
captivity than inability to return to his family. He
was sufficiently
instructed in Indian customs to know well, that any
discovered purpose
or attempt to escape would be punished with instant
death.
Strange caprice of
inscrutable instincts and results of habit! A
circumstance,
apparently fortuitous and accidental, placed him in the
midst of an Indian
family, the female owner of which loved him with the
most disinterested
tenderness, and lavished upon him all the
affectionate
sentiments of a mother towards a son. Had the die of his
lot been cast
otherwise, all the inhabitants of the village would have
raised the death
song, and each individual would have been as fiercely
unfeeling to
torment him, as they were now covetous to show him
kindness. It is
astonishing to see, in their habits of this sort, no
interval between
friendship and kindness, and the most ingenious and
unrelenting
barbarity. Placed between two posts, and his arms and feet
extended between
them, nearly in the form of a person suffering
crucifixion, he
would have been burnt to death at a slow fire, while
men, women, and
children would have danced about him, occasionally
applying torches
and burning splinters to die most exquisitely sensible
parts of the frame,
prolonging his torture, and exulting in it with the
demoniac
exhilaration of gratified revenge.
This was the most
common fate of prisoners of war at that time.
Sometimes they
fastened the victim to a single stake, built a fire of
green wood about
him, and then raising their yell of exultation, marched
off into the
desert, leaving him to expire unheeded and alone. At other
times they killed
their prisoners by amputating their limbs joint by
joint. Others they destroyed
by pouring on them, from time to time,
streams of scalding
water. At other times they have been seen to hang
their victim to a
sapling tree by the hands, bending it down until the
wretched sufferer
has seen himself swinging up and down at the play of
the breeze, his
feet often, within a foot of the ground. In a word, they
seem to have
exhausted the invention and ingenuity of all time and all
countries in the
horrid art of inflicting torture.
The mention of a
circumstance equally extraordinary in the Indian
character, may be
recorded here. If the sufferer in these afflictions be
an Indian, during
the whole of his agony a strange rivalry passes
between them which
shall outdo each other, they inflicting, and he in
enduring these
tortures. Not a groan, not a sigh, not a distortion of
countenance is
allowed to escape him. He smokes, and looks even
cheerful. He
occasionally chants a strain of his war song. He vaunts his
exploits performed
in afflicting death and desolation in their villages.
He enumerates the
names of their relatives and friends that he has
slain. He menaces
them with the terrible revenge that his friends will
inflict by way of
retaliation. He even derides their ignorance in the
art of tormenting;
assures them that he had afflicted much more
ingenious torture
upon their people; and indicates more excruciating
modes of inflicting
pain, and more sensitive parts of the frame to which
to apply them.
They are
exceedingly dexterous in the horrid surgical operation of
taking off the
scalp--that is, a considerable surface of the hairy
integument of the
crown of the cranium. Terrible as the operation is,
there are not
wanting great numbers of cases of persons who have
survived, and
recovered from it. The scalps of enemies thus taken, even
when not paid for,
as has been too often the infamous custom of their
white auxiliaries,
claiming to be civilized, are valued as badges of
family honor, and
trophies of the bravery of the warrior. On certain
days and occasions,
young warriors take a new name, constituting a new
claim to honor,
according to the number of scalps they have taken, or
the bravery and
exploits of those from whom they were taken. This name
they deem a
sufficient compensation for every fatigue and danger.
Another ludicrous
superstition tends to inspire them with the most
heroic sentiments.
They believe that all the fame, intelligence, and
bravery that
appertained to the enemy they have slain is transferred to
them, and
thenceforward becomes their intellectual property. Hence, they
are excited with
the most earnest appetite to kill warriors of
distinguished fame.
This article of Indian faith affords an apt
illustration of the
ordinary influence of envy, which seems to inspire
the person whom it
torments with the persuasion, that all the merit it
can contract from
the envied becomes its own, and that the laurels shorn
from another's brow
will sprout on its own.
He witnessed also
their modes of hardening their children to that
prodigious power of
unshrinking endurance, of which such astonishing
effects have just
been recorded. This may be fitly termed the Indian
system of
gymnastics. The bodies of the children of both sexes are
inured to hardships
by compelling them to endure prolonged fastings, and
to bathe in the coldest
water. A child of eight years, fasts half a day;
and one of twelve,
a whole day without food or drink. The face is
blacked during the
fast, and is washed immediately before eating. The
male face is
entirely blacked; that of the female only on the cheeks.
The course is
discontinued in the case of the male at eighteen, and of
the female at
fourteen. At eighteen, the boy is instructed by his
parents that his
education is completed, and that he is old enough to be
a man. His face is
then blacked for the last time, and he is removed at
the distance of
some miles from the village, and placed in a temporary
cabin. He is there
addressed by his parent or guardian to this purport:
"My son, it
has pleased the Great Spirit that you should live to see
this day. We all
have noted your conduct since I first blacked your
face. They well
understand whether you have strictly followed the advice
I have given you,
and they will conduct themselves towards you according
to their knowledge.
You must remain here until I, or some of your
friends, come for
you."
The party then
returns, resumes his gun, and seeming to forget the
sufferer, goes to
his hunting as usual, and the son or ward is left to
endure hunger as
long as it can be endured, and the party survive. The
hunter, meanwhile,
has procured the materials for a feast, of which the
friends are invited
to partake They accompany the father or guardian to
the unfortunate
starving subject. He then accompanies them home, and is
bathed in cold
water, and his head shaved after the Indian fashion--all
but a small space
on the centre of the crown. He is then allowed to take
food, which,
however, as a consecrated thing, is presented him in a
vessel distinct
from that used by the rest. After he has eaten, he is
presented with a looking-glass,
and a bag of vermilion. He is then
complimented for
the firmness with which he has sustained his fasting,
and is told that he
is henceforward a man, and to be considered as such.
The instance is not
known of a boy eating or drinking while under this
interdict of the
blacked face. They are deterred, not only by the strong
sentiments of
Indian honor, but by a persuasion that the _Great Spirit_
would severely
punish such disobedience of parental authority.
The most honorable
mode of marriage, and that generally pursued by the
more distinguished
warriors, is to assemble the friends and relatives,
and consult with
them in regard to the person whom it is expedient to
marry. The choice
being made, the relations of the young man collect
such presents as
they deem proper for the occasion, go to the parents of
the woman selected,
make known the wishes of their friend, deposit their
presents, and
return without waiting for an answer. The relations of the
girl assemble and
consult on the subject. If they confirm the choice,
they also collect
presents, dress her in her best clothes, and take her
to the friends of
the bridegroom who made the application for the match,
when it is
understood that the marriage is completed. She herself has
still a negative;
and if she disapprove the match, the presents from the
friends of the
young man are returned, and this is considered as a
refusal. Many of
the more northern nations, as the Dacotas, for example,
have a custom,
that, when the husband deceases, his widow immediately
manifests the
deepest mourning, by putting off all her finery, and
dresses herself in
the coarsest Indian attire, the sackcloth of Indian
lamentation.
Meanwhile she makes up a respectable sized bundle of her
clothes into the form
of a kind of doll-man, which represents her
husband. With this
she sleeps. To this she converses and relates the
sorrows of her
desolate heart. It would be indecorous for any warrior,
while she is in
this predicament, to show her any attentions of
gallantry. She
never puts on any habiliments but those of sadness and
disfigurement. The
only comfort she is permitted in this desolate state
is, that her
budgetted husband is permitted, when drams are passing, to
be considered as a
living one, and she is allowed to cheer her depressed
spirits with a
double dram, that of her budget-husband and her own.
After a full year
of this penance with the budget-husband, she is
allowed to exchange
it for a living one, if she can find him.
When an Indian
party forms for private revenge the object is
accomplished in the
following manner. The Indian who seeks revenge,
proposes his
project to obtain it to some of his more intimate
associates, and
requests them to accompany him. When the requisite
number is obtained,
and the plan arranged it is kept a profound secret
from all others,
and the proposer of the plan is considered the leader.
The party leaves
the village secretly, and in the night. When they halt
for the night, the
eldest encamp in front, and the younger in the rear.
The foremen hunt
for the party, and perform the duty of spies. The
latter cook, make
the fires, mend the moccasins, and perform the other
drudgery of the
expedition.
Every war party has
a small budget, called the _war budget_, which
contains something belonging
to each one of the party, generally
representing some
animal; for example, the skin of a snake, the tail of
a buffalo, the skin
of a martin, or the feathers of some extraordinary
bird. This budget
is considered a sacred deposit, and is carried by some
person selected for
the purpose, who marches in front, and leads the
party against the
enemy. When the party halts, the budget is deposited
in front, and no
person passes it without authority. No one, while such
an exhibition is
pending, is allowed to lay his pack on a log, converse
about women or his
home. When they encamp, the heart of whatever beast
they have killed on
the preceding day is cut into small pieces and
burnt. No person is
allowed, while it is burning, to step across the
fire, but must go
round it, and always in the direction of the sun.
When an attack is
to be made, the war budget is opened, and each man
takes out his
budget, or _totem_, and attaches it to that part of his
body which has been
indicated by tradition from his ancestors. When the
attack is
commenced, the body of the fighter is painted, generally
black, and is
almost naked. After the action, each party returns his
_totem_ to the
commander of the party, who carefully wraps them all up,
and delivers them
to the man who has taken the first prisoner or scalp;
and he is entitled
to the honor of leading the party home in triumph.
The war budget is
then hung in front of the door of the person who
carried it on the
march against the enemy, where it remains suspended
thirty or forty days,
and some one of the party often sings and dances
round it.
One mode of Indian
burial seems to have prevailed, not only among the
Indians of the
lakes and of the Ohio valley, but over all the western
country. Some lay the
dead body on the surface of the ground, make a
crib or pen over
it, and cover it with bark. Others lay the body in a
grave, covering it
first with bark, and then with earth. Others make a
coffin out of the
cloven section of trees, in the form of plank, and
suspend it from the
top of a tree. Nothing can be more affecting than to
see a young mother
hanging the coffin that contains the remains of her
beloved child to
the pendent branches of the flowering maple, and
singing her lament
over her love and hope, as it waves in the breeze.
CHAPTER IX.
Boone becomes a
favorite among the Indians--Anecdotes relating to his
captivity--Their
mode of tormenting and burning prisoners--Their
fortitude under the
infliction of torture--Concerted attack on
Boonesborough--Boone
escapes.
Boone, being now a
son in a principal Shawnee family, presents himself
in a new light to
our observation. We would be glad to be able give a
diurnal record of
his modes of deportment, and getting along. Unhappily,
the records are few
and meagre. It will be obvious, that the necessity
for a more profound
dissimulation of contentment, cheerfulness, and a
feeling of loving
his home, was stronger than ever. It was a semblance
that must be daily and
hourly sustained. He would never have acquitted
himself
successfully, but for a wonderful versatility, which enabled him
to enter into the
spirit of whatever parts he was called upon to
sustain; and a real
love for the hunting and pursuits of the Indians,
which rendered what
was at first assumed, with a little practice, and
the influence of
habit, easy and natural. He soon became in semblance so
thoroughly one of
them, and was able in all those points of practice
which give them
reputation, to conduct himself with so much skill and
adroitness, that he
gained the entire confidence of the family into
which he was
adopted, and become as dear to his mother of adoption as
her own son.
Trials of Indian
strength and skill are among their most common
amusements. Boone
was soon challenged to competition in these trials. In
these rencounters
of loud laughter and boisterous merriment, where all
that was done
seemed to pass into oblivion as fast as it transpired,
Boone had too much
tact and keen observation not to perceive that
jealousy, envy, and
the origin of hatred often lay hid under the
apparent
recklessness of indifference. He was not sorry that some of the
Indians could
really beat him in the race, though extremely light of
foot; and that in
the game of ball, at which they had been practised all
their lives, he was
decidedly inferior. But there was another
sport--that of
shooting at a mark--a new custom to the Indians but
recently habituated
to the use of fire arms; a practice which they had
learned from the whites,
and they were excessively jealous of reputation
of great skill in
this exercise, so important in hunting and war. Boone
was challenged to
shoot with them at a mark. It placed him in a most
perplexing dilemma.
If he shot his best, he could easily and far excel
their most
practised marksmen. But he was aware, that to display his
superiority would
never be forgiven him. On the other hand, to fall far
short of them in an
exercise which had been hitherto peculiar to the
whites, would
forfeit their respect. In this predicament, he judiciously
allowed himself
sometimes to be beaten; and when it became prudent to
put forth all his
skill, a well dissembled humility and carelessness
subdued the
mortification and envy of the defeated competitor.
He was often permitted
to accompany them in their hunting parties; and
here their habits
and his circumstances alike invoked him to do his
best. They
applauded his skill and success as a hunter, with no mixture
of envy or ill
will. He was particularly fortunate in conciliating the
good will of the
Shawnee chief. To attain this result, Boone not only
often presented him
with a share of his game, but adopted the more
winning deportment
of always affecting to treat his opinions and
counsels with
deference. The chief, on his part, often took occasion to
speak of Boone as a
most consummate proficient in hunting, and a warrior
of great bravery.
Not long after his residence among them, he had
occasion to witness
their manner of celebrating their victories, by
being an eye witness
to one which commemorated the successful return of
a war party with
some scalps.
Within a day's
march of the village, the party dispatched a runner with
the joyful
intelligence of their success, achieved without loss. Every
cabin in the village
was immediately ordered to be swept perfectly
clean, with the
religious intention to banish every source of pollution
that might mar the
ceremony. The women, exceedingly fearful of
contributing in any
way to this pollution, commenced an inveterate
sweeping, gathering
up the collected dirt, and carefully placing it in a
heap behind the
door. There it remained until the medicine man, or
priest, who
presides over the powow, ordered them to remove it, and at
the same time every
savage implement and utensil upon which the women
had laid their
hands during the absence of the expedition.
Next day the party
came in sight of the village, painted in alternate
compartments of red
and black, their heads enveloped in swan's down, and
the centre of their
crown, surmounted with long white feathers. They
advanced, singing
their war song, and bearing the scalps on a verdant
branch of
evergreen.
Arrived at the
village, the chief who had led the party advanced before
his warriors to his
winter cabin, encircling it in an order of march
contrary to the
course of the sun, singing the war song after a
particular mode,
sometimes on the ten or and sometimes on the bass key,
sometimes in high
and shrill, and sometimes in deep and guttural notes.
The _waiter_, or
servant of the leader, called _Etissu_, placed a couple
of blocks of wood
near the war-pole, opposite the door of a circular
cabin, called the
_hot-house_, in the centre of which was the council
fire. On these
blocks he rested a kind of ark, deemed among their most
sacred things.
While this was transacting the party were profoundly
silent. The chief
bade all set down, and then inquired whether his cabin
was prepared and
every thing unpolluted, according to the custom of
their fathers?
After the answer, they rose up in concert and began the
war-whoop, walking
slowly round the war-pole as they sung. All the
consecrated things
were then carried, with no small show of solemnity,
into the hot-house.
Here they remained three whole days and nights, in
separation from the
rest of the people, applying warm ablutions to
their bodies, and
sprinkling themselves with a decoction of snake root.
During a part of
the time, the female relations of each of the
consecrated
company, after having bathed, anointed, and drest themselves
in their finest
apparel, stood, in two lines opposite the door, and
facing each other.
This observance they kept up through the night,
uttering a
peculiar, monotonous song, in a shrill voice for a minute;
then intermitting
it about ten minutes, and resuming it again. When not
singing their
silence was profound.
The chief,
meanwhile, at intervals of about three hours, came out at the
head of his
company, raised the war-whoop, and marched round the red
war-pole, holding
in his right hand the pine or cedar boughs, on which
the scalps were
attached, waving them backward and forward, and then
returned again. To
these ceremonies they conformed without the slightest
interruption,
during the whole three days' purification. To proceed with
the whole details
of the ceremony to its close, would be tedious. We
close it, only
adding, that a small twig of the evergreen was fixed upon
the roof of each
one of their cabins, with a fragment of the scalps
attached to it, and
this, as it appeared, to appease the ghosts of their
dead. When Boone
asked them the meaning of all these long and tedious
ceremonies, they
answered him by a word which literally imports "holy."
The leader and his
waiter kept apart and continued the purification
three days longer,
and the ceremony closed.
He observed, that
when their war-parties returned from an expedition,
and had arrived
near their village, they followed their file leader, in
what is called
_Indian file_, one by one, each a few yards behind the
other, to give the
procession an appearance of greater length and
dignity. If the
expedition had been unsuccessful, and they had lost any
of their warriors,
they returned without ceremony and in noiseless
sadness. But if
they had been successful, they fired their guns in
platoons, yelling,
whooping, and insulting their prisoners, if they had
made any. Near
their town was a large square area, with a war-pole in
the centre,
expressly prepared for such purposes. To this they fasten
their prisoners.
They then advance to the house of their leader,
remaining without,
and standing round his red war-pole, until they
determine
concerning the fate of their prisoner. If any prisoner should
be fortunate enough
to break from his pinions, and escape into the house
of the chief
medicine man, or conductor of the powow, it is an
inviolable asylum,
and by immemorial usage, the refugee is saved from
the fire.
Captives far
advanced in life, or such as had been known to have shed
the blood of their
tribe, were sure to atone for their decrepitude, or
past activity in shedding
blood, by being burnt to death. They readily
know those Indians
who have killed many, by the blue marks on their
breasts and arms,
which indicate the number they have slain. These
hieroglyphics are
to them as significant as our alphabetical characters.
The ink with which
these characters are impressed, is a sort of
lampblack, prepared
from the soot of burning pine, which they catch by
causing it to pass
through a sort of greased funnel. Having prepared
this lampblack,
they tattoo it into the skin, by punctures made with
thorns or the teeth
of fish. The young prisoners, if they seem capable
of activity and
service, and if they preserve an intrepid and unmoved
countenance, are
generally spared, unless condemned to death by the
party, while
undergoing the purification specified above. As soon as
their case is so
decided, they are tied to the stake, one at a time. A
pair of bear-skin
moccasins, with the hair outwards, are put on their
feet. They are
stripped naked to the loins, and are pinioned firmly to
the stake.
Their subsequent
punishment, in addition to the suffering of slow fire,
is left to the
women. Such are the influences of their training, that
although the female
nature, in all races of men, is generally found to
be more susceptible
of pity than the male, in this case they appear to
surpass the men in
the fury of their merciless rage, and the industrious
ingenuity of their
torments. Each is prepared with a bundle of long,
dry, reed cane, or
other poles, to which are attached splinters of
burning pine. As
the victim is led to the stake, the women and children
begin their
sufferings by beating them with switches and clubs; and as
they reel and
recoil from the blows, these fiendish imps show their
gratification by unremitting
peals of laughter; too happy, if their
tortures ended
here, or if the merciful tomahawk brought them to an
immediate close.
The signal for a
more terrible infliction being given--the arms of the
victim are
pinioned, and he is disengaged from the pole, and a grapevine
passed round his
neck, allowing him a circle of about fifteen yards in
circumference, in
which he can he made to march round his pole. They
knead tough clay on
his head to secure the cranium from the effects of
the blaze, that it
may not inflict immediate death. Under the excitement
of ineffable and
horrid joy, they whip him round the circle, that he may
expose each part of
his body to the flame, while the other part is
fanned by the cool
air, that he may thus undergo the literal operation
of slow roasting.
