“Stay! the stream runs fierce and wild;
And your age will make you weaker
In its current than a child.
“For the youngest there is danger
Ere he’d reach the farther shore,
From the raging of the waters,
And the rocks o’er which they pour.”
“Stay me not!” he answered, sternly;
“Vengeance to the flood impels;
Hear you not the dying moaning
Of the murdered Jenny Wells?”
Plunging in the yellow torrent
With his tomahawk in hand,
Swam the chief of the Oneidas,
Struggling till he reached the land—
Till upon the green bank’s summit,
Close beside the shaded, wood,
O’er the sorely wounded Butler
With a purpose fierce he stood.
Said the pallid, craven butcher,
“Let my ransom save my head;
I can give you gold if living,
I am profitless if dead!”
Skenando replied, “With fever
I in Cherry Valley lay,
Where a white man nursed and healed me,
Clothed and sent me on my way.
“That same white man had a daughter;
She with you in childhood played;
Yet one day, when leaves had fallen,
By your orders died the maid.
“The Oneida, sworn to vengeance,
Stands prepared to keep his vow;
Think of Jenny Wells and tremble!
Ah! you ask no mercy now.
“Wretch! remember Cherry Valley!”
Sank the Tory with a groan,
And the fierce and vengeful savage
Drove his hatchet through the bone.
* * * * *
Back returned the swart Oneidas
Ere the setting of the sun;
And the scalp of Walter Butler
Dangled from the belt of one.
To the stout, victorious soldiers
Who so well that day had fought,
And were now at ease reposing,
Pleasant was the news they brought.
When was told around the camp-fire
How the hatchet clave the brain,
Oh, how joyous was the shouting—
“Walter Butler has been slain.”
_THE FIGHT OF THE MOUNTAINEERS._
From the narrative of a survivor of the gallant men who
participated in the fight at King’s Mountain I wrote the ballad,
and aimed to give it the simple style of the narrator. But the
old man, perfectly truthful in intent, fell into some errors. He
omits all mention of the M’Dowells. Colonel M’Dowell was not in
the battle. He objected to fighting a battle without a general
officer, and he was despatched in search of one. While gone, the
rest elected Colonel Campbell to command, and got to work. Major
M’Dowell however remained, and commanded the regiments. He calls
Shelby, Evan Shelby. But Evan Shelby, who was Isaac’s father, and
who distinguished himself at Point Pleasant, was not at King’s
Mountain.
[Illustration: COLONEL ISAAC SHELBY.]
The official account of the battle transmitted to Gates, and
probably the correct one, is as follows:
“On receiving intelligence that Major Ferguson had advanced up
as high as Gilbert Town, in Rutherford County, and threatened
to cross the mountains to the Western waters, Colonel William
Campbell, with four hundred men, of Washington County, of Virginia,
Colonel Isaac Shelby, with two hundred and forty men from Sullivan
County, of North Carolina, and Lieutenant-colonel Sevier, with two
hundred and forty men, of Washington County, of North Carolina,
assembled at Watauga, on the twenty-fifth day of September, where
they were joined by Colonel Charles M’Dowell, with one hundred
and sixty men, from the counties of Burke and Rutherford, who had
fled before the enemy to the Western waters. We began our march on
the twenty-sixth, and on the thirtieth we were joined by Colonel
Cleaveland, on the Catawba River, with three hundred men, from
the counties of Wilkes and Surrey. No one officer having properly
the right to the command-in-chief, on the first of October we
despatched an express to Major-general Gates, informing him of our
situation, and requested him to send a general officer to take
command of the whole. In the mean time, Colonel Campbell was chosen
to act as commandant, till such general officer should arrive.
