The Project Gutenberg eBook of The pioneer women of the West
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The pioneer women of the West
Author: E. F. Ellet
Release date: June 23, 2026 [eBook #78929]
Language: English
Original publication: Philadelphia: Porter & Coates, 1873
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78929
Credits: Alan, The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIONEER WOMEN OF THE WEST ***
PIONEER WOMEN OF THE WEST
THE
PIONEER WOMEN
OF THE
WEST.
BY
MRS. ELIZABETH F. ELLET,
AUTHOR OF “THE QUEENS OF AMERICAN SOCIETY,” “THE WOMEN OF
THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION,” ETC.
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA:
PORTER & COATES.
1873.
PRESS OF
HENRY B. ASHMEAD,
1102 and 1104 Sansom St.
PREFACE.
An appropriate supplement to the memoirs of the “Women of the American
Revolution,” is the story of the wives and mothers who ventured into
the western wilds, and bore their part in the struggles and labors
of the early pioneers. Indeed, so obvious a consequence of the
Revolution was the diffusion of the spirit of emigration, that the
one work naturally calls for the other, the domestic history of the
period being incomplete without it. To supply this want, very little
published material existed, and that little in the shape of brief
anecdotes, scattered through historical collections made in several
Western States, and scarcely known in other parts of the Union. But a
vast store might be yielded from the records of private families, and
the still vivid recollections of individuals who had passed through
the experiences of frontier and forest life, and it was not yet too
late to save from oblivion much that would be the more interesting and
valuable, as the memory of those primitive times receded into the past.
Application has been made, accordingly, to the proper sources
throughout the Western States, and the result enables me to offer such
a series of authentic sketches as will not only exhibit the character
of many pioneer matrons--characters that would pass for strongly marked
originals in any fiction--but will afford a picture of the times in
the progressive settlement of the whole country, from Tennessee to
Michigan. To render this picture as complete as possible, descriptions
of the domestic life and manners of the pioneers, and illustrative
anecdotes from reliable sources, have been interwoven with the memoirs,
and notice has been taken of such political events as had an influence
on the condition of the country.
All the biographies, except those of Mrs. Boone and Mary Moore,
have been prepared from private records, furnished by relatives
or friends, and in two or three instances by the subjects. I do
not except those of Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Rouse, for which I am
indebted to the courtesy of Dr. S. P. Hildreth, though they appeared
in a more extended form many years since, in a Western periodical
of limited circulation. My grateful acknowledgments are due to Mr.
Milton A. Haynes, of Tennessee, for the memoirs of Mrs. Bledsoe,
Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Shelby, written for this work; and also to Mr.
A. W. Putnam, of Nashville, Tennessee, for those of Mrs. Sevier and
Mrs. Sparks. Both in Tennessee and Ohio I had access to valuable
manuscripts belonging to the Historical Societies, and to letters in
the possession of individuals. For most of the sketches illustrative
of Michigan, included in those of Mrs. Clark, Mrs. Bryan, Mrs. Rumsey
and Mrs. Noble, I have pleasure in acknowledging my obligations to
an accomplished friend--Miss Mary H. Clark of Ann Arbor, Michigan.
The published works from which extracts have been made, are generally
mentioned, and a repetition of authorities would be unnecessary.
Flint’s Life of Boone, Dr. Hildreth’s Notes on the Pioneer History of
Ohio, Howe’s Historical Collections of Ohio, and Lanman’s History of
Michigan, have chiefly aided me, though a vast number of other books
have been consulted.
A word may be permitted here as to the proprietorship of memoirs
prepared from original materials derived from private sources. It
seems reasonable that the exclusive right should belong to the one
who procures and works up such materials; and that no other person
can, without a violation of the principles of common justice, make
use of the memoirs to such an extent as to interfere with the
interests of the original work. This remark is called forth by the
fact that a volume was published in Buffalo, in 1851, entitled “Noble
Deeds of American Women, with Biographical Sketches of some of the
more prominent”--in which thirty-eight sketches prepared entirely
from original manuscripts, (the subjects not even named in any other
published work,) were taken from the volumes of “The Women of the
American Revolution,” twenty-six of them being appropriated, in an
abridged form, without the slightest acknowledgment.
E. F. E.
CONTENTS.
Page
I. MARY BLEDSOE, 13
II. CATHARINE SEVIER, 29
III. REBECCA BOONE, 42
MRS. MASON, 58
ANNA INNIS, 61
SARAH COMBS, 62
IV. CHARLOTTE ROBERTSON, 63
MRS. DUNHAM, 75
V. JANE BROWN, 79
SARAH WILSON, 106
VI. MARY MOORE, 110
MRS. DENIS, 111
MRS. CLENDENIN, 112
MRS. CUNNINGHAM, 113
MRS. SCOTT, 115
MRS. GLASS, 118
VII. ANN HAYNES, 145
VIII. RUTH SPARKS, 153
IX. SARAH SHELBY, 162
X. REBECCA WILLIAMS, 171
LOUISA ST. CLAIR, 178
MRS. LAKE, 185
SALLY WARTH, 191
JANE DICK, 193
MARY HECKEWELDER, 193
RUHAMA GREENE, 196
XI. REBECCA ROUSE, 199
XII. SARAH SIBLEY, 225
XIII. MARY DUNLEVY, 226
XIV. ANN BAILEY, 245
XV. ELIZABETH HARPER, 254
SARAH THORP, 266
MRS. WALWORTH, 271
MRS. CARTER, 272
XVI. ELIZABETH TAPPEN, 274
XVII. REBECCA HEALD, 281
MRS. HELM, 302
MRS. SNOW, 303
MRS. LEMEN, MRS. EDWARDS, 304
XVIII. ABIGAIL SNELLING, 305
XIX. MARY MCMILLAN, 338
XX. CHARLOTTE A. CLARK, 350
CHARLOTTE GEER, 357
MRS. CLARK, 359
XXI. SARAH BRYAN, 361
SYLVIA CHAPIN, 367
MRS. ST. JOHN, MRS. LOVEJOY, 368
LUCY CHAPIN, 370
MRS. ANDERSON, 373
ELIZA BULL, MRS. HARAZTHY, 374
XXII. MARY ANN RUMSEY, 376
ANN ALLEN, 382
ELIZABETH ALLEN, 382
XXIII. HARRIET L. NOBLE, 388
FRANCES TRASK, 397
MRS. SCOTT, MRS. TALBOT, MRS. GOODRICH, 400
MRS. COMSTOCK, 401
MRS. WOODWARD, 402
XXIV. JOURNAL, 403
XXV. ELIZABETH KENTON, 428
THE PIONEER WOMEN OF THE WEST.
I.
MARY BLEDSOE.
“Men’s due deserts each reader may recite,
For men of men do make a goodly show;
But women’s works can seldom come to light,
No mortal man their famous acts may know;
Few writers will a little time bestow,
The worthy acts of women to repeat;
Though their renown and the deserts be great.”
The poet’s complaint might be made with peculiar justice in the case
of American women who followed the earliest adventurers into the
unknown forests of the West. One of their own number often said--“A
good Providence sent such men and women into the world together. They
were made to match.” Such a race will probably never again live in this
country. The progress of improvement, art, and luxury, has a tendency
to change the female character, so that even a return of the perils
of war, or the necessity for exertion, would hardly develop in it the
strength which belonged to the matrons who nursed the infancy of the
Republic. They were formed by early training in habits of energetic
industry, and familiarity with privation and danger, to take their
part in subduing the wilderness for the advance of civilization.
Though their descendants cannot emulate their heroic deeds, it will
be a pleasing task to call up recollections of them; to observe their
patient endurance of hardship, and to compare their homely but honest
exterior with the accomplishment and graces of the sex in modern days.
A large portion of the history of the early settlers of the West has
never been recorded in any published work. It is full of personal
adventure, and no power of imagination could create materials more
replete with romantic interest than their simple experience afforded.
The training of those hardy pioneers in their frontier life; the daring
with which they penetrated the wilderness, plunging into trackless
forests, and encountering the savage tribes whose hunting grounds they
had invaded, and the sturdy perseverance with which they overcame
all difficulties, compel our wondering admiration. It has been truly
said of them, “The greater part of mankind might derive advantage
from the contemplation of their humble virtues, hospitable homes, and
spirits patient, noble, proud, and free; their self-respect, grafted
on innocent thoughts; their days of health and nights of sleep; their
toils by danger dignified, yet guiltless; their hopes of a cheerful old
age and a quiet grave.”
But less attention has been given to their exploits and sufferings than
they deserve, because the accounts read are too vague and general; the
picture not being brought near, nor exhibited with lifelike proportions
and coloring. A collection of memoirs of women must of necessity
include some reliable account of the domestic and daily life of those
heroic adventurers, and may perhaps supply the deficiency. Commencing
with the first colonists of Tennessee, which claims priority of
settlement, we light upon a name associated with its early annals, and
distinguished among pioneers--that of Bledsoe. But before entering on a
sketch of this family, a brief view may be given of the general state
of the country.
Until the year 1700, the territory of North Carolina and Tennessee,
and an indefinite region extending south-west and north-west, in
the language of the royal British charters, to the South Seas, was
known as “our county of Albemarle, in Carolina.” Even as late as
1750, the country lying west of the Appalachian mountains was wholly
unknown to the people of the Carolinas and Virginia. When, a few
years later, the British army under Braddock crossed the mountains
from Maryland and Pennsylvania, and marched to Fort Du Quesne, that
march was described by the writers of the times as an advance into
the deep recesses and fastnesses of a savage wilderness. At that time
the French owned all the Canadas, the valley of the Ohio and all its
tributaries, and claimed the rest of the continent to the confines of
Mexico, westward from the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. The old French
maps of that period, and the journals and letters of French traders
and hunters, together with the traditions of the Indians, afford the
only reliable information in relation to the then condition of the
country now composing Kentucky and Tennessee. In the French maps of
those times, the Kentucky, Holston, Tennessee, and Ohio are laid down.
The Kentucky is called Cataway, the Holston the Cherokee, and the
Little Tennessee the Tanasees. This river, after the junction of the
Holston and Tennessee, is called Ho-go-hegee, and the only Indian town
marked on its banks is at the mouth of Bear Creek, near the north-west
corner of Alabama. There were forts which were little more than trading
posts, at several points on the Ohio and Mississippi; Fort Du Quesne,
where Pittsburg now stands, and one at the mouth of the Kenhawa river;
another at the mouth of the Kentucky, and Fort Vincennes, near the
mouth of the Oubach, or Wabash; Fort Massac, half way between the
mouth of the Ohio and the Tennessee, on the Illinois side, and another
on the Tennessee, twelve miles above its mouth. They also had a fort
where Memphis now stands, called Prud’homme; another at the mouth of
the Arkansas, called Ackensâ; another near Natchez, and one at the
junction of the Coosa and Tallapoosa, called Halabamas. South of these
last forts, the Spaniards had possession in Florida, Louisiana, and
Texas. The greater part of Kentucky, Tennessee, and Western Virginia,
was represented on these maps as wholly uninhabited. Certain it is that
not more than a dozen years afterwards, when the pioneers of Tennessee
and Kentucky first explored that region, they found the banks of the
Watauga, Cumberland, and Kentucky, with their tributaries, in this
state. It was all one vast wilderness, into which hunting parties of
Indians from its distant borders entered and roamed in pursuit of game,
but in which they made no permanent lodgment. Numerous warlike nations
lived south, west, and north of this wilderness, and hither it was that
the lion-hearted pioneers of the Cumberland and Watauga came, with axe
and rifle, to subdue at once the savage and the forest.
In 1758, Col. Bird, of the British army, established Fort Chissel in
Wyth county, Virginia, to protect the frontiers, and, advancing into
what is now Sullivan county, Tennessee, built a fort near Long Island,
on the Holston or Watauga. There was not then a single white man
living in the borders of Tennessee. The year before, Governor Dobbs of
North Carolina had, at the request of the Cherokee Indians, built Fort
Lowdon, and the Indians agreed to make grants of land to all artisans
who would settle among them. Fort Lowdon was on the Little Tennessee,
near the mouth of Tellico river, in the centre of the Cherokee nation,
and about one hundred miles south of the fort at Long Island. Between
these forts were the first settlements, which struggled for several
years against the fearful ravages of Indian wars, before the beginning
of the Revolution.
At irregular intervals from 1765 to 1769, came pioneer parties from
Virginia and North Carolina, forming “camps,” “settlements,” and
“stations.” Some of the earliest emigrants were from Raleigh and
Salisbury, and settled upon the Watauga. The first settlement attempted
on the spot where Nashville now stands, is said to have been in 1778,
the “French Lick,” as the locality was named, having been discovered,
according to Haywood, in 1769 or 1770, by a party of adventurers, who
were descending the Cumberland on their way to Natchez, to dispose
of articles which they had, and purchase others which they wanted.
They saw an immense number of buffaloes and wild game. The lick and
adjoining lands were crowded with them, and their bellowing resounded
from the hills and forest. The place had previously been visited by
French hunters and trappers from the north. The surrounding hills
were then covered with cedars, whose foliage deeply shaded the rocky
soil from which they sprung, and there was no appearance of former
cultivation. No prospect spread before the eye but woods and cane,
inhabited by buffaloes, elks, wolves, foxes, and other wild animals.
Not deterred by the neighborhood of these, or fiercer savages, the new
comers here erected cabins, constructed a stockade fort, and maintained
possession against several attacks by the Indians.
Two brothers of the name of Bledsoe--Englishmen by birth,--were living
in 1769 at Fort Chissel, then upon the extreme border of civilization.
It was not long before they removed further into the wild, and they
were among the earliest pioneers in the valley of the Holston. This
portion of country, now Sullivan county, was at that time supposed
to be within the limits of Virginia. The Bledsoes, with the Shelbys,
settled themselves about twelve miles above the Island Flats. The
beauty of that mountainous region attracted others, who, impelled by
the same spirit of adventure and pride in being the first to explore
the wilderness, came to join them in establishing the colony. They
cheerfully ventured their property and lives, and endured the severest
privations in taking possession of their new homes, influenced by
the love of independence and equality. The most dearly prized rights
of man had been threatened in the oppressive system adopted by Great
Britain towards her colonies; her agents and the colonial magistrates
manifested all the insolence of authority; and individuals who had
suffered from their aggressions bethought themselves of a country
beyond the mountains, in the midst of primeval forests, where no laws
existed save the law of nature--no magistrate, except those selected by
themselves; where full liberty of conscience, of speech, and of action
prevailed. Yet almost in the first year they formed a written code
of regulations by which they agreed to be governed; each man signing
his name thereto. These settlements formed by parties of emigrants
from neighboring provinces were not, in their constitution, unlike
those of New Haven and Hartford; but among them was no godly Hooker,
no learned and heavenly-minded Haynes. As, however, from the first
they were exposed to the continual depredations and assaults of their
savage neighbors, who looked with jealous eyes upon the approach of
the white men, it was perhaps well that there were among them few men
of letters. The rifle and the axe, their only weapons of civilization,
suited better the perils they encountered from the fierce and marauding
Shawnees, Chickamangas, Creeks, and Cherokees, than would the brotherly
address of William Penn, or the pious discourses of Roger Williams.
During the first year, not more than fifty families had crossed the
mountains; but others came with each revolving season to reinforce the
little settlement, until its population swelled to hundreds. During the
Revolutionary struggle, that region became the refuge of many patriots
driven by British invasion from Virginia, the Carolinas, and Georgia,
some of the best families seeking homes there. Patriotic republicans
who had sacrificed everything for their country, hoped to find in the
secluded vales and thick forests of the West that peace and quiet which
they had not found amidst the din of civil and foreign war. But they
soon experienced the horrors of savage warfare, which swept away their
property, and often robbed them of their wives and children, either by
a barbarous death or slavery as captives dragged into the wild recesses
of the Indian borders. They took up their residence, for mutual aid
and protection, in clusters around different stations, within a short
distance of one another, and many lived in the forts. Notwithstanding
the frequent and terrible inroads upon their numbers, they increased to
thousands within ten or fifteen years.
Not long after the Bledsoes established themselves upon the banks of
the Holston, Col. Anthony Bledsoe, who was an excellent surveyor, was
appointed clerk to the commissioners who ran the line dividing Virginia
and North Carolina. Bledsoe had before this ascertained that Sullivan
County was comprised within the boundaries of the latter province.
In June, 1776, he was chosen by the inhabitants of the county to the
command of the militia. The office imposed on him the dangerous duty of
repelling the savages and defending the frontier. He had often to call
out the militia and lead them to meet their Indian assailants, whom
they would pursue to their villages through the recesses of the forest.
In this month more than seven hundred Indian warriors advanced upon the
settlements on the Holston, with the avowed object of exterminating the
white race through all their borders. The battle of Long Island, fought
a few miles below Bledsoe’s station, near the Island Flats, was one
of the earliest and hardest fought battles known in the traditionary
history of Tennessee. Col. Bledsoe, at the head of the militia, marched
to meet the enemy, and in the conflict which ensued was completely
victorious; the Indians being routed, and leaving forty dead upon the
field. This disastrous defeat for a time held them in check; but the
spirit of savage hostility was invincible, and in the years following
there was a constant succession of Indian troubles, in which Col.
Bledsoe was conspicuous for his bravery and services.
In 1779, Sullivan County having been recognized as a part of North
Carolina, Governor Caswell appointed Anthony Bledsoe colonel, and
Isaac Shelby lieutenant-colonel, of its military company. About the
beginning of July of the following year, General Charles McDowell, who
commanded a district east of the mountains, sent to Bledsoe a dispatch,
giving him an account of the condition of the country. The surrender
of Charleston had brought the State of South Carolina under British
power; the people had been summoned to return to their allegiance, and
resistance was ventured only by a few resolute spirits, determined
to brave death rather than submit to the invader. The whigs had fled
into North Carolina, whence they returned as soon as they were able
to oppose the enemy. Colonels Tarleton and Ferguson had advanced
towards North Carolina at the head of their soldiery; and McDowell
ordered Col. Bledsoe to rally the militia of his county, and come
forward in readiness to assist in repelling the invader’s approach.
Similar dispatches were sent to Col. Sevier and other officers, and the
patriots were not slow in obeying the summons.
While the British Colonel Ferguson, under the orders of Cornwallis,
was sweeping the country near the frontier, gathering the loyalists
under his standard and driving back the whigs, against whom fortune
seemed to have decided, a resolute band was assembled for their succor
far up among the mountains. From a population of five or six thousand,
not more than twelve hundred of them fighting men, a body of near
five hundred mountaineers, armed with rifles and clad in leathern
hunting-shirts, was gathered. The anger of these sons of liberty had
been stirred up by an insolent message received from Col. Ferguson,
that “if they did not instantly lay down their arms, he would come
over the mountains and whip their republicanism out of them;” and they
were eager for an opportunity of showing what regard they paid to his
threats.
At this juncture, Col. Isaac Shelby returned from Kentucky, where he
had been surveying land for the great company of land speculators
headed by Henderson, Hart, and others. The young officer was betrothed
to Miss Susan Hart, a belle celebrated among the western settlements
at that period, and it was shrewdly suspected that his sudden return
from the wilds of Kentucky was to be attributed to the attractions
of that young lady; notwithstanding that due credit is given to the
patriot, in recent biographical sketches, for an ardent wish to aid
his countrymen in their struggle for liberty by his active services at
the scene of conflict. On his arrival at Bledsoe’s, it was a matter of
choice with the colonel whether he should himself go forth and march
at the head of the advancing army of volunteers, or yield the command
to Shelby. It was necessary for one to remain behind, for the danger
to the defenceless inhabitants of the country was even greater from
the Indians than the British; and it was obvious that the ruthless
savage would take immediate advantage of the departure of a large
body of fighting men, to fall upon the enfeebled frontier. Shelby
on his part insisted that it was the duty of Bledsoe, whose family,
relatives, and defenceless neighbors looked to him for protection,
to stay with the troops at home for the purpose of repelling the
expected Indian assault. For himself, he urged, he had no family to
guard, or who might mourn his loss, and it was better that he should
advance with the troops to join McDowell. No one could tell where
might be the post of danger and honor, at home or on the other side of
the mountains. The arguments he used no doubt corresponded with his
friend’s own convictions, his sense of duty to his family, and of true
regard to the welfare of his country; and the deliberation resulted
in his relinquishment of the command to his junior officer. It was
thus that the conscientious, though not ambitious patriot, lost the
honor of commanding in one of the most distinguished actions of the
Revolutionary war.
Col. Shelby took the command of those gallant mountaineers who
encountered the forces of Ferguson at King’s Mountain on the 7th
October, 1780. Three days after that splendid victory, Bledsoe received
from him an official dispatch giving an account of the battle. The
daughter of Col. Bledsoe well remembered having heard this dispatch
read by her father, though it has probably long since shared the fate
of other valuable family papers.
When the hero of King’s Mountain, wearing the victor’s wreath,
returned to his friends, he found that his betrothed had departed
with her father for Kentucky, leaving for him no request to follow.
Sarah, the above mentioned daughter of Col. Bledsoe, often rallied
the young officer, who spent considerable time at her father’s, upon
this cruel desertion. He would reply by expressing much indignation
at the treatment he had received at the hands of the fair coquette,
and protesting that he would not follow her to Kentucky, nor ask her
of her father; he would wait for little Sarah Bledsoe, a far prettier
bird, he would aver, than the one that had flown away. The maiden,
then some twelve or thirteen years of age, would laughingly return his
bantering by saying he “had better wait, indeed, and see if _he_ could
win Miss Bledsoe who could not win Miss Hart.” The arch damsel was not
wholly in jest; for a youthful kinsman of the colonel--David Shelby,
a lad of seventeen or eighteen, who had fought by his side at King’s
Mountain--had already gained her youthful affections. She remained true
to this early love, though her lover was only a private soldier. And
it may be well to record that the gallant colonel, who thus threatened
infidelity to his, did actually, notwithstanding his protestations, go
to Kentucky the following year, and was married to Miss Susan Hart, who
made him a faithful and excellent wife.
During the whole of the trying period that intervened between the
first settlement of east Tennessee and the close of the Revolutionary
struggle, Col. Bledsoe, with his brother and kinsmen, was almost
incessantly engaged in the strife with their Indian foes, as well as
in the laborious enterprise of subduing the forest, and converting the
tangled wilds into the husbandman’s fields of plenty. In these varied
scenes of trouble and trial, of toil and danger, the men were aided and
encouraged by the women. Mary Bledsoe, the colonel’s wife, was a woman
of remarkable energy, and noted for her independence both of thought
and action. She never hesitated to expose herself to danger whenever
she thought it her duty to brave it; and when Indian hostilities
were most fierce, when their homes were frequently invaded by the
murderous savage, and females struck down by the tomahawk or carried
into captivity, she was foremost in urging her husband and friends
to go forth and meet the foe, instead of striving to detain them for
the protection of her own household. During this time of peril and
watchfulness, little attention could have been given to books, even had
the pioneers possessed them; but the Bible, the Confession of Faith,
and a few such works as Baxter’s Call, Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress,
etc., were generally to be found in the library of every resident on
the frontier.
About the close of the year 1779, Col. Bledsoe and his brothers, with
a few friends, crossed the Cumberland mountains, descended into the
valley of Cumberland River, and explored the beautiful region on its
banks. Delighted with its shady woods, its herds of buffaloes, its rich
and genial soil, and its salubrious climate, their report on their
return induced many of the inhabitants of East Tennessee to resolve
on seeking a new home in the Cumberland Valley. The Bledsoes did not
remove their families thither until three years afterwards; but the
idea of settling the valley originated with them; they were the first
to explore it, and it was in consequence of their report and advice
that the expedition was fitted out, under the direction of Captain
(afterwards General) Robertson and Col. John Donaldson, to establish
the earliest colony in that part of the country.[1]
The daughter of Col. Bledsoe has in her possession letters that passed
between her father and Gen. Robertson, in which repeated allusions are
made to the fact that to his suggestions and counsel was owing the
first thought of emigration to the valley. In 1784, Anthony Bledsoe
removed with his family to the new settlement of which he had thus
been one of the founders. His brother, Col. Isaac Bledsoe, had gone
the year before. They took up their residence in what is now Sumner
County, and established a fort or station at “Bledsoe’s Lick”--now
known as the Castalian Springs. The families being thus united, and the
eldest daughter of Anthony married to David Shelby, the station became
a rallying point for an extensive district surrounding it. The Bledsoes
were used to fighting with the Indians; they were men of well known
energy and courage, and their fort was the place to which the settlers
looked for protection--the colonels being the acknowledged leaders of
the pioneers in their neighborhood, and the terror, far and near, of
the savage marauders. Anthony was also a member of the North Carolina
Legislature from Sumner County.
From 1780 to 1795, a continual warfare was kept up by the Creeks and
Cherokees against the inhabitants of the valley. The history of this
time would be a fearful record of scenes of bloody strife and atrocious
barbarity. Several hundred persons fell victims to the ruthless foe,
who spared neither age nor sex; and many women and children were
carried far from their friends into hopeless captivity. The settlers
were frequently robbed and their negro slaves taken away; in the course
of a few years two thousand horses were stolen; their cattle and hogs
were destroyed, their houses and barns burned, and their plantations
laid waste. In consequence of these incursions, many of the inhabitants
gathered together at the stations on the frontier, and established
themselves under military rule for the protection of the interior
settlements. During this desperate period, the pursuits of the farmer
could not be abandoned; lands were to be surveyed and marked, and
fields cleared and cultivated, by men who could not venture beyond
their own doors without arms in their hands. The labors of those active
and vigilant leaders, the Bledsoes, in supporting and defending the
colony, were indefatigable. Nor was the heroic matron--the subject
of this sketch--less active in her appropriate sphere of action. Her
family consisted of seven daughters and five sons, the eldest of whom,
Sarah Shelby, was not more than eighteen when they came to Sumner.
Mrs. Bledsoe was almost the only instructor of these children, the
family being left to her sole charge while her husband was engaged
in his toilsome duties, or harassed with the cares incident to an
uninterrupted border warfare.
Too soon was this devoted wife and mother called upon to suffer a far
deeper calamity than any she had yet experienced. Anthony Bledsoe had
removed his family into his brother Isaac’s fort at Bledsoe’s Lick. On
the night of the 20th of July, 1788, a number of Indians approached,
and placed themselves in ambush about forty yards in front of a
passage dividing the log houses occupied by the two families. To draw
the men out, they then sent some of their party to cause an alarm by
riding rapidly through a lane passing near. Roused by the noise, Col.
Anthony Bledsoe rose and went to the gate. As he opened it, he was
shot down, the same shot killing an Irish servant, named Campbell, who
had been long devotedly attached to him. The colonel did not expire
immediately, but was carried back into the house, while preparations
were made for defence by Gen. William Hall, and the portholes manned
till break of day. The wife of Isaac Bledsoe suggested to her husband,
and afterwards to her brother-in-law, in view of the near approach
of death, that it was proper to make provision for his daughters. He
had surveyed large tracts of land, and had secured grants for several
thousand acres, which constituted nearly his whole property. The law
of North Carolina at that time gave all the lands to the sons, to the
exclusion of the daughters. In consequence, should the colonel die
without a will, his seven young daughters would be left destitute. In
this hour of bitter trial, Mrs. Bledsoe’s thoughts too were not alone
of her own sufferings, and the deadly peril that hung over them, but
of the provision necessary for the helpless ones dependent on her
care. Writing materials were procured, and having called Clendening to
draw up the will, he being too much agitated to write, Isaac Bledsoe
supported his dying brother while affixing his signature. Thus a
portion of land was assigned to each of the daughters, who in after
life had reason to remember with gratitude the presence of mind and
affectionate care of their aunt.
Mrs. Bledsoe’s sufferings from Indian hostility were not terminated
by this overwhelming stroke. A brief list of those who fell victims,
among her family and kinsmen, may afford some idea of the trials she
endured, and of the strength of character which enabled her to bear up,
and to support others, under such terrible experiences. In January,
1793, her son Anthony, then seventeen years of age, while passing near
the present site of Nashville, was shot through the body, and severely
wounded, by a party of Indians in ambush. He was pursued to the
gates of a neighboring fort. Not a month afterwards, her eldest son,
Thomas, was also desperately wounded by the savages, and escaped with
difficulty from their hands. Early in the following April, he was shot
dead near his mother’s house, and scalped by the murderous Indians. On
the same day, Col. Isaac Bledsoe was killed and scalped by a party of
about twenty Creek Indians, who beset him in the field, and cut off his
retreat to his station near at hand.
In April, 1794, Anthony, the son of Mrs. Bledsoe, and his cousin of
the same name, were shot by a party of Indians, near the house of Gen.
Smith, on Drake Creek, ten miles from Gallatin. The lads were going
to school, and were then on their way to visit Mrs. Sarah Shelby, the
sister of Anthony, who lived on Station Camp Creek.
Some time afterwards, Mrs. Bledsoe was on the road from Bledsoe’s Lick
to the above mentioned station, where the court of Sumner County was
at that time held. Her object was to attend to some business connected
with the estate of her late husband. She was escorted on her way by
the celebrated Thomas Sharp Spencer, and Robert Jones. The party was
waylaid and fired upon by a large body of Indians. Jones was severely
wounded, and turning, rode rapidly back for about two miles; after
which, he fell dead from his horse. The savages advanced boldly upon
the others, intending to take them prisoners.
It was not consistent with Spencer’s chivalrous character to attempt to
save himself by leaving his companion to the mercy of the foe. Bidding
her retreat as fast as possible and encouraging her to keep her seat
firmly, he protected her by following more slowly in her rear, with his
trusty rifle in his hand. When the Indians in pursuit came too near,
he would raise his weapon, as if to fire; and as he was known to be
an excellent marksman, the savages were not willing to encounter him,
but hastened to the shelter of trees, while he continued his retreat.
In this manner he kept them at bay for some miles, not firing a single
shot--for he knew that his threatening had more effect--until Mrs.
Bledsoe reached a station. Her life and his own were on this occasion
saved by his prudence and presence of mind; for both would have been
lost had he yielded to the temptation to fire.
This Spencer--for his gallantry and reckless daring named “the
Chevalier Bayard of Cumberland Valley,”--was famed for his encounters
with the Indians, by whom he had often been shot at, and wounded on
more than one occasion. His proportions and strength were those of a
giant, and the wonder-loving people were accustomed to tell marvellous
stories concerning him. It was said that at one time, being unarmed
when attacked by Indians, he reached into a tree, and wrenching off
a huge bough by main force, drove back his assailants with it. He
lived for some years alone in Cumberland Valley--it is said from 1776
to 1779--before a single white man had taken up his abode there; his
dwelling being a large hollow tree, the roots of which still remain
near Bledsoe’s Lick. For one year--the tradition is--a man by the name
of Holiday shared his retreat; but the hollow being not sufficiently
spacious to accommodate two lodgers, they were under the necessity
of separating, and Holiday departed to seek a home in the valley of
the Kentucky River. But one difficulty arose; those dwellers in the
primeval forest had but one knife between them! What was to be done?
for a knife was an article of indispensable necessity; it belonged to
Spencer, and it would have been madness in the owner of such an article
to part with it. He resolved to accompany Holiday part of the way on
his journey, and went as far as Big Barren River. When about to turn
back, Spencer’s heart relented; he broke the blade of his knife in two,
gave half to his friend, and with a light heart returned to his hollow
tree. Not long after his gallant rescue of Mrs. Bledsoe, he was killed
by a party of Indians, on the road from Nashville to Knoxville. For
nearly twenty years he had been exposed to every variety of danger, and
escaped them all; but his hour came at last, and the dust of the hermit
and renowned warrior of Cumberland Valley now reposes on “Spencer’s
Hill,” near the Crab Orchard, on the road between Nashville and
Knoxville.
Bereaved of her husband, sons, and brother-in-law by the murderous
savages, Mrs. Bledsoe was obliged alone to undertake, not only the
charge of her husband’s estate, but the care of the children, and their
education and settlement in life. These duties were discharged with
unwavering energy and Christian patience. Her religion had taught her
fortitude under her unexampled distresses; and through all this trying
period of her life, she exhibited a decision and firmness of character,
which bespoke no ordinary powers of intellect. Her mind, indeed, was
of masculine strength, and she was remarkable for independence of
thought and opinion. In person she was attractive, being neither tall
nor large until advanced in life. Her hair was brown, her eyes gray,
and her complexion fair. Her useful life was closed in the autumn of
1808. The record of her worth, and of what she did and suffered, may
win little attention from the careless many, who regard not the memory
of our “pilgrim mothers:” but the recollection of her gentle virtues
has not yet faded from the hearts of her descendants; and those to
whom they tell the story of her life will acknowledge her the worthy
companion of those noble men to whom belongs the praise of having
originated a new colony and built up a goodly state in the bosom of the
forest. Their patriotic labors, their struggles with the surrounding
savages, their efforts in the maintenance of the community they had
founded--sealed, as they finally were, with their own blood, and the
blood of their sons and relatives--will never be forgotten while the
apprehension of what is noble, generous, and good survives in the
hearts of their countrymen.
II.
CATHERINE SEVIER.
In one of the pioneer parties from the banks of the Yadkin, in North
Carolina, who crossed the rugged mountains to seek new homes in the
valley of the Watauga, came Samuel Sherrill, with his family consisting
of several sons and two daughters. One of these daughters, Susan,
married Col. Taylor, a gentleman of considerable distinction; the
other, Catharine, became the second wife of Gen. Sevier. Mr. Sherrill’s
residence was finally upon the Nola Chucka, and known as the Daisy
Fields. He was a tiller of the soil, a hard-working man, “well to do in
the world” for an emigrant of that day, and he was skilled in the use
of the rifle, so that it was said, “Sherrill can make as much out of
the grounds and 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 tents and cabins of
those first emigrants. A providence was in this that some of them
recognized with thankfulness. These settlements encroached upon the
rights and hunting-grounds of the natives; and although some had been
established and permitted to remain undisturbed for several years, yet
when Capt. James Robertson arrived from Virginia, in 1772, with a large
party of emigrants, and selected lands on the Watauga, he endeavored
to secure an occupation with the approbation of the Indians; therefore
he effected a “lease” from the Cherokees of all the lands on the river
and its tributaries for eight years.
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 family of Seviers came among the very earliest
emigrants from Virginia, and aided in the erection of the first fort on
the Watauga.[2]
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 may be heard by his quick ear; therefore
did these advanced guards often change their homes when others crowded
them at a mile’s distance. It must be remembered that these advances
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 from the Indians, a foothold in the soil,
stations of defence, 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
as many Indians were in the distance, upon the Cumberland and Kentucky
Rivers. The emigrants advanced, and they took no steps backwards. In a
few years they were found organizing “provisional governments” upon
“the dark and bloody ground” of Kentucky, and at the Bluffs, the site
of the beautiful capital of Tennessee. And these Watauga and Nola
Chucka pioneers were the leading spirits throughout.
Lord Dunmore, in fitting out the expedition against the Indian tribes,
which ended with the memorable battle of Point Pleasant, gave John
Sevier the commission of captain.
In the first Cherokee war of 1776, the early settlements were in
great danger of being destroyed. The prowling savages picked off the
emigrants in detail, and being somewhat successful 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 change 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 Chilhowee Mountain
region. It was a fierce attack, but the fort fortunately held within
it two of the most resolute men who have ever touched the soil of
Tennessee, and to whom East and Middle Tennessee were subsequently more
indebted than to any other men who have ever lived--James Robertson
and John Sevier--they having then no higher titles than captains. Some
thirty men were under their command or direction.