During this abhorrent process, the children fill the
circle in
convulsions of laughter; and the women begin to thrust their
burning torches
into his body, lacerating the quick of the flesh, that
the flame may
inflict more exquisite anguish. The warrior, in these
cases; goaded to
fury, sweeps round the extent of his circle, kicking,
biting, and
stamping with inconceivable fury. The throng of women and
children laugh, and
fly from the circle, and fresh tormentors fill it
again. At other
times the humor takes him to show them, that he can bear
all this, without a
grimace, a spasm, or indication of suffering. In
this case, as we
have seen, he smokes, derides, menaces, sings, and
shows his contempt,
by calling them by the most reproachful of all
epithets--_old
women_. When he falls insensible, they scalp and
dismember him, and
the remainder of his body is consumed.
We have omitted
many of these revolting details, many of the atrocious
features of this spectacle,
as witnessed by Boone. While we read with
indignation and
horror, let us not forget that savages have not alone
inflicted these
detestable cruelties. Let us not forget that the
professed followers
of Jesus Christ have given examples of a barbarity
equally unrelenting
and horrible, in the form of religious persecution,
and avowedly to
glorify God.
During Boone's
captivity among the Shawnese, they took prisoner a noted
warrior of a
western tribe, with which they were then at war. He was
condemned to the
stake with the usual solemnities. Having endured the
preliminary
tortures with the most fearless unconcern, he told them,
when preparing to
commence a new series, with a countenance of scorn, he
could teach them
how to make an enemy eat fire to some purpose; and
begged that they
would give him an opportunity, together with a pipe and
tobacco. In
respectful astonishment, at an unwonted demonstration of
invincible
endurance, they granted his request. He lighted his pipe,
began to smoke, and
sat down, all naked as he was, upon the burning
torches, which were
blazing within his circle. Every muscle of his
countenance
retained its composure. On viewing this, a noted warrior
sprang up,
exclaiming, that this was a true warrior; that though his
nation was treacherous,
and he had caused them many deaths, yet such was
their respect for
true courage, that if the fire had not already spoiled
him, he should be
spared. That being now impossible, he promised him the
merciful release of
the tomahawk. He then held the terrible instrument
suspended some
moments over his head, during all which time he was
seen neither to
change his posture, move a muscle, or his countenance to
blench. The
tomahawk fell, and the impassable warrior ceased to suffer.
[Illustration]
We shall close
these details of the Shawnese customs, at the time when
Boone was prisoner
among them, by giving his account of their ceremonies
at making peace.
The chief warriors, who arrange the conditions of the
peace and subsequent
friendship, first mutually eat and smoke together.
They then pledge
each other in the sacred drink called _Cussena_. The
Shawnese then wave
large fans of eagles' tails, and conclude with a
dance. The stranger
warriors, who have come to receive the peace, select
half a dozen of
their most active young men, surmounting their crowns
with swan's
feathers, and painting their bodies with white clay. They
then place their
file leader on the consecrated seat of what imports in
their language, the
"beloved cabin." Afterwards they commence singing
the peace song,
with an air of great solemnity. They begin to dance,
first in a prone or
bowing posture. They then raise themselves erect,
look upwards, and
wave their eagles' tails towards the sky, first with a
slow, and then with
a quick and jerky motion. At the same time, they
strike their breast
with a calabash fastened to a stick about a foot in
length, which they
hold in their left hand, while they wave the eagles'
feathers with the
right, and keep time by rattling pebbles in a gourd.
These ceremonies of
peace-making they consider among their most solemn
duties; and to be
perfectly accomplished in all the notes and gestures
is an indispensable
acquirement to a thorough trained warrior.
Boone has related, at
different times, many oral details of his private
and domestic life,
and his modes of getting along in the family, of
which he was
considered a member. He was perfectly trained to their
ways, could prepare
their food, and perform any of their common domestic
operations with the
best of them. He often accompanied them in their
hunting excursions,
wandering with them over the extent of forest
between Chillicothe
and lake Erie. These conversations presented curious
and most vivid
pictures of their interior modes; their tasks of diurnal
labor and supply;
their long and severe fasts; their gluttonous
indulgence, when
they had food; and their reckless generosity and
hospitality, when
they had any thing to bestow to travelling visitants.
To become, during
this tedious captivity, perfectly acquainted with
their most interior
domestic and diurnal manners, was not without
interest for a mind
constituted like his. To make himself master of
their language, and
to become familiarly acquainted with their customs,
he considered
acquisitions of the highest utility in the future
operations, in
which, notwithstanding his present duress, he hoped yet
to be beneficial to
his beloved settlement of Kentucky.
Although the
indulgence with which he was treated in the family, in
which he was
adopted, and these acquisitions, uniting interest with
utility, tended to
beguile the time of his captivity, it cannot be
doubted, that his
sleeping and waking thoughts were incessantly occupied
with the chances of
making his escape. An expedition was in
contemplation, by
the tribe, to the salt licks on the Scioto, to make
salt. Boone
dissembled indifference whether they took him with them, or
left him behind,
with so much success, that, to his extreme joy, they
determined that he
should accompany them. The expedition started on the
first day of June,
1778, and was occupied ten days in making salt.
During this
expedition, he was frequently sent out to hunt, to furnish
provisions for the
party; but always under such circumstances, that,
much as he had
hoped to escape on this expedition, no opportunity
occurred, which he
thought it prudent to embrace. He returned with the
party to
Chillicothe, having derived only one advantage from the
journey, that of
furnishing, by his making no attempt to escape, and by
his apparently
cheerful return, new motives to convince the Indians,
that he was
thoroughly domesticated among them, and had voluntarily
renounced his own
race; a persuasion, which, by taking as much apparent
interest as any of
them, in all their diurnal movements and plans, he
constantly labored
to establish.
Soon after his
return he attended a warrior-council, at which, in virtue
of being a member
of one of the principal families, he had a right of
usage and prescription,
to be present. It was composed of a hundred and
fifty of their
bravest men, all painted and armed for an expedition,
which he found was
intended against Boonesborough. It instantly
occurred to him, as
a most fortunate circumstance, that he had not
escaped on the
expedition to Scioto. Higher and more imperious motives,
than merely
personal considerations, now determined him at every risk to
make the effort to
escape, and prepare, if he might reach it, the
station for a
vigorous defence, by forewarning it of what was in
preparation among
the Indians.
The religious
ceremonies of the council and preparation for the
expedition were as
follow. One of the principal war chiefs announced the
intention of a
party to commence an expedition against Boonesborough.
This he did by
beating their drum, and marching with their war standard
three times round
the council-house. On this the council dissolved, and
a sufficient number
of warriors supplied themselves with arms, and a
quantity of parched
corn flour, as a supply of food for the expedition.
All who had
volunteered to join in it, then adjourned to their "winter
house," and
drank the war-drink, a decoction of bitter herbs and roots,
for three
days--preserving in other respects an almost unbroken fast.
This is considered
to be an act tending to propitiate the Great Spirit
to prosper their
expedition. During this period of purifying themselves,
they were not
allowed to sit down, or even lean upon a tree, however
fatigued, until
after sun-set. If a bear or deer even passed in sight,
custom forbade them
from killing it for refreshment. The more rigidly
punctual they are
in the observance of these rights, the more
confidently they
expect success.
While the young
warriors were under this probation, the aged ones,
experienced in the
usages of their ancestors, watched them most narrowly
to see that, from
irreligion, or hunger, or recklessness, they did not
violate any of the
transmitted religious rites, and thus bring the wrath
of the Great Spirit
upon the expedition. Boone himself, as a person
naturally under
suspicion of having a swerving of inclination towards
the station to be
assailed, was obliged to observe the fast with the
most rigorous
exactness. During the three days' process of purification,
he was not once
allowed to go out of the medicine or sanctified ground,
without a trusty
guard, lest hunger or indifference to their laws should
tempt him to
violate them.
When the fast and
purification was complete, they were compelled to set
forth, prepared or
unprepared, be the weather fair or foul. Accordingly,
when the time
arrived, they fired their guns, whooped, and danced, and
sung--and continued
firing their guns before them on the commencement of
their route. The
leading war-chief marched first, carrying their
medicine bag, or
budget of holy things. The rest followed in Indian
file, at intervals
of three or four paces behind each other, now and
then chiming the
war-whoop in concert.
They advanced in
this order until they were out of sight and hearing of
the village. As
soon as they reached the deep woods, all became as
silent as death.
This silence they inculcate, that their ears may be
quick to catch the
least portent of danger.
Every one
acquainted with the race, has remarked their intense keenness
of vision. Their
eyes, for acuteness, and capability of discerning
distant objects,
resemble those of the eagle or the lynx; and their
cat-like tread
among the grass and leaves, seems so light as scarcely to
shake off the dew
drops. Thus they advance on their expedition rapidly
and in profound
silence, unless some one of the party should relate that
he has had an
unpropitious dream When this happens, an immediate arrest
is put upon the
expedition, and the whole party face about, and return
without any sense
of shame or mortification. A whole party is thus often
arrested by a
single person; and their return is applauded by the tribe,
as a respectful
docility to the divine impulse, as they deem it, from
the Great Spirit.
These dreams are universally reverenced, as the
warnings of the
guardian spirits of the tribe. There is in that country
a sparrow, of an
uncommon species, and not often seen. This bird is
called in the
Shawnese dialect by a name importing "kind messenger,"
which they deem
always a true omen, whenever it appears, of bad news.
They are
exceedingly intimidated whenever this bird sings near them; and
were it to perch
and sing over their war-camp, the whole party would
instantly disperse
in consternation and dismay.
Every chief has his
warrior, Etissu, or waiter, to attend on him and his
party. This
confidential personage has charge of every thing that is
eaten or drank
during the expedition. He parcels it out by rules of
rigid
abstemiousness. Though each warrior carries on his back all his
travelling
conveniences, and his food among the rest, yet, however keen
the appetite
sharpened by hunger, however burning the thirst, no one
dares relieve his
hunger or thirst, until his rations are dispensed to
him by the Etissu.
Boone had occasion to
have all these rites most painfully impressed on
his memory; for he
was obliged to conform to them with the rest. One
single thought
occupied his mind--to seize the right occasion to escape.
It was sometime
before it offered. At length a deer came in sight. He
had a portion of
his unfinished breakfast in his hand. He expressed a
desire to pursue
the deer. The party consented. As soon as he was out of
sight, he instantly
turned his course towards Boonesborough. Aware that
he should be
pursued by enemies as keen on the scent as bloodhounds, he
put forth his whole
amount of backwoods skill, in doubling in his track,
walking in the
water, and availing himself of every imaginable expedient
to throw them off
his trail. His unfinished fragment of his breakfast
was his only food,
except roots and berries, during this escape for his
life, through
unknown forests and pathless swamps, and across numerous
rivers, spreading
in an extent of more than two hundred miles. Every
forest sound must
have struck his ear, as a harbinger of the approaching
Indians.
No spirit but such
an one as his, could have sustained the apprehension
and fatigue. No
mind but one guided by the intuition of instinctive
sagacity, could
have so enabled him to conceal his trail, and find his
way. But he evaded
their pursuit. He discovered his way. He found in
roots, in barks,
and berries, together with what a single shot of his
rifle afforded,
wherewith to sustain the cravings of nature. Travelling
night and day, in an
incredible short space of time he was in the arms
of his friends at
Boonesborough, experiencing a reception, after such a
long and hopeless
absence, as words would in vain attempt to portray.
CHAPTER X.
Six hundred Indians
attack Boonesborough--Boone and Captain Smith go out
to treat with the
enemy under a flag of truce, and are extricated from a
treacherous attempt
to detain them as prisoners--Defence of the
fort--The Indians
defeated--Boone goes to North Carolina to bring bark
his family.
It will naturally
be supposed that foes less wary and intelligent, than
those from whom
Boone had escaped, after they had abandoned the hope of
recapturing him,
would calculate to find Boonesborough in readiness for
their reception.
Boonesborough,
though the most populous and important station in
Kentucky, had been
left by the abstraction of so many of the select
inhabitants in the
captivity of the Blue Licks, by the absence of
Colonel Clarke in
Illinois, and by the actual decay of the pickets,
almost defenceless.
Not long before the return of Boone, this important
post had been put
under the care of Major Smith, an active and
intelligent
officer. He repaired thither, and put the station, with
great labor and fatigue,
in a competent state of defence. Learning from
the return of some
of the prisoners, captured at the Blue Licks, the
great blow which
the Shawnese meditated against this station, he deemed
it advisable to
anticipate their movements, and to fit out an expedition
to meet them on
their own ground.--Leaving twenty young men to defend
the place, he
marched with thirty chosen men towards the Shawnese
towns.
At the Blue Licks,
a place of evil omen to Kentucky, eleven of the men,
anxious for the
safety of the families they had left behind and deeming
their force too
small for the object contemplated, abandoned the
enterprise and
retreated to the fort. The remaining nineteen, not
discouraged by the
desertion of their companions, heroically persevered.
They crossed the
Ohio to the present site of Cincinnati, on rafts. They
then painted their
faces, and in other respects assumed the guise and
garb of savages,
and marched upon the Indian towns.
When arrived within
twenty miles of these towns they met the force with
which Boone had set
out. Discouraged by his escape, the original party
had returned, had
been rejoined by a considerable reinforcement, the
whole amounting to
two hundred and fifty men on horse-back, and were
again on their
march against Boonesborough. Fortunately, Major Smith and
his small party
discovered this formidable body before they were
themselves
observed. But instead of endeavoring to make good their
retreat from an
enemy so superior in numbers, and mounted upon horses,
they fired upon them
and killed two of their number. An assault so
unexpected alarmed
the Indians; and without any effort to ascertain the
number of their
assailants, they commenced a precipitate retreat. If
these rash
adventurers had stopped here, they might have escaped
unmolested. But,
flushed with this partial success, they rushed upon the
retreating foe, and
repeated their fire. The savages, restored to
self-possession,
halted in their turn, deliberated a moment, and turned
upon the
assailants. Major Smith, perceiving the imprudence of having
thus put the enemy
at bay, and the certainty of the destruction of his
little force, if
the Indians should perceive its weakness, ordered a
retreat in time;
and being considerably in advance of the foe, succeeded
in effecting it without
loss. By a rapid march during the night, in the
course of the next
morning they reached Boonesborough in safety.
Scarcely an hour
after the last of their number had entered the fort, a
body of six hundred
Indians, in three divisions of two hundred each,
appeared with
standards and much show of warlike array, and took their
station opposite
the fort. The whole was commanded by a Frenchman named
Duquesne. They
immediately sent a flag requesting the surrender of the
place, in the name
of the king of Great Britain. A council was held, and
contrary to the
opinion of Major Smith, it was decided to pay no
attention to the
proposal. They repeated their flag of truce, stating
that they had
letters from the commander at Detroit to Colonel Boone. On
this, it was
resolved that Colonel Boone and Major Smith should venture
out, and hear what
they had to propose.
Fifty yards from
the fort three chiefs met them with great parade, and
conducted them to
the spot designated for their reception, and spread a
panther's skin for
their seat, while two other Indians held branches
over their heads to
protect them from the fervor of the sun. The chiefs
then commenced an
address five minutes in length, abounding in friendly
assurances, and the
avowal of kind sentiments. A part of the advanced
warriors grounded
their arms, and came forward to shake hands with them.
The letter from
Governor Hamilton of Detroit was then produced, and
read. It proposed
the most favorable terms of surrender, provided the
garrison would repair
to Detroit. Major Smith assured them that the
proposition seemed
a kind one; but that it was impossible, in their
circumstances, to
remove their women and children to Detroit. The reply
was that this
difficulty should be removed, for that they had brought
forty horses with
them, expressly prepared for such a contingency.
In a long and
apparently amicable interview, during which the Indians
smoked with them,
and vaunted their abstinence in not having killed the
swine and cattle of
the settlement, Boone and Smith arose to return to
the fort, and make
known these proposals, and to deliberate upon their
decision. Twenty
Indians accompanied their return as far as the limits
stipulated between
the parties allowed. The negotiators having returned,
and satisfied the
garrison that the Indians had no cannon, advised to
listen to no terms,
but to defend the fort to the last extremity. The
inmates of the
station resolved to follow this counsel.
In a short time the
Indians sent in another flag, with a view, as they
stated, to
ascertain the result of the deliberations of the fort. Word
was sent them, that
if they wished to settle a treaty, a place of
conference must be
assigned intermediate between their camp and the
fort. The Indians
consented to this stipulation, and deputed thirty
chiefs to arrange
the articles, though such appeared to be their
distrust, that they
could not be induced to come nearer than eighty
yards from the
fort. Smith and Boone with four others were deputed to
confer with them.
After a close conference of two days, an arrangement
was agreed upon,
which contained a stipulation, that neither party
should cross the
Ohio, until after the terms had been decided upon by
the respective
authorities on either side. The wary heads of this
negotiation considered
these terms of the Indians as mere lures to
beguile confidence.
When the treaty was
at last ready for signature, an aged chief, who had
seemed to regulate
all the proceedings, remarked that he must first go
to his people, and
that he would immediately return, and sign the
instrument. He was
observed to step aside in conference with some young
warriors. On his
return the negotiators from the garrison asked the
chief why he had
brought young men in place of those who had just been
assisting at the
council? His answer was prompt and ingenious. It was,
that he wished to
gratify his young warriors, who desired to become
acquainted with the
ways of the whites. It was then proposed, according
to the custom of
both races, that the parties should shake hands. As the
two chief
negotiators, Smith and Boone, arose to depart, they were both
seized from behind.
Suspicious of
treachery, they had posted twenty-five men in a bastion,
with orders to fire
upon the council, as soon as they should see any
marks of treachery
or violence. The instant the negotiators were seized,
the whole besieging
force fired upon them, and the fire was as promptly
returned by the men
in the bastion. The powerful savages who had grasped
Boone and Smith,
attempted to drag them off as prisoners. The one who
held Smith was
compelled to release his grasp by being shot dead.
Colonel Boone was
slightly wounded. A second tomahawk, by which his
skull would have
been cleft asunder, he evaded, and it partially fell on
Major Smith; but being
in a measure spent, it did not inflict a
dangerous wound.
The negotiators escaped to the fort without receiving
any other injury.
The almost providential escape of Boone and Smith can
only be accounted
for by the confusion into which the Indians were
thrown, as soon as
these men were seized, and by the prompt fire of the
men concealed in
the bastion. Added to this, the two Indians who seized
them were both shot
dead, by marksmen who knew how to kill the Indians,
and at the same
time spare the whites, in whose grasp they were held.
The firing on both
sides now commenced in earnest, and was kept up
without
intermission from morning dawn until dark. The garrison, at once
exasperated and
cheered by the meditated treachery of the negotiation
and its result,
derided the furious Indians, and thanked them for the
stratagem of the
negotiation, which had given them time to prepare the
fort for their
reception. Goaded to desperation by these taunts, and by
Duquesne, who harangued
them to the onset, they often rushed up to the
fort, as if they
purposed to storm it. Dropping dead under the cool and
deliberate aim of
the besieged, the remainder of the forlorn hope,
raising a yell of
fury and despair, fell back. Other infuriated bands
took their place;
and these scenes were often repeated, invariably with
the same success,
until both parties were incapable of taking aim on
account of the
darkness.
