eat fire. This is what comes to you for fighting against your own
people.”
The scout had not yet lost all hope of making his escape, and
carefully considered the possibility of getting away. Two of his guards
were soon asleep; the third (an aged brave) smoked a long, clay pipe
and told him that he had seen many palefaces tortured at the stake.
“Some weep like squaws,” said he. “Others bear it like men. You have
once been a redskin and should be able to stand the fire without
crying. You should come through without a bit of trouble.”
On and on he thus rambled until he became worn out—his head dropped
upon his breast—and he began to snore loudly. As the noise of his
heavy breathing came to the ears of the scout, he began to work
vigorously at his bonds. By wriggling, tugging, and pulling, at last
his hands were free. He reached for the thong about his neck and began
to chew it with his teeth.
As he turned and twisted in an endeavor to free himself from this
remaining bond, day began to break and the pale light of dawn flooded
the cabin. The talkative old Indian awoke; yawned; stretched; and
looked around at the captive; but Slover clasped his hands behind his
back as if they were still tied, and stood perfectly still. The red man
turned over upon his side and again composed himself in sleep. It was
now or never with the captured frontiersman.
[Illustration: INDIANS TORTURING A PRISONER.]
Again seizing upon the rope, Slover gave it a few strong jerks, and,
biting it with his jaws for a second time, suddenly parted it. With his
heart bumping against his side like a trip-hammer, he stole noiselessly
from the lodge. Not an Indian was stirring, and, darting toward a corn
field, he narrowly missed stepping upon a squaw with her two children,
who were asleep beneath a tree. He crept through the growing stalks,
and upon the other side saw quite a number of ponies. Taking the rope
from his arm, he made a slip-noose of it; selected a fine, young horse;
threw it over his head; mounted, and rode away like mad. His life
depended upon his exertions.
As he dashed off, he heard a door open in an Indian lodge and knew
that the red men were astir. They would soon discover his absence. He
would be followed by all of the swiftest and hardest-riding men of the
encampment. No wonder that he dug his heels into the flanks of his pony
and urged him to do his very best.
At ten o’clock he reached the Scioto River,—now much swollen by the
recent thunder shower. But his horse was winded and he had to stop in
order to give him both water and breath, for he was blowing from his
exertions. He plunged into the stream, crossed it, and continued his
flight at the fastest pace which his horse was able to make. Finally
the faithful animal began to pant and stagger. He was done for.
As the Indian pony fell upon his side, Slover leaped to the ground and
heard a wild yelping behind him in the forest. He thus knew that the
Indians were hot upon his trail. The horse had carried him seventy
miles at a fast pace, which is extraordinary. But the animal was now
lying prostrate, with the glaze of death showing in his eye. He had run
a good race.
The scout bounded forward, loping through the underbrush, timber, and
tall grass, and leaving as little trail as he could. But his exertions
were wearing heavily upon him, and, about ten o’clock that night, he
fell exhausted to the ground. He lay in a stupor for two hours.
When he was again able to move, a full moon cast its silvery light
over the dense woodland, where he had fallen, and no sound broke the
stillness of the night save the weird call of a whippoorwill. The
redskins could easily have captured him had they been close upon his
track, but his care in leaving little trace of his flight had thrown
them from the pursuit. Breathing more easily, he again continued his
race for life, and, as day came, abandoned his trail for a low, rough
ridge, where was little grass or soft earth. On, on, he continued,
occasionally stopping to listen at the sounds of the forest, but,
except for the occasional call of a bird, no voice came to his
expectant hearing. The red men had lost heart and had returned to their
wigwams.
As evening came, the frontiersman reached the banks of one of the
creeks which empty into the Muskingum, and again sank exhausted to
the earth. The mosquitoes swarmed upon him, biting him unmercifully,
and as his hunting suit (which the red men had allowed him to put on
when tied) was torn to tatters by the nettles and briars, they had
a splendid opportunity to get at his bare flesh. Some wild berries
furnished him with much-needed food,—the first he had eaten since
his escape,—and, if we are to believe his word for it, he says that
he was so terrified with fear, that he had forgotten to feel hungry
during his flight. “I was fairly peeled from head to foot by briars and
mosquitoes,” he has written. “And I was now so hungry that I fell upon
two crawfish which I found behind a rock in the Muskingum, and ate them
raw.”
