She had not gone a step beyond the shelter of the fort before the Indians perceived her. Yet the suddenness of her appearance seemed to paralyze them. They stood and watched her movements, as she walked swiftly but steadily over the space leading to her brothers' house, but not a gun was lifted nor a voice was raised. So far the expedient of sending a woman had proved unexpectedly successful. The savages gazed at her in blank amazement, wondering at her purpose.
She entered the house. An anxious minute or two passed. The Indians still had not stirred. The eyes of the garrison were fixed with feverish anxiety on the door of that small hut.
Then they were relieved by the reappearance of the devoted girl, now clasping the precious keg of powder in her arms.
It was no time now to walk. As rapidly as she could run, with the weight in her arms, she sped over the open space.
Speed was needed. The Indians had suddenly come to a realizing sense of the woman's purpose, and a volley of bullets swept the space over which she fled.
Not one touched her. In a minute she had reached the fort. A shout of enthusiastic welcome went up. As the gate closed behind her, and she let fall the valuable prize from her unnerved arms, every hand was stretched to grasp hers, and a chorus of praise and congratulation filled the air.
"We have a heroine among us; we will all be heroes, and conquer or die," was the universal thought.
It was a true one; Elizabeth Zane's was one of those rare souls which seem sent on earth to make man proud of his race.
At half-past two the assailants returned to the attack, availing themselves, as before, of the cover of the huts.
After a period spent in musketry, they made an assault in force on the gate of the fort. They were met by the concentrated fire of the garrison. Six of them fell. The others fled back to their shelter.
Until dark the fusillade continued. After darkness had fallen the assailants tried a new device. Lacking artillery, they attempted to convert a hollow maple log into a cannon.
They bound this as firmly as possible with chains, then, with a ludicrous ignorance of what they were about, they loaded it to its muzzle with stones, pieces of iron, and other missiles. This done, they conveyed the impromptu cannon to a point within sixty yards of the fort, and attempted to discharge it against the gates.
The result was what might have been anticipated. The log burst into a thousand pieces, and sent splinters and projectiles hurtling among the curious crowd of dusky warriors. Several of them were killed, others were wounded, but the gates remained unharmed. This was more than the savages had counted on, and they ceased the assault for the night, no little discouraged by their lack of success.
Meanwhile tidings of what Girty and his horde were about had spread through the settlements, and relief parties were hastily formed. At four o'clock in the morning fourteen men arrived, under command of Colonel Swearingen, and fought their way into the fort without losing a man. At dawn a party of forty mounted men made their appearance, Major McCullough at their head. The men managed to enter the fort in safety, but the gallant major, being unluckily separated from his band, was left alone outside.
His was a terribly critical situation. Fortunately, the Indians knew him for one of their most daring and skillful enemies, and hated him intensely. Fortunately, we say, for to that he owed his life. They could easily have killed him, but not a man of them would fire. Such a foeman must not die so easily; he must end his life in flame and torture. Such was their unspoken argument, and they dashed after him with yells of exultation, satisfied that they had one of their chief foes safely in their hands.
It seemed so, indeed. The major was well mounted, but the swift Indian runners managed to surround him on three sides, and force him towards the river bluffs, from which escape seemed impossible.
With redoubled shouts they closed in upon him. The major, somewhat ignorant of the situation, pushed onward till he suddenly found himself on the brow of a precipice which descended at an almost vertical inclination for a hundred and fifty feet. Here was a frightful dilemma. To right and left the Indian runners could be seen, their lines extending to the verge of the cliff. What was to be done? surrender to the Indians, attempt to dash through their line, or leap the cliff? Each way promised death. But death by fall was preferable to death by torture. And a forlorn hope of life remained. The horse was a powerful one, and might make the descent in safety. Gathering his reins tightly in his right hand, while his left grasped his rifle, McCullough spurred the noble animal forward, and in an instant was over the brow of the cliff, and falling rather than dashing down its steep declivity.
By unlooked-for good fortune the foot of the bluff was reached in safety. Into the creek dashed horse and man, and in a minute or two the daring fugitive was across and safe from his savage pursuers.
The Indians returned disappointed to the vicinity of the fort. Here they found that their leader had decided on abandoning the assault. The reinforcements received, and the probability that others were on the way, discouraged the renegade, and Girty led his horde of savages away, first doing all the harm in his power by burning the houses of the settlement, and killing about three hundred cattle belonging to the settlers.
The defence of Fort Henry was one of the most striking for the courage displayed, and the success of the defenders, of the many gallant contests with the Indian foe of that age of stirring deeds. Aside from those killed in ambush, not a man of the garrison had lost his life. Of the assailants, from sixty to one hundred fell. Simon Girty and his Indians had received a lesson they would not soon forget.
DANIEL BOONE, THE PIONEER OF KENTUCKY.
The region of Kentucky, that "dark and bloody ground" of Indian warfare, lay long unknown to the whites. No Indians even dwelt there, though it was a land of marvellous beauty and wonderful fertility. For its forests and plains so abounded with game that it was used by various tribes as a hunting-ground, and here the savage warriors so often met in hostile array, and waged such deadly war, that not the most daring of them ventured to make it their home. And the name which they gave it was destined to retain its sombre significance for the whites, when they should invade the perilous Kentuckian wilds, and build their habitations in this land of dread.
In 1767 John Finley, a courageous Indian trader, pushed far into its depths, and returned with thrilling stories of his adventures and tempting descriptions of the beauty and fertility of the land. These he told to Daniel Boone, an adventure-loving Pennsylvanian, who had made his way to North Carolina, and built himself a home in the virgin forest at the head-waters of the Yadkin. Here, with his wife, his rifle, and his growing family, he enjoyed his frontier life with the greatest zest, until the increasing numbers of new settlers and the alluring narrative of Finley induced him to leave his home and seek again the untrodden wilds.
On the 1st of May, 1769, Finley, Boone, and three others struck boldly into the broad backbone of mountain-land which lay between their old home and the new land of promise. They set out on their dangerous journey amid the tears of their families, who deemed that destruction awaited them, and vainly besought them to abandon the enterprise. Forward, for days and weeks, pushed the hardy pioneers, their rifles providing them with game, their eyes on the alert against savages, until, after what seemed months of toil, the mountains were passed and the fertile plains and extended forests of Kentucky lay before them.
"We found everywhere" says Boone, "abundance of wild beasts of all sorts, through this vast forest. The buffalo were more frequent than I have seen cattle in the settlements, browsing on the leaves of the cane, or cropping the herbage of these extensive plains, fearless, because ignorant of the violence of man. In this forest, the habitation of beasts of every kind natural to America, we practised hunting with great success until the 22d day of December following."
On that day Boone and another were taken prisoner by a party of Indians. Seven days they were held, uncertain as to their fate, but at length, by a skilful artifice, they escaped and made their way back to their camp, only to find it deserted, those whom they had left there having returned to North Carolina. Other adventurers soon joined them, however, Boone's brother among them, and the remainder of the winter was passed in safety.
As regards the immediately succeeding events, it will suffice to say that Squire Boone, as Daniel's brother was called, returned to the settlements in the spring for supplies, the others having gone before, so that the daring hunter was left alone in that vast wilderness. Even his dog had deserted him, and the absolute solitude of nature surrounded him.
The movements we have described had not passed unknown to the Indians, and only the most extraordinary caution saved the solitary hunter from his dusky foes. He changed his camp every night, never sleeping twice in the same place. Often he found that it had been visited by Indians in his absence.
Once a party of savages pursued him for many miles, until, by speed and skill, he threw them from his trail. Many and perilous were his adventures during his three months of lonely life in the woods and canebrakes of that fear-haunted land. Prowling wolves troubled him by night, prowling savages by day, yet fear never entered his bold heart, and cheerfulness never fled from his mind. He was the true pioneer, despising peril and proof against loneliness. At length his brother joined him, with horses and supplies, and the two adventurers passed another winter in the wilderness.
Several efforts were made in the ensuing years to people the country, but numbers of the settlers were slain by the Indians, whose hostility made the task so perilous that a permanent settlement was not made till 1775. The place then settled--a fine location on the Kentucky River--was called, in honor of its founder, Boonesborough. Here a small fort was built, to which the adventurer now brought his family, being determined to make it his place of abode, despite his dusky foes. "My wife and daughter," he says, "were the first white women that ever stood on the banks of Kentucky River."
It was a dangerous step they had taken. The savages, furious at this invasion of their hunting-grounds, were ever on the alert against their pale-faced foes. In the following spring Boone's daughter, with two other girls, who had thoughtlessly left the fort to gather flowers, were seized by ambushed Indians and hurried away into the forest depths.
Their loss was soon learned, and the distracted parents, with seven companions, were quickly in pursuit through the far-reaching forest. For two days, with the skill of trained scouts, they followed the trail which the girls, true hunters' daughters, managed to mark by shreds of their clothing which they tore off and dropped by the way.
The rapid pursuers at length came within sight of the camp of the Indians. Here they waited till darkness descended, approaching as closely as was safe. The two fathers, Boone and Calloway, now volunteered to attempt a rescue under cover of the night, and crept, with the acumen of practised frontiersmen, towards the Indian halting-place. Unluckily for them they were discovered and captured by the Indians, who dragged them exultingly to their camp. Here a council was quickly held, and the captives condemned to suffer the dreadful fate of savage reprisal,--death by torture and flame.
Morning had but fairly dawned when speedy preparations were made by the savages for their deadly work. They had no time to waste, for they knew not how many pursuers might be on their trail. The captives were securely bound to trees, before the eyes of their distracted daughters, and fagots hastily gathered for the fell purpose of their foes.
But while they were thus busied, the companions of Boone and Calloway had not been idle. Troubled by the non-return of the rescuers, the woodsmen crept up with the first dawn of day, saw the bloody work designed, and poured in a sudden storm of bullets on the savages, several of whom were stretched bleeding upon the ground. Then, with shouts of exultation, the ambushed whites burst from their covert, dashed into the camp before the savages could wreak their vengeance on their prisoners, and with renewed rifle-shots sent them away in panic flight. A knife-stroke or two released the captives, and the party returned in triumph to the fort.
The example of Boone and his companions in making their homes on Kentucky soil was soon followed by others, and within a year or two a number of settlements had been made, at various promising localities. The Indians did not view with equanimity this invasion of their hunting-grounds.
Their old battles with each other were now replaced by persistent hostility to the whites, and they lurked everywhere around the feeble settlements, seizing stragglers, destroying cattle, and in every way annoying the daring pioneers.
In April, 1777, a party of a hundred of them fiercely attacked Boonesborough, but were driven off by the rifles of the settlers. In July they came again, now doubled in numbers, and for two days assailed the fort, but with the same ill-success as before. Similar attacks were made on the other settlements, and a state of almost incessant warfare prevailed, in which Boone showed such valor and activity that he became the terror of his savage foes, who, in compliment to his daring, christened him "The Great Long-Knife." On one occasion when two Indian warriors assailed him in the woods he manoeuvred so skilfully as to draw the fire of both, and then slew the pair of them, the one with his rifle, the other, in hand-to-hand fight, with his deadly hunting-knife.
But the bold pioneer was destined soon to pass through an experience such as few men have safely endured. It was now February, 1778. For three years the settlers had defied their foes, Boone, in despite of them, hesitating not to traverse the forest alone, with rifle and hunting-knife, in pursuit of game. In one of these perilous excursions he suddenly found himself surrounded by a party of a hundred Shawnese warriors, who were on their way to attack his own fort. He fled, but was overtaken and secured. Soon after, the savages fell in with a large party of whites who were making salt at the Salt Lick springs, and captured them all, twenty-seven in number.
Exulting in their success, the warriors gave up their original project, and hastened northward with their prisoners. Fortunately for the latter, the Revolutionary War was now in full progress, and the Indians deemed it more advantageous to themselves to sell their prisoners than to torture them. They, therefore, took them to Detroit, where all were ransomed by the British except Boone. The governor offered a large sum for his release, but the savages would not listen to the bribe. They knew the value of the man they held, and were determined that their illustrious captive should not escape again to give them trouble in field and forest.
Leaving Detroit, they took him to Chillicothe, on the Little Miami River, the chief town of the tribe. Here a grand council was held as to what should be done with him. Boone's fate trembled in the balance. The stake seemed his destined doom. Fortunately, an old woman, of the family of Blackfish, one of their most distinguished chiefs, having lost a son in battle, claimed the captive as her adopted son. Such a claim could not be set aside. It was a legal right in the tribe, and the chiefs could not but yield. They were proud, indeed, to have such a mighty hunter as one of themselves, and the man for whose blood they had been hungering was now treated with the utmost kindness and respect.
The ceremony of adoption into the tribe was a painful one, which Boone had to endure. Part of it consisted in plucking out all the hairs of his head with the exception of the scalp-lock, of three or four inches diameter. But the shrewd captive bore his inflictions with equanimity, and appeared perfectly contented with his lot. The new son of the tribe, with his scalp-lock, painted face, and Indian dress, and his skin deeply embrowned by constant exposure to the air, could hardly be distinguished from one of themselves, while his seeming satisfaction with his new life was well adapted to throw the Indians off their guard. His skill in all manly exercises and in the use of arms was particularly admired by his new associates, though, as Boone says, he "was careful not to exceed many of them in shooting, for no people are more envious than they in this sport."
His wary captors, however, were not easily to be deceived.
Seemingly, Boone was left free to go where he would, but secretly he was watched, and precautions taken to prevent his escape. He was permitted to go out alone to hunt, but the Indians always carefully counted his balls and measured his charges of powder, determined that he should have none to aid him to procure food in a long flight. Shrewd as they were, however, Boone was more than their match. In his hunting expeditions he cut his balls in half, and used very small charges of powder, so that he was enabled to bring back game while gradually secreting a store of ammunition.
And thus the days and weeks went on, while Daniel Boone remained, to all outward appearance, a contented Shawnee warrior. But at length came a time when flight grew imperative. He had been taken to the salt-licks with a party of Indians to aid them in making salt. On returning to Chillicothe he was alarmed to see the former peaceful aspect of the village changed to one of threatened war. A band of four hundred and fifty warriors had been collected for a hostile foray, and to his horror he learned that Boonesborough was the destined point of attack.
In this fort were his wife and children. In the present state of security of the inmates they might easily be taken by surprise. He alone could warn them of their danger, and to this end he must escape from his watchful foes.
Boone was not the man to let the anxiety that tore his heart appear on his face. To all seeming he was careless and indifferent, looking on with smiling face at their war-dances, and hesitating not to give them advice in warlike matters. He knew their language sufficiently to understand all they said, but from the moment of his captivity had pretended to be entirely ignorant of it, talking to them only in the jargon which then formed the medium of communication between the red men and the whites, and listening with impassive countenance to the most fear-inspiring plans. They, therefore, talked freely before him, not for a moment dreaming that their astute prisoner had solved the problem of their destination. As for Boone, he appeared to enter with whole-souled ardor into their project and to be as eager as themselves for its success, seeming so fully in sympathy with them, and so content with his lot, that they absorbed in their enterprise, became less vigilant than usual in watching his movements.
The time for the expedition was at hand. Whatever the result, he must dare the peril of flight. The distance to be traversed was one hundred and sixty miles. As soon as his flight should become known, he was well aware that a host of Indian scouts, thoroughly prepared for pursuit and full of revengeful fury, would be on his track. And there would be no further safety for him if captured. Death, by the most cruel tortures the infuriated savages could devise, was sure to be his fate.
All this Boone knew, but it did not shake his resolute soul.
His family and friends were in deadly peril; he alone could save them; his own danger was not to be thought of in this emergency. On the morning of June 16 he rose very early for his usual hunt. Taking the ammunition doled out to him by his Indian guards, he added to it that which he had secreted in the woods, and was ready for the desperate enterprise which he designed.
Boone was now forty-three years of age, a man of giant frame and iron muscles, possessed of great powers of endurance, a master of all the arts of woodcraft, and one of the most skilful riflemen in the Western wilds. Keen on the trail, swift of foot, and valorous in action as were the Indian braves, there was no warrior of the tribe the equal in these particulars of the practised hunter who now meditated flight.
On the selected morning the daring woodsman did not waste a moment. No sooner had he lost sight of the village than he headed southward at his utmost speed. He could count on but an hour or two to gain a start on his wary foes. He well knew that when the hour of his usual return had passed without his appearance, a host of scouts would follow in swift pursuit. Such was the case, as he afterwards learned.