They then procured
a quantity of combustible matter, set fire to it, and
approached under
covert of the darkness, so near the palisades as to
throw the burning
materials into the fort. But the inmates had availed
themselves of the
two days' consultation, granted them by the
treacherous foe, to
procure an ample supply of water; and they had the
means of
extinguishing the burning faggots as they fell.
Finding their
efforts to fire the fort ineffectual, they returned again
to their arms, and
continued to fire upon the station for some days.
Taught a lesson of
prudence, however, by what had already befallen them,
they kept at such a
cautious distance, as that their fire took little
effect. A project
to gain the place, more wisely conceived, and
promising better
success, was happily discovered by Colonel Boone. The
walls of the fort
were distant sixty yards from the Kentucky river. The
bosom of the
current was easily discernible by the people within. Boone
discovered in the
morning that the stream near the shore was extremely
turbid. He
immediately divined the cause.
The Indians had
commenced a trench at the water level of the river
bank, mining
upwards towards the station, and intending to reach the
interior by a
passage under the wall. He took measures to render their
project
ineffectual, by ordering a trench to be cut inside the fort,
across the line of
their subterraneous passage. They were probably
apprised of the
countermine that was digging within, by the quantity of
earth thrown over
the wall. But, stimulated by the encouragement of
their French
engineer, they continued to advance their mine towards the
wall, until, from
the friability of the soil through which it passed, it
fell in, and all
their labor was lost. With a perseverance that in a
good cause would
have done them honor, in no wise discouraged by this
failure to intermit
their exertions, they returned again to their fire
arms, and kept up a
furious and incessant firing for some days, but
producing no more
impression upon the station than before.
During the siege,
which lasted eight days, they proposed frequent
parleys, requesting
the surrender of the place, and professing to treat
the garrison with
the utmost kindness. They were answered, that they
must deem the
garrison to be still more brutally fools than themselves,
to expect that they
would place any confidence in the proposals of
wretches who had
already manifested such base and stupid treachery. They
were bidden to fire
on, for that their waste of powder and lead gave the
garrison little
uneasiness, and were assured that they could not hope
the surrender of
the place, while there was a man left within it. On the
morning of the
ninth day from the commencement of the siege, after
having, as usual,
wreaked their disappointed fury upon the cattle and
swine, they
decamped, and commenced a retreat.
No Indian
expedition against the whites had been known to have had such
a disastrous issue
for them. During the siege, their loss was estimated
by the garrison at
two hundred killed, beside a great number wounded.
The garrison, on
the contrary, protected by the palisades, behind which
they could fire in
safety, and deliberately prostrate every foe that
exposed himself
near enough to become a mark, lost but two killed, and
had six wounded.
After the siege,
the people of the fort, to whom lead was a great
object, began to
collect the balls that the Indians had fired upon them.
They gathered in
the logs of the fort, beside those that had fallen to
the ground, a
hundred and twenty-five pounds. The failure of this
desperate attempt,
with such a powerful force, seems to have discouraged
the Indians and
their Canadian allies from making any further effort
against
Boonesborough. In the autumn of this season, Colonel Boone
returned to North
Carolina to visit his wife and family.
When he was taken
at the Blue Licks, with his associates, who had
returned, while he
was left behind in a long captivity, during which no
more news of him
transpired than as if he were actually among the dead,
the people of the
garrison naturally concluded that he had been killed.
His wife and family
numbered him as among the dead; and often had they
shuddered on the
bare recurrence of some one to the probability of the
tortures he had
undergone. Deeply attached to him, and inconsolable,
they could no longer
endure a residence which so painfully reminded them
of their loss. As
soon as they had settled their minds to the conviction
that their head
would return to them no more, they resolved to leave
these forests that
had been so fatal to them, and return to the banks of
the Yadkin, where
were all their surviving connections. A family so
respectable and
dear to the settlement would not be likely to leave
without having to
overcome many tender and pressing solicitations to
remain, and many
promises that if they would, their temporal wants
should be provided
for.
To all this Mrs.
Boone could only object, that Kentucky had indeed been
to her, as its name
imported, a dark and _Bloody Ground_. She had lost
her eldest son by
the savage fire before they had reached the country.
Her daughter had
been made a captive, and had experienced a forbearance
from the Indians to
her inexplicable. She would have been carried away
to the savage
towns, and there would have been forcibly married to some
warrior, but for
the perilous attempt, and improbable success of her
father in
recapturing her. Now the father himself, her affectionate
husband, and the
heroic defender of the family, had fallen a sacrifice,
probably in the
endurance of tortures on which the imagination dared not
to dwell. Under the
influence of griefs like these, next to the
unfailing resource
of religion, the heart naturally turns to the
sympathy and
society of those bound to it by the ties of nature and
affinity. They
returned to their friends in North Carolina.
It was nearly five
years since this now desolate family had started in
company with the
first emigrating party of families, in high hopes and
spirits, for
Kentucky. We have narrated their disastrous rencounter with
the Indians in Powell's
valley, and their desponding return to Clinch
river. We have seen
their subsequent return to Boonesborough, on
Kentucky river.
Tidings of the party thus far had reached the relatives
of Mrs. Boone's
family in North Carolina; but no news from the country
west of the
Alleghanies had subsequently reached them. All was uncertain
conjecture, whether
they still lived, or had perished by famine, wild
beasts, or the
Indians.
At the close of the
summer of 1778, the settlement on the Yadkin saw a
company on pack
horses approaching in the direction from the western
wilderness. They
had often seen parties of emigrants departing in that
direction, but it
was a novel spectacle to see one return from that
quarter. At the
head of that company was a blooming youth, scarcely yet
arrived at the age
of manhood. It was the eldest surviving son of Daniel
Boone. Next behind
him was a matronly woman, in weeds, and with a
countenance of deep
dejection. It was Mrs. Boone. Still behind was the
daughter who had
been a captive with the Indians. The remaining children
were too young to
feel deeply. The whole group was respectable in
appearance, though
clad in skins, and the primitive habiliments of the
wilderness. It
might almost have been mistaken for a funeral
procession. It stopped
at the house of Mr. Bryan, the father of Mrs.
Boone.
The people of the
settlement were not long in collecting to hear news
from the west, and
learn the fate of their former favorite, Boone, and
his family. As Mrs.
Boone, in simple and backwood's phrase, related the
thrilling story of
their adventures, which needed no trick of venal
eloquence to convey
it to the heart, an abundant tribute of tears from
the hearers
convinced the bereaved narrator that true sympathy is
natural to the
human heart. As they shuddered at the dark character of
many of the
incidents related, it was an hour of triumph,
notwithstanding
their pity, for those wiser ones, who took care, in an
under tone, to
whisper that it might be remembered that they had
predicted all that
had happened.
CHAPTER XI.
A sketch of the
character and adventures of several other
pioneers--Harrod,
Kenton, Logan, Ray, McAffee, and others.
Colonel Boone
having seen the formidable invasion of Boonesborough
successfully
repelled, and with such a loss as would not be likely to
tempt the Indians
to repeat such assaults--and having thus disengaged
his mind from
public duties, resigned it to the influence of domestic
sympathies. The
affectionate husband and father, concealing the
tenderest heart
under a sun-burnt and care-worn visage, was soon seen
crossing the
Alleghanies in pursuit of his wife and children. The bright
star of his morning
promise had been long under eclipse; for this
journey was one of continued
difficulties, vexations, and dangers--so
like many of his
sufferings already recounted, that we pass them by,
fearing the effect
of incidents of so much monotony upon the reader's
patience. The frame
and spirit of the western adventurer were of iron.
He surmounted all,
and was once more in the bosom of his family on the
Yadkin, who, in the
language of the Bible, hailed him as one _who had
been dead and was
alive again; who had been lost and was found_.
Many incidents of
moment and interest in the early annals of Kentucky
occurred during
this reunion of Boone with his family. As his name is
forever identified
with these annals, we hope it will not be deemed
altogether an
episode if we introduce here a brief chronicle of those
incidents--though
not directly associated with the subject of our
memoir. In
presenting those incidents, we shall be naturally led to
speak of some of
the other patriarchs of Kentucky--all Boones in their
way--all strangely
endowed with that peculiar character which fitted
them for the time,
place, and achievements. We thus discover the
foresight of
Providence in the arrangement of means to ends. This is no
where seen more
conspicuously than in the characters of the founders of
states and
institutions.
During the absence
of Colonel Boone, there was a general disposition in
Kentucky to
retaliate upon the Shawnese some of the injuries and losses
which they had so
often inflicted upon the infant settlement. Colonel
Bowman, with a force
of a hundred and sixty men, was selected to command
the expedition; and
it was destined against Old Chillicothe--the den
where the red
northern savages had so long concentrated their
expeditions against
the settlements south of the Ohio.
The force marched
in the month of July, 1779, and reached its
destination
undiscovered by the Indians. A contest commenced with the
Indians at early
dawn, which lasted until ten in the morning. But,
although Colonel
Bowman's force sustained itself with great gallantry,
the numbers and
concealment of the enemy precluded the chance of a
victory. He
retreated, with an inconsiderable loss, a distance of thirty
miles. The Indians,
collecting all their forces, pursued and overtook
him. Another
engagement of two hours ensued, more to the disadvantage
of the Kentuckians
than the former. Colonel Harrod proposed to mount a
number of horse,
and make a charge upon the Indians, who continued the
fight with great
fury. This apparently desperate measure was followed by
the happiest results.
The Indian front was broken, and their force
thrown into
irreparable confusion. Colonel Bowman, having sustained a
loss of nine killed
and one wounded, afterwards continued an unmolested
retreat.
In June of the next
year, 1780, six hundred Indians and Canadians,
commanded by
Colonel Bird, a British officer, attacked Riddle's and
Martin's stations,
at the forks of the Licking, with six pieces of
cannon. They
conducted this expedition with so much secrecy, that the
first intimation of
it which the unsuspecting inhabitants had, was being
fired upon.
Unprepared to resist so formidable a force, provided
moreover with
cannon, against which their palisade walls would not
stand, they were
obliged to surrender at discretion. The savages
immediately
prostrated one man and two women with the tomahawk. All the
other prisoners,
many of whom were sick, were loaded with baggage and
forced to accompany
their return march to the Indian towns. Whoever,
whether male or
female, infant or aged, became unable, from sickness or
exhaustion, to
proceed, was immediately dispatched with the tomahawk.
The inhabitants,
exasperated by the recital of cruelties to the children
and women, too
horrible to be named, put themselves under the standard
of the intrepid and
successful General Clarke, who commanded a regiment
of United States'
troops at the falls of Ohio. He was joined by a number
of volunteers from
the country, and they marched against Pickaway, one
of the principal
towns of the Shawnese, on the Great Miami. He conducted
this expedition
with his accustomed good fortune. He burnt their town to
ashes. Beside the
dead, which, according to their custom, the Indians
carried off,
seventeen bodies were left behind. The loss of General
Clarke was
seventeen killed.
We here present
brief outlines of some of the other more prominent
western pioneers,
the kindred spirits, the Boones of Kentucky. High
spirited
intelligent, intrepid as they were, they can never supplant the
reckless hero of
Kentucky and Missouri in our thoughts. It is true,
these men deserve
to have their memories perpetuated in monumental
brass, and the more
enduring page of history. But there is a sad
interest attached
to the memory of Daniel Boone, which can never belong,
in an equal degree,
to theirs. They foresaw what this beautiful country
would become in the
hands of its new possessors. Extending their
thoughts beyond the
ken of a hunter's calculations, they anticipated the
consequences of
buts and bounds, officers of registry and record, and
courts of justice.
In due time, they secured a fair and adequate
reversion in the
soil which they had planted and so nobly defended.
Hence, their
posterity, with the inheritance of their name and renown,
enter into the
heritage of their possessions, and find an honorable and
an abundant
residence in the country which their fathers settled.
Boone, on the
contrary, was too simple-minded, too little given to
prospective
calculations, and his heart in too much what was passing
under his eye, to
make this thrifty forecast. In age, in penury,
landless, and
without a home, he is seen leaving Kentucky, then an
opulent and
flourishing country, for a new wilderness and new scenes of
adventure.
Among the names of
the conspicuous backwoodsmen who settled the west, we
cannot fail to
recognize that of James Harrod. He was from the banks of
the Monongahela,
and among the earliest immigrants to the "Bloody
Ground." He
descended the Great Kenhawa, and returned to Pennsylvania in
1774. He made
himself conspicuous with a party of his friends at the
famous contest with
the Indians at the "Point," Next year he returned to
Kentucky with a
party of immigrants, fixing himself at one of the
earliest
settlements in the country, which, in honor of him, was called
Harrodsburgh.
Nature had moulded
him of a form and temperament to look the formidable
red man in the
face. He was six feet, muscular, broad chested, of a firm
and animated
countenance, keen and piercing eyes, and sparing of speech.
He gained himself
an imperishable name in the annals of Kentucky, under
the extreme
disadvantage of not knowing how to read or write! Obliging
and benevolent to
his neighbors, he was brave and active in their
defence. A
successful, because a persevering and intelligent hunter, he
was liberal to
profuseness in the distribution of the spoils. Vigilant
and unerring with
his rifle, it was at one time directed against the
abundant game for
the sake of his friends rather than himself; and at
others, against the
enemies of his country. Guided by the inexplicable
instinct of forest
skill, he could conduct the wanderer in the woods
from point to point
through the wilderness, as the needle guides the
mariner upon the
ocean. So endowed, others equally illiterate, and less
gifted, naturally,
and from instinct, arranged themselves under his
banner, and
fearlessly followed such a leader.
If it was reported,
that a family, recently arrived in the country, and
not yet acquainted
with the backwood's modes of supply, was in want of
food, Harrod was
seen at the cabin door, offering the body of a deer or
buffalo, which he
had just killed. The commencing farmer, who had lost
his oxen, or plough
horse, in the range, and unused to the vocation of
hunting them, or
fearful of the Indian rifle, felt no hesitancy, from
his known
character, in applying to Harrod. He would disappear in the
woods, and in the
exercise of his own wonderful tact, the lost beast was
soon seen driving
to the door.
But the precincts
of a station, or the field of a farm, were too
uncongenial a range
for such a spirit as his. To breathe the fresh
forest air--to
range deserts where man was not to be seen--to pursue the
wild deer and
buffalo--to trap the bear and the wolf, or beside the
still pond, or the
unexplored stream, to catch otters and beavers--to
bring down the wild
turkey from the summit of the highest trees; such
were the congenial
pursuits in which he delighted.
But, in a higher
sphere, and in the service of his country, he united
the instinctive
tact and dexterity of a huntsman with the bravery of a
soldier. No labor
was too severe for his hardihood; no enterprise too
daring and forlorn
for his adventure; no course too intricate and
complicated for his
judgment, so far as native talent could guide it. As
a Colonel of the
militia, he conducted expeditions against the Indians
with uncommon
success. After the country had become populous, and he a
husband and a
father, in the midst of an affectionate family, possessed
of every
comfort--such was the effect of temperament, operating upon
habit, that he
became often silent and thoughtful in the midst of the
social circle, and
was seen in that frame to wander away into remote
forests, and to
bury himself amidst the unpeopled knobs, where, in a few
weeks, he would
reacquire his cheerfulness. In one of these excursions
he disappeared, and
was seen no more, leaving no trace to determine
whether he died a
natural death, was slain by wild beasts, or the
tomahawk of the
savage.
Among the names of
many of the first settlers of Harrodsburgh, are those
that are found most
prominent in the early annals of Kentucky. In the
first list of these
we find the names of McGary, Harland, McBride, and
Chaplain. Among the
young settlers, none were more conspicuous for
active, daring, and
meritorious service, than James Ray. Prompt at his
post at the first
moment of alarm, brave in the field, fearless and
persevering in the
pursuit of the enemy, scarcely a battle, skirmish, or
expedition took
place in which he had not a distinguished part. Equally
expert as a
woodsman, and skilful and successful as a hunter, he was
often employed as a
spy. It is recorded of him that he left his
garrison, when
short of provisions, by night marched to a forest at the
distance of six
miles, killed a buffalo, and, loaded with the choice
parts of the flesh,
returned to regale the hungry inhabitants in the
morning. He
achieved this enterprise, too, when it was well known that
the vicinity was
thronged with Indians, lurking for an opportunity to
kill. These are the
positions which try the daring and skill, the
usefulness and
value of men, furnishing a criterion which cannot be
counterfeited
between reality and resemblance.
We may perhaps in
this place most properly introduce another of the
famous partisans in
savage warfare, Simon Kenton, alias Butler, who,
from humble
beginnings, made himself conspicuous by distinguished
services and
achievements in the first settlements of this country, and
ought to be
recorded as one of the patriarchs of Kentucky. He was born
in Virginia, in 1753.
He grew to maturity without being able to read or
write; but from his
early exploits he seems to have been endowed with
feelings which the
educated and those born in the upper walks of life,
appear to suppose a
monopoly reserved for themselves. It is recorded of
him, that at the
age of nineteen, he had a violent contest with another
competitor for the
favor of the lady of his love. She refused to make an
election between
them, and the subject of this notice indignantly exiled
himself from his
native place. After various peregrinations on the long
rivers of the west,
he fixed himself in Kentucky, and soon became a
distinguished
partisan against the savages. In 1774, he joined himself
to Lord Dunmore,
and was appointed one of his spies. He made various
excursions, and
performed important services in this employ. He finally
selected a place
for improvement on the site where Washington now is.
Returning one day
from hunting, he found one of his companions slain by
the Indians, and
his body thrown into the fire. He left Washington in
consequence, and
joined himself to Colonel Clarke in his fortunate and
gallant expedition
against Vincennes and Kaskaskia. He was sent by that
commander with
despatches for Kentucky. He passed through the streets of
Vincennes, then in
possession of the British and Indians, without
discovery. Arriving
at White river, he and his party made a raft on
which to cross with
their guns and baggage, driving their horses into
the river and
compelling them to swim it. A party of Indians was
concealed on the
opposite bank, who took possession of the horses as
they mounted the
bank from crossing the river. Butler and his party
seeing this,
continued to float down the river on their raft without
coming to land.
They concealed themselves in the bushes until night,
when they crossed
the river, pursued their journey, and delivered their
despatches.
After this, Butler
made a journey of discovery to the northern regions
of the Ohio
country, and was made prisoner by the Indians. They painted
him black, as is
their custom when a victim is destined for their
torture, and
informed him that he was to be burned at Chillicothe.
Meanwhile, for
their own amusement, and as a prelude of his torture,
they manacled him
hand and foot, and placed him on an unbridled and
unbroken horse, and
turned the animal loose, driving it off at its
utmost speed, with
shouts, delighted at witnessing its mode of managing
with its living
burden. The horse unable to shake off this new and
strange
encumbrance, made for the thickest covert of the woods and
brambles, with the
speed of the winds. It is easy to conjecture the
position and
suffering of the victim. The terrified animal exhausted
itself in fruitless
efforts to shake off its burden, and worn down and
subdued, brought Butler
back amidst the yells of the exulting savages to
the camp.