The approach of the Indians had been stealthy, and the first alarm
was given by the flight and screams of some females, who were closely
pursued by the savages in large force. One of the women was killed,
and one or two captured. In this party of females was Miss Catharine
Sherrill, daughter of Samuel Sherrill, who had removed into the fort
only the day previous.
Miss Sherrill was already somewhat distinguished for nerve, action,
and fleetness. It was said “she could outrun or outleap any woman;
walk more erect, and ride more gracefully and skilfully than any other
female in all the mountains round about, or on the continent at large.”
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, and
her whole appearance such as to attract the especial notice and pursuit
of the Indians; and as they intercepted the direct path to the gate of
the fort, she made a circuit to reach the enclosure on another side,
resolved, as she said, to scale the walls or palisades. In this effort,
some person within the defences 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 enclosure. The savages were coming with
all speed, and firing and shooting arrows repeatedly. Indeed, she said,
“the bullets and arrows came like hail. It was now--leap the wall or
die! for I would not live a captive.” She recovered from the fall, and
in a moment was over and within the defences, and “by the side of one
_in uniform_.”
This was none other than Capt. John Sevier, and the first time she
ever saw him. This was the beginning of an acquaintance destined in a
few years to ripen into a happy union, to endure in this life for near
forty years. “The way she run 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 in
time to come. And she always deemed herself safe when by his side. Many
a time did she say: “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.” Capt. Sevier was then
a married man, his wife and younger children not having yet arrived
from Virginia. His wife’s name was Susan Hawkins, and she was a native
of Virginia, where she died.
In 1777, Capt. Sevier received a commission from the State of North
Carolina, and was thus decidedly enlisted in the cause of American
independence; and not long after this, he was honored with the
commission of colonel, bearing the signature of George Washington. In
1779, his wife died, leaving him ten children. Several of the eldest
were sons, who had come with their father to gain and improve a home
in the wilderness. They were trained to arms and to labor. He had
selected land on the Watauga and Nola Chucka, his chosen residence
being on the latter stream, and for many years known as Plum Grove.
In the year 1780, he and Miss Sherrill were married, and she devoted
herself earnestly to all the duties of her station, and to meet the
exigencies of the times. It may well be supposed that females spun,
wove, and made up most of the clothes worn by these backwoods people.
Girls were as well skilled in these arts as were the boys in such as
more appropriately belonged to their sphere and strength.
Not long after the marriage, Col. Sevier was called to the duty of
raising troops to meet the invasion of the interior of North Carolina,
under Tarleton, Ferguson, and other British officers. Preparations
were hastily made, and the various forces assembled which fought the
important battle of King’s Mountain. Col. Sevier had three sons and one
brother in that engagement. His favorite brother, Joseph, was killed,
and one son wounded. These sons were between the ages of sixteen and
twenty-one. Boys were early taught to use the rifle with skill. This
was the formidable weapon in pursuit of game, and in all the Indian
wars.
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 three sons wore
the day they were in the memorable battle of King’s Mountain. And she
would say, “Had his ten children been sons, and large enough to have
served in that expedition, I could have fitted them out.”[3]
In the course of years, Mrs. Sevier became the mother of eight
children, three sons and five daughters; and thus Col. Sevier was the
father of eighteen children, all of whom maintained good characters,
were “given to hospitality,” and lived comfortably and usefully,
although none of them acquired great wealth. Mrs. Sevier was often left
alone to manage domestic affairs, not only within doors, but without.
The life of the Colonel 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. The history of the Indian
wars of East Tennessee, of the settlement of the country, and of the
organization of the State Government, is the record of the deeds of
his life. No commander was more frequently engaged in conflicts with
the Indians with equal success and such small loss of his men. And
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 a
known historical fact that in 1781 he had taken to his own home, on
the Chucka, a number of Indian prisoners, it is said thirty, 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 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 protection than otherwise they could
have expected.
Col. Sevier acquired a sobriquet among the Indians, which was some
evidence of their familiarity with and attachment to him, and probably
of advantage. As long as he lived they called him “Chucka Jack.” He was
afterwards called the “Treaty-maker.” They had a name for Mrs. Sevier
also, which is now not remembered. The tories were the worst enemies,
and perpetrated more damage to Col. Sevier’s property than did ever the
Indians; and from them Mrs. Sevier had repeatedly to hide most of her
small stock of household articles. She usually remained at the farm,
and never would consent to be shut up in a blockhouse, always saying--
“The wife of John Sevier
Knows no fear.”
“I neither skulk from duty nor from danger.”
And we believe this was emphatically true. We have seen her in
advanced age--tall in stature, erect in person, stately in walk, with
small, piercing blue eyes, raven locks, a Roman nose, and firmness
unmistakable in her mouth and every feature. She was able to teach
her children in the exercises conducive to health and usefulness, to
strength of nerve and to action. None could, with equal grace and
facility, placing the hand upon the mane of a spirited horse, and
standing by his side, seat herself upon his back or in the saddle. She
had the appearance and used the language of independence, haughtiness,
and authority, and she never entirely laid these aside. Yet was not
her pride offensive, nor her words or demeanor intended heedlessly
to wound. It could be said of her without any question, that she
“reverenced her husband,” and she instilled the same Scriptural
sentiment into the minds of his children. The very high respect and
deference which one of her dignified appearance ever paid to him, no
doubt had a favorable influence upon others; for though he was a man
of remarkable elegance of person, air and address, and of popular
attraction, yet it must be confessed that she contributed much to all
these traits, and to his usefulness and zeal in public service. She
relieved him of his cares at home, and applauded his devotion to the
service of the people.
Her reply to those who urged her “to fort,” or to take protection in
one of the stations, was, “I would as soon die by the tomahawk and
scalping-knife as by famine! I put my trust in that Power who rules the
armies of Heaven, and among men on the earth. I know my husband has an
eye and an arm for the Indians and the tories who would harm us, and
though he is gone often, and for weeks at a time, he comes home when I
least expect him, and always covered with laurels. * * If God protects
him whom duty calls into danger, so will He those who trust in him and
stand at their post. * * Who would stay out if his family forted?”
This was the spirit of the heroine--this was the spirit of Catharine
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. Col. Sevier at one time advised her to go into
the fort, but yielded to her respectful remonstrance. At one time the
tories came to her house and demanded her husband’s whereabouts, and
finally avowed that 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 them
the information. One man drew a pistol and threatened to blow out her
brains 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 earth, my blood will not be unavenged!”
He dared not--he did not shoot. The leader of the gang told the man to
put up his pistols, saying, “such a woman is too brave to die.” She
knew some of the party, and that they were noted thieves and tories.
At another time they came to her smokehouse to carry off meat. She took
down the gun, which her husband always left with her in good order,
and said to them: “The first one who takes down a piece of meat is a
dead man!” They could not mistake her resolution. Her tone, manner, and
appearance avowed clearly enough that she uttered no vain warning; that
she knew her rights and dared maintain them. They left without taking
anything. In the fall of 1780, a noted loyalist by the name of Dykes
planned the seizure of Sevier, but the plot was discovered to Mrs.
Sevier by his wife, as she stood by the smokehouse with her apron held
out to receive meal and a slice of meat from the Colonel’s lady.[4]
Some of their negroes were stolen and never all recovered, being
taken into the Indian nation by the tories, and thence to Savannah
or Charleston while in possession of the British. There was a mortal
enmity between some of the active tories and the Seviers, resulting
in the hanging of some of the former on two occasions. It fell to
the lot of Mrs. Sevier to do acts of hospitality and kindness to some
of this set and their descendants many years after the war. And these
kindnesses she performed, although she acknowledged that she felt at
the same time the spirit of revenge rankling in her bosom. “Some of
them,” she would say “and perhaps all their children, may make worthy
people and good citizens if they are not kept continually ashamed and
mortified by being reminded of their bad conduct or of their tory
origin.”
The sick and wounded soldier ever found a welcome and nursing at
the home of Sevier. The supplies for many of the Colonel’s Indian
expeditions were from his own private means. His wife, sons, and
servants were remarkably successful in raising corn and hogs, and
cheerfully were these given to the furtherance of the great objects in
hand.[5]
All her life long was Mrs. Sevier distinguished for her kindness and
liberality to the poor. Towards children she was gentle, though she
had an appearance and manner which prevented them from giving that
annoyance they are apt to do to the aged. It was usual with her to keep
a supply of maple-sugar and cinnamon-bark in her spice-box, from which
she would gratify them, and then wave them kindly away. This motion of
her hand was expressive, and easily understood.
In 1784 occurred the scenes of the “State of Frankland.” The people of
East Tennessee, becoming dissatisfied with the condition of affairs
under North Carolina, and impelled, as they urged, by the necessity
of self-protection, organized a separate and independent government,
giving that name to the new State. John Sevier was its first and last
Governor. The establishment of this little republic was declared by
the Governor of North Carolina to be no less than revolt, and all
concerned in it were commanded to return to their duty and allegiance,
and to refuse obedience to any self-created authority, unsanctioned by
the legislature of North Carolina. Notwithstanding this remonstrance,
the new government proceeded in the exercise of sovereignty. In the
conflict of authorities and the civil and personal contests which grew
out of this state of things in the revolted territory, the prudent and
judicious conduct of Mrs. Sevier added to her husband’s reputation
as well as her own. His house became the place of general resort.
It was proclaimed open and free to all the friends of the rights of
self-defence and independence, and the impressive dignity and noble
bearing of Mrs. Sevier made a deep and lasting impression upon all who
resorted to that home for counsel, aid, or hospitality.
The supporters of the new State were obliged in time, however, to
enter into measures of adjustment. When the Governor was seized by
its enemies and spirited away into the interior of North Carolina,
Mrs. Sevier, with the promptness, energy, and daring which qualify for
any occasion of utmost moment, aroused his friends, and would have
gone, as a fearless leader, “to conquer or to die.” But seeing that
her relatives, his relatives, sons and friends were resolved upon his
release and restoration, she little doubted his speedy return, and she
was not disappointed.
And when a returning sense of justice, and the revulsion of public
sentiment and power of popular gratitude, produced a repeal of “the
odious acts of exclusion” of North Carolina, placing him “in lone
conspicuity,” and the people called him, by unanimous voice, again
and again, and yet again, to preside as Governor of Tennessee, and
to a Seat in Congress of the United States, then did her great heart
swell with thankfulness to God and her fellow-citizens. Then did she
acknowledge that her husband had not endured peril, toil, and sacrifice
in vain, though far short of the reward to which she thought him justly
entitled. And we doubt not posterity will coincide in this judgment.
During the twelve years in which he officiated as Governor of
Tennessee, his wife made his home delightful to him and his children.
It was the rest of the weary, the asylum of the afflicted, well
known as “the hospitable mansion of the first Governor, the people’s
favorite.”
The education of Mrs. Sevier, in respect of literature and the
embellishments of dress and music, was such as she acquired chiefly
from reading the Bible, hearing the wild birds sing, and the Indians’
pow-wow. “I picked up a good deal,” she was accustomed to say, “from
observation of men and their acts--for that was a business with us in
the early settlements--and we examined the works of nature to some
advantage; but as to school education, we had precious little of that
except at our mothers’ knees.”
She embraced the religious sentiments of the Presbyterians, and her
life throughout was exemplary and useful. In this faith she lived
and died. A favorite expression of hers was: “I always trust in
Providence.” And she taught her children that “trust in God, with a
pure heart, is to be rich enough; if you are lazy, your blood will
stagnate in your veins, and your trust die.” She would never be idle.
Knitting often engaged her fingers, while her mind and tongue were
occupied in thought and conversation. She always wore at her side a
bunch of very bright keys.
After the death of Gov. Sevier on the Tallapoosa, in 1815, where he had
gone to cement peace and establish the boundary with the Creek Indians,
Mrs. Sevier removed to Overton County, in Middle Tennessee, where most
of her children resided. She selected a most romantic and secluded spot
for her own retired residence. It was upon a high _bench_, or spur of
one of the mountains of that county, a few miles from Obeds River,
with higher mountains on either side. There were some ten or fifteen
acres of tillable land, and a bold never-failing spring issuing from
near the surface of the level tract, which cast its pure cold waters
down the side of the mountain hundreds of feet into the narrow valley.
In a dense wood near that spring, and miles distant from any other
habitation, did her sons erect her log cabins for bedroom, dining-room,
and kitchen, and others for stable and crib. She resided for years
at “The Dale,” with the General’s aged body-servant, Toby (who had
accompanied him in all his Indian campaigns), his wife, Rachel, and
a favorite female servant and boy. Seldom did she come down from her
eyrie in the mountain. The aged eagle had lost her mate. She made her
nest among the lofty oaks upon the mountain heights, where she breathed
the air and drank the water untainted and undisturbed, fresh and pure,
and nearest to the heavens.
We have visited her in that chosen spot. “The Governor’s widow” could
never be looked upon as an ordinary countrywoman. Whoever saw her
could not be satisfied with a single glance--he must look again. And
if she stood erect, and her penetrating eye caught the beholder’s, he
judged at once there was in that mind a consciousness of worth and an
acquaintance with notable events. He would wish to converse with her.
She used language of much expressiveness and point. She never forgot
that she was the widow of Gov. and Gen. Sevier; that he had given
forty years of his life to the service of his country, and in the most
arduous and perilous exposure, contributing from his own means far
more than he ever received from the public treasury; and yet he never
reproached that country for injustice, neither would she murmur nor
repine.
At times she was disposed to sociable cheerfulness and humor, as one
in youthful days, and then would she relate interesting anecdotes
and incidents of the early settlement of the country, the manners
and habits of the people, of the “barefoot and moccasin dance” and
“spice-wood tea-parties.” Her woman’s pride, or some other feminine
feeling, induced her to preserve with the utmost care an imported or
bought carpet, of about twelve by fifteen feet in size, which had been
presented to her as the “first Governor’s wife,” and as the first
article of the kind ever laid upon a “puncheon,” or split-log floor
west of the Alleghany Mountains. Whenever she expected company upon
her own invitation, or persons of character to pay their respects to
her, the Scotch carpet was sure to be spread out, about the size of a
modern bedquilt. But as soon as company departed, the ever-present and
faithful servants, Suzy and Jeff, incontinently commenced dusting and
folding, and it was soon again boxed up. Three times were we permitted
the honorable privilege of placing our well cleaned boots upon this
dear relic from the household of the first Governor of Tennessee, and
of admiring the pair of ancient and decrepit branch-candlesticks as
they stood on the board over the fireplace.
The bucket of cool water was ever on the shelf at the batten-door,
which stood wide open, swung back upon its wooden hinges; and there
hung the sweet water-gourd; and from very love of everything around,
we repeatedly helped ourselves. The floors, the doors, the chairs, the
dishes on the shelves--yea, everything seemed to have been scoured.
There was a lovely cleanness and order, and we believe, “godliness with
contentment.”
She was remarkably neat in her person, tidy, and particular, and
uniform in her dress, which might be called half-mourning--a white cap
with black trimmings. She had a hearth-rug, the accompaniment of the
favorite carpet, which was usually laid before the fire-place in her
own room, and there she commonly was seated, erect as a statue--no
stooping of the figure, so often acquired by indolence and careless
habit, or from infirm old age--but with her feet placed upon her rug,
her work-stand near her side, the Bible ever thereon or in her lap, the
Governor’s hat upon the wall--such were the striking features of that
mountain hermitage.
There was resignation and good cheer--there was hospitality and worth
in that plain cottage; and had not the prospect of better fortune, and
attachment to children married and settled at a distance, induced her
own sons to remove from her vicinity, she ought never to have been
urged to come down from that “lodge in the wilderness.” But her last
son having resolved to remove to Alabama, she consented to go with him
and pass her few remaining days in his family.
She departed this life on the 2d October, 1836, at Russelville, in the
State of Alabama, aged about eighty-two.
III.
REBECCA BOONE.
In the rural cemetery near Frankfort, upon a hill overlooking the
river, under the shadow of protecting trees, are two green mounds,
unmarked by slab or stone informing the stranger that the remains
of two honored pioneers--Daniel Boone and his wife, rest beneath.
The beauty of the locality is unrivalled, and it is not far from the
magnificent monument erected by Kentucky to her brave officers fallen
on the field of battle; the splendid shaft inscribed with their names,
and surmounted by a figure of Victory holding crowns in her hands. It
is hoped that ere long the State will do justice to the memory of those
whose arduous efforts won a victory not less glorious over the untamed
wilderness, and opened the way to others as bold and persevering.
It will be remembered that the father of Daniel Boone had his residence
on the borders of the Yadkin in North Carolina, at no great distance
from the eastern slope of the Alleghanies; then a frontier country,
and the greater part of it unbroken forest. Near the farm here opened,
was another owned by Mr. Bryan, comprising about a hundred acres
beautifully situated on a gentle swell of ground; the eminence crested
with laurels and yellow poplars, which half concealed the farmer’s
dwelling. A wild mountain stream ran along the base of the hill. This
Joseph Bryan was the oldest son of Morgan Bryan, of Virginia, the head
of a very respectable family. His daughter, Rebecca, was born near
Winchester, in Virginia.
Flint’s “Life of Boone,” contains the following account of his first
meeting with his future wife, referred to as authentic by other
biographers:
“Young Boone was one night engaged in a fire hunt with a young friend.
Their course led them to the deeply timbered bottom which skirted
the stream that wound round Bryan’s pleasant plantation. That the
reader may have an idea what sort of a pursuit it was that young Boone
was engaged in, during an event so decisive of his future fortunes,
we present a brief sketch of a night fire hunt. Two persons are
indispensable to it. The horseman that precedes, bears on his shoulder
what is called a _fire pan_, full of blazing pine knots, which casts a
bright and flickering glare far through the forest. The second follows
at some distance with his rifle prepared for action. No spectacle is
more impressive than this of pairs of hunters thus kindling the forest
into a glare. The deer, reposing quietly in his thicket, is awakened by
the approaching cavalcade, and instead of flying from the portentous
brilliance, remains stupidly gazing upon it, as if charmed to the spot.
The animal is betrayed to its doom by the gleaming of its fixed and
innocent eyes. This cruel mode of securing a fatal shot is called in
hunters’ phrase--_shining the eyes_.
“The two young men reached a corner of the farmer’s field at an early
hour in the evening. Young Boone gave the customary signal to his
mounted companion preceding him, to stop; an indication that he had
_shined the eyes_ of a deer. Boone dismounted and fastened his horse to
a tree. Ascertaining that his rifle was in order he advanced cautiously
behind a covert of bushes, to rest the right distance for a shot. The
deer is remarkable for the beauty of its eyes when thus shined. The
mild brilliance of the two orbs was distinctly visible. Whether warned
by a presentiment, or arrested by a palpitation and strange feelings
within, at noting a new expression in the blue and dewy lights that
gleamed to his heart, we say not. But the unerring rifle fell, and a
rustling told him the game had fled. Something whispered him it was not
a deer; and yet the fleet step, as the game bounded away, might easily
be mistaken for that of the light-footed animal. A second thought
impelled him to pursue the rapidly retreating game; and he sprang
away in the direction of the sound, leaving his companion to occupy
himself as he might. The fugitive had the advantage of a considerable
advance of him, and apparently a better knowledge of the localities of
the place. But the hunter was perfect in all his field exercises, and
scarcely less fleet-footed than a deer, and he gained rapidly on the
object of his pursuit, which advanced a little distance parallel with
the field fence, and then, as if endowed with the utmost accomplishment
of gymnastics, cleared the fence at a leap. The hunter, embarrassed
with his rifle and accoutrements, was driven to the slow and
humiliating expedient of climbing it. But an outline of the form of the
fugitive, fleeting through the shades in the direction of the house,
assured him that he had mistaken the species of the game. His heart
throbbed from an hundred sensations, and among them an apprehension
of the consequences of what would have resulted from discharging his
rifle, when he had first shined those liquid blue eyes. Seeing that
the fleet game made straight in the direction of the house, he said to
himself: ‘I will see the pet deer in its lair,’ and he directed his
steps to the same place. Half a score of dogs opened their barking
upon him as he approached the house, and advertised the master that a
stranger was approaching. Having hushed the dogs, and learned the name
of his visitant, he introduced him to his family as the son of their
neighbor Boone.
“Scarce had the first words of introduction been uttered, before the
opposite door opened, and a boy apparently of seven, and a girl of
sixteen, rushed in, panting for breath, and seeming in affright.
“‘Sister went down to the river and a _painter_ chased her, and she is
almost scared to death,’ exclaimed the boy.
“The ruddy, flaxen-haired girl stood full in view of her terrible
pursuer, leaning upon his rifle, and surveying her with the most
eager admiration. ‘Rebecca, this is young Boone, son of our neighbor,’
was the laconic introduction. Both were young, beautiful, and at the
period when the affections exercise their most energetic influence. The
circumstances of the introduction were favorable to the result, and
the young hunter felt that the eyes had _shined_ his bosom as fatally
as his rifle shot had ever the innocent deer of the thickets. She too,
when she saw the light, open, bold forehead, the clear, keen, yet
gentle and affectionate eye, the firm front, and the visible impress
of decision and fearlessness of the hunter--when she interpreted a
look which said as distinctly as looks could say it, ‘how terrible it
would have been to have fired!’ can hardly be supposed to have regarded
him with indifference. Nor can it be wondered at that she saw in him
her beau ideal of excellence and beauty. The inhabitants of cities,
who live in mansions, and read novels stored with unreal pictures of
life and the heart, are apt to imagine that love, with all its golden
illusions, is reserved exclusively for them. It is a most egregious
mistake. A model of ideal beauty and perfection is woven in almost
every youthful heart, of the brightest and most brilliant threads that
compose the web of existence. It may not be said that this forest
maiden was deeply and foolishly smitten at first sight. All reasonable
time and space were granted to the claims of maidenly modesty. As for
Boone, he was remarkable for the backwoods attribute of never being
beaten out of his track, and he ceased not to woo, until he gained the
heart of Rebecca Bryan. In a word, he courted her successfully, and
they were married.”
Boone’s first step after his marriage was to find a suitable place
where he might cultivate his farm, and hunt to the greatest advantage.
His wife remained at home, while he went to explore the unsettled
regions of North Carolina. When he had selected a locality near the
head waters of the Yadkin, Rebecca, with the same resolute spirit of
enterprise which afterwards led her to the wilds of Kentucky, bade
farewell to her friends, and followed her adventurous husband. In a few
months her home had assumed a pleasant aspect; a neat cabin stood on
a pleasant eminence near the river, surrounded by an enclosed field;
the farm was well stocked and with the abundance of game in the woods,
the settlers had no lack of means for comfort and enjoyment. The rude
dwelling frequently offered the traveller shelter; and by a cheerful
fire and table loaded with the finest game, with the enhancing blessing
of a hospitable welcome, was many a tale of adventure narrated, while
as yet the surrounding forest was untouched by an axe. For some years
the young couple lived in this sylvan retirement, till the fields of
other emigrants opened wide clearings, and dwellings rose so thickly in
the neighborhood as to form villages; when Boone made up his mind to
remove to some wilder spot.
The country west of the Cumberland Mountains was almost unknown in
1760. Some few hardy adventurers had struck into the pathless forests
which extended along the frontier settlements, but the Alleghanies
had proved an insurmountable barrier to the families of settlers. The
stories told by adventurers, meanwhile, who had ventured into the
skirts of the wilderness, kindled the imagination of enterprising
hunters. In 1767, Finley went still further, and penetrated through a
portion of Tennessee. “There is nothing,” says the biographer of Boone,
“grand or imposing in scenery, nothing striking or picturesque in the
ascent and precipitous declivity of mountains covered with woods;
nothing romantic or delightful in deep and sheltered valleys through
which wind clear streams--that was not found in this region. Mountains
stretch along in continuous ridges, and now and then shoot up into
elevated peaks. On the summit of some spread plateaus, which afford the
most romantic prospects, and offer every advantage for cultivation,
with the purest and most bracing atmosphere. No words can picture the
secluded beauty of some of the vales bordering the small streams, which
fling their spray, transparent as air, over moss-covered and time-worn
rocks, walled in by precipitous mountains, down which pour numerous
waterfalls.”
The rich soil and inviting aspect of this country gave large ideas
of its advantages; and as the wanderer penetrated into Kentucky,
the luxuriant beauty of its plains, its rich cane-brakes and
flower-covered forests promised everything desirable in a new home.
The forest abounded with deer, elk, and buffaloes, and more savage wild
beasts had their lair in its depths and in the thick tangles of the
green cane; while pheasants, partridges, wild turkeys, &c., were as
plenty as domestic fowls upon a farm. The report of Finley determined
Boone to go westward, and others having been induced to join him in an
exploring expedition, six assembled at his house on the first of May,
1769--all the neighbors being gathered to witness their departure.
Mrs. Boone parted with her husband, who left his house laden with his
rifle, hunter’s bag of ammunition, and light knapsack--the only luggage
taken by the adventurers. Their expedition across the Alleghanies into
the boundless forests of the Ohio valley, where the buffalo roamed
like herds of cattle, has been elsewhere described. The land appeared
the very paradise of hunters, and Boone could not imagine how any
one who could fix his home in such a region, would stay among the
barren pine-hills of North Carolina. The exploring party divided, to
take different routes, and Boone and Stewart were taken prisoners by
wandering Indians.
They managed, however, to escape, and Boone joined his elder brother,
while Stewart and another of their number were killed. The brothers
were soon in want of ammunition, and the elder Boone returned to North
Carolina, while Daniel, regardless of danger, remained alone in the
rough cabin he had built, from the first of May to the 27th of July,
1770, at which time his brother came back with cheering news from
his family. Having finished their survey, both returned to report to
their neighbors what they had seen, and form a company of such persons
as were willing to join the families of the Boones in their pioneer
settlement. Their descriptions of the luxuriance of the country--its
cane-brakes, clover plains, limestone springs, maple orchards, streams
and forests filled with game and wild-fowl, were matched by fearful
accounts from others of the depredations and cruelties of Indians,
dangers of wild beasts, and diseases peculiar to a wild country; so
that it was two years before preparations were completed for the
expedition. The party commenced the march the 26th September, 1773,
and were joined by forty persons in “Powell’s valley,” a settlement
some distance westward; numbering about eighty in all. They crossed
the wild and rugged range of mountains by the course the brothers had
traced on their return, but they were not destined to proceed much
further. As they descended the west side of Walden’s ridge, along a
narrow defile, they were suddenly startled by the yells of Indians, and
a fierce affray ensued, in which six men were killed, and some of the
stock scattered and lost. In the general distress, the company decided
unanimously on giving up the attempt to form a settlement in Kentucky,
and returning to Clinch River, forty miles in the rear, where a number
of families had already located themselves. It may be supposed that
Mrs. Boone, whose eldest son had been slain in the encounter, had lost
all spirit for the enterprise, and her husband was obliged to submit
to the decision of the rest. Their new home, accordingly, was for some
time on the banks of Clinch River. In June, 1774, Boone was required by
Governor Dunmore of Virginia, to conduct a party of surveyors to the
falls of Ohio. In 1775, he superintended the erection of a fort on the
Kentucky River, afterwards called Boonesborough. The fort consisted
of one block-house and several cabins, surrounded by palisades. This
work was accomplished amidst troubles from the Indians, and when it was
finished Boone returned for his family. They took up their abode at the
earliest military station--except the house built by Harrod in 1774 in
Kentucky--Mrs. Boone and her daughters being the first white women who
had ever stood on the banks of Kentucky river.
It was the close of summer, and at this time the spot selected for
their residence appeared in its best aspect. The early autumn was mild
and beautiful, and arrangements were made for the cultivation of the
land as soon as spring should open. Winter came, and passed with little
discomfort. Their cabins were thoroughly daubed with clay; they had
abundance of fuel, and were at no loss for game and provisions. Those
who went out to fell trees, however, were constrained to be on their
guard against attacks from Indians, who might aim at them from some
covert in the woods, and the men never left home without carrying
their rifles and knives. The women occasionally ventured a short
distance without the palisades in the day-time, but never out of sight
of the fort.
The months thus passed without monotony or want of excitement; spring
opened, the trees to be felled were girdled, the brush cut down and
burned, preparations made for ploughing the field, and a garden spot
marked off, which, when the virgin earth had been thrown up, was given
in charge to Mrs. Boone and her daughters. They had brought out a stock
of seeds from the old settlements, and went out every bright day to
plant them. The little party of women was reinforced, among others, by
the daughters of Col. Calloway, a friend of Boone, who had brought his
family to the station. Their fondness for possessing themselves of the
spoils of the forest, led to a romantic instance of the peril of the
times.
A little daughter of Boone, with Calloway’s two, was captured by
Indians the 7th of July. Flint says they were gathering flowers in the
woods when the savages rushed upon them; and that they were not missed
till some time after they had been carried off. I copy the account
given of the pursuit of Boone, and the recovery of the captives, by
Col. Floyd, an actor in the scene--in preference to other narratives.
He says the girls were taken out of a canoe in the river, within sight
of Boonesborough. “The affair happened late in the afternoon, and the
spoilers left the canoe on the opposite side of the river from us,
which prevented our getting over for some time to pursue them. Next
morning by daylight we were on the track, but found they had totally
prevented our following them by walking some distance apart, through
the thickest cane they could find. We observed their course, and on
which side we had left their sign, and travelled upwards of thirty
miles. We then imagined that they would be less cautious in travelling,
made a turn in order to cross their trace, and had not gone but a few
miles before we found their tracks in a buffalo path; pursued and
overtook them on going about ten miles, just as they were kindling a
fire to cook. Our study had been more to get the prisoners without
giving the Indians time to murder them after they discovered us,
than to kill the savages. We discovered each other nearly at the same
time. Four of us fired, and all rushed on them, which prevented their
carrying anything away, except one shot gun without ammunition. Mr.
Boone and myself had a pretty fair shot just as they began to move off.
I am well convinced I shot one through, and the one he shot dropped
his gun; mine had none. The place was very thick with cane, and being
so much elated on recovering the three little broken-hearted girls,
prevented our making any further search. We sent them off without their
moccasins, and not one of them so much as a knife or a tomahawk.”[6]
With the commencement of the war of the Revolution, the ravages of
Indian warfare along the whole line of border settlements became more
extensive and violent; British influence and resources securing the
savages as their allies along the frontier, from the north-eastern
part of Vermont and New York to the Mississippi. The story of Boone’s
life is interwoven with the scenes of plunder, captivity, burning
and massacre, which swept and in many instances desolated the infant
colonies of the north and west. Yet new emigrants came, many of them
of respectable standing, and some noted in the history of the time.
Mrs. McGary, Mrs. Hogan, and Mrs. Denton, had taken up their residence
in the fort at Boonesborough. At the same time hordes of savages
crossed the Ohio with the design of extirpating these germs of social
establishments in the Indian’s favorite hunting-ground, and in numerous
detachments spread in every direction through the forest.
But the increase of danger did not drive back the pioneers, or prevent
still further reinforcements. Those who first ventured into Kentucky
and Tennessee, had come in small parties, but on their return to
the old settlements they gathered companies of their friends and
connections, old and young, with their wives and children, flocks
and herds, resolved on emigration, and pledged by mutual necessity
to stand by each other in life and death. There was among them none
of the jealousy and want of unity which prevail, more or less, among
their descendants; yet were not these primitive hunters assimilated to
savages in their habits, but possessing keen and strong intellects as
well as powerful frames, and every qualification for social life. The
first care on reaching their destination was to select a spot for the
new dwelling, usually chosen on a gently elevated ground of exuberant
fertility, where trees were sparse, and there was no underbrush to
prevent the hunter’s riding at full speed. The growth of cane, wild
clover, and _pawpaw_ marked the best soil. Cabins being put up for
immediate use, the little settlement was converted into a station.
For this purpose it was necessary to enclose a spring or well, near
a salt lick or sugar orchard if practicable; then a wide space must
be cleared, so that the enemy could not approach close under the
shelter of the woods. The station was to overlook, moreover, as much
of the country as possible. It included from half an acre to an acre
of ground, and the trench was usually dug four or five feet deep and
planted with large and close pickets, forming a compact wall ten or
twelve feet above the surface of the earth. The pickets were of hard
timber and about a foot in diameter, and the soil around them was
rammed into great solidity. At the angles were small projecting squares
called _flunkers_, with oblique port-holes, from which the fire of
sentinels within could rake the external front of the station; and in
front and rear two folding gates swung on enormous wooden hinges. The
gates were barred every night, and sentinels posted alternately, one
being stationed on the roof in time of peculiar danger. These fortified
places in the wilderness had their clean turfed area for dancing,
wrestling, or other athletic exercises; the inmates of the fort passed
their evenings sociably together, cheerful fires blazing within the
enclosure, and suppers of venison and wild turkeys, wild fruits and
maple beer were enjoyed with double relish amid the distant howling
of wolves, or the Indian warwhoop, heard like the roar of the dying
storm. Such was Bryants station in 1782, the nucleus of the earliest
settlements in the rich and lovely country of which Lexington is the
centre--and such were others built at that period.
The captivity of Boone, his escape and return to Boonesborough, and the
Indian siege of that station in 1778--the last it sustained--belong to
the biography of the renowned woodsman, not to this memoir. When during
a long interval no information concerning Boone could be obtained,
he was supposed by the people at the garrison and his family to have
fallen a victim to savage vengeance. Mrs. Boone, believing herself
widowed, at length resolved, with her children, to leave the western
forests, and return to the banks of the Yadkin. Kentucky, she said,
had indeed been to her a “dark and bloody ground.” The family returned
to their friends in North Carolina, nearly five years having elapsed
since they had started with the first party of emigrants for Kentucky.
The friends from whom she then parted had heard afterwards of their
disastrous encounter with the Indians, their return to Clinch River,
and subsequent residence at Boonesborough; but knew nothing of their
further trials. When about the close of the summer of 1778, these
pilgrims returning from the western wilds were seen approaching on
pack-horses, the sight caused no little surprise and wonder among the
dwellers on the banks of the Yadkin. The mother wore deep mourning,
and her dejected countenance showed the grief that had worn her strong
spirit; the same melancholy was evident in the faces of her eldest
surviving son, and the daughter who had been captured; the other
children being too young to feel trial or change. The travellers were
clad in skins, and the primitive habiliments of the wilderness, and as
the cavalcade stopped at Mr. Bryan’s house, the neighbors collected to
learn what had happened, and listen with deep interest to Mrs. Boone’s
relation of her adventures and sorrows.
After having driven the enemy from Boonesborough, Col. Boone set out to
cross the Alleghanies in pursuit of his wife and children; surmounting
with iron strength of endurance the difficulties of the way. It may
be imagined how joyfully his return was hailed by those who had so
long believed him dead. They returned in the following summer to
Boonesborough, which enjoyed tranquillity as the country became more
thickly settled. Many incidents of interest after this re-union, in
which Boone was prominent, are recorded in the history of Kentucky, but
do not pertain to this sketch. One connected with another pioneer, may
be mentioned as illustrative.
