_Life in the Wilderness._
Stewart killed by the Indians.--Squire Boone returns to the
Settlements.--Solitary Life of Daniel Boone.--Return of Squire
Boone.--Extended and Romantic Explorations.--Charms and Perils of
the Wilderness.--The Emigrant Party.--The Fatal Ambuscade.--Retreat
of the Emigrants.--Solitude of the Wilderness.--Expedition of Lewis
and Clarke.--Extraordinary Adventures of Cotter.
There were now four hungry men to occupy the little camp of our bold
adventurers. They do not seem to have been conscious of enduring any
hardships. The winter was mild. Their snug tent furnished perfect
protection from wind and rain. With abundant fuel, their camp-fire ever
blazed brightly. Still it was necessary for them to be diligent in
hunting, to supply themselves with their daily food. Bread, eggs, milk,
butter, sugar, and even salt, were articles of which they were entirely
destitute.
One day, not long after the arrival of Squire Boone, Daniel Boone, with
his companion Stewart, was a long distance from the camp, hunting.
Suddenly the terrible war-whoop of the Indians resounded from a thicket,
and a shower of arrows fell around them. Stewart, pierced by one of
these deadly missiles, fell mortally wounded. A sturdy savage sprang
from the ambuscade upon his victim, and with a yell buried a tomahawk in
his brain. Then, grasping with one hand the hair on the top of his head,
he made a rapid circular cut with his gleaming knife, and tore off the
scalp, leaving the skull bare. The revolting deed was done quicker than
it can be described. Shaking the bloody trophy in his hand, he gave a
whoop of exultation which echoed far and wide through the solitudes of
the forest.
Boone, swift of foot as the antelope, escaped and reached the camp with
the sad tidings of the death of his companion, and of the presence, in
their immediate vicinity, of hostile Indians. This so affrighted the
North Carolinian who had come with Squire Boone, that he resolved upon
an immediate return to the Yadkin. He set out alone, and doubtless
perished by the way, as he was never heard of again. A skeleton,
subsequently found in the wilderness, was supposed to be the remains of
the unfortunate hunter. He probably perished through exhaustion, or by
the arrow or tomahawk of the savage.
The two brothers, Daniel and Squire, were now left entirely alone.
They selected a favorable spot in a wild ravine where they would be the
least likely to be discovered by hunting bands, and built for
themselves a snug and comfortable log-house, in which they would be more
effectually sheltered from the storms and cold of winter, and into which
they moved from their open camp. Here they remained, two loving brothers
of congenial tastes, during the months of January, February, March and
April. Solitary as their life must have been probably, every hour
brought busy employment. Each day's food was to be obtained by the
rifle. Wood was to be procured for their fire. All their clothing, from
the cap to the moccasin, was to be fashioned by their own hands from the
skin of the deer, which they had carefully tanned into pliancy and
softness; and there were to be added to their cabin many conveniences
which required much ingenuity with knife and hatchet for their only
tools, and with neither nail nor screw for their construction. In
addition to this they were under the necessity of being ever on the
alert to discover indications of the approach of the Indians.
The winter passed away, not only undisturbed, but evidently very
happily. It is remarkable that their retreat was not discovered by any
of the Indian bands, who in pursuit of game were constantly roving over
those rich hunting grounds.
As summer's warmth returned, Squire Boone decided to retrace his steps
to the Yadkin, to carry to his brother's family news of his safety, and
to obtain much needed supplies of powder and of lead. There is no
satisfactory explanation of the motives which could have induced Daniel,
after the absence of a year from his home, to remain alone in that
solitary cabin. In his autobiography he has assigned no reason for the
extraordinary decision. One of the most judicious of his biographers
makes the following statement which by no means solves the mystery:
"When the spring came it was time for another movement. The spring came
early, and the awaking to its foliage seemed like the passing from night
to the day. The game had reduced their powder and lead, and without
these there was no existence to the white man. Again Daniel Boone rises
to the emergency. It was necessary that the settlement which they had
made should be continued and protected, and it was the duty in the
progress of events that one of them should remain to that task. He made
the selection and chose himself. He had the courage to remain alone. And
while he felt the keenest desire to see his own family, he felt that he
had a noble purpose to serve and was prepared for it."[C]
[Footnote C: Life of Boone, by W. H. Bogart.]
