_Adventures Romantic and Perilous._
The Search for the Horse.--Navigating the Ohio.--Heroism of Mrs.
Rowan.--Lawless Gangs.--Exchange of Prisoners.--Boone Revisits the
Home of his Childhood.--The Realms beyond the Mississippi.--Habits
of the Hunters.--Corn.--Boone's Journey to the West.
The Indians still continued hostile. The following incident gives one an
idea of the nature of the conflict which continued, and of the perils
which were encountered.
There was a striving station where a few settlers were collected, at a
spot now called State Creek Iron Works. One or two farm-houses were
scattered around, but at such a short distance from the fort that their
inmates could at once take refuge behind its log walls, in case of
alarm. In the month of August, 1786, a young man residing in the fort,
by the name of Yates, called at one of these farm-houses and requested a
lad, Francis Downing, to accompany him in search of a horse, which had
strayed away. The two friends set out together, and after searching the
forest in vain, found themselves, the latter part of the afternoon, in a
lonely uninhabited valley, nearly seven miles from the fort. Here young
Downing became quite alarmed by some indications that Indians were
dogging their steps. He communicated his fears to his companion. But
Yates, who was several years older than Downing, was an experienced
hunter and inured to life in the woods, had become to a certain degree
indifferent to danger. He made himself quite merry over his young
companion's fears, asking him at what price he was willing to sell his
scalp, and offering to insure it for sixpence.
Still Downing was not satisfied, and his alarm increased as he insisted
that he occasionally heard the crack of dry twigs behind them, as if
broken by some one pursueing. But Yates deriding his fears, pressed on,
making the woods resound with a song, to which he gave utterance from
unusually full and strong lungs. Downing gradually slackened his pace,
and when Yates was some thirty yards in advance of him, sprang into a
dense cluster of tall whortleberry bushes, where he was effectually
concealed. Scarcely had he done this, when to his great terror he saw
two Indians peeping cautiously out of a thick canebrake. Deceived by the
song of Yates, who with stentorian lungs was still giving forth his
woodland ditty, they supposed both had passed. Young Downing thought it
impossible but that the savages must have seen him as he concealed
himself. Greatly alarmed he raised his gun, intending to shoot one and
to trust to his heels for escape from the other.
But his hand was so unsteady that the gun went off before he had taken
aim. Terror stricken, he rushed along the path Yates had trod. Yates,
alarmed by the report of the gun, came running back. As they met, the
two Indians were seen not far from them in hot pursuit. They soon could
easily see that the enemy was gaining upon them. In their rapid flight
they came to a deep gulley which Yates cleared at a bound, but young
Downing failed in the attempt. His breast struck the opposite almost
precipitous bank, and he rolled to the bottom of the ditch. Some
obstruction in the way prevented the Indians from witnessing the fall of
Downing. They continued the pursuit of Yates, crossing the gulley a few
yards below where Downing had met his mishap. Thus in less time than we
have occupied in the narration, the Indians disappeared in their chase
after Yates.
Downing was in great perplexity. He did not dare to creep out of the
gulley, lest he should be seen, and as soon as the Indians should
perceive that he was not with Yates, as they inevitably would ere long
do, they would know that he was left behind, and would turn back for his
capture. Unfortunately young Downing had so far lost his presence of
mind, that he had failed to reload his gun. Just then he saw one of the
savages returning, evidently in search of him. There was no possible
resource left but flight. Throwing away his now useless gun, he rushed
into the forest with all the speed which terror could inspire. He was
but a boy, the full-grown Indian gained rapidly upon him, he could
almost strike him with his tomahawk, when they came to an immense tree,
blown up by the roots. The boy ran on one side of the trunk and the
Indian on the other, towards the immense pile of earth which adhered to
the upturned roots.
The boy now gave up all hope in utter despair. It seemed certain that
the brawny Indian would get ahead of him and intercept his further
flight. But it so happened--was it an accident or was it a
Providence--that a she-bear had made her bed directly in the path which
the Indian with almost blind eagerness was pursuing. Here the ferocious
beast was suckling her cubs. The bear sprang from her lair, and
instantly with a terrific hug grasped the savage in her paws. The Indian
gave a terrific yell and plunged his knife again and again into the body
of the bear. The boy had but one brief glance, as in this bloody embrace
they rolled over and over on the ground. The boy, praying that the bear
might tear the Indian in pieces, added new speed to his flight and
reached the fort in safety.
There he found Yates who had arrived but a few moments before him, and
who had outrun the other Indian. The next morning a well armed party
returned to the tree. Both the bear and the Indian had disappeared.
