CHAPTER XXXI.

1766-1769.

DEATH OF PONTIAC.

_Effects of the Peace._--_Pontiac repairs to Oswego._--_Congress at

Oswego._--_Speech of Sir William Johnson._--_Reply of Pontiac._--

_Prospects of the Indian Race._--_Fresh Disturbances._--_Pontiac

visits St. Louis._--_The Village of Cahokia._--_Assassination of

Pontiac._--_Vengeance of his Followers._ 492

APPENDIX.

A.--THE IROQUOIS.--EXTENT OF THEIR CONQUESTS.--POLICY

PURSUED TOWARDS THEM BY THE FRENCH AND THE ENGLISH.--MEASURES

OF SIR WILLIAM JOHNSON.

1. Territory of the Iroquois. 503

2. French and English Policy towards the Iroquois. Measures

of Sir William Johnson. 504

B.--CAUSES OF THE INDIAN WAR.

1. Views of Sir William Johnson. 507

2. Tragedy of Ponteach. 509

C.--DETROIT AND MICHILLIMACKINAC.

1. The Siege of Detroit. 516

2. Massacre of Michillimackinac. 525

D.--THE WAR ON THE BORDERS.

The Battle of Bushy Run. 527

E.--THE PAXTON RIOTS.

1. Evidence against the Indians of Conestoga. 531

2. Proceedings of the Rioters. 532

3. Memorials of the Paxton Men. 543

F.--THE CAMPAIGN OF 1764.

1. Bouquet's Expedition. 551

2. Condition and Temper of the Western Indians. 553

INDEX. 557

List of Illustrations.

A Map of the Country on the Ohio & Muskingum Rivers Shewing the Situation

of the Indian Towns with respect to the Army under the Command of Colonel

Bouquet By Tho.^{s} Hutchins Afs. Engineer. 419

A Plan of the several Villages in the Illinois Country, with Part of the

River Mississippi &c. 455

CHAPTER XVIII.

1763.

FRONTIER FORTS AND SETTLEMENTS.

We have followed the war to its farthest confines, and watched it in its

remotest operations; not because there is any thing especially worthy to

be chronicled in the capture of a backwoods fort, and the slaughter of a

few soldiers, but because these acts exhibit some of the characteristic

traits of the actors. It was along the line of the British frontier that

the war raged with its most destructive violence. To destroy the

garrisons, and then turn upon the settlements, had been the original plan

of the Indians; and while Pontiac was pushing the siege of Detroit, and

the smaller interior posts were treacherously assailed, the tempest was

gathering which was soon to burst along the whole frontier.

In 1763, the British settlements did not extend beyond the Alleghanies. In

the province of New York, they reached no farther than the German Flats,

on the Mohawk. In Pennsylvania, the town of Bedford might be regarded as

the extreme verge of the frontier, while the settlements of Virginia

extended to a corresponding distance. Through the adjacent wilderness ran

various lines of military posts, to make good the communication from point

to point. One of the most important among these passed through the country

of the Six Nations, and guarded the route between the northern colonies

and Lake Ontario. This communication was formed by the Hudson, the Mohawk,

Wood Creek, the Oneida Lake, and the River Oswego. It was defended by

Forts Stanwix, Brewerton, Oswego, and two or three smaller posts. Near the

western extremity of Lake Ontario stood Fort Niagara, at the mouth of the

river whence it derived its name. It was a strong and extensive work,

guarding the access to the whole interior country, both by way of the

Oswego communication just mentioned, and by that of Canada and the St.

Lawrence. From Fort Niagara the route lay by a portage beside the great

falls to Presqu' Isle, on Lake Erie, where the town of Erie now stands.

Thence the traveller could pass, by a short overland passage, to Fort Le

B[oe]uf, on a branch of the Alleghany; thence, by water, to Venango; and

thence, down the Alleghany, to Fort Pitt. This last-mentioned post stood

on the present site of Pittsburg--the point of land formed by the

confluence of the Alleghany and the Monongahela. Its position was as

captivating to the eye of an artist as it was commanding in a military

point of view. On the left, the Monongahela descended through a woody

valley of singular beauty; on the right, flowed the Alleghany, beneath

steep and lofty banks; and both united, in front, to form the broad Ohio,

which, flanked by picturesque hills and declivities, began at this point

its progress towards the Mississippi. The place already had its historic

associations, though, as yet, their roughness was unmellowed by the lapse

of time. It was here that the French had erected Fort du Quesne. Within a

few miles, Braddock encountered his disastrous overthrow; and on the hill

behind the fort, Grant's Highlanders and Lewis's Virginians had been

surrounded and captured, though not without a stout resistance on the part

of the latter.

Fort Pitt was built by General Stanwix, in the year 1759, upon the ruins

of Fort du Quesne, destroyed by General Forbes. It was a strong

fortification, with ramparts of earth, faced with brick on the side

looking down the Ohio. Its walls have long since been levelled to the

ground, and over their ruins have risen warehouses, and forges with

countless chimneys, rolling up their black volumes of smoke. Where once

the bark canoe lay on the strand, a throng of steamers now lie moored

along the crowded levee.

Fort Pitt stood far aloof in the forest, and one might journey eastward

full two hundred miles, before the English settlements began to thicken.

Behind it lay a broken and woody tract; then succeeded the great barrier

of the Alleghanies, traversing the country in successive ridges; and

beyond these lay vast woods, extending to the Susquehanna. Eastward of

this river, cabins of settlers became more numerous, until, in the

neighborhood of Lancaster, the country assumed an appearance of prosperity

and cultivation. Two roads led from Fort Pitt to the settlements, one of

which was cut by General Braddock in his disastrous march across the

mountains, from Cumberland, in the year 1755. The other, which was the

more frequented, passed by Carlisle and Bedford, and was made by General

Forbes, in 1758. Leaving the fort by this latter route, the traveller

would find himself, after a journey of fifty-six miles, at the little post

of Ligonier, whence he would soon reach Fort Bedford, about a hundred

miles from Fort Pitt. It was nestled among mountains, and surrounded by

clearings and log cabins. Passing several small posts and settlements, he

would arrive at Carlisle, nearly a hundred miles farther east, a place

resembling Bedford in its general aspect, although of greater extent.

After leaving Fort Bedford, numerous houses of settlers were scattered

here and there among the valleys, on each side of the road from Fort Pitt,

so that the number of families beyond the Susquehanna amounted to several

hundreds, thinly distributed over a great space.[271] From Carlisle to

Harris's Ferry, now Harrisburg, on the Susquehanna, was but a short

distance; and from thence, the road led directly into the heart of the

settlements. The frontiers of Virginia bore a general resemblance to those

of Pennsylvania. It is not necessary at present to indicate minutely the

position of their scattered settlements, and the small posts intended to

protect them.[272] Along these borders all had remained quiet, and nothing

occurred to excite alarm or uneasiness. Captain Simeon Ecuyer, a brave

Swiss officer, who commanded at Fort Pitt, had indeed received warnings of

danger. On the fourth of May, he wrote to Colonel Bouquet at Philadelphia:

"Major Gladwyn writes to tell me that I am surrounded by rascals. He

complains a great deal of the Delawares and Shawanoes. It is this

_canaille_ who stir up the rest to mischief." At length, on the

twenty-seventh, at about dusk in the evening, a party of Indians was seen

descending the banks of the Alleghany, with laden pack-horses. They built

fires, and encamped on the shore till daybreak, when they all crossed over

to the fort, bringing with them a great quantity of valuable furs. These

they sold to the traders, demanding, in exchange, bullets, hatchets, and

gunpowder; but their conduct was so peculiar as to excite the just

suspicion that they came either as spies or with some other insidious

design.[273] Hardly were they gone, when tidings came in that Colonel

Clapham, with several persons, both men and women, had been murdered and

scalped near the fort; and it was soon after discovered that the

inhabitants of an Indian town, a few miles up the Alleghany, had totally

abandoned their cabins, as if bent on some plan of mischief. On the next

day, two soldiers were shot within a mile of the fort. An express was

hastily sent to Venango, to warn the little garrison of danger; but he

returned almost immediately, having been twice fired at, and severely

wounded.[274] A trader named Calhoun now came in from the Indian village

of Tuscaroras, with intelligence of a yet more startling kind. At eleven

o'clock on the night of the twenty-seventh, a chief named Shingas, with

several of the principal warriors in the place, had come to Calhoun's

cabin, and earnestly begged him to depart, declaring that they did not

wish to see him killed before their eyes. The Ottawas and Ojibwas, they

said, had taken up the hatchet, and captured Detroit, Sandusky, and all

the forts of the interior. The Delawares and Shawanoes of the Ohio were

following their example, and were murdering all the traders among them.

Calhoun and the thirteen men in his employ lost no time in taking their

departure. The Indians forced them to leave their guns behind, promising

that they would give them three warriors to guide them in safety to Fort

Pitt; but the whole proved a piece of characteristic dissimulation and

treachery. The three guides led them into an ambuscade at the mouth of

Beaver Creek. A volley of balls showered upon them; eleven were killed on

the spot, and Calhoun and two others alone made their escape.[275] "I

see," writes Ecuyer to his colonel, "that the affair is general. I tremble

for our outposts. I believe, from what I hear, that I am surrounded by

Indians. I neglect nothing to give them a good reception; and I expect to

be attacked to-morrow morning. Please God I may be. I am passably well

prepared. Everybody is at work, and I do not sleep; but I tremble lest my

messenger should be cut off."

The intelligence concerning the fate of the traders in the Indian villages

proved but too true. They were slaughtered everywhere, without mercy, and

often under circumstances of the foulest barbarity. A boy named

M'Cullough, captured during the French war, and at this time a prisoner

among the Indians, relates, in his published narrative, that he, with a

party of Indian children, went out, one evening, to gaze with awe and

wonder at the body of a trader, which lay by the side of the path, mangled

with tomahawks, and stuck full of arrows.[276] It was stated in the

journals of the day, that more than a hundred traders fell victims, and

that the property taken from them, or seized at the capture of the

interior posts, amounted to an incredible sum.[277]

The Moravian Loskiel relates that in the villages of the Hurons or

Wyandots, meaning probably those of Sandusky, the traders were so numerous

that the Indians were afraid to attack them openly, and had recourse to

the following stratagem: They told their unsuspecting victims that the

surrounding tribes had risen in arms, and were soon coming that way, bent

on killing every Englishman they could find. The Wyandots averred that

they would gladly protect their friends, the white men; but that it would

be impossible to do so, unless the latter would consent, for the sake of

appearances, to become their prisoners. In this case, they said, the

hostile Indians would refrain from injuring them, and they should be set

at liberty as soon as the danger was past. The traders fell into the

snare. They gave up their arms, and, the better to carry out the

deception, even consented to be bound; but no sooner was this

accomplished, than their treacherous counsellors murdered them all in cold

blood.[278]

A curious incident, relating to this period, is given by the missionary

Heckewelder. Strange as the story may appear, it is in strict accordance

with Indian character and usage, and perhaps need not be rejected as

wholly void of truth. The name of the person, to whom it relates, several

times occurs in the manuscript journals and correspondence of officers in

the Indian country. A trader named Chapman was made prisoner by the

Indians near Detroit. For some time, he was protected by the humane

interference of a Frenchman; but at length his captors resolved to burn

him alive. He was tied to the stake, and the fire was kindled. As the heat

grew intolerable, one of the Indians handed to him a bowl filled with

broth. The wretched man, scorching with fiery thirst, eagerly snatched the

vessel, and applied it to his lips; but the liquid was purposely made

scalding hot. With a sudden burst of rage, he flung back the bowl and its

contents into the face of the Indian. "He is mad! he is mad!" shouted the

crowd; and though, the moment before, they had been keenly anticipating

the delight of seeing him burn, they hastily put out the fire, released

him from the stake, and set him at liberty.[279] Such is the superstitious

respect which the Indians entertain for every form of insanity.

While the alarming incidents just mentioned were occurring at Fort Pitt,

the garrison of Fort Ligonier received yet more unequivocal tokens of

hostility; for one morning a volley of bullets was sent among them, with

no other effect, however, than killing a few horses. In the vicinity of

Fort Bedford, several men were killed; on which the inhabitants were

mustered and organized, and the garrison kept constantly on the alert. A

few of the best woodsmen were formed into a company, dressed and painted

like Indians. A party of the enemy suddenly appeared, whooping and

brandishing their tomahawks, at the skirts of the forest; on which these

counterfeit savages dashed upon them at full gallop, routing them in an

instant, and driving them far through the woods.[280]

At Fort Pitt every preparation was made for an attack. The houses and

cabins outside the rampart were levelled to the ground, and every morning,

at an hour before dawn, the drum beat, and the troops were ordered to

their alarm posts.[281] The garrison consisted of three hundred and thirty

soldiers, traders, and backwoodsmen; and there were also in the fort about

one hundred women, and a still greater number of children, most of them

belonging to the families of settlers who were preparing to build their

cabins in the neighborhood.[282] "We are so crowded in the fort," writes

Ecuyer to Colonel Bouquet, "that I fear disease; for, in spite of every

care, I cannot keep the place as clean as I should like. Besides, the

small-pox is among us; and I have therefore caused a hospital to be built

under the drawbridge, out of range of musket-shot.... I am determined to

hold my post, spare my men, and never expose them without necessity. This,

I think, is what you require of me."[283] The desultory outrages with

which the war began, and which only served to put the garrison on their

guard, prove that among the neighboring Indians there was no chief of

sufficient power to curb their wayward temper, and force them to conform

to any preconcerted plan. The authors of the mischief were unruly young

warriors, fevered with eagerness to win the first scalp, and setting at

defiance the authority of their elders. These petty annoyances, far from

abating, continued for many successive days, and kept the garrison in a

state of restless alarm. It was dangerous to venture outside the walls,

and a few who attempted it were shot and scalped by lurking Indians. "They

have the impudence," writes an officer, "to fire all night at our

sentinels;" nor were these attacks confined to the night, for even during

the day no man willingly exposed his head above the rampart. The

surrounding woods were known to be full of prowling Indians, whose number

seemed daily increasing, though as yet they had made no attempt at a

general attack. At length, on the afternoon of the twenty-second of June,

a party of them appeared at the farthest extremity of the cleared lands

behind the fort, driving off the horses which were grazing there, and

killing the cattle. No sooner was this accomplished than a general fire

was opened upon the fort from every side at once, though at so great a

distance that only two men were killed. The garrison replied by a

discharge of howitzers, the shells of which, bursting in the midst of the

Indians, greatly amazed and disconcerted them. As it grew dark, their fire

slackened, though, throughout the night, the flash of guns was seen at

frequent intervals, followed by the whooping of the invisible assailants.

