DANIEL BOONE
BACKWOODSMAN
SECOND EDITION
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
JOHN SMITH
GENTLEMAN ADVENTURER
An interesting work on the life and times of this famous soldier of
fortune and American colonist, intended primarily for the young, but of
such a character as to appeal to all.
“A good, strong, interest compelling narrative, and a valuable addition
to a boy’s library.”--_The Sun_, New York.
“Historical fiction that appears to show him [Smith] in a clearer
and more truthful light than has ever before been shed.”--_The
Courier-Journal_, Louisville.
“The book will be read with great interest by both old and young, for
all men love adventures of the Smith type.”--_The Republic_, St. Louis.
“Should mightily interest every boy who loves his country.”--_The
Inter-Ocean_, Chicago.
_With four full-page illustrations in color by_
HARRY B. LACHMAN
12 mo. Cloth, $1.50
[Illustration: IMMEDIATELY HE BECAME A TARGET]
Daniel Boone
BACKWOODSMAN
BY
C. H. FORBES-LINDSAY
Author of “John Smith, Gentleman Adventurer,” “India:
Past and Present,” “America’s Insular
Possessions,” etc.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY_
FRANK McKERNAN
“Who passes for in life and death most lucky,
Of the great names which in our faces stare
Is Daniel Boone, backwoodsman of Kentucky.”
--BYRON
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1909
COPYRIGHT, 1908
BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
Published September, 1908
_Electrotyped and printed by J. B. Lippincott Company
The Washington Square Press, Philadelphia, U. S. A._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE AMERICAN BACKWOODSMAN 9
II HARDY GOODFELLOW 24
III THE YOUNG HUNTER 39
IV THE DARING PIONEER 54
V IN FAIR KENTUCKY 68
VI HARDY’S FIRST INDIAN 86
VII THE CAPTURE OF BOONE 101
VIII THE HANNIBAL OF THE WEST 116
IX THE VICTORY OF VINCENNES 131
X A FEAT OF STRENGTH 145
XI “BIG TURTLE” 160
XII DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND 174
XIII BOONESBOROUGH IS BESIEGED 188
XIV KENTON’S STORY 202
XV THE YOUNG SCOUT 216
XVI THE WHITE SQUAW 229
XVII A STRING OF DISASTERS 243
XVIII “THE BLOODY YEAR” 257
XIX SIMON GIRTY, RENEGADE 270
XX BATTLE OF THE BLUE LICKS 285
XXI AN OLD BIRD 300
XXII THE LAST HUNT 311
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
IMMEDIATELY HE BECAME A TARGET _Frontispiece_
“MY SCALP, I RECKON, YOUNG FELLOW” 96
BOONE WAS NEARING THE LIMIT OF HIS ENDURANCE 155
HIS WEAPON WHIZZED THROUGH THE AIR AND BURIED
ITSELF IN THE SKULL OF THE FOREMOST 296
Daniel Boone
I.
THE AMERICAN BACKWOODSMAN
The backwoods town in colonial days--The place of the backwoodsmen in
the march of progress--Boone and his descendants among the leading
pioneers--How the backwoods fighters forced the boundary westward--The
frontier farmer was necessarily hunter and fighter--The character of
the backwoodsman and his manner of life--The dwellings, dress and
weapons of the frontier--Daniel Boone, a typical backwoodsman--His
birth and boyhood in a frontier settlement--His parents migrate to
North Carolina--Then he marries and settles on the border--He explores
Kentucky and forms a determination to settle there.
We shall be able to follow the story of Daniel Boone with a better
understanding if, before entering upon it, we take a brief survey of
the country in which his entire life was passed and the people among
whom he lived--the American backwoods and the American backwoodsmen.
At the outbreak of the Revolution the American colonies extended no
farther west than the Alleghany Mountains, and consisted of the narrow
strip of territory lying between that rocky wall and the Atlantic
seaboard. By far the greater portion of the population dwelt along the
coast in urban centres, or in comparatively closely settled districts
which had been cleared and cultivated. In this belt were found the
large plantations and wealthy slave-owners. Beyond it, the land was
covered with virgin forest, dense, impenetrable, except along the
trails, and infested by wild beasts and savages.
In the portion of this region that lay nearest to civilization a rude
backwoods town might be found here and there. It lay in a clearing of
a few hundred acres, and usually at the junction of several frequented
trails. It consisted of a cluster of log cabins, a general store,
perhaps a smithy, a school, a tavern, and court-house. The inhabitants
seldom numbered more than three or four hundred. It may not be strictly
proper to speak of a people to whose midst the schoolmaster and the
judge penetrated, as beyond the bounds of civilization, and, of
course, the expression is used in a comparative sense. The backwoods
dominie was hardly worth considering as an educational factor. He was
generally ignorant, frequently intemperate, and sometimes immoral. The
law lost much of its wonted majesty in a community where an unpopular
judge was liable to be mobbed and a dishonest sheriff to be lynched.
The fact is that these people were entirely different from the
colonists of the coast--different in origin, in religion, in manners,
and customs. With splendid natural qualities, such as made them
peculiarly fitted to act as the pioneers of the nation, they were rude,
unlettered, and impatient of restraint. In the upbuilding of the infant
nation, these pathfinders formed the muscle and sinew, whilst the older
communities supplied the brain. Although both classes were essentially
Americans, in the Revolutionary period they had hardly anything in
common but their patriotism.