Benjamin Logan, who had brought his family from the Holston to
Logan’s Fort, in March, 1776, was obliged afterwards to remove them
for safety to Harrodsburgh. Before the attack on Harrodsburgh in
the winter of 1777, he returned with six families to the cabins he
had built, and commenced palisading the station. “On the 20th of
May, while the females of the establishment were milking their cows,
sustained by a guard of their husbands and fathers, the whole party
was suddenly assailed by a large body of Indians, concealed in a
canebrake. One man was killed and two wounded, one mortally, the
other severely. The remainder reached the interior of the palisades
in safety. The number in all was thirty, half of whom were women and
children. A circumstance was now discovered exceedingly trying to
such a benevolent spirit as that of Logan. While the Indians were
still firing, and the inmates exulting in their safety while others
mourned over their dead and wounded, it was perceived that one of the
wounded, by the name of Harrison, was still alive, and exposed every
moment to be scalped. All this his wife and family could discover
from within. It is not difficult to imagine their agonized condition
and piercing lamentations. Logan displayed on this occasion the same
tender compassion and insensibility to danger, that characterised his
friend Boone in similar circumstances. He endeavored to rally a few
of the male inmates of the place to join him, rush out, and bring the
wounded man within the palisades. But so obvious was the danger, so
forlorn appeared the enterprise, that no one could be found disposed
to volunteer his aid, except a single individual by the name of John
Martin. When he had reached the gate, the wounded man raised himself
partly erect and made a movement as if trying to reach the fort
himself. On this Martin desisted from the enterprise and left Logan to
attempt it alone. He rushed forward to the wounded man, who made some
effort to crawl onward by his aid; but weakened by the loss of blood,
and the anguish of his wounds, he fainted, and Logan taking him in his
arms, bore him towards the fort. A shower of bullets was discharged at
them, many of which struck the palisades close to Logan’s head, as he
brought the wounded man safe within the gate, and deposited him in the
care of his family.
“The station, at this juncture, was destitute both of powder and
ball, and there was no chance of supplies nearer than Holston; all
intercourse between station and station was cut off. Without ammunition
the fort could not be defended against the Indians, and the question
was how to obtain a supply in this pressing emergency. Capt. Logan,
selecting two trusty companions, left the fort by night, evading
the besieging Indians, reached the woods, made his way in safety to
Holston, procured the necessary supplies of ammunition, and packed it
under their care on horseback, giving them directions how to proceed.
He then left them, and traversing the forest by a shorter route on
foot, reached the fort in safety ten days after his departure. The
Indians still kept up the siege with unabated perseverance, and the
hopes of the diminished garrison had given way to despondency. The
return of Logan inspired them however with renewed confidence.”
We select another narrative in detail, to convey an idea of Indian
hostility on the one hand, and the manner in which it was met on the
other. “A family lived on Cooper’s run, in Bourbon county, consisting
of a mother, two sons of mature age, a widowed daughter with an infant
in her arms, two grown daughters, and a daughter ten years old. The
house was a double cabin. The two grown daughters and the smaller
girl were in one division, and the rest of the family in the other.
At night a knocking was heard at the door of the latter division,
asking in good English and the customary Western phrase: ‘Who keeps
house?’ As the sons went to open the door, the mother forbade them,
affirming that the persons claiming admission were Indians. The young
men sprang to their guns; and the Indians finding themselves refused
admittance at the door, made an effort at the opposite one. That door
they soon beat open with a rail, and endeavored to take the three
girls prisoners. The little girl sprang away, and might have escaped
in the darkness and the woods, but the foolish child under a natural
impulse ran to the other door and cried for help. The brothers within
it may be supposed would wish to go forth and protect the feeble and
terrified wailer. The mother taking a broader view of duty, forbade
them. The savages soon hushed the cries of the distressed child by the
merciless tomahawk. While some of the Indians were engaged in murdering
this child, another was binding one of the grown girls whom he had
captured, the other young woman defending herself with a knife which
she had been using at a loom at the moment of attack. The intrepidity
she displayed was unavailing. She killed one Indian and was herself
dispatched by another. The savages meanwhile having obtained possession
of one half the house, fired it. The persons shut up in the other
half had now no other alternative than to be consumed in the flames
rapidly spreading towards them, or to go forth and expose themselves
to the murderous tomahawks that had already laid three of the family
in their blood. The Indians stationed themselves in the dark angles of
the fence, where, by the bright glare of the flames, they could see
everything, and yet remain themselves unseen. Here they could make a
sure mark of all that should escape from within. One of the sons took
charge of his aged and infirm mother, and the other of his widowed
sister and her infant. The brothers emerged from the burning ruins,
separated and endeavored to spring over the fence. The mother was shot
dead as her son was piously helping her over, the other brother being
killed as he was gallantly defending his sister. The widowed sister,
her infant and one of the brothers escaped the massacre and alarmed the
settlement. Thirty men, commanded by Col. Edwards, arrived next day to
witness the appalling spectacle presented around the smoking ruins of
this cabin. Considerable snow had fallen, and the Indians were obliged
to leave a trail which easily indicated their path. In the evening
of that day, they came upon the expiring body of the young woman,
apparently murdered but a few moments before their arrival; the Indians
having been premonished of their pursuit by the barking of a dog that
followed them. The white men overtook and killed two of the savages
that had strayed behind, apparently as voluntary victims to secure the
retreat of the rest.”
After numerous perils and escapes, and great services to the country,
Boone had the privilege of rejoicing in the peace that followed
the defeat of the northern tribes of Indians by General Wayne. His
perseverance had triumphed over all obstacles, and the kindred spirit
of his wife had aided and encouraged him in his various adventures,
whether descending the Alleghanies, tracing the course of the
Cumberland and Tennessee, roaming through the forests of Kentucky,
wandering a captive through the wilderness to the great lakes, or
following the waters of the Wabash, Miamis, and Scioto. When the tide
of emigration had poured into the country, and disputes and litigation
arose as to the ownership of land, the band of primitive pioneers was
dispersed, and Boone moved his family to the woods on the banks of the
Great Kanawha, having heard that deer and buffaloes were to be found
on the unsettled lands near that river. Their home was for some years
near Point Pleasant; but game was not so abundant as could be desired,
and the report of adventurers returned from the vast prairies and
unexplored forests of the Missouri, determined Boone once more to flee
from the encroaching advance of civilization. Taking up his rifle and
light luggage, he set out with the faithful companion of his wanderings
and their children, driving their stock before them, and passed through
Cincinnati in 1798. They settled in St. Charles County, about forty
miles above St. Louis. After Missouri had come under the government of
the United States, the tide of emigration and enterprise again swept by
the dwelling of our pioneers, driving off the game, and changing the
hunting grounds into farms. A follower too, even more sure to overtake
them, came on apace; old age with its consequent infirmities. Mrs.
Boone died in March 1813. A most faithful and efficient helpmeet had
she proved to the pioneer, possessing the same energy, heroism, and
firmness which he had shown in all the vicissitudes of his eventful
career, with the gentler qualities by which woman, as the centre of
the domestic system, diffuses happiness and trains her children to
become useful and honored in after life. Having shared willingly in the
hardships, labors and dangers of those adventurers whose names live in
grateful remembrance, she is entitled to some portion of the renown
that has embalmed them.
An anecdote or two illustrative of the insecurity of families in
those days, and of the horrors undescribed in most cases, may not
be inappropriate before closing this memoir. In the spring of 1780,
Alexander McConnel, who lived at Lexington, then a small cluster of
cabins, having killed a buck in the woods, went home for a horse, and
returning, was seized and carried off by five Indians. After several
days’ travel, when they reached the banks of the Ohio, they omitted
the precaution of binding him closely one night, merely tying the
buffalo tug around his wrists, and fastening it to their bodies; and
he resolved on making his escape. About midnight, casting his eyes in
the direction of his feet, they fell on the glittering blade of a knife
which had escaped its sheath, and was lying near the feet of one of the
Indians. He could not reach it with his hands, but with some difficulty
grasped the blade between his toes, and drew it within reach. He then
cut his cords, and silently extricated himself from his captors; but he
knew it would be necessary to kill them, to avoid pursuit and certain
death. After anxious reflection, his plan was formed, and carefully
removing the guns of the Indians, which were stacked near the fire,
and hiding them in the woods, he took two, and returning to the spot
where his enemies were still sleeping, he placed the muzzles of each
on a log within six feet of his victims, and pulled both triggers.
Both shots were fatal; he then ran to secure one of the other rifles,
and fired at two of the savages, standing in a line, killing one and
wounding the other, who limped off into the forest. The fifth darted
off like a deer, with a yell of astonishment and terror. McConnel not
wishing to fight any more such battles, selected his own rifle from
the stack, and made the best of his way to Lexington. A Mrs. Dunlap,
who had been several months a prisoner among the Indians on Mad River,
soon afterwards came to the same place, having made her escape, and
reported that the survivor had returned to his tribe with a lamentable
tale of an attack by a large party of white men, who had killed the
poor bound prisoners, as well as his companions![7]
An adventure of a different kind befel McKinley, a school teacher, in
the following year. While sitting alone at his desk, he heard a slight
noise at the door, and saw an enormous wild cat. He rose to snatch up
a cylindrical rule to defend himself, but the creature darted upon
him, tore his clothes from his side, and buried her claws and teeth
in his flesh. He threw himself on the edge of the table, and pressed
the assailant against its sharp corner with all his force. Her cries,
mingled with his own, now alarmed the neighbors, and after a few
moments the dead animal was disengaged from her prey, though her tusks
were dislodged with some difficulty from between his ribs.
In the beginning of 1794, a party of Indians killed George Mason,
on Flat Creek, twelve miles from Knoxville. In the night he heard a
noise in his stable, and stepped out; was intercepted before he could
return, by the savages, and fled, but was fired upon and wounded. He
reached a cave, from which he was dragged out and murdered, and the
Indians returned to the house to despatch his wife and children. Mrs.
Mason heard them talking as they approached, and hoped her neighbors,
aroused by the firing, had come to her assistance. But perceiving that
the conversation was neither in English nor German, she knew they
were enemies. She had that very morning learned how to set the double
trigger of a rifle. Fortunately the children were not awakened, and
she took care not to disturb them. She had shut the door, barred it
with benches and tables, and taking down her husband’s well charged
rifle, placed herself directly opposite the opening which would be made
by forcing the door. Her husband came not, and she was but too well
convinced he had been slain. She was alone in darkness, and the yelling
savages were pressing on the house. Pushing with great violence, they
gradually opened the door wide enough to attempt an entrance, and the
body of one was thrust into the opening and filled it, two or three
more urging him forward. Mrs. Mason set the trigger of the rifle, put
the muzzle near the body of the foremost, and fired. The first Indian
fell; the next uttered the scream of mortal agony. The intrepid woman
observed profound silence, and the savages were led to believe that
armed men were in the house. They withdrew, took three horses from the
stable, and set it on fire. It was afterwards ascertained that this
high-minded woman had saved herself and children from the attack of
twenty-five assailants.
The opportunity seems favorable to notice the spirit and manners of
those primitive times of Kentucky history. After the period of the
attack on Bryant’s Station, and the disastrous battle of the Blue
Licks, which took place on the 18th of August, 1782, notwithstanding
the dangers which surrounded the settlements, they began to have
more of the aspect of communities. The proportion of women, which
had hitherto been so small, became larger, and a license to marry is
said to have been the first process issued by the clerks of the new
counties. The first settlers having generally been composed of those
who had braved the perils of settling the frontiers of the adjacent
states, their helpmates were accustomed to labor and hardship. The
duties of the household were discharged by the females.
“They milked the cows, prepared the meats, spun and wove the garments
of their husbands and children; while the men hunted the game of the
woods, cleared the land, and planted the grain. To grind the Indian
corn into meal on the rude and laborious hand-mill, or to pound it
into hominy in a mortar, was occasionally the work of either sex. The
defence of the country, the building of forts and cabins, fell most
properly to the share of the men; though in those hardy times, it was
not at all uncommon for females, during a siege, to run bullets and
neck them for the rifle. Deer skins were extensively used for dress,
to compose the hunting shirt, the long overalls, the leggins, and
the soft and pliable moccasins; the buffalo and bear furnished the
principal covering for the night. Handkerchiefs tied round the head,
often supplied the place of hats; strips of buffalo hide were used for
ropes. Stores or shops were unknown; wooden vessels either prepared by
the _turner_, the _cooper_, or their rude representatives in the woods,
were the common substitutes for table furniture. A tin cup was an
article of delicate luxury almost as rare as an iron fork. Every hunter
carried a knife, too aptly called a _scalping knife_, in the hands of
the white man as well as in those of the Indian; and one or two knives
would compose the cutlery of families. The furniture of the cabin was
appropriate to the habitation; the table was made of a slab, or thick,
flat piece of timber, split and roughly hewn with the axe, with legs
prepared in the same manner. This latter instrument was the principal
tool in all mechanical operations, and with the adze, the auger, and
above all, the _rifle_, composed the richest mechanical assortment
of Kentucky. Stools of the same material and manufacture, filled the
place of chairs. When some one more curiously nice than his neighbors,
chose to elevate his bed above the floor (often the naked ground), it
was placed on slabs laid across poles which were again supported by
forks driven into the floor. If, however, the floor happened to be so
luxurious as to be made of puncheons (another larger sort of slabs),
the bedstead became hewed pieces, let into the sides of the cabin by
auger holes in the logs. The cradle of these times was a small rolling
trough, much like what is called the sugar trough, used to receive the
sap of the sugar maple. Still the food in these rude habitations, and
with this rough and inartificial furniture, was the richest milk and
finest butter furnished by the luxuriant pasture of the woods, covered
with the rich pea vine and the luscious cane. The game of the country,
it has been already seen, struck the experienced eye of even Boone
as profuse beyond measure; it was the theme of admiration to every
hunter; nor did the abundance afford slight assistance to the whites
in their conquest of the land. The enemy would never have permitted
provisions to have been transported, or to have grown by the slow and
peaceable processes of farming; and the consequence must have been
that the stations would have been starved into surrender, but for the
providential supply of the deer, the buffalo, and the bear. These were
to be obtained by every gallant rifleman; and this so abundantly that
the buffalo has often been shot in order to enjoy either its hump or
its tongue. The hospitality of these times was much less a merit than
an enjoyment; often a protection to both parties. The fare was rough,
but heartily and generously divided with every fellow-woodsman.”[8]
Generosity, hardihood, bravery, and endurance of suffering, were
prominent and undeniable features in the character of these first
settlers. But the female sex, though certainly an object of more regard
than among the Indians, had to endure much hardship, and occupy a rank
inferior to the male partner, among the _earliest_ emigrants, the state
of society exercising high physical qualities rather than mental or
artificial endowments.
* * * * *
ANNA INNIS, widow of Hon. Henry Innis, and mother of Mrs. J. J.
Crittenden, died at Cedar Hill, near Frankfort, Kentucky, May 12th,
1851. This lady was one of the pioneers of Kentucky, and has been the
pride of her State and an ornament to the country. Her early days were
spent in the wilderness, and yet in the society of such men as Clarke,
Wayne, Shelby, Scott, Boone, Henderson, Logan, Hart, Nicholas, Murray,
Allen, Breckenridge, and all the great and heroic spirits of the West.
She saw Washington as he led his broken army through the Jerseys, and
as he returned in triumph from Yorktown. Of this remarkable woman the
_Frankfort Commonwealth_ says:
“Her tenacious memory retained all she had seen, and she became
the chronicler of her own times, and interwove her narrative with
traditions of the past. Providence had been kind in all his dealings
with her. He had blest her with a strong mind and constitution,
and with great cheerfulness and courage. He had blessed her in her
‘basket and her store.’ He had blessed her in her children, and at
last when the message came, having borne all the trials of a long and
eventful life with heroic firmness, she died in the full communion and
fellowship of the Presbyterian Church, of which she had been long an
exemplary member.”
Another of the eminent daughters of Kentucky was the mother of Gen.
Leslie Combs, whose maiden name was Sarah Richardson. She was of a
respectable Quaker family of Maryland, connected by blood with the
Thomases and Snowdens. Leslie, the youngest of twelve children, was
just eighteen when he started as a volunteer to join the Kentucky
troops ordered to the northern frontier, under Gen. Winchester, in
1812. Two of his elder brothers had previously entered the service,
and with earnest entreaties he prevailed on his parents to let him
go, setting forward alone a few weeks after the army had marched.
“I shall never forget,” were his words in after years, “the parting
scene with my beloved and venerated mother, in which she reminded me
of my father’s history, and her own trials and dangers in the early
settlement of Kentucky, and closed by saying to me ‘as I had resolved
to become a soldier, I must never disgrace my parents by running from
danger; but die rather than fail to do my duty.’ This injunction was
ever present to me afterwards in the midst of dangers and difficulties
of which I had then formed no idea, and stimulated me to deeds I might
otherwise, perhaps, have hesitated to undertake or perform.”
The residence of Mrs. Combs, after her removal from the picketed
station where she first lived in Kentucky, was on a farm about
six miles from Boonesborough. The family suffered much from the
depredations of the Indians who then infested the country from the Ohio
to the Tennessee. Mrs. Combs’ riding horse was shot down under her
eldest son while he and his father were on a trapping excursion within
two or three miles of home. They did not return as soon as expected,
and the mother was left alone in the cabin with two or three little
children, a prey to the most agonizing apprehensions. It was through
her industry and energy that her children were enabled to obtain a
better education than was usual in the country in those days. This fact
is mentioned in the inscription on her tombstone, which stands on the
farm where they lived and died, alongside of that inscribed with the
name of her husband, recorded as “a Revolutionary officer and a Hunter
of Kentucky.”
NOTE.--See page 428.
IV.
CHARLOTTE ROBERTSON.
Charlotte Reeves was the second daughter of George Reeves and Mary
Jordan, and was born in Northampton County, N. C., in January 1751. Her
parents were poor in worldly possessions, and were able to give their
children only a limited education; but they trained them to labor and
habits of systematic industry, and in those strict principles which
guided and preserved their parents through life, and made their example
useful. Soon after the marriage of Charlotte with James Robertson, the
young couple crossed the mountains and fixed their abode in one of the
new settlements on the Watauga or Holston River.
In 1779, Robertson went with some others to explore the Cumberland
Valley, leaving his family behind. They explored the country to the
neighborhood of the spot where Nashville now stands, planted there a
field of corn, and leaving three of the party to keep the buffaloes
out of the corn, returned to East Tennessee for their families. The
fame of the fertile Cumberland lands, the salubrity of the air, the
excellence of the water, and the abundance of game of all sorts, was
soon diffused through all the frontier settlements, and many took the
resolution of emigrating to this land of plenty. Companies came and
built cabins and block houses and in the latter part of February or
first of March 1780, Mrs. Robertson left her home at the mouth of
Big Creek on the Holston, for the purpose of joining her husband. Her
party consisted of herself and four small children, her brother William
Reeves, Charles Robertson her husband’s brother, her sister-in-law,
and three little nieces, with two white men servants, a negro woman
and her infant. These voyagers were conveyed in two of the small and
frail flat-boats appointed to convey the families of emigrants to
their new homes in the wilderness. Capt. James Robertson was to head
the party travelling by land through Kentucky to the same point of
destination, and driving the cattle belonging to the little colony;
and had left home some weeks previously, with his eldest son, fourteen
years of age. Those who went by water descended the north fork of the
Holston, and proceeded down Tennessee River. The various difficulties
they encountered, the perils and fatigues of this tedious and dangerous
trip, were more numerous that it is now possible to detail. At the
mouth of Duck River they expected to land and make their way through
the wilderness to the “Cumberland County,” but the guides failing to
meet them, they continued their voyage to the mouth of the Tennessee.
At this point their difficulties were fearfully increased. The ice
was just broken up in the Ohio, the water was rising, and the aspect
of things appeared so discouraging to their pilot that he abandoned
the enterprise in despair, and left the company to make their way in
the best manner possible up the river, having to ascend against a
rapid current, with clumsy and scarcely manageable boats, some two
hundred miles. The emigrants were worn out and disheartened with the
toil of the voyage already accomplished, the men were strangers to
the navigation of the Ohio, which flowed for the most part through an
unbroken forest, infested on either side with wild beasts and more
merciless Indians; their lives seemed endangered at every step, and
so dreary was the prospect, that about one half the company decided
against pursuing the enterprise, bade adieu to their companions, and
shoving their boats into the smooth current of the Ohio, sought homes
for their families in Natchez. The others turned their bows up the
river. Of Mrs. Robertson’s party only two men were left, her brother
and brother-in-law. They lashed the two boats together; Mrs. Johnson,
the widowed sister of Capt. Robertson, undertook to serve as pilot, and
managed the steering oar, while Mrs. Robertson and Hagar, the African
woman, worked at the side oars alternately with Reeves and Robertson.
By this tedious and laborious progress, they made their way up the Ohio
to the mouth of the Cumberland, and up the Cumberland to the point of
destination, landing in the beginning of April at the site of Nashville.
Haywood, in his history of Tennessee, describes the voyage made by “The
Adventure” and other boats, which, leaving the fort on the Holston
the 22d of December, 1779, did not reach the “Big Salt Lick” till
the latter part of April. An extract may give an idea of the perils
of the expedition. In passing Indian villages on the Tennessee, the
voyagers had been accosted by many of the savages with professions of
friendship, designed to cover a hostile purpose.
“In a short time the crew came in sight of another town, situated on
the north side of the river, nearly opposite a small island. Here also
the Indians invited those on board to come on shore, calling them
brothers, and seeing the boats standing to the opposite side, told
the passengers that their side was the best for the boats to pass the
island on. A young man on board the boat of Capt. John Blackmore,
approaching too near the shore, was shot in the boat from the shore.
Mr. Stewart had set off in a boat on board which were blacks and
whites to the number of twenty-eight. His family being diseased with
the small pox, it was agreed that he should keep at some distance in
the rear. He was to be informed each night where the others lay by
the sound of a horn. The foremost boats having passed the town, the
Indians collected in considerable numbers. Seeing him far behind,
they intercepted him in their canoes, and killed and made prisoners
the whole crew. The crews of the other boats were not able to relieve
him, being alarmed for their own safety, for they perceived large
bodies of Indians marching on foot down the river, keeping pace with
the boats, till the Cumberland mountain covered them from view. The
boats were now arrived at the place called the Whirl or Suck, where
the river is compressed into less than half its common width, by the
Cumberland mountain jutting into it on both sides. In passing through
the upper part of these narrows, at a place termed the Boiling Pot,
a man of the name of John Cotton was descending the river in a canoe
with a small family, and had attached it to Robert Cartwright’s boat,
into which he and his family had entered for safety. The canoe was here
overturned, and the little cargo lost. The movers pitying his distress,
concluded to land and assist him in recovering his property. Having
landed on the north shore at a level spot they began to go towards the
place where the misfortune had happened, when the Indians, to their
astonishment, appeared on the opposite cliffs, and commenced firing
down upon them. The Indians continued their fire from heights upon the
boats. In the boat of Mr. Gower was his daughter Nancy. When the crew
were thrown into disorder and dismay, she took the helm, and steered
the boat, exposed to all the fire of the enemy. A ball passed through
her clothes, and penetrated the upper part of her thigh, going out on
the opposite side. It was not discovered that she was wounded by any
complaint she made, or a word she uttered, but after the danger was
over, her mother discovered the blood flowing through her clothes.”
Reaching the mouth of the Tennessee the 20th of March, they parted
with their companions who were discouraged from proceeding, and the
Adventure, with the boats which accompanied her, went up the Ohio.
“They made but little way on that day, and encamped on the south
bank of the Ohio, suffering on that and the two following days much
uneasiness from hunger and fatigue. On the 24th of March, they came
to the mouth of Cumberland River, but its size was so much less than
they had expected to find it, that some would not believe it to be the
Cumberland. It flowed in a gentle current; they had heard of no river
on the south side of the Ohio, between the Tennessee and Cumberland,
and they determined to go up this as the Cumberland, and did so. On
the 25th, the river seemed to grow wider; the current was very gentle,
and they were now convinced it was the Cumberland. The crews were now
without bread, and were obliged to hunt the buffalo, and feed on his
flesh. On the 24th of April, 1780, they came to the Big Salt Lick,
where they found Capt. James Robertson and his company, and where they
were gratified at meeting those friends whom, but a little before, it
was doubtful whether they should ever see again. They also found a few
log cabins, erected by Capt. Robertson and his associates, on a cedar
bluff, on the south side of the river, at some distance from the Salt
Spring.”
For years after their removal the families of the settlement suffered
many privations, and were compelled to live most of the time within
the shelter of the forts, being subjected to ferocious attacks by the
Indians. Two of Mrs. Robertson’s sons were murdered by the savages. It
was indeed a constant scene of anxiety and danger to the close of the
Indian war in 1794, and the frequent alarms, and incidents of persons
being killed or wounded at or near the fort occupied by our heroine,
gave her full experience of all the horrors of war. At one time she had
the agony of seeing brought in from the adjoining woods the headless
body of a beloved son; and it cannot be wondered at that she was heard
to say in after life--she would not live those years over again to be
insured the possession of the world.
“In the year 1782, and for several years afterwards, the common custom
of the country was, for one or two persons to stand as watchmen or
sentinels, whilst others labored in the field; and even whilst one went
to a spring to drink, another stood on the watch with his gun ready
to give him protection by shooting a creeping Indian, or one rising
from the thicket of canes and brush, that covered him from view; and
wherever four or five were assembled together at a spring or other
place where business required them to be, they held their guns in their
hands, and with their backs turned to each other, one faced the north,
another the south, another the west, watching in all directions for a
lurking or creeping enemy. While the people were so much harassed and
galled by the Indians that they could not plant and cultivate their
corn-fields, a proposition was made in a council of the inhabitants
of the bluff, to break up the settlement and go off. Capt. Robertson
pertinaciously resisted this proposition; it was then impossible to get
to Kentucky; the Indians were in force upon all the roads and passages
which led thither; for the same reason it was equally impracticable
to remove to the settlements on the Holston. No other means of escape
remained but that of going down the river in boats, and making good
their retreat to the Illinois; and to this plan great obstacles were
opposed, for how was the wood to be obtained with which to make the
boats? The Indians were every day in the skirts of the bluff, lying
concealed among the shrubs, privy and cedar trees, ready to inflict
death upon whoever should attempt to go to the woods to procure timber
for building a boat. These difficulties were all stated by Capt.
Robertson; he held out the dangers attendant on the attempt on the one
hand; the fine country they were about to possess themselves of on the
other; the probability of new acquisitions of numbers from the interior
settlements, and the certainty of being able, by a careful attention to
circumstances, to defend themselves till succor could arrive. Finally,
their apprehensions were quieted, and gradually they relinquished the
design of evacuating the positions they occupied.”[9]
The following extract from a “Talk” from “The Glass,” a Cherokee chief,
to Gov. Blount, dated “Look-out Mountain,” Sept. 10th, 1792, may show
something of the state of feeling prevalent between the hostile parties.
“Codeatoy returned here from the treaty at Nashville, and tells us
that Col. Robertson said there had been a great deal of blood spilled
in his settlement, and that he would come and sweep it clean with our
blood. This caused our young warriors to assemble together to meet him,
as he told Codeatoy that the first mischief that should be done, he
would come; and we knew of course it would not be long before something
might happen, as there are Creeks daily going to that settlement; and
as they expect to suffer for the doings of others, they resolved they
would meet him, or go to the settlements and do mischief, as they
were to be the sufferers, do it who would. But with the assistance of
Bloody Fellow, John Watts, and some other head men, we have sent them
to their different homes, and to mind their hunting, in hopes you will
not suffer any of your people to send any more threatening talks. We
took pity upon the innocent that might suffer on both sides, which
undoubtedly would have been the case. As I have always listened to your
talks, I hope you will listen to mine, and have peace.”[10]
Gov. Blount writes to Gen. Robertson, March 8th, 1794:
“Your letter of 6th Feb., sent express by James Russell, was handed to
me much stained with his blood by Mr. Shannon, who accompanied him.
Russell was wounded by a party of Indians who ambuscaded him about
eighteen miles from South West Point, which he with difficulty reached,
and was obliged to continue there for several days before he could be
removed. He is now in the hands of a skilful surgeon, and it is hoped
will recover. His fifty dollars have been dearly earned; but instead of
complaining, he may rejoice that he has so often escaped.”[11]
In a letter from John McKee to “The Glass” and other chiefs of the
lower towns of the Cherokee nation, he speaks of an expectation on
their part that he would meet them on the middle ground for a “ball
play.” This was a national game, by which parties sometimes decided
their claims to disputed land. It was a manly sport often witnessed by
assembled thousands.
The following description of the game is furnished by a gentleman of
Nashville, who has lived among the Indians.
The contending parties always consist of twelve on a side--twenty-four
in all, selected from among the most athletic men in the station. Each
side is headed by one who is captain, or principal man. The ball used
on such occasions was generally made of the common punk, obtained from
the knots of trees, or some soft dry root, and is always covered with
dressed buckskin, and about the size of a walnut. The ball is never
to be touched with the hands, but is caught, held, and thrown with a
set of sticks made expressly for the purpose. The ball stick is made
of a piece of tough wood, about six feet in length, and the thickness
of a small walking-stick, reduced one half in the middle, for about
ten inches. The piece of wood is then bent till the ends are brought
together, forming a bowl something like the bowl of a spoon, while the
two strips of wood are wrapped together from the bowl to the ends with
a leathern string, to make the handle; the bowl being finished with
buckskin strings, fastened to the wood on all sides, and crossing each
other, forming meshes like a fine seine, and left loose so as to bag a
little. The ball-stick, when finished, was a spoon with a bowl about as
large as a man’s hand, and a handle some three feet long. Each man is
furnished with two sticks, which together would hold as much as a quart
measure.
The playground is generally laid off east and west, and the two poles
are placed from a quarter to half a mile from each other. The poles are
two stakes put up about twenty yards apart, and the ball has to pass
between these two stakes in order to count one in the game. Halfway
between the poles a line is drawn; those who wish the ball to pass
through the western pole, take their stand about twenty yards east of
the centre line, and those in favor of the eastern pole take their
position about the same distance on the west of the line. While the two
captains take their stand at the division line, the ball is laid upon
the ground, on the centre line. One of the captains takes it up with
his sticks, and throws it up some thirty or forty feet; and then the
game begins. The two captains, one in favor of the western, the other
of the eastern pole, as the ball descends, contend for it, leaping
as high as they can, while the sticks rattle and crash together;
should these two be of equal strength and expertness in the game,
the contention may be long and fierce, and it sometimes so happens
that they struggle until perfectly exhausted, without the ball taking
a start for either pole. At other times the ball is caught in its
descent, and hurled with great rapidity towards one of the poles; but
whatever direction it takes, it meets the opposition of eleven persons
who have taken their stand in that direction, by some of whom it is
sure to be caught and hurled in a different direction. I have seen the
ball hurled back and forward in this way for minutes together. At other
times I have seen the whole twenty-four contend pell-mell together for
several seconds, while a spectator could not tell where the ball was.
Again, I have seen the whole party take a right angular direction to
the poles, in consequence of the hand being interrupted at the moment
of throwing the ball, and thus work away entirely without the limits of
the playground, until recalled by the judges.
There is no time for breathing, from the moment the ball is thrown up
at the centre line, until it passes through one of the poles, unless
the judges should call them off for the purpose of recess; and never
have I seen human beings so much fatigued as at the end of one of these
strains.
One thing which I have observed extremely objectionable in these
plays, is this; any one of the party is allowed to _double up_ his
antagonist, notwithstanding they are not permitted to strike, scratch,
or bruise each other. The _doubling_ is done in the following manner:
One will catch his antagonist, throw him upon his back, take him by the
feet, elevate them, and press his head and shoulders upon the ground
until the poor fellow is disabled in the back. This practice results
sometimes in rendering the individual so helpless, that he has to be
carried off the ground.
The only clothing carried into a ball-play, is the belt, with a piece
of some kind of cloth about eighteen inches square, appended in front;
but they generally come out of these plays, as far as clothing is
concerned, about as they came into the world. There is always the
same number in reserve that are engaged in the play, so that when one
is disabled, another supplies his place, in order that the number,
twenty-four, may be kept up. There are two sets of judges; six for and
six against the western pole, take their position there; and in like
manner at the eastern pole. The ball has to pass twelve times between
the same pole, or stakes, before the game ends.
In 1794, Mrs. Robertson went on horseback into South Carolina
accompanied by her eldest son, to bring out her aged parents, who
had removed to that State with some of their children. They returned
to Tennessee with their daughter, who was now able to offer them a
comfortable home, and under her roof the remainder of their days
passed in peace and comfort. Both lived beyond the eightieth year of
their life, and had the passage to the grave smoothed by the devoted
attentions of an affectionate daughter, and her equally devoted
children.
At the period of most imminent danger to the settlement, Mrs. Robertson
was often deprived of the support which kept the other women from
despondency. Her husband was looked upon as the special protector of
the infant colony, and had laborious duties to perform for its security
and comfort. He was obliged every year to take the long and hazardous
journey through the wilderness to North Carolina, for the purpose
of attending the sessions of the Legislature, and using his utmost
endeavors to have the aid of that body extended to the feeble and
distant settlement on the Cumberland. This was done by Gen. Robertson
for eight or ten years in succession, and while thus absent from home
a great part of his time, he and his family were exposed to perils of
various kinds, and obliged to remain ignorant for long intervals of
each other’s condition. For fourteen years these trials, endured by
Mrs. Robertson and her family, called for their utmost fortitude and
energy to bear up under them, and under harassing anxiety for the fate
of their absent guardian, exposed unprotected to the attacks of savage
enemies.
On one occasion, Gen. Robertson and his eldest son, Jonathan, then
nearly grown to manhood, went into the surrounding woods to see after
some horses that had gone astray. The General had a led horse, and did
not take his gun. They had scarcely entered the woods when they were
fired on by five or six Indians who lay in ambush near the path. A ball
passed through the young man’s thigh and entered his horse’s side; the
father also received two balls, one fracturing the bones of his left
arm just above the wrist, the other passing through the flesh of his
right arm without injuring the bone. Jonathan’s horse, maddened by
fright and the wound, became unmanageable, and plunged so violently,
that fearing the animal might fall with him, and entangle him beyond
escape, he raised himself in his stirrups and leaped to the ground,
alighting on his feet. He then turned on the Indians, who rushed
towards him, and prepared to fire, while the savages ran to the shelter
of trees to protect themselves. One was behind a tree not large enough
to screen his body, and young Robertson taking aim, fired at him; then
hastened after his father, whose horse, released for the moment from
the control of the bridle by the disabling of the rider’s hands, had
dashed off furiously in a different direction from the fort. When the
General heard his son shouting to him, he checked the animal, and the
young man sprung on the back of the led horse, which had followed close
on the heels of the other. The whole scene occurred within the hearing
of the inmates of the fort, and as the fugitives were compelled to take
a circuitous route to reach a place of safety, it may be imagined what
were the feelings of the wife and mother during a prolonged period of
fearful suspense, when the probabilities that her husband and son were
murdered or captive, increased with every passing moment. The Indian
Jonathan had shot, was found afterwards so badly wounded that he died
in a few days. His gun and shot-bag were found secreted under a log
near the tree, the bark of which had been scalped by the bullet.
