Famous Frontiersmen and Heroes of the Border
by Charles H. L. Johnston · English · Gutenberg #48897 · 555,559 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Famous Frontiersmen and Heroes of the Border
Author: Charles H. L. Johnston
Release date: May 8, 2015 [eBook #48897]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN AND HEROES OF THE BORDER ***
FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN
AND HEROES OF THE BORDER
┌───────────────────────────────────────────┐
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│ FAMOUS LEADERS SERIES │
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│ BY │
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│ CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON │
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│ Each one volume, large 12mo, illustrated, │
│ $1.50 │
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│ FAMOUS CAVALRY LEADERS │
│ FAMOUS INDIAN CHIEFS │
│ FAMOUS SCOUTS │
│ FAMOUS PRIVATEERSMEN │
│ FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN │
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│ L. C. PAGE & COMPANY │
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│ 53 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass. │
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[Illustration: DANIEL MORGAN.]
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│ Famous Frontiersmen │
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│ AND HEROES OF THE BORDER │
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│ Their adventurous lives and stirring │
│ experiences in Pioneer days │
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├────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
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│ By │
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│ CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON │
│ Author of “Famous Cavalry Leaders,” “Famous Indian │
│ Chiefs,” “Famous Scouts,” etc. │
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├────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
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│ Illustrated │
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│ [Illustration: LOGO] │
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├────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
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│ BOSTON L. C. PAGE & │
│ COMPANY MDCCCCXIII │
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└────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
_Copyright, 1913, by_
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
_All rights reserved_
First Impression, November, 1913
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.
DEDICATED
TO THE
BOY SCOUTS
OF THE WORLD
_Thanks are due the Librarians of Congress, The Boston Public Library,
and Harvard University, for numerous courtesies extended to the Author
during the preparation of this volume._
PREFACE
MY DEAR BOYS; AND PARTICULARLY THE BOY SCOUTS: As so much interest was
displayed in my book “_Famous Scouts_” and requests for more tales
were made by many of you, I have collected some interesting stories of
valiant and daring adventurers, who were among the early settlers of
the wilderness. These men were real scouts and trappers, for they lived
in the wilds and had to know how to shoot a rifle; how to trap; and how
to camp in whatever place night happened to overtake them. Savage men
and wild beasts were frequently encountered, and desperate were the
fights which these fellows engaged in. Some of them lived to a happy
and prosperous old age; some perished from exposure, or by the hands of
their red enemies.
You, yourselves, are playing at scouting in cities, in villages, and
in a country which long since has been populated by the whites. These
hardy, old fellows did not play at scouting, for it was their real
existence, and they had to know the game from boyhood. Their deeds may
seem to be atrocious and bloodthirsty, but were they not surrounded by
implacable enemies who had no mercy upon them when they caught them
unawares?
When I was in Harvard College our Professor of English—Dean LeBaron
Russell Briggs—used to advise us to “browse in the Library.” I
followed his advice in regard to these stories, and, after brushing
away the cobwebs from many a forgotten volume, have been able to give
you the accurate histories of several important frontiersmen and heroes
of the border. These tales are all true and are vouched for by early
historians. All that I hope is that I have served them up to you in a
manner that is interesting and is not dull. Believe me,
Yours very affectionately,
CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON.
THE FRONTIERSMAN
He stood ’neath the whispering pines, by his cabin,
Lanky and gaunt, his face seamed and scarred,
Knotted his hands and blackened with toiling,
Bronzed well his face; his palms rough and hard.
Strangely he gazed in the dim, filmy distance,
Gazed, as the smoke from the fire curled and swayed,
Rapt was his look, for a voice from the forest
Spoke—and in accents disquieting—said:
_Come! freeman! come! to the swirl of the river,
Come! where the wild bison ranges and roams,
Come! where the coyote and timber wolves whimper,
Come! where the prairie dogs build their rough homes.
Come to the hills where the blossoms are swaying,
Come to the glades where the elk shrills his cry,
Come—for the wild canyon echoes are saying,
Come—only come—climb my peaks to the sky._
A thrill shook the frame of the woodsman and trapper,
A strange light of yearning came to his eye,
Restless and roving by nature,—this wanderer,
Shuddered and paled at the wild, hidden cry;
Trembling he turned towards the hut in the shadow,
Shaking he strode to the low, darkened door,
Then stopped,—as sounded the voice from the meadow,
Mutt’ring the challenge—o’er and o’er.
_Come, will you come, where the brown ouzel nestles,
Come, where the waterfall dashes and plays,
Come, where the spike-horn rollicks and wrestles,
On a carpet of moss, in the warm Autumn haze;
The cloud banks are blowing o’er Leidy and Glenrock,
On Wessex and Cassa the sun hides its head,
Come, will you come, where the trout leaps in splendor,
Come, only come, let the veldt be your bed._
By the rough, oaken chair lay the grim, shining rifle,
On a nail o’er the fire swung the curled powder-horn,
With a smiling grimace he seized on these weapons,
Wild emblems of conquest,—storm-battered and worn.
“Stay,” whirred the loom, as it stood in the shadow,
“Stay,” purred the cat, as it lay near the stove,
“Stay where the woodbine and iris are trailing,
Stay, only stay, calm this spirit to rove.”
_But, “come” shrilled the voice on the dim, distant prairie,
“Come, where the Cheyennes are roving and free,
Where the beavers are damming the wild, rushing ice stream,
Where the lean puma snarls in the shaggy, pine tree.
Come—for the call of the wild is resounding,
From Laramie’s peaks rolls the smoke of the fire.
Lighted by scouts, where the herds are abounding,
Fattened and sleek, for the red man’s desire.”_
* * * * *
Thus came the call, and thus trekked the plainsman,
Westward, yet westward his grim step led on,
By the wide, sedgy steppes, where the Platte curled and whispered,
By the brackish salt lake, stretching gray ’neath the sun,
Where the purple, red flowers in clusters lay glist’ning,
Where the wild kestrel whirled o’er the precipice sheer,
He conquered the wild, while the grizzly stood list’ning,
And growled, as the white canvased wagons drew near.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE vii
THE FRONTIERSMAN ix
DANIEL MORGAN: THE FAMOUS VIRGINIAN RIFLEMAN, AND HIS
ADVENTURES WITH THE INDIAN BEAR 1
JAMES HARROD: FOUNDER OF HARRODSBURG, KENTUCKY, AND
FAMOUS SCOUT OF THE FRONTIER 8
ROBERT MCLELLAN: PLUCKIEST OF THE EARLY PIONEERS 19
COLONEL BENJAMIN LOGAN: THE INTREPID FIGHTER OF THE
KENTUCKY FRONTIER 51
GEORGE ROGERS CLARKE: FAMOUS LEADER OF THE BORDERLAND
OF KENTUCKY 64
JOHN SLOVER: SCOUT UNDER CRAWFORD AND HERO OF EXTRAORDINARY
ADVENTURES 84
LEWIS WETZEL: HEROIC VIRGINIA FRONTIERSMAN AND IMPLACABLE
ENEMY OF THE REDSKINS 103
SAMUEL COLTER: AND HIS WONDERFUL RACE FOR LIFE 122
MESHACK BROWNING: THE CELEBRATED BEAR HUNTER OF THE
ALLEGHANIES 129
“BILL” BENT: HERO OF THE OLD SANTA FÉ TRAIL 167
THOMAS EDDIE: THE LAST OF THE OLD SCHOOL TRAPPERS 181
JIM BRIDGER: FOUNDER OF BRIDGER, WYOMING, AND FAMOUS
INDIAN FIGHTER 200
“OLD BILL” WILLIAMS: THE FAMOUS LOG RIDER OF COLORADO 213
“BIG FOOT” WALLACE: NOTED RANGER ON THE TEXAN FRONTIER 223
CAPTAIN JACK HAYS: FAMOUS TEXAN RANGER AND COMMANDER
OF VALIANT BORDER FIGHTERS 257
BILL HAMILTON: FAMOUS TRAPPER, TRADER, AND INDIAN FIGHTER 279
UNCLE JOB WITHERSPOON: AND HIS EXCITING ADVENTURES
WITH THE BLACKFEET 301
HENRY SHANE: HEROIC SCOUT OF THE PLAIN OF TEAS 314
POOR JERRY LANE: THE LOST TRAPPER OF WYOMING 337
THE SONG OF THE MOOSE 351
RETROSPECT 355
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
DANIEL MORGAN _Frontispiece_
JAMES HARROD 8
BATTLE OF FALLEN TIMBERS 19
“BEGAN TO LUG HIM BACK TO THE FORT” 54
GEORGE ROGERS CLARKE 64
JOHN SLOVER 84
INDIANS TORTURING A PRISONER 98
“HE NOW TURNED AND RAN AS FAST AS HE WAS ABLE—LOADING
AS HE WENT” 108
“THERE WAS EVER THE DANGER OF AN ONRUSH BY THE REDSKINS” 139
“HAD KILLED INNUMERABLE BRAVES IN OPEN CONFLICT” 167
JIM BRIDGER 200
“BIG FOOT” WALLACE 225
“UNCLE BILL” HAMILTON 279
AN INDIAN BUFFALO HUNT 283
A COMANCHE WARRIOR 330
“LURED TO THEIR END BY THE LOW, SOOTHING CRY” 354
Famous Frontiersmen
AND HEROES OF THE BORDER
DANIEL MORGAN:
THE FAMOUS VIRGINIAN RIFLEMAN, AND HIS ADVENTURES WITH THE INDIAN BEAR
DANIEL MORGAN was a famous Virginian rifleman. As a young man he
enlisted in the French and Indian War, and joined an army under Colonel
St. Clair, who, as you remember, no doubt, was so signally defeated
by Little Turtle.[1] The bravery of St. Clair sometimes amounted to
rashness. His enemies have even accused him of indiscretion. At any
rate, when camped near the head waters of the Mississippi, on the
plains of the Chippewa, he placed his men near a dense forest, in which
his redskinned enemies could easily pick off his sentinels without
exposing themselves, in the least, to danger from return fire.
For five nights his army lay in this position, and for five nights
a sentinel was posted near the gloomy borders of the forest. Alas!
Every man who had held the place was shot. This struck terror to the
hearts of the soldiers, and, when a sentinel was to be posted upon the
sixth night, no one would come forward to take the position, without
a serious protest. St. Clair knew that it was only throwing away
men’s lives to place a sentinel in such an exposed situation, so he
insisted upon no one occupying it. This pleased his followers mightily.
“Colonel,” said many, “you are a sensible man.”
Upon the evening of the sixth day, however, a rifleman from the
Virginia corps appeared before the Colonel’s tent. His name was Daniel
Morgan.
“Sir,” he remarked, saluting, “I feel that I can take charge of this
post. Put me there and see what I can do.”
St. Clair looked at him dubiously.
“I think that you are rather rash,” said he. “But you can have what you
desire. Go, and good luck to you, my son.”
Soon afterwards, the new guard marched up. The scout fell in behind,
shouldered his rifle, and went forward.
“I’ll return safely,” said he, as he followed the leading files. “And,
Colonel St. Clair, I will drink your health in the morning.”
The new guard marched on, arrived at the place which had been so fatal
to the sentries, and here halted. Bidding his fellow soldiers “Good
night,” the sentry brought his gun to order arms and peered about him.
The night was a dark one. Thick clouds overspread the heavens and
hardly a star was to be seen. Silence reigned, save for the beat of the
retiring footsteps of the guard. The frontiersman paced slowly up and
down, then stopped, for in the far distance came the cry of “All is
well!”
Seating himself upon a fallen tree, the soldier fell into a reverie,
but, hark! what was that? A low, rustling sound came from out the
bushes. He gazed intently towards the spot whence the noise seemed to
proceed, but he could see nothing but the impenetrable gloom of the
forest. Nearer and nearer came the strange rustling and a well-known
grunt informed him that a large bear was approaching. Slowly the animal
came on—then quietly sought the thicket to the left of his position.
At this particular moment the clouds drifted away from the face of the
moon, so that the soldier could plainly see the lumbering brute. What
was his surprise, when he viewed a deer-skin legging and two moccasined
feet sticking out from the bottom of the animal, where should have been
two furry legs. He could have shot the strange beast in a moment, but
he did not know how many other quadrupeds of a like nature might be
at hand. His fingers dropped from his rifle trigger, and, taking off
his hat and coat, he hung them to the branch of a fallen tree, then
silently crept toward the thicket. Crouching low behind some scrub
bushes, he heard the twang of a low bow-string, and an arrow, whizzing
past his head, told him that he had guessed correctly when he supposed
that other redskins were near by. A low murmur of voices came from the
bushes on the right.
The sentry gazed carefully about him. Pressing the brush aside, he
saw the form of a man, then of several more. He counted their numbers
and found that there were twelve in all, some sitting, some lying full
length upon the thickly strewn leaves of the forest. Believing that the
whizzing arrow had laid the sentinel low, and, little thinking that
there was any one within hearing, they conversed aloud about their
plans for the morrow.
“These men are few,” said one. “We will have forty warriors ready in
the evening. We will shoot an arrow into the sentry, and then will
attack the camp.”
“Ugh! Ugh!” said another. “It will be easy to overcome these palefaced
warriors. This will be done. There are but a few men who come out with
the sentry, and these we can readily take care of.”
“Ah!” said a third. “How pleasant it will be to see the palefaces
running homeward. It will be good. It will be good.”
Eagerly the sentry scanned these men. He watched them as they rose,
and saw them draw the numerous folds of their robes about them. He
trembled, as they marched off in single file through the forest, in
order to seek some distant spot, where the smoke of their fire could
not be seen by the whites, and where they would not be followed, when
the supposedly dead sentry was found by his comrades. Then, rising from
his crouching position, the frontiersman returned to his post. His hat
had an arrow in it, and his coat was pierced by two of them.
“By George,” said he, “I was lucky to escape.” Wrapping himself in his
long coat, he returned immediately to the camp, and, without delay,
demanded to speak to Colonel St. Clair.
“I have something very important to say to Colonel St. Clair,” said he,
to the guard before his tent.
When the soldier reported his request, his commanding officer ordered
that he be immediately admitted to his presence.
“You have done well,” remarked St. Clair, after hearing his story.
“Furthermore, I commission you Lieutenant of the Virginia corps, to
take the place of your unfortunate comrade, Lieutenant Phipps, who died
three nights ago. You must be ready to-morrow evening, with a picket
guard, to march to the fatal outpost, there to place your hat and coat
upon the branches, and then to lie in ambush for the intruders.”
“I shall be glad to carry out your commands,” replied the newly
appointed Lieutenant, smiling broadly.
According to order given out by Colonel St. Clair, a detachment of
forty riflemen, with Lieutenant Morgan at their head, marched from the
camp at half-past seven on the following evening. Putting up a couple
of stakes, they arranged a hat and coat upon them so as to resemble the
appearance of a soldier standing on guard, and then stole silently away
in order to hide in the bushes.
For an hour they lay quiet, intently listening for the approach of the
redskins. The night was cold and still. A full moon shed its lustrous
radiance over field and forest. Snow was upon the ground, and becoming
chilled by contact with the cold sprinkling of fleecy white, some of
the soldiers began to grumble quite audibly.
“Silence!” whispered Lieutenant Morgan. “I hear the rustling of leaves,
and it is evident that either a bear, or some red men are approaching.”
All crouched low and watched intently. Presently a large, brown bear
emerged from the thicket and passed near the ambush.
“Hist!” whispered a soldier. “Look at his feet!”
Sure enough, moccasins were sticking out below. The bear reconnoitered;
saw the sentinel standing at his post; retired into the forest
for a few paces; then rose and let fly an arrow which brought the
make-believe sentinel to the ground with a crash. The animal stood
there looking at his handiwork with interest. So impatient were the
Virginians to avenge the death of their comrades, that they could
scarcely wait until the Lieutenant gave the word to fire. Then, rising
in a body, they let drive a volley. The bear dropped instantly to the
snow-covered ground, and a number of red warriors, who had crept up
behind him, were also dispatched. Quickly loading, the frontiersmen
made a dash into the forest, again fired, and killed, or wounded,
several more of the enemy. They then marched back to camp, highly
pleased and elated at their easy victory. Ten savages had fallen before
the deadly aim of their rifles, and there was wailing and lamentation
among the women of the Chippewa nation.
But how about Lieutenant Morgan?
This doughty soldier rose to be a captain, and, at the termination of
the French and Indian campaign, returned to his home, near Winchester,
Virginia, where he lived on his farm until the breaking out of the War
of the Revolution. Then, at the head of a corps of Virginian riflemen,
he attained great fame and renown; was present at many an important
battle, and rendered signal service to the American cause. But he never
forgot the bear who walked with the feet of a man.
JAMES HARROD:
FOUNDER OF HARRODSBURG KENTUCKY, AND FAMOUS SCOUT OF THE FRONTIER
DANIEL BOONE—the founder of Kentucky—was revered, respected, and
admired by the early pioneers. He was, as you know, a man of much
skill in woodcraft, and was also an unexcelled rifle shot. Another
early settler of this border state was James Harrod, of whom we have
but little record, for he was a lover of solitude and his expeditions
into the wilderness were usually taken alone. Furthermore, he was the
most modest of men and never wrote or spoke of his own deeds. A little
knowledge of his adventures, however, has come down to us, and we are
sure that he was one of the bravest of the brave. To a noble courage
was added a great gentleness of manner which, in another, might almost
be called effeminacy.
[Illustration: JAMES HARROD.]
What drove this valiant soul into the wilderness of Kentucky? What
spirit moved his restless footsteps into the virgin forest? How came
he to penetrate into that “dark and bloody ground?” Who knows? His was
the restless spirit and his was the soul which loved the vast solitude
of the wildwood; for—even earlier than Daniel Boone—we know that this
sinewy frontiersman built a log cabin for himself at the present site
of Harrodsburg. When Boone went to the assistance of the surveyors of
Lord Dunmore, who were surrounded by the red men, Harrod returned to
Virginia and joined a force of whites sent to repel the Shawnees and
other savages at Point Pleasant on the Great Kanawha. He was under
General Lewis in the bloody affair, and then, having done his duty by
his white brethren, returned to Kentucky in order to make Harrodsburg
a place of refuge for the immigrants, who were beginning to turn their
steps towards the setting sun.
One day, as he sat before his cabin busily engaged in cleaning his
rifle, a man ran up to him. He was plainly excited, and was breathing
heavily, as if laboring under a severe mental strain.
“Bad news, comrade!” said he, when he had partly recovered his breath.
“Jim Bailey’s cabin has been attacked by the red men and no one is
alive to tell the tale, save his two daughters, who have been carried
away by the savages in the direction of their village. Unless a party
hurries immediately in pursuit, they will be taken to the tribe and
will be never seen again. Their fate will not be a pleasant one.”
The frontiersman jumped to his feet immediately.
“I will go at once,” said he. “You warn the other settlers and send all
that you can after me. Now, there is no time to be lost!”
Seizing his powder-horn and pouch of bullets, he was soon speeding
through the forest. He knew well where the cabin lay, and, as he burst
through the tangled woodland, saw that a terrific fight had occurred
around the little log fortress in the wilderness. Smoke still came
from the chimney. The windows were battered and broken. The door was a
splintered wreck. And, as he gazed inside, he saw the evil work of the
vindictive redskins. The tracks of the murderers were plain, for a rain
had fallen and it was evident that eight or ten had been in the party.
“Curses upon you, Shawnees!” cried Harrod, in loud tones. “You will pay
for this ere many days are o’er!”
It was near midday. The scout took one lingering glance at the wreckage
of that once peaceful home, then turned and followed the trail of the
savages. It was clear, and he saw—after an hour’s travel—that the
Indians had separated. One half had gone toward the Indian towns. One
half had sheered off toward a settlement, about fifteen miles below.
Presuming that the Indians would take the girls to the settlement by
the nearest route, he followed the first trail, and, as night came on,
was delighted to see a camp-fire before him, in the dense woodland.
With true woodsman’s cunning, the scout dropped to his knees and
cautiously wormed a way toward the glimmering embers. Peeping over a
fallen log, he saw that there were five Indians lying near the blaze.
His heart now beat tumultuously—for there, also, were the two captive
girls. They were bound with deer thongs, and, even at that distance, he
could mark the misery expressed upon their pale countenances.
It was too early for the lone woodsman to attempt to make an attack.
With the courage of a lion he intended to do this single-handed. You
think it a hazardous adventure, no doubt? Wait, and see how he fared!