The inhabitants of the backwoods towns were in general the less bold
spirits. Deeper in the forest wilderness were found more daring souls,
scattered along the mountain border that divided the colonies from the
Indian territory. They lived face to face and in constant touch with
the fierce savages, and acted as a buffer to their countrymen behind
them.
The term “backwoods” conflicts somewhat with a proper sense of the
actual situation. From the time that they turned their backs on the
mother country, our people faced steadily towards the west, and
maintained a forward march in that direction until they reached the
distant shores of the continent. A marked peculiarity of the class we
have under consideration is that when they arrived in the country, they
pushed through the ranks of the colonists and, assuming the vanguard,
continued at the head of the advance, first taking possession of
Kentucky and Tennessee, then settling Mississippi and Missouri, and
ultimately marching across the continent to the Pacific. Son followed
father, and continued on when the latter lay in the peace of the grave.
Two children of Boone were among the first Americans to make homes
beyond the “Father of Waters”; a grandson was the first settler in
Kansas; another among the earliest in Colorado; and a third--the famous
Kit Carson--acted as scout and guide to the expedition of General
Frémont.
Many backwoods families devoted themselves, through several generations,
to the winning of the wilderness with rifle and axe. The debt of the
nation to these people is a heavy one. They may be compared to the
outposts of an encamped army, the border settlers being the sentries,
stretching along the enemy’s face, and the backwoods towns the pickets.
As an army sleeps in security behind its outposts, so was the main body
of the colonists, screened from the Indians by the backwoods settlers,
enabled to build up towns and cultivate its plantations in safety. And
as, when an army resumes the march, the outpost of the night before
forms the advance guard, so these border sentinels were ever in the
front of our territorial progress.
In 1783 the western boundary of the United States had been carried
forward to the Mississippi River. The large area between it and the
Alleghanies had been won for us by the dauntless backwoodsmen after
a decade of intense struggle. By holding the border Indians in check
they performed a valuable service to the colonies in their fight for
freedom. The settlement of Kentucky made possible the capture of the
British posts in the Illinois and Indiana regions, and paved the way
for the acquisition of our Western territory.
Whilst working out the destiny of a nation, the simple-minded
backwoodsmen were quite unconscious of any such high purpose. They
pushed forward into the wilderness because land was to be had
there for practically nothing. They desired to make homes for their
children, and were willing to risk their lives in the venture. As to
the hardships, they and their fathers had been accustomed to arduous
poverty in the old country. The life of the hunter, which was an
inseparable part of backwoods existence, appealed to them as it does to
all healthy men. In fact, the majority of them grew to love their hard
lot, with its constant adventure. Many, like Boone, became so enamoured
of the life, despite its dangers and hardships, that they shunned the
approach of civilization and moved farther into the forest whenever the
region they had opened up began to be at all thickly populated.
The backwoodsman was at once hunter, fighter, and farmer. He could
not look for aid or protection from the Government. He had to depend
upon his own resources and, even in the acquisition of new territory,
upon his own strong right arm. This was particularly the case with the
pioneer settlers of Kentucky, for the movement took place when all the
men and material available were needed to strengthen the Continental
forces, and the backwoodsmen battling with the Indian allies of the
British had difficulty in getting sufficient powder and lead to carry
on the conflict. Every man and youth was a home-made soldier. Most of
the women could handle a rifle, and the annals of the frontier teem
with stories of brave mothers and daughters who, in the absence of
their men-folk, successfully defended their cabins against the attacks
of savages. In the frequent sieges of the forts the women loaded the
weapons, moulded bullets, and sometimes stood to a port-hole. It is
significant of the life of the backwoodsmen that every male among them
who was old enough to carry fire-arms was spoken of as a “gun.”
For the most part, the people of the backwoods were of Scotch or Irish
descent, with a strong sprinkling of English and Germans, but in the
second generation differences of nationality were rarely detectable.
Their characters and even their physical traits were greatly affected
by the peculiar conditions of their lives, which created a type the
members of which were all much alike, whilst they differed widely from
the colonists in general. Their isolation tended to develop some of the
best human qualities. It taught them independence and self-reliance and
at the same time prompted them to help one another. On the border men
practiced the golden rule and maintained a homely code of morality
and justice. They were hard, rough and self-contained, but neither
ungenerous, cruel, nor morose.
In their dealings with hostile Indians the backwoodsmen may appear to
have exercised merciless severity, but that is hardly to be wondered
at when the provocation is considered. The wanton barbarity of their
enemies hardened them and goaded them to revenge. This sometimes took
the form of deplorable cruelty but, as a rule, the backwoodsmen were
neither inhuman nor bloodthirsty. They fought in defence of their homes
and property, and when they carried the conflict into the Indian’s
country it was usually in retaliation for an attack and with a view to
checking further hostilities. The settler was always glad to live in
peace if he might.
