[Illustration:
Elerson's Twenty-Five Mile Race—_Page_ 32.
]
Among the members of that celebrated rifle corps, commanded by Daniel
Morgan, to which we already have referred, was a man by the name of
Elerson, who, in deeds of daring and intrepidity, was almost a match for
Timothy Murphy, whose frequent companion he was when on an expedition
against their mutual enemies, the Tories, red-coats, and Indians. Quick
of perception, rapid in his conclusions and his actions, light of foot,
and brave as a lion, he was an enemy whom the Indians feared, and a
friend whom all reckoned as second only to the renowned Murphy himself.
The corps to which these celebrated marksmen belonged was attached to
the expedition of Generals Clinton and Sullivan against the Six Nations
in 1779. Elerson was with Clinton when that officer halted at Otsego
Lake, to await the coming up of his superior, from the direction of
Wyoming. While the army lay at this place, Elerson rambled off from the
main body, in search of adventure, and _pulse_ for the dinner of the
mess to which he belonged. Regardless of danger, he wandered about until
he had procured a quantity of the weed, when he prepared to return to
camp. It seems that he had been discovered and tracked by a party of
Indians, who determined upon his capture. As he was adjusting his
burden, he heard a rustling of the leaves near him. Looking in the
direction indicated, he discovered a band of six or eight Indians,
stationed between him and the camp, so as to cut off his retreat in that
direction, and who were in the act of springing upon him. Conscious of
their object—for he might have been shot down with ease—he determined to
foil them if in his power, knowing full well the fate of a prisoner in
their hands. Seizing his rifle, he dropped his bundle, and fled through
the only avenue left open for his escape, followed by the whole pack,
hooting and yelling at his heels. As he started to run, half a dozen
tomahawks were hurled at him, and came whizzing and flying through the
air. Fortunately but one reached its object, and that nearly cut the
middle finger from his left hand. With the agility of the hunted stag,
Elerson bounded over an old brushwood fence which stood in his path, and
darted into the shades of the forest, followed by his no less rapid
pursuers. Aware that the course he had taken was away from the camp—so
also were his enemies—he prepared himself for a mighty effort, trusting
that an opportunity would offer to "double" and find his way back. Vain
hope! The Indians, aware that such would naturally be his aim, took care
to prevent it by spreading themselves somewhat in the form of a
crescent; but, in so doing, they nearly lost sight of their prey.
Fearful that he might escape, they discharged their rifles—hoping to
wound or kill him—but with no effect. The brave fellow tried every nerve
to outstrip, and every stratagem and device to mislead his savage
pursuers; but they were too cunning to be deceived, and kept on his
track with the ardor of blood-hounds. Four long hours the chase
continued thus, until overtasked nature threatened to give way, and
yield him to the tomahawk and scalping-knives of his enemies. Like some
powerful engine, his heart was forcing the blood through his distended
and throbbing veins, which were swollen to bursting with the mighty
efforts of the chase. His breath came short and rapid, betokening a
speedy termination of the race, unless a breathing spell was afforded
him. An opportunity at last was offered, when, having, as he thought,
outstripped his pursuers for a moment, he halted in a little lonely dell
to recover his waning strength. His hope was destined to disappointment,
however, for the circle closed in upon him, and the bust of an Indian
presented itself at a slight opening in front. He raised his rifle to
fire, but at that moment a shot from his rear admonished him that danger
was all around; another took effect in his side, and warned him of the
danger of delay. The Indian in front had disappeared, and he hastened
forward, with the love of life still strong in his breast. The wound in
his side bled freely, although only a flesh-wound, and therefore not
dangerous nor painful. It served, however, to track him by, and,
conscious of the fact, he managed to tear a strip from his hunting-shirt
and staunch the blood. On, on went pursuer and pursued—over hill and
dale, brook, stream-let and running stream—through brier and bramble,
through field and wood—until the parched and burning tongue of the
fugitive protruded from his mouth swelled to such distention as almost
to stop his breathing. Exhausted nature could do no more; he threw
himself prostrate on the bank of a tiny brook, resolved to yield the
contest for the sake of a hearty draught of its clear, sparkling waters.