Daniel Boone, in his quaint autobiography, in the following terms
alludes to the departure of his brother and his own solitary mode of
life during the three months of his brother's absence:
"On the first day of May, 1770, my brother returned home to the
settlement by himself for a new recruit of horses and ammunition,
leaving me by myself without bread, salt or sugar, without company of my
fellow creatures, or even a horse or dog. I confess I never before was
under greater necessity of exercising philosophy and fortitude. A few
days I passed uncomfortably. The idea of a beloved wife and family, and
their anxiety on account of my absence and exposed situation, made
sensible impressions on my heart. A thousand dreadful apprehensions
presented themselves to my view, and had undoubtedly exposed me to
melancholy if further indulged.
"One day I took a tour through the country, and the diversity and
beauties of nature I met with in this charming season, expelled every
gloomy and vexatious thought. Just at the close of the day the gentle
gales retired and left the place to the disposal of a profound calm. Not
a breeze shook the most tremulous leaf. I had gained the summit of a
commanding ridge, and looking around with astonishing delight beheld the
ample plain, the beauteous tracts below. On the other hand I surveyed
the famous river Ohio, that rolled in silent dignity, marking the
western boundary of Kentucky, with inconceivable grandeur. At a vast
distance I beheld the mountains lift their venerable heads and penetrate
the clouds.
"I kindled a fire near a fountain of sweet water, and feasted on the
loin of a buck. The fallen shades of night soon overspread the whole
hemisphere, and the earth seemed to gape after the hovering moisture. My
roving excursion this day had fatigued my body and diverted my
imagination. I laid me down to sleep, and I woke not until the sun had
chased away the night. I continued this tour, and in a few days explored
a considerable part of the country, each day equally pleased as the
first. I returned to my old camp which was not disturbed in my absence.
I did not confine my lodging to it, but often reposed in thick cane
brakes, to avoid the savages, who I believe often visited it, but,
fortunately for me, in my absence.
"In this situation I was constantly exposed to danger and death. How
unhappy such a condition for a man tormented with fear, which is vain if
no danger comes; and if it does, only augments the pain! It was my
happiness to be destitute of this afflicting passion, with which I had
the greatest reason to be affected. The prowling wolves diverted my
nocturnal hours with perpetual howlings, and the various species of
animals in this vast forest, in the day-time were continually in my
view. Thus I was surrounded with plenty in the midst of want. I was
happy in the midst of dangers and inconveniences. In such a diversity it
was impossible I should be disposed to melancholy. No populous city,
with all the varieties of commerce and stately structures, could afford
so much pleasure to my mind, as the beauties of nature I found here.
"Thus through an uninterrupted scene of sylvan pleasures, I spent the
time until the twenty-seventh day of July following, when my brother, to
my great felicity, met me, according to appointment, at our old camp."
Boone was at this time thirty-six years of age. He was about five feet
ten inches in height, and of remarkably vigorous and athletic frame. His
life in the open air, his perfect temperance, and his freedom from all
exciting passions, gave him constant health. Squire brought back to his
brother the gratifying news that his wife Rebecca was in good health and
spirits, and cheerfully acquiesced in whatever decision her husband
might make, in reference to his absence. She had full confidence in the
soundness of his judgment, and in his conjugal and parental love. The
children were all well, and from the farm and the forest the wants of
the family were fully supplied.
It appears that Squire Boone had succeeded in bringing one or two
horses across the mountains. The abundance of grass kept them in fine
condition. Upon the backs of these horses, the pioneers could traverse
the treeless prairies without obstruction, and large portions of the
forest were as free from underbrush as the park of an English nobleman.
Invaluable as these animals were to the adventurers, they greatly
increased their perils. They could not easily be concealed. Their
footprints could not be effaced, and there was nothing the Indians
coveted so greatly as a horse.