Creeping to a large oak, he put his back against it and went to sleep
“with one eye open,” as the hunters call it. He slumbered peacefully
until about twelve o’clock—then rose and again wriggled towards the
fire in order to see how matters stood. All the savages were lying
down, save one, who seemed to be keeping guard over the others. But
even he was sleepy. His head nodded drowsily upon his breast.
The scout watched him intently, while his right hand grasped his
tomahawk. The savage seated himself, then got up, yawned, and lay down
by the side of his companions. Harrod saw his opportunity, and, leaning
his rifle against a tree, began to crawl towards the camp.
You can be well assured that the seasoned frontiersman made little
noise as he did so. But he was suddenly forced to stop. The Indian
sentinel arose, stretched himself, and walked towards the place where
the scout lay prostrate upon some green moss. Every nerve in the
Kentuckian was a-quiver. He was all prepared to make one desperate leap
upon the foe. But, as he was about to spring upward, the Indian turned
back and lay down.
The avenger of Jim Bailey’s family now began to crawl towards the camp.
Luck was not with him. A stick snapped beneath his left hand, and, as
it cracked like the report of a pistol, the Shawnee sentinel sprang
hastily to his feet. Looking furtively around, he stirred the fire and
squatted down beside it. Harrod, meanwhile, crouched close to the moist
earth, praying—beneath his breath—that the Indian would again lie
down. Minute after minute passed. The redskin still stirred the embers
with a long twig, and, fearing that day would break before he would
accomplish his object, the bold pioneer began to retreat towards the
tree where he had left his rifle. As he wormed his way backwards, he
saw the guard stretch himself out by the side of his companions. The
scout breathed easier.
Reaching the tree where his rifle stood, he took it up, and again began
his cautious wriggle towards the fire. This time luck was with him, for
he crept right up to the side of the sleeping savages.
Lest you think I am exaggerating this affair, I will here quote an
authentic historian. He says: “To draw his tomahawk and brain two of
the sleeping Indians was but the work of a moment, and, as he was
about to strike the third one, the handle turned in his fingers, and
the savage received the blow on the side instead of the centre of his
head. He awoke with a yell. It was his last. Grasping his weapon more
firmly, the frontiersman struck the fellow a surer blow and dropped
him lifeless to the ground. With a terrific whoop he now sprang for
his rifle just as the two other Indians rose to escape, and, firing
hastily, one of them fell to rise no more.”
The other red man scampered into the forest as fast as his sinewy legs
could carry him. The scout was after him as hard as he, too, could
go, but the savage could run like a deer and proved to be too fleet
for the trapper. Harrod stopped, and, taking careful aim, threw his
tomahawk at his enemy. So sure was his missile hurled that it lopped
off one of the Indian’s ears and cut a deep gash in his cheek. In spite
of the grievous wound the savage did not halt, but bounded away like
a Virginian deer. Harrod stood for a while, laughing at the running
brave, then slowly turned and made his way back to camp. Here he found
the two captive girls, crying bitterly. He unbound them, received
their joyous thanks, was embraced by both; and then took them upon the
trail to the settlement. Imagine the joy of the frontiersmen when they
saw them return, and, although a party had started out to track the
Indians, they had only travelled about three miles from Harrodsburg
when they met the triumphant pioneer.
“Hurrah! Hurrah for Harrod!” they shouted. “You are indeed a worthy
scout! Hurrah! Hurrah!”
The two girls were carried upon the men’s shoulders into camp, and
there were given a feast of welcome. They were embraced by the women,
hugged by the children, and were presented with a wreath of flowers
by the men. As for Harrod, his modesty forbade him taking part in the
ceremonies, and, leaving the next day upon a hunting excursion, he was
not heard or seen until a week later, when he returned with several
deer and bear skins.
Shortly after this thrilling adventure the scout went into the forest
in search of game. Not far from the settlement he spied a fat deer.
He drew a careful bead on him, and was just about to raise his rifle
for a shot when he heard the buck whistle and saw him raise his head.
He knew from this that the forest rover had scented some hidden foe,
and, sure that it was not himself that the animal smelled—as the
wind was blowing from the deer toward him—he crouched down to await
developments. He had not long to remain in this position. In a few
moments he heard the crack of a rifle and saw the noble buck leap high
into the air. He fell prone upon his side, and, as he lay quivering
in the grass, three Indians came up and began to skin him. They were
laughing and talking in loud tones.
“Ah ha,” said the scout to himself, “they are skinning my game for me.
Let them go on.”
He crouched low in the brush, and when they had about completed this
operation he rose, took careful aim, and killed the one he judged to be
the leader of the party. Believing that he was too well concealed to be
detected, he crouched behind the brush, and, turning his back, reloaded
his rifle in that position. The redskins, meanwhile, climbed into some
trees, but one of them exposed himself to the keen view of the scout.
Harrod took careful aim, and, at the discharge of his flint-lock, the
savage tumbled to the ground. The third Indian now saw where he was
concealed, and, leaping to the ground, made at him with rifle raised.
Harrod put his cap upon a stick and poked it above the brush. The
redskin fired, thinking that he was aiming at the trapper, and, as his
bullet whistled by the head of the man of the frontier, the scout knew
that the advantage was now on his side. Drawing his tomahawk, he leaped
from his hiding place, and, in a few bounds, had swung his weapon above
the head of the now terrified brave. In a second it was all over with
the red man.
The scout sat down and laughed loudly, for he had won a glorious
victory. Then he rose, gathered up the arms of his enemies, loaded
himself with deer meat, and made his way back to his cabin. He was well
satisfied with the day’s work.
This was but one of many adventures. He continued upon his solitary
hunts, and, while searching for game, often was surrounded by roving
Shawnees, so that his life was in constant danger.
A month after the first affair he was chasing some deer on Cedar
Run—a tributary of a stream now named Harrod’s Creek, in honor of
this intrepid pioneer. He had shot a fat buck and was bending over him
in order to get the choicest bit of venison, when a bullet whizzed
suddenly by his ear. A loud and triumphant yell sounded in the forest
at the same instant, and, looking up, he saw that he was confronted by
a dozen red men. His only safety was in flight.
Scout Harrod was no mean runner. Inured to hardship, and with muscles
of steel, he bounded away like one of the very deer which he had just
dispatched. The Indians were in hot pursuit. As they came on, their
leader cried, at the top of his voice:
“Come on! Here is the lone panther—Come on! Come on!”
So hotly did they push the running trapper that Harrod did not keep a
proper lookout for what was in front of him. To his dismay, he found
that he almost ran into a party of savages coming up to join the
others. What was he to do? In a moment he had made up his mind.
Dashing right up to the oncoming braves he began to yell at the top
of his lungs: “Come on, boys—here they are—Come on! Come!” He then
followed this with an exultant whoop.
The Shawnees could not see their friends,—the pursuers. They were
therefore of the opinion that this was a war party of whites, in
considerable numbers, which is just what Harrod wished them to believe.
Those in front became panic stricken, and turned without firing a shot.
Those in the rear followed, while Harrod—racing after them—struck two
to the earth with his tomahawk. One was a celebrated Shawnee chief,
called Turkey Head, who was noted for his cruelty to the unlucky
settlers who fell into his hands.
The scout kept on, plunged into a ravine, and seated himself in some
thick brush. Peeping through the leaves, he saw his pursuers go on in
full cry. Their wild yelping finally died out in the distance, and,
turning around, the famous woodsman retraced his steps towards the
settlement. He arrived there in due time, much overjoyed to have thus
safely escaped from his vindictive enemies.
This was certainly a narrow escape, but another adventure—some days
later—was about as thrilling as the last.
While at Harrodsburg he learned that a marauding expedition was about
to start for the settlements, led by a famous warrior called Turtle
Heart. He must stop it if he could, but, should he know their plans it
would be far easier to head off the wild band, which would fall upon
the log houses of the pioneers like a cloud of fire.
The scout set off alone in order to visit the Indian town, and,
reaching it about noon, secreted himself upon an eminence from which
he could watch the gathering savages. Here he lay until nightfall,
then—carefully hiding his gun—stole noiselessly into the town and
approached the council house. Worming his way up to it, he crouched
near a hole—looked through—and saw many of the chiefs in close
consultation.
“We will attack in two days,” said one big, fierce-looking fellow. “The
palefaces shall not possess the land given to us by the Great Father.”
“Ugh! Ugh!” uttered several. “The palefaces must go home to the land of
the rising sun!”
This was enough for the scout, and, rising, he began to beat a retreat.
Suddenly he started back, for before him stood a giant redskin who
seized him by the shoulder. Harrod saw that he was about to give a
whoop of alarm. There was not a moment to be lost. Catching the warrior
fiercely by the throat, the pioneer stunned him by a terrific blow of
the fist. So strong was he that he broke the neck of the brave, and,
without waiting an instant, bounded forth into the darkness. A single
cry, or even the sound of a struggle, would have brought a hundred
infuriated savages to the scene. His nerve and gigantic strength had
saved him from an awful death.
Not many weeks after this affair he married a young and beautiful
girl, was given a Colonel’s commission for his many services upon the
frontier, and retired to the peace and seclusion of a small log hut
near the town which he had founded. But his charming wife could not
prevent his long and solitary excursions into the wilderness, where
were deer, bear, wild turkeys, and lurking redskins. One day he went
upon one of these hazardous trips, and from it he never returned.
Parties of friendly pioneers scoured the woods in every direction, but
he had “gone on and had left no sign.” No trace of this gallant scout
was ever found—no word of him ever came from woodsman or savage.
Whether he met his end in manly combat, or whether he was tortured at
the stake, no tongue could tell. His fate is wrapped in impenetrable
mystery, and the silence of the forest broods over the spirit of James
Harrod; frontiersman, pioneer, and hardy woodland adventurer.
[Illustration: BATTLE OF FALLEN TIMBERS.]
ROBERT McLELLAN:
PLUCKIEST OF THE EARLY PIONEERS
WHEN “Mad Anthony” Wayne was furiously battling with Little Turtle at
Fallen Timbers, a daring adventurer was with him who was subsequently
to play a most important part in the exploration of the then
unconquered and unexplored West. Hardy, utterly fearless, and possessed
of wonderful agility,—such was Robert McLellan, one of the most noted
scouts that ever operated upon the border, and a rifleman whose aim was
both quick and marvellously true.
In the summer of 1794 the celebrated “Mad Anthony” was pushing his
way into the Indian country and was most desirous of securing a red
prisoner, so that he could learn the force and strength of his savage
opponents. Calling McLellan to him, he said:
“Bob, I wish you to take two trusty companions—Miller and Wells will
do—and leave to-night for the Shawnee country. Secure a prisoner, as
soon as possible, and return to camp with the fellow alive, for I am
extremely anxious to get information in regard to the whereabouts of
the large force of redskins which I know to be in my front.”
McLellan was delighted.
“All right, Captain,” he replied with enthusiasm. “You leave the
matter to me and I will guarantee that I and my friends will return
with the desired captive. Only give us time and we will deliver the man
of the woods, right side up and with care.”
The General laughed.
“Very good,” said he. “Go in, now, and win out.”
Next morning McLellan and his two companions started forth with
confidence and were soon far in the hostile country, where many prints
of moccasined feet warned them that the savages were in the vicinity.
One day they followed a fresh trail, and, upon peering around a
projecting clump of bushes, saw three savages sitting upon a log near
a great fire, at which they were cooking some venison. They crawled
softly towards them, and decided, in a whispered consultation, that
Wells should shoot the redskin upon the left; Miller, the one upon the
right; and that McLellan, leaving his rifle against a tree, should run
the other fellow down and capture him.
At the given signal the rifles spoke in unison, and the two redskins
who had been marked, fell prostrate to the earth; for both of the
pioneers could hit the eye of a squirrel at fifty yards. The one
in the centre leaped swiftly to his feet, and, darting through the
thicket, was soon bounding away to safety. But McLellan was after him
in a jiffy, and the redskin realized that he was running away from one
of the speediest frontiersmen in all Ohio. On, on, they rushed, but,
seeing that he was being rapidly overtaken, the savage turned in his
course, headed for the stream, and, with one furtive glance at the
oncoming man in buckskin, leaped from the high bank into the eddying
current.
Raising his tomahawk in his right hand, the trapper made the
venturesome leap with quite as much readiness as his opponent, and
landed with a resounding splash. The water was very shallow in this
spot. To his disgust, he found himself stuck up to the waist in the
heavy mud. The redskin, too, was mired, but, brandishing a long knife
aloft, now endeavored to strike it into McLellan’s body.
He was dealing with a crafty antagonist who had parried many a
knife-thrust before, and, quick as a flash, the pioneer grabbed the
right arm of the Shawnee. In an instant his tomahawk was raised as if
to brain the red man, who cried, “Ugh! Ugh! Paleface, you too strong. I
surrender.”
In a moment more the other two pioneers had reached the bank, and,
leaning over the edge, pulled both savage and frontiersman out of the
mud. Each was vigorously washed. To the surprise of all, the redskin
was discovered to be a white man; the brother of Trapper Miller,
himself, who had been captured by the savages when young, and had
preferred to remain with them, although his kinsman had early left and
had returned to his own people. “Ugh! Ugh!” he muttered. “I hate all of
you.”
In spite of his protestations he was taken to the headquarters of
“Mad Anthony;” was confined to the guard-house; and was questioned
very closely in regard to the numbers of his Shawnee allies. He was
extremely moody and resisted all attempts at conciliation, even from
his brother, but at last some memory of his former relatives seemed
to return; he began to grow more amiable; and, joining the company
captained by a noted Ranger, served in the ranks of the whites against
the people of his adoption.
So much for the ability to run, which was exhibited by this celebrated
woodsman. Marvellous feats of strength and agility are also told
of McLellan. Amongst other stories, it is related that one day, in
Lexington, Kentucky, a yoke of oxen blocked the narrow street down
which he was going, so that it was impossible to pass on either side.
Instead of turning out of the way, or waiting for the team to move on,
the famous man of the frontier made a few rapid bounds, and—with a
mighty spring—cleared both of the oxen with the greatest possible ease.
Another yarn is also narrated concerning his wonderful ability to
jump, for it is said that he was excelled only by one William Kennan,
a Kentuckian, and noted scout of the border. It is currently reported,
and a historian of the period quotes two unimpeachable witnesses to
back his statement, that at a trial of strength and agility with
several other scouts, McLellan was asked if he could leap over a
covered wagon.
“I feel like a colt,” he is said to have replied, “and, if you will but
watch me, I am sure that I can clear this obstacle. Now, boys, look at
me!”
With a run, a short step, and a tremendous spring, the trapper shot
into the air, and—to the astonishment of all—lighted softly upon the
ground, on the other side of the wagon. He had leaped over an obstacle
at least eight and a half feet high, is reported by an old chronicler
of these early days, but this is hardly possible in view of the fact
that the world’s record for the high jump is but six feet nine inches.
At any rate, he had made an extraordinary performance.
In the year 1806, the famous adventurer Meriwether Clark met Robert
McLellan ascending the swift and muddy waters of the Missouri in a
canoe. Clark was returning from his long and dangerous expedition up
the Mississippi and to the Pacific coast, which he had taken with Lewis
(“the undaunted one”). Accompanying the valiant McLellan were numerous
companions; all of the same hardy stamp as their leader, and all bent
upon trading with the redskins.
“Where are you bound?” asked Clark.
“To fix up a trading post,” answered McLellan, “where I can meet the
red varmints on equal terms, trade with ’em, and get rich.”
Clark smiled dubiously.
“You’ll have a hard time,” he answered, “for the French and Spanish are
very jealous of you English. They operate mainly from St. Louis, and
are endeavoring to monopolize the entire trade of this western country.”
“Well,” answered McLellan, with some show of anger, “I intend to hold
this place against all the frog and garlic eaters in creation. Let them
try to force out Robert McLellan, an’ there’ll be as tough a fight as
any man ever looked for.”
From his former acquaintance with this trapper, Clark fully believed
that any attempt on the part of the rival traders to drive him from the
ground would certainly result in a sharp and bloody battle.
“These French and Spanish traders,” continued McLellan, “are like a dog
who has had far too much to eat, and who is determined not to allow any
of his fellows to share in the viands which he has before him. They
want it all.”
Clark could not help laughing.
“Look out for these Indians around here,” said he. “They are
treacherous devils and will betray you when you least expect it.”
“I’ll be on my guard,” McLellan replied.
The explorer now gave him valuable information in connection with the
various tribes of Indians who occupied the ground adjacent to the banks
of the river. He again warned him of their treacherous character, but
felt more at ease when he learned that his old-time friend had recently
been an Indian trader for some time upon the frontier. Parting company
at this point, the two hardy pioneers were destined never to see
each other again, for Clark turned towards the peaceful East, while
McLellan faced towards the savage frontier, where lay danger, toil, and
thrilling adventures.
Pushing up the turbid waters of the Missouri, the hardy scout soon saw
that his progress was not going to be any too easy. Suddenly hundreds
of red men crowded the steep bluffs, which jutted high above the sides
of the narrow stream, and brandished their spears and tomahawks in
the faces of the whites. There were but forty trappers, so it could
be plainly seen that it was wisest to submit to the demands of the
hostiles. A solitary chieftain—splendidly mounted—now dashed up to
the bank and held up his hand in token of a parley.
“Ugh! Ugh! Palefaces,” said he, “you cannot come further into our
country, for you will drive off all the game and we desire it for
ourselves. But, if you want to build big house for trading you can do
so down the stream.”
“I reckon they’ve got us, boys,” said McLellan. “We’ll retreat and
put up our tent lower down. I’ll guarantee that this hold-up didn’t
originate with the redskins. There’s Spanish blood behind this affair,
or else my name’s not Robert McLellan.”
The savages supposed that the whites were perfectly contented with
this enforced arrangement, and drew off, leaving a guard to watch the
traders. But McLellan was a past master in outwitting Indians and had
fooled too many in former years. No sooner had the army of savages
moved well towards their villages than he hastily loaded up his boat,
and, by pulling it very rapidly, passed the cliffs, where the red
men had held him up before. He soon reached a spot suitable for his
establishment, there built several log huts, and prepared to spend a
considerable time in peaceful trading. He also swore to have revenge
upon a Spaniard, called Manuel Lisa, as soon as he could catch him.
For he learned that this opposition trader had been the cause of his
detention.
McLellan lived here for several years in partnership with an
adventurous borderer named Crooks, who was an expert in trading with
the savages. They prospered, but soon the Sioux grew very troublesome.
One day, when the trappers were off on a hunt, the red men surrounded
the post, overpowered the trappers left behind, and began to carry
off all of the valuable stores. McLellan returned before the work
of spoliation was quite completed and burst in among the savages,
exhibiting terrific anger.
“You curs!” he shouted, “bring back everything that you have taken
away, or I’ll blow you all to pieces with my cannon!”
The Sioux well knew the ungovernable temper and desperate character of
the infuriated trapper.
“He heap angry!” said they. “We do as he say.”
They returned much that had been taken away, but much that had been
carried to the Indian village never came back, and the valorous trader
had to pocket a loss of about three thousand dollars. Heaping curses
upon the heads of the savages, the Spaniards, the Frenchmen, and all
the other “unmitigated rascals,” as he called them, the outraged trader
now fitted up his boats and started down the Missouri River to engage
in business at a place where his competitors would be more honest and
honorable.
Crooks had parted company with McLellan some time before this outrage.
“I can do better for myself down stream,” he had said. “The Indians
here are too troublesome, for they are under the influence of the
rascally Spaniard, Manuel Lisa.”
What was the surprise of the disappointed frontiersman, when floating
down the Missouri on his way to St. Louis, to find his former partner
at the mouth of the Nodaway River.
“I’m delighted to see you, Crooks,” he cried, and, rounding to, he ran
his canoe upon the bank. While their men mingled together the partners
had a long conversation, and from Crooks it was learned that the
organization, with which he was now connected, was under the command
of a Mr. Hunt—one of John Jacob Astor’s partners in the American Fur
Company.
“We are bound for the mouth of the Columbia River,” said Crooks, “where
we are to meet another part of the expedition which has gone by sea. We
will be camped here until spring, so will you not join us? I am sure
that you will have better luck in trading and trapping in this new
field.”
McLellan could not withstand the temptation.
“By George,” cried he, “I’ll be with you. I’ll begin a new life and see
if I cannot have better success than here upon the Missouri.”
Throwing away all of his worldly possessions, except his trusty rifle,
the unfortunate trader joined the expedition.
“I am determined to begin the world anew,” he wrote to his brother.
“And I trust that there will be no Spanish traders in the country to
which we are going.”