At nine o'clock on the following morning, several Indians approached the

fort with the utmost confidence, and took their stand at the outer edge of

the ditch, where one of them, a Delaware, named the Turtle's Heart,

addressed the garrison as follows:--

"My Brothers, we that stand here are your friends; but we have bad news to

tell you. Six great nations of Indians have taken up the hatchet, and cut

off all the English garrisons, excepting yours. They are now on their way

to destroy you also.

"My Brothers, we are your friends, and we wish to save your lives. What we

desire you to do is this: You must leave this fort, with all your women

and children, and go down to the English settlements, where you will be

safe. There are many bad Indians already here; but we will protect you

from them. You must go at once, because if you wait till the six great

nations arrive here, you will all be killed, and we can do nothing to

protect you."

To this proposal, by which the Indians hoped to gain a safe and easy

possession of the fort, Captain Ecuyer made the following reply. The vein

of humor perceptible in it may serve to indicate that he was under no

great apprehension for the safety of his garrison:--

"My Brothers, we are very grateful for your kindness, though we are

convinced that you must be mistaken in what you have told us about the

forts being captured. As for ourselves, we have plenty of provisions, and

are able to keep the fort against all the nations of Indians that may dare

to attack it. We are very well off in this place, and we mean to stay

here.

"My Brothers, as you have shown yourselves such true friends, we feel

bound in gratitude to inform you that an army of six thousand English will

shortly arrive here, and that another army of three thousand is gone up

the lakes, to punish the Ottawas and Ojibwas. A third has gone to the

frontiers of Virginia, where they will be joined by your enemies, the

Cherokees and Catawbas, who are coming here to destroy you. Therefore take

pity on your women and children, and get out of the way as soon as

possible. We have told you this in confidence, out of our great solicitude

lest any of you should be hurt; and we hope that you will not tell the

other Indians, lest they should escape from our vengeance."[284]

This politic invention of the three armies had an excellent effect, and so

startled the Indians, that, on the next day, most of them withdrew from

the neighborhood, and went to meet a great body of warriors, who were

advancing from the westward to attack the fort. On the afternoon of the

twenty-sixth, a soldier named Gray, belonging to the garrison of Presqu'

Isle, came in with the report that, more than a week before, that little

post had been furiously attacked by upwards of two hundred Indians from

Detroit, that they had assailed it for three days, repeatedly setting it

on fire, and had at length undermined it so completely, that the garrison

was forced to capitulate, on condition of being allowed to retire in

safety to Fort Pitt. No sooner, however, had they left their shelter,

than the Indians fell upon them, and, as Gray declared, butchered them

all, except himself and one other man, who darted into the woods, and

escaped amid the confusion, hearing behind them, as they fled, the screams

of their murdered comrades. This account proved erroneous, as the garrison

were carried by their captors in safety to Detroit. Some time after this

event, Captain Dalzell's detachment, on their way to Detroit, stopped at

the place, and found, close to the ruined fort, the hair of several of the

men, which had been shorn off, as a preliminary step in the process of

painting and bedecking them like Indian warriors. From this it appears

that some of the unfortunate soldiers were adopted on the spot into the

tribes of their conquerors. In a previous chapter, a detailed account has

been given of the defence of Presqu' Isle, and its capture.

Gray informed Captain Ecuyer that, a few days before the attack on the

garrison, they had seen a schooner on the lake, approaching from the

westward. She had sent a boat to shore with the tidings that Detroit had

been beleaguered, for more than six weeks, by many hundred Indians, and

that a detachment of ninety-six men had been attacked near that place, of

whom only about thirty had escaped, the rest being either killed on the

spot or put to death by slow torture. The panic-stricken soldier, in his

flight from Presqu' Isle, had passed the spots where lately had stood the

little forts of Le B[oe]uf and Venango. Both were burnt to the ground, and

he surmised that the whole of their wretched garrisons had fallen

victims.[285] The disaster proved less fatal than his fears led him to

suspect; for, on the same day on which he arrived, Ensign Price, the

officer commanding at Le B[oe]uf, was seen approaching along the bank of

the Alleghany, followed by seven haggard and half-famished soldiers.[286]

He and his men told the following story:--

The available defences of Fort Le B[oe]uf consisted, at the time, of a

single ill-constructed blockhouse, occupied by the ensign, with two

corporals and eleven privates. They had only about twenty rounds of

ammunition each; and the powder, moreover, was in a damaged condition. At

nine or ten o'clock, on the morning of the eighteenth of June, a soldier

told Price that he saw Indians approaching from the direction of Presqu'

Isle. Price ran to the door, and, looking out, saw one of his men,

apparently much frightened, shaking hands with five Indians. He held open

the door till the man had entered, the five Indians following close, after

having, in obedience to a sign from Price, left their weapons behind. They

declared that they were going to fight the Cherokees, and begged for

powder and ball. This being refused, they asked leave to sleep on the

ground before the blockhouse. Price assented, on which one of them went

off, but very soon returned with thirty more, who crowded before the

window of the blockhouse, and begged for a kettle to cook their food.

Price tried to give them one through the window, but the aperture proved

too narrow, and they grew clamorous that he should open the door again.

This he refused. They then went to a neighboring storehouse, pulled out

some of the foundation stones, and got into the cellar; whence, by

knocking away one or two planks immediately above the sill of the

building, they could fire on the garrison in perfect safety, being below

the range of shot from the loopholes of the blockhouse, which was not ten

yards distant. Here they remained some hours, making their preparations,

while the garrison waited in suspense, cooped up in their wooden citadel.

Towards evening, they opened fire, and shot such a number of burning

arrows against the side and roof of the blockhouse, that three times it

was in flames. But the men worked desperately, and each time the fire was

extinguished. A fourth time the alarm was given; and now the men on the

roof came down in despair, crying out that they could not extinguish it,

and calling on their officer for God's sake to let them leave the

building, or they should all be burnt alive. Price behaved with great

spirit. "We must fight as long as we can, and then die together," was his

answer to the entreaties of his disheartened men.[287] But he could not

revive their drooping courage, and meanwhile the fire spread beyond all

hope of mastering it. They implored him to let them go, and at length the

brave young officer told them to save themselves if they could. It was

time, for they were suffocating in their burning prison. There was a

narrow window in the back of the blockhouse, through which, with the help

of axes, they all got out; and, favored by the darkness,--for night had

closed in,--escaped to the neighboring pine-swamp, while the Indians, to

make assurance doubly sure, were still showering fire-arrows against the

front of the blazing building. As the fugitives groped their way, in

pitchy darkness, through the tangled intricacies of the swamp, they saw

the sky behind them lurid with flames, and heard the reports of the

Indians' guns, as these painted demons were leaping and yelling in front

of the flaming blockhouse, firing into the loopholes, and exulting in the

thought that their enemies were suffering the agonies of death within.

Presqu' Isle was but fifteen miles distant; but, from the direction in

which his assailants had come, Price rightly judged that it had been

captured, and therefore resolved to make his way, if possible, to Venango,

and reinforce Lieutenant Gordon, who commanded there. A soldier named John

Dortinger, who had been sixteen months at Le B[oe]uf, thought that he

could guide the party, but lost the way in the darkness; so that, after

struggling all night through swamps and forests, they found themselves at

daybreak only two miles from their point of departure. Just before dawn,

several of the men became separated from the rest. Price and those with

him waited for some time, whistling, coughing, and making such other

signals as they dared, to attract their attention, but without success,

and they were forced to proceed without them. Their only provisions were

three biscuits to a man. They pushed on all day, and reached Venango at

one o'clock of the following night. Nothing remained but piles of

smouldering embers, among which lay the half-burned bodies of its hapless

garrison. They now continued their journey down the Alleghany. On the

third night their last biscuit was consumed, and they were half dead with

hunger and exhaustion before their eyes were gladdened at length by the

friendly walls of Fort Pitt. Of those who had straggled from the party,

all eventually appeared but two, who, spent with starvation, had been left

behind, and no doubt perished.[288]

Not a man remained alive to tell the fate of Venango. An Indian, who was

present at its destruction, long afterwards described the scene to Sir

William Johnson. A large body of Senecas gained entrance under pretence of

friendship, then closed the gates, fell upon the garrison, and butchered

them all except the commanding officer, Lieutenant Gordon, whom they

forced to write, from their dictation, a statement of the grievances

which had driven them to arms, and then tortured over a slow fire for

several successive nights, till he expired. This done, they burned the

place to the ground, and departed.[289]

While Le B[oe]uf and Venango were thus assailed, Fort Ligonier was also

attacked by a large body of Indians, who fired upon it with great fury and

pertinacity, but were beaten off after a hard day's fighting. Fort

Augusta, on the Susquehanna, was at the same time menaced; but the

garrison being strengthened by a timely re-enforcement, the Indians

abandoned their purpose. Carlisle, Bedford, and the small intermediate

posts, all experienced some effects of savage hostility;[290] while among

the settlers, whose houses were scattered throughout the adjacent valleys,

outrages were perpetrated, and sufferings endured, which defy all attempt

at description.

At Fort Pitt, every preparation was made to repel the attack which was

hourly expected. A part of the rampart, undermined by the spring floods,

had fallen into the ditch; but, by dint of great labor, this injury was

repaired. A line of palisades was erected along the ramparts; the barracks

were made shot-proof, to protect the women and children; and, as the

interior buildings were all of wood, a rude fire-engine was constructed,

to extinguish any flames which might be kindled by the burning arrows of

the Indians. Several weeks, however, elapsed without any determined attack

from the enemy, who were engaged in their bloody work among the

settlements and smaller posts. From the beginning of July until towards

its close, nothing occurred except a series of petty and futile attacks,

by which the Indians abundantly exhibited their malicious intentions,

without doing harm to the garrison. During the whole of this time, the

communication with the settlements was completely cut off, so that no

letters were written from the fort, or, at all events, none reached their

destination; and we are therefore left to depend upon a few meagre

official reports, as our only sources of information.

On the twenty-sixth of July, a small party of Indians was seen approaching

the gate, displaying a flag, which one of them had some time before

received as a present from the English commander. On the strength of this

token, they were admitted, and proved to be chiefs of distinction; among

whom were Shingas, Turtle's Heart, and others, who had hitherto maintained

an appearance of friendship. Being admitted to a council, one of them

addressed Captain Ecuyer and his officers to the following effect:--

"Brothers, what we are about to say comes from our hearts, and not from

our lips.

"Brothers, we wish to hold fast the chain of friendship--that ancient

chain which our forefathers held with their brethren the English. You have

let your end of the chain fall to the ground, but ours is still fast

within our hands. Why do you complain that our young men have fired at

your soldiers, and killed your cattle and your horses? You yourselves are

the cause of this. You marched your armies into our country, and built

forts here, though we told you, again and again, that we wished you to

remove. My Brothers, this land is ours, and not yours.

"My Brothers, two days ago we received a great belt of wampum from the

Ottawas of Detroit, and the message they sent us was in these words:--

"'Grandfathers the Delawares, by this belt we inform you that in a short

time we intend to pass, in a very great body, through your country, on our

way to strike the English at the forks of the Ohio. Grandfathers, you know

us to be a headstrong people. We are determined to stop at nothing; and as

we expect to be very hungry, we will seize and eat up every thing that

comes in our way.'[291]

"Brothers, you have heard the words of the Ottawas. If you leave this

place immediately, and go home to your wives and children, no harm will

come of it; but if you stay, you must blame yourselves alone for what may

happen. Therefore we desire you to remove."

To the not wholly unreasonable statement of wrongs contained in this

speech, Captain Ecuyer replied, by urging the shallow pretence that the

forts were built for the purpose of supplying the Indians with clothes and

ammunition. He then absolutely refused to leave the place. "I have," he

said, "warriors, provisions, and ammunition, to defend it three years

against all the Indians in the woods; and we shall never abandon it as

long as a white man lives in America. I despise the Ottawas, and am very

much surprised at our brothers the Delawares, for proposing to us to leave

this place and go home. This is our home. You have attacked us without

reason or provocation; you have murdered and plundered our warriors and

traders; you have taken our horses and cattle; and at the same time you

tell us your hearts are good towards your brethren the English. How can I

have faith in you? Therefore, now, Brothers, I will advise you to go home

to your towns, and take care of your wives and children. Moreover, I tell

you that if any of you appear again about this fort, I will throw

bombshells, which will burst and blow you to atoms, and fire cannon among

you, loaded with a whole bag full of bullets. Therefore take care, for I

don't want to hurt you."[292]

The chiefs departed, much displeased with their reception. Though nobody

in his senses could blame the course pursued by Captain Ecuyer, and though

the building of forts in the Indian country could not be charged as a

crime, except by the most overstrained casuistry, yet we cannot refrain

from sympathizing with the intolerable hardship to which the progress of

civilization subjected the unfortunate tenants of the wilderness, and

which goes far to extenuate the perfidy and cruelty that marked their

conduct throughout the whole course of the war.