Arrived within a
mile of Chillicothe, they halted, took Butler from his
horse and tied him
to a stake, where he remained twenty-four hours in
one position. He
was taken from the stake to "run the gauntlet." The
Indian mode of
managing this kind of torture was as follows: The
inhabitants of the
tribe, old and young, were placed in parallel lines,
armed with clubs
and switches. The victim was to make his way to the
council house
through these files, every member of which struggled to
beat him as he
passed as severely as possible. If he reached the council
house alive, he was
to be spared. In the lines were nearly six hundred
Indians, and Butler
had to make his way almost a mile in the endurance
of this infernal
sport. He was started by a blow; but soon broke through
the files, and had
almost reached the council house, when a stout
warrior knocked him
down with a club. He was severely beaten in this
position, and taken
back again into custody.
It seems incredible
that they sometimes adopted their prisoners, and
treated them with
the utmost lenity and even kindness. At other times,
ingenuity was
exhausted to invent tortures, and every renewed endurance
of the victim
seemed to stimulate their vengeance to new discoveries of
cruelty. Butler was
one of these ill-fated subjects. No way satisfied
with what they had
done, they marched him from village to village to
give all a
spectacle of his sufferings. He run the gauntlet thirteen
times. He made
various attempts to escape; and in one instance would
have effected it,
had he not been arrested by some savages who were
accidentally
returning to the village from which he was escaping. It was
finally determined
to burn him at the Lower Sandusky, but an apparent
accident changed
his destiny.
In passing to the
stake, the procession went by the cabin of Girty, of
whom we have
already spoken. This renegado white man lived among these
Indians, and had
just returned from an unsuccessful expedition against
the whites on the
frontiers of Pennsylvania. The wretch burned with
disappointment and
revenge, and hearing that there was a white man going
to the torture,
determined to wreak his vengeance on him. He found the
unfortunate Butler,
threw him to the ground, and began to beat him.
Butler, who
instantly recognized in Girty the quondam companion and
playmate of youth,
at once made himself known to him. This sacramental
tie of friendship,
on recognition, caused the savage heart of Girty to
relent. He raised
him up, and promised to save him. He procured the
assemblage of a
council, and persuaded the savages to relinquish Butler
to him. He took the
unfortunate man home, fed, and clothed him, and
Butler began to
recruit from his wounds and torture. But the relenting
of the savages was
only transient and momentary. After five days they
repented of their
relaxation in his favor, reclaimed him, and marched
him to Lower
Sandusky to be burned there, according to their original
purpose. By a
fortunate coincidence, he there met the Indian agent from
Detroit, who, from
motives of humanity, exerted his influence with the
savages for his
release, and took him with him to Detroit. Here he was
paroled by the
Governor. He escaped; and being endowed, like Daniel
Boone, to be at
home in the woods, by a march of thirty days through the
wilderness, he
reached Kentucky.
In 1784, Simon
Kenton reoccupied the settlement, near Washington, which
he had commenced in
1775. Associated with a number of people, he erected
a block-house, and
made a station here. This became an important point
of covering and
defence for the interior country. Immigrants felt more
confidence in
landing at Limestone. To render this confidence more
complete, Kenton
and his associates built a block-house at Limestone.
Two men, of the
name of Tanner, had made a small settlement the year
preceding at Blue
Lick, and were now making salt there. The route from
Limestone to
Lexington became one of the most general travel for
immigrants, and many
stations sprang up upon it. Travellers to the
country had
hitherto been compelled to sleep under the open canopy,
exposed to the
rains and dews of the night. But cabins were now so
common, that they
might generally repose under a roof that sheltered
them from the
weather, and find a bright fire, plenty of wood, and with
the rustic fare, a
most cheerful and cordial welcome. The people of
these new regions
were hospitable from native inclination. They were
hospitable from
circumstances. None but those who dwell in a wilderness,
where the savages
roam and the wolves howl, can understand all the
pleasant
associations connected with the sight of a stranger of the same
race. The
entertainer felt himself stronger from the presence of his
guest. His offered
food and fare were the spoils of the chase. He heard
news from the old
settlements and the great World; and he saw in the
accession of every
stranger a new guaranty of the security, wealth, and
improvement of the
infant country where he had chosen his resting place.
Among other worthy
associates of Boone, we may mention the family of
McAffee. Two
brothers, James and Robert, emigrated from the county of
Botetourt,
Virginia, and settled on Salt river, six miles from
Harrodsburgh.
Having revisited their parent country, on their return
they brought with
them William and George McAffee. In 1777, the Indians
destroyed the whole
of their valuable stock of cattle, while they were
absent from
Kentucky. In 1779 they returned, and settled McAffee's
station, which was
subsequently compelled to take its full share in the
sufferings and
dangers of Indian hostilities.
Benjamin Logan
immigrated to the country in 1775, as a private citizen.
But he was a man of
too much character to remain unnoted. As his
character developed,
he was successively appointed a magistrate, elected
a member of the
legislature and rose, as a military character, to the
rank of general.
His parents were natives of Ireland, who emigrated,
while young, to
Pennsylvania, where they married, and soon afterwards
removed to Augusta
county, Virginia.
Benjamin, their
oldest son, was born there; and at the age of fourteen,
lost his father.
Charged, at this early age, with the care of a widowed
mother, and
children still younger than himself, neither the
circumstances of
his family, of the country, or his peculiar condition,
allowed him the
chances of education. Almost as unlettered as James
Harrod, he was a
memorable example of a self-formed man. Great natural
acuteness, and
strong intellectual powers, were, however, adorned by a
disposition of
uncommon benevolence. Under the eye of an excellent
father, he
commenced with the rudiments of common instruction, the
soundest lessons of
Christian piety and morality, which were continued
by the guidance and
example of an admirable mother, with whom he resided
until he was turned
of twenty-one.
His father had
deceased intestate, and, in virtue of the laws then in
force, the whole
extensive inheritance of his father's lands descended
to him, to the
exclusion of his brothers and sisters. His example ought
to be recorded for
the benefit of those grasping children in these days,
who, dead to all
natural affection, and every sentiment but avarice,
seize all that the
law will grant, whether equity will sanction it or
not. Disregarding
this claim of primogeniture, he insisted that the
whole inheritance
should be parceled into equal shares, of which he
accepted only his
own. But the generous impulses of his noble nature,
were not limited to
the domestic circle. His heart was warm with the
more enlarged
sentiments of patriotism. At the age of twenty-one, he
accompanied Colonel
Beauquette, as a serjeant, in a hostile expedition
against the Indians
of the north. Having provided for the comfortable
settlement of his
mother and family on James River, Virginia, he moved
to the Holston,
where he settled and married.
Having been in the
expedition of Lord Dunmore against the Indians, and
having thus
acquired a taste for forest marches and incident, he
determined, in
1775, to try his fortunes in Kentucky, which country had
then just become a
theme of discussion. He set forth from his mother's
family with three
slaves, leaving the rest to her. In Powell's valley he
met with Boone,
Henderson, and other kindred spirits, and pursued his
journey towards
Kentucky in company with them. He parted from them,
before they reached
Boonesborough, and selected a spot for himself,
afterwards called
Logan's fort, or station.
In the winter of
1776, he removed his family from Holston, and in March,
arrived with it in
Kentucky. It was the same year in which the daughter
of Col. Boone, and
those of Col. Calloway were made captives. The
whole-country being
in a state of alarm, he endeavored to assemble some
of the settlers that
were dispersed in the country called the Crab
Orchard, to join
him at his cabins, and there form a station of
sufficient strength
to defend itself against Indian assault. But finding
them timid and
unresolved, he was himself obliged to desert his
incipient
settlement, and move for safety to Harrodsburgh. Yet, such was
his determination
not to abandon his selected spot, that he raised a
crop of corn there,
defenceless and surrounded on all sides by Indian
incursion.
In the winter of
1777, and previous to the attack of Harrodsburgh, he
found six families
ready to share with him the dangers of the selected
spot; and he
removed his family with them to his cabins, where the
settlement
immediately united in the important duty of palisading a
station.
Before these
arrangements were fully completed as the females of the
establishment, on
the twentieth of May, were milking their cows,
sustained by a
guard of their husbands and fathers, the whole party was
suddenly assailed
by a large body of Indians, concealed in a cane-brake.
One man was killed,
and two wounded, one mortally, the other severely.
The remainder
reached the interior of the palisades in safety. The
number in all was
thirty, half of whom were women and children. A
circumstance was
now discovered, exceedingly trying to such a benevolent
spirit as that of
Logan. While the Indians were still firing, and the
inmates part
exulting in their safety, and the others mourning over
their dead and
wounded, it was perceived, that one of the wounded, by
the name of
Harrison, was still alive, and exposed every moment to be
scalped by the
Indians. All this his wife and family could discern from
within. It is not
difficult to imagine their agonizing condition, and
piercing
lamentations for the fate of one so dear to them. Logan
discovered, on this
occasion, the same keen sensibility to tenderness,
and insensibility
to danger, that characterized his friend Boone in
similar
predicaments. He endeavored to rally a few of the small number
of the male inmates
of the place to join him, and rush out, and assist
in attempting to
bring the wounded man within the palisades. But so
obvious was the
danger, so forlorn appeared the enterprise, that no one
could be found
disposed to volunteer his aid, except a single individual
by the name of John
Martin. When they had reached the gate, the wounded
man raised himself
partly erect, and made a movement, as if disposed to
try to reach the
fort himself. On this, Martin desisted from the
enterprise, and
left Logan to attempt it alone. He rushed forward to the
wounded man. He
made some efforts to crawl onwards by the aid of Logan;
but weakened by the
loss of blood, and the agony of his wounds, he
fainted, and Logan
taking him up in his arms, bore him towards the
fort. A shower of
bullets was discharged upon them, many of which struck
the palisades close
to his head, as he brought the wounded man safe
within the gate,
and deposited him in the care of his family.
The station, at
this juncture, was destitute of both powder and ball;
and there was no
chance of supply nearer than Holston. All intercourse
between station and
station was cut off. Without ammunition the station
could not be
defended against the Indians. The question was, how to
obviate this pressing
emergency, and obtain a supply? Captain Logan
selected two trusty
companions, left the fort by night, evaded the
besieging Indians,
reached the woods, and with his companions made his
way in safety to
Holston, procured the necessary supply of ammunition,
packed it under
their care on horseback, giving them directions how to
proceed. He then
left them, and traversing the forests by a shorter
route on foot, he
reached the fort in safety, in ten days from his
departure. The
Indians still kept up the siege with unabated
perseverance. The
hopes of the diminished garrison had given way to
despair. The return
of Logan inspired them with renewed confidence.
Uniting the best
attributes of a woodsman and a soldier to uncommon
local acquaintance
with the country, his instinctive sagacity prescribed
to him, on this
journey, the necessity of deserting the beaten path,
where, he was
aware, he should be intercepted by the savages. Avoiding,
from the same
calculation, the passage of the Cumberland Gap, he
explored a track in
which man, or at least the white man, had never
trodden before. We
may add, it has never been trodden since. Through
cane-brakes and
tangled thickets, over cliffs and precipices, and
pathless mountains,
he made his solitary way. Following his directions
implicitly, his
companions, who carried the ammunition, also reached the
fort, and it was
saved.
His rencounters
with the Indians, and his hairbreadth escapes make no
inconsiderable
figure in the subsequent annals of Kentucky. The year
after the siege of
his fort, on a hunting excursion, he discovered an
Indian camp, at Big
Flat Spring, two miles from his station. Returning
immediately he
raised a party, with which he attacked the camp, from
which the Indians
fled with precipitation, without much loss on their
part, and none on
his. A short time after he was attacked at the same
place, by another
party of Indians. His arm was broken by their fire,
and he was
otherwise slightly wounded in the breast. They even seized
the mane of his
horse, and he escaped them from their extreme eagerness
to take him alive.
No sooner were his
wounds healed, than we find him in the fore front of
the expedition
against the Indians. In 1779, he served as a captain in
Bowman's campaign.
He signalized his bravery in the unfortunate battle
that ensued, and
was with difficulty compelled to retire, when retreat
became necessary.
The next year a party travelling from Harrodsburgh
towards Logan's
fort, were fired upon by the Indians, and two of them
mortally wounded One,
however, survived to reach the fort, and give an
account of the fate
of his wounded companion. Logan immediately raised a
small party of
young men, and repaired to the aid of the wounded man,
who had crawled out
of sight of the Indians behind a clump of bushes. He
was still alive.
Logan took him on his shoulders, occasionally relieved
in sustaining the
burden by his younger associates, and in this way
conveyed him to the
fort. On their return from Harrodsburgh, Logan's
party were fired
upon, and one of the party wounded. The assailants were
repelled with loss;
and it was Logan's fortune again to be the bearer of
the wounded man
upon his shoulders for a long distance, exposed, the
while, to the fire
of the Indians.
His reputation for bravery
and hospitality, and the influence of a long
train of
connections, caused him to be the instrument of bringing out
many immigrants to
Kentucky. They were of a character to prove an
acquisition to the
country. Like his friends, Daniel Boone, and James
Harrod, his house
was open to all the recent immigrants. In the early
stages of the
settlement of the country, his station, like Boone's and
Harrod's, was one
of the main pillars of the colony. Feeling the
importance of this
station, as a point of support to the infant
settlements, he
took effectual measures to keep up an intercourse with
the other stations,
particularly those of Boone and Harrod. Dangerous as
this intercourse
was, Logan generally travelled alone, often by night,
and universally
with such swiftness of foot, that few could be found
able to keep speed
with him.
In the year 1780,
he received his commission as Colonel, and was soon
after a member of
the Virginia legislature at Richmond. In the year
1781, the Indians
attacked Montgomery's station, consisting of six
families, connected
by blood with Colonel Logan. The father and brother
of Mrs. Logan were
killed, and her sister-in-law, with four children,
taken prisoners.
This disaster occurred about ten miles from Logan's
fort. His first
object was to rescue the prisoners, and his next to
chastise the
barbarity of the Indians. He immediately collected a party
of his friends, and
repaired to the scene of action. He was here joined
by the bereaved
relatives of Montgomery's family. He commanded a rapid
pursuit of the
enemy, who were soon overtaken, and briskly attacked.
They faced upon
their assailants, but were beaten after a severe
conflict. William
Montgomery killed three Indians, and wounded a fourth.
Two women and three
children were rescued. The savages murdered the
other child to
prevent its being re-taken. The other prisoners would
have experienced
the same fate, had they not fled for their lives into
the thickets.
It would be very
easy to extend this brief sketch of some of the more
conspicuous
pioneers of Kentucky. Their heroic and disinterested
services, their
lavish prodigality of their blood and property, gave
them that
popularity which is universally felt to be a high and
priceless
acquisition. Loved, and trusted, and honored as fathers of
their country;
while they lived, they had the persuasion of such
generous minds as
theirs, that their names would descend with blessings
to their grateful
posterity.
CHAPTER XII.
Boone's brother
killed, and Boone himself narrowly escapes from the
Indians--Assault
upon Ashton's station--and upon the station near
Shelbyville--Attack
upon McAffee's station.
We have already
spoken of the elder brother of Col. Boone and his second
return to the Yadkin.
A fondness for the western valleys seems to have
been as deeply
engraven in his affections, as in the heart of his
brother. He
subsequently returned once more with his family to Kentucky.
In 1780 we find a
younger brother of Daniel Boone resident with him. The
two brothers set
out on the sixth of October of that year, to revisit
the blue Licks. It
may well strike us as a singular fact, that Colonel
Boone should have
felt any disposition to revisit a place that was
connected with so
many former disasters. But, as a place convenient for
the manufacture of
salt, it was a point of importance to the rapidly
growing settlement.
They had manufactured as much salt as they could
pack, and were
returning to Boonesborough, when they were overtaken by a
party of Indians.
By the first fire Colonel Boone's brother fell dead by
his side. Daniel
Boone faced the enemy, and aimed at the foremost
Indian, who
appeared to have been the slayer of his brother. That Indian
fell. By this time
he discovered a host advancing upon him. Taking the
still loaded rifle
of his fallen brother, he prostrated another foe, and
while flying from
his enemy found time to reload his rifle. The bullets
of a dozen muskets
whistled about his head; but the distance of the foe
rendered them
harmless. No scalp would have been of so much value to his
pursuers as that of
the well known Daniel Boone; and they pursued him
with the utmost
eagerness. His object was so far to outstrip them, as to
be able to conceal
his trail, and put them to fault in regard to his
course. He made for
a little hill, behind which was a stream of water.
He sprang into the
water and waded up its current for some distance, and
then emerged and
struck off at right angles to his former course.
Darting onward at the
height of his speed, he hoped that he had
distanced them, and
thrown them off his trail. To his infinite
mortification, he
discovered that his foe, either accidentally, or from
their natural
sagacity, had rendered all his caution fruitless, and were
fiercely pursuing
him still. His next expedient was that of a swing by
the aid of a
grape-vine, which had so well served him on a like occasion
before. He soon
found one convenient for the experiment, and availed
himself of it, as
before. This hope was also disappointed. His foe still
hung with staunch
perseverance on his trail. He now perceived by their
movements, that
they were conducted by a dog, that easily ran in zig-zag
directions, when at
fault, until it had re-scented his course. The
expedient of Boone
was the only one that seemed adequate to save him.
His gun was
reloaded. The dog was in advance of the Indians, still
scenting his track.
A rifle shot delivered him from his officious
pursuer. He soon
reached a point convenient for concealing his trail,
and while the
Indians were hunting for it, gained so much upon them as
to be enabled to
reach Boonesborough in safety.
At the close of the
autumn of 1780, Kentucky, from being one county, was
divided into three,
named Jefferson, Fayette, and Lincoln. William Pope,
Daniel Boone, and
Benjamin Logan, were appointed to the important
offices of
commanding the militia of their respective counties.
During this year
Col. Clarke descended the Ohio, with a part of his
Virginia regiment,
and after entering the Mississippi, at the first
bluff on the
eastern bank, he landed and built Fort Jefferson. The
occupation of this
fort, for the time, added the Chickasaws to the
number of hostile
Indians that the western people had to encounter. It
was soon discovered,
that it would be advisable to evacuate it, as a
mean of restoring
peace. It was on their acknowleged territory. It had
been erected
without their consent. They boasted it, as a proof of their
friendship, that
they had never invaded Kentucky; and they indignantly
resented this
violation of their territory. The evacuation of the fort
was the terms of a
peace which the Chickasaws faithfully observed.
The winter of 1781,
was one of unusual length and distress for the young
settlement of
Kentucky. Many of the immigrants arrived after the close
of the hunting
season; and beside, were unskilful in the difficult
pursuit of
supplying themselves with game. The Indians had destroyed
most of the corn of
the preceding summer, and the number of persons to
be supplied had
rapidly increased. These circumstances created a
temporary famine,
which, added to the severity of the season, inflicted
much severe
suffering upon the settlement. Boone and Harrod were abroad,
breasting the keen
forest air, and seeking the retreat of the deer and
buffalo, now
becoming scarce, as the inhabitants multiplied. These
indefatigable and
intrepid men supplied the hungry immigrants with the
flesh of buffaloes
and deers; and the hardy settlers, accustomed to
privations, and not
to over delicacy in their food, contented themselves
to live entirely on
meat, until, in the ensuing autumn, they once more
derived abundance
from the fresh and fertile soil.