As to the respective rights of the white men and their red foes,
a great deal has been said on both sides, and perhaps it would be
impossible to exactly weigh the equities in the case. It was, however,
inevitable that a growing and energetic race should have contested the
possession of the soil with the mere handful of savages that did not
occupy it but merely roamed over it, hunting and camping here and
there and keeping up a perpetual warfare among themselves. They set up
claims, it is true, to the exclusive possession of certain large areas
but, even among themselves, such claims were only sustained by superior
strength, and one tribe frequently ousted another from its accustomed
territory.
The most ardent defenders of the Indians must find it difficult to
establish a case of trespass against the settlers of Kentucky. The
territory that is now comprised within that State was ceded by the
Indians in more than one treaty and purchased for a definite sum.
Moreover, it had not been the home or country of any particular tribe,
but was held as a hunting-ground common to all and in which none were
allowed to settle. It contained no permanent Indian villages, nor was
an acre of its soil cultivated until the white man cleared the land.
The pioneers of the wilderness made their settlements in groups of five
or six families. The first thing they did was to erect their cabins and
form a fort. This was usually accomplished by raising the former in
a row and making their backs one side of a palisaded enclosure, with
blockhouses at the corners. This was the refuge of all during an attack
by the Indians, but otherwise each family lived in a cabin upon its
farm. The clearings were generally four hundred acres in extent and lay
at some distance from each other in the heart of the forest. The trees
having been felled, the settler left the stumps standing, rolled the
trunks to one side and burned the branches on the spot. He then planted
his fields with maize or other cereals. Some stock was raised and a
few sheep, but only in sufficient numbers to supply local needs. Corn,
or maize, was the principal reliance of the frontier farmer. His wife
made a coarse flour and hominy from it, and a bag of the parched grains
served him for food on his hunting expeditions.
The backwoods cabin was commonly a one-roomed structure of unhewn
logs, chinked with clay and moss. After a while, when the owner became
fairly settled and had his fields in good order, this would give place
to a larger building, containing perhaps as many as three rooms and
an attic reached by a ladder. A huge stone fireplace occupied one end
of the cabin, and the door was always furnished with heavy bolts. The
logs were hewn, at least on the inside, and the roof covered with
clapboards. There was little furniture and few utensils in such a
place. The table was a board set on trestles, and three-legged stools
served to sit upon. The beds were rough wooden contrivances covered
with skins. The dishes and platters were often of wood and the spoons
and forks of pewter, the hunting-knife serving admirably to cut the
meat. The family depended very largely upon its head to furnish the
larder with venison and bear-steaks.
The dress of the backwoodsman was a distinctive one. He wore a
hunting-shirt of buckskin, or homespun, ornamented with a fringe of
the same material, or perhaps with porcupine quills. It was a loose
tunic, descending nearly to the knees and fastened round the waist with
a belt, from which were suspended the tomahawk and hunting-knife. From
his shoulders hung by a strap the powder-horn and bullet-pouch, in
which he also carried spare flints. On his head he wore a fur cap or
a soft felt hat, and his feet were covered with moccasins, after the
fashion of the Indians, from whom the dress was in large part borrowed.
His legs were encased in leather leggings or trousers.
The backwoodsman’s principal weapon was the heavy flint-lock rifle. It
was five feet, and sometimes slightly more, in length, and although it
did not carry very far was exceedingly accurate. The most marvellous
feats of marksmanship were performed by some of the pioneers with these
weapons. Every boy learned to shoot almost as soon as he was strong
enough to lift a gun, and his training in woodcraft commenced even
earlier, so that it is not surprising that many a youth, such as Kit
Carson and Simon Kenton, exhibited the qualities of the expert hunter
and Indian fighter before his beard was grown.
There was little money in the backwoods, pelts serving instead. Almost
all the needs of the people were supplied by themselves. The women made
homespun, in which they clothed the children and themselves. Every man
was something of a smith, and most of the rifles were of backwoods
manufacture. The men tanned the skins and their wives sewed them into
foot-gear and garments. Trenchers and bowls, and even harrows and
sleds, were made without much difficulty.
There were, however, a few very necessary articles for which the
settlers had to depend upon the outside world. These were salt, iron,
powder and lead. In the fall the members of a settlement would make a
joint collection of fur-skins and send two or three of their number to
some large town, such as Baltimore, to get what was needed. Thus, a
train of several peltry-laden horses would make the long, slow journey
over a distance which we may cover in these days in two or three hours.
Daniel Boone was a typical backwoodsman. Born in a frontier settlement,
he passed his long and adventurous life in sparsely-peopled regions and
died in a pioneer community beyond the Mississippi. Boone’s father, a
native of England, after living in different parts of Pennsylvania,
took up some land on what was then the frontier, in Oley township,
about eight miles from the site of the present city of Reading.
Here Daniel was born in November, 1734. His early life was that of
the ordinary backwoods boy. It embraced no considerable opportunity
for scholarship. He learned to read and write but, having little
occasion in the course of his active life for the exercise of either
accomplishment, his spelling was poor to the day of his death. He
helped his mother with the chores and, when old enough, was entrusted
with the care of the stock at pasture. His days were spent in the open
and he grew to be a lusty lad, well versed in nature and the ways of
wild beasts and the less dangerous denizens of the forest. When he had
reached the age of twelve, his father gave him a rifle, with which
he soon became a good shot and furnished his mother’s kitchen with an
ample supply of game. His winters were now spent in hunting, and he
often roamed long distances from home in his solitary expeditions,
returning with skins secured by his trap or gun.
