were not, however, moved to this action by any sense of humanity but by
the respect they already felt for Boone and, even more, by the desire
to see him perform the extraordinary feat of carrying a man weighing
something like one hundred and fifty pounds for a distance of thirteen
miles. The arrangements were quickly made. Boone’s pack and that of
Halliwell were divided among their comrades. With a buffalo skin and
thongs of elk’s hide a sling was constructed and so adjusted as to
secure the greatest degree of ease to the sick man whilst causing as
little unnecessary strain upon Boone as possible. This done, Halliwell
was lifted into the contrivance and the march commenced.
Boone knew that he was making no idle boast when he undertook the task
that amazed the Indians. He had more than once carried an equal weight
of dead matter for as great a distance. It was not, nevertheless, any
light undertaking. Before the journey was more than half completed, he
began to look forward to its close with eager anticipation, and when at
length the party arrived within sight of Chillicothe, on the banks of
the Little Miami, Boone was nearing the limit of his endurance. But
the savages, who frequently looked at him with curious wonder, had
not the satisfaction of learning this. He turned upon them his usual
calm, inscrutable countenance, and replied to their jibes with perfect
good-nature.
[Illustration: BOONE WAS NEARING THE LIMIT OF HIS ENDURANCE]
A great concourse awaited their coming on the outskirts of the town.
The larger part of the crowd was composed of unkempt squaws, in dirty
clothing, many of them with babies strapped to their backs. Young boys
and girls, with a sprinkling of aged grandsires, made up the remainder,
whilst the mongrel dogs of the Indians yelped an excited welcome to
their returning masters. A mile from the town the warriors had begun to
chant their song of victory, and as they neared the waiting throng they
set to brandishing their weapons and shouting exultantly. The prisoners
were conducted to the great square and there subjected to the curious
scrutiny of the women and children for the space of an hour or two.
The greatest interest was displayed in the white squaw who had come in
carrying his sick papoose upon his back.
The Shawnees kept Boone and his companions at old Chillicothe for
nearly three weeks, during which time they were well treated and,
from the Indian point of view, comfortably lodged. At length ten of
the prisoners and Boone were sent, under the escort of forty of the
savages, to Detroit. Here they were, as Boone declared, “treated by
Governor Hamilton, the British commander at that post, with great
humanity.” Boone did not forget this kindness and afterwards, when
Hamilton was an execrated prisoner in the hands of the Americans, Boone
befriended him to the best of his ability.
The ten men who had been brought to Detroit in company with their
captain were readily ransomed by the British, but the Indians declined
to dispose of Boone in the same manner. The Governor offered one
hundred pounds sterling--an extraordinary sum--for his release,
intending to liberate him on parole. The offer must have been an
extremely tempting one, but the Shawnees resolutely refused it.
Boone had created a deep impression on their chiefs, and it had been
determined, although the fact was not then announced, to adopt him into
the tribe.
Boone made no effort to influence the issue one way or the other.
Perhaps he realized that it would be futile to attempt to turn the
Indians from their purpose. Perhaps he thought it advisable to go
back to the remainder of his men. Or, which is highly probable, he was
anxious for the opportunity of learning more about the tribe which
constituted the chief menace to his people in Kentucky. Whatever his
motive, he displayed such willingness to accompany the Shawnees back to
Chillicothe that they were deluded into the belief that he was really
disposed to become one of themselves.
Some of the officers at Detroit pressed gifts of money and various
useful articles upon Boone, but he declined them all, saying that so
far as he could foresee, the opportunity to repay their proffered
kindness would never occur and he could not allow himself to lie
under a perpetual obligation to them. Their good wishes he thankfully
acknowledged, and left them with feelings of respect and admiration for
him.
Early in April the Shawnees turned homeward with the prisoner upon
whom they set so high a value. Their satisfaction in the possession
of him prompted them to guard him with the utmost care, but he soon
discovered that he had risen in their estimation and regard since the
visit to Detroit. The march was a long and tedious one of three weeks’
duration, but during its course everything was done to promote the
comfort of the captive. Boone was not slow to foster the good feelings
evinced by his captors, and by the time they arrived at Chillicothe the
most cordial relations existed between them and himself.