The scout was now refreshed, and plunging into the Muskingum, swam to
the other shore. Two days later he reached the Ohio River, opposite
Wheeling, West Virginia, and seeing a man in a skiff who was apparently
fishing, called out to him in a loud voice:
“Hallo! Hallo! Comrade! I’m a fugitive from the Indians and was one of
Crawford’s men. Come! Take me over to the settlement!”
The fellow did not seem anxious to hasten to his relief, for he was
afraid that Slover was one of the white renegades who had joined the
redskins and was anxious to trap him. After a long harangue he finally
rowed to the place where the tattered scout was standing. The refugee
fairly hugged him for joy, and, in a few minutes, was again safe in the
settlement, where he was greeted with warm and affectionate regard by
the other men of the frontier, who had received many stragglers from
the ill-fated expedition under Colonel Crawford.
The escape of John Slover was one of the narrowest of which there is
any record in the annals of war upon the frontier. No wonder that for
many years the story of this famous affair was the favorite topic of
conversation, when the after-dinner pipes were lighted, and the men of
the forest would sit before the glowing embers, there to tell tales
concerning the heroism and courage of the gallant settlers of the wild
and undeveloped West. Truly the adventures which befell John Slover
were the most thrilling of them all.
LEWIS WETZEL:
HEROIC VIRGINIA FRONTIERSMAN AND IMPLACABLE ENEMY OF THE REDSKINS
“BOYS, watch your mother and grandfather for a few hours, because I am
going out fishing. There is no danger of attack from redskins, for none
have been seen for six months. If, however, any one comes to our cabin
with news of prowling bands, shoot off your rifles three times. This
will warn me of any danger to you, and I will hasten home.”
So spoke John Wetzel, whose cabin was upon the far western Virginian
frontier, and, turning from his two little boys, he plunged into the
wilderness. This was the last that he ever saw of his wife and her aged
father. He had not been three days in the forest before his cabin was
attacked.
Stealing carefully through the brush, a marauding band of savages
suddenly made a sortie upon the isolated house of logs. There was not
time to warn the inmates of the stealthy approach before the tomahawk
and scalping-knife were at work. In an hour’s time all of the inmates
had been dispatched, except Lewis Wetzel and his little brother,
Martin, both of whom were carried off into captivity. Lewis was about
thirteen years of age and Martin was eleven.
“We will soon escape,” whispered the older youth. “Wait until evening
arrives and then I will show you how to creep away from these horrible
savages.”
Lewis had been severely wounded by an arrow, but he stoically bore the
pain, and trudged behind his captors with no show of ill humor. The
Indian prisoner who lagged, or who made a cry of distress, would be
speedily dispatched by the savages, and this he knew. The other boy
went bravely ahead and said nothing.
Through the wilderness walked the red men, and on the night of the
second day they camped twenty miles beyond the Ohio River.
“Ugh!” spoke a brave. “These children cannot escape us now. We will not
bind them with thongs this evening, but will allow them to go free.”
The savages had underestimated the daring courage which was in the
heart of Lewis Wetzel. No sooner were the red men fast asleep, when,
touching his brother with his hand, Lewis warned him to keep absolutely
silent and to follow him away into the darkness. They were barefoot.
“It is impossible for us to escape without moccasins,” said Lewis,
after they had gone some distance. “This ground is full of stones, and
our feet will be ruined. You wait here for me and I will return to
the camp and get a pair for each of us, and then we can easily travel
through the wilderness.”
The brave boy not only secured the moccasins but also returned with
a gun and some ammunition. Then on they plunged through the forest.
Just as the first streaks of dawn began to light up the gloomy depths,
behind them echoed the shouts of their enemies, the red men.
“Walk backward upon your trail, brother,” said Lewis Wetzel. “Then turn
to the right and secrete yourself in the dense undergrowth. These red
men will soon catch up to us and we must be thoroughly hidden.”
This advice was followed, and it was well, for the boys had lain in
the covert but a few minutes when their captors came bounding past.