We marched to the _Cowpens_, on Broad River, in South Carolina,
where we were joined by Colonel James Williams, with four hundred
men, on the evening of the sixth of October, who informed us that
the enemy lay encamped somewhere near the Cherokee Ford, off
Broad River, about thirty miles distant from us. By a council of
principal officers, it was then thought advisable to pursue the
enemy that night with nine hundred of the best horsemen, and have
the weak horse and foot men to follow us as fast as possible. We
began our march with nine hundred of the best men about eight
o’clock the same evening, and, marching all night, came up with
the enemy about three o’clock P.M. of the seventh, who lay
encamped on the top of King’s Mountain, twelve miles north of the
Cherokee Ford, in the confidence that they could not be forced
from so advantageous a post. Previous to the attack on our march,
the following disposition was made: Colonel Shelby’s regiment
formed a column in the centre on the left; Colonel Campbell’s
regiment another on the right, with part of Colonel Cleaveland’s
regiment, headed in front by Major Joseph Winston; and Colonel
Sevier’s formed a large column on the right wing. The other part
of Cleaveland’s regiment, headed by Colonel Cleaveland himself,
and Colonel Williams’s regiment, composed the left wing. In this
order we advanced, and got within a quarter of a mile of the enemy
before we were discovered. Colonel Shelby’s and Colonel Campbell’s
regiments began the attack, and kept up a fire on the enemy, while
the right and left wings were advancing to surround them, which
was done in about five minutes, when the fire became general
all around. The engagement lasted an hour and five minutes, the
greater part of which a heavy and incessant fire was kept up on
both sides. Our men, in some parts where the regulars fought, were
obliged to give way a distance, two or three times, but rallied
and returned with additional ardor to the attack. The troops upon
the right having gained the summit of the eminence, obliged the
enemy to retreat along the summit of the ridge to where Colonel
Cleaveland commanded, and were there stopped by his brave men. A
flag was immediately hoisted by Captain Depeyster, the commanding
officer (Major Ferguson having been killed a little before), for
a surrender. Our fire immediately ceased, and the enemy laid down
their arms (the greater part of them charged) and surrendered
themselves prisoners at discretion. It appears from their own
provision returns for that day, found in their camp, that their
whole force consisted of eleven hundred and twenty-five men, out of
which they sustained the following loss:
“Of the regulars, one major, one captain, two sergeants, and
fifteen privates killed; thirty-five privates wounded, left on the
ground not able to march; two captains, four lieutenants, three
ensigns, one surgeon, five sergeants, three corporals, one drummer,
and forty-nine privates taken prisoners.
“Loss of the Tories: two colonels, three captains, and two hundred
and one killed; one major and one hundred and twenty-seven
privates wounded, and left on the ground not able to march. One
colonel, twelve captains, eleven lieutenants, two ensigns, one
quartermaster, one adjutant, two commissaries, eighteen sergeants,
and six hundred privates taken prisoners.
“Total loss of the enemy, eleven hundred and five men at King’s
Mountain.
“Given under our hands at camp.
“BENJA. CLEAVELAND,
ISAAC SHELBY,
WM. CAMPBELL.”
[Illustration: KING’S MOUNTAIN BATTLE-GROUND.]
_THE BATTLE OF KING’S MOUNTAIN._
I.
You ask your grandsire hoary
To tell you of the day,
When, in his lusty manhood’s prime,
To fight he took his way.
So here beside our cabin,
Deep in the Baptist Yale,
While sinks the sun within the west,
And light begins to fail—
Upon the lofty summit,
Before the set of sun,
I’ll tell you how by mountaineers
The battle-field was won.
II.
In Southern Carolina
Cornwallis settled down;
And Forguson twelve hundred led,
In pride from Gilbert Town.
For Gates was crushed at Camden,
And only Marion’s band
Lay, but a remnant of itself,
Within the low swamp-land.
The cause was hid in darkness,
And few expected dawn,
For strength had fled, and fire was dead,
And even hope was gone.
Then spoke old Evan Shelby
To Campbell and Sevier—
“Shall base maurauders revel thus,
As we sit idle here?
“Up steep and stern King’s Mountain
Went Forguson, I learn;
Should men take heart to deal a blow,
He never would return.
“Out then and scour the counties,
Our forces shall combine,
And, ready for the battle, cross
The Carolina line.”
Said gallant William Campbell—
“I’m with you there, old friend;
Though borne by numbers to the earth,
We will not break nor bend.
“Three hundred western hunters
I volunteer to bring,
All loyal to their country’s cause,
Though rebel to the king.
“All hardy western hunters,
Who serve for love, not hire;
Each prompt to mark the foeman dark,
And drop him when they fire.”
Sevier was in their counsel—
“Three hundred I can bring
To meet these savage myrmidons
Of George, our former king.
“Each man is firm and fearless,
Each uses rifle well;
Nor sabre-stroke, nor musket-ball,
Upon our ranks may tell.
“From home or over ocean
They fear no haughty foes—”
’Twas thus he boasted of his band,
And I was one of those.
Then word went out that Shelby,
With Campbell and Sevier,
Against the common enemy
Would lead the mountaineer.
With moccasons corked, and rifles
New flinted every one,
Right soon a thousand brave and strong
Were gathered at Doe Run.
To them came Cleaveland’s forces,
When once they left the glen,
And mounted on their own good steeds
Rode sixteen hundred men.
Campbell, as chief commander,
The centre column led;
And with him Shelby’s regiment,
With Shelby at its head.