Disappointed of gaining a bloodless possession of the fort, the Indians

now, for the first time, began a general attack. On the night succeeding

the conference, they approached in great numbers, under cover of the

darkness, and completely surrounded it; many of them crawling under the

banks of the two rivers, and, with incredible perseverance, digging, with

their knives, holes in which they were completely sheltered from the fire

of the fort. On one side, the whole bank was lined with these burrows,

from each of which a bullet or an arrow was shot out whenever a soldier

chanced to expose his head. At daybreak, a general fire was opened from

every side, and continued without intermission until night, and through

several succeeding days. No great harm was done, however. The soldiers lay

close behind their parapet of logs, watching the movements of their subtle

enemies, and paying back their shot with interest. The red uniforms of the

Royal Americans mingled with the gray homespun of the border riflemen, or

the fringed hunting-frocks of old Indian-fighters, wary and adroit as the

red-skinned warriors themselves. They liked the sport, and were eager to

sally from behind their defences, and bring their assailants to close

quarters; but Ecuyer was too wise to consent. He was among them, as well

pleased as they, directing, encouraging, and applauding them in his broken

English. An arrow flew over the rampart and wounded him in the leg; but,

it seems, with no other result than to extort a passing execration. The

Indians shot fire-arrows, too, from their burrows, but not one of them

took effect. The yelling at times was terrific, and the women and children

in the crowded barracks clung to each other in terror; but there was more

noise than execution, and the assailants suffered more than the assailed.

Three or four days after, Ecuyer wrote in French to his colonel, "They

were all well under cover, and so were we. They did us no harm: nobody

killed; seven wounded, and I myself slightly. Their attack lasted five

days and five nights. We are certain of having killed and wounded twenty

of them, without reckoning those we could not see. I let nobody fire till

he had marked his man; and not an Indian could show his nose without being

pricked with a bullet, for I have some good shots here.... Our men are

doing admirably, regulars and the rest. All that they ask is to go out and

fight. I am fortunate to have the honor of commanding such brave men. I

only wish the Indians had ventured an assault. They would have remembered

it to the thousandth generation!... I forgot to tell you that they threw

fire-arrows to burn our works, but they could not reach the buildings, nor

even the rampart. Only two arrows came into the fort, one of which had the

insolence to make free with my left leg."

This letter was written on the second of August. On the day before the

Indians had all decamped. An event, soon to be described, had put an end

to the attack, and relieved the tired garrison of their presence.[293]

CHAPTER XIX.

1763.

THE WAR ON THE BORDERS.

Along the Western frontiers of Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia,

terror reigned supreme. The Indian scalping-parties were ranging

everywhere, laying waste the settlements, destroying the harvests, and

butchering men, women, and children, with ruthless fury. Many hundreds of

wretched fugitives flocked for refuge to Carlisle and the other towns of

the border, bringing tales of inconceivable horror. Strong parties of

armed men, who went out to reconnoitre the country, found every habitation

reduced to cinders, and the half-burned bodies of the inmates lying among

the smouldering ruins; while here and there was seen some miserable

wretch, scalped and tomahawked, but still alive and conscious. One writing

from the midst of these scenes declares that, in his opinion, a thousand

families were driven from their homes; that, on both sides of the

Susquehanna, the woods were filled with fugitives, without shelter and

without food; and that, unless the havoc were speedily checked, the

western part of Pennsylvania would be totally deserted, and Lancaster

become the frontier town.[294]

While these scenes were enacted on the borders of Pennsylvania and the

more southern provinces, the settlers in the valley of the Mohawk, and

even along the Hudson, were menaced with destruction. Had not the Six

Nations been kept tranquil by the exertions of Sir William Johnson, the

most disastrous results must have ensued. The Senecas and a few of the

Cayugas were the only members of the confederacy who took part in the war.

Venango, as we have seen, was destroyed by a party of Senecas, who soon

after made a feeble attack upon Niagara. They blockaded it for a few days,

with no other effect than that of confining the garrison within the walls,

and, soon despairing of success, abandoned the attempt.

In the mean time, Sir Jeffrey Amherst, the Commander-in-chief, was in a

position far from enviable. He had reaped laurels; but if he hoped to

enjoy them in peace, he was doomed to disappointment. A miserable war was

suddenly thrown on his hands, barren of honors and fruitful of troubles;

and this, too, at a time when he was almost bereft of resources. The

armies which had conquered Canada were, as we have seen, disbanded or sent

home, and nothing remained but a few fragments and skeletons of regiments

lately arrived from the West Indies, enfeebled by disease and hard

service. In one particular, however, he had reason to congratulate

himself,--the character of the officers who commanded under his orders in

Pennsylvania, Virginia, and Maryland. Colonel Henry Bouquet was a Swiss,

of the Canton of Berne, who had followed the trade of war from boyhood. He

had served first the King of Sardinia, and afterwards the republic of

Holland; and when the French war began in 1755, he accepted the commission

of lieutenant-colonel, in a regiment newly organized, under the direction

of the Duke of Cumberland, expressly for American service. The commissions

were to be given to foreigners as well as to Englishmen and provincials;

and the ranks were to be filled chiefly from the German emigrants in

Pennsylvania and other provinces.[295] The men and officers of this

regiment, known as the "Royal American," had now, for more than six years,

been engaged in the rough and lonely service of the frontiers and forests;

and when the Indian war broke out, it was chiefly they, who, like military

hermits, held the detached outposts of the West. Bouquet, however, who was

at this time colonel of the first battalion, had his headquarters at

Philadelphia, where he was held in great esteem. His person was fine, and

his bearing composed and dignified; perhaps somewhat austere, for he is

said to have been more respected than loved by his officers. Nevertheless,

their letters to him are very far from indicating any want of cordial

relations. He was fond of the society of men of science, and wrote English

better than most British officers of the time. Here and there, however, a

passage in his letters suggests the inference, that the character of the

gallant mercenary was toned to his profession, and to the unideal epoch in

which he lived. Yet he was not the less an excellent soldier;

indefatigable, faithful, full of resource, and without those arrogant

prejudices which had impaired the efficiency of many good British

officers, in the recent war, and of which Sir Jeffrey Amherst was a

conspicuous example. He had acquired a practical knowledge of Indian

warfare; and it is said that, in the course of the hazardous partisan

service in which he was often engaged, when it was necessary to penetrate

dark defiles and narrow passes, he was sometimes known to advance before

his men, armed with a rifle, and acting the part of a scout.[296]

Sir Jeffrey had long and persistently flattered himself that the Indian

uprising was but a temporary ebullition, which would soon subside. Bouquet

sent him, on the fourth of June, a copy of a letter from Captain

Ecuyer,[297] at Fort Pitt, reporting the disturbances in that quarter. On

the next day Bouquet wrote again, in a graver strain; and Amherst replied,

from New York, on the sixth: "I gave immediate orders for completing the

light infantry companies of the 17th, 42d, and 77th regiments. They are to

assemble without loss of time, and to encamp on Staten Island, under Major

Campbell, of the 42d.... Although I have thought proper to assemble this

force, which I judge more than sufficient to quell any disturbances the

whole Indian strength could raise, yet I am persuaded the alarm will end

in nothing more than a rash attempt of what the Senecas have been

threatening, and which we have heard of for some time past. As to their

cutting off defenceless families, or even some of the small posts, it is

certainly at all times in their power to effect such enterprises.... The

post of Fort Pitt, or any of the others commanded by officers, can

certainly never be in danger from such a wretched enemy.... I am only

sorry that when such outrages are committed, the guilty should escape; for

I am fully convinced the only true method of treating the savages is to

keep them in proper subjection, and punish, without exception, the

transgressors.... As I have no sort of dependence on the Assembly of

Pennsylvania, I have taken such measures as will fully enable me to

chastise any nation or tribe of Indians that dare to commit hostilities on

his Majesty's subjects. I only wait to hear from you what farther steps

the savages have taken; for I still think it cannot be any thing general,

but the rash attempt of that turbulent tribe, the Senecas, who richly

deserve a severe chastisement from our hands, for their treacherous

behavior on many occasions."

On receiving this letter, Bouquet immediately wrote to Ecuyer at Fort

Pitt: "The General has taken the necessary measures to chastise those

infamous villains, and defers only to make them feel the weight of his

resentment till he is better informed of their intentions." And having

thus briefly despatched the business in hand, he proceeds to touch on the

news of the day: "I give you joy of the success of our troops at the

Manilla, where Captain George Ourry hath acquired the two best things in

this world, glory and money. We hear of a great change in the ministry,"

etc.... "P. S. I have lent three pounds to the express. Please to stop it

for me. The General expects that Mr. Croghan will proceed directly to Fort

Pitt, when he will soon discover the causes of this sudden rupture and the

intentions of these rascals."

Scarcely had Bouquet sent off the express-rider with this letter, when

another came from Ecuyer with worse reports from the west. He forwarded it

to Amherst, who wrote on receiving it: "I find by the intelligence

enclosed in your letter that the affair of the Indians appears to be more

general than I had apprehended, although I believe nothing of what is

mentioned regarding the garrison of the Detroit being cut off. It is

extremely inconvenient at this time; ... but I cannot defer sending you a

reinforcement for the communication." Accordingly he ordered two companies

of the 42d and 77th regiments to join Bouquet at Philadelphia. "If you

think it necessary," he adds, "you will yourself proceed to Fort Pitt,

that you may be the better enabled to put in execution the requisite

orders for securing the communication and reducing the Indians to reason."

Amherst now bestirred himself to put such troops as he had into fighting

order. The 80th regiment, Hopkins's company of Rangers, and a portion of

the Royal Americans, were disbanded, and the men drafted to complete other

broken corps. His plan was to push forward as many troops as possible to

Niagara by way of Oswego, and to Presqu' Isle by way of Fort Pitt, and

thence to send them up the lakes to take vengeance on the offending

tribes.

Bouquet, recognizing at length the peril of the small outlying posts, like

Venango and Le B[oe]uf, proposed to abandon them, and concentrate at Fort

Pitt and Presqu' Isle; a movement which, could it have been executed in

time, would have saved both blood and trouble. But Amherst would not

consent. "I cannot think," he writes, "of giving them up at this time, if

we can keep them, as such a step would give the Indians room to think

themselves more formidable than they really are; and it would be much

better we never attempted to take posts in what they call their country,

if, upon every alarm, we abandon them.... It remains at present for us to

take every precaution we can, by which we may put a stop, as soon as

possible, to their committing any farther mischief, and to bring them to a

proper subjection; for, without _that_, I never do expect that they will

be quiet and orderly, as every act of kindness and generosity to those

barbarians is looked upon as proceeding from our fears."

Bouquet next writes to report that, with the help of the two companies

sent him, he has taken steps which he hopes will secure the communication

to Fort Pitt and allay the fears of the country people, who are deserting

their homes in a panic, though the enemy has not yet appeared east of the

mountains. A few days later, on the twenty-third of June, Amherst writes,

boiling with indignation. He had heard from Gladwyn of the investment of

Detroit, and the murder of Sir Robert Davers and Lieutenant Robertson.

"The villains after this," he says, "had the assurance to come with a

_Pipe of Peace_, desiring admittance into the fort." He then commends the

conduct of Gladwyn, but pursues: "I only regret that when the chief of the

Ottawas and the other villains returned with the _Pipe of Peace_, they

were not instantly put to _death_.[298] I conclude Major Gladwyn was not

apprised of the murder of Sir Robert Davers, Lieutenant Robertson, etc.,

at that time, or he certainly would have revenged their deaths by that

method; and, indeed, I cannot but wish that whenever we have any of the

savages in our power, who have in so treacherous a way committed any

barbarities on our people, a quick retaliation may be made without the

least exception or hesitation. I am determined," he continues, "to take

every measure in my power, not only for securing and keeping entire

possession of the country, but for punishing those barbarians who have

thus perfidiously massacred his Majesty's subjects. To effect this most

essential service, I intend to collect, agreeable to what I wrote you in

my last, all the force I can at Presqu' Isle and Niagara, that I may push

them forwards as occasion may require. I have therefore ordered the

remains of the 42d and 77th regiments--the first consisting of two hundred

and fourteen men, including officers, and the latter of one hundred and

thirty-three, officers included--to march this evening or early to-morrow

morning, under the command of Major Campbell of the 42d, who has my orders

to send an officer before to acquaint you of his being on the march, and

to obey such further directions as he may receive from you.... You will

observe that I have now forwarded from hence every man that was here; for

the small remains of the 17th regiment are already on their march up the

Mohawk, and I have sent such of the 42d and 77th as were not able to

march, to Albany, to relieve the company of the 55th at present there, who

are to march immediately to Oswego."

Two days after, the twenty-fifth of June, he writes again to Bouquet: "All

the troops from hence that could be collected are sent you; so that should

the whole race of Indians take arms against us, I can do no more."[299]

On the same day, Bouquet, who was on his way to the frontier, wrote to

Amherst, from Lancaster: "I had this moment the honor of your Excellency's

letter of the twenty-third instant, with the most welcome news of the

preservation of the Detroit from the infernal treachery of the vilest of

brutes. I regret sincerely the brave men they have so basely massacred,

but hope that we shall soon take an adequate revenge on the barbarians.

The reinforcement you have ordered this way, so considerable by the

additional number of officers, will fully enable me to crush the little

opposition they may dare to make along the road, and secure that part of

the country against all their future attempts, till you think proper to

order us to act in conjunction with the rest of your forces to extirpate

that vermin from a country they have forfeited, and, with it, all claim to

the rights of humanity."

