A Tale of Kittanning Point.
Reprinted from "Juniata Memories," by Henry W. Shoemaker.
(Copyrighted by J. J. McVey, Philadelphia, 1916.)
Kittanning Point is a spot pre-eminent in Pennsylvania song and story.
As a pivotal point in history it will always be remembered; as a
scenic glory it is the envy of all the States. And in legendary lore
it holds a secure place, for clustered about it are many weird and
curious traditions, some of which still linger only in the hearts and
minds of the old folks. Those few of the tales which have been written
out are read and re-read with breathless interest. Still there are
others unrecorded that possess a thrill or charm worthy of competent
chroniclers. History tells us that many Indian paths converged at
Kittanning Point, including the main pathway from Aughwick to Fort
Kittanning, consequently it was a frequent meeting place of the savages
in their journeys across the mountains. They often camped near the
springs in Kittanning Gap, or on Burgoon's Run, and many are the arrow
points and other relics picked up thereabouts by persons of quick wit.
In addition to the Indian paths, the Point was a favorite "crossing"
for many kinds of wild animals. While out of the line of the bison,
whose main trails were further east and further west, these noble
creatures sometimes summered on the high mountains in small bands,
coming to and from their fastnesses through the Gap.
[Illustration:
Dr. Owen Jacobs (at right) and son Ezra (late of U. S. A.)
Descendants of Captain Jacobs, of Fort Kittanning Fame.]
It was a favorite rallying ground for the elk and deer. They were so
plentiful in Revolutionary days that all the hunters had to do was
to penetrate the forests a few steps from their camps in order to
have venison for dinner. And at that only the hindquarters or the
saddles were used. A few elk lingered long in this region, ranging
between the Point and Laurel Ridge, where one of the last killed in
the State was slain at the Panther's Rock, in Somerset County, about
the middle of the last century. Panthers also had a "crossing" over
Kittanning Point. It was on one of their "migratory lines" between
West Virginia and Central Pennsylvania. They always traveled by the
same paths, consequently a hunter with a fair degree of patience would
surely be rewarded. This "fixity" of travel was one of the reasons
for their practical extinction in our Commonwealth. The wolves were
prevalent at the Point until comparatively recent years, principally
on account of the abundance of game. When it decreased, they left for
more productive regions. Bears were often found about the Point, as the
fine chestnut and walnut trees gave them rich "pickings" in the autumn
months. In the Gap were several bear dens, which are still pointed out
by the old hunters. These bears were all of the black variety. But
most interesting of all the wild life, large and small, which ranged
over these now desolated hills was the Black Moose. This mammoth
animal, known in pioneer days in Pennsylvania by the quaint name of
the Original, and elsewhere as _Orignal_, which is derived, according
to Samuel Merrill, the great authority on Moose, from the Basque word
_Orenac_ meaning _deer_, was particularly partial to the glades and
vales about Kittanning Point in the years immediately preceding the
Revolution. In fact, its path for migration passed over the Point in a
southwesterly direction. In these migrations these huge beasts made a
practice of tarrying for several days amid the grand primeval hardwoods
which covered the Point. Despite its size, for it is the largest of
all deer, extinct or existing, the Original was very fleet of foot
and well able to take care of itself. As far back as tradition goes
there is no record that the moose ever bred in Pennsylvania to any
considerable extent. They were distinctively a northern animal, though
they had been coming to this State for untold ages, as their fossil
remains well show. Pennsylvania was about the southerly limit of their
migrations. After Southern New York had been opened to settlement, and
the forests between the southern border of the Adirondack Mountains and
the Pennsylvania State line cut away, the moose were unable to continue
their journeys into the wilds of the Keystone State. The last to enter
Pennsylvania came from the Catskill Mountains, crossing the Delaware
River at various points north of the Water Gap.
[Illustration: CLEMENT F. HERLACHER,
Whose Mind Is a Veritable Store House of Traditions of "Moose Days."]
When the migrations ceased those moose already in Pennsylvania had
to remain there, and they were cruelly butchered by the settlers.
Perhaps on account of their all-time scarcity in our State, the early
Indians seldom killed the Original. They looked with veneration on this
gigantic brute, viewing it as the dignified progenitor of elk and deer,
which formed their staple articles of life. To have a moose browse in
the vicinity of an encampment presaged victory in war, to find a moose
head or antlers in the forest, good luck in the chase or domestic life.
The moose stood for all that was biggest, noblest and best in Indian
life, it typified all outdoors, the grand free scope of the wilderness.
