Battle of Point Pleasant--The story of
Gallipolis--Rosebud--Huntington--The genesis of a
house-boater.
Near Glenwood, W. Va., Thursday, May 17th.--By eight o'clock this
morning we were in Point Pleasant, W. Va., at the mouth of the Great
Kanawha River (263 miles). Celoron was here, the eighteenth of August,
1749, and on the east bank of the river, the site of the present
village, buried at the foot of an elm one of his leaden plates
asserting the claim of France to the Ohio basin. Ninety-seven years
later, a boy unearthed this interesting but futile proclamation, and
it rests to-day in the museum of the Virginia Historical Society.
The Great Kanawha Valley long had a romantic interest for Englishmen
concerned in Western lands. It was in the grant to the old Ohio
Company; but that corporation, handicapped in many ways, was
practically dead by the time of Lord Dunmore's war. It had many
rivals, more or less ephemeral, among them the scheme of George Mercer
(1773) to have the territory between the Alleghanies and the Ohio--the
West Virginia of to-day--erected into the "Province of Vandalia,"
with himself as governor, and his capital at the mouth of the Great
Kanawha. Washington owned a ten-thousand-acre tract on both sides
of the river, commencing a short distance above the mouth, which
he surveyed in person, in October, 1770; and in 1773 we find him
advertising to sell or lease it; among the inducements he offered was,
"the scheme for establishing a new government on the Ohio," and the
contiguity of his lands "to the seat of government, which, it is more
than probable, will be fixed at the mouth of the Great Kanawha."
Had not the Revolution broken out, and nipped this and many another
budding plan for Western colonization, there is little doubt that
what we call West Virginia would have been established as a state, a
century earlier than it was.[A]
A few days ago we were at Mingo Bottom, where lived Chief Logan, whose
family were treacherously slaughtered by border ruffians (1774).
The Mingos, ablaze with the fire of vengeance, carried the war-pipe
through the neighboring villages; runners were sent in every direction
to rouse the tribes; tomahawks were unearthed, war-posts were planted;
messages of defiance sent to the Virginians; and in a few days Lord
Dunmore's war was in full swing, from Cumberland Gap to Fort Pitt,
from the Alleghanies to the Wabash.
His lordship, then governor of Virginia, was full of energy, and
proved himself a competent military manager. The settlers were
organized; the rude log forts were garrisoned; forays were made
against the Indian villages as far away as Muskingum, and an army of
nearly three thousand backwoodsmen, armed with smooth-bores and clad
in fringed buckskin hunting-shirts, was put in the field.
One division of this army, eleven hundred strong, under Gen. Andrew
Lewis, descended the Great Kanawha River, and on Point Pleasant met
Cornstalk, a famous Shawnee chief, who, while at first peaceful, had
by the Logan tragedy been made a fierce enemy of the whites, and was
now the leader of a thousand picked warriors, gathered from all parts
of the Northwest. On the 10th of October, from dawn until dusk, was
here waged in a gloomy forest one of the most bloody and
stubborn hand-to-hand battles ever fought between Indians and
whites--especially notable, too, because for the first time the rivals
were about equal in number. The combatants stood behind trees,
in Indian fashion, and it is hard to say who displayed the best
generalship, Cornstalk or Lewis.[B] When the pall of night covered the
hideous contest, the whites had lost one-fifth of their number, while
the savages had sustained but half as many casualties. Cornstalk's
followers had had enough, however, and withdrew before daylight,
leaving the field to the Americans.
A few days later, General Lewis joined Lord Dunmore--who headed the
other wing of the army, which had proceeded by the way of Forts Pitt
and Gower--on the Pickaway plains, in Ohio; and there a treaty was
made with the Indians, who assented to every proposition made them.
They surrendered all claim to lands south of the Ohio River, returned
their white prisoners and stolen horses, and gave hostages for future
good behavior.
Here at Point Pleasant, a year later, Fort Randolph was built, and
garrisoned by a hundred men; for, despite the treaty, the Indians were
still troublesome. For a long time, Pittsburg, Redstone, and Randolph
were the only garrisoned forts on the frontier. The Point Pleasant of
to-day is a dull, sleepy town of twenty-five hundred inhabitants, with
that unkempt air and preponderance of lounging negroes, so common to
small Southern communities. The bottom is rolling, fringed with
large hills, and on the Ohio side drops suddenly for fifty feet to
a shelving beach of gravel and clay. Crooked Creek, in whose narrow,
winding valley some of the severest fighting was had, empties into
the Kanawha a half-mile up the stream, at the back of the town. It was
painful to meet several men of intelligence, who had long been engaged
in trade here, to whom the Battle of Point Pleasant was a shadowy
event, whose date they could not fix, nor whose importance understand;
it seemed to be little more a part of their lives, than an obscure
contest between Matabeles and whites, in far-off Africa. It is time
that our Western and Southern folk were awakened to an appreciation of
the fact that they have a history at their doors, quite as significant
in the annals of civilization as that which induces pilgrimages to
Ticonderoga and Bunker Hill.