A short time after Jonathan’s marriage, he determined on making a
settlement on some land he had purchased, a mile or so from his
father’s fort. He built a cabin, and commenced clearing the land; but
was prevented by other occupations from continuing his work, and hired
a man by the name of Hiland to carry it on. This laborer went to the
place alone; but had been employed only a few days, when returning one
evening from his work, he cut a large bundle of green cane, and was
carrying it on his shoulder to his house; the rustling of this cane
afforded a party of Indians a fair opportunity of coming up behind him
without being perceived, and as he was in the act of throwing the cane
over the fence, they shot him down and scalped him. Gen. Robertson,
hearing of the occurrence, determined, if possible, to insure future
security to the settlers by pursuing and cutting off these marauding
parties, and issued an order to Capt. Thomas Murray, to raise a company
of volunteers and overtake the Indians, or pursue them into the very
heart of the nation. A detachment was raised; the settlers, anxious to
strike a blow for their own security, joining in large numbers, and
the pursuit was commenced with a hundred and ten mounted men. After a
few days, the spies reported the Indians encamped on the Tennessee at
the Muscle Shoals; the company attacked the camp, and several of the
savages were killed, some making their escape, and two squaws being
captured.
Young Robertson, meanwhile, was not discouraged from prosecuting his
enterprise, but removed to his new place with his wife, and a negro
named Ephraim. Determined to persevere in preparing the land and
making a home for his family, he engaged two of his wife’s cousins,
named Cowen, to assist him in his labors. They were all at work one
day in the clearing, and were as usual summoned to dinner by a call
from the house. They had stacked their arms against a large tree some
fifty yards from the edge of the clearing, and between that and the
house. It had been settled between them that in case of an attack by
Indians, they should rush instantly to seize their arms, each take
a tree, and make a stand against the enemy. On hearing the call to
dinner, the men laid down their working implements, and stopped to
push up the brush which had not been consumed into the brush-piles,
not perceiving that several Indians had crept along under cover of the
woods, and approached very near them. The moment they discovered the
enemy, they sprang forward to secure their arms, while the savages,
who had reached the edge of the clearing by the time the white men
gained their weapons, rushed in pursuit. The directions previously
agreed upon were observed, and each pioneer snatched his gun and sprang
behind a tree. At the moment Robertson raised his gun, he perceived
an Indian partly concealed behind another tree, and preparing to
fire. His body projected far enough beyond the cover to afford a fair
chance of hitting him; Robertson fired, and at the same instant the
Cowens did also. This spirited defence alarmed the Indians; they began
to retreat, and had disappeared in the cane before their foes could
reload. Meanwhile poor Ephraim, who had a terror of gunpowder, could
not stand his ground with the rest of the party, but hastened with all
his speed towards the house; and when, after the flight of the enemy,
the white men raised the Indian yell by way of a triumph note, the
affrighted negro, rushing into the cabin, gave the inmates reason to
suppose that all their friends were killed and scalped. This horrible
fear, however, was soon dissipated by the appearance of the victorious
settlers returning to the house. One of the Cowens was slightly wounded
in the hand, and the rim of Robertson’s hat on one side was nearly
severed from the crown by an Indian bullet, but no other injury had
been received. This incident is worthy of notice, as the only instance
during the period of the Indian troubles in which white men, fired on
while at work in the field, made a stand, and succeeded in driving off
the assailants. It was afterwards ascertained from the Indians that
five of their number had been either killed or wounded so desperately
that they died before reaching home. It should be mentioned that one
of the pioneers used a British musket loaded with rifle bullets, and
fired at a number of Indians together as they rushed into the thin
cane bordering the clearing. It was believed the party of savages had
numbered fifteen.
An instance of female heroism which occurred at a station some six
miles west of Nashville, may be here related. Mrs. Dunham, the wife of
one of the pioneers, while sitting in her house at work--her little
children playing in the yard--heard them scream out suddenly, and
rushing to the door, saw them running from several Indians. One of the
savages was in the act of clutching her daughter, six or seven years of
age, and succeeded in laying hold of the child, a few yards from the
door. There were no men on the premises; but the mother seized a hoe
standing against the house near the door, and rushed at the Indian with
the uplifted weapon. Before she came near enough to strike him with
it, however, he let go the child, who ran into the house, the mother
following. The Indian pursued them closely, and pushed his gun into
the door before it could be closed, to shoot Mrs. Dunham. She kept
her hold of the door, and slammed it to violently, catching the gun
between it and the door-post, and holding it with all her force, while
the savage tried in vain to get the weapon released. She then, with
singular presence of mind, called aloud as if to some person within,
“Bring me that gun!” The Indian understood enough of English to know
her meaning, and believing there were other persons in the house, he
left his gun and made off. The other children had found shelter in the
house, and were thus preserved from massacre by their mother’s energy
and self possession.
Mrs. Dunham’s oldest son, Daniel--a boy nine or ten years of age--had a
remarkable escape. He was out playing one day with two or three other
boys a little larger than himself, and the youthful party carelessly
wandered a short distance out of gunshot of the fort. They were
observed by some Indians who resolved to take them prisoners. This
was a more profitable business than killing them, as they could make
useful servants of the captives, or obtain a large ransom for them
from their bereaved friends. With this object, the savages left their
guns, and crept stealthily as near the boys as the nature of the ground
permitted them to do without being seen. As they rose upon their feet
to spring forward and seize their prey, the boys saw them, gave a cry
of alarm, and instantly started in a life and death race for the fort.
Young Dunham, the smallest lad, was the hindmost, but he fled with the
speed of a frightened fawn, closely pursued, however, his enemy gaining
ground upon him, till just as he came within the range of protection
from the fort, the Indian overtook him, and laid hold of his flannel
hunting shirt. Throwing his arms back suddenly, the nimble boy slipped
out of the garment and ran on, leaving the disappointed savage holding
his trophy, for he dared not pursue the fugitive any further.
Through a multitude of such trials Mrs. Robertson was preserved. She
was the mother of eleven children, and lived to an advanced age,
leaving a number of descendants, useful and prosperous citizens in
the valley to which she came as a pioneer. She witnessed the gradual
growth of the place selected as her home from a wilderness to a rude
settlement, and thence to a town of importance. In 1805 Nashville
boasted but one brick house, although Market-street and a few others
were laid out. There was a log schoolhouse, and the wild forest
encircled the future capital. There was difficulty at that time in
procuring supplies of provisions; it took three or four months to go to
and from New Orleans in the flat-bottomed boats, which always started
as soon as the waters rose, and returned in the spring laden with
groceries, grain, and various articles for provision and clothing. Furs
were procured of the Indians. There were at that period no good schools
in the valley, and pupils were sent to Carolina and the Eastern States
to be educated, by parents who were able to afford the expense. Stores
for use or trading purposes were sometimes brought in wagons from
Baltimore and Philadelphia, through the eastern portion of Tennessee;
but pack-horses had been generally used. Two men could manage ten or
fifteen horses, carrying each about two hundred pounds, by tying one
to the other in single file, one man taking charge of the leading, the
other of the hindmost horse, to keep an eye on the proper adjustment
of the loads, and to stir up any that appeared to lag. Bells were
indispensable accompaniments to the horses, by which they could be
found in the morning when hunting up preparatory to a start. Grass or
leaves were inserted in the bells to prevent the clapper from moving
during the travel of the day. The first wagon-load of merchandize
brought over the mountains on the southern route, is said to have been
in 1789, when it was nearly a month making a trip of one hundred and
forty miles.
“The water-craft used in descending the Ohio in those primitive times,
were flat boats made of green oak plank, fastened by wooden pins to a
frame of timber, and caulked with tow or any other pliant substance
that could be procured. Boats similarly constructed on the northern
waters, were called “arks,” but on the Western rivers they were
denominated Kentucky boats. The materials of which they were composed
were found useful in constructing temporary buildings for safety
and protection against the inclemency of the weather, after they had
arrived at their destination.”[12]
In early life Mrs. Robertson became a member of the Methodist Episcopal
Church, and with her husband joined the first society of that
denomination organized in the country, under the preaching of Wilson
Lee. The class met to hear the word preached and for social communion,
about three miles west of Nashville. She continued an exemplary member
of this Church to her death.
In all the relations of life she was faithful, and strict in the
performance of every duty. Her manners were modest, unassuming and
gentle; she was kind and affectionate in her family, a most devoted
and loving mother, and a careful, though indulgent mistress. She was
ever open-hearted and benevolent, soothing the ills she had no power to
remove. Her industrious habits and self-denying virtues were an example
to all who knew her, and she was esteemed and beloved by a large circle
of friends and acquaintances. In person she was rather above the
medium size, with a symmetrical form, and regular, interesting, and
expressive features. She retained to the close of life the faculties
of mind and body in uncommon vigor; and in the full expectation of a
glorious immortality calmly closed her eyes on the scenes of earth in
her ninety-third year, June 11th, 1843, at the house of her son-in-law,
John B. Craighead, three miles west of Nashville.
General Robertson was engaged during the greater part of his life in
public service. In his latter years he was appointed Indian agent in
the Choctaw nation, where he died in 1814. His bones were removed
some years since from the Indian lands, and deposited in the burial
ground at Nashville. The sons murdered by the Indians were Peyton
Henderson, eleven years of age, and James Randolph, about twenty.
With the exception of these, and an infant daughter, the children of
Mrs. Robertson lived to marry and have families of their own. Three
daughters and two sons are living at this date, and Dr. Robertson, one
of the sons, is one of the most highly esteemed citizens of Nashville.
V.
JANE BROWN.
Many fearful tales of the individual suffering which marked the early
history of Tennessee, are only known to a few as family traditions,
and remembered by the descendants of those who bore a part, as stories
of the nursery and not as chapters in the great historic record of the
past. Yet the experience and conduct of a single individual may often
better illustrate the condition, progress, and character of a people,
than whole chapters devoted to the details of a campaign.
The traditional recollections detailed in the following sketch of the
family of James Brown, connected as they were intimately with some of
the most important political events of that period, cannot fail to
throw new light upon the pioneer history of the country, and inspire
our hearts with renewed gratitude to those hardy, but wise men and
women, who built up so goodly a State amidst so many troubles, in the
dark and bloody valleys of the Shauvanon, Tanasees, and Ho-go-hegee.
Jane Gillespie was born in Pennsylvania about the year 1740. Her father
was a pioneer in the settlement of North Carolina. Her family was
one of the most respectable as well as the most worthy in the county
of Guilford, where they resided during the Revolutionary war. Two of
her brothers, Col. and Maj. Gillespie, were distinguished for their
gallantry and devotion to the cause of liberty, and were honored as
brave officers. Herself and most of her family were members of the
Rev. David Caldwell’s church at Guilford, and ardently espoused his
political and religious principles.
About the year 1761 or 1762, Miss Gillespie became the wife of James
Brown, a native of Ireland, whose family had settled in Guilford some
years before. At the beginning of the Revolution, Mrs. Brown had a
large family of small children, but she freely gave up her husband
when his country demanded his services. During the masterly retreat of
General Greene, in the winter of 1781, on Dan and Deep rivers, Brown
was the pilot and guide of Colonels Lee and Washington, and by his
intimate knowledge of the country, its bypaths and fords, contributed
not a little to the successful countermarches of the American army, by
which they were enabled to elude and break the spirit of the army of
Lord Cornwallis. When the Americans assumed the offensive, and, from a
retreating, suddenly became a pursuing army, Brown pressed eagerly into
the fight with the bold troopers of Lee and Washington.
Being in moderate circumstances, and pressed by the cares of a large
and increasing family, Brown’s ardent temperament was not satisfied
with the prospect of a plodding life of toil in Guilford. For his
Revolutionary services he had received from the State of North Carolina
land-warrants, which entitled him to locate a large quantity of land
in the wilderness beyond the mountains. His neighbors had made him
sheriff of his county, and a justice of the County Court, and he was
rapidly rising in the estimation of his countrymen for his patriotism,
integrity, and many other virtues of a good citizen. But he readily
saw the advantages which he might secure to his rising family by
striking out into the deep forests, and securing for them the choicest
homes in the Tennessee and Cumberland valleys. He could command only
a trifle in money for his land scrip, but by exposing himself to a
few years of hardship and danger, he could secure independent estates
for his numerous children. With him, to be convinced was to act: his
decision and his action went together. Tearing himself from the bosom
of his family and all the endearments of a happy home circle, he
set out on his journey to explore the valley of the Cumberland. The
whole of Tennessee was then a wilderness, except a small spot on the
Holston or Watauga, on the east, and a small spot around Nashville and
Bledsoe’s Lick, on the west of the Cumberland Mountains. Taking with
him his two eldest sons, William and John, and a few tried friends,
he explored the Cumberland valley. He secured lands on the Cumberland
river below Nashville, at the place now known as Hyde’s Ferry. He
also explored the wilderness south, as far as Buck river, and located
a large body of land south of Duck river, near Columbia. The whole
country was then almost untrodden by the foot of the white man. It was
the hunting-ground of the Chickasaws, Creeks, and Cherokees, and was
full of deer, elk, bears, and buffaloes. The rich uplands, as well as
the alluvial bottoms of the rivers, were covered with cane-brakes,
which were almost impervious to man. Whoever penetrated these regions,
did so with knife and hatchet to cut away the cane, and with rifle
to oppose the savage beasts and savage men who sheltered in its deep
fastnesses. But Brown’s heart was a bold one, and his hopes for the
future animated him to perseverance. Having located by actual survey
several fine tracts of land, he determined to return to Guilford, and
remove his family to their new home in the West. Leaving William as a
deputy surveyor under Col. Polk, and John to open and cultivate a small
field, and build some cabins at the mouth of White’s Creek, he returned
to North Carolina.
In the winter of 1787-8, Brown and his family, having disposed of their
property, found themselves on the banks of the French Broad in what
is now Hawkins county, Tennessee, waiting the opening of the spring,
before beginning their journey across the mountains to the Cumberland
valley.
In 1785, the treaty of Hopewell had been concluded with the Cherokees,
guaranteeing reciprocal friendship between that nation and the
Americans. At the time Brown arrived on the banks of the French Broad,
there was apparent acquiescence in the terms of this treaty, and the
Cherokee and the white man seemed, for a time, to have smoked the pipe
of peace, and buried the tomahawk for ever.
There were two routes to the Cumberland Valley at this time, the one by
land, the other by water. The land route was a long and tedious one,
through the Cumberland Gap, across the head waters of the Cumberland,
Green, and Barren rivers in Kentucky, to Bledsoe’s Lick, or Nashville.
The other route was easier of accomplishment, and more desirable;
because, being by the descent of the river, it admitted of the
transportation of goods and aged persons. Brown, on his recent visit to
Cumberland, had heard of Col. Donaldson’s voyage down the Tennessee, up
the Ohio and Cumberland, to Nashville, and of one or two other parties
who had succeeded in making the same voyage. As he had women and small
children, and packages of valuable goods, which he was taking to the
West, he resolved to hazard the descent of the Tennessee river.
He was not ignorant of the fact that there were many populous Indian
towns on the Tennessee river, of both the Cherokee and Chickasaw
nations, and that marauding parties of Creeks and Shawanees were often
on its shores and in the towns. He knew the danger of the voyage, on
account of the hostile Indians; and he also knew its numerous shoals,
rapids and eddies, rendered its navigation perilous to such frail
open boats as could then be constructed. But he trusted in the honest
disposition of the Cherokees to conform to the treaty of Hopewell,
and judged that the marauding Creeks and Shawanees would prove less
dangerous on the water than on the circuitous land route to the
Cumberland. Having been habitually exposed to danger for many years, it
is probable he rather sought the most perilous route, feeling a sort of
manly desire to meet and overcome it.
Having built a boat in the style of a common flatboat, modeled as much
as possible after Noah’s ark, except that it was open at the top, he
prepared to adventure the fearful voyage. About the 1st of May, 1788,
having taken on board a large amount of goods suitable for traffic
among the Indians and the pioneers in Cumberland, his party embarked
upon the bosom of French Broad. The party was a small and weak one,
considering the dangers it had to encounter, and the valuable cargo it
had to defend. It consisted of Brown, two grown sons, three hired men
and a negro man; in all, seven grown men; Mrs. Brown, three small sons
and four small daughters; an aged woman, the mother of one of the hired
men, and two or three negro women, the property of Brown.
To make up for the weakness of his party, Brown had mounted a small
cannon upon the prow of his boat, and no doubt relied as much for his
security upon the known terror which such guns inspired in the savages,
as upon any damage which he expected to inflict upon them with it.
Thus appointed and thus equipped, this happy family began its eventful
descent of the river. All was gladness, all was sunshine. The land of
their fathers, of their loved friends and pastor, was behind them;
beneath their oars flashed the bright waters of a lovely stream, whose
winding channel would soon bear them to their new home in the valley of
the fairy Cumberland. As they passed rapidly along, the father sat in
the midst of his little children, hopefully describing their new home
in the deep forests of the West.
They thus descended the French Broad to the Tennessee, and went on
merrily down its waters to Chickamauga, a considerable town of Cherokee
Indians, not far from the present site of Chattanooga. Here the
Indians appeared friendly; the principal chief went on board the boat,
and made inquiry for various articles of goods, proposed to trade,
and finally took his leave, with many professions of kindness. Our
voyagers continued their descent, rejoicing in the happy omen which the
friendship of the Chickamauga chieftain opened for their future. The
next day, the 9th of May, the solitary pirogue or flatboat had passed
several Indian villages, and had come in view of the towns of Running
Water and Nickajack, the last Cherokee towns where there was any
considerable body of Indians. The voyagers began to rejoice in their
happy deliverance from the principal dangers which had threatened their
journey. They would in a few hours be through the mountain passes, on
the wide bosom of a noble river, where they would be comparatively
free from the ambuscades of lurking savages.
Suddenly four canoes, with white flags raised, and naked savages
kneeling in them as rowers, glided out into the river, and rapidly
approached; fearing some mischief, Brown immediately turned his cannon
upon the approaching canoes, and with lighted match, bade them keep off
at the peril of their lives.
Struck with astonishment at the bold threat, they paused, and pulled
their frail canoes a little out of the range of the big gun. A man
by the name of John Vaun, a well-known half-breed, who spoke good
English, was the leader of the party. He spoke to Brown, and said that
his party came in friendship; as an evidence of that they had raised a
white flag; they came as his friends to trade with him. Brown, who was
a bold and fearless man, and dared to face a thousand savages, still
kept them off; but at last, confiding in the assurances of Vaun that
he was a white man, and that the Indians would respect the persons and
property of his party, in an unguarded moment he consented that several
of the Indians might come on board. A dozen Indians now came on board,
and lashed their canoes to the side of the boat. As they came near the
town, hundreds dashed out into the river in their canoes, and came
alongside of the boat. Having thus secured possession, the leading men,
especially Vann, assured Brown that no harm was intended. In the mean
time, each Indian seized upon whatever he fancied and threw it into his
canoe. In this way several boxes and trunks were instantly rifled. Vann
pretended to order his followers to abstain, but they paid no attention
to him. A bold warrior now demanded of Brown the key to a large chest,
that contained his most valuable stores, which he refused to give,
telling the Indian that Mrs. Brown had it. The Indian demanded it of
Mrs. Brown, but she boldly refused to give it up. He then split the top
of the chest open with his tomahawk, and his example was immediately
followed by the other Indians, who broke open and rifled every box and
package on the boat. While this was going on, a savage rudely took
hold of Joseph Brown, a lad fifteen years old, but was forced by the
father to let the boy go. An instant after, the Indian seized a sword
lying in the boat, and while Brown’s back was turned to him, struck
him on the back of the neck, almost severing his head from his body.
Brown turned in the agony of death and seized the Indian, and in the
struggle was thrown into the river, where he sank to rise no more. The
boat was now turned into the mouth of a little creek, in the town of
Nickajack, and the whole party taken on shore, in the midst of several
hundred warriors, women and children. In the mean time, Vann continued
to tell the sons of Brown that all this was a violation of the treaty
of Hopewell, and that Breath, the chief of Nickajack and Running Water,
who was expected there that night, would punish the marauders, restore
their goods, and send them on their voyage. Several leading warriors
of the upper town had seized Brown’s negroes as lawful spoil, and had
dispatched them in canoes to their several homes. Whatever may have
been Vann’s true motives, his interference on this occasion had the
effect to place the whole party at the mercy of the Indians, without
resistance. If he acted in good faith, he was shamefully deceived by
his followers; but if he only used his address to disarm the voyagers,
that they might the more easily fall victims to savage ferocity, his
conduct exhibits the climax of perfidy.
A party of Creek braves, who were engaged with the men of Nickajack and
Running Water in this outrage, having seized upon their share of the
plunder, and having taken possession of Mrs. Brown, her son George, ten
years old, and three small daughters, immediately began their march to
their own nation. While the Cherokees were deliberating upon the fate
of the prisoners and a division of the spoils, they adroitly withdrew
from the council, on the plea that this all belonged to the head men of
Nickajack. Thus, in one short hour deprived of husband, sons, friends,
liberty and all, this devoted woman, with her five smallest children,
began her sad journey on foot along the rugged, flinty trails that led
to the Creek towns on the Tallapoosa river.
At the time of this outrage, there was living at or near Nickajack, a
French trader, named Thomas Tunbridge, married to a white woman, who
had been taken prisoner near Mobile, when an infant, and raised by the
Indians. After she was grown, she was exchanged, but refused to leave
the Indians, distrusting her ability to adapt her habits to civilized
life. She had been married to an Indian brave, by whom she had a son,
now twenty-two years old, who was one of the boldest warriors of the
Cherokee towns. He had already killed six white men in his forays to
the Cumberland settlement. Having all the versatility of his mother’s
race, as well as the ferocity and courage of his father, he was fast
rising into distinction as a warrior, and bade fair to reach the first
honors of his nation. His praises for daring and chivalry were in the
mouths of all.
His mother was now growing old, and having no young children, her
son desired to present to her some bright-eyed boy as a slave; for
according to the savage code of the times, each captive became a slave
to his captor. This woman’s son, whose name was Kiachatalee, was one of
the leaders of the marauding party who had seized upon Brown’s boat,
and from the first knew the fate of the party. Before the boat landed,
he tried to induce Joseph to get into his canoe, with the intention of
withdrawing him from the general massacre that was soon to take place,
but the boy would not go with him. When the boat landed, Kiachatalee
took Joseph to his stepfather, Tunbridge, who in good English told the
boy he lived a mile out of the town, and invited him to go and spend
the night with him. This the boy did, after asking the consent of
his elder brothers. Tunbridge seized the boy by the hand and hurried
him away. They had scarcely gone out of the town before they heard
the rifles of the savage braves, who were murdering his brothers and
friends. What were the feelings of the poor boy at this moment! His
father slain; his brothers and friends weltering in their blood, amidst
the yells of savage assassins; and his mother, brother and sisters
borne off, he knew not whither, by a band of lawless Creek marauders!
To add to his agony at such a moment, an aged Indian woman, with
hair disheveled, and her round, fat face discolored with excitement,
followed them to the trader’s house, calling upon Tunbridge to produce
the white man, exclaiming, with a fiendish air of triumph, “All the
rest are killed, and he must die also!”
The trader calmly replied to her, “He’s only a little boy. It’s a shame
to kill children. He shall not be killed.”
The old hag was excited, and vowed that the boy should be killed. She
said, “He was too large to allow him to live. In two or three years he
would be a man; he would learn the country, its towns and its rivers;
would make his escape and come back with an army of white men to
destroy us all.” She said her son, Cutty-a-toy, was a brave chief, and
that he would be there in a few minutes to kill the boy.
In a few minutes Cutty-a-toy, followed by many armed warriors, rushed
upon the trader’s house, and demanded the white boy, saying that he was
too large, that he would be grown, would make his escape, and bring
back an army to destroy their town.
The trader stood, with cool courage, in the door of his lodge, and
refused to surrender the prisoner, saying it was not right to kill
children, and also warning the angry chief that the boy was the
prisoner of Kiachatalee, his son, and if he was injured or slain,
Kiachatalee would be revenged for it. As Kiachatalee was only a young
warrior, and Cutty-a-toy a chief and a gray-beard, this threat of
revenge greatly incensed him. In an instant he raised his tomahawk,
and, with the air of a man who intends a deed of murder, demanded of
the trader, “And are you the friend of the Virginian?”
Answering the look rather than the words, the trader stepped out of his
door, and said to the bloody brave, “Take him.”
Cutty-a-toy then rushed into the trader’s lodge, seized the boy by the
throat, and was about to brain him with his tomahawk, when the wife of
Tunbridge interposed in a tone of supplication which at once succeeded.
“Will the brave chieftain kill the boy in my house? Let not the boy’s
blood stain my floor.”
The appeal of the woman reached the savage’s heart. He dropped his
weapon, and slowly dragged the boy out of the lodge into the midst of a
crowd of savages, who waved their knives and hatchets in the poor lad’s
face, in order to enjoy his terror.
In the path which led from the house, the boy fell upon his knees,
while the savages were tearing off his clothes, and asked the trader
to request the Indians to give him one half hour to pray. The trader
roughly replied, “Boy, it’s not worth while; they’ll kill you.” As he
stood in momentary expectation of his fate, the trader’s wife again
interposed, and begged the savage chief not to kill the boy in her
yard, or in the path along which she had to carry water, but to take
him out into the mountains, where the birds and wolves might eat up his
flesh, where she could not see his blood!
The appeal of the woman was again heard, and giving the boy his
pantaloons, they held a short talk, and agreed to take him down to
Running Water, saying to the trader’s wife, “We will not spill this
boy’s blood near your house; but we will take him to Running Water,
where we will have a frolic knocking him in the head.”
Having gone about three hundred yards, they halted and formed a circle
around the victim. He again fell upon his knees, and with his face
upturned towards heaven, and his hands firmly clasped on his breast,
remained in prayer, expecting at each moment the fatal blow. At this
dreadful moment he thought of Stephen, to whose vision the heavens
were opened at the moment of his death, and was happy. As the savage
braves stood around him, young Brown saw their stern aspect of revenge
suddenly relax, and a smile of sympathy and pity succeed. They called
the trader, told him to take the boy, that they would not kill him;
and Cutty-a-toy said he loved the boy, and would come back in three
weeks and make friends with him. It was afterwards ascertained that
Cutty-a-toy had taken some of Brown’s negroes, and claimed them as
his prisoners, and that his fear lest Kiatchatalee might retaliate by
killing his negro prisoners, was the thought which suddenly turned him
to mercy and pity. So thought his own followers; for when he said he
_loved_ the boy, and would not kill him, his savage followers replied:
“No, no, he does not love the boy; it’s the boy’s negroes he loves.”
When Cutty-a-toy’s mother saw that the boy’s life would not be taken,
she seemed displeased; went up to him and cut off his scalp-lock, and
kicked him so rudely in the side as almost to kill him, exclaiming,
“I’ve got the Virginian’s scalp.”
The Tuskegee chief, Cutty-a-toy, led his party away, leaving Joseph in
the hands of the trader and his wife. In two or three days he was taken
into Nickajack, and the kind old chief, Breath, who greatly regretted
what had taken place in his absence, took him by the hand, calmly heard
a narrative of his situation from the trader’s wife, and then told the
boy that he must be adopted into his tribe, and become an Indian if
he would save his life; that there was no other way in which his life
could be saved. To that end, the chief adopted him into his own family,
and told Joseph that he was his uncle, and that Kiatchatalee was his
brother. His head was then shaved, leaving only a fillet of hair on
the top, in which a bunch of feathers was tied, his ears pierced for
rings, and his clothes taken off; the flap substituted for trowsers,
and a short shirt for a coat, shirt, and vest, his nether vestments
consisting of a pair of deer-skin moccasins. In this condition he was
pronounced an Indian, with the exception of a slit in each ear, which
the kindness of the chief deferred making until cold weather.
The trader’s wife took him to see his two sisters, Jane, aged ten, and
Polly, aged five years, who had just been brought back to Nickajack; a
party of Cherokees having pursued the Creek braves, and recaptured from
them these two small girls, after they had been taken some distance
towards the Creek towns. From his sister Jane, Joseph learned the
destination of the party who had carried off his mother, his brother
George, and sister Elizabeth. The children were now in the same town,
adopted into different families, and it was a source of consolation
to them to be allowed to see each other occasionally. In the various
toils which were imposed upon the little captives, such as carrying
water and wood, pounding hominy, and working corn in the fields, and
on the part of the boy, looking after the stock, nearly a year passed,
without many incidents worthy of note. Hostile parties of savages came
and went, and tales of barbarous deeds done by them on the distant
frontiers were often told in the hearing of the children, but none
brought deliverance for them. Yet in but few instances did the savage
neighbors of these captive children treat them unkindly. Three or
four times Joseph’s life was in danger from lawless braves, whose
bloodthirsty natures panted for the blood of the white man. The good
old chief, Breath, hearing of these things, caused young Brown to be
armed, and declared that it should be lawful for him to slay any Indian
who should maltreat him.
In a few months Joseph was allowed a rifle and a horse, and permitted
to go into the woods to hunt. He might often have availed himself
of the kindness of his savage friends, and made his escape to the
frontiers, but he loved his little sisters, and his love for them
restrained his desire for freedom, lest his escape might add to the
rigors of their slavery, or perhaps for ever prevent their deliverance.
In the meantime open war had been going on between the Indians and
the people of Cumberland and East Tennessee. Two thousand warriors,
principally Cherokees, of whom four or five hundred were horsemen
dressed as white men, made an irruption into East Tennessee, killing
everything before them. Generals Sevier and Martin, with a large body
of pioneers, had marched into their territory, laying waste their
fields and villages. When their chief, Big Tassel, came to Sevier’s
camp with a flag to hold a talk, he was killed by a soldier named Kirk,
whose family had been murdered by his warriors. This outrage added new
flames to the rage of the Cherokees, who no longer sought peace. In
their revengeful foray, they stormed Fort Gillespie, eight miles from
Knoxville, and butchered men, women and children, carrying off Mrs.
Glass, the sister of Capt. Gillespie.
These savages were not wholly illiterate: many of their leaders could
speak and even write English, and they well understood the sacred
character of a white flag and of treaties. The following proclamation,
written at Fort Gillespie after the massacre, by Watts, or some of his
half-breed followers, is curious and illustrative. It is signed by
Bloody Fellow, Categisky, John Watts, and The Glass.
Oct. 15th,[13] 1798.
_To Mr._ JOHN SEVIER _and_ JOSEPH MARTIN, _and to You, the Inhabitants
of the New State_.
“We would wish to inform you of the accidents that happened at
Gillespie’s Fort, concerning the women and children that were killed in
the battle.
“The Bloody Fellow’s talk is, that he is now here upon his own ground.
He is not like you are, for you kill women and children and he does
not. He had orders to do it, and to order them off the land, and he
came and ordered them to surrender, and they should not be hurt, and
they would not. And he stormed it and took it.
“For you, you beguiled the head man (Big Tassel), who was your friend,
and wanted to keep peace.
“But you began it, and this is what you get for it. When you move off
the land, then he will make peace, and give up the women and children.
“And you must march off in thirty days.
“Five thousand is our number!”
In the spring of 1789, an exchange of prisoners was agreed upon at a
talk held with Gen. Sevier. It was agreed that the Cherokees should
make an absolute surrender of all the white persons within their
borders, and runners were sent to each of the head men, to send their
captives to the Little Turkey for an exchange. When these runners came
to Nickajack, young Brown was on a trading trip down the river with his
Indian brother Kiachatalee, and did not return until Mrs. Glass and all
the other prisoners had gone up to Running Water, where the chief was
awaiting their arrival.
When young Brown got home, he was sent with one of his sisters to
Running Water, in order to be sent up to the treaty-grounds to be
exchanged. His little sister would not leave her Indian mother, who had
ever treated her kindly, but wept and clung to her neck, declaring that
it would break her Indian mother’s heart if she left her. This tender
feeling was a tribute to savage kindness, but young Brown finally took
his sister in his arms, and carried her some distance, before he could
reconcile her to go with him. His eldest sister belonged to a trader,
who said he had bought her with his money, and would not let her go.
Joseph had to leave her behind, being wholly unable to redeem her.
At Running Water, young Brown heard Turkey, the head chief, stating
to his chiefs around him the terms of the treaty he had made: and in
doing so, his followers upbraided him for agreeing to deliver so many
prisoners without any ransom. To this the chief replied, “Little John
(meaning Sevier) would have it so; he is a very mean man--a dog; but he
has my daughter a prisoner, and he knew I would have to agree to any
terms, to get her back.”
The next morning, when the Indian chief was about to start his
prisoners forward, young Brown refused to go, and was taken to the
chief to give his reasons. He then stated that one of his sisters
was left in Nickajack, and that he never would consent to be set at
liberty without her. The savage chief immediately sent for the girl,
and after some delay, Col. Bench, the chief of the mounted regiment of
Indians, went himself, and brought the girl to Running Water. Thus,
about the first of May, 1789, young Brown and his two sisters were once
more restored to liberty. Being reduced to poverty, these now orphan
children were sent into South Carolina, to sojourn with some relatives
until their elder brother, who was in Cumberland, could go after them,
or until their mother should be released from her captivity amongst the
Creeks.
We must now return to the 9th of May, 1788, and continue the narrative
of Mrs. Brown’s captivity. Having seen her husband fall by the hands
of savages, she was hurried away by her captors, and took the road
southward, just as she heard the yells and rifles of the cruel savages
who murdered her sons and their companions. What must have been the
feelings of horror and agony of this poor woman, herself a prisoner in
the hands of she knew not whom, and borne she knew not whither! To add
to the horror of her situation, she soon saw two of her sweet little
daughters torn from her side by a party of Cherokees, and borne back,
she knew not whither, nor for what end.
Driven forward on foot for many days and nights, she continued to
bear up under the bodily fatigues and mental anguish by which she
was tortured, her feet blistered and swollen, and driven before the
pack-horses along a flinty path, every moment expecting death if she
failed, and every moment expecting to fail! She yet accomplished many
days’ travel, and finally reached one of the upper Creek towns on the
Tallapoosa, far down in the wilderness. Arrived at the town of her
captor, she found herself a slave, doomed to bear wood and water, pound
hominy, and do all servile offices for her savage mistress. To add to
her distress, her son, nine years old, and her daughter, seven, were
taken to different towns, and she was left indeed alone in her sorrow.
At the period of Mrs. Brown’s captivity, Alexander M’Gillevray, a
half-breed Creek, of Scotch descent, was the head chief of the Muscogee
Indians, and assumed the title of Commander-in-chief of the Upper and
Lower Creeks and the Seminoles; being the military as well as the civil
governor of all the Indians of Florida, Alabama, and Lower Georgia.
He was a man of keen sagacity, forest-born and forest-bred, combining
the shrewdness of the savage with the learning of the civilized man.
Fortunately for Mrs. Brown, her cruel captor took her to a town in
which lived a sister of M’Gillevray, who was the wife of a French
trader by the name of Durant. Her age and dignified bearing under the
toils imposed upon her, excited the sympathy and compassion of this
kind-hearted Indian woman. Several weeks passed before she found an
opportunity, but when Mrs. Brown’s savage master was absent, the wife
of Durant spoke to her kindly, told her that she pitied her sorrow,
and would, if she could, relieve her. She said her brother, the chief
of the Creeks, did not approve of his people’s making slaves of the
white women, and that he was a liberal, high-minded man, who had a soul
of honor, and would never turn away from a helpless woman who came to
him for succor. “Why do you not fly to him?” asked the simple-hearted
woman.
Mrs. Brown explained to her her total ignorance of the country, and her
inability to reach the residence of Col. McGillevray. The Indian woman
listened to her, and then said, “It is true: but if you will, there is
my horse, and there is my saddle. You are welcome to them; but you must
take them. I cannot give them, but my husband shall never pursue. You
can take them without danger.” It was arranged. On a certain morning
the Indian woman sent an aged Indian, who was to act as the guide of
Mrs. Brown, as far as a trader’s house; from which point the trader was
to procure a guide and a horse.