The two adventurers now set out on horseback for an exploring tour to
the south-west. Following a line nearly parallel with the Cumberland
Range, after traversing a magnificent region of beauty and fertility for
about one hundred and fifty miles, they reached the banks of the
Cumberland river. This majestic stream takes its rise on the western
slope of the Cumberland mountains. After an exceedingly circuitous route
of six hundred miles, running far down into Tennessee, it turns
north-westerly again, and empties its waters into the Ohio, about sixty
miles above the entrance of that river into the Mississippi.
It was mid-summer. The weather was delightful. The forest free from
underbrush, attractive as the most artificial park, and the smooth sweep
of the treeless prairie presented before them as enticing a route of
travel as the imagination could desire. There were of course hardships
and privations, which would have been regarded as very severe by the
dwellers in the sealed houses, but none which disturbed in the slightest
degree the equanimity of these hardy adventurers. They journeyed very
leisurely; seven months being occupied in the tour. Probably only a few
miles were accomplished each day. With soft saddles made of the skin of
buffalo, with their horses never urged beyond a walk, with bright skies
above them, and vistas of beauty ever opening before them, and
luxuriance, bloom and fragrance spread everywhere around, their journey
seemed replete with enjoyment of the purest kind.
Though it was necessary to practice the extreme of caution, to avoid
capture by the Indians, our adventurers do not seem to have been annoyed
in the slightest degree with any painful fears on that account. Each
morning they carefully scanned the horizon, to see if anywhere there
could be seen the smoke of the camp-fire curling up from the open
prairie or from the forest. Through the day they were ever on the alert,
examining the trails which they occasionally passed, to see if there
were any fresh foot prints, or other indications of the recent presence
of their foe. At night, before venturing to kindle their own camp-fire,
they looked cautiously in every direction, to see if a gleam from an
Indian encampment could anywhere be seen. Thus from the first of August
to the ensuing month of March, these two bold men traversed, for many
hundred miles, an unknown country, filled with wandering hunting bands
of hostile Indians, and yet avoided capture or detection.
If a storm arose, they would rear their cabin in some secluded dell, and
basking in the warmth of their camp-fire wait until the returning sun
invited them to resume their journey. Or if they came to some of
nature's favored haunts, where Eden-like attractions were spread around
them, on the borders of the lake, by the banks of the stream, or beneath
the brow of the mountain, they would tarry for a few days, reveling in
delights, which they both had the taste to appreciate.
In this way, they very thoroughly explored the upper valley of the
Cumberland river. For some reason not given, they preferred to return
north several hundred miles to the Kentucky river, as the seat of their
contemplated settlement. The head waters of this stream are near those
of the Cumberland. It however flows through the very heart of Kentucky,
till it enters the Ohio river, midway between the present cities of
Cincinnati and Louisville. It was in the month of March that they
reached the Kentucky river on their return. For some time they wandered
along its banks searching for the more suitable situation for the
location of a colony.
"The exemption of these men," said W. H. Bogart, "from assault by the
Indians during all this long period of seven months, in which, armed and
on horseback, they seem to have roamed just where they chose, is most
wonderful. It has something about it which seems like a special
interposition of Providence, beyond the ordinary guardianship over the
progress of man. On the safety of these men rested the hope of a nation.
A very distinguished authority has declared, that without Boone, the
settlements could not have been upheld and the conquest of Kentucky
would have been reserved for the emigrants of the nineteenth century."
Boone having now, after an absence of nearly two years, apparently
accomplished the great object of his mission; having, after the most
careful and extensive exploration, selected such a spot as he deemed
most attractive for the future home of his family, decided to return to
the Yadkin and make preparations for their emigration across the
mountains. To us now, such a movement seems to indicate an almost insane
boldness and recklessness. To take wife and children into a pathless
wilderness filled with unfriendly savages, five hundred miles from any
of the settlements of civilization, would seem to invite death. A
family could not long be concealed. Their discovery by the Indians
would be almost the certain precursor of their destruction. Boone, in
his autobiography, says in allusion to this hazardous adventure:
"I returned home to my family with a determination to bring them as soon
as possible, at the risk of my life and fortune, to live in Kentucky,
which I esteemed a second paradise."
The two brothers accomplished the journey safely, and Daniel Boone found
his family, after his long absence, in health and prosperity. One would
have supposed that the charms of home on the banks of the Yadkin, where
they could dwell in peace, abundance and safety, would have lured our
adventurer to rest from his wanderings. And it is probable that for a
time, he wavered in his resolution. Two years elapsed ere he set out for
his new home in the Far-West.
