remember that when a little boy the family were sometimes waked up in
the dead of night by an express with a report that the Indians were at
hand. The express came softly to the door or back window, and by gently
tapping waked the family; this was easily done, as an habitual fear
made us ever watchful and sensible to the slightest alarm. The whole
family were instantly in motion: my father seized his gun and other
implements of war; my stepmother waked up and dressed the children as
well as she could; and being myself the oldest of the children, I had
to take my share of the burthens to be carried to the fort. There was
no possibility of getting a horse in the night to aid us in removing
to the fort; besides the little children, we caught up what articles
of clothing and provisions we could get hold of in the dark, for we
durst not light a candle or even stir the fire. All this was done with
the utmost despatch and the silence of death; the greatest care was
taken not to awaken the youngest child; to the rest it was enough to
say ‘Indian,’ and not a whimper was heard afterwards. Thus it often
happened that the whole number of families belonging to a fort, who
were in the evening at their homes, were all in their little fortress
before the dawn of the next morning. In the course of the succeeding
day their household furniture was brought in by parties of the men
under arms.”
On the other hand, it frequently happened that when the assembled
settlers looked round after such a hasty gathering, it was discovered
that one or another family was missing. Then a party of men would go
out after them and, if fortunate, bring them in, but it might be that
they had wandered from the trail in the darkness and become lost, or
that they had encountered the savages and been massacred. Some men of
reckless disposition would not leave their cabins until actually forced
to do so by the approach of the enemy, or would return to their farms
before the removal of danger. Such individuals caused serious trouble
to the settlers with whom they were associated and often jeopardized
their safety.
Such warnings as we have described were attendant upon the advance of
the Indians in force, but the lone cultivator, upon his isolated farm,
was in constant danger of attack from small bands or single savages
that skulked unseen through the forest. The clearing was generally
surrounded by woods or thicket that afforded ample cover to the foe in
his stealthy approach. The settler, driving his team along the furrow,
never knew but that watchful eyes were following his every movement,
awaiting the opportunity for a favorable shot at him. His boy, going
to the spring for water, might be suddenly seized from behind, gagged
before he could utter a sound, and carried away to meet a cruel death,
or to be brought up in some Indian’s wigwam. The mother, standing
in the doorway of the cabin, oblivious to all danger, might be shot
through the heart in the very sight of her husband. Perhaps, when the
head of the family was away on a short hunt, or a trip to the fort, a
party of Indians who had patiently awaited the chance for days would
make an attack on the cabin. If the occupants had time to throw the
heavy bolts across the door, there was a fair chance of their beating
off the assailants, even though their success depended upon the
courage of one woman and a half-grown boy. Many a thrilling border
story turns upon the heroism of frontier women and children under such
circumstances.
A typical affair of the kind occurred in Nelson County, Kentucky,
during the year 1791. A party of about a score of Indians attacked the
cabin of a settler named Merrill. The place was at some distance from
the nearest habitation and no help could reasonably be looked for.
The family were taken entirely unawares, the first intimation of the
presence of the dreaded redskins being a volley from the neighboring
brush aimed at the father who was working near his home. He fell
grievously wounded but contrived to struggle to his feet and staggered
into the cabin with the foremost savage at his heels. The wife of the
settler succeeded, however, in closing the door and throwing the heavy
bar across it, before the Indian could enter. Meanwhile, her husband
sank helpless upon the floor.
The defence of the home now depended upon the woman and her son and
daughter, neither of whom was much more than a child. But the desperate
situation did not daunt the brave mother. She seized an axe and
prepared to defend the family as best she might with it. There were no
firearms in the cabin. Merrill, after the manner of backwoodsmen of the
time, had carried his rifle to work with him and after being hit had
been unable to regain it from the tree against which it had been placed.