To single out such a splendid animal for slaughter, while all around
were myriads of deer, herds of elk, companies of bears and countless
smaller game, seemed to the Indian mind, with its Mosaic sense of
justice, almost a sacrilege. Consequently the moose were never killed
unless in dire necessity, or in the later days of the Indian race when
they were desperate and had lost many of their former ideals. But it
was galling for them to see the white men slay moose without quarter,
to see them disregard sporting standards that had been maintained
for centuries. Among the proudest and shrewdest Indians residing in
the Juniata Valley was Young Jacob, the youngest son of the knightly
defender of Fort Kittanning, Captain Jacobs. Inborn was his mistrust
of the white men, whose wanton destruction of forests, game and fish
went hand in hand, he felt, with the complete annihilation of his own
race. He resented the friendly advances made by the newcomers to the
copper-colored aborigines. He held aloof from all gatherings where
the two races apparently fraternized together. He would listen to no
compliments, accept no favors from the white men. He never forgave
the wrongs of his own family. James Logan, or Tah-gah-jute, was the
only other Pennsylvania Indian who held similar views to a marked
degree. He often told Young Jacob as they rested under the shade of the
giant white oaks at Logan's Spring, near Reedsville, that the white
men wished the entire Indian race under the sod, and would put them
there as soon as they could. "Some of us," he declaimed tragically,
"they will kill with bullets, others of us they will kill with poison
called rum, our women and children they will starve to death." Logan's
greatest sorrow was that he could not impress his ideas on the other
Indians. They laughed away his fears, drank the white man's bad
whiskey, bartered and played with him on all occasions, suspecting
nothing, fearing nothing. Logan would go on to say that a hundred years
in the future, when the proud Indian race remained but as a faint
remnant of its former strength and greatness, his words would prove
true, but now he was looked upon as such an anarchist that he could
not even impress his own brothers, Thachnedoarus, or Captain Logan,
and John Petty Shikellemy. But Young Jacob shared Logan's views to the
minutest detail; he was intuitive, and he had proofs of the white man's
perfidy. Never could he be influenced by soft speeches or tawdry gifts.
He would be a true redman of the forest, uncorrupted to the last. He
had as one of his special missions in life to save the wild animals and
birds of the Juniata Valley from extermination. He traveled up and down
the three branches, preaching toleration, moderation, conservation,
among the drink-ridden Indians, who still lingered at their old hunting
grounds. He begged them to cherish their old ideals, only to kill such
game as was absolutely necessary for food and clothing. Even if the
white men killed right and left, and permitted dead game to rot in the
woods, which they called "sport," the Indians should kill moderately,
as they did in the past, for was not the wild life a gift from the
Great Spirit, and should be carefully tended as such? But most of his
preaching fell on deaf ears. Homeless, drunken savages were out of
touch with the high principles of the past; they wanted to kill just as
their white corrupters were doing. Young Jacob was like an echo from
the past, a past so distant that it hardly seemed possible ever to have
existed. And once in a great while Young Jacob argued with white men on
the impropriety of wasting wild life. Sport, as defined by the Indians,
meant harmless pleasure, physical exercise, feats of skill, fun, the
chase, but never wanton destruction of any gift of the Great Spirit.
But the white men could not see it that way, as long as they had guns
they liked to practice on living targets, to see how many animals or
birds could be killed in a day or hour, besides game was a nuisance in
a rapidly developing country. The game was in the woods to be killed,
and if they did not kill it, somebody else would. And they laughed in
Young Jacob's face as the price of his pains. All this served to deepen
his hatred for the cruel white men who claimed they were "civilizing"
the Juniata Valley, but to his mind desolating it. It grieved Young
Jacob to see the Indians yielding to the white men's false titles and
moving westward without a protest. He longed to fire their hearts with
a sense of their wrongs, and lead them in a bloody war against their
foes. With this in view he traveled up and down the valley, preaching a
gospel of resistance. And sometimes he crossed over into the Allegheny
headwaters beyond Kittanning Point. Almost every Indian was content
to follow the white men's orders and move on, but occasionally he met
one who was sober enough to realize the terrible injustice of it all.
But the Indians who felt that way would say: "What you state is true;
we are being robbed and murdered; but what can we do when the majority
of us is willing to submit?" It was a hopeless task, the Indians
were a doomed race. Still Young Jacob's energy was inexhaustible, he
would not admit his teachings fruitless. He continued his missionary
work, trusting that some spark from his torch of hate might kindle
the unhappy red race to a last defiant stand. He carried on his work
so quietly that none of the white men in authority suspected that he
was any more than a surly, disgruntled savage, as befitted the son of
a defeated Indian chieftain. And he was glad that they felt that way
about him.
[Illustration: HON. HORATIO SEYMOUR.
Governor of New York 1852-1854, 1862-1864.
(Slayer of One of the Last Moose in New York State, 1859.)]
