At the siege of Fort Henry, near Wheeling, by a band of Indians, under
the infamous Simon Girty, Major Samuel McCullough performed an act of
daring—nay, desperate horsemanship, which has seldom, if ever, been
equalled by man or beast, and before which the effort of the Pomfret
hero pales into insignificance. Let us turn to the record.
Fort Henry was situated about a quarter of a mile above Wheeling Creek,
on the left bank of the Ohio river, and was erected to protect the
settlers of the little village of Wheeling, which, at the time of its
investment, consisted of about twenty-five cabins. In the month of
September, 1775, it was invested by about four hundred warriors, on the
approach of whom the settlers had fled into it, leaving their cabins and
their contents to the torch of the savages. The whole force comprising
the garrison consisted of forty-two fighting men, all told; but there
were among them men who knew the use of the rifle, and who were
celebrated throughout the borders as the implacable enemies of the
red-man, and as the best marksmen in the world. Of these, however, more
than one half perished in an ill-advised sortie, before the siege
commenced, and, when the fort was surrounded by the foe, but sixteen men
remained to defend it against their overwhelming numbers. But their
mothers, wives and daughters were there, and nerved the Spartan band to
deeds of heroism to which the records of the wars of ancient and modern
history present no parallel. Here it was that Elizabeth Zane passed
through the fire of the whole body of red-skins, in the effort to bring
into the fort the ammunition so necessary to its defense; here it was,
also, that the wives and daughters of its noble defenders marched to a
spring, in point blank range of the ambuscaded Indians, in going to and
fro, for the purpose of bringing water for the garrison.
Messengers had been dispatched at the earliest alarm to the neighboring
settlements for succor, and, in response to the call, Captain Van
Swearingen, with fourteen men, arrived from Cross Creek, and fought his
way into the fort without the loss of a man. Soon afterward, a party of
forty horsemen, led by the brave and intrepid McCulloch, were seen
approaching, and endeavoring to force their way through the dense masses
of Indians, which nearly surrounded the station. Their friends within
the fort made every preparation to receive them, by opening the gates,
and organizing a sortie to cover their attempt. After a desperate
hand-to-hand conflict, in which they made several of the Indians bite
the dust, they broke through the lines, and entered the fort in triumph,
without the loss of an individual. All except their daring leader
succeeded in the effort. He was cut off, and forced to fly in an
opposite direction. McCulloch was as well known to the Indians as to the
whites, for his deeds of prowess, and his name was associated in their
minds with some of the most bloody fights in which the white and red-men
had contended. To secure him alive, therefore, that they might glut
their vengeance upon him, was the earnest desire of the Indians, and to
this end they put forth the most superhuman exertions. There were very
few among them who had not lost a relative by the unerring aim and skill
of the fearless woodsman, and they cherished toward him an almost
phrensied hatred, which could only be satisfied in his torture at the
stake.
With such feelings and incentives, they crowded around him as he dashed
forward in the rear of his men, and succeeded in cutting him off from
the gate. Finding himself unable to accomplish his entrance, and seeing
the uselessness of a conflict with such a force opposed to him, he
suddenly wheeled his horse, and fled in the direction of Wheeling hill,
at his utmost speed. A cloud of warriors started up at his approach, and
cut off his retreat in this direction, driving him back upon another
party who blocked up the path behind; while a third closed in upon him
on one of the other sides of the square. The fourth and open side was in
the direction of the brow of a precipitous ledge of rocks, nearly one
hundred and fifty feet in height, at the foot of which flowed the waters
of Wheeling Creek. As he momentarily halted and took a rapid survey of
the dangers which surrounded him on all sides, he felt that his chance
was a desperate one. The Indians had not fired a shot, and he well knew
what this portended, as they could easily have killed him had they
chosen to do so. He appreciated the feelings of hatred felt toward him
by the foe, and saw at a glance the intention to take him alive, if
possible, that his ashes might be offered up as a sacrifice to the manes
of their departed friends, slain by his hand. This was to die a thousand
deaths, in preference to which he determined to run the risk of being
dashed to pieces; and he struck his heels against the sides of his
steed, who sprang forward toward the precipice. The encircling warriors
had rapidly lessened the space between them and their intended victim,
and, as they saw him so completely within their toils, raised a yell of
triumph, little dreaming of the fearful energy which was to baffle their
expectations. As they saw him push his horse in the direction of the
precipice, which they had supposed an insurmountable obstacle to his
escape, they stood in amazement, scarcely believing that it could be his
intention to attempt the awful leap, which was, to all appearance,
certain death. McCulloch still bore his rifle, which he had retained, in
his right hand, and, carefully gathering up the bridle in his left, he
urged his noble animal forward, encouraging him by his voice, until they
reached the edge of the bank, when, dashing his heels against his sides,
they hung, shivering on the brink of the abyss:
"For the horse, in stark despair,
With his front hoofs poised in air,
On the last verge rears amain.