There was much to be done in preparation for so momentous a movement. He
sold his farm on the Yadkin and invested the proceeds in such comforts
as would be available on the banks of the Kentucky. Money would be of no
value to him there. A path had been discovered by which horses could be
led through the mountains, and thus many articles could be transported
which could not be taken in packs on the back. Several of the neighbors,
elated by the description which Boone gave of the paradise he had
found, were anxious to join his family in their emigration. There were
also quite a number of young men rising here and there, who, lured by
the romance of the adventure, were eager to accompany the expedition.
All these events caused delays. The party of emigrants became more
numerous than Boone at first expected.
It was not until the twenty-fifth of September, 1773, that Daniel Boone,
his brother Squire, and quite a large party of emigrants, probably in
all--men, women and children--not less than sixty in number, commenced
their journey across the mountains. There were five families and forty
pioneers, all well armed, who were quite at home amid the trials and
privations of the wilderness. Four horses, heavily laden, led the train
through the narrow trails of the forest. Then came, in single file, the
remainder of the party, of all ages and both sexes. It must have been a
singular spectacle which was presented, as this long line wound its way
through the valleys and over the ridges.
Squire Boone was quite familiar with the path. It was delightful
autumnal weather. The days were long and calm, and yet not oppressively
hot. There were no gloved gentlemen or delicate ladies in the company.
All were hardy men and women, accustomed to endurance. Each day's
journey was short. An hour before the sun disappeared in the west, the
little village of cabins arose, where some spring gurgled from the
cliff, or some sparkling mountain stream rippled before them. In front
of each cabin the camp-fire blazed. All was animation and apparent joy,
as the women prepared the evening meal, and the wearied children rested
upon their couch of dried leaves or fragrant twigs. If a storm arose,
they had but to remain beneath their shelter until it passed away.
"Traveling," says Madame de Stael, who was accustomed to the most
luxurious of European conveyances, "is the most painful of pleasures."
Probably our travelers on this journey experienced as many pleasures and
as few pains as often fall to the lot of any tourist. The solitary
wilderness has its attractions as well as the thronged town.
These bold men armed with their rifles, under such an accomplished
leader as Daniel Boone, penetrated the wilderness with almost the
strength of an invading army. Upon the open prairie, the superiority of
their arms would compensate for almost any inferiority of numbers.
Indeed they had little to fear from the savages, unless struck suddenly
with overwhelming numbers leaping upon them from some ambush. Pleasant
days came and went, while nothing occurred to interrupt the prosperity
of their journey. They were approaching the celebrated Cumberland Gap,
which seems to be a door that nature has thrown open for passing through
this great mountain barrier. The vigilance they ought to have practiced
had been in some degree relaxed by their freedom from all alarm. The
cows had fallen a few miles behind, seven young men were with them, a
son of Daniel Boone being one of the number. The main party was not
aware how far the cattle had fallen in the rear.
It is probable that the savages had been following them for several
days, watching for an opportunity to strike, for suddenly, as they were
passing through a narrow ravine, the fearful war-whoop resounded from
the thickets on both sides, a shower of arrows fell upon them, and six
of the seven young men were instantly struck down by these deadly
missiles. One only escaped. The attack was so sudden, so unexpected,
that the emigrants had scarcely time for one discharge of their
fire-arms, ere they were struck with death. The party in advance heard
with consternation the reports of the muskets, and immediately returned
to the scene of the disaster. But several miles intervened. They met the
fugitive who had escaped, bleeding and almost breathless.
Hurrying on, an awful spectacle met their view. The bodies of six of
the young men lay in the path, mangled and gory, with their scalps torn
from their heads: the cattle were driven into the forest beyond pursuit.
One of these victims was the eldest son of Daniel Boone. James was a
noble lad of but seventeen years. His untimely death was a terrible blow
to his father and mother. This massacre took place on the tenth of
October, only a fortnight after the expedition had commenced its march.
The gloom which it threw over the minds of the emigrants was so great,
that the majority refused to press any farther into a wilderness where
they would encounter such perils.
