The character of Daniel Boone, in consenting to be left alone in that wilderness, surrounded by perils from the Indians and wild beasts, of which he had so recently and terribly been made aware, appears in its true light. We have heard of a Robinson Crusoe made so by the necessity of shipwreck; but all history can scarcely parallel another such an instance of a man voluntarily consenting to be left alone among savages and wild beasts, seven hundred miles from the nearest white inhabitant. The separation came. The elder brother disappeared in the forest, and Daniel Boone was left in the cabin, so recently cheered by the presence of his brother, entirely alone. Their only dog followed the departing brother, and Boone had nothing but his unconquerable spirit to sustain him during the long and lonely days and nights, visited by the remembrance of his distant wife and children.

To prevent the recurrence of dark and lonely thoughts, he set out, soon after his brother left him, on a distant excursion to the north-west. The country grew still more charming under his eye at every step of his advance. He wandered through the delightful country of the Barrens, and gained the heights of one of the ridges of Salt river, whence he could look back on the Alleghany ridges, lifting their blue heads in the direction of the country of his wife and children. Before him rolled the majestic Ohio, down its dark forests, and seen by him for the first time. It may be imagined what thoughts came over his mind, as the lonely hunter stood on the shore of this mighty stream, straining his thoughts towards its sources, and the unknown country where it discharged itself into some other river, or the sea. During this journey he explored the country on the south shore of the Ohio, between the Cumberland and the present site of Louisville, experiencing in these lonely explorations a strange pleasure, which, probably, none but those of his temperament can adequately imagine.

Returning to his cabin, as a kind of head quarters, he found it undisturbed by the Indians. Caution suggested to him the expedient of often changing his position, and not continuing permanently to sleep in the cabin. Sometimes he slept in the cane-brake sometimes under the covert of a limestone cliff, often made aware on his return to the cabin that the Indians had discovered it, and visited it during his absence. Surrounded with danger and death, though insensible to fear, he neglected none of those prudent precautions of which men of his temperament are much more able to avail themselves, than those always forecasting the fashion of uncertain evils. He was, however, never for an hour in want of the most ample supply of food. Herds of deer and buffaloes were seldom out of his sight for a day together. His nights were often disturbed by the howling of wolves, which abounded as much as the other forest animals. His table thus abundantly spread in the wilderness, and every excursion affording new views of the beautiful solitudes, he used to affirm afterwards that this period was among the happiest in his life; that during it, care and melancholy, and a painful sense of loneliness, were alike unknown to him.

We must not, however, suppose that the lonely hunter was capable only of feeling the stern and sullen pleasures of the savage. On the contrary, he was a man of the kindliest nature, and of the tenderest affections. We have read of verses, in solid columns, said to have been made by him. We would be sorry to believe him the author of these verses, for they would redound little to his honor as a poet. But, though we believe he did not attempt to make bad verses, the woodsman was essentially a poet. He loved nature in all her aspects of beauty and grandeur with the intensest admiration. He never wearied of admiring the charming natural landscapes spread before him; and, to his latest days, his spirit in old age seemed to revive in the season of spring, and when he visited the fires of the sugar camps, blazing in the open maple groves.



CHAPTER V.

Boone is pursued by the Indians, and eludes their pursuit—He encounters and kills a bear—The return of his brother with ammunition—They explore the country—Boone kills a panther on the back of a buffalo—They return to North Carolina.

Boone's brother had departed on the first of May. During the period of his absence, which lasted until the twenty-second of July, he considered himself the only white person west of the mountains. It is true, some time in this year, (1770,) probably in the latter part of it, an exploring party led by General James Knox, crossed the Alleghany mountains. But this exploring expedition confined its discoveries principally to the country south and west of the river Kentucky. This exploration was desultory, and without much result. Boone never met with them, or knew that they were in the country. Consequently, in regard to his own estimation, he was as completely alone in this unexplored world, as though they had not been there.

He never allowed himself to neglect his caution in respect to the numerous savages spread over the country. He knew that he was exposed every moment to the danger of falling into their hands. The fate of Stewart had served as a warning to him. It is wonderful that he should have been able to traverse such an extent of country as he did, and live in it so many months, and yet evade them. It required no little ingenuity and self-possession to take such measures as insured this good fortune.

About mid-day, near the close of the month of June, he paused in one of his excursions for a short time under the shade of a tree. As he looked cautiously around him, he perceived four Indians advancing openly towards him, but at a considerable distance, and apparently without having yet seen him. He did not delay to recommence his course through the woods, hoping by short turns, and concealing himself among the hills, to prevent an encounter with them, as the chance of four to one was too great an odds against him. He advanced in this way one or two miles; but as he cast a glance behind, he saw, with pain, that they sedulously followed in his trail at nearly their first distance, showing the same perseverance and sagacity of pursuit with which a hound follows a deer. When he first perceived them, he was in such a position that he could see them, and yet remain himself unseen. He was convinced that they had not discovered his person, although so closely pursued by them. But how to throw them off his trail, he was at a loss to conjecture. He adopted a number of expedients in succession, but saw the Indians still on the track behind. Suddenly a method occurred to his imagination, which finally proved successful. Large grape vines swung from the trees in all directions around him.

Hastening onward at a more rapid pace, until he passed a hill that would serve to conceal him for a few moments, he seized a vine sufficiently strong to support his weight; and disengaging it from the roots, climbed it a few feet, by bracing against the tree to which it was attached. When he had attained the necessary height, he gave himself so strong an impulse from the tree, that he reached the ground some yards from the spot where he left it. By this expedient he broke his trail.

Resuming his route in a course at right angles from that he had previously followed, as fast as possible, he finally succeeded in entirely distancing his pursuers, and leaving them at fault in pursuing his trail.

Boone soon after this met with a second adventure in which he actually encountered a foe scarcely less formidable than the savage. Rendered doubly watchful by his late escape, none of the forest sounds escaped his notice. Hearing the approach of what he judged to be a large animal by the noise of its movement through the cane, he held his rifle ready for instant use, and drew from its sheath a long and sharp knife, which he always wore in his belt. He determined to try the efficacy of his rifle first. As the animal came in sight it proved to be a she bear. They are exceedingly ferocious at all times, and their attack is dangerous and often fatal; but particularly so, when they are surrounded by their cubs, as was the case in this instance.

As soon as the animal perceived him it gave indications of an intention to make battle. Boone levelled his rifle, and remained quiet, until the bear was sufficiently near to enable him to shoot with effect. In general his aim was sure; but this time the ball not reach the point at which he had aimed; and the wound it inflicted only served to render the animal mad with rage and pain. It was impossible for him to reload and discharge his gun a second time before it would reach him; and yet he did not relish the idea of grappling with it in close fight. His knife was the resource to which he instantly turned. He held it in his right hand in such a position that the bear could not reach his person without receiving its point. His rifle, held in his left hand, served as a kind of shield. Thus prepared, he awaited the onset of the formidable animal. When within a foot of him, it reared itself erect to grasp him with its huge paws. In this position it pressed upon the knife until the whole blade was buried in its body. Boone had pointed it directly to the heart of the animal. It fell harmless to the ground.



The time fixed for the return of his brother was drawing near. Extreme solicitude respecting him now disturbed the hitherto even tenor of his life. He remained most of his time in his cabin, hunting no more than was necessary for subsistence, and then in the direction in which his brother would be likely to approach. It was not doubt of his brother's compliance with his promise of return, that disturbed the woodsman—such a feeling never even entered his mind. He was confident he would prove faithful to the trust reposed in him; but the difficulties and dangers of the way were so great for a solitary individual upon the route before him, that Boone feared he might fall a victim to them, notwithstanding the utmost exertion of self-possession and fortitude.

Day after day passed, after the extreme limit of the period fixed by the elder Boone for his return, and still he came not. It may be imagined that Boone had need of all the firmness and philosophy of character, with which he was so largely endowed by nature, to sustain him under the pressure of anxiety for the safety of his brother, and to hear through him from his family. He suffered, too, from the conviction that he must soon starve in the wilderness himself, as his ammunition was almost gone. He could not hope to see his family again, unless his brother or some other person furnished him the means of obtaining food on his way to rejoin them. His rifle—his dependence for subsistence and defence—would soon become entirely useless. What to others would have been real dangers and trials—a solitary life in the wilderness, exposure to the attacks of the savages and wild beasts—were regarded by him as nothing; but here he saw himself driven to the last extremity, and without resource. These meditations, although they made him thoughtful, did not dispirit him. His spirit was unconquerable. He was sitting one evening, near sunset, at the door of his cabin, indulging in reflections naturally arising from his position. His attention was withdrawn by a sound as of something approaching through the forest. Looking up, he saw nothing, but he arose, and stood prepared for defence. He could now distinguish the sound as of horses advancing directly towards the cabin. A moment afterwards he saw, through the trees, his brother mounted on one horse, and leading another heavily laden.

