WOMEN DEFENDING THE WAGON.
CAPTIVITY OF JONATHAN ALDER
MOODY THE REFUGEE.
THE LEAP FOR LIFE.
NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS,
118 WILLIAM STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by
BEADLE AND COMPANY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for
the Southern District of New York.
THE
WOMEN DEFENDING THE WAGON.
Between the Blue Ridge and the western range of the Alleghany Mountains,
in the northern part of the State of Virginia, is located Shenandoah
County, which derives its name from the beautiful river, one branch of
which flows through its entire length, from south to north. Its county
seat is Woodstock, a thriving town, with a population of between one and
two thousand inhabitants. This place was settled, previous to the French
and Indian war, by hardy German yeomanry from Pennsylvania, who were
tempted to leave the rugged hills of the Keystone State, by the glowing
reports which had reached their ears of the surprising fertility and
beauty of the valley of the Shenandoah. Gathering up their household
goods, they turned their backs upon the homes of their first choice, and
took their way through pathless forests to "the promised land." Arrived
at their new home, they selected the site of the present flourishing
town as the nucleus of the settlement, and commenced, with a will, the
laborious task of felling the forest and the erection of their homes. A
stockade fort was erected as a protection against the incursions of
predatory bands of Indians. A short time sufficed to place them in
circumstances which, if not actually flourishing, were comparatively
thrifty, and so far promising as to the future, that they were led to
look forward with hope to a long continued prosperity. They were a
plain, frugal and industrious people, unacquainted with the luxuries and
only desiring the substantial requisites of an humble life, which were
furnished in abundance by the fertile soil of the valley in which they
had taken up their abode. A traveler among them during the French and
Indian war thus speaks of their happy condition:
"I could not but reflect with pleasure upon the situation of these
people, and think, if there is such a thing as true happiness, in this
life, they enjoy it. Far from the bustle of the world, they live in the
most delightful climate and possess the richest soil imaginable. They
are everywhere surrounded by beautiful prospects and sylvan scenes.
Lofty mountains, transparent streams, falls of water, rich valleys and
majestic woods—the whole interspersed with an infinite variety of
flowering shrubs—constitute the landscape surrounding them. They are
subject to few diseases, are generally robust, and live in perfect
liberty. They are ignorant of want, and are acquainted with few vices.
Their inexperience of the elegancies of life precludes any regret that
they have not the means of enjoying them; but they possess what many
princes would give half their dominions for—health, content and
tranquility of mind."
Among others who had been attracted to this valley by the glowing
accounts of its fertility and comparative security, were two heads of
families by the names of Sheits and Taylor. The former was of German
parentage, the latter of English birth, but having both married American
women, and being drawn together by that bond of sympathy which, in a new
country, where danger is a common heritage, unites with a stronger tie
than that of blood—they were more like one family than two separate
households.
Being driven from their homes by the massacre of two of their neighbors
and their families, they hastily collected a few necessaries, placed
them, with their wives and children, in a wagon, to which was attached
their respective horses, and started in search of a new home. Woodstock
was the nearest town, or station, where there was a fort, and toward
that place they directed their steps.
The family of Taylor embraced himself, wife, and three children, while
that of Sheits numbered but three—himself, wife, and one child. The few
articles which the limited room in the wagon, and the hurried nature of
their departure allowed them to remove, were a chest of drawers, which
was a gift from the parents of Mrs. T., a feather bed, also a parental
gift to Mrs. S., a brass kettle or two, some few culinary articles, and
the axes and rifles of the men. These and their horses, and a stout farm
wagon, were all they had saved, yet they were well content to come off
with their lives, and trudged along, satisfied if they could but reach a
haven of safety from the barbarities which had been inflicted upon their
less fortunate neighbors and friends.
