direction of the fire which they had seen the evening before, and met
their companion running towards them.
“Boys,” said he, “’Old Bob’ McLellan is lying by that fire in an
absolutely exhausted condition. He is so weak that unless some
stimulant is given him he will expire. Hurry and give him food from our
meagre supply!”
This hastened the feet of the trappers, and reaching the place where
the stubborn-minded old pioneer was lying, they discovered that he was
in a desperate plight. A cup of hot coffee, however, soon revived him,
so that he was able to struggle to his feet and join in their weary
march. His rifle was carried by one of his companions.
The little party pressed on, luckily came across a “solitary,” or bull
buffalo, which had been driven from the herd because of old age and
infirmity, and had the good fortune to kill it. Strengthened by this
repast, they stumbled forward, and, by great good chance, came upon a
band of Snake Indians, who fed them, gave them buckskin for moccasins,
and, at their departure, not only presented them with a goodly quantity
of jerked meat, but also with an old horse to carry it. Winter was
coming on. Small flurries of snow announced the advent of the season,
but they were now nearing the river Platte, where was an abundance of
game. The old scout had recovered from his exhaustion and was once
more the leader of these heroic plainsmen, who had twice been upon the
verge of starvation. Their emaciated forms had filled out; their faces
were sunburned and glowed with health; while their spirits and their
strength was as of yore.
It was well into November when the party reached the river Platte,
where were quantities of antelope and buffalo upon the grassy plains
which rolled from either bank. They had a big hunt and collected
sufficient buffalo meat to last through the winter. Then they built a
hut of logs and plastered it with mud, determined to remain here until
the warmth of spring made it possible for them to move further upon
their long journey to the settlements. The days passed pleasantly, but
one morning they were awakened by the wild screeching of a band of
savages, and rushing to the doorway of their cabin, found that they
were surrounded by fully a hundred painted braves.
“Well,” said McLellan, “I—for one—am all ready for a brush with the
redskins, whom I hate as much as I do old Lisa: the dastardly Spanish
trickster. So, my fine fellows, look to your rifles and we’ll have a
little picnic.”
“Not so fast,” Stuart interrupted. “I believe that these fellows are
peaceably disposed towards us.” And—so saying—he stepped forth from
the door, rifle in one hand, the other extended towards the Indians.
Several of them came forward, shook his hand with heartiness, and
intimated that they wished to have peace and not warfare. One of the
chiefs could speak good English.
“We are on the war-path,” said he. “We are Cheyennes and our enemies
are the Crows, who have raided one of our villages, have stolen many
ponies and much dried meat. They shall be punished.”
This was cheerful news.
“Well,” murmured Stuart, “here we are between two fires. On one side
are the Cheyennes, on the other are the Crows. As they are both upon
the war-path, we are in continual danger from each of them. If a war
party is defeated, it will doubtless wreak vengeance upon us when
returning from the fray. The only thing for us to do is to take our
chances and move towards the East.”
The situation was presented to the rest of the trappers, all of whom
were of the opinion that they should decamp. Winter was upon them and
snow was deep upon the ground, but, if they would save their lives,
they must leave at once. The raw-boned old horse was loaded up, their
packs were slung on their own shoulders, and, upon the thirteenth
day of December, the band of adventurers set off down the Platte.
Snow-storms and bitter winds assailed them, but on they struggled until
well beyond the range of the war-like savages. Here they built another
hut, passed the winter in peace, and in March, 1813, started down the
river in canoes which they had made from hollowed stumps of trees.
After an uneventful trip, they finally reached the Missouri and were
soon on their way to the frontier trading-post of St. Louis. Astor then
learned what had happened to the adventurous souls who had attempted to
reach his trading-post by sea.
The hazardous trip was over at last. “Old Bob” McLellan and his
companions had crossed the wildest portion of an unexplored continent;
had endured terrific hardship and exposure; but had brought home
an accurate description of the virgin West to the hearing of many
adventurous souls, who—thronging upon the border—were anxious and
eager to press into the unknown prairie and mountain land. Two or three
times the trappers had just escaped death by starvation. Twice they
had barely missed a massacre by the redskins. Yet their courage and
fortitude had carried them through every peril, and at last they were
among their own kind, where appreciation of their nerve and valor was
freely shown.
What of “Old Bob” McLellan, as he was affectionately called? Alas! The
sinewy plainsman had been much broken by the hardships of this arduous
journey to Astoria. Exposure and starvation had done its work upon the
frame of the hardy man of the frontier, and now he was unable to again
venture into the unknown. Purchasing a stock of goods suitable for a
trader, he opened a country store at Cape Girardeau, near St. Louis,
but the angel of death even then hovered over the soul of the stalwart
man of the plains. In a few months he quietly passed into the great
beyond.
Thus peacefully ended the career of one of the last of the valorous
scouts and pioneers who had forced back the savage hordes from the
Alleghanies to the Mississippi, and who, even as old age advanced, had
plunged into an unexplored and unpeopled country, to risk both life and
limb among savage men and beasts. Red ran the blood in the veins of
this vigorous Kentuckian, and he is to be remembered as a good type of
the venturesome pioneers who explored and opened to white civilization
the vast and unknown regions of western America. The hazardous journey
to Astoria quite equalled in danger that eventful pilgrimage of Lewis
and Clark, the first white adventurers to cross the Rocky Mountains to
the Pacific. Hats off to “Old Bob” McLellan.
COLONEL BENJAMIN LOGAN:
THE INTREPID FIGHTER OF THE KENTUCKY FRONTIER
“MOTHER, I know that the law allows me to have all of the property
which my father left, but I do not want it. You can have your share,
and to my brothers and sisters I give the remainder. I, myself, will
move further West, into the wilderness.”
The youth who spoke was about twenty-one years of age; tall, slender,
and graceful. His face was open, frank, and expressive. As he ceased,
he waved his hand towards the West and left the room in which his
parent was sitting upon an old-fashioned horse-hair sofa. His name was
Benjamin Logan.
Although the old English law of primogeniture prevailed in Virginia at
this time, which gave the farm, horses, and farming utensils to young
Logan (upon the death of his father) he refused to accept them. Instead
of this, he nobly partitioned the estate between his mother, his three
brothers, and two sisters, and removed to the Holston River. Then he
began to farm a rough piece of ground, only part of which had been
cleared of timber.
About this time the Indians upon the Ohio frontier became very
troublesome, and Logan enlisted as a private in the army of Lord
Dunmore, Governor of Virginia. Marching into the Indian country was a
rough experience, but the youth enjoyed it, and when the red men signed
articles of peace at Chillicothe, Ohio, the stout Virginian was among
those who stood near the chiefs and saw them put their names to the
agreement. Kentucky was now fairly peaceable. So the energetic young
man moved his family to Harrodsburg, where a stockade had been erected
called Logan’s Fort.
“You must look out for the redskins,” said a comrade to him. “Although
they have signed an agreement to let us alone, my friends report that
there are many of them in the vicinity, and they are all daubed up with
paint, because they are upon the war-path.”
“I will be on my guard,” replied the young pioneer. “We must all run
to the fort if there is danger of attack.” The test was to come sooner
than he expected.
Upon a balmy day in May, when the women were milking their cows
near the gate of Fort Logan, and a few men were standing by, in
order to assist them, a small band of redskins appeared at the edge
of a thicket. _Crash_, a volley woke the stillness, and one of the
frontiersmen fell dead while two staggered behind the log breastwork,
with mortal wounds. A third—a stout fellow called Harrison—was unable
to reach the gate, and dragged himself along to the shelter of some
bushes.
Within the fort, all gazed with sorrow at the wounded pioneer, who,
although in range of the Indian rifles, was so protected that the
balls could not quite reach him. Those in the fort kept up a fusillade
in the direction of the red men, making them get below cover, and thus
the battle continued; the leaden balls zipping and whizzing across the
place, where Harrison lay partially concealed. The man’s family, in the
fort, seemed to be in an agony of distress at his terrible condition.
To save him would require great nerve and heroism. There were but
fifteen men in the stockade; two were badly wounded. Should they
sacrifice any of this small number in the endeavor to rescue a man,
who, even should he be retaken, would be unable to fight in defense of
the fortification? This question confronted the beleaguered pioneers,
and it was a serious one.