In May, 1782, a
body of savages assaulted Ashton's station, killed one
man, and took another
prisoner. Captain Ashton, with twenty-five men,
pursued and
overtook them. An engagement, which lasted two hours,
ensued. But the
great superiority of the Indians in number, obliged
Captain Ashton to
retreat. The loss of this intrepid party was severe.
Eight were killed,
and four mortally wounded--their brave commander
being among the
number of the slain. Four children were taken captive
from Major Hoy's
station, in August following. Unwarned by the fate of
Captain Ashton's
party. Captain Holden, with the inadequate force of
seventeen men,
pursued the captors, came up with them, and were defeated
with the loss of
four men killed, and one wounded.
This was one of the
most disastrous periods since the settlement of the
country. A number
of the more recent and feeble stations, were so
annoyed by savage
hostility as to be broken up. The horses were carried
off, and the cattle
killed in every direction. Near Lexington, a man at
work in his field,
was shot dead by a single Indian, who ran upon his
foe to scalp him,
and was himself shot dead from the fort, and fell on
the body of his
foe.
During the severity
of winter, the fury of Indian incursion was awhile
suspended, and the
stern and scarred hunters had a respite of a few
weeks about their
cabin fires. But in March, the hostilities were
renewed, and
several marauding parties of Indians entered the country
from north of the
Ohio. Col. William Lyn, and Captains Tipton and
Chapman, were
killed by small detachments that waylaid them upon the
Beargrass. In pursuit
of one of these parties, Captain Aquila White,
with seventeen men
trailed the Indians to the Falls of the Ohio.
Supposing that they
had crossed, he embarked his men in canoes to follow
them on the other
shore. They had just committed themselves to the
stream, when they
were fired upon from the shore they had left. Nine of
the party were
killed or wounded. Yet, enfeebled as the remainder were,
they relanded,
faced the foe, and compelled them to retreat.
In April following,
a station settled by Boone's elder brother, near the
present site where
Shelbyville now stands, became alarmed by the
appearance of
parties of Indians in its vicinity. The people, in
consternation,
unadvisedly resolved to remove to Beargrass. The men
accordingly set out
encumbered with women, children, and baggage. In
this defenceless
predicament, they were attacked by the Indians near
Long Run. They
experienced some loss, and a general dispersion from each
other in the woods.
Colonel Floyd, in great haste, raised twenty-five
men, and repaired
to the scene of action, intent alike upon
administering
relief to the sufferers, and chastisement to the enemy. He
divided his party,
and advanced upon them with caution. But their
superior knowledge
of the country, enabled the Indians to ambuscade both
divisions, and to
defeat them with the loss of half his men; a loss
poorly compensated
by the circumstance, that a still greater number of
the savages fell in
the engagement. The number of the latter were
supposed to be
three times that of Colonel Floyd's party. The Colonel
narrowly escaped
with his life, by the aid of Captain Samuel Wells, who,
seeing him on foot,
pursued by the enemy, dismounted and gave him his
own horse, and as
he fled, ran by his side to support him on the saddle,
from which he might
have fallen through weakness from his wounds.--This
act of Captain
Wells was the more magnanimous, as Floyd and himself were
not friends at the
time. Such noble generosity was not thrown away upon
Floyd. It produced
its natural effect, and these two persons lived and
died friends. It is
pleasant to record such a mode of quelling
animosity.
Early in May, two
men, one of whom was Samuel McAffee, left James
McAffee's station,
to go to a clearing at a short distance. They had
advanced about a
fourth of a mile, when they were fired upon. The
companion of
McAffee fell. The latter turned and fled towards the
station. He had not
gained more than fifteen steps when he met an
Indian. Both paused
a moment to raise their guns, in order to discharge
them. The muzzles
almost touched. Both fired at the same moment. The
Indian's gun
flashed in the pan, and he fell. McAffee continued his
retreat; but before
he reached the station, its inmates had heard the
report of the guns;
and James and Robert, brothers of McAffee, had come
out to the aid of
those attacked. The three brothers met, Robert,
notwithstanding the
caution he received from his brother, ran along the
path to see the
dead Indian. The party of Indians to which he had
belonged, were upon
the watch among the trees, and several of them
placed themselves
between Robert and the station, to intercept his
return. Soon made
aware of the danger to which his thoughtlessness had
exposed him, he
found all his dexterity and knowledge of Indian warfare
requisite to ensure
his safety. He sprang from behind one tree to
another, in the
direction of the station, pursued by an Indian until he
reached a fence
within a hundred yards of it, which he cleared by a
leap. The Indian had
posted himself behind a tree to take safe
aim.--McAffee was
now prepared for him. As the Indian put his head out
from the cover of
his tree, to look for his object, he caught McAffee's
ball in his mouth,
and fell. McAffee reached the station in safety.
James, though he
did not expose himself as his brother had done, was
fired upon by five
Indians who lay in ambush. He fled to a tree for
protection.
Immediately after he had gained one, three or four aimed at
him from the other
side. The balls scattered earth upon him, as they
struck around his
feet, but he remained unharmed. He had no sooner
entered the
inclosure of the station in safety, than Indians were seen
approaching in all
directions. Their accustomed horrid yells preceded a
general attack upon
the station. Their fire was returned with spirit,
the women running
balls as fast as they were required. The attack
continued two
hours, when the Indians withdrew.
The firing had
aroused the neighborhood; and soon after the retreat of
the Indians, Major
McGary appeared with forty men. It was determined to
pursue the Indians,
as they could not have advanced far. This purpose
was immediately
carried into execution. The Indians were overtaken and
completely routed.
The station suffered inconvenience from the loss of
their domestic
animals, which were all killed by the Indians, previous
to their retreat.
One white man was killed and another died of his
wounds in a few
days. This was the last attack upon this station by the
Indians, although
it remained for some years a frontier post.
We might easily
swell these annals to volumes, by entering into details
of the attack of
Kincheloe's station, and its defence by Colonel Floyd;
the exploits of
Thomas Randolph; the captivity of Mrs. Bland and Peake;
and the long
catalogue of recorded narratives of murders, burnings,
assaults, heroic
defences, escapes, and the various incidents of Indian
warfare upon the
incipient settlements. While their barbarity and horror
chill the blood,
they show us what sort of men the first settlers of
the country were,
and what scenes they had to witness, and what events
to meet, before
they prepared for us our present peace and abundance.
The danger and
apprehension of their condition must have been such, that
we cannot well
imagine how they could proceed to the operations of
building and
fencing, with sufficient composure and quietness of spirit,
to complete the
slow and laborious preliminaries of founding such
establishments, as
they have transmitted to their children. Men they
must have been, who
could go firmly and cheerfully to the common
occupations of
agriculture, with their lives in their hands, and under
the constant
expectation of being greeted from the thickets and
cane-brakes with
the rifle bullet and the Indian yell. Even the women
were heroes, and
their are instances in abundance on record, where, in
defence of their
children and cabins, they conducted with an undaunted
energy of attack or
defence, which would throw into shade the vaunted
bravery in the
bulletins of regular battles.
These magnanimous
pioneers seem to have had a presentiment that they had
a great work to
accomplish--laying the foundations of a state in the
wilderness--a work
from which they were to be deterred, neither by
hunger, nor toil, nor
danger, nor death. For tenderness and affection,
they had hearts of
flesh. For the difficulties and dangers of their
positions, their
bosoms were of iron. THEY FEARED GOD, AND HAD NO OTHER
FEAR.
CHAPTER XIII.
Disastrous battle
near the Blue Licks--General Clarke's expedition
against the Miami
towns--Massacre of McClure's family--The horrors of
Indian assaults
throughout the settlements--General Harmar's
expedition--Defeat
of General St. Clair--Gen. Wayne's victory, and a
final peace with
the Indians.
Here, in the order
of the annals of the country, would be the place to
present the famous
attack of Bryant's station, which we have anticipated
by an anachronism,
and given already, in order to present the reader
with a clear view
of a _station_, and the peculiar mode of _attack and
defence_ in these
border wars. The attack upon Bryant's station was made
by the largest body
of Indians that had been seen in Kentucky, the whole
force amounting at
least to six hundred men. We have seen that they did
not decamp until
they had suffered a severe loss of their warriors. They
departed with so
much precipitation as to have left their tents
standing, their
fires burning, and their meat roasting. They took the
road to the lower
Blue Licks.
Colonel Todd, of Lexington,
despatched immediate intelligence of this
attack to Colonel
Trigg, near Harrodsburgh, and Colonel Boone, who had
now returned with
his family from North Carolina to Boonesborough. These
men were prompt in
collecting volunteers in their vicinity. Scarcely had
the Indians
disappeared from Bryant's station, before a hundred and
sixty-six men were
assembled to march in pursuit of nearly triple their
number of Indians.
Besides Colonels Trigg, Todd, and Boone, Majors
McGary and Harland,
from the vicinity of Harrodsburgh, had a part in
this command: A
council was held, in which, after considering the
disparity of
numbers, it was still determined to pursue the Indians.
Such was their
impetuosity, that they could not be persuaded to wait for
the arrival of Colonel
Logan, who was known to be collecting a strong
party to join them.
The march was
immediately commenced upon their trail. They had not
proceeded far
before Colonel Boone, experienced in the habits of Indians
and the indications
of their purposes, announced that he discovered
marks that their
foe was making demonstrations of willingness to meet
them. He observed
that they took no pains to conceal their route, but
carefully took
measures to mislead their pursuers in regard to their
number. Their first
purpose was indicated by cutting trees on their
path--the most
palpable of all directions as to their course. The other
was equally
concealed by a cautious concentration of their camp, and by
the files taking particular
care to step in the foot prints of their
file leaders, so
that twenty warriors might be numbered from the
foot-marks only as
one.
Still no Indians
were actually seen, until the party arrived on the
southern bank of
the Licking, at the point of the Blue Licks. A body of
Indians was here
discovered, mounting the summit of an opposite hill,
moving leisurely,
and apparently without hurry or alarm--retiring
slowly from sight,
as on a common march.
The party halted.
The officers assembled, and a general consultation
took place,
respecting what was to be done. The alternatives were,
whether it was best
to cross the Licking at the hazard of an engagement
with the Indians;
or to wait where they were, reconnoiter the country,
act on the
defensive, and abide the coming up of Colonel Logan with his
force.
Colonels Todd and
Trigg, little acquainted with the Indians, were
desirous to be
guided by the judgment of Colonel Boone. His opinion
being called for,
he gave it with his usual clearness and
circumspection. As
regarded the number of the enemy, his judgment was,
that it should be
counted from three to five hundred. From the careless
and leisurely
manner of the march of the body, they had seen, he was
aware, that the
main body was near, and that the show of this small
party was probably,
with a view to draw on the attack, founded upon an
entire ignorance of
their numbers. With the localities of the country
about the Licks,
from his former residence there, he was perfectly
acquainted. The river
forms, by its curves, an irregular ellipsis,
embracing the great
ridge and buffalo road leading from the Licks. Its
longest line of
bisection leads towards Limestone, and is terminated by
two ravines heading
together in a point, and diverging thence in
opposite directions
to the river. In his view, it was probable that the
Indians had formed
an ambuscade behind these ravines, in a position as
advantageous for
them as it would be dangerous to the party, if they
continued their
march. He advised that the party should divide; the one
half march up the
Licking on the opposite side, and crossing at the
mouth of a small
branch, called Elk creek, fall over upon the eastern
curve of the
ravine; while the other half should take a position
favorable for
yielding them prompt co-operation in case of an attack. He
demonstrated, that
in this way the advantage of position might be taken
from the enemy, and
turned in their favor. He was decided and pressing,
that if it was
determined to attack a force superior, before the arrival
of Colonel Logan,
they ought at least to send out spies and explore the
country before they
marched the main body over the river.
This wise counsel
of Colonel Boone was perfectly accordant with the
views of Colonels
Todd and Trigg, and of most of the persons consulted
on the occasion.
But while they were deliberating, Major McGary,
patriotic, no
doubt, in his intentions, but ardent, rash, hot-headed,
and indocile to
military rule, guided his horse into the edge of the
river, raised the war-whoop
in Kentucky style, and exclaimed, in a voice
of gay confidence,
"All those that are not cowards will follow me; I
will show them
where the Indians are!" Saying this, he spurred his horse
into the water. One
and another, under the impulse of such an appeal to
their courage,
dashed in after him. The council was thus broken up by
force. A part
caught the rash spirit by sympathy. The rest, who were
disposed to listen
to better counsels, were borne along, and their
suggestions drowned
in the general clamor. All counsel and command were
at an end. And it
is thus that many of the most important events of
history have been
determined.
The whole party
crossed the river, keeping straight forward in the
beaten buffalo
road. Advanced a little, parties flanked out from the
main body, as the
irregularity and unevenness of the ground would allow.
The whole body
moved on in reckless precipitation and disorder, over a
surface covered
with rocks, laid bare by the trampling of buffaloes, and
the washing of the
rain of ages. Their course led them in front of the
high ridge which
extends for some distance to the left of the road. They
were decoyed on in
the direction of one of the ravines of which we have
spoken, by the
reappearance of the party of Indians they had first seen.
The termination of
this ridge sloped off in a declivity covered with a
thick forest of
oaks. The ravines were thick set on their banks with
small timber, or
encumbered with burnt wood, and the whole area before
them had been
stripped bare of all herbage by the buffaloes that had
resorted to the
Licks. Clumps of soil here and there on the bare rock
supported a few
trees, which gave the whole of this spot of evil omen a
most singular
appearance. The advance of the party was headed by McGary,
Harland, and
McBride. A party of Indians, as Boone had predicted, that
had been ambushed
in the woods here met them. A warm and bloody action
immediately
commenced, and the rifles on either side did fatal
execution. It was
discovered in a moment that the whole line of the
ravine concealed
Indians, who, to the number of thrice that of their
foes, rushed upon
them. Colonels Todd and Trigg, whose position had been
on the right, by
the movement in crossing, were thrown in the rear. They
fell in their
places, and the rear was turned. Between twenty and thirty
of these brave men
had already paid the forfeit of their rashness, when
a retreat commenced
under the edge of the tomahawk, and the whizzing of
Indian bullets.
When the party first crossed the river all were mounted.
Many had dismounted
at the commencement of the action. Others engaged on
horseback. On the
retreat, some were fortunate enough to recover their
horses, and fled on
horseback. Others retreated on foot. From the point
where the
engagement commenced to the Licking river was about a mile's
distance. A high
and rugged cliff environed either shore of the river,
which sloped off to
a plain near the Licks. The ford was narrow, and the
water above and
below it deep. Some were overtaken on the way, and fell
under the tomahawk.
But the greatest slaughter was at the river. Some
were slain in
crossing, and some on either shore.
A singular
spectacle was here presented in the case of a man by the name
of Netherland, who
had been derided for his timidity. He was mounted on
a fleet and
powerful horse, the back of which he had never left for a
moment. He was one
of the first to recross the Licking. Finding himself
safe upon the
opposite shore, a sentiment of sympathy came upon him as
he looked back and took
a survey of the scene of murder going on in the
river and on its
shore. Many had reached the river in a state of
faintness and
exhaustion, and the Indians were still cutting them down.
Inspired with the
feeling of a commander, he cried out in a loud and
authoritative
voice, "Halt! Fire on the Indians. Protect the men in the
river." The
call was obeyed. Ten or twelve men instantly turned, fired
on the enemy, and
checked their pursuit for a moment, thus enabling some
of the exhausted
and wounded fugitives to evade the tomahawk, already
uplifted to destroy
them. The brave and benevolent Reynolds, whose reply
to Girty has been
reported, relinquished his own horse to Colonel Robert
Patterson, who was
infirm from former wounds, and was retreating on
foot. He thus
enabled that veteran to escape. While thus signalizing his
disinterested
intrepidity, he fell himself into the hands of the
Indians. The party
that took him consisted of three. Two whites passed
him on their
retreat. Two of the Indians pursued, leaving him under the
guard of the third.
His captor stooped to tie his moccasin, and he
sprang away from
him and escaped. It is supposed that one-fourth of the
men engaged in this
action were commissioned officers. The whole number
engaged was one
hundred and seventy-six. Of these, sixty were slain, and
eight made
prisoners. Among the most distinguished names of those who
fell, were those of
Colonels Todd and Trigg, Majors Harland and Bulger,
Captains Gordon and
McBride, and a son of Colonel Boone. The loss of the
savages has never
been ascertained. It could not have equalled that of
the assailants,
though some supposed it greater. This sanguinary affair
took place August
19, 1782.
Colonel Logan, on
arriving at Bryant's station, with a force of three
hundred men, found
the troops had already marched. He made a rapid
advance in hopes to
join them before they should have met with the
Indians. He came up
with the survivors, on their retreat from their
ill-fated contest,
not far from Bryant's station. He determined to
pursue his march to
the battle ground to bury the dead, if he could not
avenge their fall.
He was joined by many friends of the killed and
missing, from
Lexington and Bryant's station. They reached the battle
ground on the 25th.
It presented a heartrending spectacle. Where so
lately had arisen
the shouts of the robust and intrepid woodsmen, and
the sharp yell of
the savages, as they closed in the murderous contest,
the silence of the
wide forest was now unbroken, except by birds of
prey, as they
screamed and sailed over the carnage. The heat was so
excessive, and the
bodies were so changed by it and the hideous gashes
and mangling of the
Indian tomahawk and knife, that friends could no
longer recognize
their dearest relatives. They performed the sad rights
of sepulture as
they might, upon the rocky ground.
The Indian forces
that had fought at the Blue Licks, in the exultation
of victory and
revenge, returned homeward with their scalps. Those from
the north--and they
constituted the greater numbers--returned quietly.
The western bands
took their route through Jefferson county, in hopes to
add more scalps to
the number of their trophies. Colonel Floyd led out a
force to protect
the country. They marched through the region on Salt
river, and saw no traces
of Indians. They dispersed on their return. The
greater number of
them reached their station, and laid down, fatigued
and exhausted,
without any precaution against a foe. The Indians came
upon them in this
predicament in the night, and killed several women and
children. A few
escaped under the cover of the darkness. A woman, taken
prisoner that
night, escaped from her savage captors by throwing herself
into the bushes,
while they passed on. She wandered about the woods
eighteen days,
subsisting only on wild fruits, and was then found and
carried to Lynn's
station. She survived the extreme state of exhaustion
in which she was
discovered. Another woman, taken with four children, at
the same time, was
carried to Detroit.
The terrible blow
which the savages had struck at the Blue Licks,
excited a general
and immediate purpose of retaliation through Kentucky.
General Clarke was
appointed commander-in-chief, and Colonel Logan next
under him in
command of the expedition, to be raised for that purpose.