At the appointed time, Mrs. Brown, mounted upon her friend’s horse and
saddle, started in pursuit of her Indian guide, who travelled on as
though entirely unconscious of her existence. She arrived in safety at
the trader’s lodge, and was by him furnished with a guide and horse to
the chieftain’s residence. Full of gratitude for intended kindness,
she yet approached the Creek chieftain with many feelings of doubt and
misgiving. He received her kindly, heard her story attentively, and
after considering it well, gave Mrs. Brown a cordial welcome to his
house, and bade her stay with his wife, as a member of his family.
He explained to her that, according to the usage of his people, she
belonged to her captor, and that he had no right to take her from him.
He said, however, that he could no doubt reconcile her master by some
presents, when he should follow, as he no doubt would before long. He
told her she could make shirts or other garments for the traders, and
soon provide herself with everything necessary for her comfort. In the
meantime, he would furnish her with whatever she needed. Mrs. Brown
accepted the savage chieftain’s proffered protection, and took shelter
under his roof. She had been there but a few days when she was startled
by the appearance of her savage master, who had followed her to her
place of refuge. Fortunately for her, the chieftain was at home, and
himself met her pursuer. The Indian gruffly demanded of his chieftain
the white woman, his prisoner.
Col. McGillevray at once informed him that she was in his house,
and that he had promised to protect her. The savage merely replied,
“Well, if you do not give me back my prisoner, I’ll kill her.” The wily
chieftain knew his man, and humoring his temper, replied, “That is
true. She is your prisoner, and you can kill her, if you choose. I know
she is a weak woman, and you are a brave warrior. Would you tie the
scalp of a squaw about your neck?”
“But she can carry water, and hoe corn, and pound hominy for my wife,”
said the Creek warrior; “and she’s mine; she’s my prisoner.”
“That’s true,” said the chieftain; “but if you kill her, will she carry
any more water? Can the dead work? If you will consent to leave her
with me, so that I can send her back to her people, I will send your
wife a new dress, and will give you a rifle, some powder and lead, and
some beads and paints; and when you go back to your wife, she will not
see the blood of a woman upon your hands!”
Savage cupidity overcame savage revenge, and Mrs. Brown became the
ransomed captive of the brave and generous McGillevray; a noble
instance of chivalry on the part of a savage chieftain, which reflects
more honor on his name than the glory of a hundred battles fought by
his people during his chieftaincy. For several months she plied her
needle in his lodge, and by her experience in the craft of needle-work
soon rendered herself useful to her Indian friends, and by her dignity
and energy commanded their respect.
The chieftain on his next visit to the upper Creek towns, found Mrs.
Brown’s daughter, Elizabeth, aged about seven years, generously
purchased her from her master, and upon his return home had the
pleasure of restoring the sweet child to her distressed mother: a
grateful duty, nobly performed! He also informed Mrs. Brown that he
had seen her son George, and tried to induce his master to part with
him, but that he was so much attached to the boy he would not part from
him on any terms. But he assured her he would not fail, as soon as
possible, to ransom her son, and restore him also to her arms.
In November, 1789, Col. McGillevray had appointed to meet commissioners
to arrange terms of peace, at Rock Landing, Georgia. On his departure
for the treaty grounds, he took Mrs. Brown and her daughter, and there
delivered them to her son William, who came from South Carolina, and
had gone thither in hopes that he might be enabled to hear something of
her and her long lost children.
Thus, in November, 1789, after eighteen months’ captivity, she was at
last united with her surviving children. They spent a short time in
South Carolina with some relatives, and returned to Guilford, N. C.,
at last restored to her friends, whom she had left but two short years
before. But what a change had taken place in her destiny since she had
started westward with her husband, sons, and neighbors, so full of life
and hope! All her captive children were now restored to her, except
George, who was in one of the upper Creek villages, doomed to a still
longer captivity.
Mrs. Brown had two sons who were in the Cumberland Valley on the 9th
of May, 1788; William the surveyor, and Daniel, aged twelve years, who
went over the land route with some stock, to the Cumberland Valley.
During her short stay in Guilford, her benefactor, the Creek chieftain,
passed through Guilford Court House, and sent word to Mrs. Brown that
he was there. She immediately went with her brother, Col. Gillespie,
Rev. Dr. Caldwell, and her son William, and thanked him with them. In
addition, her brother offered to pay Col. McGillevray any sum he might
think proper to demand, as the ransom of Mrs. Brown and her daughter,
but the generous Creek refused any compensation whatever. He said he
owed it to humanity and honor to do as he had done, and that to receive
pay for it would deprive him both of the real pleasure and real honor
of such a deed. He assured Mrs. Brown he would not fail to use his best
efforts to restore her son, and she might rely upon his finding out
some means to accomplish so good an object.
Mrs. Brown, with the remnant of her family, again turned her face
westward, seeking the new home which the foresight of her husband had
prepared for her and her children, and to which he was so boldly
conducting them when he perished. And now at last, in 1791, this
devoted woman and all her surviving children but one, found themselves
at their new home, at the mouth of White’s creek, near Nashville.
About this time her son Joseph, while travelling with a small party of
friends, was shot through the arm by a party of savages in ambush; a
severe wound, from which he did not recover for some time.
In 1792, a formidable body of Creeks, Cherokees, and Shawanees invaded
Cumberland Valley, attacked Buchanan’s Station, and were repulsed
with great loss. Joseph Brown came the next morning, with a large
party of friends, to the assistance of Buchanan, but the Indians had
retreated. Upon approaching the scene of action, what was young Brown’s
astonishment at finding his Indian brother, Kiachatalee, lying cold in
death upon the field, near the walls of the fort against which he had
so gallantly led the assault! The next year, Joseph attended a treaty
at Tellico, in East Tennessee, where he met a nephew of Kiachatalee,
named Charles Butler, with whom he had been well acquainted while a
prisoner at Nickajack. Butler gave him the Indian version of the attack
on Buchanan’s Station, and also the story of Kiachatalee’s heroic
death. He said the assault was led by Kiachatalee; that he attempted to
set fire to the block-house, and was actually blowing it into a flame,
when he was mortally wounded. He continued, after receiving his mortal
wound, to blow the fire, and to cheer his followers to the assault,
calling upon them to fight like brave men, and never give up till they
had taken the fort.[14]
There were many incidents of frontier life, such as Mrs. Brown’s was
now, which would be interesting to the present generation, but the
length of this sketch will necessarily exclude many of them. On one
occasion, her eldest son, William, while in pursuit of a party of
Indians near Nashville, was severely wounded in the arm, so that almost
every member of her family had been captured, wounded, or slain by the
hands of the Indians. These were trials hard to bear; yet amidst all
her troubles Mrs. Brown bore herself as an humble Christian, devoutly
grateful to the Giver of all good, that He had watched over her and
guided her footsteps aright, in the midst of so many sorrows.
In the year 1794, such had been the continued outrages of the savages
from the lower Cherokee towns, in conjunction with marauding Creeks
and Shawanees, upon the Cumberland settlements, that the principal
pioneers resolved to fit out an expedition at their own expense, march
to Nickajack and Running Water, and punish those lawless people with
fire and sword. The national administration had, by its Commissioners,
made treaty after treaty with the Cherokees, but still the people of
these lower towns continued their depredations, against the wishes
of the upper Cherokees; and it was impossible to induce the national
government to take the decided steps which these bold pioneers knew
were so absolutely necessary to check the marauding spirit of the
lower Cherokee towns. These towns were far down the Tennessee, in
the midst of mountain fastnesses, which the foot of white man had
never trod. They felt secure from all aggression, and reposed in full
confidence that whoever might suffer on account of their incursions
into Cumberland, their towns were unapproachable.
At this time Joseph Brown was living near Nashville with his mother,
and had recently gone with Gen. Robertson to attend an Indian council
at Tellico block-house. The intimate knowledge young Brown had obtained
of these lower towns and their people by his residence there, enabled
him to communicate a good idea of the country and the people from
whom the Cumberland settlements had so long suffered. The death of
Kiachatalee at Buchanan’s Station, on the 30th September, 1792, his
warlike character, so well known to Brown, and his leadership as a
warrior among the men of Nickajack and Running Water, all pointed out
these towns as the hives from which came forth such swarms of marauding
Indians.
Despairing of succor from the national government, Gen. Robertson
wrote to Col. Whitley, of Kentucky, who was a well-known partisan, to
be at Nashville about the 1st September, 1794, with as many trusty
riflemen as he could bring with him. About the same time Col. Mansco,
Gen. Johnson of Robertson, Col. Montgomery of Clarksville, and Gen.
Robertson, each quietly raised a few trusty men. Maj. Ore at that time
commanded a squadron of mounted men, who were in the employ of the
United States as rangers, to protect the frontiers of Cumberland. At
the request of Gen. Robertson, Maj. Ore arrived at Buchanan’s Station
just in time to join the expedition.
In the meantime, boats were made of hides, and tried in the Cumberland
river, to ascertain their capability of transporting the troops across
the Tennessee. These boats were made each of two raw hides, as large as
could be got, sewed together, and each was found capable of carrying
about fifty guns, and one or two men. They were capable of being rolled
up and packed on mules or horses, and could in a few moments be fully
equipped and launched.
All the parties being assembled, it was ascertained that there were
about six hundred, including Maj. Ore’s Rangers. As all but his command
were volunteers, who came out without any authority, it was resolved
to give Ore the nominal command of the whole party, which would give
color of authority to the party to make the campaign, and would save
them from the odium of making a lawless invasion of the Indian country.
Col. Whitley and Col. Mansco were, however, the prime movers of the
campaign, and had most of the responsibility of its conduct. With the
troops were more than a dozen leading partisan officers, who had been
distinguished in many an Indian battle.
On the 7th September, 1794, this formidable army of invasion set out
for Nickajack; and although the route had been unexplored, and the
mountains and river lay between them and their enemies, they had
counted the cost, fitted out their boats, and had resolved to strike a
blow that would teach the lawless Indians a severe lesson.
The troops made a forced march, reached the Tennessee river just after
dark on the fourth day, and in thirty minutes had their rawhide boats
afloat in the river, ready to bear over the arms. They immediately
began to cross the river, landing a short distance below the town of
Nickajack. Most of the men swam over in perfect silence, their arms and
clothes being conveyed in the boats, and on rafts rudely constructed
of bundles of canes. In order to guide the swimmers, a very small fire
was kindled at the water’s edge, by the party which first crossed. Out
of six hundred, only two hundred and thirty could be induced to cross
over; some holding back because they could not swim, and others because
they were subject to the cramp; while others, no doubt, reflecting
upon the number of the enemy, and the difficulty of a retreat when
once across so wide a river, did not feel quite willing “to stand the
hazard of the die.” But in the face of appalling dangers, some men
showed a stout-heartedness which might have done honor to the bravest
of the brave. A young man by the name of Joseph B. Porter, who could
not swim at all, tied an armful of dry canes together, and nothing
daunted, plunged into the rapid river, and kicked himself over in
safety. Young Brown, although still lame in one arm, from the wound he
had received in the Indian ambuscade, plunged into the river, and swam
safely over. At daylight there were two hundred and thirty on the south
bank of the Tennessee, within half a mile of Nickajack, and yet they
were undiscovered. Leaving Brown, with twenty picked men, to guard the
crossing of the creek, at the lower end of the town, with instructions
to meet them in the centre of the town as soon as he heard their fire,
the main body turned towards the town, and came down upon it from above.
Although Nickajack contained about three hundred warriors, they were
so completely surprised that they made little resistance; but flying
precipitately, took to their canoes, and attempted to cross the river.
Some fled to Running Water, and others secreted themselves in the
thickets. The whole town ran with blood. About seventy warriors were
slain, and a large number of women and children were taken prisoners.
Young Brown carried the lower end of the town manfully, killing several
warriors, and taking some prisoners. In one instance, he killed an
Indian warrior in single combat, and carried away his scalp.
As soon as Nickajack was taken, a detachment was sent to destroy
Running Water. On the way, the Indians met them, and after an obstinate
resistance, gave way, but not till they had wounded three Americans,
one of them, Joshua Thomas, mortally. Running Water was also taken,
and both towns immediately reduced to ashes. Among the dead, Brown
recognized the body of Breath, the generous chief who had adopted him
into his family when he was a prisoner. In the towns, many articles of
stolen property, which were recognized as belonging to men who had been
killed in Cumberland Valley, were found. In addition to these, fresh
scalps were found in Nickajack, as well as a number of letters, taken
by the Indians from the mail-bags, after having killed the rider. They
also found a quantity of powder and lead, recently sent by the Spanish
government to these Indians.
Never was a visitation of this kind so justly merited as it was
by these towns. They were the principal crossing-places for the
war-parties of Creeks, Shawnees, and Cherokees, who went to harass
the Cumberland and Kentucky settlements. But two days before their
destruction, a war dance was held there, at which were several Cherokee
chiefs, as well as Creeks, who had resolved to wage a still more
relentless war on the frontiers.
While Brown could not but feel that the hand of Providence had signally
punished these towns for their outrage on his family, his exultation
was prevented by the death of his brother-in-law, Joshua Thomas, a
brave soldier and a kind, generous friend, who was the only one slain
by the enemy on this occasion.
The prisoners recognized young Brown, and alarmed for their safety,
pleaded with him to save their lives, saying that his life had once
been spared by them. He assured them that they were in no danger; that
the white people never killed prisoners, women and children.
This blow was so unexpected and successful, that it inspired the
Cherokees with a sincere desire for peace, which they soon after
concluded, and never again violated. Soon after this affair, young
George Brown was liberated by the Creeks. Joseph returned home and
lived some years with his mother. He was devoted to business, and of
most exemplary conduct in every relation of life. He soon attached
himself to Rev. Thomas B. Craighead’s congregation, near Hayesboro’,
and was made an elder in the church.
For several years, he and his mother and brothers memorialized the
Congress of the United States to reimburse them for the goods and
slaves taken from them in violation of the treaty of Hopewell. But
their claims were still unregarded, and still delayed, year after year.
In 1806, a treaty was finally concluded with the Indians which opened
all the lands on Duck river to the occupation of those who had located
their warrants there. Thus Mrs. Brown and her children came into
possession of a large and splendid tract of land south of Columbia, to
which she soon after removed with her son Joseph.
During the Creek war of 1812, a large number of Cherokee Indians
offered their services to Gen. Jackson against their red brethren.
Gen. Jackson immediately wrote to Joseph Brown, who had lately been
elected colonel by his neighbors, requesting him to consent to
command a regiment of Cherokee Indians. This he promptly agreed to
do, and started to join the army for that purpose. He however, never
took charge of the Indians, but served with the army, as aid to Gen.
Robards, as well as interpreter and guide.
He was thus a participant in the battle of Talladega, and had the
honor of leading and conducting a charge upon the most hotly contested
part of the Indian lines. During this campaign Brown again met Charles
Butler, the nephew of Kiachatalee, and learned from him that the old
Tuskegee chief, Cutty-a-toy, was still alive. He learned also that he
was then living on an island in the Tennessee river, near the mouth of
Elle river, and that he had with him several negroes, the descendants
of the woman taken by him at Nickajack, on the 9th of May, 1788.
Col. Brown had at that time a claim before Congress for the value of
those negroes, but had always been put off by reason of some defect
in the proof as to their value, or some other matter of form. He now
determined that, as his negroes were still in the hands of the original
wrong-doer, the Tuskegee chief, he would get possession of them, and
carry them home. He stated to General Jackson the facts of the case,
demanded of him and obtained an order appointing a mixed commission of
American and Cherokee officers, to value the negroes of Cutty-a-toy.
The Cherokees had long been at peace with the whites, and were now in
alliance with them against the Creeks, and under such circumstances
there was friendly intercourse between them.
With ten picked men, Brown proceeded to the island, went to the head
man’s lodge, exhibited to him Gen. Jackson’s order, and demanded that
Cutty-a-toy’s slaves should be immediately sent over to Fort Hampton,
to be valued, in pursuance of said order. The head man sent for
Cutty-a-toy, and it was immediately agreed that all would go to the
fort the next morning.
The next morning, the negroes, Cutty-a-toy, his wife, and some friends,
went with Col. Brown to the Fort. In crossing the river Brown and his
men took up the negroes and Cutty-a-toy’s wife behind them, to carry
over the water, while the Indian men crossed on a raft higher up.
When he reached the fort he directed his men to proceed with the
negroes towards Ditto’s landing, while he turned into the fort with
Cutty-a-toy’s wife, to await the arrival of the Indians. He immediately
called on the commandant of the fort, Col. Williams, stated the history
of the case, the order of Gen. Jackson, the failure of Congress to pay
for the slaves, and the fact that they were now in his possession; and
frankly asked him what course he would pursue, under the circumstances.
“Take the negroes home with you,” said the Colonel; “and if you wish to
do it, and have not men enough, I will give you more.”
Upon the arrival of Cutty-a-toy and his followers, they were invited
into the fort, and Col. Brown made known to him that he had sent the
negroes off, but was willing for the commissioners to proceed to value
them. The Indian became enraged. At last, in the midst of the garrison,
officers and men, and the Indians, Col. Brown gave a brief narrative
of the murder of his father by Cutty-a-toy’s party, the murder of his
brothers, and the captivity of his mother, small brother and sisters;
of the capture of the slaves by Cutty-a-toy, and his attempt on the
life of Col. Brown himself, then a boy at the house of the French
trader; of his being saved at the intercession of the trader’s wife,
and the Indian’s desire to save the life of his captive negro woman.
“It is now,” said Col. Brown, “nearly twenty-five years, and yet during
all that time you have had the negro and her children as your slaves,
and they have worked for you; and yet you got them by the murder of
my father and brothers! You made me an orphan and a beggar, when but
for you, I had begun the world with the smiles of a father, and the
comforts of a home provided by his care. For this wrong, this crime,
Cutty-a-toy, you deserve to die!”
Here Cutty-a-toy hung his head, and said, “It is all true: do with me
as you please.”
The soldiers who stood around, many of them the neighbors of Col.
Brown, said, “Kill him! he ought to die.” But Brown was now a
Christian, and had long since ceased to cherish feelings of revenge
against the savage murderer of his father.
“No, no, Cutty-a-toy,” he proceeded, “although you deserve to die, and
at my hands, yet I will not kill you. If I did not worship the Great
Spirit who rules all things, I would slay you; but vengeance is his,
and I will leave you to answer to him for your crimes! I will not stain
my hands with your blood; you are now old, and must soon go down to the
grave, and answer to that Great Spirit for the life you have led. Live
and repent.”
Here Cutty-a-toy assumed a bolder front, and said, by certain treaties
made in 1794, this property was guaranteed to him, and that he would
sue Brown in the Federal Courts, as some other Indians named by him had
done, in similar cases; but he finally agreed, if Brown would give him
a young negro fellow, he might take the rest, including two women and
some children, which was generously done.
Thus the fortunes of war, controlled by the steady perseverance of
her son, at length restored to Mrs. Brown a part of her long-lost
property. Many years afterwards, when Gen. Jackson became President,
Col. Brown finally obtained an allowance from Congress for a part of
the property lost by his father in 1788. In 1810, he became a member
of the Cumberland Presbyterian Church, and in 1823, a regular ordained
minister of that Church.
Having lived to the advanced age of ninety, and never having remarried,
but always making her home with her son Joseph, Mrs. Brown left this
world of vexation and sorrow, for such it had been to her, at her son’s
residence in Maury County, Tennessee. Hers was a most eventful life,
full of trials almost beyond human endurance; yet she did not murmur,
but tried to see in all her afflictions the kind guidance of a wise
Providence.
George, soon after his release from captivity, emigrated to the South,
and after nearly fifty years’ honorable citizenship near Woodville,
Mississippi, died in the bosom of his family. The captive daughter,
Jane, whose release was due to the manly courage of her youthful
brother, was married to a Mr. Collingsworth, and became with him a
citizen of Texas as early as 1819, where her children yet reside.
The history possesses all the attractions of a romance; yet it is but
a plain sad story of trials and sufferings incident to the period and
to border life. The only survivor of that pioneer family is the Rev.
Joseph Brown, of Maury County, better known as Col. Brown. From notes
and memoranda furnished by him, the principal details of this narrative
have been written. It cannot fail to be useful to the future historian
of Tennessee, yet Haywood, in his history of five hundred pages, only
makes the following allusion to the facts contained in this narrative.
Speaking of the treaty of peace made at Tellico, October 20, 1795,
between the people of Tennessee, and the Creeks and Cherokees, they
(the Creeks,) says the historian, “at this time delivered up Brown,
son of Mrs. Brown, formerly a prisoner in the Creek nation.” How
inadequate is such a notice to do justice either to the sufferings
of Mrs. Brown and her children, or to the generous protection of the
Creek chieftain to whom they were indebted for their deliverance! For
notwithstanding the “obloquy which both history and tradition have
thrown upon the characters of the Creek and Cherokee warriors, some
bright gleams occasionally break through, which throw a melancholy
lustre over their memories.” But a large portion of the pioneer history
of Tennessee has never been written. Replete with incidents and heroic
deeds which might challenge the admiration of the world, yet all that
has been written by Haywood and others would scarcely serve as a thread
to guide the future historian through the labyrinth of events which
crowded upon the infant colonies of the Holston and the Cumberland.
* * * * *
In 1792 the family of Joseph Wilson, who was a pioneer in the
Cumberland Valley, from Carolina, was living at Zeigler’s Station in
what is now Sumner County, Tennessee. This station was near Cumberland
River, a few miles from Bledsoe’s Lick, but being nearer the frontier,
was more exposed to the incursions of the Indians. It was only a
small picketted fort, with a blockhouse, and contained but thirteen
men, including a son of Wilson, not yet grown. Near the fort was a
small farm which was cultivated by the inmates of the station. In the
afternoon of the 26th of June, 1792, a large party of Creek Indians
assaulted the station, but after a severe contest in which several
of the defenders were killed and wounded, the savages were repulsed.
There being no surgeon in the party, a messenger was despatched to a
neighboring station for a physician to attend the wounded, and for aid
to repel any new assault which might be made. Before either surgeon
or aid arrived, however, the Indians renewed the assault, and night
coming on, they succeeded in setting fire to the buildings, which
spread with such rapidity, that the assailed were compelled to decide
between instant destruction by the flames and a cruel and lingering
death by the hands of the savages. Five of the defenders were already
slain, and four others wounded. In this moment of extreme peril, Mrs.
Wilson urged her husband to attempt to break through the lines of the
savages, and make his escape. It was probable they would spare her
life, and those of her young children, but for him death was certain,
unless he could make his escape by a sudden sortie from the blockhouse.
Wilson hesitated, and feeling the horror of his situation, seemed to
prefer death with his family, to leaving his wife and children to the
cruelty of the foe; but his heroic wife urged him for her sake to
leave her, saying that she would be safer in the hands of the Indians
without him than with him. The same appeal was made to another man
who was unhurt, but he refused to leave the fort. But a few minutes
remained; the flames were sweeping over the roof of the block-house,
and the assailants stood around with rifles and their hatchets to
strike down any one who attempted to escape. In this dreadful moment
Wilson yielded to his wife’s entreaties, bade his son, a lad fifteen
or sixteen years of age, follow, and dashing boldly out of the flaming
building, was followed by his son. Several shots were instantly fired,
one of which took effect in Wilson’s foot, but father and son passed
beyond the lines of the assailants, pursued by yelling savages as they
fled. Becoming sick from the loss of blood, Wilson secreted himself
in a clump of bushes in the field, while his son went on to obtain a
horse from a neighboring field. As he lay thus concealed some pursuing
savages passed within a few feet of his hiding-place, but fortunately
missed him. The lurid flames of the burning block-house, meanwhile,
revealed, as he thought, the fate of his wife and children.
As soon as her son and husband had disappeared, Mrs. Wilson, with an
infant in her arms, and followed by five small children, the eldest a
lovely girl about ten years old, walked slowly out of the block-house,
expecting each instant to receive the fatal blow; but yielding to a
generous impulse and perhaps not unwilling to obtain captives, who
might be made slaves, the Indian warriors spared her life, and made
her and her children prisoners. All the rest of the inmates of the
fort were killed or burned, except the man who had been dispatched for
succor and a surgeon, both of which failed to arrive till the station
was in ashes, and the assailants had retreated towards their nation
with their prisoners. Capt. Alfred Wilson, a relation of Joseph Wilson,
came with a party of friends to the help of the besieged, but came only
in time to discover the blackened and charred bones of those who were
burned.
In the meantime, young Wilson obtained horses, returned to the place
of his father’s concealment, and after having with difficulty placed
him on one of the horses, conveyed him to Bledsoe’s Station. A party
of the soldiers hastily assembled, pursued, but did not overtake the
retreating savages, and thus Mrs. Wilson and her children were carried,
as captives, into the White Grounds, in the Upper Creek Nation.
In a few weeks Gov. Blount arrived at Nashville, and called into
service three hundred men, in order to defend the frontiers, but the
many women and children who were captives in the Creek Towns were left
to languish in a barbarous country.
Mrs. Wilson was the sister of Col. White of Knoxville, and through his
interposition, after more than twelve months’ captivity, was, with all
her children (except her eldest daughter,) restored to her home. Few
persons can now imagine the painful suspense in which Wilson and his
wife spent that year of separation. An aged pioneer matron,[15] who
resided near Bledsoe’s Lick during this period, has said that Wilson
seemed to her to have been the most unhappy man in the world, during
the year of his wife’s captivity.
Although the family was now again restored to a happy reunion, yet
their home circle lacked one bright-eyed prattler, yet in slavery and
exile among her savage captors. It was not until after the destruction
of Nickajack and Running Water, that young Sally Wilson was restored to
the arms of her parents. And then how changed! During her captivity,
she had forgotten her own language and her people, and for several
months sighed for her forest home! But soon regaining her language,
with it came also the remembrance of home and friends, and the home
circle was again complete.
Mr. and Mrs. Wilson lived many years after this terrible experience of
pioneer life, and reared their children to usefulness and honor. Many
of their descendants yet reside in Tennessee, while not a few, seeking
a better home in the far West, have adventured, like their sires, into
the deep solitudes of the wilderness, where they too may yet experience
some of the dark trials of their ancestors.
VI.
MARY MOORE.
Before proceeding to sketches illustrating a later period, it will
be proper to take a view of the early condition of that portion of
Virginia, which, lying on the sunset side of the great range of
mountains, belonged to the West. De Hass, in his History of the Indian
Wars of Western Virginia, says that before 1749, the country was
untrodden by foot of white man, except occasional traders who may have
ventured on the heads of some of the tributary streams rising in the
Alleghany mountains. It is said that in this year a lunatic wandered
into the wilderness of the Greenbriar country, and on returning home,
told his friends he had discovered rivers flowing in a westward
direction. His report induced two pioneers to enter the mountain wild,
where they were found in 1751 by the agent for the Greenbriar company.
Further attempts to colonize the country were not made for some years.
The first permanent settlements by Zane and Tomlinson, were at or near
Wheeling; hardy emigrants followed, and pushed into the fine regions
along the Upper Monongahela. When it became known that outposts were
established on the confines of civilization, hundreds pressed forward
to join the adventurous settlers, and secure homes in the forest domain.
“The escape of Mrs. Denis, who had been taken captive in the James
river settlement, in 1761, presents a parallel to narratives of female
captives in the early history of the settlement of New England. Her
husband having been slain, after being taken captive, the Indians
took her over the mountains and through the forests to the Chilicothe
towns north of the Ohio. There she seemed to conform to their ways,
painted and dressed herself, and lived as a squaw. Added to this, she
gained fame by attending to the sick, both as a nurse and a physician;
and became so celebrated for her cures, as to obtain from that
superstitious people the reputation of being a necromancer, and the
honor paid to a person supposed to have power with the Great Spirit.
“In 1763 she left them, under the pretext of obtaining medicinal herbs,
as she had often done before. Not returning at night, her object was
suspected, and she was pursued. To avoid leaving traces of her path,
she crossed the Scioto three times, and was making her fourth crossing
forty miles below the towns, when she was discovered, and fired upon
without effect. But in the speed of her flight, she wounded her foot
with a sharp stone, so as to be unable to proceed. The Indians had
crossed the river, and were just behind her. She eluded their pursuit
by hiding in a hollow sycamore log. They frequently stepped on the log
that concealed her, and encamped near it for the night. Next morning
they proceeded in their pursuit of her; and she started in another
direction as fast as her lameness would permit, but was obliged to
remain near that place three days. She then set off for the Ohio, over
which she rafted herself at the mouth of the Great Kanawha, on a drift
log; travelling only by night through fear of discovery, and subsisting
only on roots, wild fruits, and the river shell-fish. She reached the
Green Briar, having passed forests, rivers, and mountains, for more
than three hundred miles. Here she sank down exhausted, and resigned
herself to die, when providentially she was discovered by some of the
people of that settlement, and hospitably treated at one of their
habitations.”[16]
The settlement was made to suffer severely for this hospitable act. “A
party of fifty or sixty Shawanese, coming under the garb of friendship,
suddenly fell upon the men, butchering every one of them, and made
captives of the women and children. They next visited the Levels, where
Archibald Clendenin had erected a rude block-house, and where were
gathered quite a number of families--and were here again entertained
with hospitality. Mr. Clendenin had just brought in three fine elk,
upon which the savages feasted sumptuously. One of the inmates was a
decrepid old woman, with an ulcerated limb; she undressed the member,
and asked the Indian if he could cure it. ‘Yes,’ he replied; and
immediately sunk his tomahawk into her head. This was the signal, and
instantly every man in the house was put to death.
“The cries of the women and children alarmed a man in the yard, who
escaped and reported the circumstances to the settlement at Jackson’s
river. The people were loth to believe him, but were soon convinced,
for the savages appeared, and many of the flying families were
massacred without mercy. The prisoners were then marched off in the
direction of the Ohio. Mrs. Clendenin proved herself in that trying
moment a woman fit to be one of the mothers of the West. Indignant at
the treachery and cowardly conduct of the wretches, she did not fail
to abuse them from the chief down, in the most unmeasured manner. The
savages, to intimidate her, would flap the bloody scalp of her dead
husband against her face, and significantly twirl their tomahawks
above her head, but still the courageous woman talked to them like one
who felt her injuries and resolved to express the feeling. On the day
after her captivity, she had an opportunity to escape, and giving her
infant to a woman, slipped unobserved into a thicket. The child soon
beginning to cry, one of the Indians inquired concerning the mother;
but getting no satisfactory reply, swore he would ‘bring the cow to the
calf,’ and taking the infant by the heels dashed out its brains against
a tree. Mrs. Clendenin returned to her desolate home, and secured the
remains of her husband from the rapacious jaws of the wild animals with
which the woods abounded. It is stated that a black woman, in escaping
from Clendenin’s house, killed her own child to prevent its cries
attracting the attention of the savages. Such were some of the horrid
realities endured by the first settlers of Western Virginia.”[17]
Early in 1778, an attack was made on a block-house in the country of
the Upper Monongahela. The children allowed to play outside, discovered
Indians, and running in, gave the alarm. “John Murphy stepped to the
door, when one of the Indians, turning the corner of the house, fired
at him. The ball took effect, and Murphy fell into the house. The
Indian springing in, was grappled by Harbert, and thrown on the floor.
A shot from without wounded Harbert, yet he continued to maintain his
advantage over the prostrate savage, striking him as effectually as he
could with his tomahawk, when another gun was fired from without, the
ball passing through his head. His antagonist then slipped out at the
door, badly wounded in the encounter.
“Just after the first Indian entered, an active young warrior, holding
a tomahawk with a long spike at the end, came in. Edward Cunningham
instantly drew up his gun, but it flashed, and they closed in doubtful
strife. Both were active and athletic; each put forth his strength,
and strained every nerve to gain the ascendency. For awhile the issue
seemed doubtful. At length, by great exertion, Cunningham wrenched the
tomahawk from the hand of the Indian, and buried the spike end to the
handle in his back. Mrs. Cunningham closed the contest. Seeing her
husband struggling with the savage, she struck at him with an axe.
The edge wounding his face severely, he loosened his hold, and made
his way out of the house. The third Indian who had entered before the
door was closed, presented an appearance almost as frightful as the
object he had in view. He wore a cap made of the unshorn front of a
buffalo, with the ears and horn still attached, and hanging loosely
about his head. On entering the room, this hideous monster aimed a blow
with his tomahawk at Miss Reece, which inflicted a severe wound on her
hand. The mother, seeing the uplifted weapon about to descend on her
daughter, seized the monster by the horns; but his false head coming
off, she did not succeed in changing the direction of the weapon.
The father then caught hold of him; but far inferior in strength,
he was thrown on the floor, and would have been killed, but for the
interference of Cunningham, who having cleared the house of one Indian,
wheeled and struck his tomahawk into the head of the other. During all
this time, the door was kept secure by the women. The Indians from
without endeavored several times to force it, and would at one time
have succeeded; but just as it was yielding, the Indian who had been
wounded by Cunningham and his wife, squeezed out, causing a momentary
relaxation of their efforts, and enabled the women again to close it.
“On the 11th of April some Indians visited the house of William Morgan,
on Bunker’s bottom. They killed his mother and two or three others, and
took the wife and her child prisoners. On their way home, coming near
Pricket’s fort, they bound Mrs. Morgan to a bush, and went in quest
of a horse for her to ride, leaving the child with her. She succeeded
in untying with her teeth the bands which confined her, and wandered
all that day and part of the next, before she came within sight of the
fort. Here she was kindly treated, and in a few days sent home.”
Early in March, 1781, a party of Indians came to the house of Capt.
John Thomas, on one of the branches of the Monongahela. He was a pious
man, and was engaged in family worship, surrounded by his wife and
seven children, when the Indians approached his cabin. Anticipating no
attack, he had not secured his house so well as was his custom, for
the season had not advanced sufficiently to cause alarm. He had just
repeated a line of the hymn
“Go worship at Immanuel’s feet,”
when the savages fired; the Christian father fell dead, and the
murderers forcing the door, entered and commenced the work of death.
Mrs. Thomas implored their mercy, but the tomahawk did its work, till
the mother and six children lay weltering in blood by the side of the
slaughtered father. They then proceeded to scalp the fallen and plunder
the house, and departed, taking with them one little boy, a prisoner.
“Elizabeth Juggins, whose father had been murdered the preceding year
in that neighborhood, was at the house when the Indians came; but as
soon as she heard the report of the gun and saw Capt. Thomas fall,
she threw herself under the bed, and escaped the observation of the
savages. After they had completed the work of blood and left the
house, fearing that they might be lingering near, she remained in that
concealment till the house was found to be on fire. When she crawled
forth from her asylum, Mrs. Thomas was still alive, though unable to
move, and casting a pitying glance towards her murdered infant, asked
that it might be handed to her. On seeing Miss Juggins about to leave
the house, she exclaimed ‘Oh Betsey, don’t leave us!’ Still anxious for
her own safety, the girl rushed out, and taking refuge for the night
between two logs, in the morning early spread the alarm. When the scene
of these enormities was visited, Mrs. Thomas was found in the yard,
much mangled by the tomahawk and considerably torn by hogs; she had
perhaps, in the struggle of death, thrown herself out at the door. The
house, with Capt. Thomas and the children, was a heap of ashes.”