He bathed his brow in the cool element, and drank deeply of its reviving
virtues. Raising his head, he discovered the foremost of the now
scattered and equally exhausted enemy, crossing the brow of a ridge over
which he had just passed. The instinct of preservation was awakened
afresh in his bosom at the sight; he started to his feet and raised his
rifle, but failing strength would not allow of a certain aim, and an
empty weapon would insure his death. Another moment, and he would be at
the mercy of his enemy, without hope or chance of life. Again he raised
his trusty rifle, and, steadying its barrel against a sapling, he
secured his aim, fired, and the Indian fell headlong in death. Before
the echoes of the report had died away in the neighboring hills, he
beheld the remainder of the band of eager, hungry pursuers coming over
the ridge; he then felt that his minutes indeed were numbered. Hidden
partially by the tree behind which he stood, they did not discover him,
however; and while they paused over the body of their fallen comrade, he
made another attempt to fly. He staggered forward—fell—and, exerting his
failing powers to the utmost, he managed to reach a thicket of young
trees, overgrown with wild vines, into which he threw himself with the
energy of desperation. Fortune favored him; he discovered the rotten
trunk of a fallen tree, whose hollow butt, hidden and screened by the
deep shadow of the surrounding foliage, offered an asylum from the
impending death which seemed so near. The approaching steps of the
savages quickened his movements, as he crawled head first into the
recess, which was barely large enough to admit his person. Here he lay
within hearing of the efforts made to discover his hiding-place, until
they died away in the distance. Conscious, however, that the Indians
would search long and anxiously for him, he lay in this situation for
two days and nights. When he ventured out he knew not which way to turn,
but striking off at random, he soon emerged upon a clearing near
Cobbleskill—a distance of twenty-five miles from his place of starting.
The brave fellow had earned his liberty; and the Indians never ceased to
recur to the race, with grunts of approbation at the white man's power
of endurance.
Another race for life, not so lengthy, but equally exciting while it
lasted, is related in the historical records of Kentucky—that State
whose infancy was "baptized in blood." William Kennan, a brother spirit
of Kenton, Hunt, and Boone, a ranger renowned for strength and courage,
had joined the expedition of St. Clair against the Indians. In the
course of the march from Fort Washington he had repeated opportunities
of testing his surprising powers, and was admitted to be the swiftest
runner of the light corps. This expedition of St. Clair was organized
after the disastrous defeat of Harmar by the Indians, in 1779.
Washington, who was at this time President, determined to employ a force
sufficient to crush out the savages. This force was to have been two
thousand regular troops, composed of cavalry, infantry and artillery,
and a large number of militia which were ordered to move from the
several States in which they had been enlisted, toward Fort Washington,
now Cincinnati, where the men rendezvoused in September. The object of
the campaign was to establish a line of posts, stretching from the Ohio
to the Maumee, to build a strong post on the latter river, and by
leaving in it a garrison of a thousand men, to enable the commander of
the fort to send out detachments to keep the Indians in awe. But there
was difficulty about organizing the army, St. Clair being very unpopular
in Kentucky; the season was far advanced before he took the field, and
when he did, he had only about two thousand men all told, and from
these, desertions were continually taking place. The Kentucky levies
were reckless and ungovernable, the conscripts from the other States
were dissatisfied, and to make matters worse, the mountain leader, a
Chickasaw chief, whose knowledge of Indian tactics would have been
invaluable, losing faith in the success of the whites, abandoned the
enterprise with his band of warriors.
St. Clair, however, continued his march; and on the evening of the third
of November, halted on one of the tributaries of the Wabash. A few
Indians were seen, who fled with precipitation. The troops encamped; the
regulars and levies in two lines, covered by the stream; the militia on
the opposite shore, and about a quarter of a mile in advance. Still
further in advance was posted Captain Hough with a company of regulars.
His orders were to intercept small parties of the enemy, should they
venture to approach the camp, and to give intelligence of any
occurrences which might transpire.
Colonel Oldham, who commanded the Kentucky levies, such as had not
deserted, was cautioned to remain on the alert during the night, and to
send out patrols of twenty-five or thirty men each, in different
directions, before daylight, to scour the adjoining woods.
Kennan was with one of these patrols. Just as day was dawning he
perceived about thirty Indians within one hundred yards of the guard
fire, cautiously approaching the spot where he, with about twenty other
rangers, stood, the rest of his company being considerably in the rear.
Supposing it to be a mere scouting party, not superior in numbers to the
rangers, he sprung forward a few paces to shelter himself in a spot of
tall grass, where, after firing with quick aim upon the foremost savage,
he fell flat upon his face, rapidly reloading his gun, not doubting but
what his companions would maintain their position.
However, as the battle afterward proved, this, instead of being a
scouting-party of savages, was the front rank of their whole body, who
had chosen their favorite hour of daybreak for a fierce assault upon the
whites, and who now marched forward in such overwhelming masses, that
the rangers were compelled to fly, leaving Kennan in total ignorance of
his danger. Fortunately, the Captain of his company, observing him throw
himself in the grass, suddenly exclaimed:
"Run, Kennan! or you are a dead man!"
