lack of proper food, the toilsome journey through deep forests! Then
the cheek and gall of that saucy message to Hamilton, safe in a strong
fortress with twice the number of men as those half-frozen backwoodsmen
outside! Then the daring attack, the wonderful accuracy of the rifle
fire, and the final victory! Such men were heroes. Whether your
sympathies be with Kentuckian or Britisher, you must admit it, and you
must—I own—take off your hat to Clarke: the twenty-seven year old
leader of this gallant band.
But what of the subsequent career of this wonderfully successful man?
Alas! What we know of his thereafter does not abound to his credit.
To the enthusiasm of youth he joined the daring ambition of the born
soldier: never satisfied. Always anxious to move forward and on, he
asked the Kentucky Assembly for men and agreed to capture Detroit;
to destroy the English power for all time; and to prevent further
combination of unfriendly tribes of red men. He was promised both
soldiers and ammunition, but they never came. It is said that in
disgust at his forced inaction he took to drink for relief from his
worries. He became dissipated, morbid, and a recluse.
For some time he rested in inactivity near the Falls of the Ohio, and
about the year 1780 built Fort Jefferson on the Mississippi. He then
journeyed to Richmond, Virginia, in order to appeal in person for the
necessary means for taking Detroit. His plans were thought well of and
were approved. But the measure never passed the legislature. Before it
could be put into effect he was appointed to command a body of troops
who were to check the aggressive operations of Benedict Arnold. He was
made a Brigadier-General and was authorized to collect a large force,
which was to meet at Louisville (the Falls of the Ohio) and was to fall
upon Detroit and destroy this strong citadel of British authority.
Misfortune seemed to follow upon his footsteps. The force was never
collected and the projected campaign had to be abandoned. He and his
men had several brushes with marauding bands of Ohio Indians, and in
1782 took part in the unfortunate battle of Blue Licks, in Kentucky.
Rallying a detachment of one thousand men, Clarke invaded the Indian
towns, but the savages fled from their villages and scattered, so that
there was no one to fight when the borderers entered. Fortune had
forsaken George Rogers Clarke, and, although in 1786 he led another
expedition of one thousand men against the Indians on the Wabash River,
it resulted in an absolute failure. His followers were mutinous. The
campaign had to be abandoned. The hero who could inspire a march of
two hundred miles through half-frozen forests had lost his former
magnetism. He had begun to go down hill.
Dispirited, somewhat broken in health, and faint-hearted, the bold
frontiersman sought the seclusion of his hut near the Ohio River. Here,
he was offered and accepted a commission in the French armies west of
the Mississippi, for this land was then under the lilies of France. An
expedition was about to be made against the Spaniards upon the lower
reaches of the river, but a revolution in France overturned the party
in power and destroyed all the plans of those in America. Clarke was
soon no longer Major General, and, forced to a life of inactivity,
he returned to an isolated and lonely existence in his log hut. At
forty years of age he was a prematurely old man, and in 1817 he died
at Louisville, Kentucky: a town which was growing rapidly in size and
which had been the scene of many of his early triumphs. Exposure and
neglect of the proper laws of living had done their work.
George Rogers Clarke was a remarkable man. As a youngster he was
brimful of enthusiasm, of vigor, of magnetism. He carried an expedition
through to success in the face of fearful obstacles. Had he shown
the white feather for an instant he would have met with ignominious
failure. His courage, his cheerfulness, his optimism impelled him on
to victory. Had he been able to govern his appetite for liquor he would
have been a man of splendid usefulness in his later years. His collapse
at the early age of forty is full witness to the deplorable effects of
the inability of a strong man to curb his passions. One can but look
upon his career with sadness and regret.
JOHN SLOVER:
SCOUT UNDER CRAWFORD AND HERO OF EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURES
TWO red men paddled down the White River, far in the western portion of
the state of Virginia, one bright morning in the month of May, 1765. As
they rounded a bend in the stream, before them was a little trapper’s
son, apparently with no one with him. He was throwing pebbles into the
water and was laughing as they splashed upon the surface of the stream.