The assailants at once began to hack an opening in the door with
their tomahawks and of course the defenders were unable to offer any
obstruction to this proceeding. At length a hole was made big enough
for a man to squeeze through and one of the savages entered the room by
this means. The woman stood beside the door with axe poised and as soon
as the Indian was fairly inside, but before he could rise to his feet,
she brought the weapon crashing down upon his skull. He expired with
scarce a groan.
Close behind the first intruder followed a second. He met with a
similar fate and so with a third and a fourth. Each had entered as fast
as the way became clear and the death-blows had been delivered swiftly
and surely. The Indians now began to suspect that something untimely
had befallen their fellows and before another essayed to enter the
house they made a cautious survey through the crevice of the door. By
the fitful light of the fire four motionless figures stretched upon the
floor were discernible and their fate was easily surmised.
The attackers now decided upon another line of tactics. Two of them
clambered to the roof of the cabin and began a descent of the capacious
chimney. The alert woman had heard the noises made by the climbers and
anticipated their designs. Still maintaining her vigilant watch at the
door, she bade her children cut open the feather bed and throw its
contents upon the fire. The burning feathers flew up the chimney in a
fountain of flame and acrid smoke. The two savages half way down strove
to regain the roof but were unable to do so and at last fell into the
fireplace, scorched and suffocated. They were easily despatched by the
children and the wounded father.
Hardly had the attack been repulsed at one end of the room than it was
renewed at the other. A fifth savage made an effort to gain entrance
by way of the door. He was not more than half way through when the
well-wielded axe ended his career. This put an end to the assault. The
Indians were more than satisfied and beat a retreat. When they reached
their village they assured the tribesmen that the squaws fought better
than the “Long Knives” themselves.
Although the fort at Boonesborough was not completed until some months
after the point at which we have arrived in our story, it will be
well to describe it here. There was a close resemblance between all
these frontier stockades, and the picture of one serves as a general
description of any other. The Boonesborough fort stood about two
hundred feet from the river. It was a parallelogram, about three
hundred feet in length and half as wide. The sides were formed of
cabins set close together, the spaces between being closed with double
rows of logs, planted endwise in the ground and standing about ten
feet in height. At each corner was a blockhouse, two stories in height,
the upper section extending two feet beyond the lower, with the floor
of the projection loop-holed so that attackers immediately below might
be fired upon. The cabins and palisades were plentifully loop-holed
along each of the sides. Stumps, brush and everything that might afford
cover, was cleared from the immediate vicinity. In the middle of each
of the long sides was a strong, heavy gate, with wooden hinges and
bolts. In the centre of the enclosure stood a storehouse for provisions
and ammunition, a few trees, and posts for stretching clothes-lines. In
time of siege, cattle and horses were driven into the stockade.
Such a fortress could not, of course, stand against artillery and in
some instances, where the Indians were supported by British gunners
and cannon, the defenders of stockades were obliged to surrender. But
it was seldom, indeed, that any force of savages unaided succeeded
in carrying a frontier fort by assault when there were a handful of
unerring backwoods rifles to defend it. In fact, the redskins had, long
before this date, learned the futility of direct attack and usually
resorted to subterfuge, or attempted to starve out the garrison. But
this was not so easily accomplished in the case of such resourceful
and determined men as the pioneers of Kentucky. When food began to
fail, one would leave the fort in the dead of night and, stealthily
creeping through the cordon of besiegers, take to the woods in search
of game. The return, heavily laden, was even a more dangerous and
difficult feat than the departure, and many laid down their lives for
the sake of their fellows in such enterprises. But though one fell
to-day, another was ready to essay the task to-morrow, and in the end
some would succeed.
The Indians generally relied upon stratagem to overcome the defenders.
A favorite subterfuge was pretended retreat. Simulating discouragement
or alarm, they would act as though retiring from the country. The
object was to draw the garrison into pursuit and entrap them in ambush.
As we shall see, these tactics were sometimes highly successful with
men who were ever ready to embrace any excuse for escaping the irksome
restraint of the fort.