In 1750 Boone’s parents with their children migrated south and settled
on the banks of the upper Yadkin, in the northwestern corner of North
Carolina. The location was even wilder than that they had left, and
their lives were harder and more adventurous. Attacks by the Indians
were not infrequent, and a few years later a border war cost many
lives in the Yadkin Valley. Here Daniel, following the custom of young
backwoodsmen, married as soon as he had arrived at manhood and set up
housekeeping in a log cabin.
Ten years were passed after the usual manner of backwoods existence, in
hunting, farming, and fighting Indians. But Boone’s hunting expeditions
sometimes partook of the character of explorations. He went far beyond
the frontier in various directions, and on two or three occasions
crossed the mountains into Kentucky. The beauty and richness of the
country and the abundance of game filled him with an irresistible
desire to make his home there. In the fall of 1773 Boone sold his farm
on the Yadkin and set out at the head of a company, consisting of his
own family and several others that he had induced to accompany them, to
make new homes in the lovely valleys of Kentucky. It is at this point
that we take up his story.
II.
HARDY GOODFELLOW
Boone leads a company toward the promised land of Kentucky--They are
attacked by Indians in Powell’s Valley--Six of the party are slain and
among them Boone’s eldest son--The sorrow of a strong man and his sense
of duty--The dead are buried and the march resumed--Boone’s lonely
watch over the sleeping settlers--His encounter with Hardy Goodfellow
in the gray dawn--“Now that father’s dead, I’m all alone”--Hardy
finds a new father and Boone another son--Man and boy make a strange
compact--“Maybe the Lord meant it that way--who knows?”
“Isn’t it about time to make camp, Captain?”
“Pretty near that, but I don’t exactly fancy campin’ right on a trace.
I reckon we’ll push on a bit and see if we can’t find a likelier
location.”
The first speaker was not a backwoodsman but a Charlestown surveyor.
The day’s march had wearied him to the point of exhaustion, and he felt
faint for lack of a good meal, for the frontiersman ate plenteously
but once in the twenty-four hours and that at the close of the day.
He turned to his pipe for solace, first offering his plug of strong
tobacco to his companion.
“Have a fill, Captain?”
“Thanks; I don’t use it.”
“You don’t smoke, Captain?” said the other, in astonishment.
“No; I never learned and I don’t see that it would have done me any
particular good if I had. It seems to take pretty hard hold on a man.
I’ve seen hunters well nigh crazy when their tobacco run out, and I
shouldn’t like to be that way myself. Then it’s apt to make trouble
in other ways. A deer could scent your pipe half a mile away, and an
Injun’s nose is near as keen.”
“You don’t think there are any Indians hereabouts, do you?” asked the
surveyor, with some show of apprehension.
“I wouldn’t like to say one way or the other. There might be a
hundred in there”--he jerked his head in the direction of the dense
undergrowth--“and we not know it till they showed themselves. You see,
a redskin’s like a copperhead--you don’t know where he is till he
strikes.”
The men who thus conversed were following a forest trail, or “trace,”
as it was called at the time, in Powell’s Valley, which lay near the
point where the States of Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee meet. On
either side stretched forest so dense that the sun never penetrated
the canopy of leaves. Even at midday a gloom prevailed, and now, as
evening approached, it was impossible for any but the keenest eyes to
see farther than a few yards in the growing dusk. The undergrowth was
so thick as to be impenetrable at most points without the aid of the
axe. Only a practiced woodsman dare enter that tangle of shrubs and
vines. Had Mr. Sproul, the surveyor, ventured a hundred yards from the
trail, he could only have found it again by accident and would in all
probability have died of hunger, unless, indeed, his sufferings had
been cut short by wild beasts or Indians.
It was precisely in this manner that Stuart, Boone’s companion in his
first expedition to Kentucky, lost his life. He wandered from their
camp and, failing to find his way back, probably died of starvation
after his ammunition became exhausted. Years afterwards his skeleton
was found in a hollow sycamore and identified by the powder-horn which
bore his initials.
Of the two men we have under notice, one would have attracted
immediate attention in any company, or under any conditions. He was
verging upon his fortieth year and in the prime of life. Five feet ten
inches in height, his erect carriage gave him an appearance of greater
stature. His body, encased in the deerskin dress of the backwoodsman,
was splendidly formed, the extraordinarily broad and deep chest giving
evidence of great strength. A sculptor might have taken the head,
with its noble brow and fine features, for a model. The long hair was
plaited and rolled into a knot. The clear, keen, blue eye had a mild
expression, but force was written in the large, aquiline nose and the
square chin, while the thin, compressed lips denoted resolution. It
was a face on which courage and composure were strongly stamped. As he
swung along with easy stride, his rifle over his shoulder, the movement
of the sinewy limbs betrayed strength and agility.