“How!” grunted one of the braves. “I like to have young paleface in
my lodge. I make him take the place of my own papoose, whom the Great
Spirit has stolen from me.”
“You can get him,” suggested the other. “Come on, let us paddle towards
the little one and capture him.”
As the redskins approached, the boy looked at them with no sign of
fear, and laughed at their solemn-looking faces. But they did not
laugh. Instead of this, the one in the bow leaped upon the shore,
seized the youngster, and carried him to the canoe, where he was bound
by deer thongs and was quickly paddled down stream. His parents looked
for him in vain that evening, and for many evenings, but their little
son never returned. Thus John Slover became a ward of the redskins.
[Illustration: JOHN SLOVER.]
The Indians were then living at Sandusky, upon the Ohio River, and
here the little white boy grew up to be a man. Adopted by the Miami
tribe, he learned to love their ways, to live the wild, roving life as
a trapper and hunter, and to be more at home in the forest than in the
houses of those of his own race. In the autumn of 1773, a treaty was
made at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, between the Miamis and the whites,
and at this place was a big gathering of the savages and frontiersmen,
with their families. Jack Slover was interested in the affair and hung
around the clusters of talkers, who were eagerly discussing the terms
of the articles of agreement.
“Hello!” came a voice, as he was near one animated group. “If this
isn’t little Jack Slover grown to be a man! Turn around, son, and see
if you don’t recognize me.”
The adopted ward of the Miamis spun about upon his heel, and there saw
a raw-boned trapper, who was gazing at him with an inquiring eye.
“I certainly do not recognize you,” he replied. “Who are you, anyway?”
The young fellow knew of his kidnapping, when a small boy, but had
never cared to go back to his own people.
The frontiersman now seized him by the shoulders. “Why, I’m your
father’s brother, Tom Slover! I saw that you were not a Miami the
minute I looked at you, and I found out that you had been captured
many years ago by the Indians. Upon closer inspection it was easy to
perceive that you were my brother’s son. My boy, we have been waiting
to find you for years. You will now come back to us, won’t you?”
Young Slover hung his head, for he was loath to part from the friends
and companions of his youth. He was on the point of refusing, but, just
then, another frontiersman approached who announced that he was his
father. The meeting between son and parent was not demonstrative; in
fact, the youth rather drew away from his own flesh and blood. Soon,
however, he became more reconciled, and, after an hour’s conversation,
agreed to accompany his kinsmen to their home in Westmoreland County,
Pennsylvania.
The conference was soon over, both Indians and whites were agreed upon
the terms of the treaty, and the captured son of the pioneer went back
to his own country, where he seemed to be contentedly abiding at the
outbreak of the American Revolution. He was one of the first to enlist,
and, because of his experience in woodcraft, was made a sharpshooter.
In this branch of the service he did good work, and was honorably
discharged at the close of the struggle with the Mother Country.
Some years after the Revolutionary War—in 1782—the redskins of the
Middle West became very bold, and made frequent incursions upon the
white settlements of Ohio, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia. Prompt
vengeance was demanded by the pioneers who had penetrated into the
wilderness and had there built their homes. An expedition was
determined upon, and Colonel William Crawford—a brave officer of the
Revolutionary War—was selected as its commander. The time and place
of rendezvous were fixed for May 20th, 1782, at a point on the western
shore of the Ohio, forty miles above Fort Pitt. There were four hundred
and fifty volunteers; among them an accomplished surgeon, Dr. Knight.
Just before the expedition got under way, Colonel Crawford approached
Slover, and said:
“My good friend, we are in need of a scout and guide upon our
expedition. You know this country like a book, so I would like to
engage you as one of our forerunners and assistants. Will you go with
us?”
The adopted ward of the Miamis was reluctant to accept.
“I have lived with these Indians whom you intend to attack,” said he.
“I have slept with them; hunted with them; have eaten with them. Surely
you would not have me turn upon all of my old friends?”
The Colonel smiled.
“Yes, but what sort of friends?” he answered. “Here they have been
murdering innocent women and children. Have been burning homes, killing
cattle and horses. They have been subjecting their prisoners to
horrible tortures. You are too much of a man not to appreciate the need
of checking these onslaughts upon our people.”