"Now he hangs, he rocks between,
And his nostrils curdle in;
Now he shivers, head and hoof,
And the flakes of foam fall off,
And his face grows fierce and thin!
"And a look of human wo,
From his staring eyes did go;
And a sharp cry uttered he
In a foretold agony
Of the headlong death below."
The next moment horse and rider were in the air. Down, down they went
with fearful velocity, without resistance or impediment, until one-half
of the space was passed over, when the horse's feet struck the smooth,
precipitous face of the rock, and the remainder of the distance was slid
and scrambled over until they reached the bottom, _alive and uninjured_!
With a shout which proclaimed his triumphant success to his foes above
him, McCulloch pushed his steed into the stream, and in a few moments
horse and rider were seen surmounting the banks on the opposite side.
No pursuit was attempted, nor was a shot fired at the intrepid rider.
His enemies stood, in awe-struck silence, upon the brow of the bank from
whence he had leaped, and, as he disappeared from their view, they
returned to the investment of the fort. They did not long continue their
unavailing efforts, however, for its capture; the numerous additions it
had received to its garrison, the fearlessness exhibited in its defense,
together with the feat they had witnessed, disheartened them, and they
beat a hasty retreat on the morning after the event I have attempted to
describe—not, however, until they had reduced to ashes the cabins
without the stockade, and slaughtered some three hundred head of cattle
belonging to the settlers.
An adventure equally marvellous, and somewhat resembling this, is
related of Major Robert Rogers.
Among the most noted characters, whose exploits upon the frontier a
century since were the theme and admiration of every tongue, the leader
of the celebrated "Rogers' Rangers" stands pre-eminent. He was a man
tall, vigorous, and lithe as the panther of the forest, with an eye that
never quailed before the gaze of any human being. A perfect master of
the art of woodcraft, he was resolute and fearless, and yet so cautious
at times as to incur a suspicion of cowardice; but, although his name is
tarnished by treachery to his own native state and country, the
impartial observer of his life and actions cannot fail to award him the
most unflinching courage and bravery.
Robert Roberts was born in New Hampshire, and, about the year 1760, was
the leader of a body of provincial rangers, known by his own name. Among
his associates was Israel Putnam, whose most daring exploits were
performed while engaged with him in his forest warfare.
The date which brought Rogers into notice was that in which the great
rival nations, France and England, were striving for the possession of
the American continent. The rivalry had been going on for years, and, as
might be expected, the Indians had been brought into the contest. These,
almost invariably, were upon the side of the French; but it availed
nothing in the end. The steady, indomitable, persevering spirit of the
English settler could be stayed by no obstacle, and France saw that
slowly and surely the red cross was supplanting her own _fleur de lis_
in the depths of the American forest.
Rogers' principal theater of action was that wild, mountainous region
round Lake George, "the dark and bloody ground" intervening between the
hostile forts of Crown Point and Ticonderoga. Here, in these gloomy
solitudes, his resolute spirit encountered the jealous French, with
their wily Indian allies, and here some of the most sanguinary conflicts
and desperate encounters of the war occurred. More than once did the
lonely hunter encounter this band threading their way through the woods
as silent and as cautious as the savage himself; in summer they glided
across and around the lake in their canoes, building their camp-fires in
the wildest gorges of that romantic country; and in winter they skirted
it on snow-shoes, or shot from one portion to another on skates. Their
daring soon made their name famous through every civilized portion of
the country. If a French messenger left Ticonderoga, he was almost
certain to fall into the hands of Rogers, and any scouting party that
ventured forth was sure to get a taste of the mettle of these fellows
before they returned. But for the subsequent course of Rogers, he might
be not unaptly termed the _Marion of the frontier_.
[Illustration:
The Leap for Life.—_Page_ 46.
]
It was sometimes the custom of Rogers to leave his men in camp, and
venture into the forest unaccompanied by any one. At such times he often
wandered a dozen miles away, easily making his way back through the
trackless forest at night again. It was on one of these occasions that
he met with the following adventure.