It did not appear to the surveyor that his companion was particularly
mindful of his surroundings but, as a matter of fact, nothing escaped
the ever-watchful eyes of Daniel Boone. To him a twig, a leaf, a stone,
the bark of a tree, or the lightest impression on the earth, told a
story that none but a master of woodcraft might read. Throughout the
day his piercing glance had fallen on this side and on that, taking in
every detail as he passed along the trail. This caution was habitual
with the backwoodsman, but on the present occasion Boone’s vigilance
was, if possible, keener than usual because he was responsible for
the safety of a large company which included many women and children.
Behind the leader came a train of settlers bound for the promised land
beyond the mountains.
The band, which had left their homes at Boone’s persuasion, numbered
about forty men and the women and children of five families including
his own. The majority were old neighbors from the Yadkin Valley who
had been fired by the glowing accounts of Boone and other hunters
who had penetrated to the wonderful country that was the favorite
hunting-ground of the Indians. The settlers had crossed the Blue Ridge
and some lesser ranges and were approaching the Cumberland Gap, which
was the gateway to the region they sought. The hardships of a backwoods
migration were nothing to them, but they were a little apprehensive
about pushing so far into the interior and going hundreds of miles from
the nearest settlement. Such a thing had never been done, and probably
would not have been attempted except under the guidance of Boone, who
was already an acknowledged leader on the frontier and one in whom all
placed the utmost reliance.
It was now the 6th of October and the party had left the Yadkin
district on the 25th of the preceding month. Their progress was
necessarily slow, owing to the nature of the country they had to
traverse and the character of the cavalcade. The narrow and rough
trail forbade their using wagons as did the later pioneers in crossing
the prairie regions. A string of pack-horses, tied head to tail,
carried their bedding, clothing, and other belongings. Aside from
corn, maple-sugar, and salt, they did not need to burden the animals
with provisions, for the men could always be depended upon to supply
the evening camp-kitchen with an abundance of meat. Wild turkeys were
numerous, and at this time of the year fat and lazy. Pigeons, quail,
and other game birds abounded in the forest, and an occasional deer or
bear was to be had.
Here and there in the line a woman rode, holding a child before her,
but for the most part the backwoods women tramped along with the men.
Some mothers placed their infants in baskets, Indian fashion, and hung
them to the sides of the ponies. Others carried them slung to their
backs or straddled across their hips. Early in life the little ones
became accustomed to tramping and a boy or girl of ten years, born in
the wilderness, made small matter of a ten or twelve miles journey on
foot.
At night they encamped near some spring or creek. Meat was broiled
over the flames of the fire, and bread baked in the ashes. Each family
or group of men made its fire in front of the shelter for the night,
so that they might lie with their feet to it. A low structure, open
in front and sloping towards the back, was readily raised by means of
poles covered with skins. A comfortable bed was made of dry leaves or
grass, with a blanket or pelt for covering. With such accommodations,
these hardy, simple people deemed themselves well provided for, and
without doubt they enjoyed better health than would have been their lot
under the softer conditions of city life.
Boone and Mr. Sproul--whom it is needless to describe, for he does
not figure any further in our story--were pacing the path in silence
when several shots fired in rapid succession rang out. The surveyor
dropped his pipe and stood paralyzed with alarm. At the first sound
the hunter had wheeled about, and before the last report, which his
trained ear told him was half a mile at least in the rear, had died
away, he was speeding past the string of pack-animals with his rifle in
readiness. In passing he called on five men to follow him and ordered
the remainder to guard the women and children.
It was evident that the attack--for the character of the firing clearly
indicated an attack--had been upon the party set to guard and drive the
cattle, which often lagged a long way behind. Boone remembered, with a
sudden pang, that his young son was one of the cattle escort that day,
and the thought spurred him onward. Presently a savage whoop of triumph
broke upon his ears and the next instant he was upon the scene.
The animals had plunged into the thicket and scattered. Six figures
lay upon the earth, still in death. Five Indians, each exultantly
brandishing a bleeding scalp, were in the act of diving into the
neighboring undergrowth. A sixth bent over one of the prostrate forms,
with his fingers entwined in the hair and knife raised to make the
circular sweep in the crown of the head. Boone’s rifle went up, and had
hardly touched his shoulder before it spoke. The Indian dropped, shot
through the brain.
The father had the poor consolation of having saved his boy’s body from
mutilation. That to a backwoodsman was a source of satisfaction, but
it did not go far towards mitigating Boone’s present grief. He stood
for some minutes, leaning upon his rifle and looking down at the face
of his dead boy. The convulsive twitching of his features told of the
inward commotion. But there was urgent duty at hand and Boone sternly
put his grief behind him and turned to it. When he lifted his head, his
companions saw that the features, though drawn, were calm and the eyes
keen and alert as ever.
Reloading his rifle, Boone stepped into the forest at the point where
the Indians had disappeared. In ten minutes’ time he rejoined the
anxiously waiting men.
“Only seven,” he said. “No likelihood of another attack. McCurdy, you
go and fetch back five men--and don’t tell them what’s happened as yet.”
With the reinforcement, the party set to work digging a broad
and shallow grave, in which they laid their dead without further
preparation or ceremony. It was but an incident of backwoods life
and the men who performed the service to-day might be in need of
it to-morrow. Having marked the grave with stones and blazed some
neighboring trees, they rejoined the main body, which resumed the
march, leaving the cattle to be sought for the next day.