The greater portion of their way lay through the forest, where every
sound to their affrighted ears gave token of an enemy lurking in their
path, and the rustling of a leaf, or the sighing wind, awoke their
fears, and called up their latent courage. This had been passed,
however, in safety, and they had reached the brow of the hill from
whence they had a view of the beautiful valley below, where they hoped
to find a haven of rest. Pausing for a moment to admire the scene which
opened before them, they gave vent to their feelings in eulogies upon
the lovely landscape, and words of encouragement to their wives and
children. Alas, as they spoke, the deadly rifle of a concealed foe was
leveled full at their breasts, and the savage red-skin was thirsting for
their blood, within a few feet of them. Hidden by the thick underbrush
which grew up by the side of the road, five tawny warriors, painted and
bedecked with their war feathers, lay crouching like wild beasts, ready
to spring upon their prey. Just as they started to resume their way, and
descend the hill toward the settlement, the crack of two rifles, the
whizzing of two leaden messengers, and the fall of their husbands,
alarmed the women and widowed them at the same instant. The aim had been
sure, and both the men fell without a groan, pierced through the heart
with a bullet from an unerring rifle. Quick as the flash from a summer
cloud were all their hopes of safety and future happiness blasted,
stricken to the earth with the fall of their husbands. No cry escaped
the now bereaved women. Their feelings were too deep for utterance, nor
was there any time for grief or repining. Left in an instant
self-dependent, they looked around for the foe and for means of defense.
Nothing was within reach but the axes of their husbands; these they
seized, awaiting the onset of the savages. They had not long to wait.
Pushing aside the foliage, the five warriors sprang, with a grunt of
satisfaction, from the thicket into the road, and made for the wagon to
secure their prisoners. The first who came up seized the son of Mrs.
Taylor, and endeavored to drag him from the wagon, but the little fellow
resisted manfully, looking, meanwhile, up into his mother's face, as if
to implore protection at her hands. The appeal was not lost upon her.
Seizing, with both hands, the axe of her husband, and swinging it around
her head, she brought it down, with all the vengeful force of her arm,
upon the shoulder of the Indian, inflicting a wound which sent him off
howling with pain. Turning to another, she served him in like manner,
while Mrs. Sheits had sent a third back to his lair with a severe blow
across the hand which severed all his fingers. The other two were wise
enough to keep without the reach of their blows, but endeavored to
intimidate them by terrific yells and brandished tomahawks. Nothing
daunted, however, the heroic women maintained their attitude of defense,
until wearied of their efforts, and, fearing the approach of relief from
the garrison of the fort, the two unwounded Indians rushed into the
thicket for their rifles, to end the conflict. Taking advantage of this
opportunity, the women started the horses, and the red-skins, not daring
to pursue them, they were permitted to reach the fort in safety, from
which a party set out to bring in the dead and scalped bodies of their
husbands.
Stories of such danger and fortitude as this can be but dimly realized
by the women of to-day. Yet the annals of our early history are all too
painfully darkened by such records; and it is well for the heroes of the
prosperous present to know through what hardships this rich inheritance
was secured to them. Emigration did not stop in Virginia any more than
it had rested in Pennsylvania:
"Westward to the star of empire takes its way;"
and the glorious Valley of the Mississippi won forward the daring steps
of the pioneers. It is known how long and terrible was the contest by
which Kentucky was wrested, inch by inch, from her ancient owners, until
her lovely soil, baptized in sorrow, received the name of the "dark and
bloody ground." Here, as always where there is a chance for her
development, and she is permitted to play her free part by the side of
man, woman did her share of the onerous work, and had her share of the
perils. One of the most terrible of the family histories of that period
is the following, of the household of a widow, by the name of Shanks,
full particulars of which are given in the history of Kentucky.
On the night of the 10th of April, 1787, the house of Mrs. Shanks, on
Cooper's Run, in Bourbon County, was attacked by Indians. This house,
which was a double cabin, consisting of two rooms, with an open way
between, contained, at the time the assault was made, besides the widow
herself, a widowed daughter, three other daughters, a young girl, and
two sons of adult age. Although the hour was near midnight, one of the
young men still remained up, and in the opposite room a sister was
busily engaged at the loom.
An hour before, while they were yet unconscious of the actual presence
of Indians, the suspicions of the son was aroused by the cry of owls,
hooting to each other in the adjoining wood, in a rather unusual manner,
and by the terror and excitement of the horses, who were enclosed, as
customary, in a pound near the house.