They were yelling to each other and were furious with anger at having
lost their prisoners. The two Wetzels waited until they were out of
sight. When the yelping had ceased they crept from their hiding-place
and ran away to the right. In a few hours they heard the Indians again
returning, and, secreting themselves in some underbrush, saw some
savages dash by on ponies. They were not the same red men whom they had
first seen, but these, also, could not find them. When the redskins
were well beyond hearing, the terrified children ran to the river,
fastened two logs together, and succeeded in crossing it. Not long
afterwards they reached the house of a frontiersman and knew that they
were safe. When they told him their story, he showed great surprise.
“Bully for you, boys!” cried the man of the clearing. “You, Lewis,
showed particular courage and daring. You are a credit to your poor
father, who is, I hear, terribly overcome by this butchery of the
redskins. I trust that you will both live long and useful lives upon
the border.”
“Thank you!” cried the boys. “We will do our best, anyway, to avenge
the terrible injury which the red men have inflicted upon our family.”
Thus early was implanted in the breasts of the two Wetzels an
implacable hatred for the savages.
It is said that Lewis was the strongest and most active of all of the
youths upon the western borderland of Virginia, and by long practice
had gained the ability to load his rifle while running at full speed.
This was an immense advantage to him in his numerous affrays with the
red men.
Not long after the terrible defeat of Colonel Crawford, in which John
Slover was a participant, a pioneer named Thomas Mills arrived at
Wheeling, West Virginia, where Lewis Wetzel was temporarily residing.
“I have left my good horse at Indian Spring, some five miles away,”
said he. “The country was so rough that I could not ride him here,
for some redskins were upon my trail. Wetzel, I wish that you would
accompany me to where he is, for I want to be able to hold my own with
the savages, should we meet any of them.”
“Mills, I’m your man,” said Wetzel. So, upon the day following, they
were on their way towards the spring.
When they arrived at the place where Mills had left his horse, they
found the animal tied to a bush.
“That looks mighty suspicious,” whispered Wetzel to his companion,
“because I understand that you left him untied. Do not go near the
animal until I circle around him and see if any savages are in our
front.”
The pioneer, however, neglected to heed this sage counsel and proceeded
to untie the pony. As he reached down towards the bridle-rein, the head
of an Indian appeared from behind a rock.
“Mills! Mills! Take to a tree!” yelled the scout. “There’s a redskin
drawin’ er bead on yer!”
The warning was unheeded. The frontiersman continued to work on the
bridle-reins; then a sharp crack was heard, and the red man fell back,
shot through the forehead by Wetzel. At the same moment a series of
quick reports came from the brush, and Mills sank to the ground,
pierced by a half dozen bullets.
Wetzel started away on the run, for a number of top-knots rose from the
bushes. Their owners hastened after him, but were uncautious enough to
drop their own guns so that they could run all the faster. Knowing that
he had discharged his piece, they expected to soon overtake him, tie
his hands behind his back, and remove him to their own camp, to run the
gauntlet and be tortured. They had counted without their host.
The lithe and sinewy trapper raced onward, exerting his utmost speed,
and, finding that he could not get away from his pursuers, turned about
and fired upon the nearest red man. The art of loading upon the run,
which he had learned, was of tremendous assistance to him, for he was
thus able to place a bullet in his adversary’s chest, which stretched
him upon the ground. Again he started forward, loading as he ran, and,
turning a second time, was about to fire, when his nearest pursuer
seized the muzzle of his rifle.
“Hah! Paleface! I have you!” cried the red man, for he had often been
to the settlements and had learned how to speak excellent English.
“Not yet,” answered the trapper, and he grappled with his antagonist.
They were very evenly matched. By the greatest exertion, the white
man succeeded in wresting the redskin’s hold from his rifle, and in
shooting him dead. It was a short struggle, but during it two Indians
gained upon the man of the frontier, so that they were very close
indeed. He now turned and ran as fast as he was able—loading as he
went.
The Indians were whooping wildly, but they had knowledge of his skill
in loading on the run. When he turned again in order to fire, they
took hasty departure to the shelter of some large trees. He kept on
going—the red men still after him. But he was a crafty fellow, as the
following will show:
Having reached a clearing in the forest, he purposely stumbled and
fell, as if exhausted by his race for life. The redskins thought that
they now had him. They bounded forward with exultant shouts, but as
they came nearer, the bold trapper rolled upon his side, raised his
rifle, and brought one of them to the earth before he could get behind
a tree. The second Indian turned and fled as fast as he was able,
howling out in loud tones:
“No catch dat feller. No catch him at all. He gun always loaded. He
devil with the shooting stick.”
