Boone starts with his family to Kentucky--Their return to Clinch
river--He conducts a party of surveyors to the Falls of Ohio--He helps
build Boonesborough, and removes his family to the fort--His daughter
and two of Col. Calloway's daughters taken prisoners by the
Indians--They pursue the Indians and rescue the captives.
The next step was to collect a sufficient number of emigrants who would
be willing to remove to the new country with the families of the Boones,
to give the settlements security and strength to resist the attacks of
the Indians. This was not an easy task. It may be readily imagined that
the Boones saw only the bright side of the contemplated expedition. They
painted the fertility and amenity of the flowering wilderness in the
most glowing colors. They described the cane-brakes, the clover and
grass, the transparent limestone springs and brooks, the open forests,
the sugar maple orchards, the buffaloes, deer, turkeys and wild fowls,
in all the fervid colors of their own imaginations. To them it was the
paradise of the first pair, whose inhabitants had only to put forth
their hands, and eat and enjoy. The depredations, captivities, and
scalpings, of the Indians; the howling of the wolves; the diseases, and
peculiar trials and difficulties of a new country, without houses,
mills, and the most indispensable necessaries of civilized life, were
all overlooked. But in such a case, in a compact settlement like that of
the Yadkin, there are never wanting gainsayers, opposers, gossips, who
envied the Boones. These caused those disposed to the enterprise to
hear the other part, and to contemplate the other side of the picture.
They put stories in circulation as eloquent as those of the Boones,
which told of all the scalpings, captivities, and murders of the
Indians, magnified in a tenfold proportion. With them, the savages were
like the ogres and bloody giants of nursery stories. They had pleasant
tales of horn-snakes, of such deadly malignity, that the thorn in their
tails, struck into the largest tree in full verdure, instantly blasted
it. They scented in the air of the country, deadly diseases, and to
them, Boone's paradise was a _Hinnom, the valley of the shadow of
death_.
The minds of the half resolved, half doubting persons, that meditated
emigration, vibrated alternately backwards and forwards, inclined or
disinclined to it, according to the last view of the case presented to
them. But the natural love of adventure, curiosity, fondness for the
hunting life, dissatisfaction with the incessant labor necessary for
subsistence on their present comparatively sterile soil, joined to the
confident eloquence of the Boones, prevailed on four or five families to
join them in the expedition.
All the necessary arrangements of preparing for this distant expedition,
of making sales and purchases, had occupied nearly two years. The
expedition commenced its march on the 26th of September, 1773. They all
set forth with confident spirits for the western wilderness, and were
joined by forty persons in Powell's Valley, a settlement in advance of
that on the Yadkin, towards the western country. The whole made a
cavalcade of nearly eighty persons.
The three principal ranges of the Alleghany, over which they must pass,
were designated as Powell's, Walden's, and Cumberland. These mountains
forming the barrier between the old settlements and the new country,
stretch from the north-east to the south-west. They are of great length
and breadth, and not far distant from each other. There are
nature-formed passes over them, which render the ascent comparatively
easy. The aspect of these huge piles was so wild and rugged, as to make
it natural for those of the party who were unaccustomed to mountains, to
express fears of being able to reach the opposite side. The course
traced by the brothers on their return to Carolina, was found and
followed. The advantage of this forethought was strongly perceived by
all. Their progress was uninterrupted by any adverse circumstance, and
every one was in high spirits, until the west side of Walden's ridge,
the most elevated of the three, had been gained. They were now destined
to experience a most appalling reverse of fortune.
On the tenth of October, as the party were advancing along a narrow
defile, unapprehensive of danger, they were suddenly terrified by
fearful yells. Instantly aware that Indians surrounded them, the men
sprang to the defence of the helpless women and children. But the attack
had been so sudden, and the Indians were so much superior in point of
numbers, that six men fell at the first onset of the savages. A seventh
was wounded, and the party would have been overpowered, but for a
general and effective discharge of the rifles of the remainder. The
Indians, terror-struck, took to flight, and disappeared.
Had the numbers of the travellers allowed it, they felt no inclination
to pursue the retreating Indians. Their loss had been too serious to
permit the immediate gratification of revenge. The eldest son of Daniel
Boone was found among the slain. The domestic animals accompanying the
expedition were so scattered by the noise of the affray, that it was
impossible again to collect and recover them. The distress and
discouragement of the party were so great, as to produce an immediate
determination to drop the projected attempt of a settlement in Kentucky,
and return to Clinch river, which lay forty miles in their rear, where a
number of families had already fixed themselves.