A little farther on, the party came upon a favorable spot and went
into camp for the night. As soon as Boone had made the shelter for his
family and built a fire, he devoted himself to comforting his stricken
wife. But even this task could not be pursued uninterruptedly. The
camp needed guarding with special vigilance. It is true that Boone
believed the attack of the afternoon to have been made by a small
party of wandering Indians who killed the settlers for the mere sake
of securing their scalps. On the other hand, they might have been a
scouting party sent out by a large band. Although Boone was as fearless
as any man that ever lived, he was never imprudent, much less reckless.
In the course of their conversation Mr. Sproul had said something
about “trusting to Providence.” The hunter had replied that he didn’t
“believe in trusting to Providence until you have done all you can for
yourself. After that, Providence is much more likely to lend a willing
hand.”
As soon, therefore, as the other settlers had composed themselves to
rest, Boone went out and seated himself upon a fallen tree, prepared to
spend the night in watchfulness. His ears were alive to the slightest
sound and he could instantly detect the origin of each. Now and again
the stillness of the forest would be broken by the howl of a wolf,
or the hoot of an owl. At such times the hunter would raise his head
and listen intently, for the Indians imitated the cries of birds and
animals in signalling to one another. Boone was himself a very good
hand at that form of reproduction and was seldom deceived by the
performance of another.
Boone’s vigil had extended to the gray dawn when his attention was
attracted by a dim figure moving on the farther side of the camp.
He thought that it was probably one of the settlers suffering from
indigestion or, perhaps, walking in his sleep. However, prudence
demanded that he should stalk the figure, and he accordingly slipped
noiselessly round the back of the shelters in his moccasined feet. The
manœuvre brought him suddenly within sight of the person at a few feet
distance. The light was just strong enough to enable him to discern
the form of a youth who was struggling to suppress the sobs that
convulsed his frame at intervals.
Boone took the boy by the arm and gently led him to the fallen tree by
his own camp fire.
“Sit down,” he said. “Now, what’s the trouble, young man?” He spoke
in a low, soft voice that told the lad that he had fallen in with a
friend. “Take your time,” continued the hunter, soothingly; “I know it
hurts, whatever it is, and you’re taking it like a man, anyhow.”
He placed an arm across the boy’s shoulders and the youngster felt the
touch strengthen and calm him as had not all the comforting words of
the sympathetic settlers’ wives. After a while he controlled himself
sufficiently to speak.
“My father was killed yesterday,” said the lad, at last, “and--and I
didn’t see him.”
“Too bad, too bad,” said Boone, drawing the boy closer to his side. “I
wouldn’t worry about not seeing him, though. I saw him--I buried him,
and he looked peaceful and I don’t doubt is happier than you or me at
this moment. Where’s your mother, young man?”
“Mother died long ago, before we left England.”
“You don’t mean that you’re all alone?”
“Yes, now that father’s dead, I’m all alone.”
The thought of his utter loneliness overcame the lad, and for a few
minutes he was again shaken with grief. Boone waited silently until the
boy had somewhat recovered himself. Then he asked:
“What’s your name?”
“Hardy Goodfellow, sir.”
“I like that name,” said the hunter. “Hardy Goodfellow sounds like
it ought to fit a backwoodsman. What are you going to do, Hardy?”
The hunter did not wait for an answer to his question but went on:
“We can’t leave you here and there’s no way of sending you back, at
present. Do you want to go on to Kentucky, Hardy?”
“Yes, I’d rather go on,” replied the lad. “I think father would want me
to, if he knew.”
“Why do you think he would?”
“Well, I’ve often heard him say he hated to see a man turn back when
he’d once started to do anything--but, of course, I’m not a man.”
“I’m not so sure of that, Hardy. You don’t need to have a certain
number of years nor a certain number of feet to be a man, leastways not
in the backwoods. It’s more a matter of the heart and head, Hardy, and
I think you’ve got as much pluck and sense as many of your elders.”
After this speech the hunter lapsed into silent thought and so sat for
ten or fifteen minutes. When he turned again to his young companion it
was with an air of satisfied decision.
“Hardy, the same Injuns that killed your father killed my son. The
eldest he was--the other’s only a baby. Now, if you’re willin’, I’ll
try to take the place of your father and you shall take the place of
our Jim. What do you say?”
The boy strove to speak but his emotions choked him. He looked up at
Boone and the hunter could see gratitude and joy written on his face.
“Shake on it--that’s enough,” said Boone, extending his hand. “That’s
settled, then, and I don’t think either of us will ever be sorry for
the bargain. My woman will make you a good mother and I’ll go bail
you’ll make her a good son. Now crawl into your new home, Hardy, and
get an hour’s sleep. I’ll stretch my legs a bit.”
It may seem strange that Boone should on such short acquaintance have
taken a boy into his family on the footing of a son. However, Boone’s
judgment of human character amounted to almost unerring intuition and
he felt strongly drawn towards Hardy, largely perhaps on account of his
recent bereavement. Moreover, he was not devoid of the backwoods trait
of superstition, as was evidenced by his muttered remark as he turned
on his heel after seeing the boy enter the shelter: “Maybe the Lord
meant it that way--who knows?”