Several times the young man was on the point of awaking his brother, but
as often refrained, through fear of being ridiculed for his timidity. At
length hasty steps were heard without, and then came several sharp
knocks at the door, accompanied by the usual question of the wayfarer,
"Who keeps this house?" spoken in very good English.
He hastily advanced to withdraw the bolt which secured the door,
supposing the new comer to be some benighted settler, when his mother,
whose greater experience had probably detected the Indian accent,
instantly sprang out of bed, and warned her son that the men outside
were savages.
The other son being by this time aroused, the two young men, seizing
their rifles, which were always charged, prepared to repel the enemy.
Conscious that their true character was discovered, the Indians now
strove to break in the door; but a single shot from the loop-hole
compelled them to shift their point of attack, when, unfortunately, they
discovered the door of the other cabin, which contained the three
daughters.
By some oversight in the construction of the cabin, none of the loops
enabled the brothers to cover the door of the room in which their
sisters were. The Indians soon forced it open by means of rails taken
from the yard fence. The girls being thus placed at the mercy of the
savages, one was instantly secured; but the eldest defended herself
desperately with a knife, and succeeded in mortally wounding a savage
before she was tomahawked. The youngest girl darted out into the yard,
and might have escaped in the darkness; but the poor creature ran around
the house, and, wringing her hands in terror, kept crying out that her
sisters were killed.
The brothers, agonized almost to madness by her cries, were prepared to
sally out to her assistance, when their mother stayed them, and calmly
declared that the child must be abandoned to her fate. The next instant,
the child uttered a loud scream, followed by a few faint moans, and then
all was silent.
That portion of the house which had been occupied by the daughters was
now set on fire, and the flames soon communicating to the opposite room,
the brothers were compelled to fling open the door, and attempt to seek
safety by flight.
The old lady, supported by her eldest son, sought to cross the fence at
one point, while the widowed daughter, with her child in her arms, and
attended by the younger of the brothers, ran in a different direction.
The blazing roof shed a light over the yard but little inferior to that
of day, and the savages were distinctly seen awaiting the approach of
their victims. The old lady was permitted to reach the stile unmolested,
but, in the act of crossing, received several balls in her breast, and
fell dead. Her son providentially remained unhurt, and, by extraordinary
agility, effected his escape. The other brother, being assailed by the
Indians, defended his sister desperately for some time, and drew the
attention of the savages so closely to himself, that she succeeded in
eluding their vigilance. The brave and devoted young man was less
fortunate; he fell beneath repeated blows from the tomahawks of his
enemies, and was found at daylight, scalped and mangled in a most
shocking manner.
Of the whole family, consisting of eight persons when the attack
commenced, only three escaped. Four were killed on the spot, and one,
the second daughter, carried off prisoner.
The alarm was soon given, and by daylight thirty men were assembled
under Colonel Edwards, who pursued the Indian trail at a gallop,
tracking the footsteps of the savages in the snow. The trail led
directly into the mountainous country bordering upon Licking, and
afforded evidences of great precipitation on the part of the Indians.
Unfortunately, a hound had been permitted to accompany the whites, and,
as the trail became fresh, and the scent warm, she pursued it with
eagerness, baying loudly and giving alarm to the savages. The
consequence of this imprudence was soon displayed. The enemy, finding
the pursuit keen, and perceiving the strength of their prisoner
beginning to fail, instantly sank their tomahawks in her head, and left
her, still warm and bleeding, upon the snow. As the whites came up, she
retained strength enough to wave her hand in token of recognition, and
appeared desirous of giving them some information in regard to the
enemy; but her strength was too far gone. Her brother sprang from his
horse, and endeavored to stop the effusion of blood, but in vain. She
gave him her hand, muttered some inarticulate words, and expired within
two minutes after the arrival of the party.
The pursuit was renewed with additional ardor, and, in twenty minutes,
the enemy was within view. They had taken possession of a narrow ridge,
magnifying their numbers in the eyes of the whites, by running rapidly
from tree to tree, and maintaining a steady yell in their most appalling
tones.
The pursuers, however, were too experienced to be deceived by so common
an artifice. Being satisfied that the number of the enemy must be
inferior to their own, they dismounted, tied their horses, and flanking
out in such a manner as to enclose the savages, ascended as rapidly as
was consistent with a due regard to the shelter of their persons.