It was in the dead of winter, and his men, as usual, were on snow-shoes.
They encamped at night in a deep hollow along the lake, and the next
morning Rogers left them, with instructions to remain in their present
quarters until his return.
He took a direction toward Ticonderoga, and, about the middle of the
day, reached a point near the northern end of the lake. During this
journey, it is hardly necessary to say that he was on the alert for his
enemies. He knew they lurked in every part of the forest, and that the
scalp of no white man would afford half the rejoicing that his would. Up
to this point, however, his experienced eye had failed to detect the
first signs of their presence.
He was contemplating the scene around, carefully taking in all its
parts, when he heard the breaking of the snow-crust behind him. Turning
his head, he discovered, in one instant, that he had walked directly
into a trap. On one side was the steep, precipitous side of the
mountain, descending down to the lake; while on the other, radiating
outward, so as to cut off all escape, he saw nearly thirty Indians
rapidly shuffling toward him on their snow-shoes, yelling with delight
and exultation at the prospect of his certain capture.
They had probably followed him for miles, in the hope of taking him
alive, and he had thus given them a better opportunity than even they
dared hope for.
Rogers comprehended his imminent danger, but he stood a moment as quiet
and self-possessed as if they were his own men approaching. It took
scarcely a second for him to understand his situation. He saw it was
impossible to elude the Indians by undertaking to _dodge through
them_—that is, by running toward them; they were too many, and the space
afforded was too small.
"Howsumever, here's my compliments," said Rogers, raising his rifle and
shooting the leader of the party, "and you haven't got my top-knot yet."
With this, he threw his rifle from him, and started off at the top his
speed, the pack pursuing with yells and shouts. Rogers was very fleet of
foot, and for a short distance he gained ground upon his pursuers. It
was not exactly running, as a man on snow-shoes can not properly be said
to do that. The motion is entirely different, the feet not being lifted,
but shoved forward with all rapidity possible. As Rogers expressed it,
he did some "tall sliding" on that occasion, the truth of which will
soon be apparent.
At the moment of starting he had no well-defined idea of what he should
do; but after going a few rods, he formed the determination that, before
falling into the hands of the Indians, he would _go over the mountain_!
Those who have seen the mountain, near the northern end of Lake George,
known as "Roger's slide" (the name of which is derived from the
circumstance here given), will understand the appalling nature of such
an exploit as Rogers contemplated. Any sane man would consider it
downright suicide. We know not the exact distance of this descent, but
are certain that it is more than _one thousand feet_ to the edge of the
lake, and the entire distance a sheer precipice.
But Rogers did not hesitate; there was no time for hesitation. His
mortal enemies were behind and approaching. He reached the edge of the
mountain. He saw the white, field-like surface of Lake George far below
him, and the long, glistening snowy descent stretching down, down, down,
till the brain grew dizzy with looking. He appeared but a mere speck on
the summit, viewed from below, so great was his height. He gave one
glance behind him, sprang high in the air, so as to give his body a
momentum at starting, and squatting on his snow-shoes, down he went.
Oh, the ecstacy of that ride! Nothing on earth could equal it. Rogers
has said that the most thrilling moment of his life was the one occupied
in that fearful descent. As his body gathered motion, a feeling similar
to that produced by electricity passed through him, and for the space of
five minutes he was in reality insane. Downward he shot like a meteor,
his passage through the still air making it seem like a hurricane, and
the fine, sand-like particles of snow making him appear as if shrouded
in mist to the amazed Indians above. Rogers scarcely breathed. He saw
nothing, felt nothing but a wild ecstacy, and knew nothing, until he
awoke, as it were, and found himself gliding far out on the surface of
the lake, carried forward by the irresistible impulse he had gained in
his descent.
Then he arose and looked about him. His snow-shoes were worn out by the
friction, and taking them off, he cast them from him. The Indians still
stood at the top of the mountain; but on beholding his exploit, they
believed him under the protection of the Great Spirit, and did not
attempt to continue the chase. Rogers made his way back to his company,
reaching them late at night, and none the worse for his adventure,
except in the loss of his snow-shoes and his rifle.
There are many other incidents connected with Rogers' career, but the
one given will suffice to show the intrepid spirit that ever
characterized him.