With the approach of summer, Indian outrages became increasingly
frequent. No large bodies of savages were seen, nor was any concerted
attack made upon a settlement. It was evident, however, that numbers
of redskins were in the country, which was not strange, for at this
time of the year hundreds of them had been in the habit of hunting in
Kentucky. Settlers were picked off at the plough, or while traversing
the forest. Women and children were killed and scalped or seized and
carried into captivity. Cattle and horses were frequently found dead,
with arrows in their sides, for the redskins still used that weapon
upon animals in order to save valuable ammunition for fighting.
Another and more extensive exodus took place. All but three of the
stations were abandoned, those maintained being Boonesborough,
Harrodsburg, and McClellan’s, and the last-named was deserted early
in the following year. There were hardly one hundred “guns,” that is,
fighting men, left in the entire territory.
Fair Kentucky was soon to be in the throes of a life-and-death struggle
for possession of the soil. As yet the settlers did not realize the
fearful danger that beset them. Had they done so, all but the very
stoutest hearts must have quailed before it. The Revolution was now
in progress and, incited and armed by British agents, the Shawnees,
Cherokees, and Mingos were preparing to exterminate the invaders of
their old-time hunting-grounds. Virginia could afford but scanty aid to
her distant territory. All the men and munitions that the State could
command were needed to support the Continental Army. To the devoted
band of backwoodsmen, isolated from their fellows and dependent upon
their own resources, two courses were open,--either to retreat, or
to stand their ground and face the flood of savage onslaught. It is
characteristic of such men as Boone and his companions that the former
alternative was not even considered by them.
Among the families at Boonesborough was that of Colonel Richard
Callaway, an intimate friend of Boone. One day early in July, 1778, the
two daughters of the former and Jemima Boone entered a canoe near the
fort and cast it off from its moorings. This act was contrary to the
injunctions of their parents, who realized that lurking Indians might
be encountered even in the immediate neighborhood of the stockade.
However, the girls were young and careless and as they drifted idly
upon the placid stream that lovely summer evening, no thought of danger
entered their minds.
Thick woods and dense undergrowth came down to the water’s edge upon
the opposite bank. Here a party of savages crouched, motionless and
silent, peering hungrily through the leafy screen at their intended
victims. Laughing and chatting, while they aimlessly paddled the little
craft, the girls gradually approached the farther bank. At length they
were within a few feet of it, when suddenly the foliage parted in
several places and five hideous forms sprang into the shallow water,
seized the horror-stricken young women, and plunged into the thicket
with them.
The screams of the girls as their captors bore them away were heard in
the fort. Hardy, who was seated in the doorway of the Boones’ cabin,
cleaning his rifle, sprang up and ran to the river bank. The empty
canoe, drifting in the current, and a bonnet, floating on the stream,
told the story. Hardy’s first thought was to plunge into the river and
swim across, but he quickly realized that he could accomplish no good
by following the abductors alone, and so he turned to the fort for
assistance. Both Boone and Callaway were some miles distant, surveying
a piece of land. In two minutes Hardy was astride a horse and galloping
in the direction they had taken. He was fortunate in coming upon them
without loss of time, but night had fallen before the party regained
the stockade of Boonesborough.
Of course every man in the settlement was eager to join in the pursuit,
but Boone determined to take but seven picked men with him. Even though
the Indians should prove to be a large body, it was more important
to come upon them by surprise than in force. The main point was to
recover the girls before the savages should have time to kill them. The
smaller the body of pursuers, then, the greater the likelihood of their
success. Hardy Goodfellow begged, but without success, to be allowed
to accompany the party. He was greatly disappointed but, although he
did not suspect it, his eagerness for Indian fighting was soon to be
satisfied.