They then proceeded to perform the last melancholy duties to the bodies
of their unfortunate companions with all decent observances which
circumstances would allow. Their return was then commenced. Boone and
his brother, with some others, did not wish to forsake the undertaking
upon which they had set out; but the majority against them was so great,
and the feeling on the subject so strong, that they were compelled to
acquiesce. The party retraced, in deep sadness, the steps they had so
lately taken in cheerfulness, and even joy.
Daniel Boone remained with his family on Clinch river, until June, 1774;
when he was requested by the governor of Virginia to go to the falls of
Ohio, to act as a guide to a party of surveyors. The manifestations of
hostility, on the part of the Indians, were such, that their longer stay
was deemed unsafe. Boone undertook to perform this service, and set out
upon this journey, with no other companion than a man by the name of
Stoner. They reached the point of destination, now Louisville, in a
surprisingly short period, without any accident. Under his guidance the
surveyors arrived at the settlements in safety. From the time that Boone
left his home, upon this enterprise, until he returned to it, was but
sixty-two days. During this period he travelled eight hundred miles on
foot, through a country entirely destitute of human habitations, save
the camps of the Indians.
In the latter part of this year, the disturbances between the Indians
north-west of the Ohio, and the frontier settlers, grew to open
hostilities. Daniel Boone being in Virginia, the governor appointed him
to the command of three contiguous garrisons on the frontier, with the
commission of captain. The campaign of the year terminated in a battle,
after which the militia were disbanded. Boone was consequently relieved
from duty.
Col. Henderson, of North Carolina, had been for some time engaged in
forming a company in that state, for the purpose of purchasing the lands
on the south side of the Kentucky, from the southern Indians. The plan
was now matured, and Boone was solicited by the company to attend the
treaty to be made between them and the Indians, at Wataga, in March,
1775, to settle the terms of the negociation. The requisite information,
in respect to the proposed purchase, was given him, and he acceded to
the request. At the appointed time, he attended and successfully
performed the service intrusted to him. Soon afterwards the same company
applied to him to lay out a road between the settlements on Holston
river and Kentucky river. No little knowledge of the country, and
judgment were requisite for the proper fulfilment of this service. A
great many different routes must be examined, before the most
practicable one could be fixed upon. The duty was, however, executed by
Boone, promptly and faithfully. The labor was great, owing to the rugged
and mountainous country, through which the route led. The laborers, too,
suffered from the repeated attacks of Indians. Four of them were killed,
and five wounded. The remainder completed this work, by reaching
Kentucky river, in April, of the same year. They immediately proceeded
to erect a fort near a salt spring, where Boonesborough now stands. The
party, enfeebled by its losses, did not complete the erection of the
fort until June. The Indians troubled them exceedingly, and killed one
man. The fort consisted of a block-house, and several cabins, surrounded
by palisades.
The fort being finished, Boone returned to his family, and soon after
removed them to this first garrison of Kentucky. The purpose on which
his heart had so long been set, was now accomplished. His wife and
daughters were the first white women that ever stood on the banks of
Kentucky river. In our zeal to blazon our subject, it is not affirmed,
that Boone was absolutely the first discoverer and explorer of Kentucky,
for he was not. But the high meed of being the first actual settler and
cultivator of the soil, cannot be denied him. It was the pleasant season
of the close of summer and commencement of autumn, when the immigrants
would see their new residence in the best light. Many of its actual
inconveniences were withheld from observation, as the mildness of the
air precluded the necessity of tight dwellings. Arrangements were made
for cultivating a field in the coming spring. The Indians, although far
from friendly, did not attempt any immediate assault upon their new
neighbors, and the first events of the settlement were decidedly
fortunate. The game in the woods was an unfailing resource for food. The
supplies brought from their former homes by the immigrants were not yet
exhausted, and things went on in their usual train, with the added
advantage, that over all, in their new home, was spread the charm of
novelty.
Winter came and passed with as little discomfort to the inmates of the
garrison as could be expected from the circumstances of their position.
The cabins were thoroughly daubed, and fuel was of course abundant. It
is true, those who felled the trees were compelled to be constantly on
their guard, lest a red man should take aim at them from the shelter of
some one of the forest hiding places. But they were fitted for this way
of getting along by their training, natures, and predilections. There
was no want of excitement during the day, or even night--nothing of the
wearying monotony to which a life of safe and regular occupation is
subject. Spring opened. The trees were girdled, and the brush cut down
and burned, preparatory to ploughing the field. A garden spot was marked
off, the virgin earth thrown up and softened, and then given in charge
to the wives and daughters of the establishment. They brought out their
stock of seeds, gathered in the old settlements, and every bright day
saw them engaged in the light and healthful occupation of planting them.