XI.
“BIG TURTLE”
Boone is formally adopted by the Shawnees--He becomes the son of
Blackfish and is given the name of Big Turtle--The Indians treat him
well but watch him closely--A description of old Chillicothe and its
people--Boone gains the confidence of the tribe so that they allow him
to go on short hunting trips--He accumulates a store of ammunition
and secretes it--A war-party of various tribes visits the town--Boone
learns their purpose to attack the Kentucky settlements--He contrives
his escape and makes for Boonesborough--Arrives after a remarkable
journey.
Adoption was a common practice among the Indians, and probably had
always been so. They readily extended it to include white men, as the
history of the earliest settlements proves. There are grounds for
believing that, while most of the members of the “lost colony” of
Roanoke were doubtless massacred, some of them survived as Indians by
adoption and left descendants. John Smith was adopted by the Powhatans
as the son of their great Werowance, and the Susquehannas were anxious
to make him their chief.
At the time to which our story relates, the practice was prevalent
among the Indians of the border and was usually resorted to with a view
to filling the places of warriors killed in battle. Once admitted to
the tribe, the white Indian was treated with kindness and often with
more consideration than would have been the case had he been born among
his adoptive relatives. He was, however, closely watched until his
captors believed him to be fully reconciled to his new condition.
It was seldom that adult whites, thus forcibly affiliated with the
redskins, missed a favorable opportunity to escape, and consequently
the Indians became more disposed to the adoption of children. With
respect to the latter, their designs were naturally attended by better
success. The boy, prepared perhaps by a disposition inherited from
backwoods ancestors, readily adapted himself to his new surroundings
and soon became enamoured of the free and active life of the village
and the camp. In many instances, youths recovered by their natural
parents after many years’ residence with the Indians displayed the
greatest repugnance to the ways of civilization, and sometimes ran
away, returning to the people of their adoption.
Shortly after Boone’s return from Detroit, he was informed that his
captors had determined to admit him into the tribe and that he was to
become the son of the renowned warrior Blackfish, who was the chief of
the band that inhabited Chillicothe. Boone professed to be gratified
by the announcement and duly appreciative of the great honor of being
adopted by the most powerful Indian of those parts. The tribesmen were
delighted by his complacence and entered upon the ceremony with the
utmost enthusiasm, for many of them had become sincerely attached to
their extraordinary captive.
The ceremony of adoption, which the Indians naturally viewed with a
sense of solemn importance, occupied several days and included features
that were not altogether pleasant to the central figure in it. Indeed,
the first stage of the initiation severely taxed Boone’s patience and
fortitude, and more than once he was forced to convert a grimace of
pain into a pretended grin of amusement. The operation of forming the
scalp-lock was performed in the presence of the warriors, who closely
noted the manner in which the victim bore his sufferings.
Boone was required to seat himself and was expected to remain passive
while two Indians tore his hair out by the roots. The ordeal was the
more severe because the operation was protracted and the hair plucked
in small strands. It was customary to allow the subject of this
ceremony one or two intervals for rest and the recovery of his nervous
system. The usual respite was offered to Boone but he replied that if
the operators were not too tired to proceed he should like them to go
ahead and finish their work. This they did and at the end of several
hours Boone’s long locks had all disappeared with the exception of one
thick tuft in the centre of the crown. This was the scalp-lock. When
it had been tied up with ribbon and fixed with feathers the operation
was pronounced complete and our hero stood forth literally and
metaphorically a redskin, so far as his head was concerned.
The next morning Boone was conducted to the river, stripped of his
clothing and led into the water. He was then vigorously washed and
rubbed “to take all his white blood out.” Following this ablution,
he was led to the council-house, where the chief, in this case the
adoptive father, made an address. The initiate was informed of the
great honors and benefits that would accrue to him by admission to
the tribe; he was instructed as to the duties that would devolve upon
him and the course of behavior he would be expected to follow. The
assembled warriors were also reminded of the rights and future status
of their new brother and exhorted to accord to him proper treatment and
consideration.