Three days later the express-rider delivered the truculent letter, from

which the above is taken, to Amherst at New York. He replied: "Last night

I received your letter of the twenty-fifth, the contents of which please

me very much,--your sentiments agreeing exactly with my own regarding the

treatment the savages deserve from us ... I need only add that I wish to

hear of _no prisoners_, should any of the villains be met with in arms;

and whoever of those who were concerned in the murder of Sir Robert

Davers, Lieutenant Robertson, etc., or were at the attack of the

detachment going to the Detroit,[300] and that may be hereafter taken,

shall certainly be put to _death_."[301]

Bouquet was now busy on the frontier in preparations for pushing forward

to Fort Pitt with the troops sent him. After reaching the fort, with his

wagon-trains of ammunition and supplies, he was to proceed to Venango and

Le B[oe]uf, reinforce and provision them; and thence advance to Presqu'

Isle to wait Amherst's orders for the despatch of his troops westward to

Detroit, Michillimackinac, and the other distant garrisons, the fate of

which was still unknown. He was encamped near Carlisle when, on the third

of July, he heard what he styles the "fatal account of the loss of our

posts at Presqu' Isle, Le B[oe]uf, and Venango." He at once sent the news

to Amherst; who, though he persisted in his original plan of operations,

became at length convinced of the formidable nature of the Indian

outbreak, and felt bitterly the slenderness of his own resources. His

correspondence, nevertheless, breathes a certain thick-headed, blustering

arrogance, worthy of the successor of Braddock.[302] In his contempt for

the Indians, he finds fault with Captain Ecuyer at Fort Pitt for

condescending to fire cannon at them, and with Lieutenant Blane at Fort

Ligonier for burning some outhouses, under cover of which "so despicable

an enemy" were firing at his garrison. This despicable enemy had, however,

pushed him to such straits that he made, in a postscript to Bouquet, the

following detestable suggestion:--

"Could it not be contrived to send the _Small Pox_ among those disaffected

tribes of Indians? We must on this occasion use every stratagem in our

power to reduce them."

(Signed) J. A.

Bouquet replied, also in postscript:--

"I will try to inoculate the ---- with some blankets that may

fall in their hands, and take care not to get the disease

myself. As it is a pity to expose good men against them, I wish

we could make use of the Spanish method, to hunt them with

English dogs, supported by rangers and some light horse, who

would, I think, effectually extirpate or remove that vermin."

Amherst rejoined: "You will do well to try to inoculate the Indians by

means of blankets, as well as to try every other method that can serve to

extirpate this execrable race. I should be very glad your scheme for

hunting them down by dogs could take effect, but England is at too great a

distance to think of that at present."

(Signed) J. A.[303]

There is no direct evidence that Bouquet carried into effect the shameful

plan of infecting the Indians though, a few months after, the small-pox

was known to have made havoc among the tribes of the Ohio. Certain it is,

that he was perfectly capable of dealing with them by other means, worthy

of a man and a soldier; and it is equally certain, that in relations with

civilized men he was in a high degree honorable, humane, and kind.

The scenes which daily met his eye might well have moved him to pity as

well as indignation. When he reached Carlisle, at the end of June, he

found every building in the fort, every house, barn, and hovel, in the

little town, crowded with the families of settlers, driven from their

homes by the terror of the tomahawk. Wives made widows, children made

orphans, wailed and moaned in anguish and despair. On the thirteenth of

July he wrote to Amherst: "The list of the people known to be killed

increases very fast every hour. The desolation of so many families,

reduced to the last extremity of want and misery; the despair of those who

have lost their parents, relations, and friends, with the cries of

distracted women and children, who fill the streets,--form a scene painful

to humanity, and impossible to describe."[304] Rage alternated with grief.

A Mohican and a Cayuga Indian, both well known as friendly and peaceable,

came with their squaws and children to claim protection from the soldiers.

"It was with the utmost difficulty," pursues Bouquet, "that I could

prevail with the enraged multitude not to massacre them. I don't think

them very safe in the gaol. They ought to be removed to Philadelphia."

Bouquet, on his part, was full of anxieties. On the road from Carlisle to

Fort Pitt was a chain of four or five small forts, of which the most

advanced and the most exposed were Fort Bedford and Fort Ligonier; the

former commanded by Captain Lewis Ourry, and the latter by Lieutenant

Archibald Blane. These officers kept up a precarious correspondence with

him and each other, by means of express-riders, a service dangerous to the

last degree and soon to become impracticable. It was of the utmost

importance to hold these posts, which contained stores and munitions, the

capture of which by the Indians would have led to the worst consequences.

Ourry had no garrison worth the name; but at every Indian alarm the scared

inhabitants would desert their farms, and gather for shelter around his

fort, to disperse again when the alarm was over.

On the third of June, he writes to Bouquet: "No less than ninety-three

families are now come in here for refuge, and more hourly arriving. I

expect ten more before night." He adds that he had formed the men into two

militia companies. "My returns," he pursues, "amount already to a hundred

and fifty-five men. My regulars are increased by expresses, etc., to three

corporals and nine privates; no despicable garrison!"

On the seventh, he sent another letter.... "As to myself, I find I can

bear a good deal. Since the alarm I never lie down till about twelve, and

am walking about the fort between two and three in the morning, turning

out the guards and sending out patrols, before I suffer the gates to

remain open.... My greatest difficulty is to keep my militia from

straggling by twos and threes to their dear plantations, thereby exposing

themselves to be scalped, and weakening my garrison by such numbers

absenting themselves. They are still in good spirits, but they don't know

all the bad news. I shall use all means to prevail on them to stay till

some troops come up. I long to see my Indian scouts come in with

intelligence; but I long more to hear the Grenadiers' March, and see some

more red-coats."

Ten days later, the face of affairs had changed. "I am now, as I foresaw,

entirely deserted by the country people. No accident having happened here,

they have gradually left me to return to their plantations; so that my

whole force is reduced to twelve Royal Americans to guard the fort, and

seven Indian prisoners. I should be very glad to see some troops come to

my assistance. A fort with five bastions cannot be guarded, much less

defended, by a dozen men; but I hope God will protect us."

On the next day, he writes again: "This moment I return from the parade.

Some scalps taken up Dening's Creek yesterday, and to-day some families

murdered and houses burnt, have restored me my militia.... Two or three

other families are missing, and the houses are seen in flames. The people

are all flocking in again."

Two days afterwards, he says that, while the countrymen were at drill on

the parade, three Indians attempted to seize two little girls, close to

the fort, but were driven off by a volley. "This," he pursues, "has added

greatly to the panic of the people. With difficulty I can restrain them

from murdering the Indian prisoners." And he concludes: "I can't help

thinking that the enemy will collect, after cutting off the little posts

one after another, leaving Fort Pitt as too tough a morsel, and bend their

whole force upon the frontiers."

On the second of July, he describes an attack by about twenty Indians on a

party of mowers, several of whom were killed. "This accident," he says,

"has thrown the people into a great consternation, but such is their

stupidity that they will do nothing right for their own preservation."

It was on the next day that he sent a mounted soldier to Bouquet with news

of the loss of Presqu' Isle and its sister posts, which Blane, who had

received it from Fort Pitt, had contrived to send him; though he himself,

in his feeble little fort of Ligonier, buried in a sea of forests, hardly

dared hope to maintain himself. Bouquet was greatly moved at the tidings,

and his vexation betrayed him into injustice towards the defender of

Presqu' Isle. "Humanity makes me hope that Christie is dead, as his

scandalous capitulation, for a post of that consequence and so impregnable

to savages, deserves the most severe punishment."[305] He is equally

vehement in regard to Blane, who appears to have intimated, in writing to

Ourry, that he had himself had thoughts of capitulating, like Christie. "I

shivered when you hinted to me Lieutenant Bl----'s intentions. Death and

infamy would have been the reward he would expect, instead of the honor he

has obtained by his prudence, courage, and resolution.... This is a most

trying time.... You may be sure that all the expedition possible will be

used for the relief of the few remaining posts."[306]

As for Blane, the following extracts from his letters will show his

position; though, when his affairs were at the worst, nothing was heard

from him, as all his messengers were killed. On the fourth of June, he

writes: "Thursday last my garrison was attacked by a body of Indians,

about five in the morning; but as they only fired upon us from the skirts

of the woods, I contented myself with giving them three cheers, without

spending a single shot upon them. But as they still continued their

popping upon the side next the town, I sent the sergeant of the Royal

Americans, with a proper detachment, to fire the houses, which effectually

disappointed them in their plan."

On the seventeenth, he writes to Bouquet: "I hope soon to see yourself,

and live in daily hopes of a reinforcement.... Sunday last, a man

straggling out was killed by the Indians; and Monday night three of them

got under the n---- house, but were discovered. The darkness secured them

their retreat.... I believe the communication between Fort Pitt and this

is entirely cut off, having heard nothing from them since the thirtieth of

May, though two expresses have gone from Bedford by this post."

On the twenty-eighth, he explains that he has not been able to report for

some time, the road having been completely closed by the enemy. "On the

twenty-first," he continues, "the Indians made a second attempt in a very

serious manner, for near two hours, but with the like success as the

first. They began with attempting to cut off the retreat of a small party

of fifteen men, who, from their impatience to come at four Indians who

showed themselves, in a great measure forced me to let them out. In the

evening, I think above a hundred lay in ambush by the side of the creek,

about four hundred yards from the fort; and, just as the party was

returning pretty near where they lay, they rushed out, when they

undoubtedly must have succeeded, had it not been for a deep morass which

intervened. Immediately after, they began their attack; and I dare say

they fired upwards of one thousand shot. Nobody received any damage. So

far, my good fortune in dangers still attends me."

And here one cannot but give a moment's thought to those whose desperate

duty it was to be the bearers of this correspondence of the officers of

the forest outposts with their commander. They were usually soldiers,

sometimes backwoodsmen, and occasionally a friendly Indian, who,

disguising his attachment to the whites, could pass when others would

infallibly have perished. If white men, they were always mounted; and it

may well be supposed that their horses did not lag by the way. The

profound solitude; the silence, broken only by the moan of the wind, the

caw of the crow, or the cry of some prowling tenant of the waste; the

mystery of the verdant labyrinth, which the anxious wayfarer strained his

eyes in vain to penetrate; the consciousness that in every thicket, behind

every rock, might lurk a foe more fierce and subtle than the cougar or the

lynx; and the long hours of darkness, when, stretched on the cold ground,

his excited fancy roamed in nightmare visions of a horror but too real and

imminent,--such was the experience of many an unfortunate who never lived

to tell it. If the messenger was an Indian, his greatest danger was from

those who should have been his friends. Friendly Indians were told,

whenever they approached a fort, to make themselves known by carrying

green branches thrust into the muzzles of their guns; and an order was

issued that the token should be respected. This gave them tolerable

security as regarded soldiers, but not as regarded the enraged

backwoodsmen, who would shoot without distinction at any thing with a red

skin.

To return to Bouquet, who lay encamped at Carlisle, urging on his

preparations, but met by obstacles at every step. Wagons and horses had

been promised, but promises were broken, and all was vexation and delay.

The province of Pennsylvania, from causes to be shown hereafter, would do

nothing to aid the troops who were defending it; and even the people of

the frontier, partly from the apathy and confusion of terror, and partly,

it seems, from dislike and jealousy of the regulars, were backward and

sluggish in co-operating with them. "I hope," writes Bouquet to Sir

Jeffrey Amherst, "that we shall be able to save that infatuated people

from destruction, notwithstanding all their endeavors to defeat your

vigorous measures. I meet everywhere with the same backwardness, even

among the most exposed of the inhabitants, which makes every thing move on

heavily, and is disgusting to the last degree." And again: "I find myself

utterly abandoned by the very people I am ordered to protect.... I have

borne very patiently the ill-usage of this province, having still hopes

that they will do something for us; and therefore have avoided to quarrel

with them."

While, vexed and exasperated, Bouquet labored at his thankless task,

remonstrated with provincial officials, or appealed to refractory farmers,

the terror of the country people increased every day. When on Sunday, the

third of July, Ourry's express rode into Carlisle with the disastrous news

from Presqu' Isle and the other outposts, he stopped for a moment in the

village street to water his horse. A crowd of countrymen were instantly

about him, besieging him with questions. He told his ill-omened story; and

added as, remounting, he rode towards Bouquet's tent, "The Indians will be

here soon." All was now excitement and consternation. Messengers hastened

out to spread the tidings; and every road and pathway leading into

Carlisle was beset with the flying settlers, flocking thither for refuge.

Soon rumors were heard that the Indians were come. Some of the fugitives

had seen the smoke of burning houses rising from the valleys; and these

reports were fearfully confirmed by the appearance of miserable wretches,

who, half frantic with grief and dismay, had fled from blazing dwellings

and slaughtered families. A party of the inhabitants armed themselves and

went out, to warn the living and bury the dead. Reaching Shearman's

Valley, they found fields laid waste, stacked wheat on fire, and the

houses yet in flames; and they grew sick with horror at seeing a group of

hogs tearing and devouring the bodies of the dead.[307] As they advanced

up the valley, every thing betokened the recent presence of the enemy,

while columns of smoke, rising among the surrounding mountains, showed how

general was the work of destruction.