Probably both had suffered very severely in the conflict, and both had
escaped with their lives.
Another incident illustrative of these perilous adventures in the now
peaceful State of Kentucky. Mr. Rowan, with his own and five other
families, left the little hamlet at Louisville to float down the Ohio to
Green River, and to ascend that stream, intending to rear their new
homes on its fertile and delightful banks. The families were quite
comfortably accommodated in a large flat-bottomed boat. Another boat of
similar construction conveyed their cattle and sundry articles of
household furniture. On the route which they were pursuing, there were
then no settlements. The Ohio river and the Green river flowed through
unbroken solitudes.
The flat boats had floated down the beautiful Ohio, through scenes of
surpassing loveliness, about one hundred miles, when one night about ten
o'clock a prodigious shouting and yelling of Indians was heard some
distance farther down the river on the northern shore. Very soon they
came in sight of their camp-fires, which were burning very brightly. It
was evident that the Indians were having a great carousal rejoicing
over some victory. Mr. Rowan immediately ordered the two boats to be
lashed firmly together. There were but seven men on board who were
capable of making efficient use of the rifle. Plying the oars as
vigorously and noiselessly as they could, they endeavored to keep close
to the Kentucky shore. And yet they were careful not to approach too
near, lest there might be Indians there also. It was evident that there
was a large gathering of the Indians on the northern bank, for their
camp-fires extended for a distance of nearly half a mile along the
river.
As the boats floated noiselessly along in the gloom of the night, under
shadow of the cliffs, they were not detected until they were opposite
the central fire, whose brilliancy threw a flood of light nearly across
the stream. A simultaneous shout greeted this discovery, and with
terrific yells the savages rushed to their canoes and commenced a
pursuit. The two flat boats rapidly floated beyond the illumination of
the fires into the region of midnight darkness. The timid Indians, well
acquainted with the white man's unerring aim, pursued cautiously, though
their hideous yells resounded along the shores.
Mr. Rowan ordered all on board to keep perfect silence, to conceal
themselves as much as possible, and ordered not a gun to be fired till
the Indians were so near that the powder of the gun would burn them,
thus rendering every shot absolutely certain. The Indians, with their
hideous yells, pursued in their canoes until within a hundred yards of
the boats. They then seemed simultaneously to have adopted the
conviction that the better part of valor was discretion. In the
darkness, they could not see the boatmen, who they had no doubt were
concealed behind bullet-proof bulwarks. Their birch canoes presented not
the slightest obstruction to the passage of a rifle ball. Knowing that
the flash of a gun from the boat would be certain death to some one of
their number, and that thus the boatmen, with the rapidity with which
they could load and fire, would destroy a large part of their company
before they could hope to capture the flat boats, they hesitated to
approach any nearer, but followed in the pursuit for nearly three miles
down the river, assailing the white men only with harmless yells.
The heroic Mrs. Rowan, as she saw the canoes approaching, supposing that
the savages would attempt to board the boats, crept quietly around in
the darkness, collected all the axes, and placed one by the side of each
man, leaning the handle against his knee. While performing this
significant act she uttered not a word, but returned to her own seat in
silence, retaining a sharp hatchet for herself.
With such determined spirits to assail, it was well for the savages
that they did not approach within arms-length of those whom they were
pursuing. They would certainly have met with a bloody reception.
The savages at length, despairing of success, relinquished the pursuit
and returned to their demoniac orgies around their camp-fires. It was
supposed that they had captured a boat which was descending the river
the day before, and that their extraordinary revelry was accompanied by
the roasting of their captives. A son of Mr. Rowan, but ten years of
age, who subsequently became one of the most distinguished men in
Kentucky, was present on this occasion. He frequently, in after-years,
alluded to the indescribable sensations of sublimity and terror which
the scene inspired. The gloom of the night; the solemn flow of the
majestic river; the dim view of the forests on either side; the gleam of
the camp-fires of the Indians, around which the half-clad savages were
dancing in hideous contortions; the unearthly yells in which every
demoniac passion seemed contending for the mastery; the shout which was
given when they discovered the boats beneath the shadows of the opposite
cliffs; the pursuit of the canoes with redoubled vehemence of hooting;
the rapidity with which, with brawny arms, they paddled their boats to
and fro; the breathless silence which pervaded the flat boat while for
more than an hour the occupants awaited, momentarily expecting the
terrible onset; and above all, the fortitude and heroism displayed by
his mother,--all these combined to leave an impression upon the mind of
the boy which could never be obliterated. Few will be able to read the
record of this adventure without emotion. What then must it have been to
have experienced it in bodily presence, and to have shared in all its
terrible dangers?