It would be useless to attempt to describe his sensations at this sight. Every one will feel instantly, how it must have operated upon all the sources of joy. More unmixed happiness is seldom enjoyed on the earth, than that, in which the brothers spent this evening. His brother brought him good news of the health and welfare of his family, and of the affectionate remembrance in which he was held by them; and an abundant supply of ammunition, beside many other articles, that in his situation, might be deemed luxuries. The brothers talked over their supper, and until late at night, for they had much to relate to each other, and both had been debarred the pleasure of conversation so long that it now seemed as though they could never weary of it. The sun was high when they awoke the following morning. After breakfast, they held a consultation with respect to what was next to be done. From observation, Boone was satisfied that numbers of Indians, in small parties, were then in the neighborhood. He knew it was idle to suppose that two men, however brave and skilful in the use of their weapons, could survive long in opposition to them. He felt the impolicy of wasting more time in roaming over the country for the mere purpose of hunting.

He proposed to his brother that they should immediately set themselves seriously about selecting the most eligible spot on which permanently to fix his family. This done, they would return together to North Carolina to bring them out to the new country. He did not doubt, that he could induce a sufficient number to accompany him, to render a residence in it comparatively safe. That they might accomplish this purpose with as little delay as possible, they proceeded the remainder of the day to hunt, and prepare food sufficient for some time. The following day they completed the necessary arrangement, and settled every thing for departure on the next morning.

They directed their course to Cumberland river. In common with all explorers of unknown countries, they gave names to the streams which they crossed. After reaching Cumberland river, they traversed the region upon its banks in all directions for some days. Thence they took a more northern route, which led them to Kentucky river. The country around the latter river delighted them. Its soil and position were such as they sought; and they determined, that here should be the location of the new settlement. Having acquainted themselves, as far as they deemed necessary, with the character of the region to be revisited, their returning journey was recommenced. No incidents, but such as had marked all the period of their journeyings in the wilderness, the occasional encounter of Indians by day and the cries of wild beasts by night had happened to them, during their last exploration.

Upon the second day of their advance in the direction of their home, they heard the approach of a drove of buffaloes. The brothers remarked, that from the noise there must be an immense number, or some uncommon confusion among them. As the buffaloes came in view, the woodsmen saw the explanation of the unusual uproar in a moment. The herd were in a perfect fury, stamping the ground and tearing it up, and rushing back and forward upon one another in all directions. A panther had seated himself upon the back of one of the largest buffaloes, and fastened his claws and teeth into the flesh of the animal, wherever he could reach it, until the blood ran down on all sides. The movements of a powerful animal, under such suffering, may be imagined. But plunging, rearing, and running were to no purpose. The panther retained its seat, and continued its horrid work. The buffalo, in its agony, sought relief in the midst of its companions, but instead of obtaining it, communicated its fury to the drove.

The travellers did not care to approach the buffaloes too closely; but Boone, picking the flint of his rifle, and looking carefully at the loading, took aim at the panther, determined to displace the monster from its seat. It happened, that the buffalo continued a moment in a position to allow the discharge to take effect. The panther released its hold, and came to the ground. As generally happens in such cases, this herd was followed by a band of wolves. They prowl around for the remains usually found in the train of such numbers of animals. Another rifle was discharged among them, for the sport of seeing them scatter through the woods.



The brothers left such traces—or blazes as they are technically called—of their course, as they thought would enable them to find it again, until they reached the foot of the mountains. They tried various ascents, and finally discovered a route, which, with some labor might be rendered tolerably easy. They proposed to cross the families here, and blazed the path in a way that could not be mistaken. This important point settled, they hastened to the settlement, which they reached without accident.



CHAPTER VI.

Boone starts with his family to Kentucky—Their return to Clinch river—He conducts a party of surveyors to the Falls of Ohio—He helps build Boonesborough, and removes his family to the fort—His daughter and two of Col. Calloway's daughters taken prisoners by the Indians—They pursue the Indians and rescue the captives.

The next step was to collect a sufficient number of emigrants who would be willing to remove to the new country with the families of the Boones, to give the settlements security and strength to resist the attacks of the Indians. This was not an easy task. It may be readily imagined that the Boones saw only the bright side of the contemplated expedition. They painted the fertility and amenity of the flowering wilderness in the most glowing colors. They described the cane-brakes, the clover and grass, the transparent limestone springs and brooks, the open forests, the sugar maple orchards, the buffaloes, deer, turkeys and wild fowls, in all the fervid colors of their own imaginations. To them it was the paradise of the first pair, whose inhabitants had only to put forth their hands, and eat and enjoy. The depredations, captivities, and scalpings, of the Indians; the howling of the wolves; the diseases, and peculiar trials and difficulties of a new country, without houses, mills, and the most indispensable necessaries of civilized life, were all overlooked. But in such a case, in a compact settlement like that of the Yadkin, there are never wanting gainsayers, opposers, gossips, who envied the Boones. These caused those disposed to the enterprise to hear the other part, and to contemplate the other side of the picture. They put stories in circulation as eloquent as those of the Boones, which told of all the scalpings, captivities, and murders of the Indians, magnified in a tenfold proportion. With them, the savages were like the ogres and bloody giants of nursery stories. They had pleasant tales of horn-snakes, of such deadly malignity, that the thorn in their tails, struck into the largest tree in full verdure, instantly blasted it. They scented in the air of the country, deadly diseases, and to them, Boone's paradise was a Hinnom, the valley of the shadow of death.

The minds of the half resolved, half doubting persons, that meditated emigration, vibrated alternately backwards and forwards, inclined or disinclined to it, according to the last view of the case presented to them. But the natural love of adventure, curiosity, fondness for the hunting life, dissatisfaction with the incessant labor necessary for subsistence on their present comparatively sterile soil, joined to the confident eloquence of the Boones, prevailed on four or five families to join them in the expedition.

All the necessary arrangements of preparing for this distant expedition, of making sales and purchases, had occupied nearly two years. The expedition commenced its march on the 26th of September, 1773. They all set forth with confident spirits for the western wilderness, and were joined by forty persons in Powell's Valley, a settlement in advance of that on the Yadkin, towards the western country. The whole made a cavalcade of nearly eighty persons.

The three principal ranges of the Alleghany, over which they must pass, were designated as Powell's, Walden's, and Cumberland. These mountains forming the barrier between the old settlements and the new country, stretch from the north-east to the south-west. They are of great length and breadth, and not far distant from each other. There are nature-formed passes over them, which render the ascent comparatively easy. The aspect of these huge piles was so wild and rugged, as to make it natural for those of the party who were unaccustomed to mountains, to express fears of being able to reach the opposite side. The course traced by the brothers on their return to Carolina, was found and followed. The advantage of this forethought was strongly perceived by all. Their progress was uninterrupted by any adverse circumstance, and every one was in high spirits, until the west side of Walden's ridge, the most elevated of the three, had been gained. They were now destined to experience a most appalling reverse of fortune.

On the tenth of October, as the party were advancing along a narrow defile, unapprehensive of danger, they were suddenly terrified by fearful yells. Instantly aware that Indians surrounded them, the men sprang to the defence of the helpless women and children. But the attack had been so sudden, and the Indians were so much superior in point of numbers, that six men fell at the first onset of the savages. A seventh was wounded, and the party would have been overpowered, but for a general and effective discharge of the rifles of the remainder. The Indians, terror-struck, took to flight, and disappeared.

Had the numbers of the travellers allowed it, they felt no inclination to pursue the retreating Indians. Their loss had been too serious to permit the immediate gratification of revenge. The eldest son of Daniel Boone was found among the slain. The domestic animals accompanying the expedition were so scattered by the noise of the affray, that it was impossible again to collect and recover them. The distress and discouragement of the party were so great, as to produce an immediate determination to drop the projected attempt of a settlement in Kentucky, and return to Clinch river, which lay forty miles in their rear, where a number of families had already fixed themselves.