On the preceding day, six men, assembled for reaping the harvest, had been

seated at dinner at the house of Campbell, a settler on the Juniata. Four

or five Indians suddenly burst the door, fired among them, and then beat

down the survivors with the butts of their rifles. One young man leaped

from his seat, snatched a gun which stood in a corner, discharged it into

the breast of the warrior who was rushing upon him, and, leaping through

an open window, made his escape. He fled through the forest to a

settlement at some distance, where he related his story. Upon this, twelve

young men volunteered to cross the mountain, and warn the inhabitants of

the neighboring Tuscarora valley. On entering it, they found that the

enemy had been there before them. Some of the houses were on fire, while

others were still standing, with no tenants but the dead. Under the shed

of a farmer, the Indians had been feasting on the flesh of the cattle they

had killed, and the meat had not yet grown cold. Pursuing their course,

the white men found the spot where several detached parties of the enemy

had united almost immediately before; and they boldly resolved to follow,

in order to ascertain what direction the marauders had taken. The trail

led them up a deep and woody pass of the Tuscarora. Here the yell of the

war-whoop and the din of fire-arms suddenly greeted them, and five of

their number were shot down. Thirty warriors rose from their ambuscade,

and rushed upon them. They gave one discharge, scattered, and ran for

their lives. One of them, a boy named Charles Eliot, as he fled, plunging

through the thickets, heard an Indian tearing the boughs behind him, in

furious pursuit. He seized his powder-horn, poured the contents at random

down the muzzle of his gun, threw in a bullet after them, without using

the ramrod, and, wheeling about, discharged the piece into the breast of

his pursuer. He saw the Indian shrink back and roll over into the bushes.

He continued his flight; but a moment after, a voice called his name.

Turning to the spot, he saw one of his comrades stretched helpless upon

the ground. This man had been mortally wounded at the first fire, but had

fled a few rods from the scene of blood, before his strength gave out.

Eliot approached him. "Take my gun," said the dying frontiersman.

"Whenever you see an Indian, kill him with it, and then I shall be

satisfied."[308] Eliot, with several others of the party, escaped, and

finally reached Carlisle, where his story excited a spirit of

uncontrollable wrath and vengeance among the fierce backwoodsmen. Several

parties went out; and one of them, commanded by the sheriff of the place,

encountered a band of Indians, routed them after a sharp fight, and

brought in several scalps.[309]

The surrounding country was by this time completely abandoned by the

settlers, many of whom, not content with seeking refuge at Carlisle,

continued their flight to the eastward, and, headed by the clergyman of

that place, pushed on to Lancaster, and even to Philadelphia.[310]

Carlisle presented a most deplorable spectacle. A multitude of the

refugees, unable to find shelter in the town, had encamped in the woods or

on the adjacent fields, erecting huts of branches and bark, and living on

such charity as the slender means of the townspeople could supply. Passing

among them, one would have witnessed every form of human misery. In these

wretched encampments were men, women, and children, bereft at one stroke

of friends, of home, and the means of supporting life. Some stood aghast

and bewildered at the sudden and fatal blow; others were sunk in the

apathy of despair; others were weeping and moaning with irrepressible

anguish. With not a few, the craven passion of fear drowned all other

emotion, and day and night they were haunted with visions of the bloody

knife and the reeking scalp; while in others, every faculty was absorbed

by the burning thirst for vengeance, and mortal hatred against the whole

Indian race.[311]

CHAPTER XX.

1763.

THE BATTLE OF BUSHY RUN.

The miserable multitude were soon threatened with famine, and gathered in

crowds around the tents of Bouquet, begging relief, which he had not the

heart to refuse. After a delay of eighteen days, the chief obstacles were

overcome. Wagons and draught animals had, little by little, been

collected, and provisions gathered among the settlements to the eastward.

At length all was ready, and Bouquet broke up his camp, and began his

march. The force under his command did not exceed five hundred men, of

whom the most effective were the Highlanders of the 42d regiment. The

remnant of the 77th, which was also with him, was so enfeebled by West

Indian exposures, that Amherst had at first pronounced it fit only for

garrison duty, and nothing but necessity had induced him to employ it on

this arduous service. As the heavy wagons of the convoy lumbered along the

street of Carlisle, guarded by the bare-legged Highlanders, in kilts and

plaids, the crowd gazed in anxious silence; for they knew that their all

was at stake on the issue of this dubious enterprise. There was little to

reassure them in the thin frames and haggard look of the worn-out

veterans; still less in the sight of sixty invalid soldiers, who, unable

to walk, were carried in wagons, to furnish a feeble reinforcement to the

small garrisons along the route.[312] The desponding rustics watched the

last gleam of the bayonets, the last flutter of the tartans, as the rear

files vanished in the woods; then returned to their hovels, prepared for

tidings of defeat, and ready, when they heard them, to abandon the

country, and fly beyond the Susquehanna.

In truth, the adventure was no boy's play. In that gloomy wilderness lay

the bones of Braddock and the hundreds that perished with him. The number

of the slain on that bloody day exceeded Bouquet's whole force; while the

strength of the assailants was inferior to that of the swarms who now

infested the forests. Bouquet's troops were, for the most part, as little

accustomed to the backwoods as those of Braddock; but their commander had

served seven years in America, and perfectly understood his work. He had

attempted to engage a body of frontiersmen to join him on the march; but

they preferred to remain for the defence of their families. He was

therefore forced to employ the Highlanders as flankers, to protect his

line of march and prevent surprise; but, singularly enough, these

mountaineers were sure to lose themselves in the woods, and therefore

proved useless.[313] For a few days, however, his progress would be

tolerably secure, at least from serious attack. His anxieties centred on

Fort Ligonier, and he resolved to hazard the attempt to throw a

reinforcement into it. Thirty of the best Highlanders were chosen,

furnished with guides, and ordered to push forward with the utmost speed,

avoiding the road, travelling by night on unfrequented paths, and lying

close by day. The attempt succeeded. After resting several days at

Bedford, where Ourry was expecting an attack, they again set out, found

Fort Ligonier beset by Indians, and received a volley as they made for the

gate; but entered safely, to the unspeakable relief of Blane and his

beleaguered men.

Meanwhile, Bouquet's little army crept on its slow way along the

Cumberland valley. Passing here and there a few scattered cabins, deserted

or burnt to the ground, they reached the hamlet of Shippensburg, somewhat

more than twenty miles from their point of departure. Here, as at

Carlisle, was gathered a starving multitude, who had fled from the knife

and the tomahawk.[314] Beyond lay a solitude whence every settler had

fled. They reached Fort Loudon, on the declivity of Cove Mountain, and

climbed the wood-encumbered defiles beyond. Far on their right stretched

the green ridges of the Tuscarora; and, in front, mountain beyond

mountain was piled against the sky. Over rocky heights and through deep

valleys, they reached at length Fort Littleton, a provincial post, in

which, with incredible perversity, the government of Pennsylvania had

refused to place a garrison.[315] Not far distant was the feeble little

port of the Juniata, empty like the other; for the two or three men who

held it had been withdrawn by Ourry.[316] On the twenty-fifth of July,

they reached Bedford, hemmed in by encircling mountains. It was the

frontier village and the centre of a scattered border population, the

whole of which was now clustered in terror in and around the fort; for the

neighboring woods were full of prowling savages. Ourry reported that for

several weeks nothing had been heard from the westward, every messenger

having been killed and the communication completely cut off. By the last

intelligence Fort Pitt had been surrounded by Indians, and daily

threatened with a general attack.

At Bedford, Bouquet had the good fortune to engage thirty backwoodsmen to

accompany him.[317] He lay encamped three days to rest men and animals,

and then, leaving his invalids to garrison the fort, put out again into

the sea of savage verdure that stretched beyond. The troops and convoy

defiled along the road made by General Forbes in 1758, if the name of road

can be given to a rugged track, hewn out by axemen through forests and

swamps and up the steep acclivities of rugged mountains; shut in between

impervious walls of trunks, boughs, and matted thickets, and overarched by

a canopy of restless leaves. With difficulty and toil, the wagons dragged

slowly on, by hill and hollow, through brook and quagmire, over roots,

rocks, and stumps. Nature had formed the country for a war of ambuscades

and surprises, and no pains were spared to guard against them. A band of

backwoodsmen led the way, followed closely by the pioneers; the wagons and

the cattle were in the centre, guarded by the regulars; and a rear guard

of backwoodsmen closed the line of march. Frontier riflemen scoured the

woods far in front and on either flank, and made surprise impossible. Thus

they toiled heavily on till the main ridge of the Alleghanies, a mighty

wall of green, rose up before them; and they began their zigzag progress

up the woody heights amid the sweltering heats of July. The tongues of the

panting oxen hung lolling from their jaws; while the pine-trees, scorching

in the hot sun, diffused their resinous odors through the sultry air. At

length from the windy summit the Highland soldiers could gaze around upon

a boundless panorama of forest-covered mountains, wilder than their own

native hills. Descending from the Alleghanies, they entered upon a country

less rugged and formidable in itself, but beset with constantly increasing

dangers. On the second of August, they reached Fort Ligonier, about fifty

miles from Bedford, and a hundred and fifty from Carlisle. The Indians who

were about the place vanished at their approach; but the garrison could

furnish no intelligence of the motions and designs of the enemy, having

been completely blockaded for weeks. In this uncertainty, Bouquet resolved

to leave behind the oxen and wagons, which formed the most cumbrous part

of the convoy, in order to advance with greater celerity, and oppose a

better resistance in case of attack. Thus relieved, the army resumed its

march on the fourth, taking with them three hundred and fifty pack-horses

and a few cattle, and at nightfall encamped at no great distance from

Ligonier. Within less than a day's march in advance lay the dangerous

defiles of Turtle Creek, a stream flowing at the bottom of a deep hollow,

flanked by steep declivities, along the foot of which the road at that

time ran for some distance. Fearing that the enemy would lay an ambuscade

at this place, Bouquet resolved to march on the following day as far as a

small stream called Bushy Run; to rest here until night, and then, by a

forced march, to cross Turtle Creek under cover of the darkness.

On the morning of the fifth, the tents were struck at an early hour, and

the troops began their march through a country broken with hills and deep

hollows, covered with the tall, dense forest, which spread for countless

leagues around. By one o'clock, they had advanced seventeen miles; and the

guides assured them that they were within half a mile of Bushy Run, their

proposed resting-place. The tired soldiers were pressing forward with

renewed alacrity, when suddenly the report of rifles from the front sent a

thrill along the ranks; and, as they listened, the firing thickened into a

fierce, sharp rattle; while shouts and whoops, deadened by the intervening

forest, showed that the advance guard was hotly engaged. The two foremost

companies were at once ordered forward to support it; but, far from

abating, the fire grew so rapid and furious as to argue the presence of an

enemy at once numerous and resolute. At this, the convoy was halted, the

troops formed into line, and a general charge ordered. Bearing down

through the forest with fixed bayonets, they drove the yelping assailants

before them, and swept the ground clear. But at the very moment of

success, a fresh burst of whoops and firing was heard from either flank;

while a confused noise from the rear showed that the convoy was attacked.

It was necessary instantly to fall back for its support. Driving off the

assailants, the troops formed in a circle around the crowded and terrified

horses. Though they were new to the work, and though the numbers and

movements of the enemy, whose yelling resounded on every side, were

concealed by the thick forest, yet no man lost his composure; and all

displayed a steadiness which nothing but implicit confidence in their

commander could have inspired. And now ensued a combat of a nature most

harassing and discouraging. Again and again, now on this side and now on

that, a crowd of Indians rushed up, pouring in a heavy fire, and striving,

with furious outcries, to break into the circle. A well-directed volley

met them, followed by a steady charge of the bayonet. They never waited an

instant to receive the attack, but, leaping backwards from tree to tree,

soon vanished from sight, only to renew their attack with unabated

ferocity in another quarter. Such was their activity, that very few of

them were hurt; while the British, less expert in bush-fighting, suffered

severely. Thus the fight went on, without intermission, for seven hours,

until the forest grew dark with approaching night. Upon this, the Indians

gradually slackened their fire, and the exhausted soldiers found time to

rest.

It was impossible to change their ground in the enemy's presence, and the

troops were obliged to encamp upon the hill where the combat had taken

place, though not a drop of water was to be found there. Fearing a night

attack, Bouquet stationed numerous sentinels and outposts to guard against

it; while the men lay down upon their arms, preserving the order they had

maintained during the fight. Having completed the necessary arrangements,

Bouquet, doubtful of surviving the battle of the morrow, wrote to Sir

Jeffrey Amherst, in a few clear, concise words, an account of the day's

events. His letter concludes as follows: "Whatever our fate may be, I

thought it necessary to give your Excellency this early information, that

you may, at all events, take such measures as you will think proper with

the provinces, for their own safety, and the effectual relief of Fort

Pitt; as, in case of another engagement, I fear insurmountable

difficulties in protecting and transporting our provisions, being already

so much weakened by the losses of this day, in men and horses, besides the

additional necessity of carrying the wounded, whose situation is truly

deplorable."

The condition of these unhappy men might well awaken sympathy. About sixty

soldiers, besides several officers, had been killed or disabled. A space

in the centre of the camp was prepared for the reception of the wounded,

and surrounded by a wall of flour-bags from the convoy, affording some

protection against the bullets which flew from all sides during the fight.

Here they lay upon the ground, enduring agonies of thirst, and waiting,

passive and helpless, the issue of the battle. Deprived of the animating

thought that their lives and safety depended on their own exertions;

surrounded by a wilderness, and by scenes to the horror of which no degree

of familiarity could render the imagination callous, they must have

endured mental sufferings, compared to which the pain of their wounds was

slight. In the probable event of defeat, a fate inexpressibly horrible

awaited them; while even victory would not ensure their safety, since any

great increase in their numbers would render it impossible for their

comrades to transport them. Nor was the condition of those who had

hitherto escaped an enviable one. Though they were about equal in number

to their assailants, yet the dexterity and alertness of the Indians,

joined to the nature of the country, gave all the advantages of a greatly

superior force. The enemy were, moreover, exulting in the fullest

confidence of success; for it was in these very forests that, eight years

before, they had nearly destroyed twice their number of the best British

troops. Throughout the earlier part of the night, they kept up a dropping

fire upon the camp; while, at short intervals, a wild whoop from the thick

surrounding gloom told with what fierce eagerness they waited to glut

their vengeance on the morrow. The camp remained in darkness, for it would

have been dangerous to build fires within its precincts, to direct the aim

of the lurking marksmen. Surrounded by such terrors, the men snatched a

disturbed and broken sleep, recruiting their exhausted strength for the

renewed struggle of the morning.