At the first streak of dawn the eight men crossed the river, the two
fathers in the lead. At the outset they experienced a check, but this
was no more than their knowledge of Indian tactics had led them to
suspect. The redskins, on leaving the river bank, had separated and
made their way at considerable distance from one another through the
thickest cane-brake. The pursuers could not follow any one of these
tracks without danger of being misled. It was noticed that they all
pointed in one general direction and that gave a clue as to their
destination and Boone concluded that they were bound for the Ohio River
and the Indian villages beyond it.
It was probable that the savages would drop scouts in the rear to
ascertain whether they were being followed, and if they had reason
to believe that they were not, that they would relax their speed and
their vigilance. Taking these probabilities into consideration, Boone
formed a plan of action with his usual decision. He abandoned the track
and took his party by a rapid march over a circuit of thirty miles,
coming round to a point where he hoped to again pick up the trail of
the warriors. Sure enough, it was discovered in a buffalo path and
the backwoodsmen were delighted to find that the Indians had made a
considerable turn in order to cross their trace, and so had lost much
headway. It was evident, too, from the signs that they had begun to
travel carelessly and imagined themselves safe from pursuit.
The men under Boone pushed on as rapidly as possible and with every
mile saw that they were getting nearer to their quarry. Vigilance was
of no less consequence than speed. They knew that at the first alarm
the redskins would bury their tomahawks in the skulls of the girls and
scatter in the forest. Noiselessly, then, and tirelessly, the trackers
followed the trail, every moment bringing them closer to the now
slowly-moving savages. At length, towards the close of the third day,
and after a journey of fifty miles, Boone decided that nightfall would
bring them within striking distance of the Indians’ camp.
The pace was now slackened and each man bent his efforts to a stealthy
advance without sound. The moccasined feet, hardly less adept than
those of the redskins, trod so lightly as scarcely to disturb a twig
or leaf. And so, several feet separating each man from the next, they
crept forward until at length they came in sight of the abductors. In a
small glade surrounded by thick cane they were in the act of building a
fire at which to cook their evening meal.
The party had been instructed as to their action in this situation,
which had been anticipated. Four rifles went up in careful aim, the
others reserving their fire. The instant that the reports rang out,
the whole body charged forward with a yell. The manœuvre was a perfect
success. Two Indians fell. The others dashed into the forest, leaving
their rifles, and even their knives, tomahawks and moccasins behind
them. The girls were unharmed, and without delay the party turned about
and retraced its steps to Boonesborough.
VI.
HARDY’S FIRST INDIAN
The war-cloud gathers over Kentucky--Hardy goes a-hunting and bags a
fat turkey--He practices the difficult feat of barking squirrels--He
detects a dusky foe spying upon him from behind a tree--And plans to
outwit the wily savage--Hardy fires and scatters the head-feathers of
the Indian--Hardy is now reduced to his tomahawk for defence--He makes
a good throw and barely misses the mark--Powerless, he awaits death as
the savage advances--A friend in need is a friend indeed--“My scalp, I
reckon, young fellow!”--Simon Kenton, the daring dandy of the backwoods.
Before the close of the summer the Kentuckians became fully alive to
the fact that they were threatened with a great Indian war. Most of the
settlers were too careless or lacking in foresight to take measures in
advance for their safety, and the preparations for the protection of
the settlements devolved upon a few leading men among them. There were
constant consultation, exchange of views, and formation of plans. The
two principal objects desired were the inclusion of the new territory
in the State of Virginia and the procurement of a supply of ammunition.
By effecting the former, it was hoped to secure aid from the State in
the impending struggle, and without the latter the backwoodsmen would
soon be reduced to a state of helplessness, for they depended upon the
rifle for their supplies of food, no less than for defence against the
Indians. George Rogers Clark was sent to Virginia as the representative
of the Kentucky settlers, and before the close of the year succeeded
in having the desired legislation passed and, after a hazardous voyage
down the Ohio, returned with a large quantity of powder.
Daniel Boone was of course indispensable to the councils of the
leaders, and his time was entirely occupied in the affairs of
the community, which took him frequently from home. Under these
circumstances it fell to the lot of Hardy to look after the family and
perform the ever-pressing duty of hunter. The search for game did not
entail long journeys as in North Carolina, but he made frequent trips
into the woods and met with such success as to excite the praise of his
adoptive father.