They had already passed two mountain ridges. Between them there was a
very beautiful valley, through which flows the Clinch River. This many
leagues below, uniting with the Holston River, flowing on the other side
of Powell's Ridge, composes the majestic Tennessee, which, extending far
down into Alabama, turns again north, and traversing the whole breadth
of Tennessee and Kentucky, empties into the Ohio.
Notwithstanding the remonstrances of Daniel Boone and his brother, the
majority of the emigrants resolved to retreat forty miles over the
Walden Ridge, and establish themselves in the valley of the Clinch.
Daniel Boone, finding all his attempts to encourage them to proceed in
vain, decided with his customary good sense to acquiesce in their
wishes, and quietly to await further developments. The whole party
consequently retraced their steps, and reared their cabins on fertile
meadows in the valley of the Clinch River. Here, between parallel ridges
of mountains running north-east and south-west, Boone with his
disheartened emigrants passed seven months. This settlement was within
the limits of the present State of Virginia, in its most extreme
south-western corner.
The value of the vast country beyond the mountains was beginning to
attract the attention of the governors of the several colonies. Governor
Dunmore of Virginia had sent a party of surveyors to explore the valley
of the Ohio River as far as the celebrated Falls of the Ohio, near the
present site of Louisville. Quite a body of these surveyors had built
and fortified a camp near the Falls, and were busy in exploring the
country, in preparation for the granting of lands as rewards for
services to the officers and soldiers in the French war. These pioneers
were far away in the wilderness, four hundred miles beyond any
settlement of the whites. They were surrounded by thousands of Indian
warriors, and still they felt somewhat secure, as a treaty of peace had
been made by the Governor of Virginia with the neighboring chiefs. But,
notwithstanding this treaty, many of the more intelligent of the Indians
foresaw the inevitable destruction of their hunting grounds, should the
white men succeed in establishing themselves on their lands, and cutting
them up into farms.
A friendly Indian had informed Governor Dunmore that a very formidable
conspiracy had been organised by the tribes for the destruction of the
party encamped at the Falls of the Ohio, and for the extermination of
every other party of whites who should penetrate their hunting grounds.
It was in accordance with this conspiracy that Daniel Boone's party was
so fiercely assailed when near the Gap, in the Cumberland mountains; and
it was probably the knowledge of this conspiracy, thus practically
developed, which led the husbands and fathers to abandon their
enterprise of plunging into the wilderness of Kentucky.
There were about forty men all numbered, in the little band of surveyors
at the Falls. They were in terrible peril. Unconscious of danger, and
supposing the Indians to be friendly, they were liable to be attacked on
any day by overwhelming numbers of savages, and utterly exterminated. It
consequently became a matter of great moment that Governor Dunmore
should send them word of their danger, and if possible secure their safe
return to the settlements. But who would undertake such a mission? One
fraught with greater danger could not easily be imagined. The courier
must traverse on foot a distance of four or five hundred miles through a
pathless wilderness, filled with hunting bands of hostile savages. He
must live upon the game he could shoot each day, when every discharge of
his musket was liable to bring upon him scores of foes. He must either
eat his food raw, or cook it at a fire whose gleam at night, or smoke by
day, would be almost sure to attract the attention of death-dealing
enemies. He must conceal his footprints from hunting bands, wandering
far and wide in every direction, so keen in their sagacity that they
could almost follow the track of the lightest-footed animal through the
forest or over the prairie.
The Indians had also well-trained dogs, who being once put upon the
scent, could with unerring instinct follow any object of search, until
it was overtaken.
The name of Daniel Boone was mentioned to Governor Dunmore as precisely
the man to meet this exigency. The Governor made application to the
practiced hunter, and Boone, without the slightest hesitancy, accepted
the perilous office. Indeed he seems to have been entirely unconscious
of the heroism he was developing. Never did knight errant of the middle
ages undertake an achievement of equal daring; for capture not only was
certain death, but death under the most frightful tortures. But Boone,
calm, imperturbable, pensive, with never a shade of boastfulness in
word or action, embarked in the enterprise as if it had been merely one
of the ordinary occurrences of every-day life. In the following modest
words he records the event in his autobiography:
"I remained with my family on the Clinch river until the sixth of June,
1774, when I, and one Michael Stoner, were solicited by Governor Dunmore
of Virginia, to go to the Falls of the Ohio to conduct into the
settlements a number of surveyors that had been sent thither by him some
months before, this country having about this time drawn the attention
of many adventurers. We immediately complied with the Governor's
request, and conducted in the surveyors, completing a tour of eight
hundred miles, through many difficulties, in sixty-two days."