As we have before said, there was no distinctly proclaimed war, at this
time, between the pioneers and the Indians. While lawless men on both
sides were committing the most atrocious outrages, the chiefs and the
legitimate authorities were nominally at peace. The red men, whether
engaged in what they deemed lawful warfare, or moving in plundering
bands, were in the habit of inflicting upon their captives the most
dreadful tortures which their ingenuity could devise. The white men
could not retaliate by the perpetration of such revolting cruelty.
It probably was a suggestion of Colonel Boone that a council might be
held with the Indian chiefs, and a treaty formed by which prisoners
should be exempted from torture and exchanged, as in civilized warfare.
The Indians were by no means reckless of the lives of their warriors,
and would probably be very ready to give up a white captive if by so
doing they could receive one of their own braves in return. A council
was held at a station where Maysville now stands. Colonel Boone was at
once selected as the man of all others most fit to take part in these
deliberations. He was not only thoroughly acquainted with the Indians,
their habits, their modes of thought, and the motives most likely to
influence their minds; but his own peculiar character seemed just the
one calculated to inspire them with admiration.
The principle was here adopted of an exchange of prisoners, which
notwithstanding the continued violence of the lawless, saved the lives
of many captives. It is an interesting fact, illustrative of the
sagacity and extraordinary power of Colonel Boone over the Indian mind,
that the chiefs with one consent agreed in grateful commemoration of
this treaty, that if any captive should hereafter be taken by them from
Maysville, that captive should be treated with every possible degree of
lenity. And it is worthy of record that such a captive was subsequently
taken, and that the Indians with the most scrupulous fidelity fulfilled
their pledge. Indeed, it is difficult for an impartial historian to
deny, that these poor savages, ignorant and cruel as they were, often
displayed a sense of honor which we do not so often find in their
opponents. It is to be feared that were Indian historians to write the
record of these wars, we should not find that they were always in the
wrong.
Colonel Boone, ejected from his lands and thus left penniless, felt
keenly the wrongs which were inflicted upon him. He knew full well that
he had done a thousand times more for Kentucky than any other man living
or dead. He had conferred upon the State services which no money could
purchase. Though to his intimate friends he confided his sufferings, he
was too proud to utter loud complaints. In silence he endured. But
Kentucky had ceased to be a happy home for him. Over all its broad and
beautiful expanse which he had opened to the world, there was not a
single acre which he could call his own. And he had no money with which
to purchase a farm of those speculators, into whose hands most of the
lands had fallen. Could the good old man now rise from his grave, a
Kentucky Legislature would not long leave him landless. There is
scarcely a cabin or a mansion in the whole State, where Daniel Boone
would not meet with as hospitable a reception as grateful hearts could
give.
As a grief-stricken child rushes to its mother's arms for solace, so it
is natural for man, when world-weary and struggling with adversity, to
look back with longing eyes to the home of his childhood. The
remembrance of its sunny days animates him, and its trivial sadnesses
are forgotten. Thus with Daniel Boone; houseless and stung by
ingratitude, he turned his eyes to the far distant home of his
childhood, on the banks of the Schuykill. More than forty years of a
wonderfully adventurous life had passed, since he a boy of fourteen had
accompanied his father in his removal from Reading, in Berk's County, to
North Carolina. Still the remarkable boy had left traces behind him
which were not yet obliterated.
He visited Reading, probably influenced by a faint hope of finding there
a home. A few of his former acquaintances were living, and many family
friends remained. By all he was received with the greatest kindness. But
the frontier settlement of log huts, and the majestic surrounding
forests filled with game, had entirely disappeared. Highly cultivated
farms, from which even the stumps of the forest had perished, extended
in all directions. Ambitious mansions adorned the hillsides, and all the
appliances of advancing civilization met the eye. There could be no home
here for Daniel Boone. Amid these strange scenes he felt as a stranger,
and his heart yearned again for the solitudes of the forest. He longed
to get beyond the reach of lawyers' offices, and court-houses, and land
speculators.
After a short visit he bade adieu forever to his friends upon the
Schuykill, and turned his steps again towards the setting sun. His
feelings had been too deeply wounded to allow him to think of remaining
a man without a home in Kentucky. Still the idea of leaving a region
endeared to him by so many memories must have been very painful. He
remembered vividly his long and painful journeys over the mountains,
through the wilderness untrodden by the foot of the white man; his
solitary exploration of the new Eden which he seemed to have found
there; the glowing accounts he had carried back to his friends of the
sunny skies, the salubrious clime, the fertile soil, and the majesty and
loveliness of the landscape; of mountain, valley, lake and river which
Providence had lavished with a prodigal hand in this "Garden of the
Lord."