As if to prove that, brave as the pioneers were, they had their peers
amid the "red-skins," we find the record of a leap, almost as marvelous
as that of McCullough, performed by Weatherford, the celebrated
half-breed, who gave Jackson trouble in his efforts to rid the southern
country of the Indians.
It was on the 29th of December, 1813, that the Mississippi volunteers
attacked the Indians, under circumstances of almost unparalleled
difficulty, after enduring incredible hardships. Without tents or
blankets, without proper clothing, more than half starved, some of them
without shoes, in inclement weather, this heroic band had marched over
one hundred miles through a pathless forest, to meet and subdue the wary
foe. And now, on this 29th of December, says General Samuel Dale, who
was one of the party, "the weather was very wet and bitter cold; we had
neither meat, coffee, nor spirits." The savages were fortified in a
strong defensive position, a town which they called their holy city, and
which their prophets declared was invulnerable to the whites—that the
ground would open and swallow them up, should they venture to set foot
on it. Nevertheless, the gaunt volunteers, worn with their sufferings,
gave such fierce battle to the confident Indians, that they drove them
out of their holy city of refuge, and Weatherford, one of their most
trusted leaders, barely escaped destruction. He was mounted on a
powerful charger, and being hotly pursued by a band of whites, who knew
him well, and were eager to secure the prize, he urged his horse to its
utmost speed. Soon a ravine, at least twenty feet wide, and of great
depth, yawned before him; the very barrier of nature which he had relied
on as a protection in case of assault from enemies, now rose before him,
to threaten his own life. But he only drew the rein a little tighter,
spoke a low word to his favorite steed, and over the horrible ravine
flew the obedient animal, as if love and fear had given it wings—over
the gaping ruin, and down the bluff into the Alabama. The gallant
courser swam the river scornfully, his chief holding his rifle excitedly
over his head, and shouting his war-whoop exultingly, as he ascended the
opposite bank.
This renowned leader was born at the Hickory Ground, in the Creek
nation; his father, Charles Weatherford, was a Georgian; his mother, the
beautiful Schoya, was half-sister of the famous Creek chieftain, General
McGilivray. William Weatherford had not the education of his
grandfather, but nature had endowed him with a noble person, a brilliant
intellect, and commanding eloquence. He was, in every respect, the peer
of Tecumseh.
And now that we have mentioned the name of General Dale, we can not
forbear giving, in his own words, an account of one of his
characteristic adventures. His life was full of such. He calls it his
canoe fight:
"After this rencounter, I put thirty of my men on the east bank, where
the path ran directly by the river side. With twenty men I kept the
western bank, and thus we proceeded to Randon's Landing. A dozen fires
were burning, and numerous scaffolds for drying meat denoted a large
body of Indians; but none were visible. About half past ten, A. M., we
discovered a large canoe coming down stream. It contained eleven
warriors. Observing that they were about to land at a cane-brake just
above us, I called to my men to follow, and dashed for the brake with
all my might. Only seven of my men kept up with me. As the Indians were
in the act of landing, we fired. Two leaped into the water. Jim Smith
shot one as he rose, and I shot the other. In the meantime, they had
backed into deep water, and three Indians were swimming on the off side
of the canoe, which was thirty odd feet long, four feet deep, and three
feet beam, made of an immense cypress-tree, especially for the
transportation of corn. One of the warriors shouted to Weatherford (who
was in the vicinity, as it afterward appeared, but invisible to us):
'Yos-ta-hah! yos-ta-hah!' ('They are spoiling us.') This fellow was in
the water, his hands on the gunwale of the pirogue, and as often as he
rose to shout, we fired, but didn't make out to hit him. He suddenly
showed himself breast-high, whooping in derision, and said: 'Why don't
you shoot?' I drew my sight just between his hands, and as he rose again
I lodged a bullet in his brains. Their canoe then floated down with the
current. I ordered my men on the east bank to fetch the boats. Six of
them jumped into a canoe, and paddled to the Indians, when one of them
cried out: 'Live Injins! Back water, boys, back water!' and the
frightened fellows paddled back faster than they came. I next ordered
Cæsar, a free negro, to bring a boat. Seeing him hesitate, I swore I
would shoot him as soon as I got across. He crossed a hundred yards
below the Indians, and Jim Smith, Jerry Anstill, and myself, got in. I
made Cæsar paddle within forty paces, when all three of us leveled our
guns, and all three missed fire! As the two boats approached, one of the
red-skins hurled a scalping-knife at me. It pierced the boat through and
through, just grazing my thigh as it passed. The next minute the canoes
came in contact. I leaped up, placing one of my feet in each boat. At
the same instant, the foremost warrior leveled his rifle at my breast.
It flashed in the pan. As quick as lightning, he clubbed it, and aimed
at me a furious blow, which I partially parried, and, before he could
repeat it, I shivered his skull with my gun. In the meantime an Indian
had struck down Jerry, and was about to dispatch him, when I broke my
rifle over his head. It parted in two pieces. The barrel Jerry seized,
and renewed the fight. The stock I hurled at one of the savages. Being
then disarmed, Cæsar handed me his musket and bayonet. Finding myself
unable to keep the two canoes in juxtaposition, I resolved to bring
matters to an issue, and leaped into the Indian boat. My pirogue, with
Jerry, Jim and Cæsar, floated off. Jim fired, slightly wounding the
savage nearest me. _I now stood in the center of their canoe, two dead
at my feet, a wounded savage in the stern, who had been snapping his
piece at me, during the fight, and four powerful warriors in front._ The
first one directed a furious blow at me with a rifle; it glanced upon
the barrel of my musket, and I staved the bayonet through his body. As
he fell, the next one repeated the attack. A shot from Jerry Anstill
pierced his heart. Striding over them, the next sprang at me with his
tomahawk. I killed him with my bayonet, and his corpse lay between me
and the last of the party. I knew him well—Tas-cha-chee, a noted
wrestler, and the most famous ball-player of his clan. He paused a
moment, in expectation of my attack, but, finding me motionless, he
stepped backward to the bow of the canoe, shook himself, gave the
war-whoop of his tribe, and cried out: '_Samtholocco, Iana dahmaska,
ia-lanesthe, lipso, lipso, lanestha!_' ('Big Sam, I am a man! I am
coming! come on!') As he said this, with a terrific yell, he bounded
over the dead body of his comrade, and directed a blow at my head with
his rifle which dislocated my shoulder. I dashed the bayonet into him.
It glanced around his ribs, and hitching into his backbone, I pressed
him down. As I pulled the weapon out, he put his hands upon the sides of
the boat, and endeavored to rise, crying out: '_Tas-cha-chee is a man.
He is not afraid to die._.' I drove my bayonet through his heart. I then
turned to the wounded villain in the stern, who snapped his rifle at me,
as I advanced, as he had been snapping it during the whole conflict. He
gave the war-whoop, and in tones of hatred and defiance, exclaimed: '_I
am a warrior—I am not afraid to die!_' As he uttered these words, I
pinned him down with my weapon, and he followed his eleven comrades to
the land of spirits. During this conflict, which was over in ten
minutes, my brave companions, Smith and Anstill, had been straggling
with the current of the Alabama, endeavoring to reach me. Their guns had
become useless, and their only paddle was broken. Two braver fellows
never lived. Anstill's first shot saved my life. By this time my men
came running down the bank, shouting that Weatherford was coming. With
our three canoes we crossed them all over, and reached the fort in
safety."
This fight occurred November 13, 1813, at Randon's Landing, Monroe
County, ten miles below Weatherford's Bluff.
If any one thinks this a Munchausen account, given by Dale, of his
rencounter, he can satisfy himself of its exact truth, by reference to
the records, all the circumstances of this memorable fight having been
verified before the Alabama Legislature.
One of the leading spirits in those stirring days was Mrs. Catherine
Sevier, wife of one of the most distinguished pioneers. Her maiden name
was Sherrill, and her family, as well as that of her future husband,
emigrated from North Carolina and Virginia to what is now East
Tennessee, settling first upon Watauga river. Mr. Sherrill's residence
was finally upon the Nola Chucka. He was a tiller of the soil, a
hard-working man, and "well-to-do in the world;" but he was also skilled
in the use of the rifle, so that it was said, "Sherrill can make as much
out of the ground and out of the woods as any other man. He has a hand
and eye to his work—a hand, an eye, and an ear, for the Indian and the
game."
Buffalo, deer, and wild turkeys came around the cabins of those first
settlers. A providence was in this which some of them recognized with
thankfulness.
Jacob Brown, with his family and friends, arrived from North Carolina
about the same time with the Sherrills, and these two families became
connected by intermarriage with the Seviers, and ever remained faithful
to each other through all the hostile and civil commotions of subsequent
years. The Seviers were among the very earliest emigrants from Virginia,
aiding in the erection of the first fort on the Watauga.
With few exceptions, these emigrants had in view the acquisition of rich
lands for cultivation and inheritance. Some, indeed, were there, or
came, who were absconding debtors, or refugees from justice, and from
this class were the Tories of North Carolina mostly enlisted.
The spirit of the hunter and pioneer cannot well content itself in a
permanent location, especially when the crack of a neighbor's rifle, or
the blast of his hunting-horn can be heard by his quick ear; therefore
did these advanced guards frequently change their homes when others
_crowded_ them, at _miles distance_. It must be remembered that their
advance into the wilderness could only be made by degrees, step by step,
through years of tedious waiting and toilsome preparation. And thus,
though they had a lease of the land for eight years from the Cherokees,
a foothold in the soil, stations of defense, and evidently had taken a
bond of fate, assuring them in the prospect of rich inheritances for
their children, they could not all abide while the great West and
greater Future invited onward. Richer lands, larger herds of buffaloes,
more deer, and withal so many Indians were in the distance, upon the
Cumberland and Kentucky rivers. The emigrants advanced, and they took no
steps backward. In a few years they were found organizing "provisional
governments" in Kentucky, and at the Bluffs, the site of the beautiful
capital of Tennessee. These Watauga and Nola Chucka pioneers were
leading spirits throughout.
In the first Cherokee war of 1776, the early settlements were in great
danger of being destroyed. The prowling savages plucked off the settlers
in detail, and, though somewhat successful in these aims, they resolved
to attack the settlements and stations at different points on the same
day—in June, 1776. But they were so defeated in the battles of Long
Island, and at the Island Flats, on the Holston, and in their attack and
siege of the Watauga Fort, that a happy chance was wrought, and hopes of
quiet were encouraged.
The attack on the latter station was conducted by an experienced Indian
chief, Old Abraham, of the Chilowee Mountain region. This was a fierce
attack, but the fort fortunately held within it two of the most resolute
men who ever touched the soil of Tennessee—James Robertson and John
Sevier—they having then no higher title than Captains. Some thirty men
were under their command or direction.
The approach of the Indians was stealthy, and the first alarm was given
by the flight and screams of some females, who were closely pursued by
the Indians in large force. One of the women was killed, and one or two
captured. In this party of females was Miss Catherine Sherrill, daughter
of Samuel Sherrill, who had moved into the fort only on the previous
day.
Miss Sherrill was already somewhat distinguished for nerve, fleetness of
foot, and decision of character. Although at other times she proved
herself to "know no fear," and could remain unmoved when danger
threatened, yet on this occasion she admits that she did run, and "run
her best." She was very tall and erect, her whole appearance such as to
attract the especial notice of the savages, who pursued her with
eagerness; and, as they intercepted the direct path to the gate of the
fort, she made a circuit to reach its inclosures on another side,
resolved, as she said, to "scale the palisades." In this effort, some
one within the defenses attempted to aid, but his foot slipped, or the
object on which he was standing gave way, and both fell to the ground on
opposite sides of the wall. The Indians were coming with all speed,
firing and shooting arrows repeatedly. "Indeed," she said, "the bullets
and arrows came like hail. It was now leap the palisades or die, for I
would not live a captive." She recovered from the fall, and in a moment
was over and within the defenses, and "by the side of one _in uniform_."
This was none other than Captain John Sevier, and this the first time
she ever saw him—the beginning of an acquaintance destined in a few
years to ripen into a happy union which endured for nearly forty years.
"The manner in which she ran and jumped on that occasion was often the
subject of remark, commendation and laughter."
In after life she looked upon this _introduction_, and the manner of it,
as a providential indication of their adaptation to each other—that they
were destined to be of mutual help in future dangers, and to overcome
obstacles requiring the peculiar strength of both. And she always deemed
herself safe when by his side. Many a time she said:
"I could gladly undergo that peril and effort again, to fall into his
arms, and feel so _out of danger_. But then," she would add, "it was all
of God's good providence."
Captain Sevier was then a married man, his wife and younger children not
having yet arrived from Virginia.
In 1777, Captain Sevier received a commission from the State of North
Carolina, and was thus decidedly enlisted in the cause of American
Independence; not long after this he was honored with the commission of
Colonel, bearing the signature of George Washington. Two years later,
his wife died, leaving him ten children. The following year he married
Miss Sherrill, who devoted herself earnestly to all the duties of her
station, and to meet the exigencies of the times.
It may well be supposed that the women spun, wove and made up the most
of the clothing worn by these backwoods people. Girls were as well
skilled in these arts, as were the boys to those belonging to their
circle of duties. It was always a source of much gratification to Mrs.
Sevier, and one of which she fondly boasted, that, "among the first work
she did, after her marriage, was to make the clothes which her husband
and his three sons wore the day they were in the memorable and important
battle of King's Mountain." And she would remark: "Had his ten children
been sons, and large enough to serve in that expedition, I could have
fitted them out."
Mrs. Sevier was often left alone to manage domestic affairs, not only
within doors, but without. The life of Colonel Sevier was one of
incessant action, adventure and contest. The calls of his
fellow-citizens, and the necessities of the times, withdrew him
frequently from home. No commander was more frequently engaged in
conflicts with the Indians, with equal success and such small loss of
men. Yet it is a notable fact that he enjoyed, to a remarkable extent,
the respect of the tribes and chiefs with whom he contended. It is an
historical fact that he took to his own home, on the Chucka, a number of
Indian prisoners, where they were treated with so much kindness by his
wife and family, that several of them remained for years, although they
performed very little work, and this wholly at their own option. The
influence of Mrs. Sevier was intentionally and happily exerted upon
these captives, that it might tell, as it did, upon their friends within
the nation; and the family, no doubt, enjoyed more immunities than
otherwise they could have expected.
The Colonel acquired a sobriquet among the Indians, which was some
evidence of their familiarity with, and attachment to him. As long as he
lived they called him "Chucka Jack." They had one, also, for Mrs.
Sevier, but it has not been preserved. She usually remained at the farm,
and never would consent to be shut up in a block-house, always saying:
"The wife of John Sevier
Knows no fear."
"Who would stay out if his family _forted_?"
This was the spirit of the heroine—this was the spirit of Catherine
Sevier. Neither she nor her husband seemed to think there could be
danger or loss when they could encourage or aid others to daring, to
duty and to usefulness. Colonel Sevier at one time advised her to go
into the fort, but yielded to her respectful remonstrance. At one time
the Tories, who were worse and more troublesome enemies than the
savages, came to her house, and demanded her husband's whereabouts,
finally avowing their intention was to hang him on the highest tree in
front of his house, but that if she would tell them where he was, she
and her children should be safe. Of course she refused to give the
information. One man drew a pistol, threatening to blow her brains out
if she did not tell, or, at least, give up all the money she had.
"Shoot, shoot!" was her answer; "I am not afraid to die! But remember,
while there is a Sevier on the face of the earth, my blood will not be
unavenged!"
He dared not—did not shoot. The leader of the gang told the man to put
up his pistol, for "such a woman was too brave to die."
Would it not be a good thing to make the study of the biography of such
heroines as Mrs. Sevier a part of the "course" in the accomplishment of
the fastidious young ladies of to-day?
A peculiar incident is connected with the formidable attack upon
Bryant's station, Kentucky, made by six hundred savage warriors, headed
by the infamous renegade, Simon Girty. Having been forewarned of the
contemplated attack, the garrison was already under arms when Girty and
his savage band appeared. Supposing, by the preparations made to receive
them, that their actual presence in the vicinity was known, a
considerable body of Indians were placed in ambush near the spring,
which was at some distance from the fort, while another and smaller body
was ordered to take position in full view of the garrison, with the hope
of tempting them to an engagement outside the walls. Had this stratagem
been successful, the remainder of the forces was so posted as to be
able, upon the withdrawal of the garrison, to storm one of the gates,
and cut off their retreat to the fort. Unconscious of the snare which
had been laid for them, and unaware of the full strength of the enemy,
the garrison were about to sally out, having already opened one of the
gates for this purpose, when they became alarmed by a sudden firing from
an opposite direction, and hastily falling back, they closed and secured
the gates.
One difficulty they had, however, to encounter—the want of water. It was
an oppressive day in the middle of August, and the want was soon
aggravated to an intolerable degree by the heat and thirst consequent
upon their exertions. To perish by thirst was as cruel as to die by the
rifle and tomahawk. Under these circumstances, a plan was proposed,
calculated to try the heroism of the women within the fort. Acting on
the belief that, although there might be an ambush at the spring, yet
the Indians, in desiring to effect the capture of the fort by stratagem,
would not unmask themselves to the women, these were urged to go in a
body to the spring, and each of them bring up a bucket full of water.
They would hardly have been human had they not quailed a little at this
daring proposition; but, upon listening to the arguments of the men, a
few of the boldest declared their readiness to brave the danger, and the
younger and more timid, rallying in the rear of the elderly matrons,
they all marched down to the spring, a valiant company, each dipping her
bucket, within point blank shot of five hundred Indian warriors. Not a
shot was fired. They filled their buckets with the precious water, and
regained the shelter of the fort in safety. How their blood must have
turned cold, as they reached the dangerous spring, and how it must have
thrilled and tingled in their veins, as they turned their backs to the
concealed enemy, unarmed and perfectly helpless as they were! How long
the distance to the gate! How sweet the relief when their buckets of
crystal comfort were set down within the enclosure!
Had this thing occurred in the days of the old Roman glory, it would
have won immortality for the maids and mothers who participated in it.
When General Greene was retreating from the Catawaba, an incident
occurred which indicates the self-sacrificing spirit of the American
women. On the line of his retreat he stopped at a house for repose and
refreshment. He had ridden all day in a severe rain storm; he was wet,
fatigued, and he was oppressed by gloomy forebodings. His landlady
observed his despondency, and, upon asking him about his condition, he
replied that he was tired, hungry and penniless. Refreshments were
provided for him, and, after he had partaken of them, the woman drew him
into a private apartment, where she placed in his hands two bags of
specie, saying:
"Take these; I can do without them, and they are necessary to you."
Let us imagine that this noble act cheered the saddened heart of the
General in the hour of his trouble.
In one district, during the war, the young women, at harvest-time,
formed themselves into a company of reapers, going to all the farms of
the neighborhood, and, if the reply to the question "Is the owner out
with the fighting men?" was in the affirmative, they would set to, and
cut and garner all the grain. It was no small undertaking, as five or
six weeks of unceasing toil were necessary to complete their rounds.
Similar companies were formed in New York and Long Island. A Whig paper
of July 25th, 1776, says:
"The most respectable ladies set the example, and say they will take the
farming business on themselves, so long as the rights and liberties of
their country require the presence of their sons, husbands and lovers,
in the field."
Pride in such ancestors is an ennobling sentiment.
During the siege of Augusta, two ladies, Grace and Rachel Martin,
residing in the ninety-sixth district, South Carolina, learning, upon
one occasion, that a courier, under the protection of two British
soldiers, was to pass their residence, bearing important dispatches,
resolved, by a well-planned stratagem, to surprise the party, and
deprive the courier of the papers. Disguising themselves in male attire,
and provided with arms, they concealed themselves in a thicket on the
roadside, and patiently awaited the approach of the enemy. It was
twilight, and the darkness favored their plan. They had not remained
long in their concealment, when the courier and the escort made their
appearance. They were riding carelessly along, when suddenly two figures
sprang from a bushy covert, loudly demanding the dispatches, and at the
same time presenting their pistols. Bewildered and alarmed, the
surprised party yielded, without attempting resistance.
The ladies then placed them on parole, and, hastening home through a
short route by the woods, had hardly arrived there, and divested
themselves of their male attire, when the same trio came riding up to
the door, requesting accommodations. The mother of the heroines admitted
them, asking why they had returned, after passing her house but a short
time before. They replied by exhibiting their paroles, and stating that
they had been taken prisoners by "two rebels." The young ladies,
unsuspected by their guests, rallied them on their unfortunate
adventure, asking "why they did not use their arms?" to which they
replied that they were fallen upon so sudden, they had not time. During
their stay, they were as severely overcome by the malicious wit and
raillery of the ladies, as they had before been by their superior
bravery and cunning. The dispatches obtained in the heroic manner
described, were sent to General Greene, and proved of importance.
These ladies should have had the rank of "Sergeant," at least, conferred
upon them, in acknowledgment of their bravery, wit, and the good service
rendered!
In the commencement of the American Revolution, when one of the British
king's thundering proclamations made its appearance, the subject was
mentioned in a company in Philadelphia; a member of Congress, who was
present, turning to Miss Livingstone, said:
"Well, Miss, are you greatly terrified at the roaring of the British
lion?"
"Not at all, sir, for I have learned from natural history that _that
beast roars loudest when he is most frightened_!" was her quiet reply.
[Illustration:
The Chieftain's Appeal.—_Page_ 9.
]