On the 29th of June, 1785, the house of Mr. Scott, a citizen of
Washington County, Virginia, was attacked, and he and four children
butchered on the spot. He and the family had retired, except Mrs.
Scott, who was undressing, when the painted savages rushed in and
commenced the work of death. “Scott being awake, jumped up, but was
immediately fired at; he forced his way through the midst of the enemy
and got out of the door, but fell; an Indian seized Mrs. Scott, and
ordered her not to move from a particular spot; others stabbed and cut
the throats of the three younger children in their bed, and afterwards
lifting them up, dashed them upon the floor, near the mother. The
eldest, a beautiful girl eight years old, sprang out of bed, ran to
her parent, and in the most plaintive accents cried ‘O, mamma, mamma!
save me!’ The mother, in the deepest anguish of spirit, and with a
flood of tears, entreated the savages to spare her child; but with
brutal ferocity they tomahawked and stabbed her in the mother’s arms.
Near Scott’s dwelling lived another family of the name of Ball: the
Indians attacked them at the same time; the door being shut, they fired
into the house through an opening between two logs, and killed a young
lad; they then tried to force the door, but a surviving brother fired
through and drove them off; the rest of the family ran out of the house
and escaped. In Scott’s house were four good rifles, well loaded, and a
good deal of clothing and furniture, part of which belonged to people
that had left it on their way to Kentucky. The Indians, thirteen in
number, loaded themselves with the plunder, then speedily made off, and
continued travelling all night. Next morning their chief allotted to
each man his share, and detached nine of the party to steal horses from
the inhabitants at Clinch river.
“The eleventh day after Mrs. Scott’s captivity, the four Indians who
had her in charge stopped at a place of rendezvous to hunt. Three went
out, and the chief being an old man, was left to take care of the
prisoner, who by this time expressed a willingness to proceed to the
Indian towns, which seemed to have the desired effect of loosening her
keeper’s vigilance. In the daytime, as the old man was graning a deer
skin, the captive, pondering on her situation, and anxiously looking
for an opportunity to make her escape, took the resolution, and went
to the Indian carelessly, asking liberty to go a small distance to a
stream of water, to wash the blood off her apron, which had remained
besmeared since the fatal night of the murder of her little daughter.
He said in English--‘Go along;’ she then passed by him, his face being
in a contrary direction from that she was going, and he very busy.
After getting to the water, she went on without delay towards a high,
barren mountain, and travelled until late in the evening, when she came
down into the valley in search of the track she had been taken along,
hoping thereby to find the way back without the risk of being lost and
perishing with hunger in uninhabited parts. That night she made herself
a bed with leaves, and the next day resumed her wanderings. Thus did
the poor woman continue, from day to day, and week to week, wandering
in the trackless wilderness. Finally, on the eleventh of August, she
reached a settlement on Clinch River known as New Garden.
“Mrs. Scott related, that during her wanderings from the 10th of July
to the 11th of August, she had no other means of subsistence than
chewing and swallowing the juice of young cane, sassafras, and some
plants she did not know the name of; that on her journey she saw
buffaloes, elk, deer, and frequently bears and wolves, not one of
which, although some passed very near, offered to do her the least
harm. One day a bear came near her with a young fawn in his mouth, and
on discovering her, dropped his prey and ran off. Hunger prompted her
to try and eat the flesh, but on reflection, she desisted, thinking
the bear might return and devour her; besides, she had an aversion to
raw meat. She long continued in a low state of health, and remained
inconsolable for the loss of her family, particularly bewailing the
cruel death of her little daughter.”
One of the most melancholy occurrences on Wheeling Creek was the murder
of two sisters--the Misses Crow. Three of them left their parents’
house for an evening walk along the shaded banks of a beautiful
stream--the Dunkard, or lower fork of the Creek. “Their walk extended
over a mile, and they were just turning back, when suddenly several
Indians sprang from behind a ledge of rock, and seized all three of the
sisters. They led the captives a short distance up a bank, when a halt
was called, and a parley took place. It seems that some of the Indians
were in favor of immediate slaughter, while others were disposed to
carry them into permanent captivity. Unfortunately the arm of mercy
was powerless. Without a moment’s warning, a fierce looking savage
stepped from the group with elevated tomahawk, and commenced the work
of death. This Indian, said the surviving sister, ‘began to tomahawk
Susan; she dodged her head to one side, the weapon taking effect in
her neck, cutting the large neck vein; the blood gushing out a yard’s
length. The Indian who had her by the hand jumped back to avoid the
blood. The other Indian then began the work of death on my sister Mary.
I gave a sudden jerk and got loose from the one that held me, ran with
all speed and took up a steep bank, gaining the top safely. Just as
I caught hold of a hush to help myself up, the Indian fired, and the
ball passed through the clump of hair on my head, slightly breaking
the skin; the Indian taking round to meet me as I would strike the
path that led homeward. But I ran right from home, and hid myself in
the bushes near the top of the hill. Presently I saw an Indian passing
along the hill below me; I lay still until he was out of sight, and
then made for home.’” This third sister was Christina, afterwards Mrs.
John McBride, of Carlisle, Monroe County, Ohio.
“Early on the morning of the 27th of March, 1789, two Indians appeared
on the premises of Mr. Glass, residing a few miles back of the present
town of Wellsburgh. Mrs. Glass was alone in the house, except an
infant and a small black girl; was engaged in spinning, and had sent
her negro woman to the woods for sugar water. In a few moments she
returned, screaming at the top of her voice, ‘Indians! Indians!’ Mrs.
Glass jumped up, and running first to the window and then to the door,
attempted to escape; but an Indian met her and presented his gun; she
caught hold of the muzzle, turned it aside, and begged him not to
kill her. The other Indian in the meantime caught the negro woman and
brought her into the house. They then opened a chest and took out a
small box and some articles of clothing, and without doing any further
damage, departed with their prisoners. After proceeding about a mile
and a half, they halted and held a consultation, as she supposed, to
kill the children; this she understood to be the subject by their
gestures. To one of the Indians who could speak English, she held out
her little boy and begged him not to kill him, as he would make a fine
chief after a while. The Indian made a motion for her to walk on with
the child. The other Indian then struck the negro child with the pipe
end of his tomahawk, which knocked it down, and then, by a blow with
the edge across the back of the neck, despatched it. About four o’clock
they reached the river, a mile above the creek, and carried a canoe
which had been thrown up in some drift wood, into the river. They got
into this canoe and worked it down to the mouth of Rush run, about
five miles; pulled the canoe into the mouth of the stream as far as
they could, and going up the run about a mile, encamped for the night.
The Indians gave the prisoners all their own clothes for covering, and
one of them added his own blanket; shortly before daylight the Indians
got up, and put another blanket over them. The black woman complained
much on account of the loss of her child, and they threatened if she
did not desist, to kill her.
“About sunrise they commenced their march up a very steep hill and at
two o’clock halted on Short creek, about twenty miles from the place
whence they set out in the morning. The spot had been an encampment
shortly before as well as a place of deposit for the plunder which they
had recently taken from the house of Mr. Vanmeter, whose family had
been killed. The plunder was deposited in a sycamore tree. They had
tapped some sugar trees when there before, and now kindled a fire and
put on a brass kettle, with a turkey which they had killed on the way,
to boil in sugar water.
“Mr. Glass was working with a hired man in a field about a quarter of
a mile from the house, when his wife and family were taken, but knew
nothing of the event till noon. After searching about the place, and
going to several families in quest of his family, he went to Well’s
Fort, collected ten men, and that night lodged in a cabin, on the
bottom on which the town of Wellsburg now stands. Next morning they
discovered the place where the Indians had taken the canoe from the
drift, and their tracks at the place of embarkation. Mr. Glass could
distinguish the track of his wife by the print of the high heel of her
shoe. They crossed the river and went down on the other side until
they came near the mouth of Rush run; but discovering no tracks of
the Indians, most of the men concluded they would go to the mouth of
the Muskingum by water, and therefore wished to turn back. Mr. Glass
begged them to go as far as the mouth of Short Creek, which was only
two or three miles; and to this they agreed. When they got to the mouth
of Rush run, they found the canoe of the Indians. This was identified
by a proof which shows the presence of mind of Mrs. Glass. While
passing down the river, one of the Indians threw into the water several
papers which he had taken out of Mr. Glass’s trunk; some of these she
carelessly picked up, and under pretence of giving them to the child
dropped them into the bottom of the canoe. These left no doubt. The
trail of the Indians and their prisoners up the run to their camp, and
then up the river hill, was soon discovered.
“About an hour after the Indians had halted. Glass and his men came
in sight of their camp. The object then was to save the lives of the
prisoners by attacking the Indians so unexpectedly as not to allow time
to kill them. With this view they crept along till they got within
one hundred yards of the camp. Fortunately, Mrs. Glass’s little son
had gone to a sugar tree, but not being able to get the water, his
mother had stepped out to get it for him. The negro woman was sitting
some distance from the two Indians, who were looking attentively at
a scarlet jacket which they had taken some time before. On a sudden
they dropped the jacket, and turned their eyes towards the men, who,
supposing they were discovered, immediately discharged several guns
and rushed upon them at full speed, with an Indian yell. One of the
Indians, it was supposed, was wounded the first fire, as he fell and
dropped his gun and shot pouch. After running about one hundred yards,
a second shot was fired after him, which brought him to his hands and
knees; but there was no time for pursuit, as the Indians had informed
Mrs. Glass that there was another encampment close by. The other Indian
at the first fire, ran a short distance beyond Mrs. Glass, so that she
was in a right line between him and the white men; this artful manœuvre
no doubt saved his life, as his pursuers could not shoot at him without
risking the life of the white woman.”
The party reached Beach Bottom fort that night. Mrs. Glass subsequently
married a Mr. Brown, and was long a resident of Brooke County.
“In the burying-ground of New Providence, in Rockbridge County,
Virginia, there is a grave, surpassing in interest all surrounding
graves. It is by the side of the resting-place of the pastor of the
people who worshipped in the neighboring church. Its inhabitant once
walked by his side a cherished one.[18] His deep blue, sunken eye, that
flashed so fiercely in moments of indignation, always beamed sweetly
into her full, jet-black orbs, that could do nothing but smile or
weep. But those smiles and tears charmed equally the savages in the
wilderness, and Christian people of Providence.
“The maiden name of this woman was Mary Moore. The melancholy romance
of her early days, and the Christian excellence of her mature and
closing years, make her memory immortal. The history of the destruction
of the retired dwelling of her father--his murder, with that of two
brothers and a sister on a fair summer’s morning--the captivity of her
mother and herself, with a brother and two sisters, and a hired girl,
the murder of the brother and one sister on the way to the wigwam homes
of their captors--the death by fire and torture of her mother and
remaining sister--the rescue of herself and the hired girl, together
with a brother, the captive of a former year, and their return to their
relatives in Virginia--combines in one story all the events impending
over the emigrant families taking possession of the rivers and valleys
of Western Virginia.”
James Moore, whose father, of Scottish ancestry, had emigrated from
Ireland to Pennsylvania, and thence to Virginia, married Martha Poage,
and Mary, his second daughter, was born in his new home in a valley
on the waters of the Blue Stone, a branch of New River. It was called
“Apps’ Valley,” from Absalom Looney, a hunter, “supposed to be the
first white man who disturbed the solitude, or beheld the beauty of
the narrow low grounds luxuriating in the pea vine and sweet myrrh.
The surrounding and distant scenery partook both of the grand and the
beautiful. To Mr. Moore, the valley was enchanting; and being out of
the track of the savages in their war incursions eastward, it seemed
secure equally from the vexations of the civilized and the savage.
“Mr. Looney, the hunter, built his cabin a mile lower down the creek;
John Poage about two and a half miles above; and a number of cabins
were scattered about as convenience or fancy dictated. Mr. Moore’s
highest expectations in raising stock were realized. Assisted by
Simpson, he soon became possessor of a hundred head of horses, and a
large number of horned cattle, which found pasturage sufficient for
both summer and winter, with little aid or care from man. His dream
of safety was broken. The wily savage discovered the white man’s
track, and the white man’s cabin west of those Alleghanies, which they
resolved should be an everlasting barrier between their homes in Ohio
to which they had fled, and the hated whites who held the corn-fields
and hunting-grounds of their fathers and their race, between those
great mountains and the Atlantic shores.
“To revenge this encroachment, the savages commenced their
depredations, and compelled isolated families, summer after summer, to
betake themselves to forts and stockades for their mutual defence. On
one occasion a number of men being at the house of Mr. John Poage, one
of them, on stepping out after nightfall, observed to his companions
that a good look-out ought to be kept for Indians that night, for he
heard an unusual noise, as of the hooting of owls, which he supposed to
be the signal of Indians approaching the house from different quarters.
About midnight the house was surrounded by savages; but finding the
doors secured and the inmates on the watch, the Indians retired without
committing any depredations. One of the party in the house seized a
gun, not his own, unaware that it was double triggered, pressed the
muzzle through the cracks of the cabin against the body of a savage who
was slily examining the state of things within, and in his eagerness
to discharge the piece broke both the triggers, and the savage
escaped. All was stillness both within and without the house; such was
the nature of savage warfare. Mr. Poage and most of the families now
retired from this advanced position to the more secure neighborhoods in
Rockbridge, Botetourt and Montgomery, while Mr. Moore and a few others
remained.
“Mr. Moore was a man of courage; he loved the solitude and sweetness
of the valley, and would not retreat through any fear of the hostile
Indians. Five children were added to his family in this valley, making
the number nine. Of these Mary, the fifth, was born in the year 1777,
and passed the first nine years of her life in alternate solitude and
alarms. On the 7th of September, 1784, James, then fourteen years of
age, was sent to Poage’s deserted settlement to procure a horse for
the purpose of going to the mill about twelve miles distant, through a
dreary wilderness. He did not return, and the anxious search discovered
trails of savages. In time the hope he had hidden in the woods or fled
to some distant habitation, gave way to the sad conviction that his
fate for life or death had been committed to the hands of barbarians.
This bereavement grieved, but did not subdue the heart of the father,
who resolutely, almost stubbornly, maintained his position. After some
time, a letter was received from Kentucky, giving him information
of his lost son, then supposed to be in or near Detroit. Before any
effective steps could be taken for his recovery, another and more
mournful scene was enacted in Apps’ Valley, awfully contrasting with
the grandeur and beauty of surrounding nature, and the domestic peace
and piety of Moore’s dwelling.
“The morning of the 14th July, 1786, a party of Indians came up Sandy
River, crossed over to the head of Clinch, passed near where Tazewell
Court-house now is, murdered a Mr. Davison and wife, and burned their
dwelling, and passed on hastily to Apps’ Valley, before any alarm could
be given. A little spur puts out from the mountain, and gradually
sloping towards the creek, about three hundred yards before it sinks
into the low grounds, divides; at the extremity of one division stood
Moore’s house, and near the other the trough at which he was accustomed
to salt his horses. At the time of the greatest peril all seemed most
secure. It was harvest time; and there were two men assisting Mr. Moore
in his harvest. The guns were discharged on the preceding evening, to
be reloaded some time in the morning. Simpson lay sick in the loft;
the men had repaired early to the wheat-field, to reap till breakfast
time; Moore was engaged in salting his horses; his wife busied in her
domestic concerns, and two of the children at the spring. Suddenly the
savage yell was heard, and two parties rushed from their hiding-places
on the ridge, the one down the slope to the house, and the other
towards Mr. Moore. Two children, Rebecca and William, were shot dead
near the salt block, on their return from the spring, and the third,
Alexander, near the house. Mary rushed in, and the door was shut and
barred against the approaching savages by Mrs. Moore and Martha Ivans,
a member of the family, just in time to present their entrance. Mr.
Moore finding himself intercepted by the Indians at the house, ran on
through the small lot that surrounded it, and on climbing the fence,
paused and turned, and in a moment was pierced with seven bullets.
Springing from the fence, he ran a few paces, fell and expired. The
two men in the harvest-field, seeing the house surrounded by a large
company of savages, fled and escaped unharmed. Martha Ivans seized two
of the guns, and ran upstairs to the sick man, Simpson, calling on him
to shoot through the crevices; but the poor man had already received
his death-wound from a bullet aimed from without. Two stout dogs
defended the door most courageously, till the fiercest was shot. Martha
Ivans and Mary Moore secreted themselves under a part of the floor,
taking with them the infant Margaret; but the sobbings of the alarmed
child forbade concealment. Should Mary place the child upon the floor,
and conceal herself? or share its fate? She could not abandon her
little sister even in that perilous moment, and left her hiding-place
and her companion. The Indians were now cutting at the door and
threatening fire. Mrs. Moore perceiving that her faithful sentinels
were silenced, Simpson expiring, and her husband dead, collected her
four children, and kneeling down, committed them to God; then rose, and
unbarred the door.
“After all resistance had ceased, the Indians, satisfied with the
blood that had been shed, took Mrs. Moore and her four children, John,
Jane, Mary, and Margaret, prisoners; and having plundered to their
satisfaction, set fire to the dwelling. Martha Ivans crept from the
approaching flames, and again concealed herself beneath a log that
lay across the little stream near the dwelling. While catching a few
of the horses, one of the Indians crossed the log under which she was
secreted, and sat down upon the end of it. The girl seeing him handle
the lock of his gun, and supposing he had discovered and was about to
fire upon her, came out, to the great surprise of the savage--for he
had not seen her, and to his great apparent joy delivered herself a
captive. In a short time the Indians were on their march with their
captives to their Shawnee towns in Ohio. The two men who escaped,
hastened to the nearest family, a distance of six miles, and as soon as
possible spread the alarm among the settlements; but before the armed
men could reach the spot, the ruin was complete, and the depredators
far on their way to Ohio.
“After the horrible events of the morning, perhaps the mother wept not
when the captors, dissatisfied with the delicate appearance and slow
travelling of her weak-minded and feeble-bodied son John, despatched
him at a blow, and hid him from the sight of pursuers. The hours of
night passed slowly and sorrowfully as the four captives, all females,
lay upon the ground, each tied to a warrior, who slept tomahawk in
hand, to prevent a re-capture, should they be overtaken by the pursuing
whites. On the third day a new cup of sorrow was put into the mother’s
hand. The infant Margaret, whom Mary could not part with, had been
spared to the mother; the Indians even assisting in carrying it. On the
third day it became very fretful from a wound it had received on its
cheek; irritated by its crying, a savage seized it, and dashing its
head against a tree, tossed it into the bushes. The company moved on in
silence; the sisters dared not, the mother would not, lament the fate
of the helpless loved one.
“After some twenty days of wearisome travel down the Sandy and Ohio
Rivers, they came to the Scioto; here the Indians showed Mrs. Moore
some hieroglyphics on the trees representing three Indians and a
captive white boy; this boy, they told her, was her son whom they had
captured in their expedition two years before, who had been here with
them, and was still a captive. The prisoners were then taken to their
towns, near where Chilicothe now stands, and were kindly received.
After a few days a council was called, and an aged Indian made a
long speech dissuading from war; the warriors shook their heads and
retired. This old man took Mary Moore to his wigwam, treated her with
great kindness, and appeared to commiserate her condition. In a short
time a party of Cherokees, who had made an unsuccessful expedition in
the western part of Pennsylvania, on their return home passed by the
Shawnee towns, and stopped where Mrs. Moore and her daughter Jane were.
Irritated at their ill success, and the loss of some of their warriors,
the sight of these prisoners excited an irresistible thirst for
revenge. While the Shawnees were revelling with liquor, the Cherokees
seized the mother and daughter, and condemned them to the torture by
fire and death at the stake. Their sufferings were protracted through
three days of agony. The uncomplaining mother comforted her poor dying
child with gospel truth and exhortation, and died with a meekness that
astounded the savages. The Shawnees never approved of this gratuitous
act of cruelty, and always expressed unwillingness to converse about it.
“When Mrs. Moore and her children, as captives, left their habitation
in App’s Valley, Mary took two New Testaments which she carried through
all her wearisome journey to the Scioto; one of them was taken from her
by the young savages, and the other was her companion through the days
of her bondage. The old Indian who showed her kindness on arriving at
the towns, would often call her to his side and make her read to him,
that he might hear ‘the book speak;’ and when any of the young Indians
attempted to hide it from her, as they often did, he interposed with
sternness and compelled them to restore it.
“The two girls remained with the Shawnees till the fall of the year
1788, being kept as property of value without any definite object.
Contentions sometimes arose among the Indians about the right of
ownership; and in times of intoxication, death was threatened as the
only means of ending the quarrel. Whenever these threats were made,
some of the sober Indians gave the girls the alarm in time for their
secreting themselves. While free from the influence of drink, the
Indians expressed great fondness for the girls, particularly the little
black-eyed, golden-haired Mary.
“The Shawnees continuing to be very troublesome to the frontiers, in
the fall of 1788 an expedition was fitted out to destroy their towns
on the Scioto. The Indians were informed by the traders of the design
and departure of the expedition, and watched its progress. On its near
approach they deserted their towns, secreting their little property,
and carrying their wives and children and aged ones beyond the reach
of the enemy. Mary Moore revolved in her mind the probable chances of
concealing herself in the forests until the arrival of the forces, and
thus obtaining her liberty; and was deterred from the attempt by the
reflection that the season was late, and possibly the forces might not
arrive before winter. Late in November the American forces reached the
Scioto, burned the Shawnee towns, destroyed their winter provisions as
far as they could be found, and immediately returned home. After the
departure of the forces the Indians returned to their ruined towns,
and winter setting upon them, deprived of shelter, their extreme
sufferings compelled them to seek for aid in Canada. On the journey
to Detroit they endured the extremes of hunger and cold. Martha Ivans
and Mary Moore with few garments, traversed the forests with deer-skin
moccasins, the only covering for their feet in the deep snows. Not
unfrequently they awoke in the morning covered with the snow that had
fallen during the night; once the depth of their snowy covering was
twelve or fourteen inches, their only bed or protection, besides the
bushes heaped together, being their single blanket. On reaching Detroit
the Indians gave themselves to riotous drinking, and to indulge this
appetite sold their young captives. Mary was purchased for half a
gallon of rum, by a person named Stogwell, who lived at Frenchtown;
Martha by a man in the neighborhood of Detroit. Being soon after
released she took up her residence with a wealthy and worthy English
family by the name of Donaldson, and received wages for her services.
The purchaser of Mary neither liberated her, nor expressed any kindness
for her, but employed her as a servant, with poor clothing and scanty
fare. The circumstances of her redemption and return to her friends in
Virginia, are related by her brother James Moore, in the narrative of
his own captivity and redemption.” This presents so faithful a picture
of Indian captivity, that we shall extract part of it before resuming
the history of Mary.
“My father sent me to a waste plantation about two miles and a quarter
up the valley, to get a horse to go to mill. I came within a few paces
of the field, when suddenly the Indians sprang out from behind a large
log; and being before alarmed, I screamed with all my might. The Indian
that took me, laid his hand on the top of my head and bade me hush.
There were only three Indians in the company. Their leader, Black Wolf,
a middle-aged man, of the most stern countenance I ever beheld, about
six feet high, having a long black beard, was the one who caught hold
of me.
“In a few moments we started on our journey. The Indians went up into
the thicket where their kettle and blankets were hid, covered up in
the leaves, and took them. We travelled down a creek called Tugg, the
north fork of Sandy, that afternoon about eight miles. The walking was
very laborious on account of the high weeds, green briers, logs, and
the mountainous character of the country. At night we lay down in a
laurel thicket without fire or anything to eat. The night was rainy. I
lay beside Black Wolf, with a leading halter round my neck tied very
tight, and the other end wrapped round his hands, so as to make it
very secure, and so that I could not get away without waking him. He
had also searched me very carefully to see that I had no knife. During
the afternoon the two young Indians walked before; I next to them, and
old Wolf followed; and if any sign was made he would remove it with
his tomahawk, so that there might be no marks or traces of the way
we had gone. I frequently broke bushes, which he discovered and shook
his tomahawk over my head, giving me to understand that if I did not
desist he would strike me with it. I then would scratch the ground with
my feet; this he also discovered and made me desist; and showed me
how to set my feet flat so as not to make any special marks. It then
became necessary for me to cease any efforts to make a trail for others
to follow. About sun-down Old Wolf gave a tremendous war whoop, and
another the next morning at sunrise. This was repeated every evening at
sun-down, and every morning at sunrise, during our whole journey. It
was long, loud, and shrill, signifying that he had one prisoner. The
custom is to repeat it as frequently as the number of prisoners. This
whoop is different from the one they make when they have scalps.
“In the evening of September 9th, we encamped for the night under a
projecting cliff, and here for the first time kindled a fire. Old Wolf
took the precaution of cutting a number of bushes and bending them
outward from our encampment so as to embarrass any one approaching
us, if we had been pursued. The next day they killed a lean bear, but
so very lean they would not eat of it; so we were still without food.
Several times during the days of our fasting, the Indians went to the
north side of a poplar, and cut off some of the bark near the root,
pounded it, and put it in the kettle and put water on it; this we drank
occasionally, which seemed to have a salutary effect in relieving the
sufferings of hunger.
“We killed buffalo and deer as we stood in need, till we arrived (Sept.
29th) at the towns over the Ohio, on the head waters of Mud River,
which took us about twenty-two days’ travelling. I travelled the whole
route barefooted, and frequently walked over large rattlesnakes, but
was not suffered to kill or interrupt them, the Indians considering
them their friends.
“We crossed the Ohio, between the mouths of Guyandotte and Big Sandy,
on a raft made of dry logs tied together with grape vines. On the
banks of the Scioto we lay by one day, and the Indians made pictures
on the trees of three Indians and of me; intended as hieroglyphics to
represent themselves and me as their prisoner, These they afterwards
showed to my sister. Near this, Old Wolf went off and procured some
bullets which he had secreted.
“When we were within a short distance of the towns, the Indians
blacked themselves, but not me. I was taken to the residence of Wolf’s
half-sister, to whom he had sold me for an old grey horse. Shortly
after I was sold, my mistress left me in her wigwam for several days
entirely alone, leaving a kettle of hominy for me to eat. In this
solitary situation I first began earnestly to pray and call upon God
for mercy and deliverance, and found great relief in prayer. I now
found the benefit of the religious instruction and examples I had
enjoyed.” * *
“In about two weeks after I had been sold, the woman who bought me
sent me out in company with her half-brother and others, on a winter’s
hunting excursion. We were very unsuccessful. My sufferings from hunger
and cold were very great. I had scarcely any clothing; the snow was
knee-deep; my blanket was too short to cover me. Often after having
lain down and drawn up my feet to get them underneath my blanket,
I was so benumbed that I could not, without considerable exertion,
get my legs stretched out again. Early in the morning the old Indian
would build a large fire, and send me and all the young Indians and
make us plunge all over in cold water, which I think was a very great
benefit to me, and prevented me from catching cold, as is usual under
circumstances of so much exposure.”
The husband of James’s mistress one day came home from a meeting of
the Powwow Society, and informed her that an apparition sent by the
Great Spirit, had reproved the Indians for their sins, their idleness
and want of brotherly kindness, and had predicted the destruction
of their towns. These predictions were literally fulfilled in the
course of three years, in the invasion of Logan from Kentucky. In the
mean time a French trader from Detroit, named Baptiste Ariome, took
a fancy to young Moore on account of his resemblance to one of his
sons, and bought him for fifty dollars’ worth of brooches, crapes,
and other commodities. James also met with a trader from Kentucky,
whom he requested to write a letter to his father, and give it to a
young man he had rescued from the Indians, to convey to Mr. Moore. At
the house of Ariome James was treated like a son, and worked on the
farm, occasionally assisting in trading expeditions. On one of these
he heard of the destruction of his father’s family, from a Shawanee
Indian who was one of the party of assailants. The information was
given the latter part of the same summer in which the massacre was
perpetrated. In the winter following, James heard that his sister Mary
was purchased by Mr. Stogwell, and that she was ill-treated in his
family. In the spring Stogwell moved into the neighborhood where he
lived; young Moore immediately went to see his sister, and found her
in an abject condition, clothed in a few dirty rags. Being advised to
apply to the commanding officer at Detroit, he went with Simon Girty to
Col. McKee, superintendent for the Indians, who had Stogwell brought
to trial to answer the complaint against him; and though the poor
girl was not taken from her inhuman master, it was decided that when
an opportunity offered for her return home, she should be released
without remuneration. This was brought about through the efforts of
Thomas Ivans, the brother of Martha, who had determined to seek his
lost sister, and the members of Mr. Moore’s family who might be living.
Clothing himself in skins, and securing some money about his person,
with rifle in hand, he proceeded to the tribes in whose possession
the captives had been, and traced their wanderings to their several
places of abode. His sister was living at Mr. Donaldson’s; Mary Moore
was delivered up by Mr. Stogwell, and James by Mr. Ariome. “All being
at liberty,” says Moore, “we immediately prepared to go to our distant
friends, and as well as I can remember, set out some time in October,
1789; it being about five years from the time I had been taken prisoner
by the Indians, and a little more than three from the captivity of my
sister. A trading-boat coming down the lakes, we obtained a passage in
it for myself and sister Polly to the Moravian towns, a distance of
about two hundred miles, which was on our way to Pittsburgh. There,
according to appointment, the day after our arrival, Thomas Ivans
and his sister Martha met us. We then prepared immediately for our
journey to Pittsburgh. Here Mr. Ivans got his shoulder dislocated, in
consequence of which we stayed a part of the winter in the vicinity,
with an uncle and aunt of his, until he became able to travel. Having
expended all his money with the doctor and in travelling, he left his
sister Martha, and proceeded with Polly and myself to the house of an
uncle about ten miles south-west of Staunton, and having received from
an uncle, the administrator of his father’s estate, compensation for
his services, he afterwards returned and brought his sister Martha.
“A day or two after we set out, having called at a public house for
breakfast, while it was preparing, my sister took out her Testament
and was engaged in reading. Being called to breakfast, she laid down
her Testament, and when we resumed our journey she forgot it. After we
had proceeded several miles she thought of her Testament, and strongly
insisted on turning back; but such were the dangers of the way, and
such the necessity of speeding our journey, that we could not.”
Martha Ivans married a man by the name of Hummer, removed to Indiana,
and reared a large family, so that she is included in the list of
pioneer mothers. Two of her sons became Presbyterian clergymen. Shortly
after her return to Rockbridge, Mary Moore went to live with her uncle,
Joseph Walker, about six miles south of Lexington, and in mature years
became the wife of Rev. Samuel Brown, pastor of New Providence. She
became the mother of eleven children, nine of whom survived her; and
through life retained a strong attachment for the wild people of the
forest, which no memory of wrong could obliterate. The self-reliance,
patience, and self-denial she acquired, in part, in her captivity,
were eminent through life. She was blessed with children as dutiful
and pious as she had proved in her childhood, and saw, in her success
in training her household, the influence of her own force of character
developed by such strange circumstances, and the power of a Christian
example.
Some idea of the difficulties of travel in those days may be given
by the following extract from a description of a journey westward in
1784.[19] “Pack-horses were the only means of transportation then, and
for years after. We were provided with three horses, on one of which
my mother rode carrying her infant with all the table furniture and
cooking utensils. On another were packed the stores of provisions, the
plough irons, and other agricultural tools. The third horse was rigged
out with a pack saddle and two large creels, made of hickory withs
in the fashion of a crate, one over each side, in which were stowed
the beds and bedding, and the wearing apparel of the family. In the
centre of these creels there was an aperture prepared for myself and
little sister, and the top was well secured by lacing to keep us in our
places, so that only our heads appeared above. Each family was supplied
with one or more cows; their milk furnished the morning and evening
meal for the children, and the surplus was carried in canteens for use
during the day.
“When the caravan reached the mountains, the road was found to be
hardly passable for loaded horses. In many places the path lay along
the edge of a precipice, where, if the horse had stumbled or lost his
balance, he would have been precipitated several hundred feet below.
The path was crossed by many streams raised by the melting snow and
spring rains, and running with rapid current in deep ravines; most of
these had to be forded, and for many successive days, hair-breadth
escapes were continually occurring; sometimes horses falling, at others
carried away by the current, and the women and children with difficulty
saved from drowning. Sometimes in ascending steep acclivities, the
lashing of the creels would give way, both creels and children tumble
to the ground and roll down the steep, unless arrested by some
traveller of the company. The men who had been inured to the hardships
of war, could endure the fatigues of the journey; it was the mothers
who suffered; they could not, after the toils of the day, enjoy the
rest so much needed at night. The wants of their suffering children
must be attended to. After preparing their simple meal, they lay
down with scanty covering in a miserable cabin, or, as it sometimes
happened, in the open air, and often unrefreshed, were obliged to rise
early to encounter the fatigues and dangers of another day.”
“The division lines between those whose lands adjoined, were generally
made in an amicable manner, before any survey of them was made by
the parties concerned. In doing this, they were guided mainly by the
tops of ridges and water courses, but particularly the former. Hence
the greater number of farms in the western parts of Pennsylvania and
Virginia bear a striking resemblance to an amphitheatre; the tops of
the surrounding hills being the boundaries of the tract to which the
family mansion belongs.”
Besides the exposure of the emigrants to Indian depredations and
massacres, “they had other trials to endure which at the present day
cannot be appreciated. One of the most vexatious was the running away
of their horses. As soon as the fly season commenced the horses seemed
resolved on leaving the country and crossing the mountains. They swam
the Monongahela, and often proceeded a hundred and fifty miles before
they were taken up. During the husband’s absence in pursuit of them,
the wife was left alone with her children in their unfinished cabin,
surrounded by forests, in which the howl of wolves was heard from
every hill. If want of provisions, or other causes, made a visit to
a neighbor’s necessary, she must either take her children with her
through the woods, or leave them unprotected, under the most fearful
apprehension that some mischief might befal them before her return. As
bread and meat were scarce, milk was the principal dependence for the
support of the family. One cow of each family was provided with a bell,
which could be heard from half a mile to a mile. The matron on rising
in the morning listened for her cow-bell, which she knew well enough
to detect, even amidst a clamor of others. If her children were small,
she tied them in bed to prevent their wandering, and guard them from
danger of fire and snakes; and guided by the tinkling of the bell, made
her way through the tall weeds and across the ravines until she found
the objects of her search. Happy on her return to find her children
unharmed, and regardless of a thorough wetting from the dew, she
hastened to prepare their breakfast of milk boiled with a little meal
or hominy; or in the protracted absence of her husband, it was often
reduced to milk alone. Occasionally venison and turkeys were obtained
from hunters.”
An anecdote is related in the “American Pioneer,” of Gov. McArthur,
on his first visit to the West, which throws light on the situation
of the early settlers. He stopped some time at Baker’s Station, about
twenty miles below Wheeling. There was war with the Indians, and the
settlers about Fish Creek were occupying the station for security; so
long, however, had the enemy been absent from that section of country,
that the inmates went and came when they pleased. A young lady of great
beauty, who lived at the place, had acquired proficiency in the art of
shooting with the rifle. “I think her name was Scott, but it may have
been Baker. Early one morning she went to the run, some fifty or sixty
yards above the post, to wash linen, taking her gun along, and young
McArthur accompanied her to stand guard while she was employed at the
wash tub. Before long a small dog that was with them commenced barking,
and gave such manifestations of alarm that the young lady desired her
companion to make a hasty reconnoissance of the adjacent grounds. The
motions of the dog had awakened fear that Indians might be lurking
close by, but McArthur discovered nothing to confirm the suspicion.