The firing commenced, and now they discovered, for the first time, that
only two Indians were opposed to them. They had voluntarily sacrificed
themselves for the safety of the main body, and had succeeded in
delaying pursuit until their friends could reach the mountains. One of
them was shot dead, and the other was badly wounded, as was evident from
the blood upon his blanket, as well as that which filled the snow for a
considerable distance. The pursuit was recommenced, and urged keenly
until night, when the trail entered a running stream, and was lost.
We know of nothing more powerfully illustrating the life led by the
women of those days, than the following statements, brief and simple as
they are, made in the record of General Samuel Dale:
"About this time Joe Horn and Dave Calhoun went to their clearings to
plant corn, very imprudently taking their wives and children with them,
who camped in the field. Being both off hunting one day, the prowling
savages made a clean sweep of these two families. The poor,
heart-stricken husbands, almost crazy, returned to the fort, and the
whole night was passed by all of us in lamentations and vows of
vengeance.
"For several months after this, we were not troubled, and my brother and
myself were boarded about ten miles off, at Halbert McClure's, to go to
school. Returning, one morning, from a visit home, we fell in with old
Mr. Bush, of Castlewood Fort, who informed us that he saw Shawnee
'signs' about, and that we must go back to Glade Hollow, and give the
alarm. Unfortunately, father had left, the day before, for the salt
works, on Holton river, and mother and the children were alone. About
nine at night, we saw two Indians approaching. Mother immediately threw
a bucket full of water on the fire, to prevent their seeing us, made us
lie on the floor, bolted and barred the door, and posted herself there
with an ax and a rifle. We never knew why they desisted from an attack,
or how father escaped, who rode up three hours afterward.
"In two or three days all of us set out for Clinch Mountain, to the
wedding of Hoppy Kincaid, a clever young fellow from Holston, and Sally
McClure, a fine, bouncing girl of seventeen, modest and pretty, yet
fearless and free. We knew the Shawnees were about—that our fort and
household effects must be left unguarded, and might probably be
destroyed—that we incurred the risk of a fight, or an ambuscade,
capture, or even death, on the road; but in those days, in that wild
country, folks did not calculate consequences closely, and the
temptation to a frolic, a feast, a wedding, a dance till daylight, and
often for several days together, was not to be resisted, and off we
went.
"In half an hour we fell in with Captain Barnett, and twenty men from
Holston, who warned us that Indians were about, and that he was scouting
for them. Father, ever eager for a fight, joined this company, and we
trudged on to Clinch Mountain. Instead of the bridal party, the
well-spread table, the ringing laughter, and the sounding feet of buxom
dancers, we found a pile of ashes and six or seven ghastly corpses,
tomahawked and scalped! Poor Hardy McClure was dead; several others lay
around. One daughter was still breathing, but soon expired. Mrs.
McClure, her infant, and three other children, including Sally, the
intended bride, had been carried off by the savages. They soon tore the
poor infant from its mother's arms, and killed it, that she might travel
faster.
"While they were scalping this child, Peggy McClure, a girl twelve years
old, perceived a sink-hole at her feet, and dropped silently into it. It
communicated with a ravine, down which she ran, and brought the news
into the settlement. The Indians were too apprehensive of pursuit to
search for her. The same night Sally, who had been tied and forced to
lie down between two warriors, contrived to loosen her thongs and make
her escape. She struck for the cane-brake, then for the river, and, to
conceal her trail, resolved to descend it. It was deep wading, and the
current was so rapid, she had to fill her petticoat with gravel to
steady herself. She soon, however, recovered confidence, returned to
shore, and finally reached the still-smoking homestead about dark next
evening. A few neighbors, well armed, had just buried the dead. Kincaid
was among them. The last prayer had been said when the orphan girl stood
among them, and was soon in the arms of her lover. Resolved to leave no
more to chance, at his entreaty, and by the advice of all, the weeping
girl gave her consent, and, by the grave of the household, and near the
ruined dwelling, they were immediately married."
Can imagination add anything to this vivid picture?