The forces were to
rendezvous at Licking. The last of September, 1782,
General Clarke,
with one thousand men, marched from the present site of
Cincinnati, for the
Indian towns on the Miami. They fell in on their
route with the camp
of Simon Girty, who would have been completely
surprised with his
Indians, had not a straggling savage espied the
advance, and
reported it to them just in season to enable them to
scatter in every
direction. They soon spread the intelligence that an
army from Kentucky
was marching upon their towns.
As the army
approached the towns on their route, they found that the
inhabitants had
evacuated them, and fled into the woods. All the cabins
at Chillicothe,
Piqua, and Willis were burned. Some skirmishing took
place, however, in which
five Indians were killed, and seven made
prisoners, without
any loss to the Kentuckians, save the wounding of one
man, which
afterwards proved mortal. One distinguished Indian
surrendered
himself, and was afterwards inhumanly murdered by one of the
troops, to the deep
regret and mortification of General Clarke.
In October, 1785,
Mr. McClure and family, in company with a number of
other families,
were assailed on Skegg's creek. Six of the family were
killed, and Mrs.
McClure, a child, and a number of other persons made
prisoners. The
attack took place in the night. The circumstances of the
capture of Mrs.
McClure, furnish an affecting incident illustrating the
invincible force of
natural tenderness. She had concealed herself, with
her four children,
in the brush of a thicket, which, together with the
darkness, screened
her from observation. Had she chosen to have left her
infant behind, she
might have escaped. But she grasped it, and held it
to her bosom,
although aware that its shrieks would betray their covert.
The Indians, guided
to the spot by its cries, killed the three larger
children, and took
her and her infant captives. The unfortunate and
bereaved mother was
obliged to accompany their march on an untamed and
unbroken horse.
Intelligence of these
massacres and cruelties circulated rapidly.
Captain Whitley
immediately collected twenty-one men from the adjoining
stations, overtook,
and killed two of these savages, retook the desolate
mother, her babe, and
a negro servant, and the scalps of the six persons
whom they had
killed. Ten days afterwards, another party of immigrants,
led by Mr. Moore,
were attacked, and nine of their number killed.
Captain Whitley
pursued the perpetrators of this bloody act, with thirty
men. On the sixth
day of pursuit through the wilderness, he came up with
twenty Indians,
clad in the dresses of those whom they had slain. They
dismounted and
dispersed in the woods though not until three of them
were killed. The
pursuers recovered eight scalps, and all the plunder
which the Indians
had collected at the late massacre.
An expedition of
General Clarke, with a thousand men, against the Wabash
Indians, failed in
consequence of the impatience and discouragement of
his men from want
of provisions. Colonel Logan was more successful in an
expedition against
the Shawnese Indians on the Scioto. He surprised one
of the towns, and
killed a number of the warriors, and took some
prisoners.
In October, 1785,
the General Government convoked a meeting of all the
Lake and Ohio
tribes to meet at the mouth of the Great Miami. The
Indians met the
summons with a moody indifference and neglect, alleging
the continued
aggressions of the Kentuckians as a reason for refusing to
comply with the
summons.
The horrors of
Indian assault were occasionally felt in every
settlement. We
select one narrative in detail, to convey an idea of
Indian hostility on
the one hand, and the manner in which it was met on
the other. A family
lived on Coope's run, in Bourbon county, consisting
of a mother, two
sons of a mature age, a widowed daughter, with an
infant in her arms,
two grown daughters, and a daughter of ten years.
The house was a
double cabin. The two grown daughters and the smaller
girl were in one
division, and the remainder of the family in the other.
At evening
twilight, a knocking was heard at the door of the latter
division, asking in
good English, and the customary western phrase, "Who
keeps house?"
As the sons went to open the door, the mother forbade
them, affirming
that the persons claiming admittance were Indians. The
young men sprang to
their guns. The Indians, finding themselves refused
admittance at that
door, made an effort at the opposite one. That door
they soon beat open
with a rail, and endeavored to take the three girls
prisoners. The
little girl sprang away, and might have escaped from them
in the darkness and
the woods. But the forlorn child, under the natural
impulse of
instinct, ran for the other door and cried for help. The
brothers within, it
may be supposed, would wish to go forth and protect
the feeble and
terrified wailer. The mother, taking a broader view of
expedience and
duty, forbade them. They soon hushed the cries of the
distracted child by
the merciless tomahawk. While a part of the Indians
were engaged in
murdering this child, and another in confining one of
the grown girls
that they had made captive, the third heroically
defended herself
with a knife, which she was using at a loom at the
moment of attack.
The intrepidity she put forth was unavailing. She
killed one Indian,
and was herself killed by another. The Indians,
meanwhile, having
obtained possession of one half the house, fired it.
The persons shut up
in the other half had now no other alternative than
to be consumed in
the flames rapidly spreading towards them, or to go
forth and expose
themselves to the murderous tomahawks, that had already
laid three of the
family in their blood. The Indians stationed
themselves in the dark
angles of the fence, where, by the bright glare
of the flames, they
could see every thing, and yet remain themselves
unseen. Here they
could make a sure mark of all that should escape from
within. One of the
sons took charge of his aged and infirm mother, and
the other of his
widowed sister and her infant. The brothers emerged
from the burning
ruins, separated, and endeavored to spring over the
fence. The mother
was shot dead as her son was piously aiding her over
the fence. The
other brother was killed as he was gallantly defending
his sister. The
widowed sister, her infant, and one of the brothers
escaped the
massacre, and alarmed the settlement. Thirty men, commanded
by Colonel Edwards,
arrived next day to witness the appalling spectacle
presented around
the smoking ruins of this cabin. Considerable snow had
fallen, and the
Indians were obliged to leave a trail, which easily
indicated their
path. In the evening of that day, they came upon the
expiring body of
the young woman, apparently murdered but a few moments
before their
arrival. The Indians had been premonished of their pursuit
by the barking of a
dog that followed them. They overtook and killed two
of the Indians that
had staid behind, apparently as voluntary victims to
secure the retreat
of the rest.
To prevent
immigrants from reaching the country, the Indians infested
the Ohio river, and
concealed themselves in small parties at different
points from
Pittsburgh to Louisville, where they laid in ambush and
fired upon the boats
as they passed. They frequently attempted by false
signals to decoy
the boats ashore, and in several instances succeeded by
these artifices in
capturing and murdering whole families, and
plundering them of
their effects. They even armed and manned some of the
boats and scows
they had taken, and used them as a kind of floating
battery, by means
of which they killed and captured many persons
approaching the
settlements.
The last boat which
brought immigrants to the country down the Ohio,
that was known to
have been attacked by the Indians, was assaulted in
the spring of 1791.
This circumstance gives it a claim to be mentioned
in this place. It
was commanded by Captain Hubbel, and brought
immigrants from
Vermont. The whole number of men, women, and children
amounted to twenty
persons. These persons had been forewarned by various
circumstances that
they noted, that hostile Indians were along the shore
waiting to attack
them. They came up with other boats descending the
river, and bound in
the same direction with themselves. They endeavored
ineffectually to
persuade the passengers to join them, that they might
descend in the
strength of numbers and union. They continued to move
down the river
alone. The first attempt upon them was a customary Indian
stratagem. A
person, affecting to be a white man, hailed them, and
requested them to
lie by, that he might come on board. Finding that the
boat's crew were
not to be allured to the shore by this artifice, the
Indians put off
from the shore in three canoes, and attacked the boat.
Never was a contest
of this sort maintained with more desperate bravery.
The Indians
attempted to board the boat, and the inmates made use of all
arms of annoyance
and defence. Captain Hubbel, although he had been
severely wounded in
two places, and had the cock of his gun shot off by
an Indian fire,
still continued to discharge his mutilated gun by a
fire-brand. After a
long and desperate conflict, in which all the
passengers capable
of defence but four, had been wounded, the Indians
paddled off their
canoes to attack the boats left behind. They were
successful against
the first boat they assailed. The boat yielded to
them without
opposition. They killed the Captain and a boy, and took the
women on board
prisoners. Making a screen of these unfortunate women, by
exposing them to
the fire of Captain Hubbel's boat, they returned to the
assault. It imposed
upon him the painful alternative, either to yield to
the Indians, or to
fire into their canoes at the hazard of killing the
women of their own
people. But the intrepid Captain remarked, that if
these women escaped
their fire, it would probably be to suffer a more
terrible death from
the savages. He determined to keep up his fire, even
on these hard
conditions; and the savages were beaten off a second time.
In the course of
the engagement, the boat, left to itself, had floated
with the current
near the north shore, where four or five hundred
Indians were
collected, who poured a shower of balls upon the boat. All
the inmates could
do, was to avoid exposure as much as possible, and
exercise their
patience until the boat should float past the Indian
fire. One of the
inmates of the boat, seeing, as it slowly drifted on, a
fine chance for a
shot at an Indian, although warned against it, could
not resist the
temptation of taking his chance. He raised his head to
take aim, and was
instantly shot dead. When the boat had drifted beyond
the reach of the
Indian fire, but two of the nine fighting men on board
were found unhurt. Two
were killed, and two mortally wounded. The noble
courage of a boy on
board deserves to be recorded. When the boat was now
in a place of
safety, he requested his friends to extract a ball that
had lodged in the
skin of his forehead. When this ball had been
extracted, he
requested them to take out a piece of bone that had been
fractured in his
elbow by another shot. When asked by his mother why he
had not complained
or made known his suffering during the engagement, he
coolly replied,
intimating that there was noise enough without his, that
the Captain had
ordered the people to make no noise.
All attempts of the
General Government to pacify the Indians, having
proved ineffectual,
an expedition was planned against the hostile tribes
north-west of the
Ohio. The object was to bring the Indians to a general
engagement; or, if
that might not be, to destroy their establishments on
the waters of the
Scioto and the Wabash. General Harmar was appointed to
the command of this
expedition. Major Hamtranck, with a detachment, was
to make a diversion
in his favor up the Wabash.
On the 13th of
September, 1791, General Harmar marched from Fort
Washington, the
present site of Cincinnati, with three hundred and
twenty regulars,
and effected a junction with the militia of
Pennsylvania and
Kentucky, which had advanced twenty-five miles in
front. The whole
force amounted to one thousand four hundred and
fifty-three men.
Col. Hardin, who commanded the Kentucky militia, was
detached with six
hundred men, chiefly militia, to reconnoiter. On his
approach to the
Indian settlements, the Indians set fire to their
villages and fled.
In order, if possible, to overtake them, he was
detached with a
smaller force, that could be moved more rapidly. It
consisted of two
hundred and ten men. A small party of Indians met and
attacked them; and
the greater part of the militia behaved
badly,--leaving a
few brave men, who would not fly, to their fate.
Twenty-three of the
party fell, and seven only made their escape and
rejoined the army.
Notwithstanding this check, the army succeeded so far
as to reduce the
remaining towns to ashes, and destroy their provisions.
On their return to
Fort Washington, Gen. Harmar was desirous of wiping
off, in another
action, the disgrace which public opinion had impressed
upon his arms. He
halted eight miles from Chillicothe, and late at night
detached Col.
Hardin, with orders to find the enemy, and bring them to
an engagement.
Early in the morning this detachment reached the enemy,
and a severe
engagement ensued. The savages fought with desperation.
Some of the
American troops shrunk; but the officers conducted with
great gallantry.
Most of them fell, bravely discharging their duty. More
than fifty regulars
and one hundred militia, including the brave
officers, Fontaine,
Willys, and Frothingham, were slain.
Harmar, in his
official account of this affair, claimed the victory,
although the
Americans seem clearly to have had the worst of it. At his
request, he was
tried by a court martial, and honorably acquitted. The
enemy had suffered
so severely, that they allowed him to return
unmolested to Fort
Washington.
The terrors and the
annoyance of Indian hostilities still hung over the
western
settlements. The call was loud and general from the frontiers,
for ample and
efficient protection. Congress placed the means in the
hands of the
executive. Major General Arthur St. Clair was appointed
commander-in-chief
of the forces to be employed in the meditated
expedition. The
objects of it were, to destroy the Indian settlements
between the
Miamies; to expel them from the country; and establish a
chain of posts
which should prevent their return during the war. This
army was late in
assembling in the vicinity of Fort Washington. They
marched directly
towards the chief establishments of the enemy, building
and garrisoning in
their way the two intermediate forts, Hamilton and
Jefferson. After
the detachments had been made for these garrisons, the
effective force
that remained amounted to something less than two
thousand men. To
open a road for their march, was a slow and tedious
business. Small
parties of Indians were often seen hovering about their
march; and some
unimportant skirmishes took place. As the army
approached the
enemy's country, sixty of the militia deserted in a body.
To prevent the
influence of such an example, Major Hamtranck was
detached with a
regiment in pursuit of the deserters. The army now
consisting of one
thousand four hundred men continued its march. On the
third of November
1792, it encamped fifteen miles south of the Miami
villages. Having
been rejoined by Major Hamtranck, General St. Clair
proposed to march
immediately against them.
Half an hour before
sunrise, the militia was attacked by the savages,
and fled in the
utmost confusion. They burst through the formed line of
the regulars into
the camp. Great efforts were made by the officers to
restore order; but
not with the desired success. The Indians pressed
upon the heels of
the flying militia, and engaged General Butler with
great intrepidity.
The action became warm and general; and the fire of
the assailants
passing round both flanks of the first line, in a few
minutes was poured
with equal fury upon the rear. The artillerists in
the centre were
mowed down, and the fire was the more galling, as it was
directed by an
invisible enemy, crouching on the ground, or concealed
behind trees. In
this manner they advanced towards the very mouths of
the cannon; and
fought with the infuriated fierceness with which success
always animates savages.
Some of the soldiers exhibited military
fearlessness, and
fought with great bravery. Others were timid and
disposed to fly.
With a self-devotion which the occasion required, the
officers generally
exposed themselves to the hottest of the contest, and
fell in great
numbers, in desperate efforts to restore the battle.
The commanding
general, though he had been for some time enfeebled with
severe disease,
acted with personal bravery, and delivered his orders
with judgment and
self-possession. A charge was made upon the savages
with the bayonet:
and they were driven from their covert with some loss,
a distance of four
hundred yards. But as soon as the charge was
suspended, they
returned to the attack. General Butler was mortally
wounded; the left
of the right wing broken, and the artillerists killed
almost to a man.
The guns were seized and the camp penetrated by the
enemy. A desperate
charge was headed by Colonel Butler, although he was
severely wounded,
and the Indians were again driven from the camp, and
the artillery
recovered. Several charges were repeated with partial
success. The enemy
only retreated, to return to the charge, flashed with
new ardor. The
ranks of the troops were broken, and the men pressed
together in crowds,
and were shot down without resistance. A retreat was
all that remained,
to save the remnant of the army. Colonel Darke was
ordered to charge a
body of savages that intercepted their retreat.
Major Clark, with
his battalion, was directed to cover the rear. These
orders were carried
into effect, and a most disorderly retreat
commenced. A
pursuit was kept up four miles, when, fortunately for the
surviving
Americans, the natural greediness of the savage appetite for
plunder, called
back the victorious Indians to the camp, to divide the
spoils. The routed
troops continued their flight to fort Jefferson,
throwing away their
arms on the road. The wounded were left here, and
the army retired
upon fort Washington.
In this fatal
battle, fell thirty-eight commissioned officers, and five
hundred and
ninety-three non-commissioned officers and privates.
Twenty-one
commissioned officers, many of whom afterwards died of their
wounds, and two
hundred and forty-two non-commissioned officers and
privates were
wounded.
The savage force,
in this fatal engagement, was led by a Mississago
chief, who had been
trained to war under the British, during the
revolution. So
superior was his knowledge of tactics, that the Indian
chiefs, though
extremely jealous of him, yielded the entire command to
him; and he
arranged and fought the battle with great combination of
military skill.
Their force amounted to four thousand; and they stated
the Americans
killed, at six hundred and twenty, and their own at
sixty-five; but it was
undoubtedly much greater. They took seven pieces
of cannon and two
hundred oxen, and many horses. The chief, at the close
of the battle, bade
the Indians forbear the pursuit of the Americans, as
he said they had
killed enough.
General Scott, with
one thousand mounted volunteers from Kentucky, soon
after marched
against a party of the victors, at St. Clair's fatal
field. He found the
Indians rioting in their plunder, riding the oxen in
the glee of
triumph, and acting as if the whole body was intoxicated.
General Scott
immediately attacked them. The contest was short but
decisive. The
Indians had two hundred killed on the spot. The cannon and
military stores
remaining, were retaken, and the savages completely
routed. The loss of
the Kentuckians was inconsiderable.
The reputation of
the government was now committed in the fortunes of
the war. Three
additional regiments were directed to be raised. On the
motion in congress
for raising these regiments, there was an animated,
and even a bitter
debate. It was urged on one hand, that the expense of
such a force would
involve the necessity of severe taxation; that too
much power was
thrown into the hands of the president; that the war had
been badly managed,
and ought to have been entrusted to the militia of
the west, under
their own officers; and with more force they urged that
no success could be
of any avail, so long as the British held those
posts within our
acknowledged limits, from which the savages were
supplied with protection,
shelter, arms, advice, and instigation to the
war.
On the other hand,
the justice of the cause, as a war of defence, and
not of conquest,
was unquestionable. It was proved, that between 1783
and 1790, no less
than one thousand five hundred people of Kentucky had
been massacred by
the savages, or dragged into a horrid captivity; and
that the frontiers
of Pennsylvania and Virginia had suffered a loss not
much less. It was
proved that every effort had been made to pacify the
savages without
effect. They showed that in 1790, when a treaty was
proposed to the
savages at the Miami, they first refused to treat, and
then asked thirty
days for deliberation. It was granted. In the interim,
they stated that
not less than one hundred and twenty persons had been
killed and
captured, and several prisoners roasted alive; at the term of
which horrors, they
refused any answer at all to the proposition to
treat. Various
other remarks were made in defence of the bill. It tried
the strength of
parties in congress, and was finally carried.
General St. Clair
resigned, and Major General Anthony Wayne was
appointed to
succeed him. This officer commanded the confidence of the
western people, who
confided in that reckless bravery, which had long
before procured him
the appellation of "Mad Anthony." There was a
powerful party who
still affected to consider this war unnecessary, and
every impediment
was placed in the way of its success, which that party
could devise. To
prove to them that the government was still disposed to
peace, two
excellent officers and valuable men, Col. Hardin, and Major
Truman, were
severally despatched with propositions of peace. They were
both murdered by
the savages. These unsuccessful attempts at
negotiation, and the
difficulties and delays naturally incident to the
preparation of such
a force, together with the attempts that had been
made in congress,
to render the war unpopular, had worn away so much
time that the
season for operations for the year had almost elapsed. But
as soon as the
negotiations had wholly failed, the campaign was opened
with as much vigor
as the nature of the case would admit. The general
was able, however,
to do no more this autumn, than to advance into the
forest towards the
country of the savages, six miles in advance of fort
Jefferson. He took
possession of the ground on which the fatal defeat of
St. Clair had taken
place, in 1792. He here erected a fortification,
with the
appropriate name of Fort Recovery. His principal camp was
called Greenville.