His hopes were in vain, for they heard that Manuel Lisa was on the
way to impede their progress and would use every effort to pass them
by and prevent them from gaining any trade benefits with the Indians
above. Sure enough, an emissary soon appeared from the crafty Spaniard,
holding a message in his hand.
“If you wait for my party,” it ran, “we can enter this territory
together and share the trade. This will be better for all concerned.”
“Don’t give in to him,” cried McLellan, when he heard this message.
“The lying Spaniard can’t tell the truth if he tries to, and cannot be
honest if he wishes. He’ll trick you after he has made you believe that
he is your friend.”
“I believe that you’re right,” Hunt answered. “I’ll send him no
definite reply.”
So he returned a missive which did not commit him to any particular
course of procedure.
In a few days—it was the thirty-first of May—immense bodies of
savages gathered on the bluffs of the river, armed and painted for war.
They screeched their defiance and yelled like demons, so it was easy
to see that the tricky Manuel had been influencing them. Every trapper
seized his arms and stood ready for action.
“Load up the artillery!” cried Captain Hunt, for he saw that it was
dangerous both to retreat and to advance. “We will first fire off some
blank cartridges and see if we cannot scare these pesky varmints into
submission.”
In a few moments smoke and flame burst from the mouths of the cannon
and the redskins beat a precipitate retreat. But soon they gathered
again and made peace signs.
“We would make big talk,” cried one painted brave. “We love our white
brothers.”
“Load the cannon with grape and cannister,” said McLellan to his men.
“Hunt and I will go ashore, and, if the redskins show any signs of
treachery, blaze away.”
His men smiled, as the daring trapper now approached the bank, where
the Indians welcomed him with much show of good will, for they saw that
the white men meant business. They smoked the pipe of peace together,
and, finding that the trappers were determined to advance at any cost,
the red men suddenly evinced a perfect willingness to allow them to go
on. Their hearts were warmed by the gift of several hundredweight of
corn, and—what they loved still more—a quantity of tobacco. “Ugh!
Ugh!” grunted the chiefs. “We love our white brothers.”
Seeing that the red men were now peaceful, McLellan ordered his own
followers to advance up the river, but he was soon surprised by seeing
another band of Indians, who rode along the bank of the stream but
seemed to be friendly.
“By George!” cried McLellan, “these fellows are the same ones that
robbed my store, when Crooks and I were in partnership! They mean
trouble.”
But the children of the plains realized that the whites were in force,
and, fearing that they might attempt to punish them for their former
actions, peacefully accepted several presents which were offered them.
Again the trappers forced their way up the swift waters, but again they
were surprised by a group of red men, who rode up the bank, and, in a
lordly and insolent manner, demanded presents similar to those which
had recently been given to their brethren. This angered the trappers,
for they appreciated the fact that the redskins wished to frighten them.
“You shall not get a single thing from us,” shouted Hunt,—a man of
great firmness. “Furthermore, if you make any more insolent demands, I
will treat you all as enemies and turn our cannon against you.”
This did not please the savages, as can be well imagined. Vowing
vengeance, and shaking their fists at the trappers, they rode off
across the prairie, while the whites were now divided into two forces;
one going up one bank, and the other taking the opposite side. Thus
they proceeded for several days, until they came to a spot where the
stream was very narrow and was filled with sand bars. A vast number of
redskins were camped upon the western bank, and Hunt was fearful that
they would soon attack. He and McLellan were in one of the boats.
“I know that they are peaceful,” said the former, “for their faces are
painted. Row to the shore!”
As they approached, the savages dropped their bows and arrows, came to
meet them joyfully, and proved to be a band of Arickaras who were at
war with the Sioux, and were thus anxious to have the white trappers
assist in fighting their battles for them. “How! How!” said they. “We
glad to see our white brothers. How! How! We wish to have sticks which
speak with the voice of thunder.”
The adventurers looked forward to rich trade with the red men but were
much surprised and angered by receiving word that the boat of Lisa—the
Spaniard—was rapidly approaching.
“That rascally fellow will ruin our work!” cried McLellan, with
considerable heat. “We must let him know, now, that we will stand no
trickery from him. If he tampers with these redskins and sets them
against me, I will let my rifle do the work of vengeance.”
The Indians, meanwhile, showed no disposition to trade, knowing that
the presence of a rival trader would ensure them better bargains. Lisa
soon arrived and was not long in discovering that he was an unwelcome
guest. McLellan had difficulty in restraining himself from wreaking a
just vengeance upon this artful “Greaser,” but fearing that he might
involve Hunt and his other friends in a quarrel, kept his own counsel.
It was, however, not for long.
Lisa agreed that he and Hunt would go to the Indian village and would
trade there, but that no advantage should be taken of one another in
the transactions with the wild riders of the plains. After a short
delay they proceeded together up the river. But the crafty Spaniard
was soon up to his old tricks and attempted to induce a certain French
Canadian, in Hunt’s employ, to leave his master.
“I will give you better wages and treatment,” said he. “Come—boy—be
one of my followers.”
This was overheard by McLellan and infuriated him. Seizing a gun, he
gave the Spaniard to understand that he had old scores to settle with
him, and that he had better get his own pistol and defend himself,
for he was soon to be shot down like a dog. “You thieving, sneaking
Greaser!” he shouted. “Now you will go to Kingdom Come in a hurry. You
should have been beneath the sod long ago.”
Fire flashed from the Spaniard’s eyes and he reached for his pistol,
but, before he could draw, the angered McLellan was seized by both
Hunt and Crooks, who took his weapon away from him and pinned him to
the ground, until he promised that he would not touch the Spaniard.
Lisa himself was careful not to again rouse the ire of the pioneer,
and, as a result, did not attempt to underbid the trade offers to the
Arickaras. Successful bartering was soon accomplished, and Hunt’s party
set about the difficult undertaking of crossing through the Rocky
Mountains and traversing the dry table-land to the Pacific coast.
You can well realize that this was a hazardous undertaking, for, not
only did the trappers have a hazy and undefined conception of the route
to follow, but there was little water in certain parts of this country,
and a great scarcity of game in others. There were sixty-two in the
adventurous band, with eighty-two pack-horses to carry luggage, guns,
and camp equipment. All were well armed and were full of determination
to succeed.
As the adventurous little body of trappers filed silently towards the
West—a few days later—the Indians collected in order to bid them
good-by. Many an old chief was seen to shake his head, as they wended
their way towards the beetling mountains, and the treacherous, though
adventurous, Lisa was heard to exclaim: “These men are fools! They
are all dead! All dead! None will ever return!” But these pessimistic
remarks did not seem to worry the followers of Hunt and McLellan. With
cheerful looks and smiling faces they kept onward towards their goal.
Soon they were in the glorious Big Horn range and were in the vicinity
of the tepees of many Indians, who were not slow in discovering their
approach. Contrary to every expectation, the red men greeted them most
hospitably, gave them dried buffalo meat, and told them how to find a
way through the rugged hills before them. These were the Cheyennes—a
war-like tribe—which had its name from the Cheyenne River. They were
soon to be driven from their hunting-grounds by the steady, westward
emigration of the whites, but were now rich in both ponies and buffalo
robes, and were much feared by the neighboring denizens of the plains:
the Crows and Ogalala Sioux.
The pioneers kept on, traded with the redskins whom they met, and
found increased dangers and difficulties in their path. It was summer,
and thousands of gnats and mosquitoes attacked both men and horses,
rendering life miserable and making it most disagreeable to proceed. I,
myself, travelled through this country in the summer of 1899, and have
never seen so many pests as here. Swarms of green-headed horse-flies
attacked our pack animals, so that they would sometimes be bloody from
their bites. Often the horses would roll upon the ground in order to
get rid of the flies, and thus would dislodge the packs, which had
taken some time to adjust. Their sting was most poisonous. Mosquitoes
were here by the millions, and we had great difficulty—even then—of
getting through the fallen timber, which sometimes extended for many
miles. These pioneers picked their way through the forests, forded the
rushing streams, ascended and descended the deep canyons, and finally
reached the headwaters of the Mad River, or Snake River, as it is
called below its junction with Henry’s Fork.
An adventurous trader named Henry had here established a trading-post,
the year before, but becoming disgusted with the Indians, who refused
to barter with him, had abandoned it. Hunt, McLellan, and their little
party, reached this spot on the eighth day of October, where they
stopped to recruit their strength. Then they engaged Indians to look
out for their horses, which they concluded to leave behind them, and
built a number of canoes with which to commit themselves to the current
of the river. They embarked, and, for a hundred miles found their
progress easy, but all at once they saw to their dismay that below
them were dangerous falls and treacherous rapids. Their journey was
blocked.
It was impossible to return to Henry’s Fork, where were their horses,
and to go on meant the destruction of all their supplies. What was
there to do? To the North was the Columbia River, but an unbroken
wilderness lay between. They must cross it, trust to luck that game
would come their way, and that their rifles would not miss it when
found. There were but a few days’ provisions left, so it was decided to
divide the party into four sections: the first, under Crooks, was to
make its way up the river to Fort Henry; the second, under McLellan,
was to continue down the Snake; while the third, under McKenzie, was to
traverse the wilderness towards the Columbia. The fourth section was to
remain for a time where it was. And it was further understood that any
party which should come across assistance or supplies should return to
the main body under Hunt, which would hold the present camp until their
leader became convinced that all had failed in their efforts to reach
their destination. Let us see how they fared.
McLellan continued his way down the rushing Snake with three
companions, but, finding that it was almost impossible to make further
progress, he deflected his line of march so as to follow the detachment
under McKenzie. Their course was over a bare and arid country where
there was no game and little water. Occasionally a jack-rabbit
scampered between the clumps of sage brush, but no one seemed to have
sufficient ability with the rifle in order to bring one down. A lean
coyote would now and again be seen, and often the weird wailing of one
of these creatures would make night hideous. The jerked buffalo meat
which they carried was soon exhausted and the adventurers began to
suffer from the gnawing pains of hunger, but on they walked with grim
and steadfast determination. Weary, footsore, and nearly exhausted,
they finally came upon McKenzie and his five companions. These
fortunately had food, which they gave to the gaunt trappers, who rested
for a full day before they could go on.
McLellan was undaunted. Trained in a hundred combats with the savages
of the West, and hardened by years of exposure, he saw no cause for
despondency. Some of the trappers, however, gave way to despair. They
were among the barren drifts and extinct craters of gigantic volcanoes,
while, through the winding fissures of its canyoned walls, the furious
torrent of the Snake River dashed, foamed, and roared beneath them.
Like a snow-white ribbon it plunged onward upon its wild career, and,
in the sobbing roar of its cataracts, some of the more weak-hearted
fancied that they heard the voices of those departed, who called to
them to follow where they had gone.
It grew cold. A fierce snow-storm came upon them. As the food supply
was gone, a dozen beaver skins were cut into strips and roasted, but
this provender only sustained life for a few days. At length the
trappers became exhausted, and, crouching under the protecting ledge
of a wall of rock, shivered before their fire, and gloomily looked
forth upon the blinding snow. All was sadness and despondency. Some
contemplated death, which they thought to be inevitable, and even the
lion-hearted McLellan lost that undaunted courage which had never
before deserted him. Could it be that they were to die before they
saw the roaring waters of the Columbia? Could it be that they were
to perish before they reached the trader’s post upon the green-gray
stretch of the Pacific Ocean?
Peering into the gloom from his rocky shelter, the keen eyes of
McLellan suddenly perceived a buffalo, which, driven to the rocky wall
by the desire to get away from the blinding snow, was crouching under
the lee of a high bluff. What could be more fortunate? Taking note
of the direction of the wind, the trapper left his hiding-place and
crawled against it, until he came within thirty yards of the beast.
Carefully he wormed his way behind a jutting ledge of rock and sand,
then—taking a good sight—touched the trigger of his rifle, and the
great lumbering brute fell dead. With a wild and hilarious cheer the
old scout dashed to where he lay and cut joyful capers around him in
the snow. “Hurray! Hurray!” he cried. “Now we will have enough food to
last us for many days. Hurray! Hurray!”
Seizing upon the carcass of the beast, the old scout rolled him down
the hill towards the cavern in which his own companions were shivering.
With a wild yell he announced his triumph and this was answered by a
hoarse cry from the half-famished trappers, who rushed upon the beast,
and, but for the warning of the old frontiersman, would have gorged
themselves upon the raw flesh, so great was their hunger.
“Hold back, my friends,” cried he. “Wait but a moment and I will give
you some cooked food. Restrain yourselves, for a few seconds, and I
will see that you get enough to save your lives. Eat the raw flesh and
you will all perish.”
It was difficult to hold back the starving trappers, but soon a fire
was lighted, the choicest parts of the buffalo were broiled upon a
ramrod, and the gaunt spectres were allowed a feast. This saved their
lives. With renewed strength they again made their way towards the
Columbia, and, meeting with an occasional buffalo which they had the
good fortune to kill, at length reached the swirling river, where a
band of roving red men supplied them with a number of canoes. They also
secured sufficient jerked meat to last them until they should reach the
coast, where the trading-post of Astoria had already been established.
To that lucky shot of McLellan’s they owed their lives.
Hunt, meanwhile, had decided that the three parties had successfully
made their way to the coast, so he had started for the Columbia.
Crooks had reached Fort Henry, where he spent his time in trapping and
in trading with the redskins. As for the trappers who had left for
Astoria by sea, they had met with an adverse fate, for the savages had
induced them to enter the mouth of a small river, when they reached the
neighborhood of the trading-post, and here had surrounded and massacred
all of the voyageurs, after the vessel had been run aground. It took
Hunt over a month to arrive at the coast. Crooks eventually followed.
He met the other trappers after a separation of five months’ duration.
After frightful privations and suffering the four parties were now
safe at Astoria; a trading-post which was to create a fortune for its
founder, John Jacob Astor, a shrewd merchant of New York, who was
a dealer in furs and peltries of wild animals. But there was still
travelling to be done, for Hunt determined soon after his arrival to
send a party overland, in order to notify Astor of the loss of the
detachment which had come by sea.
Strange to relate, the lion-hearted McLellan announced that he intended
to go back with this party to St. Louis. “For,” said he, “I have not
been given a sufficient share of the profits of this company. I am
entitled to more.” His friends begged him to remain and not again to
plunge into the wilderness, where were dangers just as great as those
from which he had escaped. But he was obstinate in his purpose. “To St.
Louis I shall go,” said he, “and not all the redskins on the earth will
stop me. I have been treated most unfairly.” Thus, on the twenty-second
day of March, 1812, he turned his back upon Astoria, and set out upon
the hazardous trip towards the East. The detachment was under the
command of John Reed, clerk of the Fur Company, a man of undoubted
courage and experience in frontier warfare.
There were seventeen in this particular expedition, all men of well
tried courage and resource in wilderness adventure. Ascending the
Columbia in canoes, they reached the falls and were preparing to make
the portage when a band of redskins surrounded them and began to shoot
arrows at their ranks. The trappers crouched behind the protection of
trees and boulders, and made a stand, sending many a humming bullet
into the ranks of the savages, who suddenly ceased hostilities, and,
holding up their hands in sign of peace, came towards the white men.
Mingling with the travellers, the Indians offered to carry their
luggage around the rapids.
“The redskins only want to steal all that we’ve got,” whispered
McLellan to his men. “But we can let them carry the canoes around the
falls. Then we can get the baggage over during the night, and, when
morning dawns, we’ll be off before the varmints know what we’re up to.”
The redskins seemed to be well satisfied. They carried the canoes upon
their broad shoulders, and, as night fell, retired to their village
across the river, leaving a few upon the same side as the whites.
McLellan waited until the moon rose; then waking the others, he told
them to get their baggage around the falls as soon as they could. The
trappers worked industriously, and just as day was breaking, they
deposited the last sack of provisions at the head of the rapids. This
had been done without waking the redskins, who were upon their side of
the river.
But now was an uproar, for the savages across the stream learned what
was going on, and, in a few moments, came swarming to the attack. A
hundred of them rushed upon the nervy band of trappers, crying out,
“You no go on. You stay here. You no go away.”
Brandishing aloft an immense club, a red warrior rushed upon Reed and
felled him to the ground. Another ran towards McLellan, who, with rifle
in hand, stood watching the affray. As he approached, the trapper was
ready, and, although the redskin attempted to throw a buffalo robe over
his head in order to blind his vision as he made a thrust at him with
his knife, the old scout was too wary a bird to be caught napping.
Stepping quickly aside, he shot the savage dead. As the redskin rolled
over, a noise sounded from behind, and, wheeling around, he was just in
time to hit another Indian who was about to shoot him with a rifle. The
trappers now rallied to the defense of their leader. The savage who had
attacked Reed was dispatched just as he was about to brain the trapper
with his tomahawk. The rifles of the men from Astoria spoke in unison,
and terrified by the desperate courage of the rangers, the savages
dropped back. McLellan urged his followers to the charge, and, with
a wild yell, they rushed upon the redskins, who took to their heels,
leaving many of their number prostrate upon the ground.
The unfortunate Reed had lost his dispatches to Astor, for he carried
them in a bright, new, tin box which immediately attracted the
attention of the Indians. They fancied that it must be of great value,
because of the care which the leader took of it. But this put an end
to the expedition. Reluctantly and sadly the trappers returned to the
trading-post, where the wounded recovered from their injuries received
in the little skirmish with the red men.
Hunt was greatly disappointed. “Boys!” said he, “I must absolutely get
my dispatches through to Saint Louis,—Indians or no Indians. Astor
must know of the fate of his other division. I will start a second
expedition in June and Robert Stuart will be its commander. He will
take only four good men with him.”
McLellan announced that he would be a member of the party, and Crooks
also declared that he would leave Astoria, because he had become
dissatisfied with the method in which Hunt had treated him. They soon
launched their canoes in the Columbia; began to paddle up the stream,
and, before long, reached the mouth of the Walla-Walla, where they
hid their frail craft, and started across country to the Snake River.
Horses had been purchased from the red men, and with these they made
good time, although again their food supply became exhausted so that
they were forced to scrape the fur from beaver and buffalo skins and
eat the hide in order to keep from starving. Fortunately game was now
met with and this provender saved their lives.
At the place where they had last camped on Snake River they had buried
a quantity of dried meat and other food, but when they arrived there
they discovered that the redskins had found out its whereabouts, had
dug it up, and had carried it away. It was growing cold, but they
pressed forward with renewed courage, and entered a country which was
free from game, so that again they were threatened with the dangers of
starvation. Besides this, it was the land of the Crow Indians, who were
terrific thieves and who soon discovered the presence of the little
band of trappers. The sharp eyes of McLellan—well used to watching
game—were not long in discovering the presence of the Indians.
“Look out boys,” said he. “I notice some of the red varmints hovering
near by and suspect that we will be attacked before long. Look to the
priming of your rifles and have plenty of ammunition handy. Be on your
guard!”
The trappers gave good heed to this warning and redoubled their guards
around the camp at nightfall. It was well that they did so, for, on the
very next day, a large band of red men rode up to their halting-place,
all fully armed with spears and arrows.
“Ugh! Ugh!” said the spokesman. “Where are my white brothers going?”
McLellan answered for the trappers that they were upon a peaceful
errand and would not molest the red men, if they in turn would do them
no harm. As he spoke, the redskins looked carefully at the men of the
frontier, and, seeing them well armed and ready for business, decided
not to attack. But they travelled with them for six whole days, quietly
stealing any little articles that they could find, and, on the evening
of the sixth day, ran off all the horses of the trappers in a mad
stampede. The white adventurers were in a desperate situation.
Stuart, the commander, now spoke vigorous words.
“We must cache everything which we cannot carry, and push on,” said he.
“Let winter overtake us in this God-forsaken country and all is lost.
On! On!”
As the men were busily engaged in digging a hole in which to bury the
supplies, one of the trappers interrupted them.
“Two of those thieving Crows are watching us,” said he, “and they will
dig everything up just as soon as we disappear.”
McLellan grew furious at this information.
“No thieving Crow will ever get anything of mine,” said he, “unless
they get my scalp first. I’ll burn everything which we leave behind,
and then let Mr. Redskin hustle for the white man’s food.”
“You’re right!” answered all. “Burn it we will!” Their stores were soon
piled up into a heap and were consumed by the flames.