“The whites are gradually encroaching upon their lands,—the lands
which they believe that the Great Spirit has given to them,” replied
Slover, in a deliberate tone. “Can you blame them for resenting these
advances? They are children, too, of the wilderness and they fight like
the wild beasts who surround them.”
“Then you refuse to accompany us?”
“No, not so. Upon thinking over the matter, I believe that it is
impossible for the two races to live side by side, unless one race is
supreme. That the whites will overrun the country is only too evident.
I will go with you, for I certainly do not approve of the manner in
which they have conducted their warfare, and I believe that they must
be punished.”
The march was soon commenced, but, in a few days, some of the
volunteers broke ranks and started for their homes. It was impossible
to hold them. Further signs of insubordination were soon in evidence,
some of the men demanding that they be sent back to their cabins,
declaring that their horses were jaded and that their provisions were
almost exhausted. Not long afterwards two skulking Indians were seen
spying upon the advance. They were fired upon, but escaped. It was now
evident that all secrecy was out of the question. The men grew mutinous
and were so unruly that the officers requested them to continue for
only one day longer, and then if no Indians were found they were to
return. This was being discussed when one of the advance pickets dashed
in, crying out: “The Indians are ahead of us about a mile. They are
drawn up in the timber and are waiting for us!”
At this news a loud whoop came from the lusty throats of the
frontiersmen, and they discontinued their complaints. Priming their
rifles and fingering their powder-horns, they pressed forward to the
attack, while their leader, Crawford, who had fine military judgment,
saw that the enemy had seized a position of great strength, from which
they must be driven at once. He therefore urged on his men to the
charge.
As the order came, the pioneers dismounted and rushed boldly upon the
redskins in front and upon the flanks, hunting them from the woods,
across an open field, and into some dense forest-land in the rear. Here
the savages were heavily reinforced, and Crawford’s Rangers were almost
driven from the timber by the wily braves, who were now fighting from
every bush, stump, hillock and tree. The battle waged with great fury
until dark, when the savages withdrew, and the trappers slept upon the
ground, ready to resume the affair in the morning.
As daylight appeared the battle was renewed at long range, neither side
being anxious for a hand-to-hand engagement. It was plainly evident
that the Indians were constantly being reinforced. Their whooping and
yelling grew more and more derisive, and they began to extend their
lines so as to flank the men of the frontier. For this reason, the
officers decided upon a retreat.
Slover, the scout, was far over to the right, watching some horses, and
no news of the intended movement was brought to him. Soon the uproar
of retreat came to his ears and warned him of his danger. He therefore
selected the finest horse among those under his charge, mounted it,
and fled after his comrades, who became rapidly disorganized. The red
men fired a volley in the direction of the frontiersmen, at which one
of the Crawford Rangers shouted: “The enemy have found out our design!
Save yourselves! Save yourselves!”
Panic now became general, and so great was the disorder that it
was plainly heard in the lines of the Indians, among whom was the
famous renegade, Simon Girty. “Out, men,” he cried, “and pick up the
stragglers, for these Americans have whipped themselves!”
Those who had been wounded were dropped at the beginning of the rout
and were speedily dispatched by the tomahawks of the savages. The
rest fled in whatever way they could, without semblance of order or
discipline, and, as they ran helter-skelter through the forest, were
pursued by the exultant redskins with wild and blood-curdling whooping.
Slover galloped along with some difficulty, as the ground was very
rough, and soon found further obstructions in his path, for a wide bog
lay before him, which extended for a great distance in either direction.
Some of the fugitives were unable to get across the bog on foot, but
Slover and a few others were able to cross on their horses. As they
fled on through the darkness of night, behind them echoed the horrid
yells of the savages, the rifle shots of the whites, and the shrieks of
the wounded. Six fugitives joined the fleeing scout, two of whom had
lost their rifles, and, as the Indians were pressing them furiously,
they headed for the settlement of Detroit, hoping to elude the red
men as they went. They ran into another portion of the swamp a few
hours later, and halted there for a slight repast of cold pork and corn
bread—of which they had a small supply in their haversacks.