The settlers, had not at this time contrived to plant anything like
a sufficiency of corn, nor did they until several years afterwards.
Before the country had been two years in occupation the live stock had
become reduced to very small numbers, and beeves were not slaughtered
for food but carefully kept for breeding purposes and as a reserve
against emergency. The sole source of meat supply was the hunter’s
rifle, and in the use of that Boone and other leaders were urging
economy, for ammunition was running alarmingly low.
It was a fine, mild morning in October when Hardy set out for a day’s
hunt, by which he might with reasonable good luck secure enough meat
to keep the family pot boiling for a week. He was not in search of
big game, but intended to make his bag of birds, of which many edible
kinds were to be found in the neighborhood. He filled his powder-horn
and bullet-pouch, put a generous piece of corn bread into his wallet
and, with tomahawk and knife in belt and rifle over shoulder, left the
cabin, with a promise to return before nightfall.
Hardy paddled himself across the river and, after hiding his canoe in a
secluded spot, he made his way into the woods. It was not long before
he heard the gobble of a turkey. Listening closely for a few minutes,
and satisfying himself that the sounds came from a bird and not from
an Indian, he commenced stealthily to approach his intended victim.
This was not to be easily accomplished, however. The turkey detected
Hardy’s movements before he got a sight of the bird. The chase lasted
for an hour or more. Now the quarry would take alarm and make off with
long, awkward strides, and anon, lulled into quietness by the hunter’s
caution, would again allow him to come almost within range, only to run
off just as the rifle was coming into position. At length a good chance
came to the patient tracker. In one of its sudden retreats the turkey
incautiously started across an open space about sixty feet in breadth.
Hardy was eighty yards away from his mark but determined not to lose
this opportunity. He dropped on one knee and, taking careful aim, fired
as the bird reached the middle of the glade. The turkey fluttered for a
few paces and then fell dead.
It proved to be a fine, fat bird, and would have justified Hardy in
considering the day’s hunt as finished and returning to the many tasks
of a less attractive nature that awaited him. But the weather and the
surroundings were so enticing that he could not resist the temptation
to remain out a little longer. He hid his turkey where he could find
it on the return, and determined to indulge himself for a while in the
sport of “barking” squirrels. This was a favorite pastime with Hardy,
because it involved a very high order of marksmanship, in which he
was eager to excel. At the same time, it was the last use to which he
should have put his rifle at this time, when, as he knew, powder and
shot were precious and every load should be made to count.
As the reader may imagine, a squirrel hit by a rifle ball would be
torn to pieces, so that neither its flesh nor its fur could be of
any service. In order to secure the animals intact, the backwoodsmen
resorted to a skilful expedient which was called “barking.” The
marksman aimed, not at the squirrel, but at the bark of the tree
immediately below its feet. If he hit the exact place at which he
fired, the animal flew into the air and came down, killed by the
concussion, but whole. To accomplish this feat required the greatest
precision. If the course of the bullet was an inch too high, the
squirrel was shattered; if it was as much too low, the ball sank into
the wood of the tree without the desired effect.
“Barking” squirrels was one of the favorite methods with the
backwoodsmen of showing off their marksmanship. Boone could bring
down his animal, without injuring a hair, every time at fifty yards.
When far advanced in years, he gave such an exhibition of his skill
to Audubon that made the naturalist wonder exceedingly. It is hardly
necessary to say that Hardy, although a very creditable pupil, had not
attained to anything like the same expertness. Indeed, if he “barked”
one squirrel in five attempts he was doing very well. To-day it
appeared, however, that our young hunter was in unusually good form,
for by careful approach and steady shooting he succeeded in getting
three whole squirrels with ten shots. Fragments of a number of others
had been uselessly scattered over the ground.