One by one he had influenced his friends to emigrate, had led them to
their new homes, had protected them against the savages, and now when
Kentucky had become a prosperous State in the Union, containing thirty
thousand inhabitants, he was cast aside, and under the forms of law was
robbed of the few acres which he had cultivated as his own. His life
embittered by these reflections, and seeing nothing to attract him in
the wild and unknown regions beyond the Mississippi, Colonel Boone
turned sadly back to Virginia.
It was an easy task for him to remove. In such an hour, one can
sometimes well say, "Blessed be Nothing." A few pack-horses were
sufficient to convey all his household goods. It is probable that his
wife and children, indignant at the treatment which the husband and
father had received, were glad to leave.
This was doubtless one of the saddest journeys that Colonel Boone ever
undertook. Traversing an almost pathless wilderness in a direction a
little north of east from Boonesborough, he crossed the various speers
of the Alleghany range, supporting his family with his rifle on the way,
until after passing over three hundred miles of the wilderness, he
reached the mouth of the Kanawha river, as that stream flows from
Virginia due north, and empties into the Ohio river. Here there was a
point of land washed by the Ohio on the north, and the Great Kanawha on
the west, to which the appropriate name of Point Pleasant had been
given. It does not appear that civilization had as yet penetrated this
region. The emigration to Kentucky had floated by it down the river,
descending from Pittsburg, or had crossed the mountain passes from North
Carolina, several hundred miles to the south.
Colonel Boone was now fifty-five years of age. If there were any
settlement at the time at Point Pleasant, it must have consisted merely
of a few log huts. Here at all events, Colonel Boone found the solitude
and the communion with nature alone, for which his heart yearned. The
world might call him poor, and still he was rich in the abundant supply
of all his earthly wants. He reared his log hut where no one appeared to
dispute his claim. The fertile soil around, a virgin soil, rich with
undeveloped treasures, under the simplest culture produced abundantly,
and the forest around supplied him daily with animal food more than a
European peasant sees in a year.
Here Colonel Boone and his family remained for several years, to use a
popular phrase, buried from the world. His life was mainly that of a
hunter. Mr. Peck, speaking of the habits of those pioneers who depended
mainly upon the rifle for support, writes:
"I have often seen him get up early in the morning, walk hastily out,
and look anxiously to the woods and snuff the autumnal winds with the
highest rapture; then return into the house and cast a quick and
attentive look at the rifle, which was always suspended to a joist by a
couple of buck-horns or little forks. The hunting dog understanding the
intentions of his master, would wag his tail, and by every blandishment
in his power, express his readiness to accompany him to the woods."
It probably did not diminish Colonel Boone's interest in his new home,
that it was exposed to all the perils of border life; that his rifle
should be ever loaded; that his faithful watch-dog should be stationed
at the door, to give warning of any approaching footsteps; and that he
and his family should always be ready for a siege or battle. With these
precautions, Boone had no more fear of assault from half a dozen
vagabond Indians, than he had from so many howling wolves.
The casualties of life had greatly reduced his family. Of his three
sons, the eldest had fallen beneath the arrow and the tomahawk of the
savages amidst the gloomy defiles of the Alleghany mountains. His second
son was killed at the dreadful battle of the Blue Licks, as his agonised
father had been compelled to abandon him to the merciless foe. His third
son, probably chagrined by the treatment which his father had received
from the authorities of Kentucky, had bidden adieu to all the haunts of
civilized life, and traversing the wilderness towards the setting sun
for many hundred miles, had crossed the Mississippi and sought a home in
the wilds of the upper Louisiana, then under the dominion of Spain.
As Boone was quietly engaged in his solitary vocation of farmer and
hunter, where there were no books, no newspapers, nothing whatever to
inform him of what was transpiring in the busy world of civilization, or
in the haunts of savage life, two or three hunters came one day to his
cabin, where of course they met with a very hospitable reception. It was
not difficult to entertain guests in those days. The floor of the cabin
supplied all the needed accommodations for lodging. Each guest with his
rifle could easily furnish more food than was desired for the whole
family.
A little corn-meal, very coarsely ground in what was called a tub-mill,
gave quite a variety of palatable food. Boiled in water it formed a dish
called mush, which when eaten with milk, honey or butter, presented
truly a delicious repast for hungry mouths. Mixed with cold water, it
was ready to be baked. When covered with hot ashes, it emerged smoking
from the glowing embers in the form of Ash Cake. When baked upon a
shingle and placed before the coals, it was termed Journey Cake, so
called because it could be so speedily prepared. This name has been
corrupted in modern times into _Johnny_ Cake. When baked upon a
helveless hoe, it formed the Hoe Cake. When baked in a kettle covered
with a heated lid, if in one large cake, it was called a Pone or loaf.