As they were seated upon some stumps, and were munching their repast,
they were startled by an Indian whoop very close at hand.
“We are discovered,” whispered Slover. “Hide yourselves, my men, in the
tall grass.”
Not many moments afterwards, a band of Shawnees passed by, laughing and
talking among themselves, apparently with no idea that the pioneers
were near. They were well satisfied with the signal defeat which they
had administered to Crawford and his men; had many scalps and much
plunder. When they were gone, Slover and his companions continued on
their way, entering upon a sea of waving grass, which made it evident
that any skulking red men would soon discover their whereabouts.
Silently they plodded across the prairie, but suddenly the man in
advance called their attention to the fact that some moving objects
were approaching.
“Lie low, boys!” he shouted. “I think that a crowd of redskins are just
in front of us.”
He was right, and, as they hid in the tall grass, a troop of Indians
passed by, moving rapidly and noisily along. Fortunately the red men
did not discover their trail, and with great shouting and singing had
soon walked out of hearing. The trappers arose, continued their flight,
and kept a sharp lookout for enemies. They were soon to meet with more
children of the forest.
Two of the fugitives now became very lame and were unable to keep up
with the rest of the party. One had a bad attack of rheumatism; so bad,
in fact, that he fell way behind the rest and did not come up, although
they whistled, called, and strove to attract his attention in every
possible way, in spite of the danger of being discovered by lurking
redskins. They finally went on without him, and gave him up for lost.
He at length reached Wheeling in safety, having passed through many
dangers and hairbreadth escapes from capture by roving Indians.
Slover and his friend were hurrying towards the settlements, and
naturally left a well-defined trail behind them. This was followed for
several days by a band of Shawnees, who finally decided that the whites
would be easy to capture and decided to ambush them.
This they did, and, as the frontiersmen were quietly passing between
some high bluffs, a volley rang out from either side and two of their
number fell dead. The rest sprang immediately to the shelter of trees,
where Slover took aim at one of the Indians who could be seen raising
his hand.
“Do not fire,” said he, in excellent English. “If you surrender to us,
you will be well treated. We will take you to our houses and will allow
you to leave, in a short time, for your own people.”
Slover and two of the frontiersmen gave themselves up immediately, but
a young fellow named John Paul refused to do so, and, rushing to the
rear, managed to get away. The redskins peppered the air with bullets,
but none hit the fugitive and he got safely beyond range. After a long
and arduous trip through the wilderness, he at length reached the
frontier settlement at Wheeling, West Virginia.
As John Slover and his companions were being taken along by the
Indians, one of them recognized him as the young paleface who had been
brought up by the Miamis.
“You no good, Mannuchcothe,” said he. “You fight against your own
brothers. You kill your own people. Ugh! Ugh! We fix you for this.”
John Slover began to think that perhaps what the savages had promised
was not to take place, and when once they came in sight of their town,
their whole demeanor changed. They began to howl and cry out:
“You are some of those who wish to drive us from our country. Death to
you! Death to you!”
The squaws, warriors, and children came running to meet the captives
and began to whip and beat them. Then they took the oldest of the
frontiersmen and blackened his face with charred sticks.
“Are they going to burn me, Slover?” the poor fellow gasped.
“Do not answer, Mannuchcothe!” shouted the Indians. “Do not answer! We
will not hurt him! We will adopt him!”
The red men now took the prisoners to Waughcotomoco, another of their
towns, about two miles off, but sent a runner in advance to announce
their coming. As the captives came in sight of it they saw hundreds
of Indians in a double line, ready to make them run the gauntlet. This
they did, and although Slover got through safely, the frontiersman
whose face had been blackened, was knocked down, kicked, beaten, and
shot full of arrows. He reached the council chamber, where he thought
that he would be safe, and, although he seized one of the posts with
both hands, he was torn away from it and was soon dispatched with a
tomahawk.
Slover, meanwhile, was left alone, but he had no cheerful thoughts, for
before him lay the bodies of Harold, the son of Crawford, the American
leader; of a Colonel Harrison; and of several other prominent soldiers
of the American army. They had all been killed during the retreat. His
remaining companion was led away to another town and was never again
heard of; while the gallant scout, himself, was now confronted by a
young Miami buck, who said in the Indian language:
“Mannuchcothe, you must come before a council and must explain to the
old men why you deserted our tribe. Mannuchcothe, it will go ill with
you.”