They were protected by the vicinity of their husbands and fathers, and
in turn cheered them in their severer labors. The Indians had forborne
any attacks upon the settlers so long, that, as is naturally the case,
they had ceased in a degree to dwell upon the danger always to be
apprehended from them. The men did not fail to take their rifles and
knives with them whenever they went abroad; but the women ventured
occasionally a short distance without the palisades during the day,
never, however, losing sight of the fort. This temerity was destined to
cost them dear.
Colonel Calloway, the intimate friend of Boone, had joined him in the
course of the spring, at the fort, which had received, by the consent of
all, the name of Boonesborough. He had two daughters. Captain Boone had
a daughter also, and the three were companions; and, if we may take the
portraits of the rustic time, patterns of youthful bloom and loveliness.
It cannot be doubted that they were inexpressibly dear to their
parents. These girls, at the close of a beautiful summer day, the 14th
of July, were tempted imprudently to wander into the woods at no great
distance from their habitations, to gather flowers with which to adorn
their rustic fire-places. They were suddenly surrounded by half a dozen
Indians. Their shrieks and efforts to flee were alike unavailing. They
were dragged rapidly beyond the power of making themselves heard. As
soon as they were deemed to be beyond the danger of rescue, they were
treated with the utmost indulgence and decorum.
This forbearance, of a race that we are accustomed to call savages, was
by no means accidental, or peculiar to this case. While in battle, they
are unsparing and unrelenting as tigers--while, after the fury of its
excitement is past, they will exult with frantic and demoniac joy in the
cries of their victims expiring at a slow fire--while they dash the
tomahawk with merciless indifference into the cloven skulls of mothers
and infants, they are universally seen to treat captive women with a
decorous forbearance. This strange trait, so little in keeping with
other parts of their character, has been attributed by some to their
want of the sensibilities and passions of our race. The true solution
is, the force of their habits. Honor, as they estimate it, is, with
them, the most sacred and inviolable of all laws. The decorum of
forbearance towards women in their power has been incorporated with
their code as the peculiar honor of a warrior. It is usually kept sacred
and inviolate. Instances are not wanting where they have shown
themselves the most ardent lovers of their captives, and, we may add,
most successful in gaining their voluntary affection in return. Enough
such examples are recorded, were other proofs wanting, to redeem their
forbearance from the negative character resulting from the want of
passions.
The captors of these young ladies, having reached the main body of their
people, about a dozen in number, made all the provision in their power
for the comfort of their fair captives. They served them with their best
provisions, and by signs and looks that could not be mistaken, attempted
to soothe their agonies, and quiet their apprehensions and fears. The
parents at the garrison, having waited in vain for the return of their
gay and beloved daughters to prepare their supper, and in torments of
suspense that may easily be imagined, until the evening, became aware
that they were either lost or made captives. They sallied forth in
search of them, and scoured the woods in every direction, without
discovering a trace of them. They were then but too well convinced that
they had been taken by the Indians. Captain Boone and Colonel Calloway,
the agonizing parents of the lost ones, appealed to the company to
obtain volunteers to pursue the Indians, under an oath, if they found
the captors, either to retake their daughters, or die in the attempt.
The oath of Boone on this occasion is recorded: "By the Eternal Power
that made me a father, if my daughter lives, and is found, I will either
bring her back, or spill my life blood." The oath was no sooner uttered
than every individual of the males crowded round Boone to repeat it. But
he reminded them that a part of their number must remain to defend the
station. Seven select persons only were admitted to the oath, along with
the fathers of the captives. The only difficulty was in making the
selection. Supplying themselves with knapsacks, rifles, ammunition, and
provisions, the party set forth on the pursuit.
Hitherto they had been unable to find the trail of the captors. Happily
they fell upon it by accident. But the Indians, according to their
custom, had taken so much precaution to hide their trail, that they
found themselves exceedingly perplexed to keep it, and they were obliged
to put forth all the acquirement and instinct of woodsmen not to find
themselves every moment at fault in regard to their course. The rear
Indians of the file had covered their foot prints with leaves. They
often turned off at right angles; and whenever they came to a branch,
walked in the water for some distance. At a place of this sort, the
pursuers were for some time wholly unable to find at what point the
Indians had left the branch, and began to despair of regaining their
trail. In this extreme perplexity, one of the company was attracted by
an indication of their course, which proved that the daughters shared
the sylvan sagacity of their parents. "God bless my dear child,"
exclaimed Colonel Calloway; "she has proved that she had strength of
mind in her deplorable condition to retain self possession." At the same
instant he picked up a little piece of ribbon, which he instantly
recognized as his daughter's. She had evidently committed it unobserved
to the air, to indicate the course of her captors. The trail was soon
regained, and the company resumed their march with renewed alacrity.
They were afterwards often at a loss to keep the trail, from the extreme
care of the Indians to cover and destroy it. But still, in their
perplexity, the sagacious expedient of the fair young captives put them
right. A shred of their handkerchief, or of some part of their dress,
which they had intrusted to the wind unobserved, indicated their course,
and that the captives were thus far not only alive, but that their
reasoning powers, unsubdued by fatigue, were active and buoyant. Next
day, in passing places covered with mud, deposited by the dry branches
on the way, the foot prints of the captives were distinctly traced,
until the pursuers had learned to discriminate not only the number, but
the peculiar form of each foot print.
Late in the evening of the fifteenth day's pursuit, from a little
eminence, they discovered in the distance before them, through the
woods, a smoke and the light of a fire. The palpitation of their
parental hearts may be easily imagined. They could not doubt that it was
the camp of the captors of their children. The plan of recapture was
intrusted entirely to Boone. He led his company as near the enemy as he
deemed might be done with safety, and selecting a position under the
shelter of a hill, ordered them to halt, with a view to passing the
night in that place. They then silently took food as the agitation of
their minds would allow. All but Calloway, another selected person of
their number, and himself, were permitted to lie down, and get that
sleep of which they had been so long deprived. The three impatiently
waited for midnight, when the sleep of the Indians would be most likely
to be profound. They stationed the third person selected, on the top of
the eminence, behind which they were encamped, as a sentinel to await a
given signal from the fathers, which should be his indication to fly to
the camp and arouse the sleepers, and bring them to their aid. Then
falling prostrate, they crept cautiously, and as it were by inches,
towards the Indian camp.
Having reached a covert of bushes, close by the Indian camp, and
examined as well as they could by the distant light of the camp-fires,
the order of their rifles, they began to push aside the bushes, and
survey the camp through the opening. Seventeen Indians were stretched,
apparently in sound sleep, on the ground. But they looked in vain among
them for the dear objects of their pursuit. They were not long in
discovering another camp a little remote from that of the Indians. They
crawled cautiously round to take a survey of it. Here, to their
inexpressible joy, were their daughters in each others arms. Directly in
front of their camp were two Indians, with their tomahawks and other
weapons within their grasp. The one appeared to be in a sound sleep, and
the other keeping the most circumspective vigils.
The grand object now was to get possession of the prisoners without
arousing their captors, the consequence of which it was obvious, would
be the immediate destruction of the captives. Boone made a signal to
Calloway to take a sure aim at the sleeping Indian, so as to be able to
despatch him in a moment, if the emergency rendered that expedient
necessary. Boone, the while, crawled round, so as to reach the waking
Indian from behind; intending to spring upon him and strangle him, so as
to prevent his making a noise to awaken the sleeper. But, unfortunately,
this Indian instead of being asleep was wide awake, and on a careful
look out. The shadow of Boone coming on them from behind, aroused him.
He sprang erect, and uttered a yell that made the ancient woods ring,
leaving no doubt that the other camp would be instantly alarmed. The
captives, terrified by the war yell of their sentinels, added their
screams of apprehension, and every thing was in a moment in confusion.
The first movement of Boone was to fire. But the forbearance of
Calloway, and his own more prudent second thought, restrained him. It
was hard to forego such a chance for vengeance, but their own lives and
their children's would probably pay the forfeit, and they fired not. On
the contrary, they surrendered themselves to the Indians, who rushed
furiously in a mass around them. By significant gestures, and a few
Indian words, which they had learned, they implored the lives of their
captive children, and opportunity for a parley. Seeing them in their
power, and comprehending the language of defenceless suppliants, their
fury was at length with some difficulty restrained and appeased. They
seemed evidently under the influence of a feeling of compassion towards
the daughters, to which unquestionably the adventurous fathers were
indebted, that their lives were not instantly sacrificed. Binding them
firmly with cords, and surrounding them with sentinels, the Indians
retired to their camp, not to resume their sleep, but to hold a council
to settle the fate of their new prisoners.