If in quite a number of small cakes they were called Dodgers.
Corn flour seems to have been peculiarly prepared by Providence for the
pioneers. For them it possesses some very great advantages over all
other flour. It requires but few and the most simple cooking utensils.
It can be rendered very palatable without either yeast, eggs, sugar or
spices of any kind. It can easily be raised in the greatest abundance,
and affords the most wholesome and nutritious food.
"Let paeans," writes Mr. Hartly, "be sung all over the mighty West, to
Indian Corn. Without it, the West would still have been a wilderness.
Was the frontier suddenly invaded, without commissary, or quartermaster,
or other sources of supply, each soldier parched a peck of corn. A
portion of it was put into his pockets, the remainder in his wallet, and
throwing it upon his saddle with his rifle on his shoulder, he was ready
in half an hour for the campaign. Did a flood of emigration inundate the
frontier, with an amount of consumers disproportioned to the supply of
grain, the facility of raising the Indian corn, and its early maturity,
gave promise and guarantee that the scarcity would be temporary and
tolerable. Did the safety of the frontier demand the services of every
adult militiaman, the boys and women could themselves raise corn, and
furnish ample supplies of bread. Did an autumnal intermittent confine
the whole family, or the entire population to the sick bed, this certain
concomitant of the clearing and cultivating the new soil, mercifully
withholds its paroxysms till the crop of corn is made. It requires no
further labor or care afterwards. Paeans, say we, and a temple of
worshipping to the creator of Indian Corn!"
The hunters to whom we referred were indeed congenial companions to
Daniel Boone. As day after day they accompanied him in the chase, and
night after night sat by the blaze of his cabine-fire, related to him
the adventures they had encountered far away beyond the Mississippi, the
spirit of his youth revived within him. An irrepressible desire sprang
up in his heart again to become a pioneer in the pathless forest which
he loved so well. It is not improbable also that his parental feelings
might have been aroused by the consideration that his son had gone
before him to that distant land; and that he might have been animated by
the hope of being reunited with him in his declining years.
The hunters represented to him that another Kentucky could be found
beyond the Father of Waters; that the game was abundant and would be
inexhaustible, until long after his earthly pilgrimage should end; that
the Spanish Government, desirous of promoting emigration, were ready to
make the most liberal grants of land to any man who would rear a cabin
and commence the cultivation of the soil; that over an expanse of
hundreds of miles of a sunny clime, and as luxurious soil as heart could
desire, he could select his broad acres with no fear of ever again being
ejected from his home.
These representations were resistless. Colonel Boone decided again to
become a wanderer to the far West, though it involved the relinquishment
of American citizenship and becoming a subject of the crown of Spain.
The year 1795 had now come, as Colonel Boone gathered up his few
household goods for the fourth great remove of his life. He was born on
the banks of the Delaware; his childhood was passed amidst the solitudes
of the Upper Skuylkill; his early manhood, where he reared his cabin and
took to it his worthy bride, was in North Carolina. Thence penetrating
the wilderness through adventures surpassing the dreams of romance, he
had passed many years amidst the most wonderful vicissitudes of quietude
and of agitation, of peace and of war, on the settlement of which he was
the father, at Boonesborough, in the valley of the Kentucky river.
Robbed of the possessions which he had earned a hundred times over, he
had sought a temporary residence at Point Pleasant, in Virginia. And
now, as he was approaching the termination of his three score years, he
was prepared to traverse the whole extent of Kentucky, from the
Alleghany border on the east, to the mighty flood of the Mississippi,
which then upon the west rushed with its turbid flood through an almost
unbroken solitude. It was a long, long journey.
We can only surmise the reasons why he did not float down the Ohio in a
flat boat. It may be said that he was entirely unaccustomed to boating.
And as it does not appear that any other families joined him in the
enterprise, his solitary boat would be almost certain to be attacked
and captured by some of the marauding bands which frequented the
northern banks of the Ohio.
Colonel Boone was perfectly at home in the wilderness. He could always
find a path for himself, where there was no trail to follow. And but few
Indians now ventured into the interior of the State. We have no record
of the journey. He reached the Mississippi safely, crossed the river
into what is now the State of Missouri, and found a warm greeting in the
cabin of his son Daniel M. Boone, who had established himself upon the
western banks of the river, near where the city of St. Louis now stands.