The sharpshooter did not worry, for he did not believe that his old
friends would go back on him. In this he was correct, for there seemed
to be no great amount of malice towards the ex-Miami, until the
appearance of a white renegade—James Girty—the brother of the famous
Simon. This scoundrel made an impassioned speech, in which he said:
“My Indian brethren, this white captive should suffer death. For not
only has he deserted you for your enemies—the palefaces—but when I
asked him how he would like to live with you again, he told me that he
would care to remain only long enough to take a scalp and then escape.
He is your enemy at heart and has even now been fighting against you.
Death, and torture before death, would not be too severe for him.”
The scout was outraged and angered by these remarks.
“What you say is not true,” he replied. “I have never in my life made
the statement that I would only remain long enough with my red brethren
to take a scalp and then escape. I entered this war with reluctance,
and I had not fired a shot up to the time that I was captured by my
old companions. I am a friend of the Miamis and always will be their
friend.”
To these remarks the red men grunted an assent and allowed him to
move, unbound, around the village. He was assigned to a lodge with an
old squaw, who became very much attached to him, and, not many days
afterwards, came to him and said:—
“That James Girty is influencing my brothers against you. If you have
a chance to escape, you must do so, for I fear that they intend to put
you out of the way.”
Not long afterwards a council of Shawnee, Wyandot, Delaware, Chippewa,
Miami, and Mingo braves decided that Slover had been untrue to their
race, and that he must suffer punishment and death. Two warriors
appeared before his wigwam in order to carry him away, but the old
squaw covered him with her blanket and said that he should not go.
When the two bucks endeavored to enter, she threw a pot of boiling
water at them.
This was too much for the warriors, who retreated before the scalding
fluid, but they soon returned with James Girty and forty Indians, who
overpowered the fighting squaw. Slover was seized, bound, and his body
was painted black. This was a sign that he was to be tortured and
eventually killed.
Five miles from Waughcotomoco was another Indian town, to which the
scout was marched. A vast number of red men greeted his coming with
fierce cheering, and formed in two lines in order to make him run the
gauntlet. As he raced between them, they struck him with clubs, with
spears, and with their hands. In spite of this he was not badly hurt
and could walk without assistance to another small town, two miles
further on, where—in an unfinished council house—he was fastened to
a stake. Brush was piled around his feet and this was lighted for his
torture. “I will meet death like a brave man,” said Slover to himself.
Then, turning to the Indians, he cried out: “You shall rue the day that
ever you put an end to John Slover. My white brothers will avenge me a
hundredfold.”
An Indian orator arose, and, with a fierce and vindictive speech,
sought to fan the flame of the red men’s passions to the highest pitch.
“How! How!” cried many voices.” It is well that the white man should
die. How! How!”
Slover glowered upon the yelling mob as the crackling flames began to
creep nearer to his feet. But now an unexpected interposition of nature
occurred, which was greatly in the victim’s favor.
A high wind arose; dense, black clouds covered the sky; the growling of
thunder drowned the words of the orator and the yelling of his hearers.
A sheet of rain burst upon the fire at the stake, extinguishing it
completely, and Slover saw the Indians scatter to the cover of their
wigwams, where they called out to him:
“We will burn you to-morrow. The Great Spirit has helped you, but he
cannot save you.”
The shower lasted for over an hour, and when it had concluded the red
men gathered around the stake, where they beat and kicked their captive
until eleven o’clock at night. Then a brave called Half Moon asked him
if he did not want to go to sleep.
“I am exhausted,” replied the scout. “If you intend to kill me
to-morrow, loosen my bonds and let me rest.”
Half Moon untied the strands which bound the weakened frontiersman,
carried him to a log hut, and there bound him to a pole in the centre,
with deer thongs which cut tightly into his flesh. A rope was placed
about his neck and was tied to a rafter of the house. Three guards were
placed to watch him, and, as Half Moon departed, he said: