STATE OF THE COUNTRY AFTER THE WAR.
Another great cause of anxiety at this moment, though by no means a
fresh one, was the poverty of the American government, which rendered
the situation of the Republic, even after it had achieved its object,
extremely critical. In the prospect of peace, and the consequent
disbanding of the army, where was the money to be found to pay its long
arrears, to say nothing of the gratuities which had been promised to
both officers and men on the termination of the war? In May, 1782,
Washington wrote of his army on the Hudson, as destitute of provisions
and in a state of disorder and almost mutiny; and that if the British
knew his real situation, and were to make a sudden attempt, he must be
driven from his post. Of the army in the South, also, General Greene
wrote in August an account still more melancholy. He said that of his
men, one-third were “entirely naked, with nothing but a pair of breeches
about them, and never came out of their tents,” and that the remainder
were “as ragged as wolves.” Their food was as bad as it could be, “their
beef perfect carrion, and even of that they had often none at all;” and
that the spirit of the army was so mutinous that executions were not
unfrequent to check it. Washington feared that even this terrible remedy
would lose its effect, and that peace with Britain, if it came, might be
succeeded by a social war, so difficult would it be to disband an army
with weapons in their hands, who had no prospect before them but poverty
and starvation. Well might a deep gloom rest at this time upon his mind.
In the month of July, the rate of interest demanded for money was sixty
per cent. In September, Morris, on whose credit the national bank in
Philadelphia had been established, confessed that he had no money, and
as to borrowing more, it would only increase the mischief, as he saw no
prospect of payment.
About this same time the French auxiliary army marched from Virginia to
Boston, where it embarked. Hildreth says that the conduct of the French
troops, during the two years and a half that they had been in the
country, had been very exemplary. They had done less mischief on their
marches than the same number of American soldiers; and the regularity
with which all their supplies were paid for in cash, contrasted most
favourably with the means by which the American troops were too often
subsisted.
The boundary line of some of the states having, as we have already said,
been a fertile subject of dispute for many years, became in some few
instances settled during the present year. Hence, the western boundary
of Pennsylvania being decided, Pittsburg returned again to the
jurisdiction of that state. The quarrel, too, was adjusted between
Connecticut and Pennsylvania, relative to the territorial claim to
Wyoming, which also was settled in favour of the larger state, not
wholly, however, to the satisfaction of the people of Wyoming.
Between Vermont and New York an old dispute existed. New York asserted a
claim to the whole territory—Vermont resolutely resisted it; and being
peopled by a stout, determined race, the Green Mountain Boys had, as we
have already related, declared themselves, in 1778, an independent
state, and as such had applied to congress for admission into the Union.
The delegates of New York prevented their admission, but nothing daunted
by their rejection, they organised their own constitution, and chose the
farmer and innkeeper, Thomas Chittenden, as governor. To be an innkeeper
in those primitive, sturdy times, was not to be a man of an inferior
class: three American generals, Putnam, Wheedon, and Sumner, were
innkeepers, as well as the clear-headed and stout-hearted governor of
Vermont. Besides the dispute with New York, the Green Mountain Boys had
a second with their equally sturdy neighbour, New Hampshire, the ground
of which was this: sixteen newly-settled townships, on the eastern side
of the Connecticut River, had applied to be received as a part of
Vermont, in order to escape from the heavy taxes which the war rendered
it necessary to impose. The townships on both sides of the river next
endeavoured to constitute themselves into a new state, under the name of
New Connecticut. This secession caused New Hampshire, in retaliation, to
lay claim to the whole territory of Vermont. New Hampshire and New York
both claiming Vermont, Massachusetts next started up as a claimant also,
and demanded, on the plea of her old rights, the whole southern portion
of this coveted little state. Congress now offered to interfere and
settle the question of this disputed territory, which Massachusetts
objected to, in the fear that by this means she would not come in for
any portion at all. Vermont, in the meantime, had made up her mind to
abide no decision of congress, any more than to yield to any of the
separate claimant states, and now took a step, in the persons of her
bold sons, the farmer Chittenden and the two warlike brothers Ethan and
Ira Allen, the true intention of which has never yet been clearly
ascertained. Negotiations were entered into with the British authorities
in Canada, probably with a twofold view of guarding against invasion
from that side in the present critical state of their affairs, and of
operating on the fears of congress. The scheme appeared to answer its
purpose; congress promised to recognise Vermont as an independent state,
providing she would relinquish her encroachments on New York and New
Hampshire. Vermont deliberated; and New York and New Hampshire
protesting against the interference of congress, declared that they
would send in troops to establish their claims to the whole. Civil war
seemed at hand, when Washington interfered, like the parent among his
quarrelsome children, and recommended that the New Hampshire townships
should be restored to the original state, which was agreed to, and
Vermont again applied to be received into the Union, when again New York
interfered to prevent the accomplishment of her wishes. This was in
February, 1782, when peace with Great Britain was looked upon as
certain. And now came a time when Vermont triumphed over her more
powerful neighbours, and cared very little for admission into the Union.
She was thus free from continental debt, and the perpetual calls of
congress for money.
The opposition which New York made to the admission of Vermont into the
Union was strengthened by the four Southern States, who dreaded lest
their own backwoodsmen should follow the example of the bold little
northern state. Kentucky, which in 1781 had increased so greatly that it
was divided into three counties—Jefferson, Fayette, and Lincoln—had, as
we already know, long since petitioned congress on the subject, and
similar ideas prevailed among the settlers on the Tennessee.[54]
Though the main armies were lying in a state of inactivity during the
present year of pacific negotiation, war still prevailed, and that with
unusual severity, on the western frontiers. The Christian Delawares
settled on the river Muskinghum, in the present state of Ohio, where
they had many flourishing and populous villages, suffered cruelly at
this period. Unlike the Indians in general, they had, as followers of
Christ, renounced war and the weapons of war, and aimed at preserving
throughout these troubled times a perfect neutrality. The hostile
Indians, on their way from Detroit and the north-west to the American
frontiers, demanded supplies from these Delawares, whose villages lay
directly on the war-path, and which they had no means of refusing. Hence
they were regarded by the backwoodsmen as “the half-way-house” of the
enemy, and compelled, in the autumn of 1781, to abandon their peaceful
and prosperous homes, and remove to Sandusky on Lake Erie. The following
winter, being reduced to great suffering from the want of provisions,
they obtained permission to return to the Muskinghum, to gather in the
corn left standing in the fields. Just then some murders being
committed, near Pittsburg, by a wandering party of Shawanees, the
Delawares, though innocent, were suspected, and about ninety men of the
neighbourhood, under the leadership of one Williamson, marched to the
Muskinghum to take vengeance. For want of a canoe, they crossed the
river in a wooden trough made to hold maple sap, two men at once, and
arrived at the centre village, where a party of Christian Indians were
gathering in their corn. The Indians of another village were sent for,
and a council held to decide on their fate. Williamson referred the
matter to his men. Sixteen only voted for mercy, the remainder, holding
the faith common on the frontiers, that “an Indian had no more soul than
a buffalo,” were for the murder of all. They rushed on their prey, knife
in hand, and soon ninety unarmed Indians, avowing, like themselves,
faith in Christ, lay bleeding on the ground.
Nor did this satisfy them. Flushed with success, continues Hildreth,
from whom we take this account, 480 men marched in May, under Colonels
Williamson and Crawford, to complete the destruction of the Christian
Indians, by assailing Sandusky, which, however, lay in the midst of
Indians of a very different character. Waylaid by a hostile party near
Sandusky, they were attacked by an overwhelming force, and obliged to
retreat with much loss of life. Williamson made his escape, but Crawford
and many more fell into the hands of the Indians, who burned him at the
stake, together with his son and his son-in-law, in revenge for the
murders at the Muskinghum.
1782 was a disastrous year in Kentucky, from the same cause. Several
Indian battles occurred, but the one at the Big Blue Lick was the
bloodiest ever fought in Kentucky. We will give it somewhat in detail,
from Lippincott’s Cabinet History of Kentucky, as a specimen of border
warfare; and a picture also of the perils of backwoods-life. On the
southern banks of the Elkhorn stood Bryant’s Station, containing about
forty cabins, strongly palisadoed and garrisoned by fifty men. On the
12th of August, news reached them that a Captain Holden, with a party of
seventeen, had been defeated by the Indians near the Upper Blue Licks,
and that the loyalist, Simon Girty, with other refugees, and an army of
600 Indian warriors, might be almost hourly expected. The garrison, thus
warned, were under arms when Girty and his army approached. The enemy,
aware that preparation was made for their reception, left a considerable
body in ambush near the spring which, at some little distance, supplied
the station with water, and only a small portion appeared before the
place, hoping to entice the garrison outside their defences, while the
remainder were so posted, in case this scheme succeeded, as to storm one
of the gates and cut off their return. Fortunately, however, when just
about to sally forth, a sudden firing in the opposite direction made
them aware of their danger, and closing their gates, they awaited the
enemy within their defences. But they had no water. Without water they
must perish. In this difficulty the women came to their aid. They would
venture to fetch water from the spring, in the hope that the Indians
lying in ambush would not unmask themselves merely to women. Accordingly
a body of elderly matrons marched down to the spring, where lay about
500 Indian warriors in ambush. Their faith saved them; they supplied the
wants of the station, and not a single shot was fired.
Messengers were sent off to all the nearest stations to summon help,
which might now soon be expected; accordingly thirteen young men sallied
out upon the decoy-party, and at that moment Girty rushed forward at the
head of the main body towards the gate intending to force an entrance.
But the garrison was ready for him and his party, and they were driven
back. In a few minutes they were again out of sight. About two o’clock
in the afternoon, sixteen men on horseback, and about double that number
on foot, from a neighbouring station, approached in aid of their
besieged friends. All was silent, no enemy to be seen. On one side of
the road which led to the village, lay a large field of 100 acres full
of standing corn; a thick wood was on the other, and amid the corn and
within the wood were the Indians crouched, waiting within pistol-shot
the approach of this little band. As the horsemen entered the lane a
sudden firing commenced. They put spurs to their horses, the lane was
deep in dust, amid a cloud of which they escaped and reached the fort
unharmed, the gates of which were opened to receive them. The men on
foot were less fortunate; passing by a short cut through the corn, they
heard the firing and rushed to the succour of their friends. Luckily the
Indian guns being then mostly discharged, and the rifles of the
Kentuckians loaded, they had some advantage, and by pointing them at the
Indians, and dodging and running deeper into the corn, were enabled to
keep them at bay for some time.
Some entered the wood and escaped through the cane thickets; some were
shot down; others maintained a running fight, stopping to load and fire
from behind trees. One stout young fellow, being hard pressed by Girty
and several Indians, fired; Girty fell, but the ball struck a thick
piece of soling-leather which lined a pouch which he wore, and saved his
life. Six white men were killed, not so many Indians.
The Indians now returned to the fort, and knowing that the neighbouring
station would soon take the alarm and rush to the aid of their friends,
the chiefs proposed to raise the siege, but Girty determined to try the
effect of negotiation first. Crawling on his hands and knees, therefore,
in Indian fashion, to the close neighbourhood of one of the gates, where
stood the stump of a tree, he mounted it, and with a flag of truce in
his hand hailed the garrison, commending them for their bravery, but
assuring them that resistance was vain, as he had 600 men with him and
hourly expected reinforcements and artillery, and advising them,
therefore, to surrender, when not a hair of their heads should be
hurt—otherwise he would blow the whole place into the air. “Shoot down
the villain!” said many voices; but the flag of truce protected him. No
answer being returned, he cried, “Do you know who it is that speaks to
you?”
“Do we know you?” exclaimed an energetic young man named Reynolds, who
undertook to give reply in the name of the garrison; “Yes, we know you,
Simon Girty!” and then proceeding in the same strain, he said, that he
himself had a good-for-nothing rascally dog, and that for want of a bad
name he called him Simon Girty; adding, that if he had artillery coming
he might bring it up; that they too expected reinforcements; and that,
in short, if Girty and his gang remained four-and-twenty hours longer
before the place, their scalps would be soon drying on the roofs of the
cabins.
Such was the reply to Girty. It was very offensive, but it was
irresistible, and the next morning they retired so precipitately that
several pieces of meat upon their roasting-sticks were left and their
fires still burning. By noon 160 men had assembled at Bryant’s Station,
under Colonels Todd, Trigg, Boone, and the celebrated Major M‘Gary. The
Kentuckians are remarkable for their impetuosity, which amounts almost
to rashness. In the afternoon they were all ready and impatient to set
off in pursuit; M’Gary objected to this precipitancy, but was overruled.
The party was mostly mounted.
At the Lower Blue Licks they came in sight of the enemy, who, having
reached the southern bank of the Licking, were then ascending the rocky
ridge on the other side. The Indians halted for a moment, turned round
and gazed at their pursuers, and then quietly proceeded onward. The
Kentuckians halted also, and consulted together what was best to be
done. Boone, who understood perfectly the Indian mode of warfare,
expressed his belief that an ambush was planted in a ravine about a mile
in advance. He advised to wait for Logan, who might be expected soon to
join them with reinforcements. Waiting, however, did not suit their
ardent temperaments; and M’Gary suddenly raising the war-whoop, spurred
his horse into the stream, waving his hat and shouting, “Let all who are
not cowards follow me!” and all followed him.
As Boone had expected, no sooner had they reached the ravine than they
were attacked; a deadly fire poured in upon them; they staggered and
fell in every direction, the enemy in the meantime being completely
concealed. They fled back to the river; the Indians pursued, and now the
slaughter with the tomahawk commenced. The ford was narrow, and great
numbers were killed there. It was a scene of horrible confusion—horses
plunging, riders falling, others attempting to mount, and amid all, the
bloody Indian tomahawk doing its cruel work.
One man named Netherfield, who had been laughed at as a coward, and who
had never dismounted, was the first to reach the opposite shore. Here,
soon joined by some of his comrades, he looked round, and seeing the
massacre that was going forward, pulled rein as he exclaimed, “Halt!
fire on the Indians! Protect the men in the river!” And on this all
wheeled round, fired, and rescued several poor fellows in the stream
over whom the tomahawk was lifted.
Reynolds, the young man who replied to Girty, had a narrow escape.
Finding in the retreat an officer wounded, he dismounted and gave him
his horse, when he was immediately seized by three Indians. They were
just about to despatch him, when two other white men rushed by. Two of
the savages started in pursuit, and the third having stooped to fasten
his moccasin, Reynolds sprang away from him and escaped.
More than sixty Kentuckians were slain in this battle; among whom were
six officers and the son of Daniel Boone. Such as regained the shore,
too weak to rally, started homeward in great dejection. On their way
they met Logan. He had reached Bryant’s Station with 500 men, soon after
their departure. Nothing now remained but to go back and bury the dead.
Logan accompanied them. Arrived at the scene of carnage, an awful
spectacle presented itself; the dead bodies were strewed over the ground
as they had fallen; the heat was intense, and birds of prey were feeding
on the carcases. The bodies were so mangled that none could distinguish
friend or relative. The dead were buried as rapidly as possible.
Nor was this all the carnage. The Indians after the defeat had
scattered, but only to sweep through other settlements, carrying
everywhere destruction before them.
Innumerable instances of suffering fortitude and heroism abound in this
portion of the American border-history. One passage from the life of a
Kentucky pioneer we will give, even at the risk of being thought to
dwell too long on this subject.
During this same troubled year of 1782, late in the summer, predatory
bands of Indians having committed great ravages in the vicinity of
Elizabeth Town, Silas Hart, surnamed by the Indians “Sharp-Eye,”
assembled a party of settlers and pursued the marauders. In the pursuit
Hart shot their chief, and his brother, having vowed vengeance, came
secretly with a small band of warriors to Elizabeth Town, and commenced
the work of plunder and destruction.
The neighbourhood was roused, and the Indians fled, Hart being again the
foremost in pursuit. Finding it impossible to overtake the savages, the
people returned to their homes; and the Indians, who kept close watch
upon their movements, turned when they turned and followed them back to
the settlement.
Hart reached home, some five miles from Elizabeth Town, about dusk, and
fearing no enemy, went to bed and slept soundly. The next morning, the
Indians, who had secreted themselves round the house in the night,
suddenly appeared at the door, and the brother of the fallen chief
deliberately shot Hart dead. The son of Hart, a boy of twelve, no sooner
saw his father fall than, grasping a rifle, he sent a bullet through the
chief before he could enter.
The Indians rushed into the house; again the foremost warrior was killed
by a blow from a hunting-knife in the hands of the resolute boy; the
family, however, were speedily overpowered and carried into captivity.
The daughter, unable to bear the fatigues of a forced march, was
despatched by the Indians at a short distance from the settlement. The
mother and son were doomed to a lingering and painful death.
When the prisoners reached the Wabash, preparations were made for their
execution. Fortunately, the extraordinary heroism of the boy having
touched the heart of an influential woman of the tribe, his life was
spared at her intercession. Mrs. Hart was also saved from the stake by
the intervention of a chief. The mother and son were finally ransomed
and returned to their desolate homes.
The back settlements of South Carolina were ravaged also by parties of
loyalists and Cherokees, the brother of General Pickens being on one
occasion made prisoner. At the head of a body of South Carolina and
Georgia militia, General Pickens, in return, invaded and laid waste the
Cherokee country.
In February, General Greene being reinforced by the Pennsylvanian troops
under Wayne, despatched him into Georgia, when Clarke, who commanded
there for the British, drew in his outposts, and having ravaged and
destroyed everything in his way, retired to Savannah. The people of
Georgia, republicans and loyalists, were so impoverished by mutual
plunder, that even seed-corn was hardly to be had. In June, Wayne’s camp
was attacked by a body of Creek Indians, who, however, were repulsed
with loss. In July, the British forces evacuated Savannah, carrying with
them not less than 5,000 negroes. In October, a new expedition against
the Cherokees, undertaken by Pickens, resulted in a treaty by which
Georgia obtained all the Cherokee lands south of the Savannah and east
of Chattahoochee, and the Creeks shortly after relinquished all claim to
the lands east of the Altamaha and Oconee. Skirmishing continued in the
neighbourhood of Charleston till near the end of the year, in which some
valuable lives were lost, that of the younger Laurens being one. On
December 14th, Charleston was evacuated.[55]