In Kentucky,
meanwhile, many of the people clamored against these
measures, and
loudly insisted that the war ought to be carried on by
militia, to be
commanded by an officer taken from their state. It was
believed, too, by
the executive, that the British government, by
retaining their
posts within our limits, and by various other measures,
at least
countenanced the Indians in their hostilities. That government
took a more
decisive measure early in the spring. A British detachment
from Detroit, advanced
near fifty miles south of that place, and
fortified
themselves on the Miami of the lakes. In one of the numerous
skirmishes which
took place between the savages and the advance of
General Wayne, it
was affirmed, that the British were mingled with the
Indians.
On the 8th of
August, 1794, General Wayne reached the confluence of the
Au Glaize, and the
Miami of the lakes. The richest and most extensive
settlements of the
western Indians were at this place. It was distant
only about thirty miles
from the post on the Miami, which the British;
had recently
occupied. The whole strength of the enemy, amounting to
nearly two thousand
warriors, was collected in the vicinity of that
post. The regulars
of General Wayne were not much inferior in numbers. A
reinforcement of
one thousand one hundred mounted Kentucky militia,
commanded by
General Scott, gave a decided superiority to the American
force. The general
was well aware that the enemy were ready to give him
battle, and he
ardently desired it. But in pursuance of the settled
policy of the
United States, another effort was made for the attainment
of peace, without
the shedding of blood. The savages were exhorted by
those who were sent
to them, no longer to follow the counsels of the bad
men at the foot of
the Rapids, who urged them on to the war, but had
neither the power
nor the inclination to protect them; that to listen to
the propositions of
the government of the United States, would restore
them to their
homes, and rescue them from famine. To these propositions
they returned only
an evasive answer.
On the 20th of
August, the army of General Wayne marched in columns. A
select battalion,
under Major Price, moved as a reconnoitering force in
front. After
marching five miles, he received so heavy a fire from the
savages, concealed
as usual, that he was compelled to retreat. The
savages had chosen
their ground with great judgment. They had moved into
a thick wood, in
advance of the British works, and had taken a position
behind fallen timber,
prostrated by a tornado. This rendered their
position almost
inaccessible to horse. They were formed in three regular
lines, according to
Indian custom, very much extended in front. Their
first effort was to
turn the left flank of the American army.
The American legion
was ordered to advance with trailed arms, and rouse
the enemy from his
covert at the point of the bayonet, and then deliver
its fire. The
cavalry, led by Captain Campbell, was ordered to advance
between the Indians
and the river, where the wood permitted them to
penetrate, and
charge their left flank. General Scott, at the head of
the mounted
volunteers, was commanded to make a considerable circuit
and turn their
right. These, and all the complicated orders of General
Wayne, were promptly
executed. But such was the impetuosity of the
charge made by the
first line of infantry, so entirely was the enemy
broken by it, and
so rapid was the pursuit, that only a small part of
the second line,
and of the mounted volunteers could take any part in
the action. In the
course of an hour, the savages were driven more than
two miles, and
within gun-shot of the British fort.
General Wayne
remained three days on the field of battle, reducing the
houses and
corn-fields, above and below the fort, and some of them
within pistol shot
of it, to ashes. The houses and stores of Col. M'Kee,
an English trader,
whose great influence among the savages had been
uniformly exerted
for the continuance of the war, was burned among the
rest. Correspondence
upon these points took place between General Wayne
and Major Campbell,
who commanded the British fort. That of General
Wayne was
sufficiently firm; and it manifested that the latter only
avoided hostilities
with him, by acquiescing in the destruction of
British property
within the range of his guns.
On the 28th the
army returned to Au Glaize, destroying all the villages
and corn within
fifty miles of the river. In this decisive battle, the
American loss, in
killed and wounded, amounted to one hundred and seven,
including officers.
Among those that fell, were Captain Campbell and
Lieutenant Towles.
The general bestowed great and merited praise, for
their bravery and
promptitude in this affair, to all his troops.
The hostility of
the Indians still continuing, the whole country was
laid waste: and
forts were erected in the heart of their settlements, to
prevent their
return. This seasonable victory, and this determined
conduct on the part
of the United States, rescued them from a general
war with all the
nations north-west of the Ohio. The Six Nations had
manifested
resentments, which were only appeased for the moment, by the
suspension of a
settlement, which Pennsylvania was making at Presqu'
Isle, within their
alleged limits. The issue of this battle dissipated
the clouds at once
which had been thickening in that quarter. Its
influence was
undoubtedly felt far to the south. The Indian inhabitants
of Georgia, and
still farther to the south had been apparently on the
verge of a war, and
had been hardly restrained from hostility by the
feeble authority of
that state.
No incidents of
great importance occurred in this quarter, until August
3d, of the next
year when a definitive treaty was concluded by General
Wayne, with the hostile
Indians north-west of the Ohio. By this treaty,
the destructive war
which had so long desolated that frontier, was ended
in a manner
acceptable to the United States. An accommodation was also
brought about with
the southern Indians, notwithstanding the intrigues
of their Spanish
neighbors. The regions of the Mississippi valley were
opened on all sides
to immigration, and rescued from the dread of Indian
hostilities.
CHAPTER XIV.
Rejoicings on
account of the peace--Boone indulges his propensity for
hunting--Kentucky
increases in population--Some account of their
conflicting land
titles--Progress of civil improvement destroying the
range of the
hunter--Litigation of land titles--Boone loses his
lands--Removes from
Kentucky to the Kanawha--Leaves the Kanawha and goes
to Missouri, where
he is appointed Commandant.
The peace which
followed the defeat of the northern tribes of Indians by
General Wayne, was
most grateful to the harassed settlers of the west.
The news of it was received
every where with the most lively joy. Every
one had cause of
gratulation. The hardy warriors, whose exploits we have
recounted, felt
that they were relieved from the immense
responsibilities
which rested upon them as the guardians and protectors
of the infant
settlements. The new settlers could now clear their wild
lands, and
cultivate their rich fields in peace--without fearing the
ambush and the
rifles of a secret foe; and the tenants of the scattered
cabins could now
sleep in safety, and without the dread of being wakened
by the midnight
war-whoop of the savage. Those who had been pent up in
forts and stations
joyfully sallied forth, and settled wherever the soil
and local
advantages appeared the most inviting.
Colonel Boone, in
particular, felt that a firm and resolute perseverance
had finally
triumphed over every obstacle. That the rich and boundless
valleys of the
great west--the garden of the earth--and the paradise
of hunters, had
been won from the dominion of the savage tribes, and
opened as an asylum
for the oppressed, the enterprising, and the free of
every land. He had
travelled in every direction through this great
valley. He had
descended from the Alleghanies into the fertile regions
of Tennessee, and
traced the courses of the Cumberland and Tennessee
rivers. He had
wandered with delight through the blooming forests of
Kentucky. He had
been carried prisoner by the Indians through the
wilderness which is
now the state of Ohio to the great lakes of the
north; he had
traced the head waters of the Kentucky, the Wabash, the
Miamies, the
Scioto, and other great rivers of the west, and had
followed their
meanderings to their entrance into the Ohio; he had stood
upon the shores of
this beautiful river, and gazed with admiration, as
he pursued its
winding and placid course through endless forests to
mingle with the
Mississippi; he had caught some glimmerings of the
future, and saw
with the prophetic eye of a patriot, that this great
valley must soon
become the abode of millions of freemen; and his heart
swelled with joy,
and warmed with a transport which was natural to a
mind so
unsophisticated and disinterested as his.
Boone rejoiced in a
peace which put an end to his perils and anxieties,
and which now gave
him full leisure and scope to follow his darling
pursuit of hunting.
He had first been led to the country by that spirit
of the hunter,
which in him amounted almost to a passion. This
propensity may be
said to be natural to man. Even in cities and populous
places we find men
so fond of this pastime that they ransack the
cultivated fields
and enclosures of the farmer, for the purpose of
killing the little
birds and squirrels, which, from their
insignificance,
have ventured to take up their abode with civilized man.
What, then, must
have been the feelings of Boone, to find himself in the
grand theatre of
the hunter--filled with buffaloes, deer, bears, wild
turkeys, and other
noble game?
The free exercise
of this darling passion had been checked and
restrained, ever
since the first settlement of the country, by the
continued wars and
hostile incursions of the Indians. The path of the
hunter had been
ambushed by the wily savage, and he seldom ventured
beyond the purlieus
of his cabin, or the station where he resided. He
was now free to roam
in safety through the pathless wilderness--to camp
out in security
whenever he was overtaken by night; and to pursue the
game wherever it
was to be found in the greatest abundance.
Civilization had
not yet driven the primitive tenants of the forest from
their favorite
retreats. Most of the country was still in a state of
nature--unsettled
and unappropriated. Few fences or inclosures impeded
the free range of
the hunter, and very few buts and bounds warned him of
his being about to
trespass upon the private property of some neighbor.
Herds of buffaloes
and deer still fed upon the rich cane-brake and rank
vegetation of the
boundless woods, and resorted to the numerous Licks
for salt and drink.
Boone now improved
this golden opportunity of indulging in his favorite
pursuit. He loved
to wander alone, with his unerring rifle upon his
shoulder, through
the labyrinths of the tangled forests, and to rouse
the wild beast from
his secret lair. There was to him a charm in these
primeval solitudes
which suited his peculiar temperament, and he
frequently absented
himself on these lonely expeditions for days
together. He never
was known to return without being loaded with the
spoils of the
chase. The choicest viands and titbits of all the
forest-fed animals
were constantly to be found upon his table. Not that
Boone was an
epicure; far from it. He would have been satisfied with a
soldier's fare. In
common with other pioneers of his time, he knew what
it was to live upon
roots and herbs for days together. He had suffered
hunger and want in
all its forms without a murmur or complaint. But when
peace allowed him
to follow his profession of a hunter, and to exercise
that tact and
superiority which so much distinguished him, he selected
from the abundance and
profusion of the game which fell victims to his
skill, such parts
as were most esteemed. His friends and neighbors were
also, at all times,
made welcome to a share of whatever he killed. And
he continued to
live in this primitive simplicity--enjoying the luxury
of hunting, and of
roving in the woods, and indulging his generous and
disinterested
disposition towards his neighbors, for several years after
the peace.
In the meantime,
while Boone had been thus courting solitude, and
absorbed by the
engrossing excitement of hunting, the restless spirit of
immigration, and of
civil and physical improvement, had not been idle.
After the peace the
tide of population poured into the country in a
continual stream
and the busy spirit of civilization was every where
making inroads into
the ancient forests, and encroaching upon the
dominions of the
hunter.
In order, however,
that the reader may more readily comprehend the
causes which
operated as grievances to Boone, and finally led him to
abandon Kentucky,
and seek a home in regions more congenial, it will be
necessary to allude
to the progress made in population, and the civil
polity, and
incidents attending the settlement of the country.
The state of
Kentucky was not surveyed by the government and laid off
into sections and
townships as has been the case with all the lands
north of the Ohio.
But the government of Virginia had issued land
warrants, or
certificates entitling the holder to locate wherever he
might choose, the number
of acres named in the warrant. They also grave
to actual settlers
certain pre-emption rights to such lands as they
might occupy and
improve by building a cabin, raising a crop, &c. The
holders of these
warrants, after selecting the land which they intended
to cover, with
their titles, were required to enter a survey and
description of the
tracts selected, in the Land office, which had been
opened for the
purpose, to be recorded there, for the information of
others, and to
prevent subsequent holders of warrants from locating the
same lands. Yet
notwithstanding these precautions, such was the careless
manner in which
these surveys were made, that many illiterate persons,
ignorant of the
forms of law, and the necessity of precision in the
specification and
descriptions of the tracts on which they had laid
their warrants,
made such loose and vague entries in the land office, as
to afford no
accurate information to subsequent locators, who frequently
laid their warrants
on the same tracts. It thus happened that the whole
or a part of almost
every tract was covered with different and
conflicting
titles--forming what have been aptly called 'shingle
titles'--overlaying
and lapping upon each other, as shingles do upon the
roof of a building.
In this way twice the existing acres of land were
sold and the door
opened for endless controversy about boundaries and
titles. The
following copy of an entry may serve as a specimen of the
vagueness of the
lines, buts, and bounds of their claims, and as
accounting for the
flood of litigation that ensued.
"George Smith
enters nine hundred acres of land on a treasury warrant,
lying on the north
side of Kentucky river, a mile below a creek;
beginning about
twenty poles below a lick; and running down the river
westwardly, and northwestwardly
for quantity."
It will easily be
seen that a description, so general and indefinite in
its terms, could
serve as no guide to others who might wish to avoid
entering the same
lands. This defect in providing for the certainty and
safety of land
titles, proved a sore evil to the state of Kentucky. As
these lands
increased in value and importance, controversies arose as to
the ownership of
almost every tract: and innumerable suits, great
strife and
excitement, prevailed in every neighborhood, and continued
until within a late
period, to agitate the whole body of society. The
legislature of the
state, by acts of limitation and judicious
legislation upon
the subject, have finally quieted the titles of the
actual occupants.
Among others who
made these loose and unfortunate entries, was Daniel
Boone. Unaccustomed
to the forms of law and technical precision, he was
guided by his own
views of what was proper and requisite, and made such
brief and general
entries, as were afterwards held not sufficient to
identify the land.
He had discovered and explored the country when it
was all one vast
wilderness--unoccupied, and unclaimed. He and a few
other hardy
pioneers, by almost incredible hardships, dangers, and
sacrifices, had won
it from the savage foe; and judging from his own
single and generous
mind, he did not suppose that question would ever be
made of his right
to occupy such favorite portions as he might select
and pay for. He did
not think it possible that any one, knowing these
circumstances, could
be found so greedy or so heartless, as to grudge
him the quiet and
unmolested enjoyment of what he had so dearly earned.
But in this he was
sadly mistaken. A set of speculators and interlopers,
who, following in
the train of civilization and wealth, came to enrich
themselves by
monopolizing the rich lands which had thus been won for
them, and by the
aid of legal advisers, following all the nice
requisitions of the
law, pounced, among others, upon the lands of our
old pioneer. He was
not at first disturbed by these speculating
harpies; and game
being plenty, he gave himself little uneasiness about
the claims and
titles to particular spots, so long as he had such vast
hunting grounds to
roam in--which, however, he had the sorrow to see
daily encroached upon
by the new settlements of the immigrants.
But the inroads
made by the frequent settlements in his accustomed
hunting range, were
not the only annoyances which disturbed the simple
habits and
patriarchal views of Boone. Civilization brought along with
it all the forms of
law, and the complicated organization of society and
civil government,
the progress of which had kept pace with the
increasing
population.
As early as 1783,
the territory of Kentucky had been laid off into three
counties, and was
that year, by law, formed into one District,
denominated the
District of Kentucky. Regular courts of justice were
organized--log
court-houses and log jails were erected--judges, lawyers,
sheriffs, and
juries were engaged in the administration of
justice--money began
to circulate--cattle and flocks multiplied--reading
and writing schools
were commenced--more wealthy immigrants began to
flock to the
country, bringing with them cabinet furniture, and many of
the luxuries of
more civilized life--and merchandize began to be wagoned
from Philadelphia
across the mountains to fort Pitt, now Pittsburgh,
from whence it was
conveyed in flat boats to Maysville and Louisville.
In 1785 a
convention was convoked at Danville, who adopted a memorial,
addressed to the
Legislature of Virginia, and another to the people of
Kentucky--suggesting
the propriety, and reasons for erecting the new
country into an
independent state. In the discussion of this question
parties arose, and
that warmth and excitement were elicited, which are
inseparable from
the free and unrestrained discussion of public
measures.
In 1786 the
legislature of Virginia enacted the preliminary provisions
for the separation
of Kentucky, as an independent state, provided that
Congress should
admit it into the Union. About this time another source
of party discord
was opened in agitating debates touching the claims of
Kentucky and the
West to the navigation of the Mississippi. The
inhabitants were
informed by malcontents in Western Pennsylvania, that
the American Secretary
of State was making propositions to the Spanish
minister, to cede
to Spain the exclusive right of navigation of the
Mississippi for
twenty-five years. This information as might be
supposed, created a
great sensation. It had been felt from the beginning
of the western
settlements, that the right to the free navigation of the
Mississippi was of
vital importance to the whole western country, and
the least
relinquishment of this right--even for the smallest space of
time, would be of dangerous
precedent and tendency. Circulars were
addressed by the
principal settlers to men of influence in the nation.
But before any
decisive measures could be taken, Virginia interfered, by
instructing her
representatives in Congress to make strong
representations
against the ruinous policy of the measure.
In 1787 commenced
the first operations of that mighty engine, the
press, in the
western country. Nothing could have been wider from the
anticipations,
perhaps from the wishes of Boone, than this progress of
things. But in the
order of events, the transition of unlettered
backwoods emigrants
to a people with a police, and all the engines of
civilization was
uncommonly rapid. There was no other paper within five
hundred miles of
the one now established by Mr. Bradford, at Lexington.
The political
heart-burnings and slander that had hitherto been
transmitted through
oral channels, were now concentrated for circulation
in this gazette.
In April, 1792,
Kentucky was admitted into the Union as an independent
state; improvements
were steadily and rapidly progressing, and
notwithstanding the
hostility of the Indians, the population of the
state was regularly
increasing until the peace which followed the
victory of Gen.
Wayne. After which, as has been observed, the tide of
emigration poured
into the country with unexampled rapidity.
Litigation in
regard to land titles now began to increase, and continued
until it was
carried to a distressing height. Col. Boone had begun to
turn his attention to
the cultivation of the choice tracts he had
entered; and he
looked forward with the consoling thought that he had
enough to provide
for a large and rising family, by securing to each of
his children, as
they became of age, a fine plantation. But in the
vortex of
litigation which ensued, he was not permitted to escape. The
speculators who had
spread their greedy claims over the lands which had
been previously
located and paid for by Boone, relying upon his
imperfect entries,
and some legal flaws in his titles, brought their
ejectments against
him, and dragged him into a court of law. He employed
counsel, and from
term to term, was compelled to dance attendance at
court. Here the old
hunter listened to the quibbles--the subtleties, and
to him,
inexplicable jargon of the lawyers. His suits were finally
decided against
him, and he was cast out of the possession of all, or
nearly all the
lands which he had looked upon as being indubitably his
own. The
indignation of the old pioneer can well be imagined, as he saw
himself thus
stript, by the quibbles and intricacies of the law, of all
the rewards of his
exposures, labors, sufferings, and dangers in the
first settlement of
Kentucky. He became more than ever disgusted with
the grasping and
avaricious spirit--the heartless intercourse and
technical forms of
what is called civilized society.
But having expended
his indignation in a transient paroxysm, he soon
settled back to his
customary mental complacency and self-possession;
and as he had no longer
any pledge of consequence remaining to him in
the soil of
Kentucky--and as it was, moreover, becoming on all sides
subject to the
empire of the cultivator's axe and plough, he resolved to
leave the country.
He had witnessed with regret the dispersion of the
band of pioneers,
with whom he had hunted and fought, side by side, and
like a band of
brothers, shared every hardship and every danger; and he
sighed for new
fields of adventure, and the excitement of a hunter's
life.