They then proceeded to perform the last melancholy duties to the bodies of their unfortunate companions with all decent observances which circumstances would allow. Their return was then commenced. Boone and his brother, with some others, did not wish to forsake the undertaking upon which they had set out; but the majority against them was so great, and the feeling on the subject so strong, that they were compelled to acquiesce. The party retraced, in deep sadness, the steps they had so lately taken in cheerfulness, and even joy.

Daniel Boone remained with his family on Clinch river, until June, 1774; when he was requested by the governor of Virginia to go to the falls of Ohio, to act as a guide to a party of surveyors. The manifestations of hostility, on the part of the Indians, were such, that their longer stay was deemed unsafe. Boone undertook to perform this service, and set out upon this journey, with no other companion than a man by the name of Stoner. They reached the point of destination, now Louisville, in a surprisingly short period, without any accident. Under his guidance the surveyors arrived at the settlements in safety. From the time that Boone left his home, upon this enterprise, until he returned to it, was but sixty-two days. During this period he travelled eight hundred miles on foot, through a country entirely destitute of human habitations, save the camps of the Indians.

In the latter part of this year, the disturbances between the Indians north-west of the Ohio, and the frontier settlers, grew to open hostilities. Daniel Boone being in Virginia, the governor appointed him to the command of three contiguous garrisons on the frontier, with the commission of captain. The campaign of the year terminated in a battle, after which the militia were disbanded. Boone was consequently relieved from duty.

Col. Henderson, of North Carolina, had been for some time engaged in forming a company in that state, for the purpose of purchasing the lands on the south side of the Kentucky, from the southern Indians. The plan was now matured, and Boone was solicited by the company to attend the treaty to be made between them and the Indians, at Wataga, in March, 1775, to settle the terms of the negociation. The requisite information, in respect to the proposed purchase, was given him, and he acceded to the request. At the appointed time, he attended and successfully performed the service intrusted to him. Soon afterwards the same company applied to him to lay out a road between the settlements on Holston river and Kentucky river. No little knowledge of the country, and judgment were requisite for the proper fulfilment of this service. A great many different routes must be examined, before the most practicable one could be fixed upon. The duty was, however, executed by Boone, promptly and faithfully. The labor was great, owing to the rugged and mountainous country, through which the route led. The laborers, too, suffered from the repeated attacks of Indians. Four of them were killed, and five wounded. The remainder completed this work, by reaching Kentucky river, in April, of the same year. They immediately proceeded to erect a fort near a salt spring, where Boonesborough now stands. The party, enfeebled by its losses, did not complete the erection of the fort until June. The Indians troubled them exceedingly, and killed one man. The fort consisted of a block-house, and several cabins, surrounded by palisades.

The fort being finished, Boone returned to his family, and soon after removed them to this first garrison of Kentucky. The purpose on which his heart had so long been set, was now accomplished. His wife and daughters were the first white women that ever stood on the banks of Kentucky river. In our zeal to blazon our subject, it is not affirmed, that Boone was absolutely the first discoverer and explorer of Kentucky, for he was not. But the high meed of being the first actual settler and cultivator of the soil, cannot be denied him. It was the pleasant season of the close of summer and commencement of autumn, when the immigrants would see their new residence in the best light. Many of its actual inconveniences were withheld from observation, as the mildness of the air precluded the necessity of tight dwellings. Arrangements were made for cultivating a field in the coming spring. The Indians, although far from friendly, did not attempt any immediate assault upon their new neighbors, and the first events of the settlement were decidedly fortunate. The game in the woods was an unfailing resource for food. The supplies brought from their former homes by the immigrants were not yet exhausted, and things went on in their usual train, with the added advantage, that over all, in their new home, was spread the charm of novelty.

Winter came and passed with as little discomfort to the inmates of the garrison as could be expected from the circumstances of their position. The cabins were thoroughly daubed, and fuel was of course abundant. It is true, those who felled the trees were compelled to be constantly on their guard, lest a red man should take aim at them from the shelter of some one of the forest hiding places. But they were fitted for this way of getting along by their training, natures, and predilections. There was no want of excitement during the day, or even night—nothing of the wearying monotony to which a life of safe and regular occupation is subject. Spring opened. The trees were girdled, and the brush cut down and burned, preparatory to ploughing the field. A garden spot was marked off, the virgin earth thrown up and softened, and then given in charge to the wives and daughters of the establishment. They brought out their stock of seeds, gathered in the old settlements, and every bright day saw them engaged in the light and healthful occupation of planting them. They were protected by the vicinity of their husbands and fathers, and in turn cheered them in their severer labors. The Indians had forborne any attacks upon the settlers so long, that, as is naturally the case, they had ceased in a degree to dwell upon the danger always to be apprehended from them. The men did not fail to take their rifles and knives with them whenever they went abroad; but the women ventured occasionally a short distance without the palisades during the day, never, however, losing sight of the fort. This temerity was destined to cost them dear.

Colonel Calloway, the intimate friend of Boone, had joined him in the course of the spring, at the fort, which had received, by the consent of all, the name of Boonesborough. He had two daughters. Captain Boone had a daughter also, and the three were companions; and, if we may take the portraits of the rustic time, patterns of youthful bloom and loveliness. It cannot be doubted that they were inexpressibly dear to their parents. These girls, at the close of a beautiful summer day, the 14th of July, were tempted imprudently to wander into the woods at no great distance from their habitations, to gather flowers with which to adorn their rustic fire-places. They were suddenly surrounded by half a dozen Indians. Their shrieks and efforts to flee were alike unavailing. They were dragged rapidly beyond the power of making themselves heard. As soon as they were deemed to be beyond the danger of rescue, they were treated with the utmost indulgence and decorum.

This forbearance, of a race that we are accustomed to call savages, was by no means accidental, or peculiar to this case. While in battle, they are unsparing and unrelenting as tigers—while, after the fury of its excitement is past, they will exult with frantic and demoniac joy in the cries of their victims expiring at a slow fire—while they dash the tomahawk with merciless indifference into the cloven skulls of mothers and infants, they are universally seen to treat captive women with a decorous forbearance. This strange trait, so little in keeping with other parts of their character, has been attributed by some to their want of the sensibilities and passions of our race. The true solution is, the force of their habits. Honor, as they estimate it, is, with them, the most sacred and inviolable of all laws. The decorum of forbearance towards women in their power has been incorporated with their code as the peculiar honor of a warrior. It is usually kept sacred and inviolate. Instances are not wanting where they have shown themselves the most ardent lovers of their captives, and, we may add, most successful in gaining their voluntary affection in return. Enough such examples are recorded, were other proofs wanting, to redeem their forbearance from the negative character resulting from the want of passions.

The captors of these young ladies, having reached the main body of their people, about a dozen in number, made all the provision in their power for the comfort of their fair captives. They served them with their best provisions, and by signs and looks that could not be mistaken, attempted to soothe their agonies, and quiet their apprehensions and fears. The parents at the garrison, having waited in vain for the return of their gay and beloved daughters to prepare their supper, and in torments of suspense that may easily be imagined, until the evening, became aware that they were either lost or made captives. They sallied forth in search of them, and scoured the woods in every direction, without discovering a trace of them. They were then but too well convinced that they had been taken by the Indians. Captain Boone and Colonel Calloway, the agonizing parents of the lost ones, appealed to the company to obtain volunteers to pursue the Indians, under an oath, if they found the captors, either to retake their daughters, or die in the attempt. The oath of Boone on this occasion is recorded: "By the Eternal Power that made me a father, if my daughter lives, and is found, I will either bring her back, or spill my life blood." The oath was no sooner uttered than every individual of the males crowded round Boone to repeat it. But he reminded them that a part of their number must remain to defend the station. Seven select persons only were admitted to the oath, along with the fathers of the captives. The only difficulty was in making the selection. Supplying themselves with knapsacks, rifles, ammunition, and provisions, the party set forth on the pursuit.