The narrative which follows will give the reader some idea of the
wilderness which Boone was about to penetrate and the perils which he
was to encounter.
An emigrant of these early days who lived to witness the transformation
of the wilderness from a scene of unbroken solitude into the haunts of
busy men, in the following words describes this change and its influence
upon the mind:
"To a person who has witnessed all the changes which have taken place in
the western country since its first settlement, its former appearance is
like a dream or romance. He will find it difficult to realise the
features of that wilderness which was the abode of his infant days. The
little cabin of his father no longer exists. The little field and truck
patch which gave him a scanty supply of coarse bread and vegetables have
been swallowed up in the extended meadows, orchard or grain fields. The
rude fort in which his people had resided so many painful summers has
vanished.
"Everywhere surrounded by the busy hum of men and the splendor, arts,
refinements and comforts of civilised life, his former state and that of
his country have vanished from his memory; or if sometimes he bestows a
reflection on its original aspect, the mind seems to be carried back to
a period of time much more remote than it really is. One advantage at
least results from having lived in a state of society ever on the change
and always for the better, that it doubles the retrospect of life. With
me at any rate it has had that effect. Did not the definite number of my
years teach me to the contrary, I should think myself at least one
hundred years old instead of fifty. The case is said to be widely
different with those who have passed their lives in cities or ancient
settlements where, from year to year, the same unchanging aspect of
things presents itself.
"One prominent feature of the wilderness is its solitude. Those who
plunged into the bosom of this forest left behind them not only the busy
hum of men, but of domesticated animal life generally. The solitude of
the night was interrupted only by the howl of the wolf, the melancholy
moan of the ill-boding owl or the shriek of the frightful panther. Even
the faithful dog, the only steadfast companion of man among the brute
creation, partook of the silence of the desert; the discipline of his
master forbade him to bark or move but in obedience to his command, and
his native sagacity soon taught the propriety of obedience to this
severe government.
"The day was, if possible, more solitary than the night. The noise of
the wild turkey, the croaking of the raven, or the woodpecker tapping
the hollow beech tree, did not much enliven the dreary scene. The
various tribes of singing birds are not inhabitants of the desert. They
are not carnivorous and therefore must be fed from the labors of man. At
any rate they did not exist in this country at its first settlement.
"Let the imagination of the reader pursue the track of the adventurer
into the solitary wilderness, bending his course towards the setting sun
over undulating hills, under the shade of large forest trees, and wading
through the rank weeds and grass which then covered the earth. Now he
views from the top of a hill the winding course of a creek whose streams
he wishes to explore. Doubtful of its course and of his own, he
ascertains the cardinal points of north and south by the thickness of
the moss and bark on the north side of the ancient trees. Now descending
into a valley, he presages his approach to a river by seeing large ash,
basswood and sugar trees beautifully festooned with wild grape vines.
Watchful as Argus, his restless eye catches everything around him.
"In an unknown region and surrounded with dangers, he is the sentinel of
his own safety and relies on himself for protection. The toilsome march
of the day being ended, at the fall of night he seeks for safety some
narrow sequestered hollow, and by the side of a large log builds a fire
and, after eating a coarse and scanty meal, wraps himself up in his
blanket and lays him self down for repose on his bed of leaves, with his
feet to the fire, hoping for favorable dreams, ominous of future good
luck, while his faithful dog and gun rest by his side.