Four miles below, Pilgrim was beached for a time at Gallipolis, O.
(267 miles), which has a story all its own. The district belonged,
a century ago, to the Scioto Company, an offshoot of the Marietta
enterprise. Joel Barlow, the "poet of the Revolution," was sent to
Paris (May, 1788) as agent for the sale of lands. As the result of his
personal popularity there, and his flaming immigration circulars and
maps, he disposed of a hundred thousand acres; to settle on which, six
hundred French emigrants sailed for America, in February, 1790.
They were peculiarly unsuited for colonization, even under the most
favorable conditions--being in the main physicians, jewelers and other
artisans, a few mechanics, and noblemen's servants, while many were
without trade or profession.
Upon arrival in Alexandria, Va., they found that their deeds
were valueless, the land never having been paid for by the Scioto
speculators; moreover, the tract was filled with hostile Indians.
However, five hundred of them pushed on to the region, by way of
Redstone, and reached here by flatboat, in a destitute condition.
The Marietta neighbors were as kind as circumstances would allow,
and cabins were built for them on what is now the Public Square of
Gallipolis. But they were ignorant of the first principles of forestry
or gardening; the initial winter was exceptionally severe, Indian
forays sapped the life of the colony, yellow fever decimated the
survivors; and, altogether, the little settlement suffered a series of
disasters almost unparalleled in the story of American colonization.
Although finally reimbursed by Congress with a special land grant, the
emigrants gradually died off, until now, so at least we were assured,
but three families of descendants of the original Gauls are now living
here. It was the American element, aided by sturdy Germans, who in
time took hold of the decayed French settlement, and built up the
prosperous little town of six thousand inhabitants which we find
to-day. It is a conservative town, with little perceptible increase
in population; but there are many fine brick blocks, the stores
have large stocks attractively displayed, and there is in general a
comfortable tone about the place, which pleases a stranger. The Public
Square, where the first Gauls had their little forted town, appears to
occupy the space of three or four city blocks; there is the customary
band-stand in the center, and seats plentifully provided along the
graveled walks which divide neat plots of grass. Over the riverward
entrance to the square, is an arch of gas-pipe, perforated for
illumination, and bearing the dates, "1790-1890,"--a relic, this, of
the centennial which Gallipolis celebrated in the last-named year.
It was with some difficulty that we found a camping-place, this
evening. For several miles, the approaches were nearly knee-deep in
mud for a dozen feet back from the water's edge, or else the banks
were too steep, or the farmers had cultivated so closely to the brink
as to leave us no room for the tent. In one gruesome spot on the Ohio
bank, where a projecting log fortunately served as a pier, the Doctor
landed for a prospecting tour; while I ascended a zigzag path, through
steep and rugged land, to a nest of squalid cabins perched by a shabby
hillside road. A vicious dog came down to meet me half-way, and might
have succeeded in carrying off a portion of my clothing had not his
owner whistled him back.
A queer, dingy, human wasp-nest, this dirty little shanty hamlet of
Rosebud. Pigs and children wallowed in comradeship, and as every cabin
on the precipitous slope necessarily has a basement, this is used as
the common barn for chickens, goats, pigs, and cow. It was pleasant to
find that there was no sweet milk to be had in Rosebud, for it is kept
in open pans, in these fetid rooms, and soon sours--and the cows had
not yet come down from the hills. Water, too, was at a premium. There
was none to be had, save what had fallen from the clouds, and been
stored in a foul cistern, which seemed common property. I drew a
pailful of it, not to displease the disheveled group which surrounded
me, full of questions; but on the first turning in the lane, emptied
the vessel upon the back of a pig, which was darting by with murderous
squeal.
The long twilight was well nigh spent, when, on the Ohio side a mile
or two above Glenwood, W. Va. (287 miles), we came upon a wide,
level beach of gravel, below a sloping, willowed terrace, above which
sharply rose the "second bottom." Ascending an angling farm roadway,
while the others pitched camp, I walked over the undulating bottom
to the nearest of a group of small, neat farmhouses, and applied
for milk. While a buxom maid went out and milked a Jersey, that had
chanced to come home ahead of her fellows, I sat on the rear porch
gossiping with the farm-wife--a Pennsylvania-Dutch dame of ample
proportions, attired in light-blue calico, and with huge spectacles
over her broad, flat nose. She and her "man" own a hundred and fifty
acres on the bottom, with three cows and other stock in proportion,
and sell butter to those neighbors who have no cows, and to houseboat
people. As for these latter, though they were her customers, she
had none too good an opinion of them; they pretended to fish, but in
reality only picked up a living from the farmers; nevertheless, she
did know of some "weakly, delicate people" who had taken to boat life
for economy's sake, and because an invalid could at least fish, and
his family help him at it.
* * * * *
Near Huntington, W. Va., Friday, May 18th.--Backed by ravine-grooved
hills, and edged at the waterside with great picturesque boulders,
planed and polished by the ever-rushing river, the little bottom farms
along our path to-day are pretty bits. But the houses are the
reverse of this, having much the aspect of slave-cabins of the olden
time--small, one-story, log and frame shanties, roof and gables
shingled with "shakes," and little vegetable gardens inclosed by
palings. The majority of these small farmers--whose tracts seldom
exceed a hundred acres--rent their land, rather than own it. The plan
seems to be half-and-half as to crops, with a rental fee for house and
pasturage. One man, having a hundred-and-twenty acres, told me he
paid three dollars a month for his house, and for pasturage a dollar a
month per head.
We were in several of the small towns to-day. At Millersport, O.
(293 miles), while W---- and the Doctor were up town, the Boy and I
remained at the wharf-boat to talk with the owner. The wharf-boat is
a conspicuous object at every landing of importance, being a covered
barge used as a storehouse for coming and going steamboat freight.
It is a private enterprise, for public convenience, with certain
monopolistic privileges at the incorporated towns. This Millersport
boat cost twelve hundred dollars; the proprietor charges twenty per
cent of each freight-bill, for handling and storing goods, a fee of
twenty-five cents for each steamer that lands, and certain special
fees for live stock. Athalia, Haskellville and Guyandotte were other
representative towns. Stave-making appears to be the chief industry,
and, as timber is getting scarce, the communities show signs of decay.
We had been told, above, that Huntington, W. Va. (306 miles), was "a
right smart chunk of a town." And it is. There are sixteen thousand
people here, in a finely-built city spread over a broad, flat plain.
Brick and stone business buildings abound; the broad streets are
paved with brick, and an electric-car line runs out along the bottom,
through the suburb of Ceredo, W. Va., to Catlettsburg, Ky., nine miles
away. Huntington is the center of a large group of riverside towns
supported by iron-making and other industries--Guyandotte and Ceredo,
in West Virginia; Catlettsburg, just over the border in Kentucky; and
Proctorville, Broderickville, Frampton, Burlington, and South Point,
on the opposite shore.
We are camping to-night in the dense willow grove which lines the West
Virginia beach from Huntington to the Big Sandy. Above us, on the wide
terrace, are fields and orchards, beyond which we occasionally hear
the gong of electric cars. A public path runs by the tent, leading
from the lower settlements into Huntington. Among our visitors have
been two houseboat men, whose craft is moored a quarter of a mile
below. One of them is tall, thick-set, forty, with a round, florid
face, and huge mustaches,--evidently a jolly fellow at his best,
despite a certain dubious, piratical air; a jaunty, narrow-brimmed
straw hat is perched over one ear, to add to the general effect;
and between his teeth a corn-cob pipe. His younger companion is
medium-sized, slim, and loose-jointed, with a baggy gait, his cap
thrown over his head, with the visor in the rear--a rustic clown, not
yet outgrown his freckles. But three weeks from the parental farm in
Putnam County, Ky., the world is as yet a romance to him. The
fellow is interesting, because in him can be seen the genesis of a
considerable element of the houseboat fraternity. I wonder how long it
will be before his partner has him broken in as a river-pirate of the
first water.
[Footnote A: Washington was much interested in a plan to connect, by a
canal, the James and Great Kanawha Rivers, separated at their sources
by a portage of but a few miles in length. The distance from Point
Pleasant to Richmond is 485 miles. In 1785, Virginia incorporated the
James River Company, of which Washington was the first president. The
project hung fire, because of "party spirit and sectional jealousies,"
until 1832, when a new company was incorporated, under which the James
was improved (1836-53), but the Kanawha was untouched. In 1874, United
States engineers presented a plan calling for an expenditure of sixty
millions, but there the matter rests. The Kanawha is navigable by
large steamers for sixty miles, up to the falls at Charleston, and
beyond almost to its source, by light craft.]
[Footnote B: Hall, in _Romance of Western History_ (1820), says that
when Washington was tendered command of the Revolutionary army, he
replied that it should rather be given to Gen. Andrew Lewis, of whose
military abilities he had a high opinion. Lewis was a captain in
the Little Meadows affair (1752), and a companion of Washington in
Braddock's defeat (1755).]