Hitherto they had been unable to find the trail of the captors. Happily they fell upon it by accident. But the Indians, according to their custom, had taken so much precaution to hide their trail, that they found themselves exceedingly perplexed to keep it, and they were obliged to put forth all the acquirement and instinct of woodsmen not to find themselves every moment at fault in regard to their course. The rear Indians of the file had covered their foot prints with leaves. They often turned off at right angles; and whenever they came to a branch, walked in the water for some distance. At a place of this sort, the pursuers were for some time wholly unable to find at what point the Indians had left the branch, and began to despair of regaining their trail. In this extreme perplexity, one of the company was attracted by an indication of their course, which proved that the daughters shared the sylvan sagacity of their parents. "God bless my dear child," exclaimed Colonel Calloway; "she has proved that she had strength of mind in her deplorable condition to retain self possession." At the same instant he picked up a little piece of ribbon, which he instantly recognized as his daughter's. She had evidently committed it unobserved to the air, to indicate the course of her captors. The trail was soon regained, and the company resumed their march with renewed alacrity.

They were afterwards often at a loss to keep the trail, from the extreme care of the Indians to cover and destroy it. But still, in their perplexity, the sagacious expedient of the fair young captives put them right. A shred of their handkerchief, or of some part of their dress, which they had intrusted to the wind unobserved, indicated their course, and that the captives were thus far not only alive, but that their reasoning powers, unsubdued by fatigue, were active and buoyant. Next day, in passing places covered with mud, deposited by the dry branches on the way, the foot prints of the captives were distinctly traced, until the pursuers had learned to discriminate not only the number, but the peculiar form of each foot print.

Late in the evening of the fifteenth day's pursuit, from a little eminence, they discovered in the distance before them, through the woods, a smoke and the light of a fire. The palpitation of their parental hearts may be easily imagined. They could not doubt that it was the camp of the captors of their children. The plan of recapture was intrusted entirely to Boone. He led his company as near the enemy as he deemed might be done with safety, and selecting a position under the shelter of a hill, ordered them to halt, with a view to passing the night in that place. They then silently took food as the agitation of their minds would allow. All but Calloway, another selected person of their number, and himself, were permitted to lie down, and get that sleep of which they had been so long deprived. The three impatiently waited for midnight, when the sleep of the Indians would be most likely to be profound. They stationed the third person selected, on the top of the eminence, behind which they were encamped, as a sentinel to await a given signal from the fathers, which should be his indication to fly to the camp and arouse the sleepers, and bring them to their aid. Then falling prostrate, they crept cautiously, and as it were by inches, towards the Indian camp.

Having reached a covert of bushes, close by the Indian camp, and examined as well as they could by the distant light of the camp-fires, the order of their rifles, they began to push aside the bushes, and survey the camp through the opening. Seventeen Indians were stretched, apparently in sound sleep, on the ground. But they looked in vain among them for the dear objects of their pursuit. They were not long in discovering another camp a little remote from that of the Indians. They crawled cautiously round to take a survey of it. Here, to their inexpressible joy, were their daughters in each others arms. Directly in front of their camp were two Indians, with their tomahawks and other weapons within their grasp. The one appeared to be in a sound sleep, and the other keeping the most circumspective vigils.

The grand object now was to get possession of the prisoners without arousing their captors, the consequence of which it was obvious, would be the immediate destruction of the captives. Boone made a signal to Calloway to take a sure aim at the sleeping Indian, so as to be able to despatch him in a moment, if the emergency rendered that expedient necessary. Boone, the while, crawled round, so as to reach the waking Indian from behind; intending to spring upon him and strangle him, so as to prevent his making a noise to awaken the sleeper. But, unfortunately, this Indian instead of being asleep was wide awake, and on a careful look out. The shadow of Boone coming on them from behind, aroused him. He sprang erect, and uttered a yell that made the ancient woods ring, leaving no doubt that the other camp would be instantly alarmed. The captives, terrified by the war yell of their sentinels, added their screams of apprehension, and every thing was in a moment in confusion. The first movement of Boone was to fire. But the forbearance of Calloway, and his own more prudent second thought, restrained him. It was hard to forego such a chance for vengeance, but their own lives and their children's would probably pay the forfeit, and they fired not. On the contrary, they surrendered themselves to the Indians, who rushed furiously in a mass around them. By significant gestures, and a few Indian words, which they had learned, they implored the lives of their captive children, and opportunity for a parley. Seeing them in their power, and comprehending the language of defenceless suppliants, their fury was at length with some difficulty restrained and appeased. They seemed evidently under the influence of a feeling of compassion towards the daughters, to which unquestionably the adventurous fathers were indebted, that their lives were not instantly sacrificed. Binding them firmly with cords, and surrounding them with sentinels, the Indians retired to their camp, not to resume their sleep, but to hold a council to settle the fate of their new prisoners.

What were the thoughts of the captive children, or of the disinterested and brave parents, as they found themselves bound, and once more in the power of their enemies—what was the bitter disappointment of the one, and the agonizing filial apprehension of the other—may be much more readily imagined than described. But the light of the dawn enabled the daughters to see, in the countenances of their fathers, as they lay bound and surrounded by fierce savages, unextinguishable firmness, and undaunted resolution, and a consciousness of noble motives; and they imbibed from the view something of the magnanimity of their parents, and assumed that demeanor of composure and resolute endurance which is always the readiest expedient to gain all the respect and forbearance that an Indian can grant.

It would be difficult to fancy a state of more torturing suspense than that endured by the companions of Boone and Calloway, who had been left behind the hill. Though they had slept little since the commencement of the expedition, and had been encouraged by the two fathers, their leaders to sleep that night, the emergency was too exciting to admit of sleep.

Often, during the night, had they aroused themselves, in expectation of the return of the fathers, or of a signal for action. But the night wore away, and the morning dawned, without bringing either the one or the other. But notwithstanding this distressing state of suspense, they had a confidence too undoubting in the firmness and prudence of their leader, to think of approaching the Indian camp until they should receive the appointed signal.

It would naturally be supposed that the deliberation of the Indian council, which had been held to settle the fate of Boone and Calloway, would end in sentencing them to run the gauntlet, and then amidst the brutal laughter and derision of their captors, to be burnt to death at a slow fire. Had the prisoners betrayed the least signs of fear, the least indications of a subdued mind, such would in all probability have been the issue of the Indian consultation. Such, however, was not the result of the council. It was decreed that they should be killed with as little noise as possible; their scalps taken as trophies, and that their daughters should remain captives as before. The lenity of this sentence may be traced to two causes. The daring hardihood, the fearless intrepidity of the adventure, inspired them with unqualified admiration for their captives. Innumerable instances have since been recorded, where the most inveterate enemies have boldly ventured into the camp of their enemy, have put themselves in their power, defied them to their face and have created an admiration of their fearless daring, which has caused that they have been spared and dismissed unmolested. This sort of feeling had its influence on the present occasion in favor of the prisoners. Another extenuating influence was, that hostilities between the white and red men in the west had as yet been uncommon; and the mutual fury had not been exasperated by murder and retaliation.

As soon as it was clear morning light, the Indian camp was in motion. As a business preliminary to their march, Boone and Calloway were led out and bound to a tree, and the warriors were selected who were to despatch them with their tomahawks. The place of their execution was selected at such a distance from their camp, as that the daughters might not be able to witness it. The two prisoners were already at the spot, awaiting the fatal blow, when a discharge of rifles, cutting down two of the savages at the first shot, arrested their proceedings. Another and another discharge followed. The Indians were as yet partially supplied with fire arms, and had not lost any of their original dread of the effects of this artificial thunder, and the invisible death of the balls. They were ignorant, moreover, of the number of their assailants, and naturally apprehended it to be greater than it was. They raised a yell of confusion, and dispersed in every direction, leaving their dead behind, and the captives to their deliverers. The next moment the children were in the arms of their parents; and the whole party, in the unutterable joy of conquest and deliverance, were on their way homewards.



It need hardly be added that the brave associates of the expedition who had been left in camp, having waited the signal for the return of Boone and Calloway, until their patience and forbearance was exhausted, aware that something serious must have prevented their return, reconnoitered the movement of the Indians as they moved from their camp to despatch their two prisoners, and fired upon them at the moment they were about to put their sentence into execution.

About this time a new element began to exasperate and extend the ravages of Indian warfare, along the whole line of the frontier settlements. The war of Independence had already begun to rage. The influence and resources of Great Britain extended along the immense chain of our frontier, from the north-eastern part of Vermont and New York, all the way to the Mississippi. Nor did this nation, to her everlasting infamy, hesitate to engage these infuriate allies of the wilderness, whose known rule of warfare was indiscriminate vengeance; without reference to the age or sex of the foe, as auxiliaries in the war.

As this biographical sketch of the life of Boone is inseparably interwoven with this border scene of massacres, plunderings, burnings, and captivities, which swept the incipient northern and western settlements with desolation, it may not be amiss to take a brief retrospect of the state of these settlements at this conjuncture in the life of Boone.



CHAPTER VII.

Settlement of Harrodsburgh—Indian mode of besieging and warfare—Fortitude and privation of the Pioneers—The Indians attack Harrodsburgh and Boonesborough—Description of a Station—Attack of Bryant's Station.

A road sufficient for the passage of pack horses in single file, had been opened from the settlements already commenced on Holston river to Boonesborough in Kentucky. It was an avenue which soon brought other adventurers, with their families to the settlement. On the northern frontier of the country, the broad and unbroken bosom of the Ohio opened an easy liquid highway of access to the country. The first spots selected as landing places and points of ingress into the country, were Limestone—now Maysville—at the mouth of Limestone creek, and Beargrass creek, where Louisville now stands. Boonesborough and Harrodsburgh were the only stations in Kentucky sufficiently strong to be safe from the incursions of the Indians; and even these places afforded no security a foot beyond the palisades. These two places were the central points towards which emigrants directed their course from Limestone and Louisville. The routes from these two places were often ambushed by the Indians. But notwithstanding the danger of approach to the new country, and the incessant exposure during the residence there, immigrants continued to arrive at the stations.

The first female white settlers of Harrodsburgh, were Mrs. Denton, McGary, and Hogan, who came with their husbands and families. A number of other families soon followed, among whom, in 1776, came Benjamin Logan, with his wife and family. These were all families of respectability and standing, and noted in the subsequent history of the country.

Hordes of savages were soon afterwards ascertained to have crossed the Ohio, with the purpose to extirpate these germs of social establishments in Kentucky. According to their usual mode of warfare, they separated into numerous detachments, and dispersed in all directions through the forests. This gave them the aspect of numbers and strength beyond reality. It tended to increase the apprehensions of the recent immigrants, inspiring the natural impressions, that the woods in all directions were full of Indians. It enabled them to fight in detail,—to assail different settlements at the same time, and to fill the whole country with consternation.

Their mode of besieging these places, though not at all conformable to the notions of a siege derived from the tactics of a civilized people, was dictated by the most profound practical observation, operating upon existing circumstances. Without cannon or scaling ladders, their hope of carrying a station, or fortified place, was founded upon starving the inmates, cutting off their supplies of water, killing them, as they exposed themselves, in detail, or getting possession of the station by some of the arts of dissimulation. Caution in their tactics is still more strongly inculcated than bravery. Their first object is to secure themselves; their next, to kill their enemy. This is the universal Indian maxim from Nova Zembla to Cape Horn. In besieging a place, they are seldom seen in force upon any particular quarter. Acting in small parties, they disperse themselves, and lie concealed among bushes or weeds, behind trees or stumps. They ambush the paths to the barn, spring, or field. They discharge their rifle or let fly their arrow, and glide away without being seen, content that their revenge should issue from an invisible source. They kill the cattle, watch the watering places, and cut off all supplies. During the night, they creep, with the inaudible and stealthy step dictated by the animal instinct, to a concealed position near one of the gates, and patiently pass many sleepless nights, so that they may finally cut off some ill-fated person, who incautiously comes forth in the morning. During the day, if there be near the station grass, weeds, bushes, or any distinct elevation of the soil, however small, they crawl, as prone as reptiles, to the place of concealment, and whoever exposes the smallest part of his body through any part or chasm, receives their shot, behind the smoke of which they instantly cower back to their retreat. When they find their foe abroad, they boldly rush upon him, and make him prisoner, or take his scalp. At times they approach the walls or palisades with the most audacious daring, and attempt to fire them, or beat down the gate. They practice, with the utmost adroitness, the stratagem of a false alarm on one side when the real assault is intended for the other. With untiring perseverance, when their stock of provisions is exhausted, they set forth to hunt, as on common occasions, resuming their station near the besieged place as soon as they are supplied.

It must he confessed, that they had many motives to this persevering and deadly hostility, apart from their natural propensity to war. They saw this new and hated race of pale faces gradually getting possession of their hunting grounds, and cutting down their forests. They reasoned forcibly and justly, that the time, when to oppose these new intruders with success, was to do it before they had become numerous and strong in diffused population and resources. Had they possessed the skill of corporate union, combining individual effort with a general concert of attack, and directed their united force against each settlement in succession, there is little doubt, that at this time they might have extirpated the new inhabitants from Kentucky, and have restored it to the empire of the wild beasts and the red men. But in the order of events it was otherwise arranged. They massacred, they burnt, and plundered, and destroyed. They killed cattle, and carried off the horses;—inflicting terror, poverty, and every species of distress; but were not able to make themselves absolute masters of a single station.

It has been found by experiment, that the settlers in such predicaments of danger and apprehension, act under a most spirit-stirring excitement, which, notwithstanding its alarms, is not without its pleasures. They acquired fortitude, dexterity, and that kind of courage which results from becoming familiar with exposure.

The settlements becoming extended, the Indians, in their turn, were obliged to put themselves on the defensive. They cowered in the distant woods for concealment, or resorted to them for hunting. In these intervals, the settlers, who had acquired a kind of instinctive intuition to know when their foe was near them, or had retired to remoter forests, went forth to plough their corn, gather in their harvests, collect their cattle, and pursue their agricultural operations. These were their holyday seasons for hunting, during which they often exchanged shots with their foe. The night, as being most secure from Indian attack, was the common season selected for journeying from garrison to garrison.

We, who live in the midst of scenes of abundance and tranquillity can hardly imagine how a country could fill with inhabitants, under so many circumstances of terror, in addition to all the hardships incident to the commencement of new establishments in the wilderness; such as want of society, want of all the regular modes of supply, in regard to the articles most indispensable in every stage of the civilized condition. There were no mills, no stores, no regular supplies of clothing, salt, sugar, and the luxuries of tea and coffee. But all these dangers and difficulties notwithstanding, under the influence of an inexplicable propensity, families in the old settlements used to comfort and abundance, were constantly arriving to encounter all these dangers and privations. They began to spread over the extensive and fertile country in every direction—presenting such numerous and dispersed marks to Indian hostility, red men became perplexed, amidst so many conflicting temptations to vengeance, which to select.

The year 1776 was memorable in the annals of Kentucky, as that in which General George Rogers Clark first visited it, unconscious, it may be, of the imperishable honors which the western country would one day reserve for him. This same year Captain Wagin arrived in the country, and fixed in a solitary cabin on Hinkston's Fork of the Licking.

In the autumn of this year, most of the recent immigrants to Kentucky returned to the old settlements, principally in Virginia. They carried with them strong representations, touching the fertility and advantages of their new residence; and communicated the impulse of their hopes and fears extensively among their fellow-citizens by sympathy.

The importance of the new settlement was already deemed to be such, that on the meeting of the legislature of Virginia, the governor recommended that the south-western part of the county of Fincastle—so this vast tract of country west of the Alleghanies had hitherto been considered—should be erected into a separate county by the name of Kentucky.

This must be considered an important era in the history of the country. The new county became entitled to two representatives in the legislature of Virginia, to a court and judge; in a word, to all the customary civil, military, and judicial officers of a new county. In the year 1777, the county was duly organized, according to the act of the Virginia legislature. Among the names of the first officers in the new county, we recognize those of Floyd, Bowman, Logan, and Todd.

Harrodsburgh, the strongest and most populous station in the country, had not hitherto been assailed by the Indians. Early in the spring of 1777, they attacked a small body of improvers marching to Harrodsburgh, about four miles from that place. Mr. Kay, afterwards General Kay, and his brother were of the party. The latter was killed, and another man made prisoner. The fortunate escape of James Kay, then fifteen years old, was the probable cause of the saving of Harrodsburgh from destruction. Flying from the scene of attack and the death of his brother, he reached the station and gave the inhabitants information, that a large body of Indians was marching to attack the place. The Indians themselves, aware that the inhabitants had been premonished of their approach, seem to have been disheartened; for they did not reach the station till the next day. Of course, it had been put in the best possible state of defence, and prepared for their reception.

The town was now invested by the savage force, and something like a regular siege commenced. A brisk firing ensued. In the course of the day the Indians left one of their dead to fall into the hands of the besieged—a rare occurrence, as it is one of their most invariable customs to remove their wounded and dead from the possession of the enemy. The besieged had four men wounded and one of them mortally. The Indians, unacquainted with the mode of conducting a siege, and little accustomed to open and fair fight, and dispirited by the vigorous reception given them by the station, soon decamped, and dispersed in the forests to supply themselves with provisions by hunting.

On the 15th of April, 1777, a body of one hundred savages invested Boonesborough, the residence of Daniel Boone. The greater number of the Indians had fire arms, though some of them were still armed with bows and arrows. This station, having its defence conducted by such a gallant leader, gave them such a warm reception that they were glad to draw off; though not till they had killed one and wounded four of the inhabitants. Their loss could not be ascertained, as they carefully removed their dead and wounded.

In July following, the residence of Boone was again besieged by a body of Indians, whose number was increased to two hundred. With their numbers, their hardihood and audacity were increased in proportion. To prevent the neighboring stations from sending assistance, detachments from their body assailed most of the adjacent settlements at the same time. The gallant inmates of the station made them repent their temerity, though, as formerly, with some loss; one of their number having been killed and two wounded. Seven of the Indians were distinctly counted from the fort among the slain; though, according to custom, the bodies were removed. After a close siege, and almost constant firing during two days, the Indians raised a yell of disappointment, and disappeared in the forests.

In order to present distinct views of the sort of enemy, with whom Boone had to do, and to present pictures of the aspect of Indian warfare in those times, we might give sketches of the repeated sieges of Harrodsburgh and Boonesborough, against which—as deemed the strong holds of the Long-knife, as they called the Americans—their most formidable and repeated efforts were directed. There is such a sad and dreary uniformity in these narratives, that the history of one may almost stand for that of all. They always present more or less killed and wounded on the part of the stations, and a still greater number on that of the Indians. Their attacks of stations having been uniformly unsuccessful, they returned to their original modes of warfare, dispersing themselves in small bodies over all the country, and attacking individual settlers in insulated cabins, and destroying women and children. But as most of these annals belong to the general history of Kentucky, and do not particularly tend to develop the character of the subject of this biography, we shall pretermit them, with a single exception. At the expense of an anachronism, and as a fair sample of the rest, we shall present that, as one of the most prominent Indian sieges recorded in these early annals. It will not be considered an episode, if it tend to convey distinct ideas of the structure and form of a station, and the modes of attack and defence in those times. It was in such scenes that the fearless daring, united with the cool, prudent, and yet efficient counsels of Daniel Boone, were peculiarly conspicuous. With this view we offer a somewhat detailed account of the attack of Bryant's station.

As we know of no place, nearer than the sources of the Mississippi, or the Rocky Mountains, where the refuge of a station is now requisite for security from the Indians; as the remains of those that were formerly built are fast mouldering to decay; and as in a few years history will be the only depository of what the term station imports, we deem it right, in this place, to present as graphic a view as we may, of a station, as we have seen them in their ruins in various points of the west.

The first immigrants to Tennessee and Kentucky, as we have seen, came in pairs and small bodies. These pioneers on their return to the old settlements, brought back companies and societies.—Friends and connections, old and young, mothers and daughters, flocks, herds, domestic animals, and the family dogs, all set forth on the patriarchal emigration for the land of promise together. No disruption of the tender natal and moral ties; no annihilation of the reciprocity of domestic kindness, friendship, and love, took place. The cement and panoply of affection, and good will bound them together at once in the social tie, and the union for defence. Like the gregarious tenants of the air in their annual migrations, they brought their true home, that is to say their charities with them. In their state of extreme isolation from the world they had left, the kindly social propensities were found to grow more strong in the wilderness. The current of human affections in fact naturally flows in a deeper and more vigorous tide, in proportion as it is diverted into fewer channels.

These immigrants to the Bloody Ground, coming to survey new aspects of nature, new forests and climates, and to encounter new privations, difficulties and dangers, were bound together by a new sacrament of friendship, new and unsworn oaths, to stand by each other for life and for death. How often have we heard the remains of this primitive race of Kentucky deplore the measured distance and jealousy, the heathen rivalry and selfishness of the present generation, in comparison with the unity of heart, dangers and fortunes of these primeval times—reminding one of the simple kindness, the community of property, and the union of heart among the first Christians!

Another circumstance of this picture ought to be redeemed from oblivion. We suspect that the general impressions of the readers of this day is, that the first hunters and settlers of Kentucky and Tennessee were a sort of demi-savages. Imagination depicts them with long beard, and a costume of skins, rude, fierce, and repulsive. Nothing can be wider from the fact. These progenitors of the west were generally men of noble, square, erect forms, broad chests, clear, bright, truth-telling eyes, and of vigorous intellects.

All this is not only matter of historical record, but in the natural order of things. The first settlers of America were originally a noble stock. These, their descendants, had been reared under circumstances every way calculated to give them manly beauty and noble forms. They had breathed a free and a salubrious air. The field and forest exercise yielded them salutary viands, and appetite and digestion corresponding. Life brought them the sensations of high health, herculean vigor, and redundant joy.

When a social band of this description had planted their feet on the virgin soil, the first object was to fix on a spot, central to the most fertile tract of land that could be found, combining the advantages usually sought by the first settlers. Among these was, that the station should be on the summit of a gentle swell, where pawpaw, cane, and wild clover, marked exuberant fertility; and where the trees were so sparse, and the soil beneath them so free from underbrush, that the hunter could ride at half speed. The virgin soil, as yet friable, untrodden, and not cursed with the blight of politics, party, and feud, yielded, with little other cultivation than planting, from eighty to a hundred bushels of maize to the acre, and all other edibles suited to the soil and climate, in proportion.

The next thing, after finding this central nucleus of a settlement, was to convert it into a station, an erection which now remains to be described. It was a desirable requisite, that a station should in close or command a flush limestone spring, for water for the settlement. The contiguity of a salt lick and a sugar orchard, though not indispensable, was a very desirable circumstance. The next preliminary step was to clear a considerable area, so as to leave nothing within a considerable distance of the station that could shelter an enemy from observation and a shot. If a spring were not inclosed, or a well dug within, as an Indian siege seldom lasted beyond a few days, it was customary, in periods of alarm to have a reservoir of some sort within the station, that should be filled with water enough to supply the garrison, during the probable continuance of a siege. It was deemed a most important consideration, that the station should overlook and command as much of the surrounding country as possible.

The form was a perfect parallelogram, including from a half to a whole acre. A trench was then dug four or five feet deep, and large and contiguous pickets planted in this trench, so as to form a compact wall from ten to twelve feet high above the soil. The pickets were of hard and durable timber, about a foot in diameter. The soil about them was rammed hard. They formed a rampart beyond the power of man to leap, climb, or by unaided physical strength to overthrow. At the angles were small projecting squares, of still stronger material and planting, technically called flankers, with oblique port-holes, so as that the sentinel within could rake the external front of the station, without being exposed to shot from without. Two folding gates in the front and rear, swinging on prodigious wooden hinges, gave egress and ingress to men and teams in times of security.

In periods of alarm a trusty sentinel on the roof of the building was so stationed, as to be able to descry every suspicious object while yet in the distance. The gates were always firmly barred by night; and sentinels took their alternate watch, and relieved each other until morning. Nothing in the line of fortification can be imagined more easy of construction, or a more effectual protection against a savage enemy, than this simple erection. Though the balls of the smallest dimensions of cannon would have swept them away with ease, they were proof against the Indian rifle, patience, and skill. The only expedient of the red men was to dig under them and undermine them, or destroy them by fire; and even this could not be done without exposing them to the rifles of the flankers. Of course, there are few recorded instances of their having been taken, when defended by a garrison, guided by such men as Daniel Boone.

Their regular form, and their show of security, rendered these walled cities in the central wilderness delightful spectacles in the eye of immigrants who had come two hundred leagues without seeing a human habitation. Around the interior of these walls the habitations of the immigrants arose, and the remainder of the surface was a clean-turfed area for wrestling and dancing, and the vigorous and athletic amusements of the olden time. It is questionable if heartier dinners and profounder sleep and more exhilarating balls and parties fall to the lot of their descendants, who ride in coaches and dwell in mansions. Venison and wild turkeys, sweet potatoes and pies, smoked on their table; and persimmon and maple beer, stood them well instead of the poisonous whisky of their children.

The community, of course, passed their social evenings together; and while the fire blazed bright within the secure square, the far howl of wolves, or even the distant war-whoop of the savages, sounded in the ear of the tranquil in-dwellers like the driving storm pouring on the sheltering roof above the head of the traveller safely reposing in his bed; that is, brought the contrast of comfort and security with more home-felt influence to their bosom.

Such a station was Bryant's, no longer ago than 1782. It was the nucleus of the settlements of that rich and delightful country, of which at present Lexington is the centre. There were but two others of any importance, at this time north of Kentucky river. It was more open to attack than any other in the country. The Miami on the north, and the Licking on the south of the Ohio, were long canals, which floated the Indian canoes from the northern hive of the savages, between the lakes and the Ohio, directly to its vicinity.

In the summer of this year a grand Indian assemblage took place at Chillicothe, a famous central Indian town on the Little Miami. The Cherokees, Wyandots, Tawas, Pottawattomies, and most of the tribes bordering on the lakes, were represented in it. Besides their chiefs and some Canadians, they were aided by the counsels of the two Girtys, and McKee, renegado whites. We have made diligent enquiry touching the biography of these men, particularly Simon Girty, a wretch of most infamous notoriety in those times, as a more successful instigator of Indian assault and massacre, than any name on record. Scarcely a tortured captive escaped from the northern Indians, who could not tell the share which this villain had in his sufferings—no burning or murder of prisoners, at which he had not assisted by his presence or his counsels. These refugees from our white settlements, added the calculation and power of combining of the whites to the instinctive cunning and ferocity of the savages. They possessed their thirst for blood without their active or passive courage—blending the bad points of character in the whites and Indians, without the good of either. The cruelty of the Indians had some show of palliating circumstances, in the steady encroachments of the whites upon them. Theirs was gratuitous, coldblooded, and without visible motive, except that they appeared to hate the race more inveterately for having fled from it. Yet Simon Girty, like the Indians among whom he lived, sometimes took the freak of kindness, nobody could divine why, and he once or twice saved an unhappy captive from being roasted alive.

This vile renegado, consulted by the Indians as an oracle, lived in plenty, smoked his pipe, and drank off his whisky in his log palace. He was seen abroad clad in a ruffled shirt, a red and blue uniform, with pantaloons and gaiters to match. He was belted with dirks and pistols, and wore a watch with enormous length of chain, and most glaring ornaments, all probably the spoils of murder. So habited, he strutted, in the enormity of his cruelty in view of the ill-fated captives of the Indians, like the peacock spreading his morning plumage. There is little doubt that his capricious acts of saving the few that were spared through his intercession, were modified results of vanity; and that they were spared to make a display of his power, and the extent of his influence among the Indians.

The assemblage of Indians bound to the assault of Bryant's station, gathered round the shrine of Simon Girty, to hear the response of this oracle touching the intended expedition. He is said to have painted to them, in a set speech, the abundance and delight of the fair valleys of Kan-tuck-ee, for which so much blood of red men had been shed—the land of clover, deer, and buffaloes. He described the gradual encroachment of the whites, and the certainty that they would soon occupy the whole land. He proved the necessity of a vigorous, united, and persevering effort against them, now while they were feeble, and had scarcely gained foot-hold on the soil, if they ever intended to regain possession of their ancient, rich, and rightful domain; assuring them, that as things now went on, they would soon have no hunting grounds worth retaining, no blankets with which to clothe their naked backs, or whisky to warm and cheer their desolate hearts. They were advised to descend the Miami, cross the Ohio, ascend the Licking, paddling their canoes to the immediate vicinity of Bryant's station, which he counselled them to attack.

Forthwith, the mass of biped wolves raised their murderous yell, as they started for their canoes on the Miami. Girty, in his ruffled shirt and soldier coat, stalked at their head, silently feeding upon his prowess and grandeur.

The station against which they were destined, inclosed forty cabins. They arrived before it on the fifteenth of August, in the night. The inhabitants were advertised of their arrival in the morning, by being fired upon as they opened the gates. The time of their arrival was apparently providential. In two hours most of the efficient male inmates of the station were to have marched to the aid of two other stations, which were reported to have been attacked. This place would thus have been left completely defenceless. As soon as the garrison saw themselves besieged, they found means to despatch one of their number to Lexington, to announce the assault and crave aid. Sixteen mounted men, and thirty-one on foot, were immediately despatched to their assistance.

The number of the assailants amounted to at least six hundred. In conformity with the common modes of their warfare, they attempted to gain the place by stratagem. The great body concealed themselves among high weeds, on the opposite side of the station, within pistol shot of the spring which supplied it with water. A detachment of a hundred commenced a false attack on the south-east angle, with a view to draw the whole attention of the garrison to that point. They hoped that while the chief force of the station crowded there, the opposite point would be left defenceless. In this instance they reckoned without their host. The people penetrated their deception, and instead of returning their fire, commenced what had been imprudently neglected, the repairing their palisades, and putting the station in a better condition of defence. The tall and luxuriant strammony weeds instructed these wary backwoodsmen to suspect that a host of their tawny foe lay hid beneath their sheltering foliage, lurking for a chance to fire upon them, as they should come forth for water.

Let modern wives, who refuse to follow their husbands abroad, alleging the danger of the voyage or journey, or the unhealthiness of the proposed residence, or because the removal will separate them from the pleasures of fashion and society, contemplate the example of the wives of the defenders of this station. These noble mothers, wives, and daughters, assuring the men that there was no probability that the Indians would fire upon them, offered to go out and draw water for the supply of the garrison, and that even if they did shoot down a few of them, it would not reduce the resources of the garrison as would the killing of the men. The illustrious heroines took up their buckets, and marched out to the spring, espying here and there a painted face, or an Indian body crouched under the covert of the weeds. Whether their courage or their beauty fascinated the Indians to suspend their fire, does not appear. But it was so, that these generous women came and went until the reservoir was amply supplied with crater. Who will doubt that the husbands of such wives must have been alike gallant and affectionate.

After this example, it was not difficult to procure some young volunteers to tempt the Indians in the same way. As was expected, they had scarcely advanced beyond their station, before a hundred Indians fired a shower of balls upon them, happily too remote to do more than inflict slight wounds with spent balls. They retreated within the palisades, and the whole Indian force, seeing no results from stratagem, rose from their covert and rushed towards the palisade. The exasperation of their rage may be imagined, when they found every thing prepared for their reception. A well aimed fire drove them to a more cautious distance. Some of the more audacious of their number, however, ventured so near a less exposed point, as to be able to discharge burning arrows upon the roofs of the houses. Some of them were fired and burnt. But an easterly wind providentially arose at the moment, and secured the mass of the habitations from the further spread of the flames. These they could no longer reach with their burning arrows.

The enemy cowered back, and crouched to their covert in the weeds; where, panther-like, they waited for less dangerous game. They had divided, on being informed, that aid was expected from Lexington; and they arranged an ambuscade to intercept it, on its approach to the garrison. When the reinforcement, consisting of forty-six persons, came in sight, the firing had wholly ceased, and the invisible enemy were profoundly still. The auxiliaries hurried on in reckless confidence, under the impression that they had come on a false alarm. A lane opened an avenue to the station, through a thick cornfield. This lane was way-laid on either side, by Indians, for six hundred yards. Fortunately, it was mid-summer, and dry; and the horsemen raised so thick a cloud of dust, that the Indians could fire only at random amidst the palpable cloud, and happily killed not a single man. The footmen were less fortunate. Being behind the horse, as soon as they heard the firing, they dispersed into the thick corn, in hopes to reach the garrison unobserved. They were intercepted by masses of the savages, who threw themselves between them and the station. Hard fighting ensued, in which two of the footmen were killed and four wounded. Soon after the detachment had joined their friends, and the Indians were again crouching close in their covert, the numerous flocks and herds of the station came in from the woods as usual, quietly ruminating, as they made their way towards their night-pens. Upon these harmless animals the Indians wreaked unmolested revenge, and completely destroyed them.

A little after sunset the famous Simon, in all his official splendor, covertly approached the garrison, mounted a stump, whence he could be heard by the people of the station, and holding a flag of truce, demanded a parley and the surrender of the place. He managed his proposals with no small degree of art, assigning, in imitation of the commanders of what are called civilized armies, that his proposals were dictated by humanity and a wish to spare the effusion of blood. He affirmed, that in case of a prompt surrender, he could answer for the safety of the prisoners; but that in the event of taking the garrison by storm, he could not; that cannon and a reinforcement were approaching, in which case they must be aware that their palisades could no longer interpose any resistance to their attack, or secure them from the vengeance of an exasperated foe. He calculated that his imposing language would have the more effect in producing belief and consternation, inasmuch as the garrison must know, that the same foe had used cannon in the attack of Ruddle's and Martin's stations. Two of their number had been already slain, and there were four wounded in the garrison; and some faces were seen to blanch as Girty continued his harangue of menace, and insidious play upon their fears. Some of the more considerate of the garrison, apprised by the result, of the folly of allowing such a negotiation to intimidate the garrison in that way, called out to shoot the rascal, adding the customary Kentucky epithet. Girty insisted upon the universal protection every where accorded to a flag of truce, while this parley lasted; and demanded with great assumed dignity, if they did not know who it was that thus addressed them?

A spirited young man, named Reynolds, of whom the most honorable mention is made in the subsequent annals of the contests with the Indians, was selected by the garrison to reply to the renegado Indian negotiator. His object seems to have been to remove the depression occasioned by Girty's speech, by treating it with derision; and perhaps to establish a reputation for successful waggery, as he had already for hard fighting.

"You ask," answered he, "if we do not know you? Know you! Yes. We know you too well. Know Simon Girty! Yes. He is the renegado, cowardly villain, who loves to murder women and children, especially those of his own people. Know Simon Girty! Yes. His father was a panther and his dam a wolf. I have a worthless dog, that kills lambs. Instead of shooting him, I have named him Simon Girty. You expect reinforcements and cannon, do you? Cowardly wretches, like you, that make war upon women and children, would not dare to touch them off, if you had them. We expect reinforcements, too, and in numbers to give a short account of the murdering cowards that follow you. Even if you could batter down our pickets, I, for one, hold your people in too much contempt to discharge rifles at them. Should you see cause to enter our fort, I have been roasting a great number of hickory switches, with which we mean to whip your naked cut-throats out of the country."

Simon, apparently little edified or flattered by this speech, wished him some of his hardest curses; and affecting to deplore the obstinacy and infatuation of the garrison, the ambassador of ruffled shirt and soldier coat withdrew. The besieged gave a good account of every one, who came near enough to take a fair shot. But before morning they decamped, marching direct to the Blue Licks, where they obtained very different success, and a most signal and bloody triumph. We shall there again meet Daniel Boone, in his accustomed traits of heroism and magnanimity.



CHAPTER VIII.

Boone being attacked by two Indians near the Blue Licks, kills them both—Is afterwards taken prisoner and marched to Old Chillicothe—Is adopted by the Indians—Indian ceremonies.

We return to the subject of our memoir, from which the reader may imagine we have wandered too long. He had already conducted the defence of Boonesborough, during two Indian sieges. The general estimate of his activity, vigilance, courage, and enterprise, was constantly rising. By the Indians he was regarded as the most formidable and intelligent captain of the Long-knife; and by the settlers and immigrants as a disinterested and heroic patriarch of the infant settlements. He often supplied destitute families gratuitously with game. He performed the duties of surveyor and spy, generally as a volunteer, and without compensation. When immigrant families were approaching the country, he often went out to meet them and conduct them to the settlements. Such, in general, were the paternal feelings of the pioneers of this young colony.

The country was easily and amply supplied with meat from the chase, and with vegetables from the fertility of the soil. The hardy settlers could train themselves without difficulty to dispense with many things which habit and long use in the old settlements had led them to consider as necessaries. But to every form of civilized communities salt is an indispensable article. The settlement of Boonesborough had been fixed near a lick, with a view to the supply of that article. But the amount was found to be very inadequate to the growing demand. The settlement deemed it necessary to send out a company to select a place where the whole country could be supplied with that article at a reasonable rate.

Captain Boone was deputed by the settlers to this service. He selected thirty associates, and set out on the first of January, 1779, for the Blue Licks, on Licking river, a well known stream emptying into the Ohio, opposite where Cincinnati now stands. They arrived at the place, and successfully commenced their operations. Boone, instead of taking a part in the diurnal and uninterrupted labor, of evaporating the water, performed the more congenial duty of hunting to keep the company in provisions, while they labored. In this pursuit he had one day wandered some distance from the bank of the river. Two Indians, armed with muskets,—for they had now generally added these efficient weapons to their tomahawks—came upon him. His first thought was to retreat. But he discovered from their nimbleness, that this was impossible. His second thought was resistance, and he slipped behind a tree to await their coming within rifle shot. He then exposed himself so as to attract their aim. The foremost levelled his musket. Boone, who could dodge the flash, at the pulling of the trigger, dropped behind his tree unhurt. His next object W&B to cause the fire of the Second musket to be thrown away in the same manner. He again exposed a part of his person. The eager Indian instantly fired, and Boone evaded the shot as before. Both the Indians, having thrown away their fire, were eagerly striving, but with trembling hands, to reload. Trepidation and too much haste retarded their object. Boone drew his rifle and one of them fell dead. The two antagonists, now on equal grounds, the one unsheathing his knife, and the other poising his tomahawk, rushed toward the dead body of the fallen Indian. Boone, placing his foot on the dead body, dexterously received the well aimed tomahawk of his powerful enemy on the barrel of his rifle, thus preventing his skull from being cloven by it. In the very attitude of firing the Indian had exposed his body to the knife of Boone, who plunged it in his body to the hilt. This is the achievement commemorated in sculpture over the southern door of the Rotunda in the Capitol at Washington.

This adventure did not deter him from exposing himself in a similar way again. He was once more hunting for the salt makers, when, on the seventh day of February following, he came in view of a body of one hundred and two Indians, evidently on their march to the assault of Boonesborough—that being a particular mark for Indian revenge. They were in want of a prisoner, from whom to obtain intelligence, and Boone was the person of all others whom they desired. He fled; but among so many warriors, it proved, that some were swifter of foot than himself, and these overtook him and made him prisoner.

By a tedious and circuitous march they brought him back to the Blue Licks, and took their measures with so much caution, as to make twenty-seven of the thirty salt makers prisoners. Boone obtained for them a capitulation, which stipulated, that their lives should be spared, and that they should be kindly treated. The fortunate three, that escaped, had just been sent home with the salt that had been made during their ill-fated expedition.

The Indians were faithful to the stipulations of the capitulation; and treated their prisoners with as much kindness both on their way, and after their arrival at Chillicothe, as their habits and means would admit. The march was rapid and fatiguing, occupying three days of weather unusually cold and inclement.

The captivity of twenty-eight of the select and bravest of the Kentucky settlers, without the hope of liberation or exchange, was a severe blow to the infant settlement. Had the Indians, after this achievement, immediately marched against Boonesborough, so materially diminished in its means of defence, they might either have taken the place by surprise, or, availing themselves of the influence which the possession of these prisoners gave them over the fears and affections of the inmates, might have procured a capitulation of the fort. Following up this plan in progression, the weaker station would have followed the example of Boonesborough; since it is hardly supposable, that the united influence of fear, example, and the menace of the massacre of so many prisoners would not have procured the surrender of all the rest. But, though on various occasions they manifested the keenest observation, and the acutest quickness of instinctive cunning—though their plans were generally predicated on the soundest reason, they showed in this, and in all cases, a want of the combination of thought, and the abstract and extended views of the whites on such occasions. For a single effort, nothing could be imagined wiser than their views. For a combination made up of a number of elements of calculation, they had no reasoning powers at all.

Owing to this want of capacity for combined operations of thought, and their, habitual intoxication of excitement, on the issue of carrying some important enterprise without loss, they hurried home with their prisoners, leaving the voice of lamentation and the sentiment of extreme dejection among the bereaved inmates of Boonesborough.