The left was led by Cleaveland,
The right obeyed Sevier;
And like the sky which bent o’erhead
Each brow was calm and clear.
Then this laconic order
Was passed both left and right—
“_Tie overcoats, pick touch-holes, prime,
And ready be for fight!_”
We neared where they stood waiting,
And cleft our force in three;
And then dismounting, to the limbs
Tied horses silently.
The centre up the mountain
Pressed eager to the fight,
While round the base, to gain his rear,
The wings swept left and right.
In calm and deadly silence,
With firm and steady tramp,
On pressed our three divisions towards
The centre of their camp.
Then came their muskets’ rattle,
And comrades at my side,
Whom I had known for many years,
Were stricken down, and died.
Uriah Byrne, of Black Fork,
A younger man than I—
His hot blood spurting in my face—
Fell at my feet to die.
And swarthy Robin Harper,
Whose house was nigh to mine,
Pierced by a bullet, fell and left
A wife and orphans nine.
And golden-haired John Bowen,
A boy scarce past sixteen—
I knew his mother ere his birth,
And few so fair I’ve seen—
A woman fair and stately,
Who loved her husband well,
And mourned, nor ever wedded more,
When he in battle fell.
She sent with us this stripling,
And thus to him she said,
“Return with honor to your home,
Or stay among the dead.
“You are the stay and comfort
Of my declining years;
That I am loath to part with you,
Witness these bitter tears.
“But now these foul invaders
Sweep hill and valley o’er,
Go! drive them from these mountains free,
Or see my face no more!”
And there I saw his ringlets
Lie, bloody, on his cheek;
I caught his eye, and stooped to hear
The words that he might speak.
“A message to my mother,
If you survive the day:
And say her darling son was still
The foremost in the fray.
“My spirit to my Maker
I yield, and trust that He
Forgives my sins for sake of Him
Who died upon the tree.
“Yet ’tis a thing of terror,
When youthful hopes are bright,
And youthful blood flows full and free,
To bid the world good-night.
“Go, comrade, to your duty,
And leave me here to die—”
His pulses stopped, I turned away,
I had no time to sigh.
But filled with sudden fury,
I joined the strife again,
Nor paused to watch the fight around
Till I three foes had slain—
One for my early schoolmate,
One for my neighbor old,
And one for him with golden hair
That lay so stark and cold.
The foe raised shouts exulting;
We answered not at all;
But still with steady coolness poured
Our rain of rifle-ball.
But hark! a voice is ringing
As clearly as a drum—
’Tis Forguson’s—“Charge bayonet!
And drive the rebel scum!”
III.
Down gallantly and boldly
The British soldiers came,
When on their wall of bristling steel
We hurled our scorching flame.
They paused a single moment,
And then they broke and fled;
But Forguson re-formed their ranks,
Proud riding at their head.
They fell on us like panthers
In laurel roughs at bay,
And at their front, compact and firm,
The Cleaveland men gave way.
But ere a rod they drove them,
Sevier came back again,
And up the ridge the Britons ran,
Thinned by the leaden rain.
Relieved by reinforcements,
They wheeled and charged again,
O’er rock and hillock, log and stone,
And through the heaps of slain.
On Shelby and on Campbell
They charged in wrath once more,
Though every step they made in front
Was in their comrades’ gore.
But Cleaveland now had rallied,
Sevier kept firing fierce,
And through our solid centre there
They vainly strove to pierce.
Then first there rose our shouting,
And rang our wild hurra;
For well we knew that they would lose
And we would win the day.
It roused the Briton’s anger,
Who bade his men stand fast;
And, turning, tried another charge,
The fourth one and the last.
But now our blood had risen,
The hour of fury came;
And driving them within their lines,
We hemmed them round with flame.
The dead lay heaped around us,
The ground with blood was wet;
And gouts of gore hung dripping there
From knife and bayonet.
But still our hardy hunters,
As when the fight began,
Kept plying trigger busily,
And no one missed his man.
Still smaller grew the circle
Around the loyal band;
Still fell our long-pent hate upon
The spoiler of our land.
Hark! Forguson is speaking!
His voice is stern and low—
“To saddle, horsemen! Sabres draw!
And charge upon the foe!”
Ah! deadly was that order,
For, as upon his horse
Each horseman strove to mount, he fell
Or wounded or a corse.
But with his heart undaunted,
The soldier of the crown
Contrived to save one section there,
And bade it ride us down.
Down came the bold Dupoister,
And down came Forguson:
We held our fire, for well we knew
Our work was nearly done.
Down came they like a torrent—
A stream of bold and brave;
We met them like the solid rock
That breaks to foam the wave.