[Illustration: “HE NOW TURNED AND RAN AS FAST AS HE WAS ABLE—LOADING
AS HE WENT.”]
At this the crafty trapper rose to his feet with a loud guffaw.
“These redskins have yet to learn a trick or two,” said he, chuckling.
“They should remember that some trappers can load their rifles when on
the run. My fine fellows—Au revoir!”
So saying, he started upon his way to the settlements, lighting a
corn-cob pipe on the way, and still chuckling softly to himself.
Not long after this affair, the father of the two Wetzel boys was
returning from a hunting excursion into the Ohio wilderness. With him
were his sons Martin and Lewis. The latter had just shot a brown bear,
and carried the skin with him in the bottom of the canoe. As they were
gliding down the river, a band of Shawnees suddenly appeared upon the
bank.
“Come ashore, palefaces!” said one. “It is not good for you to go down
the river!”
“Paddle to the other side of the stream,” whispered the older Wetzel.
“Hasten, boys, or their bullets will reach us.”
Quickly they turned towards the opposite bank, but a volley of lead
pursued them. They kept on doggedly. A missile struck the old pioneer,
inflicting a mortal wound.
“Lie down, Martin!” cried he. “They will get you also, if you do not do
so.”
Then the heroic old man paddled forward, his life-blood ebbing at every
stroke. Volley after volley zipped around the frail barque. Again and
again the frontiersman was struck, so that when well beyond range of
the Indian rifles he fell fainting to the bottom of the canoe. That
evening he expired.
Standing over the body of their parent, both Wetzels took a solemn oath
to avenge his untimely end.
“From now on,” said Lewis,” I will use every endeavor to slaughter the
red men. They have killed my dear father. Death shall be upon their own
heads. Death and no quarter.”
Not a week had elapsed after the sudden end of this staunch man of the
frontier, when news was brought into Wheeling that the Indians were
again upon the war-path. A scout came running into the settlement,
crying:
“The Shawnees and Wyandots are approaching. They have slaughtered one
man, and are burning, killing and scalping. Every able-bodied settler
is needed to drive them away.”
Immediately all turned out with rifle and powder-horn in order to
repel the invaders. But before they started, a purse of one hundred
dollars was made up, to go to the first individual who should take an
Indian scalp. The trail of the marauders was soon struck; was followed
for several miles; and was found to be very fresh. Then the advance
scouts returned with the information that a large body of the enemy was
encamped a few miles ahead.
“They are too many to be attacked,” said the soldiers of the advance.
“We must go back to Wheeling, or they will surround and annihilate us.”
They set off upon the return, but they noticed, as they did so, that
Lewis Wetzel did not move.
“Are you not going to accompany us?” asked some of the trappers.
The frontiersman scowled.
“I set out to hunt Indians and thought that this had also been your
purpose,” said he. “My object in hunting Indians is to kill them, and
now that we have treed our game I do not intend to run off without a
shot. As for you, I consider you to be a band of cowards.”
“It is too bad about you,” said they. “As for ourselves, we intend to
return home.”
Wetzel gazed after them with an amused smile, then stooped and examined
his arms, for he was a man of caution.
“I will get a scalp of my own,” said he. “Perhaps more. These fellows
will see that I mean what I say.”
There were plenty of Indian signs, but he could find no large bands of
the red men; instead, he stumbled upon a camp with only two braves in
it.
“There must be more in the encampment,” thought he. “I will creep away;
will come back this evening; and will then have an opportunity to get
what I am after.”
Turning again into the forest, he was soon out of hearing, and, by
great good fortune, came across a red deer, which he killed. He had a
fine feast. As night fell he hastened towards the Indian camp, crept
close to it, and found only one red man, instead of a dozen or more,
as he had expected. He waited until the redskin was fast asleep and
then made good his boast. As he started upon the back trail for the
settlement, a fresh scalp hung at his girdle.
Owing to his great strength and agility, he reached Wheeling just one
day behind his companions, instead of three. They were delighted to see
him.
“My boy,” cried they, “you have certainly made good and are entitled to
the greatest possible credit. Bully for you!”