Instantly springing to his feet, he beheld the Indians within ten feet
of him, while his company was more than a hundred yards in front. He had
no time for thought; but the instinct of self-preservation prompted him
to dart away, while the yells of his pursuers seemed absolutely close in
his ears. He fancied he could feel their hot breath. At first, he
pressed straight toward the usual fording-place in the creek, which was
between the savages and the main army. Ten feet behind him! ay, they
were before, and all about him! Several savages had passed him, as he
lay in the grass, without discovering him; and these now turned, heading
him off from the ford.
There was but one way possible for him to reach the camp, which was to
dart aside, between his pursuers, and make a long circuit. He had not
succeeded in reloading his rifle; with a pang of regret, he threw it
down, for it encumbered him, in the exertions he was making, and putting
every nerve to its utmost strain, he bounded aside and onward. Running
like a deer, he soon had the relief of outstripping all his pursuers but
one, a young chief, perhaps Messhawa, who displayed a swiftness and
perseverance equal to his own.
Here was a race worth seeing! With long, panther-like bounds, the agile
Indian chased the fugitive, who scarcely knew whether he fled on air or
earth. The distance between them on the start was about eighteen feet;
the herculean efforts of Kennan could not make it one inch more, nor the
equally powerful leaps of the savage make it one inch less. Kennan was
at a great disadvantage. He had to watch the pending blow of his
adversary, whose tomahawk was poised in the air, ready for the first
favorable opportunity to be discharged at him. This gave him small
chance to pick his footsteps with prudence.
Growing tired of this contest of skill, in which neither gained, the
ranger, seeing that no other Indian was near enough to interfere,
resolved to end the matter by a hand-to-hand conflict. Feeling in his
belt for his knife, he found that it was gone.
"I'm tellin' the straight out-and-out truth, my friends," Kennan used to
remark, when he related this adventure, "when I felt for sartin that
knife was lost, my ha'r just lifted my cap off my head—it stood straight
up—that's a fact!"
But if fear lifted his hair up, it lifted his body up, likewise. The
thought of his unarmed condition gave him wings, which, verily, he
needed, for he had slackened his pace as he felt for his knife, and the
tomahawk of his enemy was now almost at his shoulder.
For the first time he gained ground a trifle. He had watched the motions
of his pursuer so closely, however, as not to pay attention to the
nature of the ground, so that he suddenly found himself in front of a
large tree, which had been torn up by the winds, and whose dry branches
and trunk made an obstacle eight or nine feet high. As he paused before
this hindrance, the young chief gave a whoop of triumph.
"Yell yer throat open, yer blasted red blood-hound!" thought the
invincible Kentucky ranger.
Putting his soul into the effort, he bounded into the air with a power
which astonished himself as much as his pursuers; trunk, limbs, brush,
were cleared—he alighted in perfect safety on the other side. A loud
yell of amazement burst from the band of savages who witnessed the feat,
which not even the young chief, Messhawa, had the hardihood to repeat.
Kennan, however, had no leisure to enjoy his triumph. Dashing into the
creek, where its high banks protected him from the fire of the Indians,
he ran up the edge of the stream until he came to a convenient
crossing-place, when he rejoined the encampment, where he threw himself
on the ground, exhausted by his exertions.
He had little time for rest. The Indians had begun a furious attack,
which raged for three hours, and which resulted in a defeat of the
whites still more disastrous than that of Harmar's.
In the retreat which followed, Kennan was attached to the battalion
which had the dangerous service of protecting the rear. This corps
quickly lost its commander, Major Clarke, and was completely
demoralized. Kennan was among the hindmost when the retreat commenced;
but the same powers which had saved him in the morning enabled him to
gain the front, passing several horsemen in his flight. The retreat of
the whole army was in the utmost disorder. The camp, artillery, baggage
and wounded were left in the hands of the enemy. Most of the officers,
who had fought bravely, were already fallen.
St. Clair himself, who had been confined to his tent with the gout, made
his escape on a pack-horse, which he could neither mount nor dismount
without assistance. The flying troops made their way back to Fort
Jefferson. Under such circumstances, it may be imagined that the line of
flight was a scene of fearful disorder. The Indians, making matters more
appalling by their yells of triumph, pursued the routed foe. Giving up
all efforts to protect the rear, the battalion to which Kennan belonged
fled as it could, every man for himself.