Otherwise there would be a price on his head, or he would be ordered
out of Pennsylvania on pain of death, like was meted out to the
resisting Logan. He played his part better than Logan had done, and it
gratified his savage heart. It was on one of his homeward trips from
the Allegheny River that he shed the first white blood, which put a
price on his head, and made him a skulking exile to the last of his
days. He had been visiting the abandoned Indian settlements at Logstown
and Kittanning, at the last-named important town viewing the grave of
his defeated but not dishonored father, Captain Jacobs. This chieftain,
named for a German ironmaster in Lancaster County, was one of the most
heroic Indians in all the annals of the red race in Pennsylvania.
He had followed the Indian trail across the mountains, his ultimate
destination being Black Log Valley and Standing Stone. Near Kittanning
Point, on Burgoon's Run, he had built a lean-to of boughs, expecting
to be joined there by a couple of Indian spies who had gone down the
Allegheny River in a canoe, and were to travel eastward by way of
Laurel Ridge. On the night of his arrival, to his great pleasure, a
giant moose ambled out of the forest and began leisurely browsing on
the twigs of the moosewood trees which formed an undergrowth of the
great hardwood forest. Apart from his delight in watching the monster's
antics, as he bent down the trees and nibbled at the tenderest twigs,
much as an elephant would feed, was the feeling that the beast foretold
that the propaganda which he was promoting would some day become a
reality. The moose saw the Indian, and looked at him with his comical
little eyes, but he had perfect confidence that the redman meant him
no harm. For several days and nights the mammoth animal made the
vicinity of Young Jacob's camp his headquarters. He became so used to
the Indian's presence that he kept as close to him as if he had been
a big mule. On the evening of the third day Young Jacob was getting
ready to start on his journey, as evidently his Indian friends had been
detained or gone by a different route. His chief regret was at leaving
the moose, which stood munching at the succulent twigs. He liked to
travel by night, it was cooler, and as he knew every foot of the way he
could travel further. While he was adjusting his pack on his back he
heard the twigs crack and looked up. Perhaps it was another Original,
and he had been camping in a moosic rendezvous! But instead of another
moose he saw a solitary white man, clad in a green shirt, buckskin
trousers, and moccasins, and carrying a long rifle. It is hard to tell
whether the newcomer saw the Indian or the moose first. In any event
he raised his firearm and took aim at the unsuspecting animal, which
kept on browsing. When Young Jacob saw the white man's intentions, he
stepped forward, saying politely, for all Indians, past and present,
have been noted for their courtesy, "Brother, don't kill that moose.
The woods are full of deer, if you are hungry, and the moose is a pet
of mine." But the white man only sneered, and pulling the trigger,
the ball sped with unerring aim, lodging in the big Original's heart.
With an awful bellow of pain, mingled with surprise, the animal turned
and charged on his white destroyer. The hunter, who reloaded his gun
deftly, let the moose get within a few feet of him, when he fired
again, but the big brute had been already mortally wounded, and fell
without the aid of the second shot. With a sound like a falling pine
the Original crashed to the earth, lying dead among the ferns and
hazel bushes, his wide-spreading palmated antlers stretching out on
either side like the knives of a reaper. Planting one foot on the dead
animal's swarthy proboscis, the white man struck a silly attitude.
Young Jacob, supposed savage, yet in reality a model of gentility and
toleration, looked at him a moment in disgust. Then calmly he asked
him what he intended to do with the mammoth carcass in the middle of
summer. The white man stroked his long beard a moment and said, with a
great show of _insouciance_, "Why, of course, leave it. What else could
I do with it?" That was too much for the fair-minded Indian. The white
man had killed a harmless moose for "sport" and now was going to leave
it to rot and feed the ravens. He could contain himself no longer, and
cursed the paleface roundly for his folly. "Why," he shouted, "that
moose was around my camp for three days and nights, happy and doing no
harm, and I thought no more of shooting him than I would the little
singing birds in the trees above. We Indians only kill when we have to;
we have sense." The white man's temper was equally aroused, and he
swore at the Indian in turn. "You say you Indians only kill when you
have to. You are damn fools. We white men kill when we want to, and
intend to kill everything before we get through." With that he raised
his rifle threateningly. But Young Jacob suspecting such a motive, and
forgetting that the white man had not reloaded his weapon, pulled his
own trigger first, and the paleface fell to the earth, a bullet through
his lungs. When the redman saw what he had done he showed no remorse,
until on picking up the white hunter's rifle he found it empty. Then he
threw down his own gun and went to the dying man's side. Stooping down
he said to him: "White man, I cannot call you _brother_ now. I am sorry
for what I have done. I did not remember that your gun was empty."