At this moment young Logan stepped forward and said:
“Who will go with me to the rescue of this poor fellow?”
It was strange to see the effect of these words upon the besieged
frontiersmen. At first every one refused.
“I’m not a fast runner,” said one, “and know that they will easily
catch me on the return trip, even if I am not shot before I reach the
wounded man.”
A second—a fellow of giant build—quavered: “I am a weakly chap. I
never was no good, nohow, on liftin’. Perhaps you’d better git ernother
stouter feller than I be.”
Still a third remarked that, “he wuz plum onlucky with Injin bullets,
an’ never wuz known tew git amongst ’em in the open without havin’ one
uv ’em nick him.”
Ben Logan could not help smiling at this.
“What, are you all afraid to follow me?” said he.
At this, a trapper called John Martin stepped towards him, and said:
“I will go with you, for I can only die once and I am as ready now to
go to my Maker, as I ever will be. Come on! To the rescue!”
“You are a man after my own heart,” answered the bold pioneer, grasping
him warmly by the hand. “We will start at once.”
Throwing open the gates to the stockade, both dashed towards the
prostrate frontiersman. They had proceeded about five yards from the
fort when Harrison made an effort to rise. As he got to his hands and
knees, Martin turned and fled to the stockade.
“This is fine treatment,” mused Logan, but he kept on under a veritable
shower of bullets from the redskins. Fortune favored him; he was not
hit, and reaching the wounded frontiersman in safety, clasped him in
his arms, and began to lug him back to the fort. The deed was a noble
one.
Bullets from the red men fairly poured around the struggling
backwoodsman, as he staggered towards the stockade of logs. His hat was
pierced by a ball; one even penetrated his hunting-shirt, but, in spite
of this, he finally reached the doorway. Hurrah! As he deposited the
body of the wounded man safely upon the ground a mighty cheer welled
from the throats of all. Hurrah! Hurrah, for Benjamin Logan!
[Illustration:
From an old print.
“BEGAN TO LUG HIM BACK TO THE FORT.”]
Even the Hercules who had complained of being “a weakly fellow” threw
up his hat in the air.
“Well, by Gum! Logan,” said he, “if yew ain’t th’ plum luckiest feller
I ever knowed. I believe that yew be charmed, so ez an Injun bullet
can’t hit yew. Ez fer me? Why, I would hev been struck er dozen times
in thet hazardous journey. Huzzah! says I. Here’s tew yer!”
But all danger was not yet over by any means. The red men were in
numbers, and besieged the fort with a tenacity that made matters take
a decidedly ugly look, for the few men of the garrison were not able
to put up a very stiff fire against the increasing bands of Indians.
Another danger also threatened, for the supply of ammunition became
exhausted. How was more to be obtained?
Distant, about a hundred miles, was the frontier settlement on the
Holston River, to which Logan had first moved when he left his farm in
Virginia. Here was ammunition in abundance, and also supplies of food
and clothing. Would any one have nerve enough to creep through and
relieve the beleaguered garrison? This required the greatest judgment
and unbounded courage, for the intervening country was swarming with
savages, all upon the war-path. It was a region full of deep ravines,
tangled thickets, and treacherous swampland.
Again all were asked to undertake the journey, but there were as many
excuses as before. Again Benjamin Logan stepped into the breach and
offered to bring relief. That night he clambered to the top of the
stockade, dropped softly to the ground outside, and soon his form was
lost in the shadows of the encircling forest. He passed through the
Indian lines in safety, and, by daybreak, was headed for the post at
Holston. His last words to the garrison were: “Hold fast! Hold on! I
will be sure to return within a fortnight and you will all be saved!”
For several days the garrison returned the fire of the Indians with
spirit, but, as the hours fled by, a terrible feeling of despair came
over them. Their water began to give out; their ammunition was so low
that they had to use it sparingly, and the food supply was in such a
condition that there was danger of starvation if help did not soon
arrive. Logan, meanwhile, was toiling upon his way through by-paths,
swamps and cane brakes, having deserted the beaten trail through
Cumberland Gap. Fortune favored him. He met with no prowling red men,
and, within six days, had covered the distance to the frontier post.