At the completion of the chief’s speech, which was received with grunts
of approval, two Indians approached Boone, who stood in the centre
of the chamber, and with pigments of various hues proceeded to paint
his head and face after the most approved fashion. This was the final
step in the ceremony. Boone was now a full-blown Shawnee, and his
fellow-tribesmen crowded round to congratulate him. A big feast was now
spread. After they had eaten heartily, pipes were lit and the company
sat smoking and talking far into the night. Boone’s natural dignity and
habitual self-control enabled him to adapt himself to his new rôle with
ease, and before the gathering broke up the warriors had begun to look
upon him as a kindred spirit and boon companion.
The town of which Boone was now an inhabitant under the name of
Sheltowee, or “Big Turtle,” was situated on the banks of the Little
Miami River. The buildings were ranged round a great square which, like
the market-place of a country town, was the common resort of loungers
and the general rendezvous of the community. Here they performed their
ceremonial dances, erected the war-post, celebrated victory or bemoaned
defeat, indulged in various sports, including the torture of prisoners,
divided spoils, held mass-meetings, and in short gathered for any
purpose of general interest.
The council-house was the principal building in the town. It stood on
somewhat elevated ground at the northern end of the square and was
constructed of logs in part painted and carved. The roof was finished
with slabs of bark and the interior furnished with mats and the skins
of various animals. A platform, raised to the height of about two feet,
ran round three sides of the wall, leaving a sort of pit in the centre.
Upon this platform the warriors squatted on the occasions of councils,
the receptions of delegations from other tribes, or deliberations on
the fate of prisoners; the visitors, or captives, occupying the central
and less elevated space.
The cabins of the population, which numbered about six hundred, were
of a permanent character and not unlike those of the poorer class
of settlers in form. Scattered about amongst them were corn-cribs,
poultry-houses and dug-outs. The last were by the Indians called
“hot-houses,” and consisted of holes in the ground to which the people
resorted in particularly severe weather.
Boone, or “Sheltowee,” as the Indians now always called him, was
assigned to lodgings in a small hut with two young braves for
companions. The accommodations were far from what he could have
desired, but they were as good as those enjoyed by the chief, his
adoptive father, and he accepted them with his usual philosophy.
Accustomed to fresh air in abundance, Boone found the close and foul
atmosphere of the wigwam almost intolerable. The place was often filled
with acrid smoke and always infested by insects. How filthy it was he
could only guess, for the light of day never penetrated to its interior.
Even the strong stomach of Boone rebelled against the food that was
presented to him. It was plentiful and of materials that in another
form would have been appetizing, but the Indian methods of cooking
spoilt it. Meat, corn, hominy, beans, and other vegetables were stewed
in bear’s oil, with little care for cleanliness, and served in one
repellent mess. But Boone forced himself to swallow his meals with
feigned enjoyment and, indeed, made a point of affecting satisfaction
and contentment with all the conditions of his new life.
Boone soon discovered that he was watched during every moment of the
day, but he did not allow the Indians to know that he was aware of
the fact. The surveillance was often cleverly contrived to evade his
detection but never succeeded in that respect. The copper-colored
urchin who with precocious cunning pretended to casually encounter him
on the outskirts of the town was instantly recognized as a spy, but
treated as a welcome friend, and after a joyous romp carried home on
the shoulder of the man he had been set to watch. At night no guard was
placed, nor was any necessary, for although Boone might with little
difficulty have eluded his sleeping companions, he could not have
walked twenty paces outside the hut without arousing the dogs which
fairly swarmed about the town. These gaunt mongrels were particularly
exuberant when they smelt a white man and snarled and snapped at any
that came near them.