The washing was resumed and in due course completed; after which they
both returned to the station. Just as they were about to enter the
gate, a tall athletic looking Indian sprang from behind a tree not more
than thirty paces beyond the spot where they had been washing, and
darted off rapidly into the woods. Pursuit was instantly made, but he
was not overtaken. He must have posted himself behind the tree during
the previous night, with the intention of shooting the first person
that ventured out of the works in the morning. The appearance of two
disconcerted his plan. McArthur’s gallantry on this occasion was the
means of saving the young lady’s life.”
De Hass describes a station as a parallelogram of cabins united by
palisades, so as to present a continued wall on the outer sides, the
cabin doors opening into a common square on the inner side. A fort
was generally a stockade enclosure, embracing cabins, etc., for the
accommodation of several families. Doddridge says, “a range of cabins
commonly formed at least one side, separated by divisions or partitions
of logs. The walls on the outside were ten or twelve feet high, with a
roof sloping inward. Some of the cabins had puncheon floors, but the
greater part were earthen.
“The blockhouses were built at the angles of the fort, and projected
about two feet beyond the outer walls of the cabins and stockades.
Their upper stories were about eighteen inches or two feet every way
larger than the under one, leaving an opening at the commencement of
the second story, to prevent the enemy from making a lodgment under
their walls. In some forts, instead of blockhouses, the angles were
furnished with bastions. A large folding gate, made of thick slabs,
nearest the spring, closed the fort. The stockades, bastions, cabins,
and blockhouse walls were furnished with portholes at proper heights
and distances. The whole of the outside was made completely bullet
proof. The families belonging to these forts were so attached to their
own cabins on their farms, that they seldom moved into the fort in the
spring until compelled by some alarm; that is, when it was announced by
some murder that Indians were in the settlement.”
Butler describes the dwellings of the first settlers of the West as
composed of the trunks of trees, bared of their branches, notched at
the ends and fitted upon one another in a quadrangular shape, to the
desired height. Openings through the logs left room for doors and
shutters. A capacious opening, nearly the whole width of the cabin,
made the fire-place. By this ample width economy of labor in cutting
fire-wood, as well as comfort in houses, was consulted.
“The furniture of the table, for several years after the settlement
of the country, consisted of a few pewter dishes, plates and spoons;
but mostly of wooden bowls, trenchers and noggins. If these last were
scarce, gourds and hard-shelled squashes made up the deficiency. The
iron pots, knives and forks were brought from the East, with the salt
and iron, on pack-horses. These articles of furniture corresponded
very well with the articles of diet. ‘Hog and hominy’ was a dish of
proverbial celebrity. Johnny-cake or pone was at the outset of the
settlements the only form of bread in use for breakfast and dinner;
at supper, milk and mush was the standard dish. When milk was scarce,
hominy supplied its place, and mush was frequently eaten with sweetened
water, molasses, bear’s oil, or the gravy of fried meat.
“In our display of furniture, delf, china and silver were unknown.
The introduction of delf ware was considered by many of the backwoods
people as a wasteful innovation. It was too easily broken, and the
plates dulled their scalping and clasp knives. Tea and coffee, in the
phrase of the day, ‘did not stick by the ribs.’ The idea then prevalent
was, that they were only designed for people of quality, who did not
labor, or for the rich. A genuine backwoodsman would have thought
himself disgraced by showing a fondness for such ‘slops.’
“On the frontier and particularly among hunters in the habit of
going on campaigns, the dress of the men was partly Indian. The
hunting-shirt universally worn was a kind of loose frock, reaching
half way down the thighs, with large sleeves, open before, and so wide
as to lap over a foot or more when belted. The cape was large, and
sometimes fringed with a ravelled piece of cloth, of different color
from the hunting-shirt. The bosom of this dress served as a wallet
to hold bread, cakes, jerk, tow for wiping the barrel of the rifle,
or any other necessary for the hunter or warrior. The belt, always
tied behind, answered several purposes; in cold weather the mittens,
and sometimes the bullet-bag, occupied its front part; on the right
side was suspended the tomahawk, on the left the scalping knife in
its leathern sheath. The hunting-shirt was generally made of linsey,
sometimes of coarse linen, and a few of dressed deer-skin; these last
very cold and uncomfortable in wet weather. The shirt and jacket were
of the common fashion. A pair of drawers, or breeches and leggins, were
the dress of the thighs and legs; a pair of moccasins answered for
the feet much better than shoes. These were made of dressed deer-skin,
and were mostly of a single piece, with a seam along the top of the
foot, and another from the bottom of the heel, as high or a little
higher than the ancle joint. Flaps were left on each side, to reach
some distance up the legs. These were nicely adapted to the ancles and
lower part of the leg by thongs of deerskin, so that no dust, gravel,
or snow could get within the moccasin. In cold weather this was well
stuffed with deer’s hair or dried leaves, to keep the feet comfortably
warm; but in wet weather it was usually said that wearing moccasins was
‘a decent way of going barefoot;’ and such was the fact, owing to the
spongy texture of the leather of which they were made. Owing to this
defective covering of the feet, many of our hunters and warriors were
afflicted with rheumatism in their limbs. Of this disease they were all
apprehensive in cold or wet weather, and therefore always slept with
their feet to the fire, to prevent or cure it as well as they could.
This practice unquestionably had a very salutary effect, and prevented
many of them from becoming confirmed cripples in early life.
“In the latter years of the Indian war, our young men became more
enamored of the Indian dress. The drawers were laid aside, and the
leggins made longer, so as to reach the upper part of the thigh. The
Indian breech cloth was adopted. This was a piece of linen or cloth,
nearly a yard long, and eight or nine inches broad, passing under the
belt, before and behind, leaving the ends for flaps hanging before and
behind over the belt, sometimes ornamented with coarse embroidery. To
the same belt which secured the breech cloth, strings, supporting the
long leggins, were attached. When this belt, as was often the case,
passed over the hunting-shirt, the upper part of the thighs and part
of the hips were naked. The young warrior, instead of being abashed by
this, was proud of his Indian dress. In some few instances I have seen
them go into places of public worship in this dress.” De Hass adds,
that old hunters have said it was the most comfortable, convenient, and
desirable that could have been invented for the times in which it was
used. Linsey coats and gowns were the universal dress of the women in
early times.
A description of a wedding among the pioneers may serve to illustrate
their manners. The following is taken from Doddridge’s Notes:
“In the first years of the settlement, a wedding engaged the attention
of a whole neighborhood, and the frolic was anticipated by old and
young with eager expectation. This will not be wondered at, as a
wedding was almost the only gathering unaccompanied with the labor
of reaping, log-rolling, building a cabin, or planning some warlike
expedition.
“On the morning of the wedding day, the groom and his attendants
assembled at the house of his father, for the purpose of reaching
the home of his bride by noon, the usual time for celebrating the
nuptials. Let the reader imagine an assemblage of people, without a
store, tailor, or mantuamaker within a hundred miles; and an assemblage
of horses, without a blacksmith or saddler within an equal distance;
the gentlemen dressed in shoepacks, moccasins, leather breeches,
leggins, linsey hunting-shirts, and all home-made; the ladies in linsey
petticoats and linsey or linen bedgowns, coarse shoes, stockings,
handkerchiefs, and buckskin gloves, if any. If there were any buckles,
rings, buttons, or ruffles, they were the relics of olden times, family
pieces from parents or grandparents. The horses were caparisoned with
old saddles, old bridles or halters, and pack-saddles, with a bag or
blanket thrown over them; a rope or string as often constituted the
girth as a piece of leather. The march, in double file, was often
interrupted by the narrowness and obstructions of the horse-paths,
for there were no roads; and these difficulties were often increased
by fallen trees and grape vines tied across the way. Sometimes an
ambuscade was formed by the wayside, and an unexpected discharge of
several guns took place, so as to cover the wedding company with
smoke. Let the reader imagine the scene that followed this discharge;
the sudden spring of the horses, the shrieks of the girls, and the
chivalrous bustle of their partners to save them from falling. If a
wrist, elbow, or ancle happened to be sprained, it was tied with a
handkerchief, and little more was thought or said about it.
“The ceremony of the marriage preceded the dinner, which was a
substantial backwoods feast of beef, pork, fowls, and sometimes venison
and bear meat roasted and boiled, with plenty of potatoes, cabbage,
and other vegetables. During the dinner the greatest hilarity always
prevailed, although the table might be a large slab of timber hewed
out with a broad axe, supported by four sticks set in auger holes;
and the furniture, some old pewter dishes and plates, eked out with
wooden bowls and trenchers. A few pewter spoons, much battered about
the edges, were seen at some tables; the rest were made of horn.
If knives were scarce, the deficiency was made up by the scalping
knives which every man carried in sheaths suspended to the belt of
the hunting-shirt. After dinner the dancing commenced, and generally
lasted till the next morning. The figures of the dances were three and
four-handed reels and jigs. The commencement was always a square four,
which was followed by what was called ‘jigging it off;’ that is, two of
the four would single out for a jig, and be followed by the remaining
couple. The jigs were often accompanied with what was called ‘cutting
out;’ that is, when either of the parties became tired of the dance, on
intimation, the place was supplied by some one of the company, without
any interruption to the dance. In this way it was often continued till
the musician was heartily tired of his situation. Towards the latter
part of the night, if any of the company, through weariness, attempted
to conceal themselves for the purpose of sleeping, they were hunted up,
paraded on the floor, and the fiddler ordered to play ‘Hang out till
to-morrow morning.’
About nine or ten o’clock a deputation of the young ladies stole off
the bride and put her to bed. In doing this it frequently happened that
they had to ascend a ladder instead of stairs, leading from the dining
and ball-room to a loft, the floor of which was made of clapboards
lying loose. This ascent, one might think, would put the bride and her
attendants to the blush; but as the foot of the ladder was commonly
behind the door, purposely opened for the occasion, and its rounds
at the inner ends were well hung with hunting-shirts, dresses, and
other articles of clothing--the candles being on the opposite side of
the house, the exit of the bride was noticed but by few. This done, a
deputation of young men, in like manner, stole off the groom, while
the dance still continued, and late at night refreshment in the shape
of ‘black Betty’--the bottle--was sent up the ladder, with sometimes
substantial accompaniments of bread, beef, pork and cabbage. The
feasting and dancing often lasted several days, at the end of which the
whole company were so exhausted with loss of sleep, that many days’
rest was requisite to fit them to return to their ordinary labors.”
Sometimes it happened that neighbors or relations not asked to the
wedding, took offence, and revenged themselves by cutting off the
manes, foretops and tails of horses belonging to the wedding company.
The same writer thus describes the usual manner of settling a young
couple in the world:--“A spot was selected on a piece of land belonging
to one of the parents, for their habitation, and a day appointed
shortly after their marriage, to commence the work of building their
cabin. The materials were prepared on the first day, and sometimes
the foundation laid in the evening. The second day was allotted for
the raising. The cabin being furnished, the ceremony of housewarming
took place before the young couple were permitted to move into it.
The house-warming was a dance of a whole night’s continuance, made up
of the relations of the bridegroom and their neighbors. On the day
following, the young couple took possession of their new premises.
“Many of the sports of the early settlers of this country were
imitative of the exercises and stratagems of hunting and war. Boys were
taught the use of the bow and arrow at an early age; but although they
acquired considerable adroitness, so as to kill a bird or squirrel, yet
it appears to me that in the hands of the white people, the bow and
arrow could never be depended on for warfare or hunting. One important
pastime of the boys--that of imitating the noise of every bird and
beast in the woods--was a necessary part of education on account of
its utility under certain circumstances. Imitating the gobbling and
other sounds of the wild turkey, often brought those ever watchful
tenants of the forest within reach of the rifle. The bleating of the
fawn brought its dam to her death in the same way. The hunter often
collected a company of mopish owls to the trees about his camp, and
amused himself with their hoarse screaming. His howl would raise and
obtain responses from a pack of wolves, so as to inform him of their
whereabouts, as well as to guard him against their depredations.
“This imitative faculty was sometimes requisite as a measure of
precaution in war. The Indians, when scattered about in a neighborhood,
often collected together by imitating turkeys by day and wolves or owls
by night. In similar situations our people did the same. I have often
witnessed the consternation of a whole neighborhood in consequence of
the screeching of owls. An early and correct use of this imitative
faculty was considered as an indication that its possessor would become
in due time a good hunter and a valiant warrior.
“Throwing the tomahawk was another boyish sport in which many acquired
considerable skill. The tomahawk, with its handle of a certain length,
will make a given number of turns within a certain distance; say in
five steps it will strike with the edge, the handle downwards--at the
distance of seven and a half it will strike with the edge, the handle
upwards, and so on. A little experience enabled the boy to measure the
distance with his eye when walking through the wood, and to strike a
tree with his tomahawk in anyway he chose. A well grown boy at the age
of twelve or thirteen, was furnished with a small rifle and shot pouch.
He then became a foot soldier, and had his port-hole assigned him.
Hunting squirrels, turkeys, and racoons, soon made him expert in the
use of his gun.
“The athletic sports of running, jumping, and wrestling, were the
pastimes of boys in common with men. Dramatic narrations, chiefly
concerning Jack and the Giant, furnished our young people with another
source of amusement during their leisure hours. The different
incidents of the narration were easily committed to memory, and have
been handed down from generation to generation.” The singing of the
first settlers was rude enough. “Robin Hood furnished a number of our
songs; the balance were mostly tragical; these were denominated ‘love
songs about murder.’ As to cards, dice, backgammon, and other games of
chance, we knew nothing about them. They are among the blessed gifts of
civilization!
“Hunting was an important part of the employment of the early settlers.
For some years the woods supplied them with the greater amount of their
subsistence, and it was no uncommon thing for families to live several
months without a mouthful of bread. It frequently happened that there
was no breakfast till it was obtained from the woods. Fur constituted
the people’s money; they had nothing else to give in exchange for
rifles, salt, and iron, on the other side of the mountains. The fall
and early part of the winter was the season for hunting the deer, and
the whole of the winter, including part of the spring, for bears and
fur-skinned animals. It was a customary saying, that fur is good during
every month in the name of which the letter R occurs.
“As soon as the leaves were pretty well down, and the weather became
rainy, accompanied with light snows, these men, after acting the part
of husbandmen as far as the state of warfare permitted, began to
feel that they were hunters, and became uneasy at home, their minds
being wholly occupied with the camp and chase. Hunting was not a
mere ramble in pursuit of game, in which there was nothing of skill
and calculation; on the contrary, the hunter before he set out in
the morning, was informed by the state of the weather where he might
reasonably expect to find his game, whether on the bottom, the sides,
or tops of the hills. In stormy weather the deer always seek the most
sheltered places, and the leeward side of the hills. In rainy weather,
when there is not much wind, they keep in the open woods on the high
ground. In every situation it was requisite for the hunter to ascertain
the course of the wind, so as to get the leeward of the game. As it was
necessary, too, to know the cardinal points, he had to observe the
trees to ascertain them. The bark of an aged tree is thicker and much
rougher on the north than the south side; and the same may be said of
the moss. From morning till night the hunter was on the alert to gain
the wind of his game, and approach them without being discovered. If
he succeeded in killing a deer, he skinned it and hung it up out of
the reach of the wolves, and immediately resumed the chase till the
close of the evening, when he bent his course towards his camp; when
arrived there he kindled up his fire, and together with his fellow
hunter, cooked his supper. The supper finished, the adventures of the
day furnished tales for the evening, in which the spike-buck, the
two and three pronged buck, the doe and barren doe, figured to great
advantage.”[20]
“A place for a camp was selected as near water as convenient, and a
fire was kindled by the side of the largest suitable log that could
be procured. The ground was preferred to be rather sideling, that the
hunters might lie with the feet to the fire, and the head up hill. The
common mode of preparing a repast was by sharpening a stick at both
ends, and sticking one end in the ground before the fire, and their
meat on the other end. This stick could be turned round, or the meat
on it, as occasion required. Sweeter roast meat than was prepared in
this manner no European epicure ever tasted. Bread, when they had flour
to make it of, was either baked under the ashes, or the dough rolled
in long rolls, and wound round a stick like that prepared for roasting
meat, and managed in the same way. Scarce any one who has not tried it,
can imagine the sweetness of such a meal, in such a place, at such a
time. French mustard, or the various condiments used as a substitute
for an appetite, are nothing to this.”[21]
VII.
ANN HAYNES.
It is mentioned in “The Women of the American Revolution,”[22] that on
the approach of Cornwallis to Charlotte, the family of Mr. Brown sought
refuge at the house of James Haynes, who lived upon the road leading
north of Cowan’s Ford on the Catawba River. While they remained here,
the British in pursuit of Morgan stopped at the house, plundered it,
and made the owner a prisoner. Mrs. Haynes, despoiled of everything
in the way of provision, herself conducted family worship that night,
and praying for the restoration of her captive husband, entreated
earnestly the interposition of Providence to protect _the right_.
This pious and exemplary matron, whose heart bled for the woes of her
oppressed country, and who encouraged her sons to struggle bravely in
its defence, was little aware of the extent of the beneficent influence
her noble character was to exercise on succeeding generations. The
death-bed gift she received from her father--a copy of the Westminster
Confession of Faith printed at Edinburgh in 1707--was bequeathed by
her as sacredly to her son, John Haynes, and is kept as a venerated
relic in his family. Eight of the descendants of Mrs. Haynes are now
ministers in the Presbyterian church, devoted to the exposition and
extension of the true and simple doctrines of the gospel, while others
are engaged in the same good work in other denominations--all carrying
out and exemplifying the sterling principles derived from their
independent ancestors of the era of Cromwell’s Protectorate.
One of Mrs. Haynes’ descendants has favored me with some notices of
the matron and her family, from the recollections of her widowed
daughter-in-law, Margaret Haynes, who was for some years a resident
of Cornersville, in Tennessee. Her maiden name was Ann Huggins. She
was the daughter of John Huggins, a Scotch Presbyterian, who emigrated
from the north of Ireland to America about 1730. She married James
Haynes about 1748. In a catalogue of the Pioneer Women of the West, her
name may well find a place. After her marriage, she settled upon the
verge of civilization, in the county of Dauphin, Pennsylvania, where
she was exposed to the frontier troubles of that colony, but stronger
attractions soon drew her family to the South.
In 1752, James Haynes and two brothers, and many kinsmen with their
families, ventured out to the then Far West, in the valley of the
Catawba, in the colony of North Carolina. Here, upon the very borders
of the hostile Cherokees and Catawbas, they established themselves,
building a fort as a defence against Indian incursions, and maintained
their position by the strength of their arms. For several years, cooped
up within the limits of a frontier station, they courageously opposed
the marauding parties of the hostile tribes in their neighborhood.
It was in this year that the settlement of the upper country, both
of North and South Carolina, began. At that time the frontiers of
Pennsylvania were east of the mountains; and Fort Duquesne was a French
trading post. The settlements in Virginia were still confined to the
Atlantic slope, and it was several years later, when Col. Bird of
the British army, advanced into the wilderness, and established Fort
Chissel, as a protection to the advancing settlements. Still later,
Gov. Dobbs, of North Carolina, succeeded in establishing Fort Loudon,
in the midst of the Cherokee nation. Notwithstanding its exposed
situation, the settlement grew rapidly, so that in a few years the
entire valley of the Catawba was occupied. At this time there were so
many buffaloes in this region, that a good hunter could easily kill
enough in a few days, to supply his family for the year. Wild turkeys,
bears, deer, wolves, and panthers, were also abundant. Every little
mountain stream abounded with otters, beavers, and musk-rats. Each
pioneer could raise as many head of cattle as he thought proper; the
profusion of canes and grasses, rendering stock-raising so easy, that
the means of plentiful living was almost to be had without labor. A few
skins usually sufficed to purchase upon the seaboard all the necessary
supplies of iron, salt, etc., for the year.
This kind of life, requiring the daily use of the rifle, and much
exercise on horseback, and exposure to the open air in the woods, made
these hardy men the best of soldiers, and enabled them to cope with
the wild warriors of the savage tribes who dwelt on their borders. The
axe, and the rifle, and the horse, were their constant companions. Each
settler sought a home near some clear spring or stream, convenient to
the _range_ and susceptible of defence against the Indians. In such
a settlement the means of education were limited, and but for the
religious zeal and pious labors of a few educated ministers who cast
their fortunes with the colonists, would have been unattainable. The
Rev. Hezekiah Balch, afterwards a signer of the Mecklenburg Declaration
of Independence, was one of them.
In all the trials and disorders of the transition state of society
peculiar to the frontiers of the West, these pioneers never forgot
the principles, nor gave up the practice of those Christian virtues
which they had received from their ancestors. Here, in the midst of
the solitudes of their deep pine forests, they reared their sons and
daughters in the fear of God and in the love of liberty, and when the
storm of civil war burst forth, and they were called upon to sustain
the cause of an oppressed people, they did not hesitate to send their
sons forth to battle for “the right.”
An aged citizen of Marshall County, Tennessee, often described the
appearance of his own father and James Haynes, both prisoners in the
hands of the British the night after Gen. Davidson’s death at Cowan’s
Ford. He saw these aged men and many other prisoners driven like sheep
into a corn-crib, the door of which was filled with rails, and a
sentinel placed, over it; and thus without blanket or fire, they passed
a long winter night in 1781.
The venerable Mrs. Haynes survived her husband but a short time.
True to the principles of her faith, upon her dying bed she gave to
each of her children her parting words of advice with one of the
religious books contained in her library. To her son John, she gave
the Westminster Confession of Faith; to another, Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s
Progress; to a third, Flavel, etc., works usually found in that day in
the library of every Christian. She died about the year 1790.
Her husband was no less stern and inflexible in his religious
principles. When the question of the introduction of the new version of
the Psalms was agitated in the Church at Centre Meeting-House, after
much debate, it was put to the vote, and Haynes was left alone as the
advocate of the old version. His brethren tauntingly asked him if he
was going to stand out alone. He replied, “yes, as long as the world
stands;” and so he did to the end of his life.
A rude and humble stone now marks the last resting place of both, at
their own home, near Centre Meeting-House, Iredell County, N. C.,
where, more than a century ago, they sat down amidst the dim solitudes
of the western wilderness. The old homestead is now the residence of
James Sloan, a relative of the family.
The three sons, Joseph, John and James, and the son-in-law, Capt.
Scott, bore arms against the Cherokees, and against the British and
loyalists. They were brave young men, of active habits, and accustomed
to hard service; rode much about the country, and were always ready for
any enterprise requiring toil and exposure, or skill and daring. In
proportion as they made themselves useful to the whig party, they were
of course persecuted by the loyalists. Their irregular life in military
service never caused them to do aught contrary to the strict principles
of their faith; they never travelled, except when rigid necessity
required it, on the Sabbath, being Puritans enough to look upon
profanity and Sabbath-breaking with as much abhorrence as upon horse
stealing. They served--John bearing a prominent part--in the first
battle fought in North Carolina in which the whigs were victorious,
after the suspension of hostilities succeeding the fall of Charleston;
that of Ramsour’s Mill, in Lincoln County.[23]
Capt. Scott, the son-in-law of Mrs. Haynes, was killed at Cowan’s Ford,
at the same time with Gen. Davidson, who had been stationed there by
Gen. Greene, with a small force, to delay the passage of the British
army across the Catawba. Joseph Haynes barely escaped with his life in
this action. Soon after, the British passing, as already mentioned,
near the house of the elder James Haynes, stopped and plundered it,
took him prisoner, and boasted in the hearing of his family, that they
had killed his son-in-law at the Ford, hinting that his sons also
were either killed or captured. The old man was over sixty, and in
feeble health; his venerable appearance and Quaker habiliments should
have secured their respect, but the crime of sending so many brave
sons to battle was not to be forgiven. Family tradition, confirmed by
the recollection of his daughter-in-law, states that they pulled off
his coat, overcoat, and silver knee and shoe-buckles, and made him
dismount and walk on through mud and water, urged forward by the prick
of bayonets; also that the news of his capture and the pillaging of
his house was carried to his sons by his daughter Hannah, who made her
way through bypaths for forty miles, eluding the marauding parties
scattered through the country, to the American army. Her brothers
immediately set off in pursuit, found their father at length by the
roadside, watched over by a wounded American soldier, and conveyed him
home.
Another adventure is remembered, in which John Haynes figured, during
that memorable retreat of Gen. Greene. He was sent as a scout, with
three others, to give notice of the approach of Tarleton’s dragoons.
While posted on a hill they were suddenly startled by the appearance
of a squadron of his light horse turning round a clump of trees close
at hand, with the design of cutting off their retreat. The only point
left open was a lane, a mile or so long, through a wide plantation.
The four whigs instantly commenced the race, closely pursued by the
British dragoons with their drawn sabres, the parties near enough to
hear each other’s voices--the royalists calling upon the rebel squad to
surrender, and now and then discharging a pistol to enforce the order.
The hindmost fugitive, one George Locke, was at length cut down by a
sabre-stroke, and killed; the others, hotly pursued, reached the end of
the lane, and instantly turned into the thick woods, where they could
ride with ease, being practised woodsmen, while the progress of the
heavy-armed dragoons of Tarleton was retarded. As they dashed into the
cover, they discharged their pistols over their shoulders, killing the
leading horseman, a subaltern, who had the moment before cut down their
companion, and was almost in the act of performing the same office for
them. Fearing an ambuscade, the party hastily retreated, leaving the
body of the subaltern where he fell. His uniform was taken off by a
negro, and often worn by him after the close of the war.
In his advanced age John Haynes often amused his friends by recounting
this and other anecdotes of races with the British troopers. On one
occasion he was alone, hemmed in by pursuing horsemen, and driven to
the banks of Candle Creek, at a point where the height of the banks and
the width of the channel seemed to preclude all hope of escape. Being
well mounted and a fearless rider, he dashed to the stream, his enemies
close upon him with drawn sabres, cleared the creek at a bound, and was
safe from his pursuers who dared not make the leap.
The two other sons, Joseph and James, were with Gates and Greene, and
in many of the most trying scenes of the war. Joseph was one of the
first who broke the cane and hunted the buffalo in the valley of Duck
River, Tennessee. He was a brave soldier and an ardent patriot. It was
his boast, that of all his kinsmen who were able to bear arms, there
was not one who did not fight on the side of the Republic. He survived
most of them who served with him, and after a long and useful life in
the land to which he had gone as a pioneer, he died in July 1845, at
his residence on Silver Creek, Maury County, Tennessee, in the 96th
year of his age.
His brother John was born in a fort or station in the valley of the
Catawba, where his family had taken shelter from the incursions of
the Cherokee Indians in 1759. All three brothers with their families
emigrated to Tennessee in the beginning of the present century, and
established themselves in the southern part of Middle Tennessee.
John Haynes and his sons opened the road from the north side of
Duck River, near Cany Spring, to the south side of Elk-ridge, where
Cornersville now stands. Here father and sons opened farms, aided
in erecting churches and school-houses, and soon found themselves
surrounded by crowds of emigrants from Carolina and Virginia. They
never forgot the precepts of their venerable ancestor, nor neglected
their duty to pander to the taste of a less rigidly moral population.
John lived to the age of seventy-seven, and kept his character for
rapid riding to the last. It was often averred by his friends that he
never rode in a walk, but always in a gallop. He died in 1838, but
his widow, Margaret Haynes, survived him many years, dying the 3rd
July, 1851, at the residence of her son, James S. Haynes, Esq., in her
88th year. Even at that advanced age, she retained her physical and
intellectual faculties so perfectly, as to render her reminiscences of
the times of peril and bloodshed both reliable and interesting. She
remembered to have heard Rev. James McCree preach the funeral of Gen.
Davidson at Centre meeting-house soon after the war, at which were
present more than a dozen widows of those who had fallen in defence of
their country. Her chief employment was reading religious books and
studying the Scriptures. She gave food to the hungry and clothing to
the needy, encouraging, reproving, and admonishing those around her,
and diligently following every good work.
There were other children, daughters of James and Ann Haynes, who
married worthy men in Rowan and Mecklenburg, North Carolina, where most
of them continued to live. Their descendants are now widely scattered
through the West and South, probably numbering three or four hundred,
and many of them have been active in the service of their country.
Several were engaged in the war of 1812; others subsequently in the
Florida or Seminole war, and in the recent war with Mexico; Milton A.
Haynes being a subaltern in the Florida war, and a Captain of Tennessee
Volunteers in the Mexican war, and two of his brothers serving as
subalterns. One of them lost his life in the service. The Rev. Cyrus
Haynes, of Illinois, and the Rev. John Haynes of Mississippi, are the
grandsons, and several other respectable clergymen of different States
are descendants of the subject of this sketch.
VIII.
RUTH SPARKS.
Ruth Sevier was the second daughter of Gen. John Sevier, by his second
marriage with Catharine Sherrill. She was born--the precise date is
not known--at Plum Grove, their residence on the Nolachucka in that
part of North Carolina now known as East Tennessee those settlements
then forming the extreme borders of the country inhabited by civilized
Americans.
During some five and twenty years, the greater part of the time from
1769 to 1796, the settlers--as it has been seen--were troubled more or
less every year by Indian depredators, and murders and bloody battles
were common occurrences. It cannot be wondered at that females born
and reared in the midst of such perils should be imbued with a sturdy
courage, and a self-reliance acquired only by familiar acquaintance
with danger and hardship. Boldness and force of character might be
expected, with the occasional manifestation of a daring more than
feminine, and a love of wild and romantic adventure; while the
cultivation of the gentler graces, and the refinement which is such an
ornament to womanhood, might be supposed to be frequently neglected.
It will not be rational, therefore, for modern judgment to condemn
too rigidly what in the manners of that period did not accord with
the ideas of etiquette in vogue at the present day. The heart and the
morals of our ancestors were uncorrupted, and we should not mark for
disapproval their non-observance of external properties. “Times change,
and we change with them,” is an admitted truth; whether for the better
or not, perhaps it would not be easy to decide.
Throughout Western Virginia and North Carolina but few opportunities
or advantages were then offered for the education of children, and the
duty of instructing them, particularly daughters, devolved chiefly
upon the mothers among the frontier settlers. This duty was in general
attended to as diligently as circumstances permitted, and women who had
themselves enjoyed in a very limited degree the privilege of schooling,
but had graduated under the rough but thorough tutoring of hard
experience, did not often fail to impart to their little ones, with a
portion of their own energy, perseverance, and spirit of enterprise,
such a knowledge of practical matters at least, as proved sufficient
for all purposes of life. Often too, they incited their children to
avail themselves of opportunities presented to acquire even what might
be termed learning. Such training had the parents of our heroine,
and such they gave her; and thus without any regular schooling, she
made rapid attainments, having been gifted by nature with a powerful
and active mind, a ready apprehension, and great energy and strength
of purpose. The condition of society in those unsettled and eventful
times, and the stirring incidents in which her parents and their
associates were continually forced to participate, had also much effect
in forming her character, imparting a force, decision, and promptness
which she might not otherwise have possessed.
During the Indian wars in which Gen. Sevier commanded the troops and
was the leader in so many expeditions and successful encounters, being
acknowledged as “the friend and protector of the exposed settlements,”
Ruth evinced a strong interest in the history and character of those
warlike tribes. She learned not only the names of the chiefs, but of
many of the common warriors. Some of them she saw at her father’s house
in the intervals of peace, and availed herself of the opportunity to
become well acquainted with them, and acquire a knowledge of their
manners and customs. She manifested a particular curiosity to learn as
much as possible of their mode of living and domestic habits. All the
information she sought was readily communicated to her by the Indians,
who were influenced by grateful feelings towards her father for his
generous kindness to the friendly savages who had visited him, and to
some thirty prisoners whom he brought to his house and took care of
liberally at his own expense. These had been selected from about one
hundred captives taken in the year 1781. Ten of these thirty remained
for three years at the residence of Gen. Sevier. Ruth was a great
favorite with them all, and not only learned the Cherokee language,
but so completely won the regard of every one of them, that on their
return to the nation they named her to the chiefs and warriors with
such expressions of commendation as amounted to a pledge of safety to
the family, in case of any future difficulty, to be considered more
sacred than the guarantee extended to other settlers. The kindness
shown by “Nolachucka Jack” and his wife to the captives and other
Indians, was mentioned the more frequently, as it gave occasion to
speak of “Chucka’s Rutha.” “She will be chief’s wife some day,” was the
prediction of many.
Mrs. Sevier had been accustomed to place much confidence in her friends
among the children of the forest, which she never found betrayed.
While the captives were at her house she permitted the Indian girls
to play with Ruth and accompany her in errands and visits to the
neighbors. The watchful solicitude they manifested at all times for
her safety, and their desire to please her by any little service in
their power, convinced the mother that the little girl was entirely
secure in their company, while the unlimited trust she placed in the
savages was returned on their part by gratitude, and a determination
to merit her kindly regard. Thus, prisoners as they were, they lived
contented and happy, bound to their host more strongly than bonds or
imprisonment could have fettered them. The effect of these mutual
good offices was seen long afterwards, and repeatedly acknowledged in
various negotiations and treaties, where the presence and “talks” of
Gen. Sevier exercised a decisive influence in persuading the savages
to accede to the wishes of the whites for the extension of boundaries
and the promotion of peace.
Many instances are mentioned which caused alarm to the family of Gen.
Sevier and the settlers living on the Nolachucka, in which Ruth’s
courage and spirit were of service. Once she gave notice of the
approach of tories in time for her mother to have the most valuable
articles removed from the house, and concealed in an old lime-kiln.
On another occasion, while playing or bathing in the stream with one
of the captive Indian girls, she fancied she saw enemies lurking near
the banks, and hastened to give warning. Once an attempt to cross the
river with the same or another Indian maiden, had nearly proved a fatal
experiment, when two young men of the same band of Cherokee captives,
came unexpectedly to their relief. Ruth learned in her earliest
childhood to shoot well with the musket and rifle, and could take a
surer aim than many an ordinary huntsman.
The prediction of the Indians that “Chucka’s Rutha” would become
the wife of a chief was fulfilled singularly enough, as we proceed
to explain. In the early settlement of Kentucky, when violent and
destructive attacks were made on the settlements--during frequent
incursions by the tribes living north of the Ohio river, a number of
children had been captured, and for the most part carried off to the
Indian villages near the Lakes. Among others thus taken, was a child
four years of age, who was either captured or purchased by one of
the principal chiefs of the Shawanese, upon the head waters of the
Scioto River. This Indian had two sons nearly of the same age with
the youthful captive, who was adopted as a third son, and immediately
placed with them as a companion and brother, rather than as a slave,
being treated with unusual kindness and indulgence. He received a new
name on his adoption--Shawtunte--a cognomen which was changed after his
release for that of Richard Sparks; though whether the latter was his
true and original name or not, we have no means of ascertaining. His
Indian playmates were Tecumseh, and his elder brother the Prophet. Both
these were afterwards well known as chiefs of power and influence, and
as resolute and dangerous enemies of the United States. Tecumseh was
ambitious, bold and energetic, and withal of a more amiable disposition
than his brother; but neither of them was deficient in the qualities
necessary to form the brave and successful warrior. By their enterprise
and exertions the plan was organized for an extensive combination among
the tribes of the West and Northwest, including some of the Southwest,
for the purpose of a general war upon the Americans. This mischievous
conspiracy among the tribes was got up chiefly through the influence
of agents of the British government, and threatened a vast amount of
misery and bloodshed to the extensive and exposed American settlements
on the frontier. The confederacy was broken up by the victories gained
by Gen. Harrison at the battle of Tippecanoe, Nov. 6th, 1811, and upon
the Miami River, followed by that of the Thames, Oct. 5th, 1813. The
British Government had conferred upon Tecumseh the commission of a
Major General. He lost his life in the battle of the Thames.