The intrepid pioneer now procured ammunition, food, and a company of
backwoodsmen. With these, he hastened onwards towards his beleaguered
companions, and, upon the tenth day after his departure, suddenly
appeared before the stockade. There were not twenty rounds of
ammunition left in the fortress. Gaunt and hollow cheeks were here.
Noble women upheld the fainting spirits of the men, but now, with
little hope of succor, it was with difficulty that they kept up their
fire upon the redskins, and put out the flaming brands which they kept
throwing into the stockade. A wild and exultant cheer greeted their
leader as he ran across the clearing to the door of the side wall. “At
last you have come!” they shouted. “We had given you up for dead!”
A few days later Colonel Bowman arrived, with a large body of men, at
which the Indians raised the siege and fled. But they had not gone for
good. On the contrary, they fairly swarmed over the borders of Kentucky
and their marauding parties committed some frightful outrages. There
was nothing now to be done but to defeat them in a battle and burn
their villages, if the white settlers were to have peace.
It was the year 1779. The Revolution was over. England had lost her
colonies to her own sons. Now the Colonists were beginning the great
struggle to free themselves from the curse of Indian invasion. An
expedition was therefore organized to invade the Shawnee territory
and to raze to the ground the famous town of Chillicothe. Benjamin
Logan—now Colonel Logan—was second in command. Bowman, who had come
to the rescue at Logan’s Fort, was to lead the expedition; which
was to consist of one hundred and sixty men. They advanced in the
heat of July, and marched with such precaution that they reached the
neighborhood of the Indian town without having been discovered by the
enemy.
A plan for assaulting the village was now decided upon. It was very
simple, for the force was to be divided into two parts; one, under
Logan, was to march to the left: the other, under Bowman, was to march
to the right. The men were to spread out in single rank, and when the
leading files of the two columns had met, then, they were to attack.
It was dark when the backwoods soldiers began the advance. Logan’s men
quite encircled the town, but where was Bowman? All through the night
the leader of the left flank waited for the coming of the other column,
but not a man in buckskin appeared. Hour after hour passed away and the
darkness gave way to dawn. Still Bowman was strangely missing.
“Had you not better attack?” whispered one of his men. “The Shawnees
will soon be awake and will discover our whereabouts.”
“Let us wait another hour or two,” answered the courageous leader. “I
believe that the advance of Bowman’s column will soon be here.”
Logan’s men were secreted in ambush. Here they remained until an Indian
dog began to bark, arousing his master, who came out of his tepee in
order to see what was the matter. An imprudent trapper had exposed his
head above the underbrush, and the keen eyes of the redskin quickly
discerned an enemy. He raised a loud war-whoop.
As he did this, a gun went off on Bowman’s side of the village, and,
seeing that further concealment was useless, Colonel Logan cried out to
his men:
“Charge into the village, my boys. You must drive the redskins through
the town, for Colonel Bowman will surely support you.”
His buckskin-clad rangers defiled quickly into the village, and,
advancing from cabin to cabin, soon had reached a large building
in the centre. The Indians fled swiftly before them, but later,
recovering from their surprise, endeavored to turn the right flank of
the Kentuckians, whom they perceived to be in small numbers. Where was
Colonel Bowman?
The Shawnees had now seized their own rifles and were pouring in a hot
fire upon the advancing frontiersmen, who tore the heavy doors from the
Indian cabins, formed a breastwork, and protected themselves from the
whizzing balls. They were holding their own and were making progress
towards the Indian citadel, where most of the braves had collected,
when an order came from Colonel Bowman to retreat. His ranking officer
had spoken, so there was nothing for Logan to do but to obey.
As soon as the men were told that they must go to the rear, a
tumultuous scene commenced. Dispirited and disheartened by the order to
turn their backs upon the enemy, they rushed away from the tomahawks
and balls of the savages, as best they were able. The Indians were
astonished and jubilant over the turn which matters had taken and
pursued the rangers with wild and exultant yelping. The frontiersmen
scattered in every direction, dodging and twisting in order to avoid
the balls which whistled around them, and ran from cabin to cabin, in
confusion. Suddenly they collided with Bowman’s soldiers, who, because
of some panic of their commander, had stood stock still near the
spot where Logan had left them the night before. The redskins soon
surrounded them on all sides, and kept up a hot fire.