The trapper in fact was more than a match for many redskins, as the
following will show:
Not long after his return to Wheeling he went out into the forest in
order to get some venison to dry and salt for winter use. He saw no
game, but suddenly stumbled upon a camp of four Shawnees, who were
busily engaged in tanning some deer hides. They did not see or hear
him, so he determined to return at nightfall and single-handed to
attack the party of braves. This he did.
First, resting his rifle against a tree so that it would be close at
hand for any emergency, he drew his tomahawk, uttered a wild yell, and
dashed in among the savages, cutting down one of them in a moment. Two
more fell beneath his unerring weapon. The fourth darted off into the
woodland with Wetzel close upon his heels. He was a good runner and got
safely away, while the man of the frontier returned for the scalp-locks
of the three. He was back at Wheeling before two days were over.
“What luck did you have, Lewis?” asked a companion.
“Not much,” answered the man-of-the-woods. “I treed four of th’ pesky
varmints. But one slick-ez-lightnin’ feller got away. He had er close
call.”
At Marietta, Ohio, was a frontier fortification where a number of
troops were stationed to protect the settlements from Shawnee invasion.
Here General Harmer summoned several tribes to meet him in conference,
and here Lewis Wetzel and a scout called Dickerson ambushed themselves
near the Indian encampment with the intention of killing the first
warrior who might pass. Wetzel, you see, was a vindictive fellow and
did not even fight in the open.
The two assassins had not long to wait, for a redskin soon came by on
the gallop without show or sign of fear, because a flag of truce had
been delivered to the whites but a short time before. As he passed,
both men fired, and, although the warrior reeled in his saddle, he
clung to the mane of his horse with a tenacious grip and rode on into
the fort. Here he dropped exhausted to the ground, and, before dying,
cried out:
“My white brothers, I demand vengeance upon these hidden men who have
driven me to the Great Spirit. You who have true hearts, see that I get
what I desire, and my soul will then rest in peace.”
When news of this was brought to General Harmer, he said, with much
heat:
“Justice shall be done to this poor redskin. I hear from some of my men
that Lewis Wetzel was responsible for this affair. Captain Kingsbury
will therefore take his company and scour the woods for the rascal. Let
him be brought to me, dead or alive.”
Wetzel, meanwhile, had returned to his home in the Mingo Bottom
settlement and was engaged in a shooting match for a turkey. When the
soldiers arrived, and the frontiersmen learned what they were after,
they gathered around their comrade with the remark that:
“Whoever touches Lewis Wetzel will have tew fight th’ hull gang uv us.”
Captain Kingsbury therefore withdrew, but Lewis Wetzel was not careful
to keep beyond the clutch of his arm. Some time afterwards he paddled
down the river to an island opposite Harmer’s Fort in order to spend
the night with a friend, and news of his presence was brought to the
soldiers within the stockade. A company of men was soon headed for the
island: the frontiersman was surrounded at midnight; was thrown into
the guard-house, heavily ironed, and was not only deprived of open air,
but also of exercise. He quickly sickened and grew pale. When told that
he would shortly be hung, he sent for General Harmer, and said:
“General, I am not ashamed of my deed, for ever since the day that
my people were brutally slain by the children of the forest, I have
considered it perfectly justifiable for me to do unto them what they
have done unto me. If you will grant me one request, it is that you
allow me to go loose among the savages armed only with a tomahawk. Then
I will have one chance in a thousand to escape, but I will take that
chance.”
The General shook his head.
“The scaffold is the proper death for you,” he replied. “As an
officer of the law I must see that you receive the fit punishment for
your crimes. But, as I see that you are growing pale under strict
confinement, I hereby order that the irons be taken from your legs.
Your handcuffs must remain.”
The trapper bowed his head, but as soon as the General had gone and
he was allowed to move in the open air, he frisked about like a young
colt. A number of soldiers guarded him closely, but as he walked and
jumped around in front of them, he continually experimented with his
handcuffs, in the endeavor to wrest his arms from their grip. Gradually
he edged farther and farther from the guard. Finally he had moved to
a position from which he felt that he could safely get away. With one
mighty bound he had turned and was off into the forest. Volley after
volley came from the soldiers, but he escaped untouched.