They now headed for the Mad River, where they built rafts, and floated
them down these turbid waters, for several days. Then they again struck
off across country towards the East, crossing a wide plateau to the
base of the Rocky Mountains. They were in the land of the Blackfeet
Indians, who were as hostile towards the whites as were the Crows, and
who were as arrant thieves; but they kept on towards the high land,
hoping thus to elude the red men. As they proceeded into the mountains,
McLellan bitterly complained against their course and begged them to
remain upon the plateau. “For,” said he, “I’ve already had enough
mountain climbing to last me a lifetime, and I’d rather be comfortably
killed by the Indians than break my neck falling down a canyon. You
boys would rather climb mountains than fight the redskins.”
To these remarks Stuart and his companions paid no attention, but kept
on their way. McLellan was liked by all, and one trapper offered to
give him a load of jerked meat to carry, instead of the traps.
“A hunter should be able to kill his own meat without carrying any,”
said the old pioneer, who was now thoroughly angry. “Who wants to
carry a whole horse-load of dried beef on his back? As for me, I’ll go
no further with you. Fools! Good-by!” This burst of temper seemed to
relieve his mind, and, starting down the mountain, he set out alone
without once looking behind him. His companions kept on, and as they
reached the top of the eminence, gazed over the plain, where a dark
spot marked the form of the angered man of the frontier.
“Boys,” said Stuart. “There goes the last of the old pioneers of the
Kentucky border. You will never see him or his like again.”
As he said this, the eyes of many of his companions filled with tears.
Events were not to go smoothly with either McLellan or Stuart, for
the former lost his way; became so weak from lack of food that he was
unable to go further; and wandered aimlessly about. The latter also
suffered terribly from hunger, but kept on, hoping to meet with game at
every mile. His men were footsore and dejected, for they entered upon
a barren region where there was no game, and where even the coyotes
seemed to have disappeared. They became desperate, and determined to
throw themselves upon the mercy of the malicious Blackfeet, should they
come across them.
With this end in view, the voyageurs kept a sharp lookout for Indian
fires, hoping to gain food and assistance from the red men. Suddenly,
in the far distance, they saw the twinkle of a little light and knew
that some living being was near them. But it was late in the day. So
they dispatched one of their number to see who it was, while the rest
went into camp for the night. The messenger did not return.
Upon the day following, the exhausted plainsmen hastened in the
direction of the fire which they had seen the evening before, and met
their companion running towards them.
“Boys,” said he, “’Old Bob’ McLellan is lying by that fire in an
absolutely exhausted condition. He is so weak that unless some
stimulant is given him he will expire. Hurry and give him food from our
meagre supply!”
This hastened the feet of the trappers, and reaching the place where
the stubborn-minded old pioneer was lying, they discovered that he was
in a desperate plight. A cup of hot coffee, however, soon revived him,
so that he was able to struggle to his feet and join in their weary
march. His rifle was carried by one of his companions.
The little party pressed on, luckily came across a “solitary,” or bull
buffalo, which had been driven from the herd because of old age and
infirmity, and had the good fortune to kill it. Strengthened by this
repast, they stumbled forward, and, by great good chance, came upon a
band of Snake Indians, who fed them, gave them buckskin for moccasins,
and, at their departure, not only presented them with a goodly quantity
of jerked meat, but also with an old horse to carry it. Winter was
coming on. Small flurries of snow announced the advent of the season,
but they were now nearing the river Platte, where was an abundance of
game. The old scout had recovered from his exhaustion and was once
more the leader of these heroic plainsmen, who had twice been upon the
verge of starvation. Their emaciated forms had filled out; their faces
were sunburned and glowed with health; while their spirits and their
strength was as of yore.
It was well into November when the party reached the river Platte,
where were quantities of antelope and buffalo upon the grassy plains
which rolled from either bank. They had a big hunt and collected
sufficient buffalo meat to last through the winter. Then they built a
hut of logs and plastered it with mud, determined to remain here until
the warmth of spring made it possible for them to move further upon
their long journey to the settlements. The days passed pleasantly, but
one morning they were awakened by the wild screeching of a band of
savages, and rushing to the doorway of their cabin, found that they
were surrounded by fully a hundred painted braves.
“Well,” said McLellan, “I—for one—am all ready for a brush with the
redskins, whom I hate as much as I do old Lisa: the dastardly Spanish
trickster. So, my fine fellows, look to your rifles and we’ll have a
little picnic.”
“Not so fast,” Stuart interrupted. “I believe that these fellows are
peaceably disposed towards us.” And—so saying—he stepped forth from
the door, rifle in one hand, the other extended towards the Indians.
Several of them came forward, shook his hand with heartiness, and
intimated that they wished to have peace and not warfare. One of the
chiefs could speak good English.
“We are on the war-path,” said he. “We are Cheyennes and our enemies
are the Crows, who have raided one of our villages, have stolen many
ponies and much dried meat. They shall be punished.”
This was cheerful news.
“Well,” murmured Stuart, “here we are between two fires. On one side
are the Cheyennes, on the other are the Crows. As they are both upon
the war-path, we are in continual danger from each of them. If a war
party is defeated, it will doubtless wreak vengeance upon us when
returning from the fray. The only thing for us to do is to take our
chances and move towards the East.”
The situation was presented to the rest of the trappers, all of whom
were of the opinion that they should decamp. Winter was upon them and
snow was deep upon the ground, but, if they would save their lives,
they must leave at once. The raw-boned old horse was loaded up, their
packs were slung on their own shoulders, and, upon the thirteenth
day of December, the band of adventurers set off down the Platte.
Snow-storms and bitter winds assailed them, but on they struggled until
well beyond the range of the war-like savages. Here they built another
hut, passed the winter in peace, and in March, 1813, started down the
river in canoes which they had made from hollowed stumps of trees.
After an uneventful trip, they finally reached the Missouri and were
soon on their way to the frontier trading-post of St. Louis. Astor then
learned what had happened to the adventurous souls who had attempted to
reach his trading-post by sea.
The hazardous trip was over at last. “Old Bob” McLellan and his
companions had crossed the wildest portion of an unexplored continent;
had endured terrific hardship and exposure; but had brought home
an accurate description of the virgin West to the hearing of many
adventurous souls, who—thronging upon the border—were anxious and
eager to press into the unknown prairie and mountain land. Two or three
times the trappers had just escaped death by starvation. Twice they
had barely missed a massacre by the redskins. Yet their courage and
fortitude had carried them through every peril, and at last they were
among their own kind, where appreciation of their nerve and valor was
freely shown.
What of “Old Bob” McLellan, as he was affectionately called? Alas! The
sinewy plainsman had been much broken by the hardships of this arduous
journey to Astoria. Exposure and starvation had done its work upon the
frame of the hardy man of the frontier, and now he was unable to again
venture into the unknown. Purchasing a stock of goods suitable for a
trader, he opened a country store at Cape Girardeau, near St. Louis,
but the angel of death even then hovered over the soul of the stalwart
man of the plains. In a few months he quietly passed into the great
beyond.
Thus peacefully ended the career of one of the last of the valorous
scouts and pioneers who had forced back the savage hordes from the
Alleghanies to the Mississippi, and who, even as old age advanced, had
plunged into an unexplored and unpeopled country, to risk both life and
limb among savage men and beasts. Red ran the blood in the veins of
this vigorous Kentuckian, and he is to be remembered as a good type of
the venturesome pioneers who explored and opened to white civilization
the vast and unknown regions of western America. The hazardous journey
to Astoria quite equalled in danger that eventful pilgrimage of Lewis
and Clark, the first white adventurers to cross the Rocky Mountains to
the Pacific. Hats off to “Old Bob” McLellan.
COLONEL BENJAMIN LOGAN:
THE INTREPID FIGHTER OF THE KENTUCKY FRONTIER
“MOTHER, I know that the law allows me to have all of the property
which my father left, but I do not want it. You can have your share,
and to my brothers and sisters I give the remainder. I, myself, will
move further West, into the wilderness.”
The youth who spoke was about twenty-one years of age; tall, slender,
and graceful. His face was open, frank, and expressive. As he ceased,
he waved his hand towards the West and left the room in which his
parent was sitting upon an old-fashioned horse-hair sofa. His name was
Benjamin Logan.
Although the old English law of primogeniture prevailed in Virginia at
this time, which gave the farm, horses, and farming utensils to young
Logan (upon the death of his father) he refused to accept them. Instead
of this, he nobly partitioned the estate between his mother, his three
brothers, and two sisters, and removed to the Holston River. Then he
began to farm a rough piece of ground, only part of which had been
cleared of timber.
About this time the Indians upon the Ohio frontier became very
troublesome, and Logan enlisted as a private in the army of Lord
Dunmore, Governor of Virginia. Marching into the Indian country was a
rough experience, but the youth enjoyed it, and when the red men signed
articles of peace at Chillicothe, Ohio, the stout Virginian was among
those who stood near the chiefs and saw them put their names to the
agreement. Kentucky was now fairly peaceable. So the energetic young
man moved his family to Harrodsburg, where a stockade had been erected
called Logan’s Fort.
“You must look out for the redskins,” said a comrade to him. “Although
they have signed an agreement to let us alone, my friends report that
there are many of them in the vicinity, and they are all daubed up with
paint, because they are upon the war-path.”
“I will be on my guard,” replied the young pioneer. “We must all run
to the fort if there is danger of attack.” The test was to come sooner
than he expected.
Upon a balmy day in May, when the women were milking their cows
near the gate of Fort Logan, and a few men were standing by, in
order to assist them, a small band of redskins appeared at the edge
of a thicket. _Crash_, a volley woke the stillness, and one of the
frontiersmen fell dead while two staggered behind the log breastwork,
with mortal wounds. A third—a stout fellow called Harrison—was unable
to reach the gate, and dragged himself along to the shelter of some
bushes.
Within the fort, all gazed with sorrow at the wounded pioneer, who,
although in range of the Indian rifles, was so protected that the
balls could not quite reach him. Those in the fort kept up a fusillade
in the direction of the red men, making them get below cover, and thus
the battle continued; the leaden balls zipping and whizzing across the
place, where Harrison lay partially concealed. The man’s family, in the
fort, seemed to be in an agony of distress at his terrible condition.
To save him would require great nerve and heroism. There were but
fifteen men in the stockade; two were badly wounded. Should they
sacrifice any of this small number in the endeavor to rescue a man,
who, even should he be retaken, would be unable to fight in defense of
the fortification? This question confronted the beleaguered pioneers,
and it was a serious one.
At this moment young Logan stepped forward and said:
“Who will go with me to the rescue of this poor fellow?”
It was strange to see the effect of these words upon the besieged
frontiersmen. At first every one refused.
“I’m not a fast runner,” said one, “and know that they will easily
catch me on the return trip, even if I am not shot before I reach the
wounded man.”
A second—a fellow of giant build—quavered: “I am a weakly chap. I
never was no good, nohow, on liftin’. Perhaps you’d better git ernother
stouter feller than I be.”
Still a third remarked that, “he wuz plum onlucky with Injin bullets,
an’ never wuz known tew git amongst ’em in the open without havin’ one
uv ’em nick him.”
Ben Logan could not help smiling at this.
“What, are you all afraid to follow me?” said he.
At this, a trapper called John Martin stepped towards him, and said:
“I will go with you, for I can only die once and I am as ready now to
go to my Maker, as I ever will be. Come on! To the rescue!”
“You are a man after my own heart,” answered the bold pioneer, grasping
him warmly by the hand. “We will start at once.”
Throwing open the gates to the stockade, both dashed towards the
prostrate frontiersman. They had proceeded about five yards from the
fort when Harrison made an effort to rise. As he got to his hands and
knees, Martin turned and fled to the stockade.
“This is fine treatment,” mused Logan, but he kept on under a veritable
shower of bullets from the redskins. Fortune favored him; he was not
hit, and reaching the wounded frontiersman in safety, clasped him in
his arms, and began to lug him back to the fort. The deed was a noble
one.
Bullets from the red men fairly poured around the struggling
backwoodsman, as he staggered towards the stockade of logs. His hat was
pierced by a ball; one even penetrated his hunting-shirt, but, in spite
of this, he finally reached the doorway. Hurrah! As he deposited the
body of the wounded man safely upon the ground a mighty cheer welled
from the throats of all. Hurrah! Hurrah, for Benjamin Logan!
[Illustration:
From an old print.
“BEGAN TO LUG HIM BACK TO THE FORT.”]
Even the Hercules who had complained of being “a weakly fellow” threw
up his hat in the air.
“Well, by Gum! Logan,” said he, “if yew ain’t th’ plum luckiest feller
I ever knowed. I believe that yew be charmed, so ez an Injun bullet
can’t hit yew. Ez fer me? Why, I would hev been struck er dozen times
in thet hazardous journey. Huzzah! says I. Here’s tew yer!”
But all danger was not yet over by any means. The red men were in
numbers, and besieged the fort with a tenacity that made matters take
a decidedly ugly look, for the few men of the garrison were not able
to put up a very stiff fire against the increasing bands of Indians.
Another danger also threatened, for the supply of ammunition became
exhausted. How was more to be obtained?
Distant, about a hundred miles, was the frontier settlement on the
Holston River, to which Logan had first moved when he left his farm in
Virginia. Here was ammunition in abundance, and also supplies of food
and clothing. Would any one have nerve enough to creep through and
relieve the beleaguered garrison? This required the greatest judgment
and unbounded courage, for the intervening country was swarming with
savages, all upon the war-path. It was a region full of deep ravines,
tangled thickets, and treacherous swampland.
Again all were asked to undertake the journey, but there were as many
excuses as before. Again Benjamin Logan stepped into the breach and
offered to bring relief. That night he clambered to the top of the
stockade, dropped softly to the ground outside, and soon his form was
lost in the shadows of the encircling forest. He passed through the
Indian lines in safety, and, by daybreak, was headed for the post at
Holston. His last words to the garrison were: “Hold fast! Hold on! I
will be sure to return within a fortnight and you will all be saved!”
For several days the garrison returned the fire of the Indians with
spirit, but, as the hours fled by, a terrible feeling of despair came
over them. Their water began to give out; their ammunition was so low
that they had to use it sparingly, and the food supply was in such a
condition that there was danger of starvation if help did not soon
arrive. Logan, meanwhile, was toiling upon his way through by-paths,
swamps and cane brakes, having deserted the beaten trail through
Cumberland Gap. Fortune favored him. He met with no prowling red men,
and, within six days, had covered the distance to the frontier post.
The intrepid pioneer now procured ammunition, food, and a company of
backwoodsmen. With these, he hastened onwards towards his beleaguered
companions, and, upon the tenth day after his departure, suddenly
appeared before the stockade. There were not twenty rounds of
ammunition left in the fortress. Gaunt and hollow cheeks were here.
Noble women upheld the fainting spirits of the men, but now, with
little hope of succor, it was with difficulty that they kept up their
fire upon the redskins, and put out the flaming brands which they kept
throwing into the stockade. A wild and exultant cheer greeted their
leader as he ran across the clearing to the door of the side wall. “At
last you have come!” they shouted. “We had given you up for dead!”
A few days later Colonel Bowman arrived, with a large body of men, at
which the Indians raised the siege and fled. But they had not gone for
good. On the contrary, they fairly swarmed over the borders of Kentucky
and their marauding parties committed some frightful outrages. There
was nothing now to be done but to defeat them in a battle and burn
their villages, if the white settlers were to have peace.
It was the year 1779. The Revolution was over. England had lost her
colonies to her own sons. Now the Colonists were beginning the great
struggle to free themselves from the curse of Indian invasion. An
expedition was therefore organized to invade the Shawnee territory
and to raze to the ground the famous town of Chillicothe. Benjamin
Logan—now Colonel Logan—was second in command. Bowman, who had come
to the rescue at Logan’s Fort, was to lead the expedition; which
was to consist of one hundred and sixty men. They advanced in the
heat of July, and marched with such precaution that they reached the
neighborhood of the Indian town without having been discovered by the
enemy.
A plan for assaulting the village was now decided upon. It was very
simple, for the force was to be divided into two parts; one, under
Logan, was to march to the left: the other, under Bowman, was to march
to the right. The men were to spread out in single rank, and when the
leading files of the two columns had met, then, they were to attack.
It was dark when the backwoods soldiers began the advance. Logan’s men
quite encircled the town, but where was Bowman? All through the night
the leader of the left flank waited for the coming of the other column,
but not a man in buckskin appeared. Hour after hour passed away and the
darkness gave way to dawn. Still Bowman was strangely missing.
“Had you not better attack?” whispered one of his men. “The Shawnees
will soon be awake and will discover our whereabouts.”
“Let us wait another hour or two,” answered the courageous leader. “I
believe that the advance of Bowman’s column will soon be here.”
Logan’s men were secreted in ambush. Here they remained until an Indian
dog began to bark, arousing his master, who came out of his tepee in
order to see what was the matter. An imprudent trapper had exposed his
head above the underbrush, and the keen eyes of the redskin quickly
discerned an enemy. He raised a loud war-whoop.
As he did this, a gun went off on Bowman’s side of the village, and,
seeing that further concealment was useless, Colonel Logan cried out to
his men:
“Charge into the village, my boys. You must drive the redskins through
the town, for Colonel Bowman will surely support you.”
His buckskin-clad rangers defiled quickly into the village, and,
advancing from cabin to cabin, soon had reached a large building
in the centre. The Indians fled swiftly before them, but later,
recovering from their surprise, endeavored to turn the right flank of
the Kentuckians, whom they perceived to be in small numbers. Where was
Colonel Bowman?
The Shawnees had now seized their own rifles and were pouring in a hot
fire upon the advancing frontiersmen, who tore the heavy doors from the
Indian cabins, formed a breastwork, and protected themselves from the
whizzing balls. They were holding their own and were making progress
towards the Indian citadel, where most of the braves had collected,
when an order came from Colonel Bowman to retreat. His ranking officer
had spoken, so there was nothing for Logan to do but to obey.
As soon as the men were told that they must go to the rear, a
tumultuous scene commenced. Dispirited and disheartened by the order to
turn their backs upon the enemy, they rushed away from the tomahawks
and balls of the savages, as best they were able. The Indians were
astonished and jubilant over the turn which matters had taken and
pursued the rangers with wild and exultant yelping. The frontiersmen
scattered in every direction, dodging and twisting in order to avoid
the balls which whistled around them, and ran from cabin to cabin, in
confusion. Suddenly they collided with Bowman’s soldiers, who, because
of some panic of their commander, had stood stock still near the
spot where Logan had left them the night before. The redskins soon
surrounded them on all sides, and kept up a hot fire.
What was the matter with Bowman? He sat upon his horse like a pillar
of stone; gave no orders; and was in an apparently helpless mental
condition. His men paid no attention to him, but swarmed to the
protection of trees and stumps, took aim at the yelping red men, and
soon held them at a safe distance. When they seemed to be quieted, the
frontiersmen resumed their march. The Indians, however, came back to
the attack, but were beaten off. They followed, and made an assault
every half mile, or so. Their tenacity was due to the fact that they
expected reinforcements and hoped to annihilate the whites.
“Keep together, my brave men,” shouted Colonel Logan, at this juncture.
“Do not let these redskins stampede you, for then you will all be
massacred.”
The crisis was a terrible one. The retreat would become a rout, unless
the soldiers were kept together.
At this juncture Colonel Logan and a few of the boldest souls, dashed
into the brush, on horseback, and cut down some of the nearest red
men. As they performed this bold feat, the savages held back, and thus
allowed the fleeing soldiers to get away. Only nine Kentuckians were
killed, a few were wounded, and the rest escaped to the settlements.
As for Colonel Logan, his gallant conduct, when under stress and fire,
greatly increased his reputation, and at the next gathering of the
Kentucky troops he was unanimously elected to lead them against the red
men, when again they should need chastising.
The Indians remained quiescent until the summer of 1788. Then the
frontier was again attacked by marauding bands, and so destructive was
their advance that the pioneer militia had to be called out. Colonel
Logan was asked to lead the troops against the enemy.
“Boys, I shall be delighted to do so,” said he. “But this time there
must be perfect discipline and no retreating. If you break in the same
way that you did in our attack upon the Shawnee town I will not answer
for your scalps. Let us have order, or we will never succeed.”
“Lead on, Colonel,” cried many. “You have the right idea, and none of
us will go back on you.”
The advance through the wilderness was most successful. Eight towns
were burned, twenty warriors were killed, and seventy-five prisoners
were taken. The son of a chief named Moluntha was carried off as a
prisoner, and because of his brightness and promise was kept in Colonel
Logan’s family. He was called Logan, after his distinguished captor,
and grew to be a majestic-looking man, six feet in height.
As for the Colonel, he returned to his farm after this campaign fully
satisfied with his work, and determined to lead a quiet existence. This
he was well able to do, for the red men had been so signally chastised
that they no longer attempted to rob, burn, and plunder upon the
border. His namesake, however, came to an untimely end.
During one of the campaigns by General Harrison against the Maumee
Indians, Logan—the redskin—was dispatched by his superior officer
upon a scouting expedition with several companions. They met a large
force of hostile Indians and were driven in to their own camp, where
one of the white officers was heard to remark:
“Logan is a treacherous scoundrel. I believe that he will desert to
those of his own color at any moment.”
This was heard by the red man and he was stung to the quick.
“I shall prove this to be a falsehood,” said he. “I am true to my white
brothers.”
Next morning he started towards the enemy with some companions and
had not gone far when he found himself in an ambuscade, formed by the
famous chieftain called Winnemac. Logan had the same cool courage which
distinguished his white namesake.
“We are deserting to our enemies, the British,” said he. “We no longer
care to fight with the Americans. We are at heart your brothers.”
Chief Winnemac grunted, but kept a watchful eye upon his captives as he
carried them away. After the first day, however, he decided to return
the rifles and other arms to the prisoners. He had counted too much
upon the words of the savage, for Logan had determined upon escape.
“We will attack our captors to-night,” he whispered to his two
companions, Bright Horn and Captain Johnny. “There are seven. We will
wait until some leave and will then gain our liberty.”
As he had expected, after the camp-fires had been lighted, four of
the British sympathizers left, in order to collect fire-wood. They had
not been gone over five minutes before the three captives had fired
upon those left behind, killing all three. They reloaded, as the others
came running to the camp, fired upon them, and forced them to take
refuge behind some trees. As they stood confronting each other, one of
the most wiry and skillful crept around to the rear of the American
red men, pointed his rifle, and shot Logan in the shoulder. He fell
forward, badly wounded.
Lifting him to the back of a pony, his friends carried him to the
American camp, where he was placed upon a litter. Captain Johnny, who
had left them upon the return trip, arrived next morning, bringing
with him the scalp of Chief Winnemac. Logan lingered for a few days,
and then succumbed to his wound. “I have removed all suspicion upon my
honor,” said he. “Now I am willing to die. My two sons must be educated
by the people of Kentucky.”
Thus perished the namesake of the noble-hearted Colonel Logan, who
helped to clear Kentucky of the savage tribes, and who soon afterwards
rounded out his life of splendid activity, and died universally
lamented. To such pioneers the state owes a deep debt of gratitude.
GEORGE ROGERS CLARKE:
FAMOUS LEADER OF THE BORDERLAND OF KENTUCKY
ONE of the foremost of the pioneers: one of the noblest of men: one of
the most daring of fighters: such was George Rogers Clarke of Virginia.
Like Daniel Boone of Kentucky, Clarke was not only a brave warrior in
the rough and ready armies of the Middle West, but was also a potent
factor in the destinies of the American people.
Born in Albemarle County, Virginia, he early made his way to Kentucky.
At twenty-three we find him engaged as a surveyor in this virgin land,
and as he was a large and powerful man like George Washington, he could
easily contend with the difficulties of his profession. So inspiring,
in fact, was his appearance, that he was entrusted with the command
of the militia upon his first visit to the border. He had a soldierly
bearing and a grave and thoughtful mien.
After remaining for a time in Kentucky, this noble borderer returned
to Virginia in order to settle up his affairs. He saw that a conflict
would soon take place for the possession of the Middle West between the
Americans, the French, the English—who had a chain of forts extending
down the Mississippi from Detroit, Michigan, to Vincennes, Indiana—and
the redskins. Which party would win? That remained to be yet settled.
Clarke, of course, sided with the American pioneers who were pressing
westward from Virginia and Tennessee.
[Illustration: GEORGE ROGERS CLARKE.]
“The Indians,” said he, “are incited to burning, scalping, and
murdering our peaceful settlers upon the border, by the tongues of the
British soldiers, who, supplying them with food from their forts, are
continually egging them on to rapine and murder. Our only salvation,
as settlers, lies in organization and military training. We must equip
ourselves with arms and ammunition and must press against them before
they grow so strong that they can crush us.”
He suggested that the Kentuckians assemble in convention, and that
there they should discuss the affairs most dear to the hearts of all.
To this the people readily assented, and at this meeting chose Clarke,
himself, and a man named Jones, as delegates to the Virginia Assembly.
They were to go to the older state and were to ask for five hundred
pounds of gunpowder for purposes of defense against the redskins.
When they expressed their wants they were met with a cold reception.
“We will _lend_ you this important supply,” they were told by those in
authority. “But you must guarantee its repayment and must defray all
expenses connected with its carriage across the mountains.”
Clarke was indignant at these terms.
“This is not the treatment that brave borderers deserve,” he said.
“This should be a free offering to the men who stand as a breastwork
between you yourselves and the redskins. If you allow your outlying
posts to be swept away by the British and Indians, then the tide of
warfare will roll over your own settlements, and you will realize—too
late—the folly of your refusal.”
To this remonstrance the council replied that they could not better
their offer.
But Clarke was a fighter.
“You do not realize the dangers of your position,” he again stated to
them. “We apply to you for aid because you are nearest and dearest to
us. But—if you refuse us—we can go to New York and there obtain our
supplies. We have pushed into this country. We have settled it. We are
of your own blood. We claim it. A country which is not worth defending
is not worth claiming.”
This was the way to talk to the hard-headed Virginians. After an
earnest debate it was decided to recall Clarke and to comply with his
request. An order for five hundred pounds of powder was given to him.
It was to be delivered at Pittsburgh, subject to his demand, and for
use by the borderers of Kentucky.
“I am deeply grateful to you, my brothers,” said Clarke. “This gift
will be well used and my people will be very thankful to you for it.
God bless the noble settlers of Virginia!”
With a small force of seven men, the daring pioneer now went to Fort
Pitt for the powder, and carrying it in canoes, safely transported
it to a place called Limestone, Kentucky. Indians were thick in this
country, and all were hostile. But he came safely through the wild
places and carefully secreted the powder at various points, where it
could be found by the borderers when needed.
Daniel Boone was now an old man and was so modest that he refused to
thrust himself forward and become a leader around whom the settlers
could rally. All eyes, therefore, turned to Clarke, whose merits were
now recognized as a gallant fighter and able commander. The borderers
saw that they here had an unselfish fellow who had their own interests
in view, and who had obtained well-needed assistance for them. They
knew that, without powder, they must be swept back before the storm of
Indian invasion. The time for a leader had now come, and destiny had
sent to the Kentuckians George Rogers Clarke—the brave and the noble.
This soldier now addressed the settlers upon several occasions and
in several different places. He told them that they must assume an
aggressive attitude and must attack the Indian villages, destroy their
crops, burn their habitations, and teach them the horrors of invasion.
“We must not wait to be attacked ourselves,” said he. “We must do the
attacking. We must strike before we are struck, and must hit hard.”
The Kentuckians were stirred by these speeches of Clarke and swore to
follow him to the death.
“Lead on! Lead on!” cried they. “We will follow and will do our best to
clear the land of our red enemies.”
This pleased the leader of the borderers, for he saw that his own
spirit animated his men. He therefore wrote to the Governor of
Virginia, telling him of his plans for border warfare, and requesting
aid. Men and ammunition were sent him. An expedition was speedily
organized at Louisville—then called the Falls of the Ohio—and the
border soldiers started down the stream in boats. At the mouth of the
Tennessee River a party of hunters were met with. From them Clarke
learned that the garrisons at Kaskaskia and Kahokia were fully aware of
his coming and were quite ready to give his men a hot reception.
“The greater portion of the French,” said the guides, “prefer American
to English rule. You will find no difficulty in winning them over to
your cause.”
These men were taken along as scouts, and, creeping quietly through the
wilderness, they surrounded and captured Kaskaskia without shedding a
drop of blood. So kind were Clarke’s followers to the inhabitants that
many accompanied them on the march to Kahokia,—a town just opposite
St. Louis, Missouri. Both places were populated mainly by people of
French extraction who adhered to the cause of France in America.
Clarke was a diplomat. Some one has said that “he eked out the courage
of a lion with the cunning of a fox.” At any rate, he knew enough
to make a firm friend of the parish priest, Monsieur Gerbault, who
consented to go to Vincennes—in the absence of the British commander,
who had gone to Detroit—and induce the garrison there to embrace the
cause of the Kentuckians. He was successful. After a lengthy harangue
the fort went over to the Americans and its command was given to a
Captain Helm, one of Clarke’s Lieutenants.
Clarke had accomplished what was thought to be the impossible. Without
any difficulty whatsoever he had captured three forts and had persuaded
all the inhabitants to join his standard. But these were the French.
There were still the redskinned devils who would soon be burning,
plundering, and massacring upon the borders. Clarke needed more men. So
he promptly organized the French into militia companies with which to
garrison the captured fort, appointed French officers to command them,
and was thus able to use all of his Kentucky backwoodsmen in dealing
with the redskins.
The French and Spaniards never asked for peace from the Indians but
always harshly demanded whatever they might desire. Clarke determined
to adopt their course. This kind of diplomacy is that which usually
wins with the American Indian, for the red man could never comprehend
why the whites would offer peace if they felt at all certain that they
could accomplish their purpose by means of war. The Indians never made
treaties unless they had met with a reverse and were in the presence of
a superior enemy. When Clarke _demanded_ like a warrior it suited their
ideas much better than if he had _asked_ like a squaw.
We now come to the most extraordinary event in his career: an event
which marks him as a man of courage and capacity. When things were
going against him he managed to turn the tide in his own favor with
remarkable ability.
Braving great dangers and privations, he met the redskins in their own
villages and conferred with them. Two attempts were made upon his life,
but he escaped all harm and managed to secure a treaty of peace upon
terms which the red men had first spurned. The treaty was signed and
Clarke’s eyes looked hungrily at Detroit—the great stronghold of the
British. He had not sufficient men to take it.
Two detachments from his small army captured a British post on the
upper Wabash, garrisoned by forty men. This aroused the British to
greater activity. The Kentuckians and French were coming too near for
either pleasure or safety. Besides this, the savages had begun to waver
in their allegiance to the British flag as they saw the success of the
pioneers from across the Ohio River.
Vincennes, as you know, had gone over to the Americans, and there
was but a small force there of French militia. Two Americans were
in charge: a Captain Helm and a Mr. Henry. On the fifteenth day of
December, 1778, the English Governor of Detroit appeared before the
town with a large body of rangers and demanded its surrender. The
French militiamen immediately ran up a white flag.
Hamilton approached the fort, and as he neared it, was surprised to
find himself confronted by a cannon, behind which stood Captain Helm
with a lighted match in his hand.
“Halt!” cried Hamilton. “My foolish fellow, I demand your instant
surrender!”
“I’ll never surrender,” answered Helm, “until you settle upon the terms
with me.”
“You’ll be allowed to march out with all the honors of war,” said the
British Governor. “And you will be held a prisoner until exchanged. The
militia will be disarmed and paroled.”
“All right,” answered Captain Helm. “These terms suit me exactly.”
Imagine the feelings of the good, old Governor. Instead of seeing a
great body of men debouch from the fort, preceded by a brilliant staff,
out marched a few ragged militiamen headed by Captain Helm, with one
solitary private. It is said that the noble soldier could not help
laughing. At any rate, he felt so well over the affair that he did
not attempt the reduction of Kaskaskia and Kahokia—as he should have
done—but was content to send parties of his men on forays against
the settlements along the Ohio River. News was soon brought to Clarke
of the capture of Vincennes. The old war-dog was much disconcerted.
Hamilton in possession of Vincennes! It was almost past belief, yet
runners soon came to him from the frontier, who confirmed the ill
tidings. What was he to do? He had only two hundred men. Hamilton had
three or four times that number. It was the middle of winter and he
was short of all manner of supplies. The entire country was flooded.
He had a single flat-bottomed batteau. Should he wait to be attacked,
or should he attempt the seemingly impossible and endeavor to re-take
Vincennes? He answered the question by turning, one day, to his
compatriots, and saying:
“Whether I stay here or march against Hamilton—if I don’t take him, he
will take me. By Heaven, I’ll take him!”
And to this his men cried:
“Lead on! Where you go we will follow!”
Now was such a march as the world had seldom seen before. The brave
and valiant Arnold, who took his rangers through the depths of the
Maine forest to the attack on Quebec at the outbreak of the American
Revolution, was such a one as this lion-hearted pioneer. Arnold lost a
great many men: Clarke did not lose any; but the difficulties of the
journey were severe. Through the cold of winter, the chilling rain,
the mud and icy water,—the latter often three feet deep,—marched the
Kentucky rangers. They reached a miserable country called “the drowned
lands,” and for miles were waist-deep in the water. The way was full
of crevasses and mud-holes into which some of the men sank up to their
necks. Clarke was always in the front, sharing the hardships of his
followers, and outdoing them in the contempt for peril and suffering.
An occasional spot of dry ground—a few yards in extent—was a welcome
sight to the half-drowned rangers. Still they pressed onward upon their
mission.
“On, boys!” said George Rogers Clarke. “We will take this post or die
in the attempt!”
Splashing forward, the scouts and rangers soon reached the two branches
of the Wabash River. Ordinarily three miles of solid ground lay between
the two streams. Now there was a continuous sheet of water before their
eyes. The command stopped, amazed. They had come to an apparently
unsurmountable obstacle. But there were no obstacles to George Rogers
Clarke.
Striding to the front, and holding his rifle aloft in order to keep
the priming dry, he dashed into the stream. The rest followed with
songs and with cheers. But the chilling water soon made these cease,
for it became an irksome task to breathe. They staggered with fatigue,
but their leader never faltered, and there was not a man who would
have deserted him. On the seventeenth day of February they reached the
eastern shore of the Wabash and came to the lowlands of the Embarrass
River. It was nine miles to their goal: the fortress of Vincennes.
Every foot of the way was covered with deep water.
The situation seemed to be desperate. Clarke, however, was not the one
to despair. Taking a canoe, he made soundings to see if some path might
not be discovered through this inland sea. There seemed to be none—the
water everywhere reached to his neck. The men were alarmed. Their faces
looked blanched and pale. Was their march of untold hardships to end in
death by cold and starvation?
A surprising thing now took place. Whispering to those nearest to him
to follow his example, Clarke poured some powder into his hand, wet it
with water and blackened his face as a sign that he would succeed, or
die in the attempt. Then—uttering a loud whoop—he dashed into the
water. The frontiersmen gazed wonderingly at him. Then they broke into
song, rushed after him, and made for a ridge of high ground, which
was followed until an island was reached. Here they camped, but next
morning the ice had formed to the thickness of three-quarters of an
inch. You can well imagine what were their prospects!
But Clarke was never daunted or dismayed. Making a speech to his
half-starved and half-frozen command, he again plunged into the water.
“We must do or die!” said he. “On to Vincennes!”
With a rousing cheer his followers dashed in after him—pushed through
the broken ice—and waded ahead. The water became more and more deep.
Clarke feared, therefore, that the weaker members of the party would
be drowned. Luckily he had a few canoeists with him, and these picked
up the fainting ones and carried them to hillocks of dry land. The
strongest were sent forward with instructions to pass the word back
that the water was getting shallow, and they were told to cry “Land!
Land!” when they got near the woods.
This cheered the drooping spirits of the faint-hearted. The water
_never_ did get shallow. Woodland was certainly ahead, but when the
men reached it water was up to their shoulders and they had to hang
to the trees, bushes and logs, until rescued by the canoes. Some
gained the shore in safety, some were so exhausted when they reached
a small island that they could not climb up the bank and lay half in
and half out of the water. Luck was with them, for a canoe came down
the river in which were some Indian squaws and their children. They
were captured, and with them was some buffalo meat, tallow, corn, and
cooking utensils. Oh, lucky find! The weak were now rejuvenated by a
hearty meal.
They were upon an island of ten acres. It was truly an Eden for these
half-drowned frontiersmen. A long rest soon strengthened the weakest,
and by means of the Indian canoe, and a few batteaus which had been
brought with them, they ferried over to Warrior’s Island, within two
miles of Vincennes, and within plain view of it. Every man feasted his
eyes upon the log fortress and forgot that he had suffered.
Let me here quote from Clarke himself. He says:
“Every man forgot his troubles. It was now that we had to display our
abilities. The plain between us and the town was perfectly level. The
sunken ground was covered with water full of ducks. We observed several
men out on horseback, shooting them, and sent out many of our active,
young Frenchmen to decoy and take one prisoner,—which they did.
“We learned that the British had that evening completed the wall of the
fort, and that there were a good many Indians in town. Our situation
was now truly critical. There was no possibility of retreat in case
of defeat, and we were in full view of a town with six hundred men in
it,—troops, Indians and inhabitants.
“We were now in the very situation that I had labored to get ourselves
in. The idea of being taken prisoner was foreign to almost every man,
as they expected nothing but torture. We knew that success could be
secured only by the most daring conduct. I knew that a number of the
inhabitants wished us well: that the Grand Chief—Tobacco’s son—had
openly declared himself a friend of the Big Knives (Americans). I
therefore wrote and sent the following Placard.
“TO THE INHABITANTS OF POST VINCENNES:
“GENTLEMEN:—Being now within two miles of your village with my army,
determined to take the fort this night, and not being willing to
surprise you, I take this method to request such as are true citizens
to remain still in your houses. Those, if any there be, that are
friends to the King, will instantly repair to the fort, join the
‘Hair buyer’ general, and fight like men. If any such do not go, and
are found afterwards, they may depend on severe punishment. On the
contrary, those who are true friends to liberty may depend on being
well treated, and I once more request them to keep out of the streets.
Every one I find in arms on my arrival, I shall treat as an enemy.
“G. R. CLARKE.”
This was written by a pioneer general with two hundred half-starved,
half-frozen, and undrilled troops. Behind the walls of the fort were
twice this number of well-drilled, well-fed, well-clad men. We can but
admire his audacity and impudence. But did he fulfil his promises to
his people at home. And did he take Hamilton?
The frontiersmen were soon in motion and marched upon the town. A hill
intervened, and when he reached it, Clarke deployed his men across it
several times. When they would get over, Clarke would run them around
the base to the rear of the knoll—where they would be out of sight of
the people in the fort—and then would march them across again. In this
way he made the inmates of the fortress of Vincennes believe that he
had a much larger force than was really his. The borderers soon seized
all the positions which commanded the fort and waited until dusk before
beginning the assault. “I fear that they will know my numbers, if I
attack during daylight,” said the Kentuckian, “and this I do not want
them to know.”
As night began to draw near, the crashing of rifles awoke the echoes of
the forest and the fort was hotly assailed from every point of vantage.
The Kentuckians were able marksmen and soon silenced the cannon of the
redoubt. No sooner would a porthole be thrown open than the gunners
would be shot down as they stood. After an hour of such work the firing
ceased, and the garrison was summoned to surrender.
Hamilton was dumbfounded at the audacity of the Kentuckians. He was
also much disconcerted by the actions of one hundred of his redskin
allies, who, seeing the boldness of the frontiersmen, immediately
transferred their allegiance to them and were anxious to join in the
assault upon the post. In spite of this he refused to surrender.
A far heavier rifle fire was now opened upon the fort, so that no
defender could look out of a porthole or expose himself in any manner
whatsoever, without being shot down. An assault was determined upon.
At this juncture a couple of figures emerged from the principal gateway
of Vincennes, bearing a flag of truce. When the emissaries arrived
before Clarke, they brought word that Hamilton proposed a three days’
truce and an immediate conference. Clarke did not wish the British to
know his real numbers, so he declined the truce. But he assented to
have a talk with the English commander, some distance from the fort, at
a place where the Englishman’s eyes could not see the small numbers of
the Kentuckians.
After a long interview nothing came of the pow-wow. Hamilton asked to
march out with all the honors of war and to be allowed to depart to
Detroit, after giving the assurance that neither he nor his men would
ever again bear arms against the Americans. Clarke was afraid that the
soldiers would not keep their word and demanded a greater amount of
money and stores than the Britisher was willing to allow him.
“I have sufficient force to take the fort by storm at any time
I choose,” said Clarke. “Furthermore, I propose to capture all
the detached parties that are now in the woods and are headed for
Vincennes. Having put them out of the way, I intend to take the fort
at my leisure. I will thus—at one stroke—put an end to all of those
people that have been harassing the American frontier. In case I take
you by storm, I intend to shut my eyes and let my men do their own
pleasure, for such is the treatment that has been accorded to our own
people by the officers of the Crown.”
The conference broke up, and so terrified was a Major Hay, who
represented the English commander, that he could scarcely make his way
back to Vincennes. As he wobbled along, a party of redskins—led by
a white man painted as an Indian—was seen to approach the town. The
newcomers apparently had no knowledge that the Kentuckians were foes,
for they walked up as if they were nearing their own people.
When they had approached within a few yards of the men under Clarke,
they were fired upon and two were killed. Three others were badly
wounded. The remainder—six in all—turned in flight, but were
soon taken prisoners. They were tomahawked by the red allies of
the Kentuckians; their bodies were thrown into the river; and wild
war-whoops announced this fact to the red men in the fort. These became
enraged and frightened when they discovered that Hamilton was unable to
protect them.
Clarke only smiled, for he had hoped that they would bring on a mutiny
within the walls of Vincennes, and it is exactly what occurred. Seeing
that he was unable to hold the allegiance of his own red adherents, the
once bold Hamilton decided upon capitulation. On February twenty-fourth
a white flag was displayed over the log walls, and, after a short
parley, a truce was decided upon. The Kentuckians secured fifty
thousand dollars’ worth of military stores. Besides this they detached
the Indians from the English and took away from the Britons the entire
northeast territory, which would otherwise have been held by them
when peace was concluded. Clarke, with his two hundred raw Kentucky
riflemen, had won a notable victory.
Think of it! The long march, the terrible rivers of frozen ice, the
lack of proper food, the toilsome journey through deep forests! Then
the cheek and gall of that saucy message to Hamilton, safe in a strong
fortress with twice the number of men as those half-frozen backwoodsmen
outside! Then the daring attack, the wonderful accuracy of the rifle
fire, and the final victory! Such men were heroes. Whether your
sympathies be with Kentuckian or Britisher, you must admit it, and you
must—I own—take off your hat to Clarke: the twenty-seven year old
leader of this gallant band.
But what of the subsequent career of this wonderfully successful man?
Alas! What we know of his thereafter does not abound to his credit.
To the enthusiasm of youth he joined the daring ambition of the born
soldier: never satisfied. Always anxious to move forward and on, he
asked the Kentucky Assembly for men and agreed to capture Detroit;
to destroy the English power for all time; and to prevent further
combination of unfriendly tribes of red men. He was promised both
soldiers and ammunition, but they never came. It is said that in
disgust at his forced inaction he took to drink for relief from his
worries. He became dissipated, morbid, and a recluse.
For some time he rested in inactivity near the Falls of the Ohio, and
about the year 1780 built Fort Jefferson on the Mississippi. He then
journeyed to Richmond, Virginia, in order to appeal in person for the
necessary means for taking Detroit. His plans were thought well of and
were approved. But the measure never passed the legislature. Before it
could be put into effect he was appointed to command a body of troops
who were to check the aggressive operations of Benedict Arnold. He was
made a Brigadier-General and was authorized to collect a large force,
which was to meet at Louisville (the Falls of the Ohio) and was to fall
upon Detroit and destroy this strong citadel of British authority.
Misfortune seemed to follow upon his footsteps. The force was never
collected and the projected campaign had to be abandoned. He and his
men had several brushes with marauding bands of Ohio Indians, and in
1782 took part in the unfortunate battle of Blue Licks, in Kentucky.
Rallying a detachment of one thousand men, Clarke invaded the Indian
towns, but the savages fled from their villages and scattered, so that
there was no one to fight when the borderers entered. Fortune had
forsaken George Rogers Clarke, and, although in 1786 he led another
expedition of one thousand men against the Indians on the Wabash River,
it resulted in an absolute failure. His followers were mutinous. The
campaign had to be abandoned. The hero who could inspire a march of
two hundred miles through half-frozen forests had lost his former
magnetism. He had begun to go down hill.
Dispirited, somewhat broken in health, and faint-hearted, the bold
frontiersman sought the seclusion of his hut near the Ohio River. Here,
he was offered and accepted a commission in the French armies west of
the Mississippi, for this land was then under the lilies of France. An
expedition was about to be made against the Spaniards upon the lower
reaches of the river, but a revolution in France overturned the party
in power and destroyed all the plans of those in America. Clarke was
soon no longer Major General, and, forced to a life of inactivity,
he returned to an isolated and lonely existence in his log hut. At
forty years of age he was a prematurely old man, and in 1817 he died
at Louisville, Kentucky: a town which was growing rapidly in size and
which had been the scene of many of his early triumphs. Exposure and
neglect of the proper laws of living had done their work.
George Rogers Clarke was a remarkable man. As a youngster he was
brimful of enthusiasm, of vigor, of magnetism. He carried an expedition
through to success in the face of fearful obstacles. Had he shown
the white feather for an instant he would have met with ignominious
failure. His courage, his cheerfulness, his optimism impelled him on
to victory. Had he been able to govern his appetite for liquor he would
have been a man of splendid usefulness in his later years. His collapse
at the early age of forty is full witness to the deplorable effects of
the inability of a strong man to curb his passions. One can but look
upon his career with sadness and regret.
JOHN SLOVER:
SCOUT UNDER CRAWFORD AND HERO OF EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURES
TWO red men paddled down the White River, far in the western portion of
the state of Virginia, one bright morning in the month of May, 1765. As
they rounded a bend in the stream, before them was a little trapper’s
son, apparently with no one with him. He was throwing pebbles into the
water and was laughing as they splashed upon the surface of the stream.
“How!” grunted one of the braves. “I like to have young paleface in
my lodge. I make him take the place of my own papoose, whom the Great
Spirit has stolen from me.”
“You can get him,” suggested the other. “Come on, let us paddle towards
the little one and capture him.”
As the redskins approached, the boy looked at them with no sign of
fear, and laughed at their solemn-looking faces. But they did not
laugh. Instead of this, the one in the bow leaped upon the shore,
seized the youngster, and carried him to the canoe, where he was bound
by deer thongs and was quickly paddled down stream. His parents looked
for him in vain that evening, and for many evenings, but their little
son never returned. Thus John Slover became a ward of the redskins.
[Illustration: JOHN SLOVER.]
The Indians were then living at Sandusky, upon the Ohio River, and
here the little white boy grew up to be a man. Adopted by the Miami
tribe, he learned to love their ways, to live the wild, roving life as
a trapper and hunter, and to be more at home in the forest than in the
houses of those of his own race. In the autumn of 1773, a treaty was
made at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, between the Miamis and the whites,
and at this place was a big gathering of the savages and frontiersmen,
with their families. Jack Slover was interested in the affair and hung
around the clusters of talkers, who were eagerly discussing the terms
of the articles of agreement.
“Hello!” came a voice, as he was near one animated group. “If this
isn’t little Jack Slover grown to be a man! Turn around, son, and see
if you don’t recognize me.”
The adopted ward of the Miamis spun about upon his heel, and there saw
a raw-boned trapper, who was gazing at him with an inquiring eye.
“I certainly do not recognize you,” he replied. “Who are you, anyway?”
The young fellow knew of his kidnapping, when a small boy, but had
never cared to go back to his own people.
The frontiersman now seized him by the shoulders. “Why, I’m your
father’s brother, Tom Slover! I saw that you were not a Miami the
minute I looked at you, and I found out that you had been captured
many years ago by the Indians. Upon closer inspection it was easy to
perceive that you were my brother’s son. My boy, we have been waiting
to find you for years. You will now come back to us, won’t you?”
Young Slover hung his head, for he was loath to part from the friends
and companions of his youth. He was on the point of refusing, but, just
then, another frontiersman approached who announced that he was his
father. The meeting between son and parent was not demonstrative; in
fact, the youth rather drew away from his own flesh and blood. Soon,
however, he became more reconciled, and, after an hour’s conversation,
agreed to accompany his kinsmen to their home in Westmoreland County,
Pennsylvania.
The conference was soon over, both Indians and whites were agreed upon
the terms of the treaty, and the captured son of the pioneer went back
to his own country, where he seemed to be contentedly abiding at the
outbreak of the American Revolution. He was one of the first to enlist,
and, because of his experience in woodcraft, was made a sharpshooter.
In this branch of the service he did good work, and was honorably
discharged at the close of the struggle with the Mother Country.
Some years after the Revolutionary War—in 1782—the redskins of the
Middle West became very bold, and made frequent incursions upon the
white settlements of Ohio, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia. Prompt
vengeance was demanded by the pioneers who had penetrated into the
wilderness and had there built their homes. An expedition was
determined upon, and Colonel William Crawford—a brave officer of the
Revolutionary War—was selected as its commander. The time and place
of rendezvous were fixed for May 20th, 1782, at a point on the western
shore of the Ohio, forty miles above Fort Pitt. There were four hundred
and fifty volunteers; among them an accomplished surgeon, Dr. Knight.
Just before the expedition got under way, Colonel Crawford approached
Slover, and said:
“My good friend, we are in need of a scout and guide upon our
expedition. You know this country like a book, so I would like to
engage you as one of our forerunners and assistants. Will you go with
us?”
The adopted ward of the Miamis was reluctant to accept.
“I have lived with these Indians whom you intend to attack,” said he.
“I have slept with them; hunted with them; have eaten with them. Surely
you would not have me turn upon all of my old friends?”
The Colonel smiled.
“Yes, but what sort of friends?” he answered. “Here they have been
murdering innocent women and children. Have been burning homes, killing
cattle and horses. They have been subjecting their prisoners to
horrible tortures. You are too much of a man not to appreciate the need
of checking these onslaughts upon our people.”
“The whites are gradually encroaching upon their lands,—the lands
which they believe that the Great Spirit has given to them,” replied
Slover, in a deliberate tone. “Can you blame them for resenting these
advances? They are children, too, of the wilderness and they fight like
the wild beasts who surround them.”
“Then you refuse to accompany us?”
“No, not so. Upon thinking over the matter, I believe that it is
impossible for the two races to live side by side, unless one race is
supreme. That the whites will overrun the country is only too evident.
I will go with you, for I certainly do not approve of the manner in
which they have conducted their warfare, and I believe that they must
be punished.”
The march was soon commenced, but, in a few days, some of the
volunteers broke ranks and started for their homes. It was impossible
to hold them. Further signs of insubordination were soon in evidence,
some of the men demanding that they be sent back to their cabins,
declaring that their horses were jaded and that their provisions were
almost exhausted. Not long afterwards two skulking Indians were seen
spying upon the advance. They were fired upon, but escaped. It was now
evident that all secrecy was out of the question. The men grew mutinous
and were so unruly that the officers requested them to continue for
only one day longer, and then if no Indians were found they were to
return. This was being discussed when one of the advance pickets dashed
in, crying out: “The Indians are ahead of us about a mile. They are
drawn up in the timber and are waiting for us!”
At this news a loud whoop came from the lusty throats of the
frontiersmen, and they discontinued their complaints. Priming their
rifles and fingering their powder-horns, they pressed forward to the
attack, while their leader, Crawford, who had fine military judgment,
saw that the enemy had seized a position of great strength, from which
they must be driven at once. He therefore urged on his men to the
charge.
As the order came, the pioneers dismounted and rushed boldly upon the
redskins in front and upon the flanks, hunting them from the woods,
across an open field, and into some dense forest-land in the rear. Here
the savages were heavily reinforced, and Crawford’s Rangers were almost
driven from the timber by the wily braves, who were now fighting from
every bush, stump, hillock and tree. The battle waged with great fury
until dark, when the savages withdrew, and the trappers slept upon the
ground, ready to resume the affair in the morning.
As daylight appeared the battle was renewed at long range, neither side
being anxious for a hand-to-hand engagement. It was plainly evident
that the Indians were constantly being reinforced. Their whooping and
yelling grew more and more derisive, and they began to extend their
lines so as to flank the men of the frontier. For this reason, the
officers decided upon a retreat.
Slover, the scout, was far over to the right, watching some horses, and
no news of the intended movement was brought to him. Soon the uproar
of retreat came to his ears and warned him of his danger. He therefore
selected the finest horse among those under his charge, mounted it,
and fled after his comrades, who became rapidly disorganized. The red
men fired a volley in the direction of the frontiersmen, at which one
of the Crawford Rangers shouted: “The enemy have found out our design!
Save yourselves! Save yourselves!”
Panic now became general, and so great was the disorder that it
was plainly heard in the lines of the Indians, among whom was the
famous renegade, Simon Girty. “Out, men,” he cried, “and pick up the
stragglers, for these Americans have whipped themselves!”
Those who had been wounded were dropped at the beginning of the rout
and were speedily dispatched by the tomahawks of the savages. The
rest fled in whatever way they could, without semblance of order or
discipline, and, as they ran helter-skelter through the forest, were
pursued by the exultant redskins with wild and blood-curdling whooping.
Slover galloped along with some difficulty, as the ground was very
rough, and soon found further obstructions in his path, for a wide bog
lay before him, which extended for a great distance in either direction.
Some of the fugitives were unable to get across the bog on foot, but
Slover and a few others were able to cross on their horses. As they
fled on through the darkness of night, behind them echoed the horrid
yells of the savages, the rifle shots of the whites, and the shrieks of
the wounded. Six fugitives joined the fleeing scout, two of whom had
lost their rifles, and, as the Indians were pressing them furiously,
they headed for the settlement of Detroit, hoping to elude the red
men as they went. They ran into another portion of the swamp a few
hours later, and halted there for a slight repast of cold pork and corn
bread—of which they had a small supply in their haversacks.
As they were seated upon some stumps, and were munching their repast,
they were startled by an Indian whoop very close at hand.
“We are discovered,” whispered Slover. “Hide yourselves, my men, in the
tall grass.”
Not many moments afterwards, a band of Shawnees passed by, laughing and
talking among themselves, apparently with no idea that the pioneers
were near. They were well satisfied with the signal defeat which they
had administered to Crawford and his men; had many scalps and much
plunder. When they were gone, Slover and his companions continued on
their way, entering upon a sea of waving grass, which made it evident
that any skulking red men would soon discover their whereabouts.
Silently they plodded across the prairie, but suddenly the man in
advance called their attention to the fact that some moving objects
were approaching.
“Lie low, boys!” he shouted. “I think that a crowd of redskins are just
in front of us.”
He was right, and, as they hid in the tall grass, a troop of Indians
passed by, moving rapidly and noisily along. Fortunately the red men
did not discover their trail, and with great shouting and singing had
soon walked out of hearing. The trappers arose, continued their flight,
and kept a sharp lookout for enemies. They were soon to meet with more
children of the forest.
Two of the fugitives now became very lame and were unable to keep up
with the rest of the party. One had a bad attack of rheumatism; so bad,
in fact, that he fell way behind the rest and did not come up, although
they whistled, called, and strove to attract his attention in every
possible way, in spite of the danger of being discovered by lurking
redskins. They finally went on without him, and gave him up for lost.
He at length reached Wheeling in safety, having passed through many
dangers and hairbreadth escapes from capture by roving Indians.
Slover and his friend were hurrying towards the settlements, and
naturally left a well-defined trail behind them. This was followed for
several days by a band of Shawnees, who finally decided that the whites
would be easy to capture and decided to ambush them.
This they did, and, as the frontiersmen were quietly passing between
some high bluffs, a volley rang out from either side and two of their
number fell dead. The rest sprang immediately to the shelter of trees,
where Slover took aim at one of the Indians who could be seen raising
his hand.
“Do not fire,” said he, in excellent English. “If you surrender to us,
you will be well treated. We will take you to our houses and will allow
you to leave, in a short time, for your own people.”
Slover and two of the frontiersmen gave themselves up immediately, but
a young fellow named John Paul refused to do so, and, rushing to the
rear, managed to get away. The redskins peppered the air with bullets,
but none hit the fugitive and he got safely beyond range. After a long
and arduous trip through the wilderness, he at length reached the
frontier settlement at Wheeling, West Virginia.
As John Slover and his companions were being taken along by the
Indians, one of them recognized him as the young paleface who had been
brought up by the Miamis.
“You no good, Mannuchcothe,” said he. “You fight against your own
brothers. You kill your own people. Ugh! Ugh! We fix you for this.”
John Slover began to think that perhaps what the savages had promised
was not to take place, and when once they came in sight of their town,
their whole demeanor changed. They began to howl and cry out:
“You are some of those who wish to drive us from our country. Death to
you! Death to you!”
The squaws, warriors, and children came running to meet the captives
and began to whip and beat them. Then they took the oldest of the
frontiersmen and blackened his face with charred sticks.
“Are they going to burn me, Slover?” the poor fellow gasped.
“Do not answer, Mannuchcothe!” shouted the Indians. “Do not answer! We
will not hurt him! We will adopt him!”
The red men now took the prisoners to Waughcotomoco, another of their
towns, about two miles off, but sent a runner in advance to announce
their coming. As the captives came in sight of it they saw hundreds
of Indians in a double line, ready to make them run the gauntlet. This
they did, and although Slover got through safely, the frontiersman
whose face had been blackened, was knocked down, kicked, beaten, and
shot full of arrows. He reached the council chamber, where he thought
that he would be safe, and, although he seized one of the posts with
both hands, he was torn away from it and was soon dispatched with a
tomahawk.
Slover, meanwhile, was left alone, but he had no cheerful thoughts, for
before him lay the bodies of Harold, the son of Crawford, the American
leader; of a Colonel Harrison; and of several other prominent soldiers
of the American army. They had all been killed during the retreat. His
remaining companion was led away to another town and was never again
heard of; while the gallant scout, himself, was now confronted by a
young Miami buck, who said in the Indian language:
“Mannuchcothe, you must come before a council and must explain to the
old men why you deserted our tribe. Mannuchcothe, it will go ill with
you.”
The sharpshooter did not worry, for he did not believe that his old
friends would go back on him. In this he was correct, for there seemed
to be no great amount of malice towards the ex-Miami, until the
appearance of a white renegade—James Girty—the brother of the famous
Simon. This scoundrel made an impassioned speech, in which he said:
“My Indian brethren, this white captive should suffer death. For not
only has he deserted you for your enemies—the palefaces—but when I
asked him how he would like to live with you again, he told me that he
would care to remain only long enough to take a scalp and then escape.
He is your enemy at heart and has even now been fighting against you.
Death, and torture before death, would not be too severe for him.”
The scout was outraged and angered by these remarks.
“What you say is not true,” he replied. “I have never in my life made
the statement that I would only remain long enough with my red brethren
to take a scalp and then escape. I entered this war with reluctance,
and I had not fired a shot up to the time that I was captured by my
old companions. I am a friend of the Miamis and always will be their
friend.”
To these remarks the red men grunted an assent and allowed him to
move, unbound, around the village. He was assigned to a lodge with an
old squaw, who became very much attached to him, and, not many days
afterwards, came to him and said:—
“That James Girty is influencing my brothers against you. If you have
a chance to escape, you must do so, for I fear that they intend to put
you out of the way.”
Not long afterwards a council of Shawnee, Wyandot, Delaware, Chippewa,
Miami, and Mingo braves decided that Slover had been untrue to their
race, and that he must suffer punishment and death. Two warriors
appeared before his wigwam in order to carry him away, but the old
squaw covered him with her blanket and said that he should not go.
When the two bucks endeavored to enter, she threw a pot of boiling
water at them.
This was too much for the warriors, who retreated before the scalding
fluid, but they soon returned with James Girty and forty Indians, who
overpowered the fighting squaw. Slover was seized, bound, and his body
was painted black. This was a sign that he was to be tortured and
eventually killed.
Five miles from Waughcotomoco was another Indian town, to which the
scout was marched. A vast number of red men greeted his coming with
fierce cheering, and formed in two lines in order to make him run the
gauntlet. As he raced between them, they struck him with clubs, with
spears, and with their hands. In spite of this he was not badly hurt
and could walk without assistance to another small town, two miles
further on, where—in an unfinished council house—he was fastened to
a stake. Brush was piled around his feet and this was lighted for his
torture. “I will meet death like a brave man,” said Slover to himself.
Then, turning to the Indians, he cried out: “You shall rue the day that
ever you put an end to John Slover. My white brothers will avenge me a
hundredfold.”
An Indian orator arose, and, with a fierce and vindictive speech,
sought to fan the flame of the red men’s passions to the highest pitch.
“How! How!” cried many voices.” It is well that the white man should
die. How! How!”
Slover glowered upon the yelling mob as the crackling flames began to
creep nearer to his feet. But now an unexpected interposition of nature
occurred, which was greatly in the victim’s favor.
A high wind arose; dense, black clouds covered the sky; the growling of
thunder drowned the words of the orator and the yelling of his hearers.
A sheet of rain burst upon the fire at the stake, extinguishing it
completely, and Slover saw the Indians scatter to the cover of their
wigwams, where they called out to him:
“We will burn you to-morrow. The Great Spirit has helped you, but he
cannot save you.”
The shower lasted for over an hour, and when it had concluded the red
men gathered around the stake, where they beat and kicked their captive
until eleven o’clock at night. Then a brave called Half Moon asked him
if he did not want to go to sleep.
“I am exhausted,” replied the scout. “If you intend to kill me
to-morrow, loosen my bonds and let me rest.”
Half Moon untied the strands which bound the weakened frontiersman,
carried him to a log hut, and there bound him to a pole in the centre,
with deer thongs which cut tightly into his flesh. A rope was placed
about his neck and was tied to a rafter of the house. Three guards were
placed to watch him, and, as Half Moon departed, he said:
“Get a good sleep, paleface. You will need it, for to-morrow you will
eat fire. This is what comes to you for fighting against your own
people.”
The scout had not yet lost all hope of making his escape, and
carefully considered the possibility of getting away. Two of his guards
were soon asleep; the third (an aged brave) smoked a long, clay pipe
and told him that he had seen many palefaces tortured at the stake.
“Some weep like squaws,” said he. “Others bear it like men. You have
once been a redskin and should be able to stand the fire without
crying. You should come through without a bit of trouble.”
On and on he thus rambled until he became worn out—his head dropped
upon his breast—and he began to snore loudly. As the noise of his
heavy breathing came to the ears of the scout, he began to work
vigorously at his bonds. By wriggling, tugging, and pulling, at last
his hands were free. He reached for the thong about his neck and began
to chew it with his teeth.
As he turned and twisted in an endeavor to free himself from this
remaining bond, day began to break and the pale light of dawn flooded
the cabin. The talkative old Indian awoke; yawned; stretched; and
looked around at the captive; but Slover clasped his hands behind his
back as if they were still tied, and stood perfectly still. The red man
turned over upon his side and again composed himself in sleep. It was
now or never with the captured frontiersman.
[Illustration: INDIANS TORTURING A PRISONER.]
Again seizing upon the rope, Slover gave it a few strong jerks, and,
biting it with his jaws for a second time, suddenly parted it. With his
heart bumping against his side like a trip-hammer, he stole noiselessly
from the lodge. Not an Indian was stirring, and, darting toward a corn
field, he narrowly missed stepping upon a squaw with her two children,
who were asleep beneath a tree. He crept through the growing stalks,
and upon the other side saw quite a number of ponies. Taking the rope
from his arm, he made a slip-noose of it; selected a fine, young horse;
threw it over his head; mounted, and rode away like mad. His life
depended upon his exertions.
As he dashed off, he heard a door open in an Indian lodge and knew
that the red men were astir. They would soon discover his absence. He
would be followed by all of the swiftest and hardest-riding men of the
encampment. No wonder that he dug his heels into the flanks of his pony
and urged him to do his very best.
At ten o’clock he reached the Scioto River,—now much swollen by the
recent thunder shower. But his horse was winded and he had to stop in
order to give him both water and breath, for he was blowing from his
exertions. He plunged into the stream, crossed it, and continued his
flight at the fastest pace which his horse was able to make. Finally
the faithful animal began to pant and stagger. He was done for.
As the Indian pony fell upon his side, Slover leaped to the ground and
heard a wild yelping behind him in the forest. He thus knew that the
Indians were hot upon his trail. The horse had carried him seventy
miles at a fast pace, which is extraordinary. But the animal was now
lying prostrate, with the glaze of death showing in his eye. He had run
a good race.
The scout bounded forward, loping through the underbrush, timber, and
tall grass, and leaving as little trail as he could. But his exertions
were wearing heavily upon him, and, about ten o’clock that night, he
fell exhausted to the ground. He lay in a stupor for two hours.
When he was again able to move, a full moon cast its silvery light
over the dense woodland, where he had fallen, and no sound broke the
stillness of the night save the weird call of a whippoorwill. The
redskins could easily have captured him had they been close upon his
track, but his care in leaving little trace of his flight had thrown
them from the pursuit. Breathing more easily, he again continued his
race for life, and, as day came, abandoned his trail for a low, rough
ridge, where was little grass or soft earth. On, on, he continued,
occasionally stopping to listen at the sounds of the forest, but,
except for the occasional call of a bird, no voice came to his
expectant hearing. The red men had lost heart and had returned to their
wigwams.
As evening came, the frontiersman reached the banks of one of the
creeks which empty into the Muskingum, and again sank exhausted to
the earth. The mosquitoes swarmed upon him, biting him unmercifully,
and as his hunting suit (which the red men had allowed him to put on
when tied) was torn to tatters by the nettles and briars, they had
a splendid opportunity to get at his bare flesh. Some wild berries
furnished him with much-needed food,—the first he had eaten since
his escape,—and, if we are to believe his word for it, he says that
he was so terrified with fear, that he had forgotten to feel hungry
during his flight. “I was fairly peeled from head to foot by briars and
mosquitoes,” he has written. “And I was now so hungry that I fell upon
two crawfish which I found behind a rock in the Muskingum, and ate them
raw.”
The scout was now refreshed, and plunging into the Muskingum, swam to
the other shore. Two days later he reached the Ohio River, opposite
Wheeling, West Virginia, and seeing a man in a skiff who was apparently
fishing, called out to him in a loud voice:
“Hallo! Hallo! Comrade! I’m a fugitive from the Indians and was one of
Crawford’s men. Come! Take me over to the settlement!”
The fellow did not seem anxious to hasten to his relief, for he was
afraid that Slover was one of the white renegades who had joined the
redskins and was anxious to trap him. After a long harangue he finally
rowed to the place where the tattered scout was standing. The refugee
fairly hugged him for joy, and, in a few minutes, was again safe in the
settlement, where he was greeted with warm and affectionate regard by
the other men of the frontier, who had received many stragglers from
the ill-fated expedition under Colonel Crawford.
The escape of John Slover was one of the narrowest of which there is
any record in the annals of war upon the frontier. No wonder that for
many years the story of this famous affair was the favorite topic of
conversation, when the after-dinner pipes were lighted, and the men of
the forest would sit before the glowing embers, there to tell tales
concerning the heroism and courage of the gallant settlers of the wild
and undeveloped West. Truly the adventures which befell John Slover
were the most thrilling of them all.
LEWIS WETZEL:
HEROIC VIRGINIA FRONTIERSMAN AND IMPLACABLE ENEMY OF THE REDSKINS
“BOYS, watch your mother and grandfather for a few hours, because I am
going out fishing. There is no danger of attack from redskins, for none
have been seen for six months. If, however, any one comes to our cabin
with news of prowling bands, shoot off your rifles three times. This
will warn me of any danger to you, and I will hasten home.”
So spoke John Wetzel, whose cabin was upon the far western Virginian
frontier, and, turning from his two little boys, he plunged into the
wilderness. This was the last that he ever saw of his wife and her aged
father. He had not been three days in the forest before his cabin was
attacked.
Stealing carefully through the brush, a marauding band of savages
suddenly made a sortie upon the isolated house of logs. There was not
time to warn the inmates of the stealthy approach before the tomahawk
and scalping-knife were at work. In an hour’s time all of the inmates
had been dispatched, except Lewis Wetzel and his little brother,
Martin, both of whom were carried off into captivity. Lewis was about
thirteen years of age and Martin was eleven.
“We will soon escape,” whispered the older youth. “Wait until evening
arrives and then I will show you how to creep away from these horrible
savages.”
Lewis had been severely wounded by an arrow, but he stoically bore the
pain, and trudged behind his captors with no show of ill humor. The
Indian prisoner who lagged, or who made a cry of distress, would be
speedily dispatched by the savages, and this he knew. The other boy
went bravely ahead and said nothing.
Through the wilderness walked the red men, and on the night of the
second day they camped twenty miles beyond the Ohio River.
“Ugh!” spoke a brave. “These children cannot escape us now. We will not
bind them with thongs this evening, but will allow them to go free.”
The savages had underestimated the daring courage which was in the
heart of Lewis Wetzel. No sooner were the red men fast asleep, when,
touching his brother with his hand, Lewis warned him to keep absolutely
silent and to follow him away into the darkness. They were barefoot.
“It is impossible for us to escape without moccasins,” said Lewis,
after they had gone some distance. “This ground is full of stones, and
our feet will be ruined. You wait here for me and I will return to
the camp and get a pair for each of us, and then we can easily travel
through the wilderness.”
The brave boy not only secured the moccasins but also returned with
a gun and some ammunition. Then on they plunged through the forest.
Just as the first streaks of dawn began to light up the gloomy depths,
behind them echoed the shouts of their enemies, the red men.
“Walk backward upon your trail, brother,” said Lewis Wetzel. “Then turn
to the right and secrete yourself in the dense undergrowth. These red
men will soon catch up to us and we must be thoroughly hidden.”
This advice was followed, and it was well, for the boys had lain in
the covert but a few minutes when their captors came bounding past.
They were yelling to each other and were furious with anger at having
lost their prisoners. The two Wetzels waited until they were out of
sight. When the yelping had ceased they crept from their hiding-place
and ran away to the right. In a few hours they heard the Indians again
returning, and, secreting themselves in some underbrush, saw some
savages dash by on ponies. They were not the same red men whom they had
first seen, but these, also, could not find them. When the redskins
were well beyond hearing, the terrified children ran to the river,
fastened two logs together, and succeeded in crossing it. Not long
afterwards they reached the house of a frontiersman and knew that they
were safe. When they told him their story, he showed great surprise.
“Bully for you, boys!” cried the man of the clearing. “You, Lewis,
showed particular courage and daring. You are a credit to your poor
father, who is, I hear, terribly overcome by this butchery of the
redskins. I trust that you will both live long and useful lives upon
the border.”
“Thank you!” cried the boys. “We will do our best, anyway, to avenge
the terrible injury which the red men have inflicted upon our family.”
Thus early was implanted in the breasts of the two Wetzels an
implacable hatred for the savages.
It is said that Lewis was the strongest and most active of all of the
youths upon the western borderland of Virginia, and by long practice
had gained the ability to load his rifle while running at full speed.
This was an immense advantage to him in his numerous affrays with the
red men.
Not long after the terrible defeat of Colonel Crawford, in which John
Slover was a participant, a pioneer named Thomas Mills arrived at
Wheeling, West Virginia, where Lewis Wetzel was temporarily residing.
“I have left my good horse at Indian Spring, some five miles away,”
said he. “The country was so rough that I could not ride him here,
for some redskins were upon my trail. Wetzel, I wish that you would
accompany me to where he is, for I want to be able to hold my own with
the savages, should we meet any of them.”
“Mills, I’m your man,” said Wetzel. So, upon the day following, they
were on their way towards the spring.
When they arrived at the place where Mills had left his horse, they
found the animal tied to a bush.
“That looks mighty suspicious,” whispered Wetzel to his companion,
“because I understand that you left him untied. Do not go near the
animal until I circle around him and see if any savages are in our
front.”
The pioneer, however, neglected to heed this sage counsel and proceeded
to untie the pony. As he reached down towards the bridle-rein, the head
of an Indian appeared from behind a rock.
“Mills! Mills! Take to a tree!” yelled the scout. “There’s a redskin
drawin’ er bead on yer!”
The warning was unheeded. The frontiersman continued to work on the
bridle-reins; then a sharp crack was heard, and the red man fell back,
shot through the forehead by Wetzel. At the same moment a series of
quick reports came from the brush, and Mills sank to the ground,
pierced by a half dozen bullets.
Wetzel started away on the run, for a number of top-knots rose from the
bushes. Their owners hastened after him, but were uncautious enough to
drop their own guns so that they could run all the faster. Knowing that
he had discharged his piece, they expected to soon overtake him, tie
his hands behind his back, and remove him to their own camp, to run the
gauntlet and be tortured. They had counted without their host.
The lithe and sinewy trapper raced onward, exerting his utmost speed,
and, finding that he could not get away from his pursuers, turned about
and fired upon the nearest red man. The art of loading upon the run,
which he had learned, was of tremendous assistance to him, for he was
thus able to place a bullet in his adversary’s chest, which stretched
him upon the ground. Again he started forward, loading as he ran, and,
turning a second time, was about to fire, when his nearest pursuer
seized the muzzle of his rifle.
“Hah! Paleface! I have you!” cried the red man, for he had often been
to the settlements and had learned how to speak excellent English.
“Not yet,” answered the trapper, and he grappled with his antagonist.
They were very evenly matched. By the greatest exertion, the white
man succeeded in wresting the redskin’s hold from his rifle, and in
shooting him dead. It was a short struggle, but during it two Indians
gained upon the man of the frontier, so that they were very close
indeed. He now turned and ran as fast as he was able—loading as he
went.
The Indians were whooping wildly, but they had knowledge of his skill
in loading on the run. When he turned again in order to fire, they
took hasty departure to the shelter of some large trees. He kept on
going—the red men still after him. But he was a crafty fellow, as the
following will show:
Having reached a clearing in the forest, he purposely stumbled and
fell, as if exhausted by his race for life. The redskins thought that
they now had him. They bounded forward with exultant shouts, but as
they came nearer, the bold trapper rolled upon his side, raised his
rifle, and brought one of them to the earth before he could get behind
a tree. The second Indian turned and fled as fast as he was able,
howling out in loud tones:
“No catch dat feller. No catch him at all. He gun always loaded. He
devil with the shooting stick.”
[Illustration: “HE NOW TURNED AND RAN AS FAST AS HE WAS ABLE—LOADING
AS HE WENT.”]
At this the crafty trapper rose to his feet with a loud guffaw.
“These redskins have yet to learn a trick or two,” said he, chuckling.
“They should remember that some trappers can load their rifles when on
the run. My fine fellows—Au revoir!”
So saying, he started upon his way to the settlements, lighting a
corn-cob pipe on the way, and still chuckling softly to himself.
Not long after this affair, the father of the two Wetzel boys was
returning from a hunting excursion into the Ohio wilderness. With him
were his sons Martin and Lewis. The latter had just shot a brown bear,
and carried the skin with him in the bottom of the canoe. As they were
gliding down the river, a band of Shawnees suddenly appeared upon the
bank.
“Come ashore, palefaces!” said one. “It is not good for you to go down
the river!”
“Paddle to the other side of the stream,” whispered the older Wetzel.
“Hasten, boys, or their bullets will reach us.”
Quickly they turned towards the opposite bank, but a volley of lead
pursued them. They kept on doggedly. A missile struck the old pioneer,
inflicting a mortal wound.
“Lie down, Martin!” cried he. “They will get you also, if you do not do
so.”
Then the heroic old man paddled forward, his life-blood ebbing at every
stroke. Volley after volley zipped around the frail barque. Again and
again the frontiersman was struck, so that when well beyond range of
the Indian rifles he fell fainting to the bottom of the canoe. That
evening he expired.
Standing over the body of their parent, both Wetzels took a solemn oath
to avenge his untimely end.
“From now on,” said Lewis,” I will use every endeavor to slaughter the
red men. They have killed my dear father. Death shall be upon their own
heads. Death and no quarter.”
Not a week had elapsed after the sudden end of this staunch man of the
frontier, when news was brought into Wheeling that the Indians were
again upon the war-path. A scout came running into the settlement,
crying:
“The Shawnees and Wyandots are approaching. They have slaughtered one
man, and are burning, killing and scalping. Every able-bodied settler
is needed to drive them away.”
Immediately all turned out with rifle and powder-horn in order to
repel the invaders. But before they started, a purse of one hundred
dollars was made up, to go to the first individual who should take an
Indian scalp. The trail of the marauders was soon struck; was followed
for several miles; and was found to be very fresh. Then the advance
scouts returned with the information that a large body of the enemy was
encamped a few miles ahead.
“They are too many to be attacked,” said the soldiers of the advance.
“We must go back to Wheeling, or they will surround and annihilate us.”
They set off upon the return, but they noticed, as they did so, that
Lewis Wetzel did not move.
“Are you not going to accompany us?” asked some of the trappers.
The frontiersman scowled.
“I set out to hunt Indians and thought that this had also been your
purpose,” said he. “My object in hunting Indians is to kill them, and
now that we have treed our game I do not intend to run off without a
shot. As for you, I consider you to be a band of cowards.”
“It is too bad about you,” said they. “As for ourselves, we intend to
return home.”
Wetzel gazed after them with an amused smile, then stooped and examined
his arms, for he was a man of caution.
“I will get a scalp of my own,” said he. “Perhaps more. These fellows
will see that I mean what I say.”
There were plenty of Indian signs, but he could find no large bands of
the red men; instead, he stumbled upon a camp with only two braves in
it.
“There must be more in the encampment,” thought he. “I will creep away;
will come back this evening; and will then have an opportunity to get
what I am after.”
Turning again into the forest, he was soon out of hearing, and, by
great good fortune, came across a red deer, which he killed. He had a
fine feast. As night fell he hastened towards the Indian camp, crept
close to it, and found only one red man, instead of a dozen or more,
as he had expected. He waited until the redskin was fast asleep and
then made good his boast. As he started upon the back trail for the
settlement, a fresh scalp hung at his girdle.
Owing to his great strength and agility, he reached Wheeling just one
day behind his companions, instead of three. They were delighted to see
him.
“My boy,” cried they, “you have certainly made good and are entitled to
the greatest possible credit. Bully for you!”
The trapper in fact was more than a match for many redskins, as the
following will show:
Not long after his return to Wheeling he went out into the forest in
order to get some venison to dry and salt for winter use. He saw no
game, but suddenly stumbled upon a camp of four Shawnees, who were
busily engaged in tanning some deer hides. They did not see or hear
him, so he determined to return at nightfall and single-handed to
attack the party of braves. This he did.
First, resting his rifle against a tree so that it would be close at
hand for any emergency, he drew his tomahawk, uttered a wild yell, and
dashed in among the savages, cutting down one of them in a moment. Two
more fell beneath his unerring weapon. The fourth darted off into the
woodland with Wetzel close upon his heels. He was a good runner and got
safely away, while the man of the frontier returned for the scalp-locks
of the three. He was back at Wheeling before two days were over.
“What luck did you have, Lewis?” asked a companion.
“Not much,” answered the man-of-the-woods. “I treed four of th’ pesky
varmints. But one slick-ez-lightnin’ feller got away. He had er close
call.”
At Marietta, Ohio, was a frontier fortification where a number of
troops were stationed to protect the settlements from Shawnee invasion.
Here General Harmer summoned several tribes to meet him in conference,
and here Lewis Wetzel and a scout called Dickerson ambushed themselves
near the Indian encampment with the intention of killing the first
warrior who might pass. Wetzel, you see, was a vindictive fellow and
did not even fight in the open.
The two assassins had not long to wait, for a redskin soon came by on
the gallop without show or sign of fear, because a flag of truce had
been delivered to the whites but a short time before. As he passed,
both men fired, and, although the warrior reeled in his saddle, he
clung to the mane of his horse with a tenacious grip and rode on into
the fort. Here he dropped exhausted to the ground, and, before dying,
cried out:
“My white brothers, I demand vengeance upon these hidden men who have
driven me to the Great Spirit. You who have true hearts, see that I get
what I desire, and my soul will then rest in peace.”
When news of this was brought to General Harmer, he said, with much
heat:
“Justice shall be done to this poor redskin. I hear from some of my men
that Lewis Wetzel was responsible for this affair. Captain Kingsbury
will therefore take his company and scour the woods for the rascal. Let
him be brought to me, dead or alive.”
Wetzel, meanwhile, had returned to his home in the Mingo Bottom
settlement and was engaged in a shooting match for a turkey. When the
soldiers arrived, and the frontiersmen learned what they were after,
they gathered around their comrade with the remark that:
“Whoever touches Lewis Wetzel will have tew fight th’ hull gang uv us.”
Captain Kingsbury therefore withdrew, but Lewis Wetzel was not careful
to keep beyond the clutch of his arm. Some time afterwards he paddled
down the river to an island opposite Harmer’s Fort in order to spend
the night with a friend, and news of his presence was brought to the
soldiers within the stockade. A company of men was soon headed for the
island: the frontiersman was surrounded at midnight; was thrown into
the guard-house, heavily ironed, and was not only deprived of open air,
but also of exercise. He quickly sickened and grew pale. When told that
he would shortly be hung, he sent for General Harmer, and said:
“General, I am not ashamed of my deed, for ever since the day that
my people were brutally slain by the children of the forest, I have
considered it perfectly justifiable for me to do unto them what they
have done unto me. If you will grant me one request, it is that you
allow me to go loose among the savages armed only with a tomahawk. Then
I will have one chance in a thousand to escape, but I will take that
chance.”
The General shook his head.
“The scaffold is the proper death for you,” he replied. “As an
officer of the law I must see that you receive the fit punishment for
your crimes. But, as I see that you are growing pale under strict
confinement, I hereby order that the irons be taken from your legs.
Your handcuffs must remain.”
The trapper bowed his head, but as soon as the General had gone and
he was allowed to move in the open air, he frisked about like a young
colt. A number of soldiers guarded him closely, but as he walked and
jumped around in front of them, he continually experimented with his
handcuffs, in the endeavor to wrest his arms from their grip. Gradually
he edged farther and farther from the guard. Finally he had moved to
a position from which he felt that he could safely get away. With one
mighty bound he had turned and was off into the forest. Volley after
volley came from the soldiers, but he escaped untouched.
Wetzel knew well the woodland in which he found himself, and hastening
to a dense thicket pushed through a close tangle of briars to a fallen
tree. He wedged himself beneath this, and none too soon, for within a
very few moments a number of Indians and soldiers approached. Twice
some redskins sat upon the very tree beneath which he was crouching,
and he heard one say:
“Ah, but the white dog would make good running through the ranks of
our red brothers. We must stick our knives into him when we find him.”
At last darkness came. The trapper heard his pursuers returning, so
he crept stealthily from his hiding-place and made for the river.
He reached it in an hour, and by the light of the half moon, saw a
frontiersman fishing from a canoe. He was afraid to call to him, for
the woods were full of Indians, so he attracted his attention by
beating upon the water with a stick. The fellow saw him; picked him up,
and paddled him to the other shore, where his handcuffs were cut from
his wrists. Next day he stood among his own friends.
Not long after this remarkable escape the trapper was at a fort on
Wheeling Creek from which a number of pioneers had mysteriously
disappeared.
“They have been killed by the redskins,” said one of the backwoodsmen,
who resided there. “How, where, and when, no one seems to know; but,
my friend, there have been mysterious calls of turkeys in the woods.
Turkeys, mark you, my friend,—wild turkeys!”
Wetzel pricked up his ears. He remembered that each of the men who had
been killed had heard turkey calls near the fort: had gone out to shoot
one for supper: and had never returned. The turkey calls had all come
from one direction and here was a high hill covered with boulders. A
small cave-like depression could be seen from the camp. Putting two
and two together, he decided that Mr. Redskin had produced the call of
Mr. Turkey and that it was Mr. Redskin’s unerring aim that had put an
end to the lives of so many good frontiersmen. “I shall soon stop the
twaddle of the fascinating tongue of Mr. Gobbler,” said the scout to
himself.
Setting out one morning, before day had broken, he soon drew near a
hill, on the top of which was a small cave. It was an excellent spot in
which to hide one’s self, and, placing himself in ambush, he watched it
narrowly. At sunrise he saw the tufted head of a Shawnee appear in the
narrow opening, and the “gobble, gobble, gobble” of a turkey, sounded
from the throat of the savage. The trapper bent low and watched the
performance, for it was an exact imitation of the male bird. “Gobble,
gobble, gobble,” echoed again from the gloom of the cave, and, “crack”
sounded the rifle of the bold pioneer. A wail of anguish arose from the
cavern’s mouth. Then all was still. The Shawnee gobbler had gone to the
Happy Hunting Grounds.
Well pleased with himself, Wetzel started back to the fort with the
scalp-lock of the enterprising brave, and, as he neared the stockade,
met a soldier hastening towards him.
“Did you hear that turkey call?” said the enthusiastic sportsman. “I’m
going out to get him, sure.”
The scout pointed to his girdle.
“There is Mr. Gobbler,” said he. “He was the kind of a bird that shoots
a rifle. My boy, you should thank your lucky stars that I saw him
first.”
Not long after this event the frontiersman made a journey to the
Kanawha River with John Madison, brother of James Madison, at one time
President of the United States. They were busy surveying some land, and
one day came to a hunter’s cabin, which appeared to be deserted.
“No one is here,” said Madison. “Let us take some of this jerked
venison and also a pailful of this coffee. I do not believe that the
camp will be again visited, and we may as well have the food, as to let
the wood-mice eat it.”
“All right,” answered the trapper, and, without more ado, they
appropriated what they wished, and continued upon their journey.
Early the next day, as they were crossing a small valley, many shots
rang out, and wild war-whoops sounded from every side. Cries of “You
give back our venison!” were heard above the din, and Madison reeled
in his saddle, falling head-long to the ground. Wetzel did not wait to
see what had happened to him, but, digging his heels into his horse’s
flanks, dashed off into the brush.
Now was a furious chase. Although well mounted, the scout soon saw that
the red men also had good ponies, and he feared that they would catch
him. Over the mountain paths they flew, for hour after hour. At last
they neared a broad river, and leaping his horse into it, the scout
swam to the other side. The red men had not the courage to follow where
he had led, and thus he made good his escape.
The pioneer had a generous heart in spite of his vindictiveness to all
savages, and not long afterwards had an opportunity to display his good
feeling towards the weak and distressed. Going with a friend one day
to pay a visit to a frontier house belonging to the Bryans, they found
indications that the Indians had just been there, for the home was
burned to the ground. Tracks in the moist earth led into the forest,
and besides those of the redskins were the print of a woman’s feet.
“Miss Betsy Bryan has been carried off, I fear,” said Wetzel
sorrowfully, pointing to the footprints. “We must rescue her even if it
costs us our lives. Comrade, let us hasten to the chase.”
His companion nodded, and, without more ado, the two men of the
frontier followed the well-marked trail of the savages. Towards evening
they crossed the Ohio River. Not far from the bank was a camp-fire,
and, going towards it with great caution, they saw the girl seated near
the flames. A white renegade and three Indians were her companions.
“Lie down, comrade,” whispered Wetzel to his friend. “I will tell you
when to rouse yourself, for we cannot attack until these redskins are
asleep.”
His companion obeyed, and waking him about two o’clock in the early
morning, the scout told him to fire at one of the red men and then to
rush into the camp in order to protect the captive. “I, myself, will
attend to the renegade,” said he.
Both frontiersmen fired at about the same time. The renegade was done
for, as was one Indian, also. The two remaining savages took to their
heels. Wetzel was after them in a jiffy, but, as they soon hid in the
brush, he fired his rifle off, thinking that they might pursue him
if they believed that his weapon were empty. He was not mistaken. The
savages rushed from their hiding-places, gave close chase, and gained
rapidly upon the running plainsman. They began to yelp wildly, as they
thought that they had him cornered, but they did not know that this was
the famous trapper who could load while on the run.
Turning about, Wetzel now shot the nearest red man, but the other kept
on after him like a flash. The scout loaded while darting forward, as
usual, then wheeling quickly, he dispatched this second assailant. His
wonderful ability to load when at full speed had made it thus possible
for him to thoroughly avenge the assault upon the frontier settlement
and the capture of the inoffensive girl. Taking the scalp-locks of the
two fallen braves and tying them to his girdle, he was soon back at the
camp, where he was tearfully greeted by the rescued maiden. In a short
time they were at home in the settlement.
Wetzel continued his life of hardship and adventure after this; made a
journey south, where he was imprisoned at New Orleans, and, in 1803,
joined Lewis and Clark in their expedition up the Missouri River.
He left them after two months, and spent about two years near the
headwaters of the Yellowstone, engaged in trapping and in hunting. From
now on, until his death in 1818, he was a trapper and fur trader; his
hatred for the redskins remaining unabated until his demise. He was
camping near Natchez, Mississippi, when this occurred.
A braver man never lived than this famous scout, who could load while
on the run, and who had probably experienced more hairbreadth escapes
than most of the pioneers. His one great failing was his dislike for
the red men and desire to put them out of the way, but, after one
considers the distressing circumstances attending the death of the
members of his family, when he was a mere youth, one can pardon this
bloodthirstiness. There was much good in Lewis Wetzel; the valorous
frontiersman of the early days of the settlement of the United States.
SAMUEL COLTER:
AND HIS WONDERFUL RACE FOR LIFE
WHEN Lewis and Clark were on their way to the Pacific coast they had
with them two trappers, one of whom was to meet with extraordinary
adventures. These were Samuel Colter and Lemuel Potts—both sturdy sons
of the West—who obtained permission from the leaders of the expedition
to remain near the headwaters of the Missouri River, in order to hunt
and to trap. They intended to overtake the main body, after a short
time, and hoped to obtain enough beaver skins to net them a good sum
of money upon their return to civilization. You probably remember that
Lewis had trouble with the Blackfeet, when near the Missouri, one of
whom he had to kill because he began to run off the horses. For this
reason these two trappers knew that they would have to use extreme
caution or else they would fall into the clutches of some of these
savages. The vengeance of an Indian is always swift and sure.
Knowing that the redskins were all about them, the trappers decided
upon the following plan: they would lie hidden during the day, would
set their traps late in the evening, and would visit them in order to
remove the game in the gray of the early morning. Success met their
efforts, and, before long, they had a goodly quantity of skins. No
Indians were seen, although Indian sign was abundant, and they knew
that there were plenty of Blackfeet in the vicinity.
One morning, while paddling up a winding stream where numerous traps
were set, to their keen ears came the sound of heavy tramping.
“Those are redskins,” whispered Colter. “Let’s decamp at once, and get
back to our starting-place.”
But Potts thought differently.
“Those are buffalo,” said he. “Wait until we round the corner and you
will find out that I am right.”
Just then they swirled around the bend in the stream, and to their
dismay, found both banks fairly swarming with Blackfeet. Escape was
impossible, and, although cold shivers began to run up and down his
spine, Colter ran the bow of the canoe towards the bank.
The red men began to whoop loudly, as they saw them approach, and
called to them to come ashore. This they did, and, as they stepped
upon the bank, a burly savage jumped forward and snatched the rifle
which Potts carried, from his hand. Colter was a man of great physical
strength and courage, who was not afraid of twenty savages. He wrested
the weapon away from the redskin, handed it back to Potts, and
confronted the startled braves with a face filled with determination
and fire. Potts jumped into his canoe, pushed out into the stream, and
started to paddle away, in spite of the commands of Colter, who cried
to him to come back and take him with him.
Suddenly an arrow whizzed from the bank and Potts cried out, “I’m
wounded, Colter. I cannot come to your assistance.”
In spite of this, he raised his rifle, fired, and killed the redskin
who had shot him. A wild yelping now arose from the other savages, and,
before five minutes had passed, the body of Potts fell into the water,
riddled with hundreds of arrows.
Colter stood upon the bank, unarmed and alone. The Blackfeet swarmed
around him; stripped him of his clothes and then held a pow-wow, while
they determined what they should do with him.
“Let’s skin him alive!” said one.
“No, whip him to death!” suggested another.
“Burn him at the stake!” shouted a great many.
The wrangling thus continued, until it was decided to let him run a
race for his life. He was to get away if he could, but, if he could
not, he was to be burned at the stake. All seemed to be much pleased at
this decision.
A chief now approached the captive and said: “Paleface, you run fast,
eh?”
“No, no, chief,” answered the trapper, “I am very poor runner, I slow
as the tortoise.”
This was an untruth, for Colter was one of the swiftest foot racers
upon the border, but his reply was hailed with loud shouts. Led upon a
sandy plain by the chief, he was followed by six hundred armed red men,
who gave him a start of three hundred yards, and then told him to go.
As Colter dashed away, a fierce whoop arose from all the red men and
they started in pursuit with continued yelping. In a few moments they
saw that it would take their swiftest runners to overhaul the white
man, for he sped along like a greyhound. They had, however, a great
advantage over him, for his feet were naked, and there were prickly
plants, sand bars, and sharp stones upon the plain. Their feet, on the
other hand, were protected by stout deer-skin moccasins.
On, on, sped the gallant scout, although his feet were cruelly
lacerated by the stones and shrubs. On, on, he went, while the shouting
of the red men died away, as they perceived that he was out-distancing
them. None caught up to him, in fact, he drew rapidly away from the
very swiftest of them all.
After a run of three miles Colter glanced back over his shoulder and
saw that one of his pursuers was holding his own with him. He had
headed towards the Jefferson Fork of the Missouri River, and knew that
if he once reached the water he could doubtless hide himself. The
pursuing red man had a spear in his hand, and, so fleet was he, that he
was soon within a hundred yards of the trapper.
“If I do not stop this Indian,” said Colter to himself, “it is all over
with me.”
Straining every muscle in order to get away, Colter suddenly felt the
blood gushing from his nose, and knew that a slight hemorrhage had been
occasioned by his efforts. He was but a mile from the river, and, again
looking back, saw the Indian within twenty yards of him. Escape was now
impossible. Turning swiftly around,—he stood absolutely still and
opened his arms.
The red man was astounded at this unexpected action, and, in
endeavoring to check his headway, fell to the ground. The lance,
meanwhile, flew from his hand and stuck into the earth a considerable
distance from him, where it broke off. Luck was with the half-winded
man of the plains, who now turned about, seized the broken spear-head,
and darted swiftly to the side of the prostrate red man.
The trapper aimed the sharp lance at the Indian, and drove it into him
with such force that he was pinned to the earth. A deep groan came from
the helpless brave, as the backwoodsman again turned to run towards
the river, although he was now exhausted by loss of blood and by the
terrible race for life. His pursuers were still far behind, and he
reached Jefferson’s Fork so far ahead of them that they could not see
him. One spring—he had leaped into the water—and was swimming towards
a little island about a hundred yards from the bank.
Upon the edge of this had lodged a clump of sticks and floating
brush. Colter made for it and dove beneath the tangled mass; emerging
somewhere in its centre, with his head between two giant logs.
Breathing with great difficulty, and faint from his exhausting run, he
waited with throbbing heart for the red men to arrive. This they did
very shortly.
They had stopped beside the body of their comrade and found that he
was in his death-agony. Infuriated by this, and with terrific yells,
they again set out in pursuit of Colter, who heard their vindictive
screeching as they reached the bank. Some of them swam out to the
island and punched about in the drift with their spears. As they did
so, the trapper drew down in the water so that only his nose was
exposed. He remained thus for about half an hour, when the redskins
gave up their search and returned to the body of the fallen chieftain.
Colter feared that they might set fire to the drift, but this idea
did not seem to have entered the minds of the Blackfeet, who began a
hideous wailing as they gathered around their leader. Carrying him upon
their shoulders, they started back to their camp, and gradually their
wild lamentations died away in the shadows of the forest.
The trapper was in a desperate predicament, for he was without either
clothes or rifle. His feet had been lacerated by the stones and plants
so that he could walk only with difficulty, and his body was chilled by
his long immersion in the cold waters of the river. Certainly there was
no brilliant prospect before him, for he was miles from any settlement.
Would you not think that he would have become absolutely disheartened
and would have given up in despair?
Not so with this bold follower of Lewis and Clark. After a day’s rest
and a meal of berries, grass and stalks from a shrub known as the sheep
sorrel, he started for Lisa’s Fort on the Yellowstone, a distance of a
week’s hard journey. Fortune favored this man of iron. Toads, frogs,
and insects became his food, and with clothing of bark and reeds he
finally reached the hospitable shelter of Manuel Lisa’s trading
station. He was scarcely recognizable.
Colter had suffered untold agony from thirst, from hunger and from
cold. The evenings are chilly in this country—even in summer—and,
although he made a fire by rubbing two dry sticks together, he shivered
all through the night. The wild sheep sorrel had given him most needed
nourishment, while the body of a dead rabbit, which he fortunately
stumbled upon, had brought sufficient strength to carry him to the
Fort. No wonder that the trappers there gave three rousing cheers for
this frontier hero.
In ten days after his arrival at the group of log huts, Samuel Colter
was again fit for service, but Lewis and Clark were already far away
upon their transcontinental journey. He remained at the Fort, had
several brushes with the Blackfeet, and eventually found his way back
to the settlements, where he was much admired for his nerve and courage
in eluding the wild denizens of the plains near the headwaters of
the Missouri. Certainly he had good reason to be proud of his escape
from the bloodthirsty hands of the Blackfoot warriors. Three cheers
for brave Sam Colter! He well deserves to be remembered as a Marathon
runner who ran a more thrilling race than the tame affairs of the
present day, where no band of savages, who are thirsting for one’s
gore, pursue the struggling athletes.
MESHACK BROWNING:
THE CELEBRATED BEAR HUNTER OF THE ALLEGHANIES
IN 1781 was born in Frederick County, Maryland, a pioneer who was
truly entitled to the name of “The Mighty Hunter.” The son of one of
General Braddock’s soldiers, who had settled in this beautiful country,
Meshack Browning lived his life in the wild fastnesses of the then
uncleared mountains of the Blue Ridge, and, at the close of a long and
eventful career as a huntsman and trapper, could say with pride that
he had killed from eighteen hundred to two thousand deer; from three
to four hundred beaver; about fifty panthers; and scores of wolves and
wildcats. He was the hero of every man’s conversation in this mountain
republic. All looked up to the hardy pioneer, and, after his long and
eventful life was brought to a close, when well beyond eighty years of
age, no one was more cordially missed than this sturdy old man of the
mountains.
Young Meshack’s father died when he was an infant of but two weeks
of age, leaving his mother desperately poor, with one daughter named
Dorcas, and three sons. It was a hard struggle to bring them up, but
by working in the garden, by raising plenty of vegetables, and by
spinning, saving and knitting, the good lady managed to scrape along
somehow or other. Little Meshack had to learn how to use the rifle at
an early age, for by this means only was it possible to supply the
larder with fresh meat. Wild turkeys were abundant; deer, wildcats,
wolves and bear roamed all through the rugged hills round about their
home. Thus he quickly became expert in the use of the flint-lock.
The hunting season usually began in October, and during this month the
task was commenced of laying in the winter’s provisions. Some days
little Meshack would go out with a kindly uncle who had joined the
family and would hunt for deer. On other days he would chase after
bees, and as he and his uncle were most successful in this kind of
hunting, they would often spend more time in searching for honey than
in seeking venison. It would not be long before the table would be well
supplied with both deer steaks and honey. The high, fresh grass which
surrounded the log cabin would cause their cows to give a quantity of
milk, from which little Meshack’s aunt, who was an industrious woman,
made plenty of butter; and frequently a fat turkey would be added
to the store. Thus life was simple, easy, and healthful in the wild
fastnesses of the Blue Ridge.
Things went on well enough until word came to the pioneers that General
St. Clair’s army had been defeated and cut to pieces by the redskins
under Little Turtle, which you no doubt remember. This was frightful
news, and little Meshack’s mother was very much afraid.
“What if the Indians fall upon us here,” said she. “We could not
protect ourselves against these terrible red men. Let us move further
back into the country where there are more white people. We can thus
combine for our own defense.”
Meshack’s uncle thought about the same way, so, packing up their few
belongings, the little family hurried to a place called the “Blooming
Rose,” where there were thirty or forty other families. This was in
1792—long, long ago, it seems—and yet I, myself, have known old
fellows of these mountains who appeared to be well conversant with the
terrible battles of St. Clair, “Mad Anthony” Wayne, and the redskins
under Little Turtle. These many struggles had been often narrated to
them by their parents; most of whom had taken part in those stirring
events.
Not long after coming to this settlement, the youthful Meshack had his
first adventure with a bear. While milking a cow one day, he heard a
great deal of noise at the house, and inquiring what it all meant, was
told by one of the girls who lived there that a bear had just gone
by. Running to the front portico he there found that four or five
gentlemen, who had come to visit the owner of the house (bringing with
them their bird-guns, and several little dogs), had gone in pursuit
of the beast. The dogs were so small that two of them would have made
about a mouthful for Brother Bruin.
The owner of the house, Mr. Caldwell, was a successful bear hunter
and had two fine dogs which were well trained to fight these animals.
Meshack called them, took the old man’s gun, and ran in the direction
of the noise, until he overtook the party of huntsmen, who had halted
just as the bear reached a clump of woods. The little dogs would not
leave their master, for they seemed to be afraid that the bear would
tear them to pieces. But as soon as Mr. Caldwell’s animals scented
the bear, off they went, heads down and tails up. Meshack followed on
behind.
On, on, coursed the dogs: on, on, went Meshack. Hastening towards the
sounds of the fray, the young hunter saw both bear and dogs turning
somersaults down a very steep hill. Over and over they rolled, Meshack
after them as hard as he could tilt, and the way that the fur flew was
most interesting. The fight became desperate, and the bear found that
his hindquarters were suffering severely; so severely, in fact, that
he determined to climb a large tree. When halfway up to the lowest
branches, he saw Meshack com
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