The clinking of their horse-hoofs
Was only heard at first,
Then came a sound as sharp and loud
As though a mine had burst;
Down falls both horse and rider,
Backward the charge rebounds,
And down falls gallant Forguson
With seven mortal wounds.
The tide was spent and harmless;
Ere we could fire again,
Up went the white, appealing flag—
None raised to us in vain.
Up went a cry for quarter,
And down their muskets fell,
While rang our cry of victory
Through nook, ravine, and dell.
And so upon King’s Mountain,
From rise till set of sun,
By hardy western mountaineers
The battle-field was won.
_MRS. MERRILL’S DEFENCE._
The event which forms the subject of the ballad occurred in Nelson
County, Kentucky, during the summer of 1787. About midnight, the
approach of a hostile party was made known to John Merrill and his
wife, by the barking of their house-dog. At first, Merrill supposed
it to be some travellers seeking shelter, and opened the door. He
received the fire of a half-dozen rifles, which broke an arm and
a thigh. He fell, and his wife, at his call, closed the door. The
Indians broke open the door, but Mrs. Merrill, who was a very large
and powerful woman, killed four of them with an axe, and they gave
that up. They next climbed the roof to effect an entrance by the
broad chimney. There was a fire smouldering on the hearth, and on
this Mrs. Merrill threw the feathers of the bed, which she had
ripped open. The smoke caused two of the remaining three Indians
to fall insensible. Braining these, she ran to the open door where
the last surviving savage was entering. He was too close for her to
strike, but she cut his cheek with the keen blade of the axe. He
gave a yell of affright and despair, and fled, spreading a terrible
story of the strength and courage of his female antagonist. A
similar instance of female courage is that of Mrs. Dustan, in New
England; but in the latter case the victims were asleep.
_THE LONG-KNIFE SQUAW._
I was out upon the Piqua, two-and-forty years ago,
Ere my sinews lost their vigor, or my head received its snow.
I was not so skilled in woodcraft as I should have been that day,
And towards the shade of evening, in the forest lost my way.
Yet I wandered hither, thither, till beside a grey old rock,
I beheld the smoky lodges of a band of Shawanock.
There was peace between the races, and a welcome warm I found,
And a supper which they gave me, by the camp-fire, on the ground.
That despatched, I fell to smoking, and as up the round moon rolled,
With a thirsty ear I listened to the tales the old men told.
There they sat and chatted gayly, while the flickering of the blaze
Led the shadows on their faces in a wild and devious maze.
And among them one I noted, unto whom the rest gave place,
Which was token he was foremost in the fight or in the chase.
He had been among the white men till he spoke our language well,
Though his speech was marked by phrases that from Western hunters fell.
There was pausing in the stories, when he turned and spoke to me,
As his red pipe he replenished—“I could tell a tale,” said he.
“Those there are of daring white men, whom no danger can appall;
But I knew a squaw among them, who surpassed them one and all.
“Six good Shawanock, my comrades, did that pale-face woman kill.”
Then I said—“Pray tell the story!” Quoth the other—“So I will.
“There were seven of us together, who upon an August day,
From the sullen, broad Ohio, up Salt River took our way.
“Up the Rolling Fork we travelled, seeking where we might obtain
Precious plunder from the living, bleeding trophies from the slain.
“By a spring-branch in the bottom, near a clearing in the wood,
Hidden by the sombre hemlocks, Merrill’s low-roofed cabin stood.
“It was built of logs of white-oak, chinked, save loop-holes here and there,
With a door of heavy puncheons, made the axe’s blow to bear.
“At its end a good stone chimney reared itself among the trees,
And the smoke-wreaths, as we neared it, still were breaking in the breeze.
“Out we lay upon the mountain, till the midnight hour came on,
Till the darkness growing deeper told the summer moon had gone.
“Then we downward crept in silence—not a rustle, scarce a stir—
Till by chance a stone we loosened, which descended with a whirr.
“Rose the dog who had been lying in the cabin’s deepest shade,
Snuffed our presence in the valley, and, to warn his master, bayed.
“Then aroused he came to tear us, in his fury, limb from limb,
But my hatchet’s blow unerring was enough to quiet him.
“There was stirring in the cabin, and I heard old Merrill say—
‘Wife, that is some wearied hunter, who perchance has lost his way.
“‘Rouse you, stir the ash-hid embers, and get ready to prepare
Bed of feathers for the stranger and a bait of cabin fare.’
“How we chuckled as he said it; then, in English, ‘House!’ I cried,
While my comrades all stood ready, when the door should open wide.