With the earliest dawn of day, and while the damp, cool forest was still

involved in twilight, there rose around the camp a general burst of those

horrible cries which form the ordinary prelude of an Indian battle.

Instantly, from every side at once, the enemy opened their fire,

approaching under cover of the trees and bushes, and levelling with a

close and deadly aim. Often, as on the previous day, they would rush up

with furious impetuosity, striving to break into the ring of troops. They

were repulsed at every point; but the British, though constantly

victorious, were beset with undiminished perils, while the violence of the

enemy seemed every moment on the increase. True to their favorite tactics,

they would never stand their ground when attacked, but vanish at the first

gleam of the levelled bayonet, only to appear again the moment the danger

was past. The troops, fatigued by the long march and equally long battle

of the previous day, were maddened by the torments of thirst, "more

intolerable," says their commander, "than the enemy's fire." They were

fully conscious of the peril in which they stood, of wasting away by slow

degrees beneath the shot of assailants at once so daring, so cautious, and

so active, and upon whom it was impossible to inflict any decisive injury.

The Indians saw their distress, and pressed them closer and closer,

redoubling their yells and howlings; while some of them, sheltered behind

trees, assailed the troops, in bad English, with abuse and derision.

Meanwhile the interior of the camp was a scene of confusion. The horses,

secured in a crowd near the wall of flour-bags which covered the wounded,

were often struck by the bullets, and wrought to the height of terror by

the mingled din of whoops, shrieks, and firing. They would break away by

half scores at a time, burst through the ring of troops and the outer

circle of assailants, and scour madly up and down the hill-sides; while

many of the drivers, overcome by the terrors of a scene in which they

could bear no active part, hid themselves among the bushes, and could

neither hear nor obey orders.

It was now about ten o'clock. Oppressed with heat, fatigue, and thirst,

the distressed troops still maintained a weary and wavering defence,

encircling the convoy in a yet unbroken ring. They were fast falling in

their ranks, and the strength and spirits of the survivors had begun to

flag. If the fortunes of the day were to be retrieved, the effort must be

made at once; and happily the mind of the commander was equal to the

emergency. In the midst of the confusion he conceived a masterly

stratagem. Could the Indians be brought together in a body, and made to

stand their ground when attacked, there could be little doubt of the

result; and, to effect this object, Bouquet determined to increase their

confidence, which had already mounted to an audacious pitch. Two companies

of infantry, forming a part of the ring which had been exposed to the

hottest fire, were ordered to fall back into the interior of the camp;

while the troops on either hand joined their files across the vacant

space, as if to cover the retreat of their comrades. These orders, given

at a favorable moment, were executed with great promptness. The thin line

of troops who took possession of the deserted part of the circle were,

from their small numbers, brought closer in towards the centre. The

Indians mistook these movements for a retreat. Confident that their time

was come, they leaped up on all sides, from behind the trees and bushes,

and, with infernal screeches, rushed headlong towards the spot, pouring in

a heavy and galling fire. The shock was too violent to be long endured.

The men struggled to maintain their posts; but the Indians seemed on the

point of breaking into the heart of the camp, when the aspect of affairs

was suddenly reversed. The two companies, who had apparently abandoned

their position, were in fact destined to begin the attack; and they now

sallied out from the circle at a point where a depression in the ground,

joined to the thick growth of trees, concealed them from the eyes of the

Indians. Making a short _detour_ through the woods, they came round upon

the flank of the furious assailants, and fired a close volley into the

midst of the crowd. Numbers were seen to fall; yet though completely

surprised, and utterly at a loss to understand the nature of the attack,

the Indians faced about with the greatest intrepidity, and returned the

fire. But the Highlanders, with yells as wild as their own, fell on them

with the bayonet. The shock was irresistible, and they fled before the

charging ranks in a tumultuous throng. Orders had been given to two other

companies, occupying a contiguous part of the circle, to support the

attack whenever a favorable moment should occur; and they had therefore

advanced a little from their position, and lay close crouched in ambush.

The fugitives, pressed by the Highland bayonets, passed directly across

their front; upon which they rose, and poured among them a second volley,

no less destructive than the first. This completed the rout. The four

companies, uniting, drove the flying savages through the woods, giving

them no time to rally or reload their empty rifles, killing many, and

scattering the rest in hopeless confusion.

While this took place at one part of the circle, the troops and the

savages had still maintained their respective positions at the other; but

when the latter perceived the total rout of their comrades, and saw the

troops advancing to assail them, they also lost heart, and fled. The

discordant outcries which had so long deafened the ears of the English

soon ceased altogether, and not a living Indian remained near the spot.

About sixty corpses lay scattered over the ground. Among them were found

those of several prominent chiefs, while the blood which stained the

leaves of the bushes showed that numbers had fled wounded from the field.

The soldiers took but one prisoner, whom they shot to death like a captive

wolf. The loss of the British in the two battles surpassed that of the

enemy, amounting to eight officers and one hundred and fifteen men.[318]

Having been for some time detained by the necessity of making litters for

the wounded, and destroying the stores which the flight of most of the

horses made it impossible to transport, the army moved on, in the

afternoon, to Bushy Run. Here they had scarcely formed their camp, when

they were again fired upon by a body of Indians, who, however, were soon

repulsed. On the next day they resumed their progress towards Fort Pitt,

distant about twenty-five miles; and, though frequently annoyed on the

march by petty attacks, they reached their destination, on the tenth,

without serious loss. It was a joyful moment both to the troops and to the

garrison. The latter, it will be remembered, were left surrounded and

hotly pressed by the Indians, who had beleaguered the place from the

twenty-eighth of July to the first of August, when, hearing of Bouquet's

approach, they had abandoned the siege, and marched to attack him. From

this time, the garrison had seen nothing of them until the morning of the

tenth, when, shortly before the army appeared, they had passed the fort in

a body, raising the scalp-yell, and displaying their disgusting trophies

to the view of the English.[319]

The battle of Bushy Run was one of the best contested actions ever fought

between white men and Indians. If there was any disparity of numbers, the

advantage was on the side of the troops; and the Indians had displayed

throughout a fierceness and intrepidity matched only by the steady valor

with which they were met. In the provinces, the victory excited equal joy

and admiration, especially among those who knew the incalculable

difficulties of an Indian campaign. The Assembly of Pennsylvania passed a

vote expressing their sense of the merits of Bouquet, and of the service

he had rendered to the province. He soon after received the additional

honor of the formal thanks of the King.[320]

In many an Indian village, the women cut away their hair, gashed their

limbs with knives, and uttered their dismal howlings of lamentation for

the fallen. Yet, though surprised and dispirited, the rage of the Indians

was too deep to be quenched, even by so signal a reverse; and their

outrages upon the frontier were resumed with unabated ferocity. Fort Pitt,

however, was effectually relieved; while the moral effect of the victory

enabled the frontier settlers to encounter the enemy with a spirit which

would have been wanting, had Bouquet sustained a defeat.

CHAPTER XXI.

1763.

THE IROQUOIS.--AMBUSCADE OF THE DEVIL'S HOLE.

While Bouquet was fighting the battle of Bushy Run, and Dalzell making his

fatal sortie against the camp of Pontiac, Sir William Johnson was engaged

in the more pacific yet more important task of securing the friendship and

alliance of the Six Nations. After several preliminary conferences, he

sent runners throughout the whole confederacy to invite deputies of the

several tribes to meet him in council at Johnson Hall. The request was not

declined. From the banks of the Mohawk; from the Oneida, Cayuga, and

Tuscarora villages; from the valley of Onondaga, where, from immemorial

time, had burned the great council-fire of the confederacy,--came chiefs

and warriors, gathering to the place of meeting. The Senecas alone, the

warlike tenants of the Genesee valley, refused to attend; for they were

already in arms against the English. Besides the Iroquois, deputies came

from the tribes dwelling along the St. Lawrence, and within the settled

parts of Canada.

The council opened on the seventh of September. Despite their fair words,

their attachment was doubtful; but Sir William Johnson, by a dexterous

mingling of reasoning, threats, and promises, allayed their discontent,

and banished the thoughts of war. They winced, however, when he informed

them that, during the next season, an English army must pass through their

country, on its way to punish the refractory tribes of the West. "Your

foot is broad and heavy," said the speaker from Onondaga; "take care that

you do not tread on us." Seeing the improved temper of his auditory,

Johnson was led to hope for some farther advantage than that of mere

neutrality. He accordingly urged the Iroquois to take up arms against the

hostile tribes, and concluded his final harangue with the following

figurative words: "I now deliver you a good English axe, which I desire

you will give to the warriors of all your nations, with directions to use

it against these covenant-breakers, by cutting off the bad links which

have sullied the chain of friendship."

These words were confirmed by the presentation of a black war-belt of

wampum, and the offer of a hatchet, which the Iroquois did not refuse to

accept. That they would take any very active and strenuous part in the

war, could not be expected; yet their bearing arms at all would prove of

great advantage, by discouraging the hostile Indians who had looked upon

the Iroquois as friends and abettors. Some months after the council,

several small parties actually took the field; and, being stimulated by

the prospect of reward, brought in a considerable number of scalps and

prisoners.[321]

Upon the persuasion of Sir William Johnson, the tribes of Canada were

induced to send a message to the western Indians, exhorting them to bury

the hatchet, while the Iroquois despatched an embassy of similar import to

the Delawares on the Susquehanna. "Cousins the Delawares,"--thus ran the

message,--"we have heard that many wild Indians in the West, who have

tails like bears, have let fall the chain of friendship, and taken up the

hatchet against our brethren the English. We desire you to hold fast the

chain, and shut your ears against their words."[322]

In spite of the friendly disposition to which the Iroquois had been

brought, the province of New York suffered not a little from the attacks

of the hostile tribes who ravaged the borders of Ulster, Orange, and

Albany counties, and threatened to destroy the upper settlements of the

Mohawk.[323] Sir William Johnson was the object of their especial enmity,

and he several times received intimations that he was about to be

attacked. He armed his tenantry, surrounded his seat of Johnson Hall with

a stockade, and garrisoned it with a party of soldiers, which Sir Jeffrey

Amherst had ordered thither for his protection.

About this time, a singular incident occurred near the town of Goshen.

Four or five men went out among the hills to shoot partridges, and,

chancing to raise a large covey, they all fired their guns at nearly the

same moment. The timorous inhabitants, hearing the reports, supposed that

they came from an Indian war-party, and instantly fled in dismay,

spreading the alarm as they went. The neighboring country was soon in a

panic. The farmers cut the harness of their horses, and, leaving their

carts and ploughs behind, galloped for their lives. Others, snatching up

their children and their most valuable property, made with all speed for

New England, not daring to pause until they had crossed the Hudson. For

several days the neighborhood was abandoned, five hundred families having

left their habitations and fled.[324] Not long after this absurd affair,

an event occurred of a widely different character. Allusion has before

been made to the carrying-place of Niagara, which formed an essential link

in the chain of communication between the province of New York and the

interior country. Men and military stores were conveyed in boats up the

River Niagara, as far as the present site of Lewiston. Thence a portage

road, several miles in length, passed along the banks of the stream, and

terminated at Fort Schlosser, above the cataract. This road traversed a

region whose sublime features have gained for it a world-wide renown. The

River Niagara, a short distance below the cataract, assumes an aspect

scarcely less remarkable than that stupendous scene itself. Its channel is

formed by a vast ravine, whose sides, now bare and weather-stained, now

shaggy with forest-trees, rise in cliffs of appalling height and

steepness. Along this chasm pour all the waters of the lakes, heaving

their furious surges with the power of an ocean and the rage of a mountain

torrent. About three miles below the cataract, the precipices which form

the eastern wall of the ravine are broken by an abyss of awful depth and

blackness, bearing at the present day the name of the Devil's Hole. In its

shallowest part, the precipice sinks sheer down to the depth of eighty

feet, where it meets a chaotic mass of rocks, descending with an abrupt

declivity to unseen depths below. Within the cold and damp recesses of the

gulf, a host of forest-trees have rooted themselves; and, standing on the

perilous brink, one may look down upon the mingled foliage of ash, poplar,

and maple, while, above them all, the spruce and fir shoot their sharp and

rigid spires upward into sunlight. The roar of the convulsed river swells

heavily on the ear; and, far below, its headlong waters, careering in

foam, may be discerned through the openings of the matted foliage.

On the thirteenth of September, a numerous train of wagons and pack-horses

proceeded from the lower landing to Fort Schlosser; and on the following

morning set out on their return, guarded by an escort of twenty-four

soldiers. They pursued their slow progress until they reached a point

where the road passed along the brink of the Devil's Hole. The gulf yawned

on their left, while on their right the road was skirted by low densely

wooded hills. Suddenly they were greeted by the blaze and clatter of a

hundred rifles. Then followed the startled cries of men, and the bounding

of maddened horses. At the next instant, a host of Indians broke

screeching from the woods, and rifle-butt and tomahawk finished the bloody

work. All was over in a moment. Horses leaped the precipice; men were

driven shrieking into the abyss; teams and wagons went over, crashing to

atoms among the rocks below. Tradition relates that the drummer-boy of the

detachment was caught, in his fall, among the branches of a tree, where he

hung suspended by his drum-strap. Being but slightly injured, he

disengaged himself, and, hiding in the recesses of the gulf, finally

escaped. One of the teamsters also, who was wounded at the first fire,

contrived to crawl into the woods, where he lay concealed till the Indians

had left the place. Besides these two, the only survivor was Stedman, the

conductor of the convoy; who, being well mounted, and seeing the whole

party forced helpless towards the precipice, wheeled his horse, and

resolutely spurred through the crowd of Indians. One of them, it is said,

seized his bridle; but he freed himself by a dexterous use of his knife,

and plunged into the woods, untouched by the bullets which whistled about

his head. Flying at full speed through the forest, he reached Fort

Schlosser in safety.

