ATTACKED!
With the return of Daniel Boone and his brother to North Carolina the
news of the beautiful country beyond the ridge began to spread. People
were eager to hear of his adventures and of his discoveries; and from
all the region around about the Yadkin they came to listen to him.
A great deal of discontent was abroad in North Carolina. The government
was not at all what it should have been. Tryon was a corrupt,
overbearing official, detested by the settlers; and the hardy spirits
who kept the border were not of the sort to submit to tyranny. So when
Boone came back with the beauties of Kentucky upon his tongue, the
richness of her soil, the size of her streams and woods and the promise
she held out to all who were willing to come to her, he set them all
by the ears.
But the settlements were thin and far between; men were few; conditions
were such that not all could drop their affairs in the north state and
undertake an adventure into the new land. This being so, by the time a
party of settlers was organized to go into and take up homesteads in
Kentucky, several years passed.
Among the first to enlist in this expedition were Oliver Barclay, Eph
Taylor and Sandy Campbell. Eph’s father meant to move his whole family
into the new region, and the man for whom Sandy worked was about to do
the same. Well grown, broad of shoulder and strong as young oaks, the
three made no mean addition to the band.
“A few years make a great difference,” said Boone, as he looked
at them. They were gathered before him by the sides of the horses
upon which they had ridden over to his place. His head was nodding
approvingly. “It’s such lads as you that are needed where there’s
forests to be felled and redskins to be fought.”
The boys listened to his account of his capture with Stuart by
the Shawnees; also to the long months which he spent alone in the
wilderness, enemies ever upon his trail, but persisting in his task in
the face of all. And when, at length, they rode away, their faces were
grave, their eyes shining.
“That was a fine thing to do,” said Eph, in great admiration. “A very
fine thing. I reckon there’s not another in the settlements that would
have stayed to finish up with all those dangers crowding around him.”
“I always knew that Mr. Boone was like that,” said Sandy. “I’d watch
the way he’d ride his horse, or hold his rifle, or speak to any one
who’d meet him. He had a way about him that told you he’d be a hard man
to beat.”
“I think to do what you set out to do is one of the best proofs of
quality in a man,” spoke Oliver. “Sometimes it’s easy, and sometimes
it’s hard to do; but to do it’s the thing, and nothing else will answer
if you mean to be worth anything.”
It was late in September in the year 1774 that Boone started, with his
family, to take up his home in the country beyond the Laurel Ridge.
Squire Boone was with them, and he helped Daniel and his sons to see to
the packhorses, the cattle and the hogs which were taken to stock the
new farm in the wilderness.
Near Powell’s Valley, not many miles distant, the Boones were met by
the Taylors, the family of the farmer for whom Sandy worked, and a
number of other prospective homesteaders. As the expedition now stood
there were some forty hardy, courageous men in its column, armed and
ready for the toil of the march.
Ahead rode Oliver Barclay, Eph Taylor and young Campbell with some of
the younger of the men; in a line came the packhorses and those bearing
the women and children. Boone and the main body of the settlers rode
beside the pack animals, their rifles across their saddle-bows. In the
rear came the cattle in the care of another band of youths who had
undertaken this part of the work under the watchful eye of Boone’s
eldest son.
For a week this formation was kept; at night they camped at sides of
streams with guards set out to watch for the Indian prowlers who might
have trailed them during the day and who might now be waiting for a
murderous opportunity from the underbrush; also the cattle and hogs
were to be kept from the attacks of those stealthy beasts which prowl
the night.
They headed for that break in the mountain chain afterward known as
the Cumberland Gap; never a sight of a redskin was had, never a
sign of his trail anywhere. But there he was, nevertheless, for just
eleven days after the journey began, while they were passing through
a particularly difficult place, there came a sudden murderous volley
of bullets and arrows in the rear, a rush of red robbers, and the
scattering of most of the cattle into the woods. And six of the rear
guard, including Boone’s son, were left dead in the trail.
Instantly, upon the firing of the volley, the column of emigrants
came to a halt; a line of defense was formed and the lightest of the
horsemen began scurrying upon the trail of the savages who fled through
the passes.
But no blows of consequence were struck, and the riders returned.
That night a grave council was held. The women were frightened by the
murderous attack; some of the men began to see visions of constant
fighting ahead with little time for profitable work; and so they lost
heart in the enterprise. They thought it best that they return.
But Boone, his brother, and others of the party were for pushing on.
“Attacks by the Indians are to be expected,” said the pioneer; “they
will always resist the march of the white man. And if we are to settle
the rich country on the other side of the hills, it’s not by weakening
under the first blow they strike. We must press forward; we must strike
back; we must never for a moment show the varmints that we fear them.”
But the bold counsel of Daniel was not listened to. The shock of the
attack, the loss of the cattle, the six youths slain, all in a moment’s
time, hung heavily over the spirits of the emigrants, clouding them
with gloom. It was agreed among them that they would start at sunrise
and head back for the settlements.
On that first spiritless day of the return march, Oliver Barclay found
himself by the side of Boone.
“Heading back for Hillsboro?” he asked.
Boone shook his head.
“No; for the Virginia settlements on the Clinch River,” he replied.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Oliver, whose hopes had received a
shattering blow by the sudden change of front, “that we need not give
the matter up after all.”
Boone looked at him questioningly.
“There are a few who are willing to go on across the mountains.
Suppose, after we leave those who feel that they must return at the
Clinch settlements, we turn about and go with the few we can hold
together.”
Again the backwoodsman shook his head.
“I reckon you don’t quite see just what your uncle, the colonel, wants
done,” he said. “We didn’t start only for the purpose of getting into
the new country. The idea was to plant a colony. And to do that we
must have people.”
“But,” persisted Oliver, with boyish ardor, “there’s your family and
the Taylors. And Mr. Miller told Sandy he’d keep to the original
agreement if any one else would.”
But Boone was fixed in his determination.
“We must plant a colony of some size if we plant any at all. A few
families would always be in danger where enough to supply a couple of
score of fighting men, if needed, would be fairly safe. For Injuns,
youngster, are a careful lot; they seldom attack when there’s any
danger of loss. Another thing, the first lot of emigrants must be
numerous enough to attract others. Men go where men are; it’s only a
few who have a liking for lonely places.”
And so the saddened column pushed toward the Clinch River, and Boone’s
first attempt to settle Kentucky was at an end.