III.
THE YOUNG HUNTER
The emigrants show the white feather--They retrace their steps to
North Carolina--Boone refuses to turn his back upon Kentucky and Hardy
proves staunch--“Didn’t we make a bargain?”--The new home in the cabin
on the Clinch--Hardy enters upon his backwoods education--Boone finds
him an apt and willing pupil--The hunting expeditions in the glorious
Indian summer--Hardy soon learns to shoot straight and to stalk a
deer--Hardy has a lesson in tracking a man--“I laid flat, thinking
you might fire”--Winter trapping and camping--The Indians invade the
settlements--Hardy serves in Dunmore’s War.
When the first rays of the rising sun called the settlers from their
rude couches, Boone appeared in camp, after a bath in the branch, as
fresh and alert as though he had enjoyed a long rest like the others.
The night before he had instructed them not to strike their shelters
in the morning, for he designed to remain in the camp until the next
day and devote the interval to searching for the strayed cattle. These
were a very valuable property. Their milk was needed for the young
children, and they were intended to form the nucleus of the stock in
the new settlement. A party was sent out to search the thickets, but
Boone was doomed to meet with a great disappointment before the close
of the day and to have his cherished plans entirely upset.
At about noon the heads of the families among the emigrants came to
the leader and expressed their determination to return. The attack
of the day before had convinced them that the Indians would oppose
their farther progress, and they deemed it suicidal to venture into
an unknown region, far beyond the limits of settlement. Many of the
other men were married and had joined the expedition with a view to
prospecting for land. These, also, were bent on returning to their
homes. A few of the single men, who had no ties, were indifferent as to
their future course, and of these perhaps half a dozen stayed in the
district.
Boone felt that if there was to be any turning back, the sooner it
took place the better, and he did not try to dissuade the settlers
from their purpose. For his own part, he had made up his mind to go to
Kentucky and get there he would. He should stay where he was until an
opportunity for going forward presented itself.
While this understanding was being reached, Hardy stood beside his
adoptive father, an interested listener. Boone now turned to him.
“Hardy,” he said, with a grim smile, “here’s a fine chance to go back
again, if you want to.”
The boy looked up at the hunter with an expression of mingled surprise
and reproach.
“Didn’t we make a bargain?” he asked.
“That we did, Hardy,” replied Boone heartily, slapping the lad on the
back, “that we did, and I’m to blame for doubting you.”
So it was settled, and the next morning the entire party set out on the
back trail. Boone accompanied the returning settlers for a distance
of about forty miles and then bade them farewell and good luck. They
parted company in the Valley of the Clinch, near the headwaters of the
river of that name. Boone had noticed a deserted cabin and a small
clearing on the banks of the stream and had marked the place for his
future home. When the retreating band had disappeared from view, Boone
turned his pack-horses towards the spot and before nightfall his
little family was comfortably ensconced in the lonely hut.
The Boones were not beyond the bounds of settlement. During the few
years previous to their arrival, restless pioneers from the borders of
Virginia and North Carolina had pushed out to the valleys this side of
the Cumberland Mountains, and there were several scattered “stations”
at no great distance, as backwoodsmen computed distance. Indeed,
Russell’s Station was next door, being only eight miles away. Boone
felt confident that among these adventurous spirits he would soon find
some to make up another expedition for the settlement of Kentucky.
Meanwhile, there was much to be done. The cabin needed repairing
and the clearing had to be attended to. Then there was the winter’s
stock of meat to be laid in and some furs, which, as we have said,
represented money, to be secured.
Then commenced for Hardy Goodfellow the happiest time of his life.
Boone, as soon as he had seen his wife and little ones comfortably
settled at home, began to take hunting trips. This was a very necessary
part of a backwoodsman’s life, and his wife was quite accustomed to
being left alone for weeks and months at a time. For Hardy these
excursions afforded the most delightful experience and the most
useful education. While he was somewhat better schooled than the
average backwoods boy, he was almost a greenhorn in the matters that
went to the making of an accomplished frontiersman, his father having
but recently arrived with him from England. He had, however, unusual
advantages to favor his development into an expert backwoodsman. He
was a lusty, well-formed lad, rather tall for his fourteen years. His
childhood had been passed in a rural district, and he delighted in
outdoor life. He possessed, as Boone had quickly discerned, plenty of
pluck and an ample fund of common sense. But Hardy’s greatest good
fortune lay in having such an instructor as Boone who, besides being
an expert hunter and a master of woodcraft, was a man of splendid
character and one calculated to stimulate and develop the inherent good
qualities in a pupil.
The glorious “Indian summer” of the South was upon them when they began
these wanderings together. Their days were spent mainly in hunting
deer, the skins of which were worth a dollar apiece and the meat the
most desirable for storing. Under Boone’s directions Hardy soon learned
to shoot straight, and also became fairly adept in stalking the game.
After a while the hunter would allow his young companion to take the
direction of the day’s hunt, when Hardy would be required to calculate
from the state of the weather and the condition of the surrounding
country where the deer were likely to be found, and to decide from the
course of the wind upon the point at which they were to be approached.