But it was not in Boone’s mind to make any attempt to escape for the
present. It was his purpose to turn his captivity to good account by
improving his knowledge of the Indians and gaining information as to
their contemplated movements against the settlers. His efforts were
now bent towards increasing the feeling of friendliness that they
entertained towards him and exciting their confidence in him. He took
part in the sports and contests of the young braves, but shrewdly
regulated his conduct so as to arouse their admiration without exciting
their envy. In the shooting matches he might easily have outdone the
best of them, but he contented himself with making a good showing
without equalling the performances of their best marksmen.
Boone’s judicious behavior soon created in the Indians the state of
mind that he had desired. Blackfish grew quite fond of his adopted son,
and in the course of a few weeks began to entertain the belief that he
had made up his mind to remain with the Indians and continue the life
that appeared to be so congenial to him. Boone was now permitted to go
on occasional hunting trips alone, but the chief was not yet entirely
devoid of suspicion. The hunter’s hours were limited and he was given
to understand that if his absence exceeded the stipulated period of
liberty, a party would be sent in search of him. The number of bullets
and the charges of powder issued to him were carefully counted, and
he was held to a strict accountability for the supply. But Boone was
even more shrewd and cunning than Blackfish. By cutting his bullets in
two and using reduced charges of powder, the backwoodsman contrived to
accumulate a considerable store of ammunition, which he secreted for
use in emergency.
Early in June Boone was sent with a party of braves to the salt springs
of the Scioto, where they remained ten days engaged in the manufacture
of salt. On his return to Chillicothe, he was greatly concerned to
find in the town something like five hundred strange warriors, fully
armed and bedecked in war-paint and feathers. Boone’s knowledge of the
Shawnee language was more thorough than he had allowed the Indians to
imagine, and mingling with the crowd in the square he had no difficulty
in picking up all the information that he needed. He learned that the
war party was organized for an immediate attack upon Boonesborough, to
which they had been instigated by the British commandant at Detroit.
He ascertained the proposed route and other details of the expedition.
Boone decided that he must escape without an hour’s unnecessary delay.
That night the Indians engaged in their war dances and other ceremonies
and no doubt he might have slipped away from the town without being
missed until he should have gained several hours’ start, but many
considerations induced him to defer his departure. Boone never lost his
head. Indeed, the greater the emergency the more carefully he laid his
plans before action. The first stages of his journey would be through a
district difficult to traverse and with which he was little acquainted,
whilst the warriors of Chillicothe were perfectly familiar with every
rood of it. Consequently a night start would give him less advantage
than an equal number of hours’ headway in the daytime. Furthermore,
he had that day made a long march and was somewhat fatigued. The task
he proposed for himself would tax his strength to the utmost and he
determined to fortify himself with a night’s rest before setting out
upon it.
The next morning Boone left the town with his rifle as though going
upon one of his usual hunting trips. This was the more easily
contrived because the presence in the place of so many strangers made
it necessary for the young braves to secure a much larger supply of
meat than ordinary. He had not dared to excite suspicion by providing
himself with any considerable quantity of food but he managed to
secrete a small piece of jerked venison in his hunting-shirt. He made
directly for the spot where his reserve stock of ammunition lay hidden
and filled his powder-horn and bullet-pouch. Thus equipped, he headed
for the Ohio with all the speed he could command.
Boonesborough was one hundred and sixty miles away, and Boone proposed
to cover the distance in the least possible time. He knew that he would
be pursued within a few hours and realized that the greatest danger
of his recapture would be passed if he should gain safely the other
side of the Ohio. He therefore exerted himself to the utmost at the
outset, combining speed with skilful efforts to hide his trail. His
route lay through dense forest and led him across several streams and
through more than one swamp. Where the ground was firm and fairly open,
he ran with long, loping strides for hours at a time. The first night
the moon served him until early morning and he kept on his way until
it set, stopping to sleep for a few hours only before dawn. The next
day similar progress was made, and on the morning of the third Boone
arrived at the bank of the Ohio River. He had covered more than seventy
miles in about forty-four hours.