But the white man, rolling his eyes which were glazing with death and
staring at his slayer, cursed the Indian with his dying breath, then
closed his eyes in death. As he passed away Young Jacob was leaning
over him, and muttered, "Now you know how it feels to be in the moose's
place." The die was cast. Young Jacob had now been added to the list
of Indian murderers. It would be a waste of time to bury the dead man,
the wolves would dig him out. The crime would be discovered sooner or
later. So, without deigning to rifle the corpse's pockets or touch his
gun and powder horn, he left him lying in the now profound darkness,
within a dozen feet of the dead moose. It was there that the two
Indians, arriving from Laurel Ridge found the body the next morning.
Though they suspected some such episode as what had actually happened,
knowing Young Jacob's nature so well, they seized upon it as a good
excuse to curry favor with the white men. So they went through the dead
man's effects, finding documents which identified him as Jacob Glelson,
an adventurer and land prospector from Pennsbury on the Susquehanna.
From the look of things he had been shot down by an Indian, Young
Jacob, in cold blood. They made haste to report the crime when they
arrived at Standing Stone. The virtuous Proprietary Government, on
the alert to avenge a white man's death, but sometimes singularly
apathetic when an Indian was slain, no matter what the circumstances,
set its wheels in motion to apprehend the savage murderer. A reward was
offered, and the news spread to the four corners of the wilderness.
Young Jacob sensed this situation perfectly, and made himself a
fugitive. When the pursuit became too hot he allied himself with the
Tories and was one of the real leaders of that treacherous band. The
contempt which the settlers once had for him changed to fear. Many were
the white men ambushed and cruelly slain by his direction. His youth,
his dash, and his close relationship to the old chiefs gave him the
sobriquet of "the king's son." He seemed to be the active agent for all
the devilish conduct of Indians and white renegades. The government
was most anxious to apprehend him to atone for Glelson's "murder," and
to remove the ring-leader of so many bloody deeds. It had not been
forgotten how Young Jacob's father and his warriors had been rounded
up at Kittanning by a force of three hundred intrepid men sent after
them from Fort Shirley, under the command of the famous Colonel John
Armstrong, for whom Armstrong County was named, and to whom the city
of Philadelphia presented a silver medal for his great victory. It
was in the month of September, in the year 1756, when the attacking
force surprised the Indian band at three o'clock in the morning. They
had been guided to the town through the darkness by the whooping of
the Indians, who were holding a war-dance. Young Jacob had urged them
to save their energies for a better purpose, but to no avail. And it
was he, with clearer senses than the rest, at dawn first noticed the
attacking party crossing the corn field which bordered the settlement.
Rousing the sleepy-eyed defenders, he posted them at the loopholes
in Captain Jacob's redoubt. A shot from Young Jacob's rifle wounded
Colonel Armstrong in the shoulder, and he fell in a heap. Directing the
forces from where he lay, he ordered that the Indians' huts be set on
fire, as the redmen refused quarter. The redmen mocked their efforts to
fire the buildings, but some of the soldiers with reckless bravery were
able to start the blaze going at one corner of Captain Jacobs's house.
During a lull in the firing the old chieftain, his squaw and Young
Jacob, "the king's son," attempted to escape from the burning building
through a window nearest the river. Captain Jacobs, in assisting his
squaw through the window, was shot in the head and he fell back dead
amid the smoke. The squaw plunged bravely into the water, but was shot
dead. Young Jacob, not wishing to die a coward's death, sprang through
the window and reached the opposite shore of the river before he fell
wounded, pierced by half a dozen balls. The first reports had it that
he was killed. A party of Indians who arrived on the far shore after
the battle was in progress, at the risk of their lives rescued the
courageous young warrior and carried him back into the forest. There
in a dismal glade, in a haunt of night herons, he was nursed back to
health, as befitted "the king's son." But after years of plotting
Young Jacob was shot to death ignobly with Weston and his Tories, when
they were surprised at Fort Kittanning Gap in 1778. And thus ended the
earthly career of one of the most remarkable Indians of the Juniata,
an unreconcilable to the last, fighting for the ancient ideals, for
"life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." And when the report was
sent broadcast that Young Jacob was among the fallen, the slaughter of
the Tories at Kittanning was accounted doubly a victory. But when James
Logan, or Tah-Gah-Jute, heard the news out in Ohio, he grieved silently
and long. He thought of the old days in Pennsylvania, at the "Logan
Spring" where at his favorite resting place, he had spent so many hours
in conference with the dead warrior. And his grief was deep, because
he knew that the Indian race had lost its sincerest champion; that the
hoped-for renaissance would never be.
[Illustration of ringed-tailed cat, raccoon relative]