"But let not the reader suppose that the pilgrim of the wilderness could
feast his imagination with the romantic beauties of nature, without any
drawback from conflicting passions. His situation did not afford him
much time for contemplation. He was an exile from the warm clothing and
plentiful mansions of society. His homely woodman's dress soon became
old and ragged. The cravings of hunger compelled him to sustain from day
to day the fatigues of the chase. Often he had to eat his venison,
bear's meat, or wild turkey without bread or salt. His situation was not
without its dangers. He did not know at what moment his foot might be
stung by a serpent, at what moment he might meet with the formidable
bear, or on what limb of a tree over his head the murderous panther
might be perched, in a squatting attitude, to drop down upon him and
tear him in pieces in a moment.
"Exiled from society and its comforts, the situation of the first
adventurers was perilous in the extreme. The bite of a serpent, a broken
limb, a wound of any kind, or a fit of sickness in the wilderness
without those accommodations which wounds and sickness require, was a
dreadful calamity. The bed of sickness, without medical aid, and above
all to be destitute of the kind attention of a mother, sister, wife, or
other female friends, was a situation which could not be anticipated by
the tenant of the forest, with other sentiments than those of the
deepest horror."[D]
[Footnote D: Doddridge's Notes.]
There are no narratives of more thrilling interest than those which
describe the perils and hair-breadth escapes which some of these bold
hunters encountered. Immediately after the purchase of Louisiana, an
expedition under Lewis and Clark was fitted out, under President
Jefferson's administration, to explore the vast, mysterious, undefined
realms which the government had purchased. In the month of May, 1804,
the expedition, in birch canoes, commenced the ascent of the Missouri
river.
They knew not whence its source, what its length or the number of its
tributaries, through what regions of fertility or barrenness it flowed,
or what the character of the nations who might inhabit its banks.
Paddling up the rapid current of this flood of waters in their frail
boats, the ascent was slow. By the latter part of October they had
reached a point fifteen hundred miles above the spot where the Missouri
enters the Mississippi. Here they spent the winter with some friendly
Indians called the Mandans.
Early in April, Lewis and Clark, with thirty men in their canoes,
resumed their voyage. Their course was nearly west. In May they reached
the mouth of the Yellow Stone river, and on the 13th of June came to the
_Great Falls of the Missouri_. Here they found a series of cataracts ten
miles in length. At one spot the river plunged over a precipice
eighty-seven feet in height. Carrying their canoes around these falls,
they re-embarked, and paddled through what they called "The Gates of
the Rocky Mountains." Here for six miles they were in a narrow channel
with perpendicular walls of rock, rising on both sides to the height of
twelve hundred feet. Thus these adventurers continued their voyage till
they reached the head of navigation, three thousand miles from the mouth
of the Missouri river. Passing through the mountains they launched their
canoes on streams flowing to the west, through which they entered the
Columbia river, reaching its mouth, through a thousand perils on the
15th of November. They were now more than four thousand miles distant
from the mouth of the Missouri. Such was the breadth of the estate we
had purchased of France.
Here they passed their second winter. In the early spring they commenced
their return. When they arrived at the Falls of the Missouri they
encountered a numerous band of Indians, very bold and daring, called the
Blackfoot. These savages were astonished beyond measure, at the effect
of the rifle which could emit thunder and lightning, and a deadly though
invisible bolt. Some of the boldest endeavored to wrench the rifles from
some of the Americans. Mr. Lewis found it necessary to shoot one of them
before they would desist. The rest fled in dismay, but burning with the
desire for revenge. The explorers continuing their voyage arrived at
Saint Louis on the 23rd of September, 1806, having been absent more
than two years, and having traveled more than nine thousand miles.
When the expedition, on its return, had reached the head waters of the
Missouri, two of these fearless men, Colter and Potts, decided to remain
in the wilderness to hunt beaver. Being well aware of the hostility of
the Blackfoot Indians, within whose regions they were, they set their
traps at night, and took them up in the first dawn of the day. Early one
morning, they were ascending a creek in a canoe, visiting their traps,
when they were alarmed by a great noise, like the trampling of animals.
They could see nothing, as the perpendicular banks of the river impeded
their view. Yet they hoped that the noise was occasioned simply by the
rush of a herd of buffaloes.