What were the thoughts of the captive children, or of the disinterested
and brave parents, as they found themselves bound, and once more in the
power of their enemies--what was the bitter disappointment of the one,
and the agonizing filial apprehension of the other--may be much more
readily imagined than described. But the light of the dawn enabled the
daughters to see, in the countenances of their fathers, as they lay
bound and surrounded by fierce savages, unextinguishable firmness, and
undaunted resolution, and a consciousness of noble motives; and they
imbibed from the view something of the magnanimity of their parents, and
assumed that demeanor of composure and resolute endurance which is
always the readiest expedient to gain all the respect and forbearance
that an Indian can grant.
It would be difficult to fancy a state of more torturing suspense than
that endured by the companions of Boone and Calloway, who had been left
behind the hill. Though they had slept little since the commencement of
the expedition, and had been encouraged by the two fathers, their
leaders to sleep that night, the emergency was too exciting to admit of
sleep.
Often, during the night, had they aroused themselves, in expectation of
the return of the fathers, or of a signal for action. But the night wore
away, and the morning dawned, without bringing either the one or the
other. But notwithstanding this distressing state of suspense, they had
a confidence too undoubting in the firmness and prudence of their
leader, to think of approaching the Indian camp until they should
receive the appointed signal.
It would naturally be supposed that the deliberation of the Indian
council, which had been held to settle the fate of Boone and Calloway,
would end in sentencing them to run the gauntlet, and then amidst the
brutal laughter and derision of their captors, to be burnt to death at a
slow fire. Had the prisoners betrayed the least signs of fear, the least
indications of a subdued mind, such would in all probability have been
the issue of the Indian consultation. Such, however, was not the result
of the council. It was decreed that they should be killed with as little
noise as possible; their scalps taken as trophies, and that their
daughters should remain captives as before. The lenity of this sentence
may be traced to two causes. The daring hardihood, the fearless
intrepidity of the adventure, inspired them with unqualified admiration
for their captives. Innumerable instances have since been recorded,
where the most inveterate enemies have boldly ventured into the camp of
their enemy, have put themselves in their power, defied them to their
face and have created an admiration of their fearless daring, which has
caused that they have been spared and dismissed unmolested. This sort of
feeling had its influence on the present occasion in favor of the
prisoners. Another extenuating influence was, that hostilities between
the white and red men in the west had as yet been uncommon; and the
mutual fury had not been exasperated by murder and retaliation.
As soon as it was clear morning light, the Indian camp was in motion. As
a business preliminary to their march, Boone and Calloway were led out
and bound to a tree, and the warriors were selected who were to despatch
them with their tomahawks. The place of their execution was selected at
such a distance from their camp, as that the daughters might not be able
to witness it. The two prisoners were already at the spot, awaiting the
fatal blow, when a discharge of rifles, cutting down two of the savages
at the first shot, arrested their proceedings. Another and another
discharge followed. The Indians were as yet partially supplied with fire
arms, and had not lost any of their original dread of the effects of
this artificial thunder, and the invisible death of the balls. They were
ignorant, moreover, of the number of their assailants, and naturally
apprehended it to be greater than it was. They raised a yell of
confusion, and dispersed in every direction, leaving their dead behind,
and the captives to their deliverers. The next moment the children were
in the arms of their parents; and the whole party, in the unutterable
joy of conquest and deliverance, were on their way homewards.
[Illustration]
It need hardly be added that the brave associates of the expedition who
had been left in camp, having waited the signal for the return of Boone
and Calloway, until their patience and forbearance was exhausted, aware
that something serious must have prevented their return, reconnoitered
the movement of the Indians as they moved from their camp to despatch
their two prisoners, and fired upon them at the moment they were about
to put their sentence into execution.
About this time a new element began to exasperate and extend the ravages
of Indian warfare, along the whole line of the frontier settlements. The
war of Independence had already begun to rage. The influence and
resources of Great Britain extended along the immense chain of our
frontier, from the north-eastern part of Vermont and New York, all the
way to the Mississippi. Nor did this nation, to her everlasting infamy,
hesitate to engage these infuriate allies of the wilderness, whose known
rule of warfare was indiscriminate vengeance; without reference to the
age or sex of the foe, as auxiliaries in the war.
As this biographical sketch of the life of Boone is inseparably
interwoven with this border scene of massacres, plunderings, burnings,
and captivities, which swept the incipient northern and western
settlements with desolation, it may not be amiss to take a brief
retrospect of the state of these settlements at this conjuncture in the
life of Boone.