The distant sound of the Indian rifles had been heard by a party of

soldiers, who occupied a small fortified camp near the lower landing.

Forming in haste, they advanced eagerly to the rescue. In anticipation of

this movement, the Indians, who were nearly five hundred in number, had

separated into two parties, one of which had stationed itself at the

Devil's Hole, to waylay the convoy, while the other formed an ambuscade

upon the road, a mile nearer the landing-place. The soldiers, marching

precipitately, and huddled in a close body, were suddenly assailed by a

volley of rifles, which stretched half their number dead upon the road.

Then, rushing from the forest, the Indians cut down the survivors with

merciless ferocity. A small remnant only escaped the massacre, and fled to

Fort Niagara with the tidings. Major Wilkins, who commanded at this post,

lost no time in marching to the spot, with nearly the whole strength of

his garrison. Not an Indian was to be found. At the two places of

ambuscade, about seventy dead bodies were counted, naked, scalpless, and

so horribly mangled that many of them could not be recognized. All the

wagons had been broken to pieces, and such of the horses as were not

driven over the precipice had been carried off, laden, doubtless, with the

plunder. The ambuscade of the Devil's Hole has gained a traditionary

immortality, adding fearful interest to a scene whose native horrors need

no aid from the imagination.[325]

The Seneca warriors, aided probably by some of the western Indians, were

the authors of this unexpected attack. Their hostility did not end here.

Several weeks afterwards, Major Wilkins, with a force of six hundred

regulars, collected with great effort throughout the provinces, was

advancing to the relief of Detroit. As the boats were slowly forcing their

way upwards against the swift current above the falls of Niagara, they

were assailed by a mere handful of Indians, thrown into confusion, and

driven back to Fort Schlosser with serious loss. The next attempt was more

fortunate, the boats reaching Lake Erie without farther attack; but the

inauspicious opening of the expedition was followed by results yet more

disastrous. As they approached their destination, a violent storm overtook

them in the night. The frail bateaux, tossing upon the merciless waves of

Lake Erie, were overset, driven ashore, and many of them dashed to pieces.

About seventy men perished, all the ammunition and stores were destroyed,

and the shattered flotilla was forced back to Niagara.[326]

CHAPTER XXII.

1763.

DESOLATION OF THE FRONTIERS.

The advancing frontiers of American civilization have always nurtured a

class of men of striking and peculiar character. The best examples of this

character have, perhaps, been found among the settlers of Western

Virginia, and the hardy progeny who have sprung from that generous stock.

The Virginian frontiersman was, as occasion called, a farmer, a hunter,

and a warrior, by turns. The well-beloved rifle was seldom out of his

hand; and he never deigned to lay aside the fringed frock, moccasons, and

Indian leggins, which formed the appropriate costume of the forest ranger.

Concerning the business, pleasures, and refinements of cultivated life, he

knew little, and cared nothing; and his manners were usually rough and

obtrusive to the last degree. Aloof from mankind, he lived in a world of

his own, which, in his view, contained all that was deserving of

admiration and praise. He looked upon himself and his compeers as models

of prowess and manhood, nay, of all that is elegant and polite; and the

forest gallant regarded with peculiar complacency his own half-savage

dress, his swaggering gait, and his backwoods jargon. He was wilful,

headstrong, and quarrelsome; frank, straightforward, and generous; brave

as the bravest, and utterly intolerant of arbitrary control. His

self-confidence mounted to audacity. Eminently capable of heroism, both in

action and endurance, he viewed every species of effeminacy with supreme

contempt; and, accustomed as he was to entire self-reliance, the mutual

dependence of conventional life excited his especial scorn. With all his

ignorance, he had a mind by nature quick, vigorous, and penetrating; and

his mode of life, while it developed the daring energy of his character,

wrought some of his faculties to a high degree of acuteness. Many of his

traits have been reproduced in his offspring. From him have sprung those

hardy men whose struggles and sufferings on the bloody ground of Kentucky

will always form a striking page in American history; and that band of

adventurers before whose headlong charge, in the valley of Chihuahua,

neither breastworks, nor batteries, nor fivefold odds could avail for a

moment.

At the period of Pontiac's war, the settlements of Virginia had extended

as far as the Alleghanies, and several small towns had already sprung up

beyond the Blue Ridge. The population of these beautiful valleys was, for

the most part, thin and scattered; and the progress of settlement had been

greatly retarded by Indian hostilities, which, during the early years of

the French war, had thrown these borders into total confusion. They had

contributed, however, to enhance the martial temper of the people, and

give a warlike aspect to the whole frontier. At intervals, small stockade

forts, containing houses and cabins, had been erected by the joint labor

of the inhabitants; and hither, on occasion of alarm, the settlers of the

neighborhood congregated for refuge, remaining in tolerable security till

the danger was past. Many of the inhabitants were engaged for a great part

of the year in hunting; an occupation upon which they entered with the

keenest relish.[327] Well versed in woodcraft, unsurpassed as marksmen,

and practised in all the wiles of Indian war, they would have formed,

under a more stringent organization, the best possible defence against a

savage enemy; but each man came and went at his own sovereign will, and

discipline and obedience were repugnant to all his habits.

The frontiers of Maryland and Virginia closely resembled each other; but

those of Pennsylvania had peculiarities of their own. The population of

this province was of a most motley complexion, being made up of members of

various nations, and numerous religious sects: English, Irish, German,

Swiss, Welsh, and Dutch; Quakers, Presbyterians, Lutherans, Dunkers,

Mennonists, and Moravians. Nor is this catalogue by any means complete.

The Quakers, to whose peaceful temper the rough frontier offered no

attraction, were confined to the eastern parts of the province. Cumberland

County, which lies west of the Susquehanna, and may be said to have formed

the frontier, was then almost exclusively occupied by the Irish and their

descendants; who, however, were neither of the Roman faith nor of Celtic

origin, being emigrants from the colony of Scotch which forms a numerous

and thrifty population in the north of Ireland. In religious faith, they

were stanch and zealous Presbyterians. Long residence in the province had

modified their national character, and imparted many of the peculiar

traits of the American backwoodsman; yet the nature of their religious

tenets produced a certain rigidity of temper and demeanor, from which the

Virginian was wholly free. They were, nevertheless, hot-headed and

turbulent, often setting law and authority at defiance. The counties east

of the Susquehanna supported a mixed population, among which was

conspicuous a swarm of German peasants; who had been inundating the

country for many years past, and who for the most part were dull and

ignorant boors, like some of their descendants. The Swiss and German

sectaries called Mennonists, who were numerous in Lancaster County,

professed, like the Quakers, principles of non-resistance, and refused to

bear arms.[328]

It was upon this mingled population, that the storm of Indian war was now

descending with appalling fury,--a fury unparalleled through all past and

succeeding years. For hundreds of miles from north to south, the country

was wasted with fire and steel. It would be a task alike useless and

revolting to explore, through all its details, this horrible monotony of

blood and havoc.[329] The country was filled with the wildest dismay. The

people of Virginia betook themselves to their forts for refuge. Those of

Pennsylvania, ill supplied with such asylums, fled by thousands, and

crowded in upon the older settlements. The ranging parties who visited the

scene of devastation beheld, among the ruined farms and plantations,

sights of unspeakable horror; and discovered, in the depths of the forest,

the half-consumed bodies of men and women, still bound fast to the trees,

where they had perished in the fiery torture.[330]

Among the numerous war-parties which were now ravaging the borders, none

was more destructive than a band, about sixty in number, which ascended

the Kenawha, and pursued its desolating course among the settlements about

the sources of that river. They passed valley after valley, sometimes

attacking the inhabitants by surprise, and sometimes murdering them under

the mask of friendship, until they came to the little settlement of

Greenbrier, where nearly a hundred of the people were assembled at the

fortified house of Archibald Glendenning. Seeing two or three Indians

approach, whom they recognized as former acquaintances, they suffered them

to enter without distrust; but the new-comers were soon joined by others,

until the entire party were gathered in and around the buildings. Some

suspicion was now awakened; and, in order to propitiate the dangerous

guests, they were presented with the carcass of an elk lately brought in

by the hunters. They immediately cut it up, and began to feast upon it.

The backwoodsmen, with their families, were assembled in one large room;

and finding themselves mingled among the Indians, and embarrassed by the

presence of the women and children, they remained indecisive and

irresolute. Meanwhile, an old woman, who sat in a corner of the room, and

who had lately received some slight accidental injury, asked one of the

warriors if he could cure the wound. He replied that he thought he could,

and, to make good his words, killed her with his tomahawk. This was the

signal for a scene of general butchery. A few persons made their escape;

the rest were killed or captured. Glendenning snatched up one of his

children, and rushed from the house, but was shot dead as he leaped the

fence. A negro woman gained a place of concealment, whither she was

followed by her screaming child; and, fearing lest the cries of the boy

should betray her, she turned and killed him at a blow. Among the

prisoners was the wife of Glendenning, a woman of a most masculine spirit,

who, far from being overpowered by what she had seen, was excited to the

extremity of rage, charged her captors with treachery, cowardice, and

ingratitude, and assailed them with a tempest of abuse. Neither the

tomahawk, which they brandished over her head, nor the scalp of her

murdered husband, with which they struck her in the face, could silence

the undaunted virago. When the party began their retreat, bearing with

them a great quantity of plunder packed on the horses they had stolen,

Glendenning's wife, with her infant child, was placed among a long train

of captives guarded before and behind by the Indians. As they defiled

along a narrow path which led through a gap in the mountains, she handed

the child to the woman behind her, and, leaving it to its fate,[331]

slipped into the bushes and escaped. Being well acquainted with the woods,

she succeeded, before nightfall, in reaching the spot where the ruins of

her dwelling had not yet ceased to burn. Here she sought out the body of

her husband, and covered it with fence-rails, to protect it from the

wolves. When her task was complete, and when night closed around her, the

bold spirit which had hitherto borne her up suddenly gave way. The

recollection of the horrors she had witnessed, the presence of the dead,

the darkness, the solitude, and the gloom of the surrounding forest,

wrought upon her till her terror rose to ecstasy; and she remained until

daybreak, crouched among the bushes, haunted by the threatening apparition

of an armed man, who, to her heated imagination, seemed constantly

approaching to murder her.[332]

Some time after the butchery at Glendenning's house, an outrage was

perpetrated, unmatched, in its fiend-like atrocity, through all the annals

of the war. In a solitary place, deep within the settled limits of

Pennsylvania, stood a small school-house, one of those rude structures of

logs which, to this day, may be seen in some of the remote northern

districts of New England. A man chancing to pass by was struck by the

unwonted silence; and, pushing open the door, he looked in. In the centre

lay the master, scalped and lifeless, with a Bible clasped in his hand;

while around the room were strewn the bodies of his pupils, nine in

number, miserably mangled, though one of them still retained a spark of

life. It was afterwards known that the deed was committed by three or four

warriors from a village near the Ohio; and it is but just to observe that,

when they returned home, their conduct was disapproved by some of the

tribe.[333]

Page after page might be filled with records like these, for the letters

and journals of the day are replete with narratives no less tragical.

Districts were depopulated, and the progress of the country put back for

years. Those small and scattered settlements which formed the feeble van

of advancing civilization were involved in general destruction, and the

fate of one may stand for the fate of all. In many a woody valley of the

Alleghanies, the axe and firebrand of the settlers had laid a wide space

open to the sun. Here and there, about the clearing, stood rough dwellings

of logs, surrounded by enclosures and cornfields; while, farther out

towards the verge of the woods, the fallen trees still cumbered the

ground. From the clay-built chimneys the smoke rose in steady columns

against the dark verge of the forest; and the afternoon sun, which

brightened the tops of the mountains, had already left the valley in

shadow. Before many hours elapsed, the night was lighted up with the glare

of blazing dwellings, and the forest rang with the shrieks of the murdered

inmates.[334]

Among the records of that day's sufferings and disasters, none are more

striking than the narratives of those whose lives were spared that they

might be borne captive to the Indian villages. Exposed to the extremity of

hardship, they were urged forward with the assurance of being tomahawked

or burnt in case their strength should fail them. Some made their escape

from the clutches of their tormentors; but of these not a few found reason

to repent their success, lost in a trackless wilderness, and perishing

miserably from hunger and exposure. Such attempts could seldom be made in

the neighborhood of the settlements. It was only when the party had

penetrated deep into the forest that their vigilance began to relax, and

their captives were bound and guarded with less rigorous severity. Then,

perhaps, when encamped by the side of some mountain brook, and when the

warriors lay lost in sleep around their fire, the prisoner would cut or

burn asunder the cords that bound his wrists and ankles, and glide

stealthily into the woods. With noiseless celerity he pursues his flight

over the fallen trunks, through the dense undergrowth, and the thousand

pitfalls and impediments of the forest; now striking the rough, hard trunk

of a tree, now tripping among the insidious network of vines and brambles.

All is darkness around him, and through the black masses of foliage above

he can catch but dubious and uncertain glimpses of the dull sky. At

length, he can hear the gurgle of a neighboring brook; and, turning

towards it, he wades along its pebbly channel, fearing lest the soft mould

and rotten wood of the forest might retain traces enough to direct the

bloodhound instinct of his pursuers. With the dawn of the misty and cloudy

morning, he is still pushing on his way, when his attention is caught by

the spectral figure of an ancient birch-tree, which, with its white bark

hanging about it in tatters, seems wofully familiar to his eye. Among the

neighboring bushes, a blue smoke curls faintly upward; and, to his horror

and amazement, he recognizes the very fire from which he had fled a few

hours before, and the piles of spruce boughs upon which the warriors had

slept. They have gone, however, and are ranging the forest, in keen

pursuit of the fugitive, who, in his blind flight amid the darkness, had

circled round to the very point whence he set out; a mistake not uncommon

with careless or inexperienced travellers in the woods. Almost in despair,

he leaves the ill-omened spot, and directs his course eastward with

greater care; the bark of the trees, rougher and thicker on the northern

side, furnishing a precarious clew for his guidance. Around and above him

nothing can be seen but the same endless monotony of brown trunks and

green leaves, closing him in with an impervious screen. He reaches the

foot of a mountain, and toils upwards against the rugged declivity; but

when he stands on the summit, the view is still shut out by impenetrable

thickets. High above them all shoots up the tall, gaunt stem of a blasted

pine-tree; and, in his eager longing for a view of the surrounding

objects, he strains every muscle to ascend. Dark, wild, and lonely, the

wilderness stretches around him, half hidden in clouds, half open to the

sight, mountain and valley, crag and glistening stream; but nowhere can he

discern the trace of human hand or any hope of rest and harborage. Before

he can look for relief, league upon league must be passed, without food to

sustain or weapon to defend him. He descends the mountain, forcing his way

through the undergrowth of laurel-bushes; while the clouds sink lower, and

a storm of sleet and rain descends upon the waste. Through such scenes,

and under such exposures, he presses onward, sustaining life with the aid

of roots and berries or the flesh of reptiles. Perhaps, in the last

extremity, some party of Rangers find him, and bring him to a place of

refuge; perhaps, by his own efforts, he reaches some frontier post, where

rough lodging and rough fare seem to him unheard-of luxury; or perhaps,

spent with fatigue and famine, he perishes in despair, a meagre banquet

for the wolves.

Within two or three weeks after the war had broken out, the older towns

and settlements of Pennsylvania were crowded with refugees from the

deserted frontier, reduced, in many cases, to the extremity of

destitution.[335] Sermons were preached in their behalf at Philadelphia;

the religious societies united for their relief, and liberal contributions

were added by individuals. While private aid was thus generously bestowed

upon the sufferers, the government showed no such promptness in arresting

the public calamity. Early in July, Governor Hamilton had convoked the

Assembly, and, representing the distress of the borders, had urged them to

take measures of defence.[336] But the provincial government of

Pennsylvania was more conducive to prosperity in time of peace than to

efficiency in time of war. The Quakers, who held a majority in the

Assembly, were from principle and practice the reverse of warlike, and,

regarding the Indians with a blind partiality, were reluctant to take

measures against them. Proud, and with some reason, of the justice and

humanity which had marked their conduct towards the Indian race, they had

learned to regard themselves as its advocates and patrons, and their zeal

was greatly sharpened by opposition and political prejudice. They now

pretended that the accounts from the frontier were grossly exaggerated;

and, finding this ground untenable, they alleged, with better show of

reason, that the Indians were driven into hostility by the ill-treatment

of the proprietaries and their partisans. They recognized, however, the

necessity of defensive measures, and accordingly passed a bill for raising

and equipping a force of seven hundred men, to be composed of frontier

farmers, and to be kept in pay only during the time of harvest. They were

not to leave the settled parts of the province to engage in offensive

operations of any kind, nor even to perform garrison duty; their sole

object being to enable the people to gather in their crops unmolested.

This force was divided into numerous small detached parties, who were

stationed here and there at farm-houses and hamlets on both sides of the

Susquehanna, with orders to range the woods daily from post to post, thus

forming a feeble chain of defence across the whole frontier. The two

companies assigned to Lancaster County were placed under the command of a

clergyman, John Elder, pastor of the Presbyterian Church of Paxton; a man

of worth and education, and held in great respect upon the borders. He

discharged his military functions with address and judgment, drawing a

cordon of troops across the front of the county, and preserving the

inhabitants free from attack for a considerable time.[337]

The feeble measures adopted by the Pennsylvania Assembly highly excited

the wrath of Sir Jeffrey Amherst, and he did not hesitate to give his

feelings an emphatic expression. "The conduct of the Pennsylvania

legislature," he writes, "is altogether so infatuated and stupidly

obstinate, that I want words to express my indignation thereat; but the

colony of Virginia, I hope, will have the honor of not only driving the

enemy from its own settlements, but that of protecting those of its

neighbors who have not spirit to defend themselves."

Virginia did, in truth, exhibit a vigor and activity not unworthy of

praise. Unlike Pennsylvania, she had the advantage of an existing militia

law; and the House of Burgesses was neither embarrassed by scruples

against the shedding of blood, nor by any peculiar tenderness towards the

Indian race. The House, however, was not immediately summoned together;

and the governor and council, without waiting to consult the Burgesses,

called out a thousand of the militia, five hundred of whom were assigned

to the command of Colonel Stephen, and an equal number to that of Major

Lewis.[338] The presence of these men, most of whom were woodsmen and

hunters, restored order and confidence to the distracted borders; and the

inhabitants, before pent up in their forts, or flying before the enemy,

now took the field, in conjunction with the militia. Many severe actions

were fought, but it seldom happened that the Indians could stand their

ground against the border riflemen. The latter were uniformly victorious

until the end of the summer; when Captains Moffat and Phillips, with sixty

men, were lured into an ambuscade, and routed, with the loss of half their

number. A few weeks after, they took an ample revenge. Learning by their

scouts that more than a hundred warriors were encamped near Jackson's

River, preparing to attack the settlements, they advanced secretly to the

spot, and set upon them with such fury that the whole party broke away and

fled; leaving weapons, provisions, articles of dress, and implements of

magic, in the hands of the victors.

Meanwhile the frontier people of Pennsylvania, finding that they could

hope for little aid from government, bestirred themselves with admirable

spirit in their own defence. The march of Bouquet, and the victory of

Bushy Run, caused a temporary lull in the storm, thus enabling some of the

bolder inhabitants, who had fled to Shippensburg, Carlisle, and other

places of refuge, to return to their farms, where they determined, if

possible, to remain. With this resolution, the people of the Great Cove,

and the adjacent valleys beyond Shippensburg, raised among themselves a

small body of riflemen, which they placed under the command of James

Smith; a man whose resolute and daring character, no less than the native

vigor of his intellect, gave him great popularity and influence with the

borderers. Having been, for several years, a prisoner among the Indians,

he was thoroughly acquainted with their mode of fighting. He trained his

men in the Indian tactics and discipline, and directed them to assume the

dress of warriors, and paint their faces red and black, so that, in

appearance, they were hardly distinguishable from the enemy.[339] Thus

equipped, they scoured the woods in front of the settlements, had various

skirmishes with the enemy, and discharged their difficult task with such

success that the inhabitants of the neighborhood were not again driven

from their homes.

The attacks on the Pennsylvania frontier were known to proceed, in great

measure, from several Indian villages, situated high up the west branch of

the Susquehanna, and inhabited by a debauched rabble composed of various

tribes, of whom the most conspicuous were Delawares. To root out this nest

of banditti would be the most effectual means of protecting the

settlements, and a hundred and ten men offered themselves for the

enterprise. They marched about the end of August; but on their way along

the banks of the Susquehanna, they encountered fifty warriors, advancing

against the borders. The Indians had the first fire, and drove in the

vanguard of the white men. A hot fight ensued. The warriors fought naked,

painted black from head to foot; so that, as they leaped among the trees,

they seemed to their opponents like demons of the forest. They were driven

back with heavy loss; and the volunteers returned in triumph, though

without accomplishing the object of the expedition; for which, indeed,

their numbers were scarcely adequate.[340]

Within a few weeks after their return, Colonel Armstrong, a veteran

partisan of the French war, raised three hundred men, the best in

Cumberland County, with a view to the effectual destruction of the

Susquehanna villages. Leaving their rendezvous at the crossings of the

Juniata, about the first of October, they arrived on the sixth at the

Great Island, high up the west branch. On or near this island were

situated the principal villages of the enemy. But the Indians had

vanished, abandoning their houses, their cornfields, their stolen horses

and cattle, and the accumulated spoil of the settlements. Leaving a

detachment to burn the towns and lay waste the fields, Armstrong, with the

main body of his men, followed close on the trail of the fugitives; and,

pursuing them through a rugged and difficult country, soon arrived at

another village, thirty miles above the former. His scouts informed him

that the place was full of Indians; and his men, forming a circle around

it, rushed in upon the cabins at a given signal. The Indians were gone,

having stolen away in such haste that the hominy and bear's meat, prepared

for their meal, were found smoking upon their dishes of birch-bark. Having

burned the place to the ground, the party returned to the Great Island;

and, rejoining their companions, descended the Susquehanna, reaching Fort

Augusta in a wretched condition, fatigued, half famished, and quarrelling

among themselves.[341]

Scarcely were they returned, when another expedition was set on foot, in

which a portion of them were persuaded to take part. During the previous

year, a body of settlers from Connecticut had possessed themselves of the

valley of Wyoming, on the east branch of the Susquehanna, in defiance of

the government of Pennsylvania, and to the great displeasure of the

Indians. The object of the expedition was to remove these settlers, and

destroy their corn and provisions, which might otherwise fall into the

hands of the enemy. The party, composed chiefly of volunteers from

Lancaster County, set out from Harris's Ferry, under the command of Major

Clayton, and reached Wyoming on the seventeenth of October. They were too

late. Two days before their arrival, a massacre had been perpetrated, the

fitting precursor of that subsequent scene of blood which, embalmed in the

poetic romance of Campbell, has made the name of Wyoming a household word.

The settlement was a pile of ashes and cinders, and the bodies of its

miserable inhabitants offered frightful proof of the cruelties inflicted

upon them.[342] A large war-party had fallen upon the place, killed and

carried off more than twenty of the people, and driven the rest, men,

women, and children, in terror to the mountains. Gaining a point which

commanded the whole expanse of the valley below, the fugitives looked

back, and saw the smoke rolling up in volumes from their burning homes;

while the Indians could be discerned roaming about in quest of plunder, or

feasting in groups upon the slaughtered cattle. One of the principal

settlers, a man named Hopkins, was separated from the rest, and driven

into the woods. Finding himself closely pursued, he crept into the hollow

trunk of a fallen tree, while the Indians passed without observing him.

They soon returned to the spot, and ranged the surrounding woods like

hounds at fault; two of them approaching so near, that, as Hopkins

declared, he could hear the bullets rattle in their pouches. The search

was unavailing; but the fugitive did not venture from his place of

concealment until extreme hunger forced him to return to the ruined

settlement in search of food. The Indians had abandoned it some time

before; and, having found means to restore his exhausted strength, he

directed his course towards the settlements of the Delaware, which he

reached after many days of wandering.[343]

Having buried the dead bodies of those who had fallen in the massacre,

Clayton and his party returned to the settlements. The Quakers, who seemed

resolved that they would neither defend the people of the frontier nor

allow them to defend themselves, vehemently inveighed against the several

expeditions up the Susquehanna, and denounced them as seditious and

murderous. Urged by their blind prejudice in favor of the Indians, they

insisted that the bands of the Upper Susquehanna were friendly to the

English; whereas, with the single exception of a few Moravian converts

near Wyoming, who had not been molested by the whites, there could be no

rational doubt that these savages nourished a rancorous and malignant

hatred against the province. But the Quakers, removed by their situation

from all fear of the tomahawk, securely vented their spite against the

borderers, and doggedly closed their ears to the truth.[344] Meanwhile,

the people of the frontier besieged the Assembly with petitions for

relief; but little heed was given to their complaints.

Sir Jeffrey Amherst had recently resigned his office of

commander-in-chief; and General Gage, a man of less efficiency than his

predecessor, was appointed to succeed him. Immediately before his

departure for England, Amherst had reluctantly condescended to ask the

several provinces for troops to march against the Indians early in the

spring, and the first act of Gage was to confirm this requisition. New

York was called upon to furnish fourteen hundred men, and New Jersey six

hundred.[345] The demand was granted, on condition that the New England

provinces should also contribute a just proportion to the general defence.

This condition was complied with, and the troops were raised.

Pennsylvania had been required to furnish a thousand men; but in this

quarter many difficulties intervened. The Assembly of the province, never

prompt to vote supplies for military purposes, was now embroiled in that

obstinate quarrel with the proprietors, which for years past had clogged

all the wheels of government. The proprietors insisted on certain

pretended rights, which the Assembly strenuously opposed; and the

governors, who represented the proprietary interest, were bound by

imperative instructions to assert these claims, in spite of all

opposition. On the present occasion, the chief point of dispute related to

the taxation of the proprietary estates; the governor, in conformity with

his instructions, demanding that they should be assessed at a lower rate

than other lands of equal value in the province. The Assembly stood their

ground, and refused to remove the obnoxious clauses in the supply bill.

Message after message passed between the House and the governor; mutual

recrimination ensued, and ill blood was engendered. The frontiers might

have been left to their misery but for certain events which, during the

winter, threw the whole province into disorder, and acted like magic on

the minds of the stubborn legislators.

These events may be ascribed, in some degree, to the renewed activity of

the enemy; who, during a great part of the autumn, had left the borders in

comparative quiet. As the winter closed in, their attacks became more

frequent; and districts, repeopled during the interval of calm, were again

made desolate. Again the valleys were illumined by the flames of burning

houses, and families fled shivering through the biting air of the winter

night, while the fires behind them shed a ruddy glow upon the snow-covered

mountains. The scouts, who on snowshoes explored the track of the

marauders, found the bodies of their victims lying in the forest, stripped

naked, and frozen to marble hardness. The distress, wrath, and terror of

the borderers produced results sufficiently remarkable to deserve a

separate examination.

CHAPTER XXIII.

1763-1764.

THE INDIANS RAISE THE SIEGE OF DETROIT.