Their doubts were soon painfully removed. A band of six hundred
Blackfoot warriors appeared upon each side of the creek. Escape was
hopeless. The Indians beckoned to the hunters to come ashore. Colter
turned the head of the canoe towards the bank, and as soon as it touched
the land, a burly savage seized the rifle belonging to Potts, and
wrenched it from his hand. But Colter, who was a man of extraordinary
activity and strength, grasped the rifle, tore it from the hands of the
Indian, and handed it back to Potts. Colter stepped ashore and was a
captive. Potts, with apparent infatuation, but probably influenced by
deliberate thought, pushed again out into the stream. He knew that, as a
captive, death by horrible torture awaited him. He preferred to provoke
the savages to his instant destruction. An arrow was shot at him, which
pierced his body. He took deliberate aim at the Indian who threw it and
shot him dead upon the spot. Instantly a shower of arrows whizzed
through the air, and he fell a dead man in the bottom of the boat. The
earthly troubles of Potts were ended. But fearful were those upon which
Colter was about to enter.
The Indians, after some deliberation respecting the manner in which they
would put him to death, stripped him entirely naked, and one of the
chiefs led him out upon the prairie to the distance of three or four
hundred yards from the rest of the band who were grouped together.
Colter then perceived that he was to have the dreadful privilege of
running for his life;--he, entirely naked and unarmed, to be pursued by
six hundred fleet-footed Indians with arrows and javelins, and with
their feet and limbs protected from thorns and brambles by moccasins and
deerskin leggins.
"Save yourself if you can," said the chief in the Blackfoot language as
he set him loose. Colter sprung forward with almost supernatural speed.
Instantly the Indian's war-whoop burst from the lips of his six hundred
pursuers. They were upon a plain about six miles in breadth abounding
with the prickly pear. At the end of the plain there was Jefferson
river, a stream but a few rods wide. Every step Colter took, bounding
forward with almost the speed of an antelope, his naked feet were torn
by the thorns. The physical effort he made was so great that the blood
gushed from his nostrils, and flowed profusely down over his chest. He
had half crossed the plain before he ventured to glance over his
shoulder upon his pursuers, who, with hideous yells, like baying
bloodhounds, seemed close upon his heels. Much to his relief he
perceived that he had greatly distanced most of the Indians, though one
stout savage, with a javelin in his hand, was within a hundred yards of
him.
Hope reanimated him. Regardless of lacerated feet and blood, he pressed
forward with renovated vigor until he arrived within about a mile of the
river, when he found that his pursuer was gaining rapidly upon him. He
could hear his breathing and the sound of his footsteps, and expected
every moment to feel the sharp javelin piercing his back.
In his desperation he suddenly stopped, turned round and stretching out
both of his arms, rushed, in his utter defencelessness, upon the armed
warrior. The savage, startled by this unexpected movement and by the
bloody appearance of his victim, stumbled and fell, breaking his spear
as he attempted to throw it. Colter instantly snatched up the pointed
part, and pinned his foe, quivering with convulsions to the earth.
Again he plunged forward on the race for life. The Indians, as they came
up, stopped for a moment around the body of their slain comrade, and
then, with hideous yells, resumed the pursuit. The stream was fringed
with a dense growth of cotton-wood trees. Colter rushed through them,
thus concealed from observation, and seeing near by a large raft of
drift timber, he plunged into the water, dived under the raft and
fortunately succeeded in getting his head above the water between the
logs, where smaller wood covered him to the depth of several feet.
Scarcely had he attained this hiding place ere the Indians like so many
fiends came rushing down to the river's bank. They searched the
cotton-wood thickets, and traversed the raft in all directions. They
frequently came so near the hiding place of Colter that he could see
them through the chinks. He was terribly afraid that they would set fire
to the raft. Night came on, and the Indians disappeared. Colter, in the
darkness, dived from under the raft, swam down the river to a
considerable distance, and then landed and traveled all night, following
the course of the stream.
"Although happy in having escaped from the Indians, his situation was
still dreadful. He was completely naked under a burning sun. The soles
of his feet were filled with the thorns of the prickly pear. He was
hungry and had no means of killing game, although he saw abundance
around him; and was at a great distance from the nearest settlement.
After some days of sore travel, during which he had no other sustenance
than the root known by naturalists under the name of _psoralea
esculenta_, he at length arrived in safety at Lisa Fort, on the Big
Horn, a branch of the Yellow Stone river."