Every minute of the day added to the boy’s knowledge and his strength,
while his powers of observation and reasoning steadily developed.
Hunting is hard work and Boone was no light taskmaster, but despite the
fatigue and the bruises and the scratches, Hardy fairly revelled in
his new experience, as any healthy boy would. As they tramped along,
Boone showed the eager youngster how to detect “signs” of Indians
and animals; how to tell whether an upturned stone or leaf had been
disturbed by the wind or by the foot of man or beast. He explained to
him how, from the barks of trees and other indications, to determine
the points of the compass, so that he might travel the wilderness
without guide. They studied the habits of birds and animals and
practiced mimicking their cries.
Sometimes they would halt in a small glade and Boone would set up
a mark for Hardy to shoot at, impressing upon him the wisdom of
never pressing trigger until he should be sure of his aim. This
exercise was varied with that of throwing the tomahawk, a very useful
accomplishment. The Indian fighter who expended a shot without bringing
down his foe, might not have time to reload, when he would have to
resort to the weapons in his belt. On such and many other occasions the
tomahawk came into play. At times they would engage in running matches
and wrestling bouts, and although at first the hunter could pick Hardy
up by the belt and hold him at arm’s length, the boy soon became too
strong and agile to be treated as an altogether indifferent antagonist.
As they were constantly on the move, they made what was called an
“open” camp,--that is to say, at night they rolled themselves in their
blankets under the sky, or beneath the trees. As they sat beside
their fire, after the meal of venison and cornbread, Boone would
instruct Hardy in the ways of Indians, or tell him tales of frontier
life--stories of hairbreadth escape from wild beast or cruel Indian; of
women defending their cabins in the absence of their men; of fierce
fights; of captivity and torture; of wanderings in the trackless wilds;
of various adventures in a world that was as yet little known to the
lad. The hunter liked to tell and Hardy to hear of Boone’s excursions
into Kentucky--how he spent three months alone, hundreds of miles
from a white man and without even a horse or dog for company; how the
Indians captured him, and how he escaped. These stories fired Hardy
with an intense longing to become a full-fledged frontiersman, and he
bent every effort towards that end.
Sometimes Hardy would awake in the morning to find Boone gone. Then he
understood that he was expected to trail the hunter to the next camp.
The man took care that the task should not be too difficult and Hardy
met with such success that he was quite elated at it. One night he
boasted of his skill and the next day received a lesson that abated his
pride and convinced him that he had a great deal yet to learn.
The next morning Hardy found himself alone and at once started off
on Boone’s trace, which was plainly visible. He followed it with
comparative ease until some time after noon. Then he began to be
uncertain and at last was entirely at a loss. For hours he wandered
about, carefully examining the ground, the bushes, and the trees, but
not a sign could he find. For all trace of him that Hardy could see,
the hunter might have flown straight up from the earth. Evening found
the lad still at fault. There was nothing for it but to camp for the
night.
Hardy felt somewhat downcast as he looked around for a resting place.
He had perfect confidence in Boone and knew that he would turn up on
the morrow, but it was the first time that Hardy had been alone in
the wilderness and he didn’t quite like the experience. However, he
concluded to make the best of it, and to hearten himself, said aloud:
“Cheer up, Hardy! You’ll never make a frontiersman if you’re afraid to
be alone in the woods.”
A short chuckling laugh came from the depths of the neighboring
undergrowth. Hardy started and peered apprehensively into the gloaming,
his rifle half way to his shoulder. He could see nothing to cause alarm
and the most profound silence reigned.
“Ugh! a gobbler I reckon,” concluded Hardy, turning once more to his
preparations for the night.
He made a fire and was broiling a venison steak on the end of his
ramrod, when a well-known voice greeted him with, “Got a bit of meat to
spare, Hardy?” and Boone strode into the circle of light, a quizzical
smile overspreading his face. He took in the preparations for the
night’s camp at a glance, rested his rifle against a tree within arm’s
reach, and sat down beside the young hunter.
It goes without saying that Hardy was delighted to have his adoptive
father with him just as he was looking forward to a solitary and
cheerless night, but he was not a little nettled to learn that Boone,
after purposely throwing him off the track, had stalked him to his camp
and was able to tell him of every movement that he had made.
“Son,” said the hunter, after he had explained the situation, “if I
had been an Injun, I’m afraid that you’d a had less hair on your head
than you have. But I shouldn’t have laughed just now. That was foolish.
As soon as I’d done it, I laid flat, thinking you might fire. I was
glad to see that you minded what I’ve told you, not to shoot till you
can see what you’re shooting at. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, son.
Dan’l Boone’s thrown many an Injun off his track before now.”
Notwithstanding the reassuring remarks of his mentor, Hardy had sense
enough to realize from this incident that he was not so smart as he had
imagined himself to be, and he redoubled his efforts to become expert
in woodcraft.
With the approach of winter the hunters took out pack-horses and
brought home the skins from where they had cached them. They also laid
in a store of smoked venison. Some time was spent in making the cabin
weather-tight and in cutting logs for the great fireplace. In this
work Hardy learned to wield the long-handled backwoods axe, which was
as important a factor in frontier life as the rifle. When all was made
snug at home, the hunters were ready to set out again.