It was here, as he was making good his own retreat, that our hero came
across a private in his own company, an intimate friend, lying upon the
ground with his thigh broken, who, in tones of piercing distress,
implored each horseman to take him up. When he beheld Kennan coming up
on foot he stretched out his hands entreatingly. Notwithstanding the
imminent peril, his friend could not withstand this passionate appeal;
he lifted him upon his back, and ran in that manner several hundred
yards.
The enemy gained upon them so fast that Kennan saw the death of both was
certain unless he relinquished his burden. He told his friend that he
had done all he could for him, but that it was in vain. He could not
save him, and unless he wished both to perish, to let go his clasp about
his neck. The unhappy man only clung the more tenaciously; Kennan
staggered on under his burden, until the foremost of the enemy were
within twenty yards of him—then, yielding to a cruel necessity, he drew
his knife from its sheath and severed the fingers of the wounded man,
who fell to the ground, and was tomahawked three minutes after.
But if unsuccessful in the attempt to save this fated fellow-soldier, he
had the pleasure, before the race was over, of saving the life of one
who afterward became his warm and helpful friend.
Darting forward with renewed swiftness, after cutting his burden from
him, he was again out of immediate danger, when he came across a young
man, sitting upon a log, calmly awaiting the approach of his enemies. He
was deadly pale, but his refined and handsome face wore not the least
expression of fear.
"Don't you know the red-skins are upon us?" called out the ranger.
"I know it; but I can not help it. I have never been strong, and now I
am wounded. I could not take another step to save my life. Go on—don't
stop to pity me."
Kennan was too brave himself not to admire the calm courage of this
young man. He looked about. A short distance off he saw an exhausted
horse, refreshing himself upon the luxuriant grass. Running after the
animal, he caught him without difficulty, brought him up, assisted the
wounded stranger to mount, and ran by his side until they were out of
danger. Fortunately the pursuit ceased about that time, the spoils of
the camp offering attractions to the savages more irresistible even than
the blood of the remaining whites. The stranger thus saved by Kennan was
Madison, afterward Governor of Kentucky, who continued through life the
friendship formed that day.
Kennan never entirely recovered from the superhuman exertions he was
compelled to make on that disastrous day.
Of this melancholy campaign of St. Clair's, Hall, in his sketches of the
West, says: "The fault was not in the leader, but in the plan of the
expedition, and the kind of troops employed. All that an old commander
could effect with such a force, under the circumstances by which he was
surrounded and overruled, was accomplished by General St. Clair. The
brilliant talents of this brave soldier and veteran patriot were exerted
in vain in the wilderness. The wariness and perseverance of Indian
warfare created every day new obstacles and unforeseen dangers; the
skill of the experienced leader was baffled, and undisciplined force
prevailed over military science. The art of the tactician proved
insufficient when opposed to a countless multitude of wily savages,
protected by the labyrinths of the forest and aided by the terrors of
the climate. At a moment of fancied security his troops were assailed
upon all sides by a numerous and well-organized foe, who had long been
hanging on his flanks, and had become acquainted with his strength, his
order of encampment, and the distribution of his force—who knew when to
attack and where to strike."
The loss on this occasion was mournfully great; thirty-eight officers
and eight hundred men were slain.
Hall further says: "In reference to all these (Indian) wars, it has
never been sufficiently urged, that they were but a continuation, and a
protracted sequel to the War of Independence. For years after the United
States had been acknowledged as a nation, Great Britain continued to
hold a number of military posts within her Northwestern limits, and _to
urge a destructive warfare through her savage allies_. It was against
_Britain_ that St. Clair, Harmar, Wayne and Harrison fought; and they,
with others, who bled in those Western wilds, contributed as much to the
purchase of our independence, as those who fought for our birthright at
an earlier period."
Oh, _mother_-country; how very like the worst personification of a
stepmother thou hast ever been, and still art, to this fairest of thy
children.
The Indians are remarkable for fleetness of foot and endurance. Trained
from childhood to the forest and chase, to run without tiring is one of
their most esteemed virtues. They have been known frequently to run down
the deer. We have seen them, on the western plains, exhaust the horse in
the contest for strength of "wind." One savage of the Osages used to run
from one village to another, a distance of fifteen miles, in one hundred
minutes, for a swallow of "fire-water," and his squaw once performed the
feat in the space of two hours, for the price of three yards of red
ribbon. The stories now related of Ellerson and Kennan prove that, in
speed and endurance, the white man sometimes excels even the savages. We
shall, in the course of these pages, have occasion to mention other
instances of running for life.