What was the matter with Bowman? He sat upon his horse like a pillar
of stone; gave no orders; and was in an apparently helpless mental
condition. His men paid no attention to him, but swarmed to the
protection of trees and stumps, took aim at the yelping red men, and
soon held them at a safe distance. When they seemed to be quieted, the
frontiersmen resumed their march. The Indians, however, came back to
the attack, but were beaten off. They followed, and made an assault
every half mile, or so. Their tenacity was due to the fact that they
expected reinforcements and hoped to annihilate the whites.
“Keep together, my brave men,” shouted Colonel Logan, at this juncture.
“Do not let these redskins stampede you, for then you will all be
massacred.”
The crisis was a terrible one. The retreat would become a rout, unless
the soldiers were kept together.
At this juncture Colonel Logan and a few of the boldest souls, dashed
into the brush, on horseback, and cut down some of the nearest red
men. As they performed this bold feat, the savages held back, and thus
allowed the fleeing soldiers to get away. Only nine Kentuckians were
killed, a few were wounded, and the rest escaped to the settlements.
As for Colonel Logan, his gallant conduct, when under stress and fire,
greatly increased his reputation, and at the next gathering of the
Kentucky troops he was unanimously elected to lead them against the red
men, when again they should need chastising.
The Indians remained quiescent until the summer of 1788. Then the
frontier was again attacked by marauding bands, and so destructive was
their advance that the pioneer militia had to be called out. Colonel
Logan was asked to lead the troops against the enemy.
“Boys, I shall be delighted to do so,” said he. “But this time there
must be perfect discipline and no retreating. If you break in the same
way that you did in our attack upon the Shawnee town I will not answer
for your scalps. Let us have order, or we will never succeed.”
“Lead on, Colonel,” cried many. “You have the right idea, and none of
us will go back on you.”
The advance through the wilderness was most successful. Eight towns
were burned, twenty warriors were killed, and seventy-five prisoners
were taken. The son of a chief named Moluntha was carried off as a
prisoner, and because of his brightness and promise was kept in Colonel
Logan’s family. He was called Logan, after his distinguished captor,
and grew to be a majestic-looking man, six feet in height.
As for the Colonel, he returned to his farm after this campaign fully
satisfied with his work, and determined to lead a quiet existence. This
he was well able to do, for the red men had been so signally chastised
that they no longer attempted to rob, burn, and plunder upon the
border. His namesake, however, came to an untimely end.
During one of the campaigns by General Harrison against the Maumee
Indians, Logan—the redskin—was dispatched by his superior officer
upon a scouting expedition with several companions. They met a large
force of hostile Indians and were driven in to their own camp, where
one of the white officers was heard to remark:
“Logan is a treacherous scoundrel. I believe that he will desert to
those of his own color at any moment.”
This was heard by the red man and he was stung to the quick.
“I shall prove this to be a falsehood,” said he. “I am true to my white
brothers.”
Next morning he started towards the enemy with some companions and
had not gone far when he found himself in an ambuscade, formed by the
famous chieftain called Winnemac. Logan had the same cool courage which
distinguished his white namesake.
“We are deserting to our enemies, the British,” said he. “We no longer
care to fight with the Americans. We are at heart your brothers.”
Chief Winnemac grunted, but kept a watchful eye upon his captives as he
carried them away. After the first day, however, he decided to return
the rifles and other arms to the prisoners. He had counted too much
upon the words of the savage, for Logan had determined upon escape.
“We will attack our captors to-night,” he whispered to his two
companions, Bright Horn and Captain Johnny. “There are seven. We will
wait until some leave and will then gain our liberty.”
As he had expected, after the camp-fires had been lighted, four of
the British sympathizers left, in order to collect fire-wood. They had
not been gone over five minutes before the three captives had fired
upon those left behind, killing all three. They reloaded, as the others
came running to the camp, fired upon them, and forced them to take
refuge behind some trees. As they stood confronting each other, one of
the most wiry and skillful crept around to the rear of the American
red men, pointed his rifle, and shot Logan in the shoulder. He fell
forward, badly wounded.