“With one hand his rifle grasping, Merrill then unclosed the door,
When we poured a sudden volley, and he sank upon the floor.
“In the fall the gun exploded, lighting up again the dark;
But no fingers drew the trigger, and the bullet found no mark.
“Ere we reached the open portal, though the journey was not far,
Lo! the woman Merrill closed it, and secured it with a bar.
“Long we hacked and long we hammered at the door with useless din,
Till at length a heavy sapling, fiercely driven, burst it in.
“Young Penswataway, our leader, stout old Cornstalk’s gallant son,
At the breach we had thus opened, entered in the foremost one.
“He had battled at Point Pleasant, and escaped the deadly ball,
By the weapon of a woman at the dead of night to fall.
“There she stood, that fearless woman, in her hand a heavy axe;
Came a sound of skull-bone crashing, and he died there in his tracks.
“Then, as four more strove to enter at the breach within the door,
One by one my slaughtered comrades sank and died upon the floor.
“Thus that stern unflinching woman managed five of us to slay,
And with axe and blow so ready those surviving kept at bay.
“Yet another entry offered; so, while I with rifle stood,
Lest the woman should escape us in the darkness of the wood,
“To the roof my two companions quickly climbed, a path to gain
By the great, capacious chimney, where resistance would be vain;
“For, so soon as they descended and attacked her on the floor,
Unopposed I’d find an entrance in the then unguarded door.
“But let no one boast his cunning, if a squaw be in the way,
Never fox hath more of shrewdness than a woman held at bay.
“From its place within the corner soon she tore a feather-bed,
And she tossed it in an instant on the embers fiery red.
“Scorched with fierce and sudden blazing, nearly stifled with the smoke,
Fell my two remaining comrades, to receive her axe’s stroke.
“Then I struggled at the entrance, and had partly made my way
When the woman came before me, like a wounded buck at bay.
“From her mouth the foam was flying, and her eyes were glazed and green;
Such a sight to shake my courage, I before had never seen.
“Turned I quickly in my terror, bounding through the darkness deep,
And I never stopped my running till the dawn began to peep.
“Now, what think you of my story?” said the savage unto me—
“Was she not a woman worthy leader of a tribe to be?”
“Ay!” I answered, “but I tell you, should you try it, you would see
We have many a hundred women that in need were stout as she.
“On the mountains of Virginia, in Kentucky’s bloody ground,
In the forests of Ohio, scores of such are to be found—
“Women tender, trusting, tearful; yet if peril forced among,
They can fight as stern and fiercely as a pantheress for her young.”
Quoth the chieftain, “If so many like that woman you can find,
You should send them forth to battle, while your men remained behind.
“I have met your braves in combat when the skies were red with fire,
And the sabres of your horsemen flashed the lightning of their ire—
“When your brazen-bodied cannon spoke their wrath to those around,
And the trampling of your legions shook the awed and trembling ground.
“Where the waters of Kanawha rush to join a clearer tide,
I was there with stout old Cornstalk, when you broke our power and pride.
“With the Mingoes, under Girty, at Fort Henry I was one,
When your forty kept four hundred baffled there from sun to sun.
“By Tecumthe’s side I battled at the Thames the day he fell,
Where continual flash kept lighting forest, river, swamp, and dell.
“But I never knew a terror, and a fear I never felt,
Save that midnight when the woman so upon my comrades dealt.
“And if I were young and likely, then, whatever dames I saw,
I would wed none save the equal of that daring long-knife squaw.”
_THE LAST BATTLE OF THE WAR._
[Illustration: ANDREW JACKSON.]
There is no event in American history which seems to be so
misunderstood, especially in details, as the battle fought in New
Orleans after the close of the war of 1812. The commander of the
Americans at that notable repulse became afterwards a prominent
politician, or, rather, resumed his political career, and was twice
elected President of the United States by the Democratic party,
which his course in office aided to disintegrate. The contest
during the three times he was a candidate was extremely bitter,
and while he was lauded by his friends as a hero, patriot, and
statesman, he was denounced by his foes as an illiterate ruffian,
ignorant alike of military science and state-craft. The battle upon
which his fame mainly rested, was said to have been won entirely
by the folly of the British, who stupidly marched upon impregnable
works, and were shot down easily by expert marksmen intrenched
behind cotton-bales. This last error is amusing, and nothing will
ever correct it. The embankment behind which most of the militia
lay was formed of swamp-mud mainly, the best material possible for
earthworks. A few cotton-bales had been used at one point, but one
of them being fired, the dense smoke made it an annoyance, and it
was speedily removed. That my readers may comprehend the affair, I
give a brief account of the operations leading up to the fight.