Influenced by these
feelings, he removed from Kentucky to the great
Kanawha; where he
settled near Point Pleasant. He had been informed that
buffaloes and deer
were still to be found in abundance on the unsettled
bottoms of this
river, and that it was a fine country for trapping. Here
he continued to
reside several years. But he was disappointed in his
expectations of
finding game. The vicinity of the settlements above and
below this
unsettled region, had driven the buffaloes from the country;
and though there
were plenty of deer, yet he derived but little success
from his trapping.
He finally commenced raising stock, and began to turn
his attention to
agriculture.
While thus engaged,
he met with some persons who had returned from a
tour up the
Missouri, who described to him the fine country bordering
upon that river.
The vast prairies--the herds of buffaloes--the grizzly
bears--the beavers
and otters; and above all, the ancient and unexplored
forests of that
unknown region, fired his imagination, and produced at
once a resolve to
remove there.
Accordingly,
gathering up such useful articles of baggage as were of
light carriage,
among which his trusty rifle was not forgotten, he
started with his
family, driving his whole stock of cattle along with
him, on a pilgrimage
to this new land of promise. He passed through
Cincinnati on his
way thither in 1798. Being enquired of as to what had
induced him to
leave all the comforts of home, and so rich and
flourishing a
country as his dear Kentucky, which he had discovered, and
might almost call
his own, for the wilds of Missouri? "Too much
crowded,"
replied he--"too crowded--I want more elbow room." He
proceeded about
forty-five miles above St. Louis, and settled in what is
now St. Charles
county. This country being still in the possession of
the French and
Spanish, the ancient laws by which these territories were
governed were still
in force there. Nothing could be more simple than
their whole system
of administration. They had no constitution, no king,
no legislative assemblies,
no judges, juries, lawyers, or sheriffs. An
officer, called the
Commandant, and the priests, exercised all the
functions of civil
magistrates, and decided the few controversies which
arose among these
primitive in habitants, who held and occupied many
things in common.
They suffered their ponies, their cattle, their swine,
and their flocks,
to ramble and graze on the same common prairies and
pastures--having
but few fences or inclosures, and possessing but little
of that spirit of
speculation, enterprise, and money-making, which has
always
characterized the Americans.
These simple laws
and neighborly customs suited the peculiar habits and
temper of Boone.
And as his character for honesty, courage, and fidelity
followed him there,
he was appointed Commandant for the district of St.
Charles by the
Spanish Commandant. He retained this command, and
continued to
exercise the duties of his office with credit to himself,
and to the
satisfaction of all concerned, until the government of the
United States went
into effect.
CHAPTER XV.
Anecdotes of
Colonel Boone, related by Mr. Audubon--A remarkable
instance of memory.
As an evidence of
the development of backwoods skill, and a vivid
picture of Daniel
Boone, we give the following from Mr. Audubon:
"Daniel Boone,
or as he was usually called in the Western country,
Colonel Boone,
happened to spend a night under the same roof with me,
more than twenty
years ago. We had returned from a shooting excursion,
in the course of
which his extraordinary skill in the management of a
rifle had been
fully displayed. On retiring to the room appropriated to
that remarkable
individual and myself for the night, I felt anxious to
know more of his
exploits and adventures than I did, and accordingly
took the liberty of
proposing numerous questions to him. The stature and
general appearance
of this wanderer of the western forests, approached
the gigantic. His
chest was broad and prominent; his muscular powers
displayed
themselves in every limb; his countenance gave indication of
his great courage,
enterprise, and perseverance; and when he spoke, the
very motion of his
lips brought the impression, that whatever he uttered
could not be
otherwise than strictly true. I undressed, whilst he merely
took off his
hunting shirt, and arranged a few folds of blankets on the
floor; choosing
rather to lie there, as he observed, than on the softest
bed. When we had
both disposed of ourselves, each after his own
fashion, he related
to me the following account of his powers of memory,
which I lay before
you, kind reader, in his own words, hoping that the
simplicity of his
style may prove interesting to you.
"I was
once," said he, "on a hunting expedition on the banks of the
Green river, when
the lower parts of this (Kentucky,) were still in the
hands of nature,
and none but the sons of the soil were looked upon as
its lawful
proprietors. We Virginians had for some time been waging a
war of intrusion
upon them, and I, amongst the rest, rambled through the
woods, in pursuit
of their race, as I now would follow the tracks of any
ravenous animal.
The Indians outwitted me one dark night, and I was as
unexpectedly as
suddenly made a prisoner by them. The trick had been
managed with great
skill; for no sooner had I extinguished the fire of
my camp, and laid
me down to rest, in full security, as I thought, than
I felt myself
seized by an indistinguishable number of hands, and was
immediately
pinioned, as if about to be led to the scaffold for
execution. To have attempted
to be refractory, would have proved useless
and dangerous to my
life; and I suffered myself to be removed from my
camp to theirs, a
few miles distant, without uttering even a word of
complaint. You are
aware, I dare say, that to act in this manner, was
the best policy, as
you understand that by so doing, I proved to the
Indians at once,
that I was born and bred as fearless of death as any of
themselves.
"When we
reached the camp, great rejoicings were exhibited. Two squaws,
and a few papooses,
appeared particularly delighted at the sight of me,
and I was assured,
by very unequivocal gestures and words, that, on the
morrow, the mortal
enemy of the Red-skins would cease to live. I never
opened my lips, but
was busy contriving some scheme which might enable
me to give the
rascals the slip before dawn. The women immediately fell
a searching about
my hunting shirt for whatever they might think
valuable, and
fortunately for me, soon found my flask, filled with
_Monongahela_,
(that is, reader, strong whisky.) A terrific grin was
exhibited on their
murderous countenances, while my heart throbbed with
joy at the
anticipation of their intoxication. The crew immediately
began to beat their
bellies and sing, as they passed the bottle from
mouth to mouth. How
often did I wish the flask ten times its size, and
filled with
aquafortis! I observed that the squaws drank more freely
than the warriors,
and again my spirits were about to be depressed, when
the report of a gun
was heard at a distance. The Indians all jumped on
their feet. The
singing and drinking were both brought to a stand; and I
saw with
inexpressible joy, the men walk off to some distance, and talk
to the squaws. I
knew that they were consulting about me, and I foresaw,
that in a few moments
the warriors would go to discover the cause of the
gun having been
fired so near their camp. I expected the squaws would be
left to guard me.
Well, sir, it was just so. They returned; the men took
up their guns and
walked away. The squaws sat down again, and in less
than five minutes
they had my bottle up to their dirty mouths, gurgling
down their throats
the remains of the whisky.
"With what
pleasure did I see them becoming more and more drunk, until
the liquor took
such hold of them that it was quite impossible for these
women to be of any
service. They tumbled down, rolled about, and began
to snore; when I,
having no other chance of freeing myself from the
cords that fastened
me, rolled over and over towards the fire, and after
a short time burned
them asunder. I rose on my feet; stretched my
stiffened sinews;
snatched up my rifle, and, for once in my life, spared
that of Indians. I
now recollect how desirous I once or twice felt to
lay open the skulls
of the wretches with my tomahawk; but when I again
thought upon
killing beings unprepared and unable to defend themselves,
it looked like
murder without need, and I gave up the idea.
"But, sir, I
felt determined to mark the spot, and walking to a thrifty
ash sapling, I cut
out of it three large chips, and ran off. I soon
reached the river;
soon crossed it, and threw myself deep into the
cane-brakes,
imitating the tracks of an Indian with my feet, so that no
chance might be
left for those from whom I had escaped to overtake me.
"It is now nearly
twenty years since this happened, and more than five
since I left the
whites' settlements, which I might probably never have
visited again, had
I not been called on as a witness in a law-suit that
was pending in
Kentucky, and which, I really believe, would never have
been settled, had I
not come forward, and established the beginning of
a certain boundary
line. This is the story, sir.
"Mr. ----
moved from old Virginia into Kentucky, and having a large tract
granted to him in
the new state, laid claim to a certain parcel of land
adjoining Green
river, and as chance would have it, he took for one of
his corners the
very ash tree on which I had made my mark, and finished
his survey of some
thousands of acres, beginning, as it is expressed in
the deed, "at
an ash marked by three distinct notches of the tomahawk of
a white man."
"The tree had
grown much, and the bark had covered the marks; but, some
how or other, Mr.
---- heard from some one all that I have already said
to you, and
thinking that I might remember the spot alluded to in the
deed, but which was
no longer discoverable, wrote for me to come and try
at least to find
the place on the tree. His letter mentioned, that all
my expenses should
be paid; and not caring much about once more going
back to Kentucky, I
started and met Mr.----. After some conversation,
the affair with the
Indians came to my recollection. I considered for a
while, and began to
think that after all, I could find the very spot, as
well as the tree,
if it was yet standing.
"Mr. ---- and
I mounted our horses, and off we went to the Green river
bottoms. After some
difficulties, for you must be aware, sir, that great
changes had taken
place in these woods, I found at last the spot where I
had crossed the
river, and waiting for the moon to rise, made for the
course in which I
thought the ash tree grew. On approaching the place,
I felt as if the
Indians were there still, and as if I was still a
prisoner among
them, Mr. ---- and I camped near what I conceived the
spot, and waited till
the, return of day.
"At the rising
of the sun I was on foot, and after a good deal of
musing, thought
that an ash tree then in sight must be the very one on
which I had made my
mark. I felt as if there could be no doubt of it,
and mentioned my
thought to Mr. ----. "Well, Colonel Boone," said he, "if
you think so, I
hope it may prove true, but we must have some witnesses;
do you stay
hereabout, and I will go and bring some of the settlers whom
I know." I
agreed. Mr. ---- trotted off, and I, to pass the time, rambled
about to see if a
deer was still living in the land. But ah! sir, what a
wonderful
difference thirty years makes in the country! Why, at the time
when I was caught
by the Indians, you would not have walked out in any
direction for more
than a mile without shooting a buck or a bear. There
were then thousands
of buffaloes on the hills in Kentucky; the land
looked as if it
would never become poor; and to hunt in those days was a
pleasure indeed.
But when I was left to myself on the banks of Green
river, I dare say
for the last time in my life, a few _signs_ only of
deer were to be
seen, and as to a deer itself, I saw none.
"Mr. ----
returned, accompanied by three gentlemen. They looked upon me
as if I had been Washington
himself, and walked to the ash tree which I
now called my own,
as if in quest of a long lost treasure. I took an axe
from one of them
and cut a few chips off the bark. Still no signs were
to be seen. So I
cut again, until I thought it time to be cautious, and
I scraped and
worked away with my butcher knife, until I _did_ come to
where my tomahawk
had left an impression in the wood. We now went
regularly to work,
and scraped at the tree with care, until three hacks,
as plain as any
three notches ever were, could be seen. Mr. ---- and the
other gentlemen
were astonished, and, I must allow, I was as much
surprised as
pleased, myself. I made affidavit of this remarkable
occurrence in the
presence of these gentlemen. Mr. ---- gained his cause.
I left Green river,
forever, and came to where we now are; and, sir, I
wish you a good
night."
CHAPTER XVI.
Progress of
improvement in Missouri--Old age of Boone--Death of his
wife--He goes to
reside with his son--His death--His personal appearance
and character.
Soon after the
purchase of Missouri from the French by our government,
the American system
of government began to be introduced there. American
laws, American
courts, and the whole American system of politics and
jurisprudence spread
over the country, changing, by degrees, the
features of civil
society; infusing life and vigor into the body
politic, and
introducing that restless spirit of speculation and
improvement which
characterise the people of the United States. The tide
of emigration once
more swept by the dwelling of Daniel Boone, driving
off the game and
monopolizing the rich hunting grounds. His office of
commandant was
merged and lost in the new order of things. He saw that
it was in vain to
contend with fate; that go where he would, American
enterprize seemed
doomed to follow him, and to thwart all his schemes of
backwoods
retirement. He found himself once more surrounded by the rapid
march of
improvement, and he accommodated himself, as well as he might,
to a state of things
which he could not prevent. He had the satisfaction
of seeing his
children well settled around him, and he spent his time in
hunting and
exploring the new country.
Meantime, old age
began to creep upon him by degrees, and he had the
mortification to
find himself surpassed in his own favorite pursuit. The
_sharp shooters_,
and younger hunters could scour the forests with
fleeter pace, and
bring down the bears and buffaloes with surer aim,
than his time-worn
frame, and impaired vision would allow. Even the
French, with their
fleets of periogues, ascended the Missouri to points
where his stiffened
sinews did not permit him to follow. These volatile
and babbling
hunters, with their little, and to him despicable shot
guns, could bring
down a turkey, where the rifle bullet, now directed by
his dimmed eye,
could not reach. It was in vain that the sights were
made more
conspicuous by shreds of white paper. No vigor of will can
repair the
irresistible influence of age. And however the heart and
juvenile remembrances
of Boone might follow these brisk and talkative
hunters to the
Rocky mountains and the Western sea, the sad
consciousness that
years were stronger than the subduer of bears and
Indians, came over
his mind like a cloud.
Other sorrows came
also with age. In March, 1813, he had the misfortune
to lose his wife.
She had been to him a faithful companion--participating
the same heroic and
generous nature with himself. She had followed him
from North Carolina
into the far wilderness, without a road or even a
trace to guide
their way--surrounded at every step by wild beasts and
savages, and was
one of the first white women in the state of Kentucky.
She had united her
fate to his, and in all his hardships, perils, and
trials, had stood
by him, a meek, yet courageous and affectionate
friend. She was now
taken from him in his old age, and he felt for a
time, that he was
alone in the world, and that the principal tie to his
own existence was
sundered.
About this time,
too, the British war with its influence upon the savage
auxiliaries of
Britain, extended even to the remote forests of Missouri,
which rendered the
wandering life of a hunter extremely dangerous. He
was no longer able
to make one of the rangers who pursued the Indians.
But he sent
numerous substitutes in his children and neighbors.
After the death of
his wife, he went to reside with his son Major Nathan
Boone, and
continued to make his home there until his death. After the
peace he occupied
himself in hunting, trapping, and exploring the
country--being
absent sometimes two or three months at a time--solacing
his aged ear with
the music of his young days--the howl of the nocturnal
wolf--and the war
song of the prowling savages, heard far away from the
companionship of
man.
When the writer lived
in St. Charles, in 1816, Colonel Boone, with the
return of peace,
had resumed his Kentucky habits. He resided, as has
been observed, with
his son on the Missouri--surrounded by the
plantations of his
children and connections--occasionally farming, and
still felling the
trees for his winter fire into his door yard; and
every autumn,
retiring to the remote and moon-illumined cities of the
beavers, for the
trapping of which, age had taken away none of his
capabilities. He
could still, by the aid of paper on his rifle sights,
bring down an
occasional turkey; at the salt licks, he still waylaid the
deer; and he found
and cut down bee-trees as readily as in his morning
days. Never was old
age more green, or gray hairs more graceful. His
high, calm, bold
forehead seemed converted by years, into iron. Decay
came to him without
infirmity, palsy, or pain--and surrounded and
cherished by kind
friends, he died as he had lived, composed and
tranquil. This
event took place in the year 1818, and in the
eighty-fourth year
of his age.
Frequent enquiries,
and opposite statements have been made, in regard to
the religious
tenets of the Kentucky hunter. It is due to truth to
state, that Boone,
little addicted to books, knew but little of the
bible, the best of all.
He worshipped, as he often said, the Great
Spirit--for the
woods were his books and his temple; and the creed of
the red men
naturally became his. But such were the truth, simplicity,
and kindness of his
character, there can be but little doubt, had the
gospel of the Son
of God been proposed to him, in its sublime truth and
reasonableness,
that he would have added to all his other virtues, the
higher name of
Christian.
He was five feet
ten inches in height, of a very erect, clean limbed,
and athletic form--admirably
fitted in structure, muscle, temperament,
and habit, for the
endurance of the labors, changes, and sufferings he
underwent. He had
what phrenologists would have considered a model
head--with a
forehead peculiarly high, noble, and bold--thin and
compressed lips--a
mild, clear, blue eye--a large and prominent chin,
and a general
expression of countenance in which fearlessness and
courage sat
enthroned, and which told the beholder at a glance, what he
had been, and was
formed to be.
We have only to
add, that the bust of Boone, in Washington, the painting
of him ordered by
the General Assembly of Missouri, and the engravings
of him in general,
have--his family being judges--very little
resemblance. They
want the high port and noble daring of his
countenance.
Though ungratefully
requited by his country, he has left a name
identified with the
history of Kentucky, and with the founders and
benefactors of our
great republic. In all future time, and in every
portion of the globe;
in history, in sculpture, in song, in
eloquence--the name
of Daniel Boone will be recorded as the patriarch of
Backwoods Pioneers.
His name has
already been celebrated by more than one poet. He is the
hero of a poem
called the "MOUNTAIN MUSE," by our amiable countryman,
Bryan. He is
supposed to be the original from which the inimitable
characters of
LEATHER STOCKING, HAWKEYE, and the TRAPPER of the
PRAIRIES, in
Cooper's novels, were drawn; and we will close these
memoirs, with the
splendid tribute to the patriarch of backwoodsmen, by
the prince of
modern poets, Lord Byron.
Of all men, saving Sylla, the man-slayer,
Who passes for in life and death most
lucky,
Of the great names which in our faces
stare,
The General Boone, backwoodsman of
Kentucky,
Was happiest among mortals any where,
For killing nothing, but a bear or buck; he
Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days
Of his old age, in wilds of deepest maze.
Crime came not near him; she is not the
child
Of solitude; health shrank not from him,
for
Her home is in the rarely trodden wild,
Which, if men seek her not, and death be
more
Their choice than life, forgive them, as
beguil'd
By habit to what their own hearts abhor--
In cities cag'd. The present case in point
I
Cite is, Boone liv'd hunting up to ninety:
And what is stranger, left behind a name,
For which men vainly decimate the throng;
Not only famous, but of that good fame,
Without which glory's but a tavern song;
Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame,
Which hate or envy e'er could tinge with
wrong;
An active hermit; even in age the child
Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild.
'Tis true, he shrank from men even of his
nation,
When they built up unto his darling trees;
He mov'd some hundred miles off, for a
station,
Where there were fewer houses and more
ease.
The inconvenience of civilization
Is, that you neither can be pleased, nor
please.
But where he met the individual man,
He showed himself as kind as mortal can.
He was not all alone; around him grew
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase,
Whose young unwaken'd world was always new;
Nor sword, nor sorrow, yet had left a trace
On
her unwrinkled brow, nor could you
A frown on nature's, or on human face.
The free-born forest found, and kept them
free,
And fresh as is a torrent or a tree.
And tall, and strong, and swift of foot
were they,
Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions;
Because their thoughts had never been the
prey
Of care or gain; the green woods were their
portions
No sinking spirits told them they grew
gray,
No fashion made them apes of her
distortions.
Simple they were; not savage; and their
rifles,
Though very true, were not yet used for
trifles.
Motion was in their days; rest in their
slumbers;
And cheerfulness, the handmaid of their
toil;
Nor yet too many, nor too few their
numbers;
Corruption could not make their hearts her
soil
The lust, which stings; the splendor which
encumbers,
With the free foresters divide no spoil.
Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes
Of this unsighing people of the woods
THE END.