Here an obstruction confronted the fugitive that had not been
unforeseen. Boone was an indifferent swimmer. Recent long-continued
rains had swelled the river and it was running with a strong current.
It would be hazardous to delay long and Boone was hastily skirting
the bank, almost decided to commit himself to the stream with a log
upon the chance of reaching the other side, when he stumbled upon an
abandoned canoe. The paddle lay with it but a large hole gaped in one
end. This Boone stopped with his hunting-shirt, and launching the
rickety craft succeeded in gaining the farther bank.
Although he began to feel confident of eluding his pursuers after
putting the river between them and himself, Boone realized that he was
not out of danger and pushed on rapidly. His own safety was not the
only incentive to speed. If the war Party had adhered to its plan it
must have left Chillicothe two days after Boone and every hour gained
to Boonesborough for defence would be of account.
On the third day, after crossing the Ohio, Boone shot a turkey and
made a hearty meal upon it, and this was the only one that he allowed
himself in five days. At other times he had eaten morsels of his
jerk as he went along. At the close of the fifth day he walked into
the stockade at Boonesborough, having averaged more than thirty
miles of travel for every twenty-four hours from the time of leaving
Chillicothe.
XII.
DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND
Boone sets the defences of Boonesborough in order--He learns of the
departure of his family--“You see, they all thought you were dead,
Dad”--Boone carries “the war into Africa”--His party have a skirmish
with the Indians--The run back to Boonesborough--Blackfish and his
warriors appear before the stockade--Parleying and fencing--Boone gains
time and sends for relief--Blackfish plans a treacherous manœuvre--He
seeks to beguile the settlers with a false treaty--The trap is laid
with skill--But the whites break out of it after a desperate struggle.
Boone appeared in the stockade like one coming from the dead. Nothing
had been heard of any of the party captured at the salt licks, and it
was generally believed that all had been killed. It was, therefore,
with feelings of unbounded joy that the settlers crowded round their
regained leader, eagerly demanding his story. But Boone declined, for
the present, to satisfy their curiosity. He had more momentous matters
in his mind. On entering the fort he had noticed that the defences had
been allowed to fall into a condition of neglect and that a general
state of unpreparedness for attack prevailed. Weary and hungry as he
was, he set about improving affairs before attending to his personal
needs and comfort.
He warned the settlers that they might expect the arrival of the
Indians in great force within three or four days’ time, and urged upon
all the necessity of the utmost exertion in the meanwhile. The women
were to busy themselves moulding bullets and the men in repairing the
stockade. Three mounted messengers were immediately despatched to
the Holston, with a request to Colonel Campbell for reinforcements.
Others were sent to Harrodsburg and Logan’s Station on similar errands.
Runners began the circuit of the outlying farms to round up all the
people belonging to Boonesborough and scouts set off in the direction
from which the Indians would approach.
Having taken all the measures immediately possible for the defence of
his post, Boone turned towards his cabin. It was characteristic of
him that, notwithstanding he missed his family from among the throng
that greeted his return, he had made no inquiry for them, although
Hardy and Kenton had been the first to welcome him, but had addressed
himself at once to the business in hand. Now, as he walked with these
two friends across the square, the desire to hear of his loved ones was
uppermost in his mind.
“Mother took the children and went back to her father’s place on the
Yadkin,” began Hardy, anticipating the question that hung on Boone’s
lips. “You see, they all thought you were dead, Dad. But we didn’t. Did
we, Kenton?”
“Well, hardly,” replied the scout, with a chuckle. “I kinder thought
I’d hear something drop, Captain, in case your hair was raised.”
“Well, if I wasn’t scalped, I was plucked, and that’s the next thing to
it,” said Boone, removing his felt hat and displaying his bald pate and
scalp-lock to his astonished companions. “I’m a full-blooded Indian,
Hardy. Your dad is Sheltowee, the Big Turtle, and he’s apt to go on the
rampage any time, so watch out, young man.”