To return to Shawtunte. He remained in the family of Tecumseh about
twelve years, till he was sixteen years old, acquiring the habits
of the Indians, and becoming a proficient in their language; for he
had, indeed, little knowledge of any other. Some time before the
victories of Gen. Wayne over the Indians on the Miamies, gained in
1794, he was exchanged or released, and having bid adieu to his Indian
friends, returned to Kentucky. Thence he proceeded to the settlements
on the Holston and Nolachucka. His relatives did not recognize him,
particularly as he could not speak English. His mother only knew him by
a mark she remembered.
Having heard of Gen. Sevier, and being inspired with profound respect
for one who had obtained so high a reputation as a military officer,
he ventured at length to seek his acquaintance. The General became
deeply interested in the history of the young man, and was anxious
to obtain from him some account that could be depended on, of the
numbers and disposition of the northern tribes of Indians. He desired
also an accurate description of the country stretching between the
Ohio and the Lakes, over much of which Shawtunte had passed in his
various travels while domesticated among the savages. He was quite
willing to gratify his friend by stories of Indian life and adventure,
and his accounts of the perils and hardships he had encountered in
his sojourn in the wilderness, awakened the lively sympathy of his
auditor. It may be supposed that the General was not the only listener
on such occasions, to these tales of adventure wilder than romance,
as he had without hesitation admitted Shawtunte to the acquaintance
and hospitality of his family. The interest expressed in fair faces
at his narration, could not fail to encourage vivid details of “most
disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field,”
such as might well enchain the hearing of those who had seen enough
of Indian life to take an interest in all that concerned their savage
neighbors. As an evidence of his regard, Gen. Sevier promised to exert
his influence in procuring him a military appointment; and did so with
such good effect that he was honored with a captain’s commission. He
performed service as a spy, and it is said was very useful in Gen.
Wayne’s army; also, that he stood high as an officer and a gentleman.
Meanwhile he had been aiming at a conquest of another sort in the
family of the Governor-General, having become deeply enamored of his
fair daughter, Ruth. Her appearance at this time is described as being
very prepossessing. In symmetry of form and grace of attitude she was
unrivalled. It was said, “she was never in the least awkward; she never
sat, stood, or walked, but with a natural ease and grace that was
perfect; and she was always a figure for a painter.” She had regular
and delicate features, with a complexion extremely fair, blue eyes,
and a chiselled mouth, expressive of intelligence and lively humor.
Her personal attractions were enhanced by a cheerful and sociable
disposition, a self-possessed and unembarrassed manner, and a faculty
of accommodating herself to any situation or circumstances, with powers
of entertaining conversation which made her society sought eagerly by
both sexes. It will not be wondered at that she never failed to make an
impression, or that she was an acknowledged centre of attraction; yet
as she was entirely free from vanity or arrogance, and seemed animated
not so much by a love of display as by a cheerful and kindly spirit,
and a desire to enjoy and contribute to the enjoyment of others, she
was not so much envied as loved.
It may seem strange enough that the affections of a creature so lovely
and accomplished, should be bestowed on one as untutored as the wild
Indian; but so it was, notwithstanding the difference between them
in education and manners, station and prospects in life. At the
time of his marriage with the Governor’s daughter, the liberated
captive was wholly unlettered, not knowing how to read or write. His
youthful and charming bride became his teacher, and he soon made such
proficiency, that “he might have passed tolerably in an examination
of boys in the spelling-book.” His attainments, however, were not
such as to enable him to spell or read with perfect correctness, or
to write with elegance, when he was promoted to the rank of colonel
in the United States army, and was ordered to Fort Pickering, on the
Mississippi. Here he was stationed in 1801-2. This military station,
now the beautiful and flourishing city of Memphis, was established on
the borders of the territory of the Chickasaw Indians, as a link in
the chain of military defences on the waters of the great river, for
the purpose of preserving peace with the savage nation, and protecting
emigration. The purchase of Louisiana followed soon after, and Col.
Sparks proceeded with his regiment to New Orleans when the country was
given into the possession of the American government. After this he
was stationed for a short time at Baton Rouge, and for a longer period
at Fort Adams, in the Mississippi territory. Mrs. Sparks accompanied
her husband to each of these places, and remained as long as it was
his duty to stay at the post. She always performed the duty of his
secretary, keeping his accounts, writing his letters, and making out
his reports to superior officers and the War Department.
In Natchez and other towns where there was anything that could be
called society, the claims of Mrs. Sparks to the respect and admiration
of social circles, did not fail to be recognized; she was, indeed, “the
cynosure of neighboring eyes,” and her influence became very extensive.
During her residence in Louisiana and at Fort Adams, several of the
Choctaws were in the habit of calling almost daily at her house, to
bring venison and wild turkeys or ducks, receiving in recompense some
token of remembrance from the “tyke (wife) of Shawtunte,” for they had
learned the history of Col. Sparks, and knew his Indian name; also that
Mrs. Sparks was the daughter of a warrior whose deeds were well known,
and whose bravery was highly esteemed by the southern tribes of Indians.
After a residence of some ten years in the Southern military District,
the health of Col. Sparks became so infirm, that he was induced, by
the earnest advice of Gen. Sevier, to send an application to the War
Department, in consequence of which he was permitted to return to
Tennessee. Thence he proceeded to Staunton, in Virginia, at which
place, or in its vicinity, he died, about 1815. During this last visit
to Tennessee, he passed through Nashville and Gallatin, remaining some
days, and recounted some of the events of his captivity to persons who
called upon him and Mrs. Sparks. Among these was Thomas Washington,
Esq., who is still living in Nashville, and remembers many incidents.
The gentleman to whom I am indebted for this memoir, obtained many of
the particulars from Mrs. Sparks herself, and from her brother, who was
from early youth an officer in the army; while her sister, the widow of
Maj. William M’Clelland, of the United States’ army, who now resides at
Van Buren, in Arkansas, confirms every statement. Some of the records
pertaining to this portion of the family history, are in the Historical
Society library at Nashville.
The father of Mrs. Sparks has been mentioned as “the Governor,”
although the period alluded to was before the organization of the State
of Tennessee. This honorable title had been appropriated to him as
governor of the “State of Frankland,” from the year 1784 to 1788. When
Tennessee was admitted into the Union, he became her first governor,
holding that office, with an interval of only two years, for more than
eleven years.
Mrs. Sparks entered into a second marriage with an intelligent and
wealthy planter of Mississippi. Her residence was a beautiful and
highly improved country seat, within view of the town of Port Gibson,
in Mississippi, and the splendid hospitality so remarkable on these
secluded plantations, was duly exercised at “Burlington,” where there
was a continual succession of visitors. The fair mistress of this
stately abode was distinguished by the same cheerfulness, genial
kindness and attention to her guests as in her more youthful years.
She was a model housewife, and everything about her establishment was
always in perfect order. In the summer of 1824, while on a visit to
some friends at Maysville, Kentucky, her useful life was terminated,
her faith in the Redeemer growing brighter as the final scene
approached. She never had any children, but was at all times extremely
fond of them, and particularly pleased with the society of young
persons, who always manifested a strong attachment for her.
IX.
SARAH SHELBY.
Sarah, already mentioned as the eldest daughter of Mrs. Bledsoe, was
born in the first year of the first settlement of Tennessee. She was
very young when her family removed from Fort Chissel, Virginia, to
East Tennessee. Their residence was then on the frontier, near the
island flats, in what is now Sullivan County. Her early education was
excellent, considering the circumstances of location and the want
of the advantages of instruction which could be enjoyed in older
communities. She attended the first and only lessons in dancing, given
in 1784, not long before her marriage, at the house of Mr. Harris,
twelve miles from Col. Bledsoe’s residence. The teacher was Capt.
Barrett, an English officer who had served under the royal banner
in the war of the Revolution, and then left the service, determined
to cast his lot for the rest of his days with the brave republicans
against whose liberties he had fought. It was among the singular
vicissitudes of life, that a loyal captain who in all probability had
served under Col. Ferguson at the battle of King’s Mountain, battling
to the death against the Tennessee mountaineers, should be found
afterwards in the wilderness giving lessons to their daughters in
this graceful accomplishment! The gentleman who furnishes this memoir
quaintly observes, that “not being able to make the fathers run, he
was content with making the daughters dance.”
While the family still lived in Sullivan County, Miss Bledsoe was
married, in 1784, to David Shelby. Soon after, the young couple, with
Col. Bledsoe and his family, came and fixed their homes in the midst
of the wilderness of the Cumberland Valley, which Bledsoe and his
brother had explored in 1779. The journey by land at that time from
East Tennessee was a difficult and perilous one, across mountains and
through forests and canebrakes, where it was impossible to force a
wagon. Every article carried had to be packed on horses.
The families who formed this pioneer settlement in the Cumberland
Valley were not destitute of means to live comfortably in a region
where the necessaries and comforts of life could be procured, but
isolated as they were from all advantages of communication or
interchange with the friends they had left, they were thrown entirely
upon the resources of their own labor and ingenuity. Their dwellings
were rude cabins made of logs, sometimes rough and sometimes hewn. For
protection against the Indians a number of these cabins were surrounded
by pickets bullet-proof, and several families, usually related to
each other, or attached as old neighbors, lived within the fenced
space. Sometimes the pioneers resided in the blockhouses, built in
the salient points of these picketed enclosures. The upper story of
these blockhouses projected over the lower one, with portholes in the
floor, so that persons within might shoot an assailant who approached
too near under cover of the projection. The term “station,” in the
frontier vocabulary of those times, meant a blockhouse, picketed so as
to shelter several families. It was usually called by the name of the
builder or the owner of the land--as “Buchanan’s Station,” &c. Some,
however, were known by more fanciful designations, as “Bledsoe’s Lick,”
“French Lick,” etc.
It has been already stated that at the time of Col. Bledsoe’s
exploration of the Cumberland Valley, no white man lived within the
limits of Tennessee, west of the mountains, except a few French
traders who had become naturalized among the Indians. After the removal
of the family they suffered many hardships, which pressed most heavily
upon the women, while shut up within military defences in the midst of
the forest. No supplies of groceries or dry goods could be obtained in
the valley, and all the clothing worn by the pioneers, male and female,
was of home manufacture. Not one of the females was exempted from this
labor; all learned how to spin and weave, and it was the pride and
glory of these stout-hearted dames to prepare the material and make up
with their own hands the clothes worn by themselves, their husbands and
children. Col. Bledsoe was attired in a full suit manufactured by his
wife and daughters, when he represented the Cumberland Valley in the
Legislature of North Carolina.
All articles of consumption which could not be procured in the woods
or raised on their plantations, were very scarce. Salt could only be
obtained by tedious and dangerous journeys to the Kanawha salt works
in Virginia, or to some French salt works in Illinois, then a part of
Louisiana. Imported sugar, coffee and tea were almost excluded from
use among the families in the valley, by the expense and difficulty of
procuring them. For the first two or three years, before the dangers
in the midst of which they lived, permitted them to cultivate the soil
to any extent, even bread was scarcely to be had. The rifle of the
pioneer procured for his family venison, bear’s meat and wild turkeys,
as well as protected them from Indian marauders. A little sugar was
made every spring from the maple trees, which grew in great abundance
in the untrodden forest. For this purpose large parties of old and
young, male and female, when they had fixed upon a convenient location,
assembled and bivouacked, or “camped,” to use their own phrase, in the
woods near the grove of maples, which were soon notched and pierced.
The sap was caught in small troughs dug out with an axe, and carried to
the camp, where it was boiled down in large pots. In two or three days
thus spent, sugar enough was often produced to furnish a year’s supply
for a family, and the occasion did not fail to afford opportunity for a
rustic re-union for all the young people of the neighborhood.
Nothing was known at that time of the culture of cotton. Flax was
grown, however, and the prettiest girls in the valley hatchelled, spun
and wove it; the forest trees and shrubs yielding ample materials
for dye-stuffs, by which a variety of colors might be furnished for
ball or bridal costume for the fairest demoiselles of the new colony.
A beautiful scarlet was produced from sassafras and sumach, and the
walnut furnished a bright brown, of which color were dyed the jeans
which formed full suits, elegant enough for the gentlemen’s holiday
wearing. This material, made in old style, is still a favorite in
all the rural districts of Tennessee, the process of its manufacture
having been taught, as a hereditary art, by mother to daughter, from
generation to generation.
If we may rely upon tradition, the women whose time was thus passed
exclusively in useful occupations, and whose labors demanded continual
exercise, were superior in personal beauty to their paler and more
luxurious descendants. Be that as it may, their ideas of feminine
accomplishment and female merit were certainly different from those of
modern days. A young woman then prided herself, not on finery purchased
with the labor of others, but on the number of hanks of thread she
could spin, or yards she could weave in a day on a rustic loom, made,
perhaps, by her father or brother. Many a maiden whose father could
reckon his acres of land in the wilderness by thousands, has appeared
at church or at a country assembly dressed from head to foot in
articles manufactured entirely by herself, and looking as bright and
lovely in her gay colors as the proudest city dame who could lay the
looms of India under contribution.
Mrs. Shelby’s husband was the first merchant in Nashville, and perhaps
in middle Tennessee. He established himself as such in 1790, and after
two or three years, removed to Sumner County, where he was appointed
to the office of clerk, the first chosen in the county. This office
he continued to hold, residing in Gallatin, till his death in 1819.
He maintained throughout life a high and honorable position among
the settlers of the Valley, possessing qualities of mind and heart
which would have commanded success and ensured usefulness in the most
eminent station to which a republican could have aspired, in the new
State which he and his family aided in building up. But he was not
ambitious, and preferred retirement in the bosom of his family, and the
unostentatious discharge of the duties of an humble office, husbanding
the resources he possessed for the purpose of giving his children a
substantial education, and fitting them for lives of usefulness.
Mrs. Shelby has frequently mentioned incidents that occurred on
different occasions when she and her husband were compelled to fly from
Indians, and narrowly escaped destruction. At one time the savages
came to the block-house where she lived, and attempted to shoot
through a crack in the chimney. It happened that Mrs. Shelby, feeling
a presentiment of danger, had stopped the crevice on the inside by
a plank, which the bullets could not penetrate without having their
deadly force spent. The savages were around the house during the night,
as was discovered by their tracks about the place, and the finding of
several articles belonging to them, such as pipes, moccasins, etc.
The day after the death of Col. Anthony Bledsoe, Mrs. Shelby went with
her husband, son and servants to Bledsoe’s Lick, to attend his funeral,
although the distance was ten miles, and it was known the Indians were
in the forest. The son, now Dr. Shelby, of Nashville, remembers that
his father went in advance, armed with a rifle and holsters, his mother
next, and that he followed with a negro, who also carried a rifle.
In 1788, while living on Station Camp Creek, in Sumner County, Mrs.
Shelby was one day at home with only her little children. As usual
in the early settlements, they lived in a log cabin, in which open
places between the logs served the place of windows. Her husband was
in the fields, some distance from the house. While seated by the fire
she was startled by the appearance of an Indian warrior, fully armed,
approaching her cabin. Quick as thought, she took down a loaded rifle
that hung on the wall, and whispered to her son, then only six years
old, to go out by the back door, and run into the field for his father,
which he did quietly, but with all speed. Then placing herself near the
door, she put the muzzle of the rifle through a crack in the wall, and
stood, with her finger on the trigger, ready to shoot the Indian as he
came near, approaching the door. Just at the moment when Mrs. Shelby
was about to shoot, with deadly aim, the savage saw the gun, and with
hasty strides retreated to the woods. Thus the heroism of the matron
saved not only her own life, but the lives of several small children.
Soon after the retreat of the Indian, Mr. Shelby and his son reached
the house, to embrace the heroic wife and mother, who still stood with
the rifle in her hands.
The history of Mrs. Shelby and her family, if properly given, would
embrace almost the entire history of Tennessee; nor would it be
possible to offer anything like an adequate sketch of the founders
of the colony of Cumberland Valley, without writing in detail the
history of that eventful period. This may be done by some future
historian, the scope of whose work will permit him to do full justice
to the patient and self-denying toil, and the heroic deeds of those
enterprising pioneers. Whenever this is done, the names of Bledsoe,
Shelby, Sevier, Robertson, Buchanan, Rains, and Wilson, cannot fail to
shine forth prominently in the picture. These men were neither refugees
from justice, nor outlaws from civilization, but belonged to a band of
patriots who came, like Hooker, Haynes, or Roger Williams, to set up
the altar of freedom, and find a home in primeval forests, beyond the
reach of oppression, where they might live independently, and in time
happily. They came not, as they knew, to an ideal paradise, or happy
valley, but to a dreary wilderness, where a thousand perils environed
them; beyond the paternal care of either state or federal government;
harassed from time to time by a savage foe; destitute of regular
supplies of provisions or munitions of war; depending for subsistence
on the forest and the small patches of cornfield they were able to
cultivate in the intervals of Indian campaigns; a mere handful of men,
with a few helpless women and children, and equally dependent slaves;
yet they kept their ground, and year by year increased in numbers and
strength, till after a struggle of fifteen years against fearful odds
of Indian enemies, the colony numbered from seven to eight thousand!
During all this time of trial, the armed occupation was maintained
with toil and bloodshed, both of men and women, who showed, in times of
emergency, that they, too, possessed the lion will and the lion heart.
Thrilling was the story of their adventures, with which, in after
years, they held their listeners spell-bound; and far surpassing the
wildest romance were their homely but interesting narratives, glowing
in the warm coloring of life. They told
“How oft at night
Their sleep was broke by sudden fright,
Of Indian whoop and cruel knife
To spill the blood of babe and wife;
How prowling wolves and hungry bears
Increased their dangers and their cares;
How bold and strong these pilgrims were--
That feared not Indian, wolf, or bear;
By sickness pressed, by want beset,
Each ill they braved, each danger met;
’Midst want and war their sinews grew,--etc.”
Among the women of this period, remembered particularly for the energy
and cheerful self-denial with which they aided the hardy pioneers,
encouraging and animating them, while sharing in their labors, none
did her part more nobly, with more womanly grace as well as firmness
and resolution, than Mrs. Shelby. Her memory preserved to an advanced
age every prominent incident connected with the settlement of East
Tennessee and of the Cumberland Valley. Every part of the State, within
her recollection, was a wilderness. Having lived through the border
troubles and succeeding years of change, having survived the slaughter
of her nearest relatives by the murderous Cherokees and marauding
Creeks and Shawanese, she lived to see that helpless and bleeding
colony of the Watauga, increase and multiply and grow up in the midst
of the receding forest to a goodly State--it may be said, a nation.
This venerable matron died on the 11th of March, 1852, in the
eighty-sixth year of her age. She was in her usual health, and occupied
with her needle, only three days before her death. She had long been
a member of the Episcopal church, and gave up her spirit to God with
Christian resignation, leaving an affectionate circle of her children
and descendants to mourn her departure.
She had been in the habit of going to visit her relatives in the old
county where she formerly resided. The fourth of July, 1851, was kept
by a number of aged pioneers in Sumner, assembled to dine together, and
many were the interesting recollections called up on that occasion.
After 1832, Mrs. Shelby’s residence was with her son, Dr. Shelby
at his beautiful country-seat, “Faderland,” in the vicinity of
Nashville, now almost surrounded by the new town of Edgefield. It was
a pleasure to her to receive and converse with all interested in the
early history of Tennessee, and she presented in her own bearing and
character a noble example of the heroines of those times of trial.
The laborious, painful, and perilous experiences of her life withal,
never marred the harmony of her nature; and in advanced age she had the
contented and cheerful spirit of one whose days have glided away in
undisturbed tranquillity. She was a deeply spiritual Christian, engaged
continually, as far as her strength permitted, in the dispensation
of charities, and exhibiting to those who knew her, the beauty of an
humble and earnest “walk by faith.”
Her husband, David Shelby, died in 1822, leaving several children,
who were reared to sustain their part with usefulness in the arena of
life, and in the midst of difficulties to exhibit the same energy and
patience which had distinguished their parents. Judge Shelby, of Texas,
was one of these children. John, the eldest son, was the first white
child born in Sumner County, and is one of the oldest and worthiest
citizens of Nashville. He determined in youth to study medicine, and
was sent to Philadelphia to have the advantage of instruction under
the celebrated Dr. Rush. He settled early in Nashville, where for
many years he devoted himself successfully to the practice of his
profession, being also occupied in the management of a large private
business, in taking care of his town property. In 1813, he was a
volunteer under Jackson, in the Creek war, and received a wound in the
eye in the battle of Enotochopco. Though holding the office of surgeon
in the army, he took an active part in rallying and leading the troops
in this memorable action, and in acknowledgement of his services was
honorably mentioned by the General.
He is now sixty-seven years of age, and after an arduous and well spent
life, is still able to perform the duties of a responsible office,
and to manage the business of a large farm. One of his daughters is
the wife of the Hon. George Washington Barrow, late representative
in Congress for the Nashville District, and during the years 1841-5,
Chargé d’Affaires to the court of Portugal. Another daughter is Mrs.
Priscilla Williams, now residing at Memphis, Tennessee.
X.
REBECCA WILLIAMS.
Walter Scott’s Rebecca the Jewess was not more celebrated for her
medical skill and success in treating wounds than was Rebecca Williams
among the honest borderers of the Ohio river. She was the daughter of
Joseph Tomlinson, and was born the 14th of February, 1754, at Will’s
Creek, on the Potomac, in the province of Maryland. She married John
Martin, a trader among the Indians, who was killed in 1754 on the Big
Hockhocking by the Shawanees, one of her uncles being killed at the
same time. In the first year of her widowhood, Mrs. Martin removed
with her father’s family to Grave Creek, and resided near its entrance
into the Ohio, keeping house for her two brothers. She would remain
alone for weeks together while they were absent on hunting excursions;
for she had little knowledge of fear, and was young and sprightly in
disposition.
In the spring of 1774, she paid a visit to her sister, who had married
a Mr. Baker, and resided upon the banks of the Ohio, opposite Yellow
Creek. It was soon after the celebrated massacre of Logan’s relatives
at Baker’s station. Rebecca made her visit, and prepared to return home
as she had come, in a canoe alone, the distance being fifty miles. She
left her sister’s residence in the afternoon, and paddled her canoe
till dark. Then, knowing that the moon would rise at a certain hour,
she neared the land, leaped on shore, and fastened her craft to some
willows that drooped their boughs over the water. She sought shelter in
a clump of bushes, where she lay till the moon cleared the tree tops
and sent a broad stream of light over the bosom of the river. Then,
unfastening her boat, she stepped a few paces into the water to get
into it. But, as she reached the canoe, she trod on something cold and
soft, and stooping down discovered, to her horror, that it was a human
body. The pale moonlight streamed on the face of a dead Indian, not
long killed, it was evident, for the body had not become stiff. The
young woman recoiled at first, but uttered no scream, for the instinct
of self-preservation taught her that it might be dangerous. She went
round the corpse, which must have been there when she landed, stepped
into her bark, and reached the mouth of Grave Creek, without further
adventure, early the next morning.
In the ensuing summer, one morning while kindling the fire, blowing
the coals on her knees, she heard steps in the apartment, and turning
round, saw a very tall Indian standing close to her. He shook his
tomahawk at her threateningly, at the same time motioning her to keep
silence. He then looked around the cabin in search of plunder. Seeing
her brother’s rifle hanging on hooks over the fireplace, he seized
it and went out. Rebecca showed no fear while he was present; but
immediately on his departure left the cabin and hid herself in the
standing corn till her brother came home.
In the following year the youthful widow was united to a man of
spirit congenial to her own. Isaac Williams had served as a ranger in
Braddock’s army, and accompanied Ebenezer and Jonathan Zane in 1769,
when they explored the country about Wheeling, having before that
period made several hunting excursions to the waters of the Ohio.
He explored the recesses of the western wild, following the water
courses of the great valley to the mouth of the Ohio, and thence along
the shores of the Mississippi to the turbid waters of the Missouri;
trapping the beaver on the tributaries of this river as early as
1770. His marriage with Rebecca was performed with a simplicity
characteristic of the times. A travelling preacher who chanced to
come into the settlement, performed the ceremony at short notice, the
bridegroom presenting himself in his hunting dress and the bride in
short-gown and petticoat of homespun, the common wear of the country.
In 1777, the depredations and massacres of the Indians were so frequent
that the settlement at Grave Creek, consisting of several families,
was broken up. It was a frontier station, and lower down the Ohio than
any other above the mouth of the Great Kanawha. It was in this year
that the Indians made the memorable attack on the fort at Wheeling.[24]
Mr. Williams and his wife, with her father’s family, moved to the
Monongahela river, above Redstone, old fort, where they remained until
the spring of 1783. They then returned to their plantations on Grave
Creek, but in 1785 were obliged to remove again into the garrison at
Wheeling. While there, Mrs. Williams excercised the healing art for
the benefit of the soldier, as no surgeon could be procured. With the
assistance of Mrs. Zane, she dressed the wounds of one wounded in
fourteen places by rifle shots while spearing fish by torchlight, and
with fomentations and simple applications, not only cured his wounds,
which every one thought an impossible undertaking, but saved an arm and
leg that were broken. Dr. Hildreth mentions that many years afterwards,
while he was attending on a man with a compound fracture of the leg, in
the neighborhood of Mrs. Williams’ house, she was present at one of the
dressings, and related several of her cures in border times.
It has been stated that Rebecca Martin, before her marriage to Mr.
Williams, acted as housekeeper for her brothers for several years. In
consideration of which service, her brothers, Joseph and Samuel, made
an entry of four hundred acres of land on the Virginia shore of the
Ohio river, directly opposite the mouth of the Muskingum, for their
sister; girdling the trees, building a cabin, and planting and fencing
four acre’s of corn, on the high second bottom, in the spring of the
year 1773. They spent the summer on the spot, occupying their time with
hunting during the growth of the crop. In this time they had exhausted
their small stock of salt and bread stuff, and lived for two or three
months altogether on boiled turkies, which were eaten without salt. The
following winter the two brothers hunted on the Big Kanawha. Some time
in March, 1774, they reached the mouth of the river on their return.
They were detained here a few days by a remarkably high freshet in the
Ohio.
That year was long known as that of Dunmore’s war, and noted for Indian
depredations. The renewed and oft repeated inroads of the Indians, led
Mr. Williams to turn his thoughts towards a more quiet retreat than
that at Grave Creek. Fort Harmer, at the mouth of the Muskingum, having
been erected in 1786, and garrisoned by United States troops, he came
to the conclusion that he would now occupy the land belonging to his
wife, and located by her brothers. This tract embraced a large share
of rich alluvions. The piece opened by the Tomlinsons in 1773, was
grown up with young saplings, but could be easily reclaimed. Having
previously visited the spot and put up log cabins, Williams finally
removed his family and effects thither, the twenty-sixth of March,
1787, being the year before the Ohio company took possession of their
purchase at the mouth of the Muskingum.
In the January following the removal to his forest domain, his wife
gave birth to a daughter, the only issue by this marriage. Soon after
the Ohio company emigrants had established themselves at Marietta, a
pleasing and friendly intercourse was kept up between them and Mr.
Williams; and as he had now turned his attention more especially to
clearing and cultivating his farm than to hunting, he was glad to see
the new openings springing up around him, and the rude forest changing
into the home of civilized man. Settlements were commenced at Belprie
and Waterford the year after that at Marietta; as yet little being done
in cultivating the soil, their time chiefly occupied in building cabins
and clearing the land.
A brief account of the progress of this first settlement made in Ohio
will be interesting, and may here be appropriately introduced It is
prepared from a large volume of Notes on Pioneer History, by Dr. S. P.
Hildreth.
The country on the Ohio river was little known to the English till
about 1740, after which traders went occasionally from Pennsylvania and
Virginia, and at later periods attempts were made to make settlements
in different localities. In 1787 the Ohio company was formed to
purchase land and form settlements; funds were raised and a large
number of acres contracted for, and surveyors and boat-builders were
set at work. In April, 1788, a company of pioneers started in the
“Adventure” galley from Simrell’s Ferry, thirty miles above Pittsburgh,
on the Yohiogoany, and landed at the mouth of the Muskingum. Vegetation
was already advanced in the wild spot selected for their residence;
the trees were in leaf, and the rich clover pastures offered abundant
sustenance for their stock. Lots were surveyed, and the new town
laid out on the right bank of the Ohio, at the junction of the clear
waters of the Muskingum, was called Marietta, in honor of Queen Marie
Antoinette, whose friendly feeling towards the American nation had, as
it was well known, strongly influenced her royal consort.
The location proved fortunate in point of health as well as fertility;
and game being abundant, the emigrants wanted for nothing. The ground
was soon broken, and corn and vegetables planted. The temporary
regulations for the government of the little community, were written
out, and posted on the smooth branch of a large beech tree, near the
mouth of the Muskingum. The fourth of July was celebrated by a public
dinner set out in an arbor on the bank; and Gen. Varnum, one of the
judges, delivered the oration, while the officers of the garrison drank
and responded to the toasts. The bill of fare on this occasion, which
has been recorded, presented an array of venison, bear and buffalo
meat, and roast pigs; and among the fish, a pike weighing a hundred
pounds, speared at the mouth of the Muskingum. On the 20th July,
William Brook, of New England, preached the first sermon ever preached
to white men in Ohio, Moravian missionaries having hitherto been
employed to spread the truths of the Gospel among the savages. It may
be interesting to know what was the text on this memorable occasion;
it was in Exodus xix., 5, 6: “Now, therefore, if ye will obey my voice
indeed, and keep my covenant, then ye shall be a peculiar treasure to
me above all people; for all the earth is mine; and ye shall be unto me
a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.”
On the 20th August, the north-west blockhouse was so far completed,
that a dinner was given by the directors of the company to Governor St.
Clair and the officers of Fort Harmer, which the principal citizens
attended, with the wives of many of the officers, and several other
ladies, who had thus early ventured into the wilderness. A fine
barge, rowed by twelve oars, brought the company from the fort up the
Muskingum to the opposite bank, from which the appearance of the new
fort was grand and imposing.
The first death is noticed as that of a child, on the 25th of August.
The number of settlers this year, after a reinforcement from New
England, was one hundred and thirty-two, and Marietta was at this time
the only white settlement in the territory now constituting the State
of Ohio. In December, about two hundred Indians came to make a treaty,
and the council fire was kindled in a large log-house outside the fort.
Articles were adjusted and agreed to, and the Indians departed well
pleased with the settlers, whom they pronounced very different from the
“long knives” and stern backwoodsmen of Kentucky. During the winter
succeeding, the Ohio was filled with ice, and no boat moved up or down
till March, which caused a great scarcity of provisions, for nothing
could be procured but venison and bear’s meat, and it was difficult to
find either deer or bears in the vicinity of the town. The inhabitants
were obliged to live for weeks without bread, eating boiled corn, or
coarse meal ground in a hand-mill, with the little meat they could
procure. As soon as the river opened, flour could be purchased from
boats trading from Redstone and the country near Pittsburg, and before
long a road was cut through to Alexandria. The first marriage, between
the Hon. Winthrop Sargent, secretary of the North West Territory, and
Miss Rowena Tupper, daughter of Gen. Tupper, was celebrated on the 6th
February, 1789, by Gen. Rufus Putnam, judge of the Court of Common
Pleas for Washington, the first organized county. A public festival
was appointed for the 7th April, the anniversary of the commencement
of their settlement, and was observed for many years, till the country
became peopled with strangers, who knew nothing of the hardships and
trials encountered by the primitive settlers. It is now sometimes kept
as a holiday, for picnic excursions or social parties.
Flint says he distinctly remembers the wagon that carried out a number
of adventurers from Massachusetts, on the second emigration to the
forests of Ohio; its large black canvass covering, and the white
lettering in large capitals, “To Marietta, on the Ohio.”
Belprie was a branch settlement made by the direction of the Ohio
company; the name taken from “belle prairie,” or beautiful meadow.
After the lots were drawn, the settlers moved to their farms in April,
1789, and when their log cabins were built, commenced cutting down and
girdling the trees on the rich lowlands. From the destructive effects
of frost in September of this year, the crops of corn were greatly
injured, and where planted late, entirely ruined. In the spring and
summer of 1790, the inhabitants began to suffer from a want of food,
especially wholesome bread-stuffs. The Indians were also becoming
troublesome, and rendered it hazardous boating provisions from the
older settlements on the Monongahela, or hunting for venison in the
adjacent forests. Many families, especially at Belprie, had no other
meal than that made from musty or mouldy corn; and were sometimes
destitute even of this for several days in succession. This mouldy corn
commanded nine shillings, or a dollar and a half a bushel; and when
ground in their hand-mills and made into bread, few stomachs were able
to digest it, or even to retain it for a few minutes.
During this period of want, Isaac Williams displayed his benevolent
feeling for the suffering colonists. Being in the country earlier he
had more ground cleared, and had raised a crop of several hundred
bushels of corn. This he now distributed among the inhabitants at
the low rate of three shillings, or fifty cents a bushel, when at
the same time he had been urged by speculators to take a dollar for
his whole crop. “I would not let them have a bushel,” said the old
hunter. He not only parted with his corn at this cheap rate, but
prudently proportioned the number of bushels according to the number
of individuals in a family. An empty purse was no bar to the needy
applicant; but his wants were equally supplied with those who had
money, and credit was given until more favorable times should enable
him to discharge the debt. Capt. Jonathan Devoll, hearing of Williams’
corn, and the cheap rate at which he sold it, made a trip to Marietta
to procure some of it; travelling by land, and in the night, on
account of the danger from Indians, a distance of twelve or fourteen
miles. Williams treated him with much kindness, and after letting him
have several bushels of corn at the usual price in plentiful years,
furnished him with his only canoe to transport it home.
Like Isaac and Rebecca of old, this modern Isaac and Rebecca were
given to good deeds; and many a poor, sick, and deserted boatman has
been nursed and restored to health beneath their humble roof. Full of
days and good deeds, and strong in the faith of a blessed immortality,
Williams resigned his spirit to him who gave it, the 25th of September,
1820, aged eighty-four years, and was buried in a beautiful grove on
his own plantation, surrounded by the trees he so dearly loved when
living.
In spite of treaties, the Indians continued to harass the settlements
in western Virginia, and in August attacked a surveying party employed
by the Ohio Company in running the lines of the townships. The savages
seemed to hold the surveyor’s chain and compass in utter detestation.
In the winter of 1790, the governor of the North West Territory, St.
Clair, removed his family from his plantation at “Potts’ Grove,” in
Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania, to Marietta. One of his daughters,
Louisa, was long remembered as one of the most distinguished among
the ladies of that day. In strength and elasticity of frame, blooming
health, energy and fearlessness, she was the ideal of a soldier’s
daughter, extremely fond of adventure and frolic, and ready to draw
amusement from everything around her. She was a fine equestrian, and
would manage the most spirited horse with perfect ease and grace,
dashing at full gallop through the open woodland surrounding the
“Campus Martius,” and leaping over logs or any obstacle in her way.
She was also expert in skating, and was rivalled by few, if any young
men in the garrison, in the speed, dexterity, and grace of movement
with which she exercised herself in this accomplishment. The elegance
of her person, and her neat, well-fitting dress, were shown to great
advantage in her rapid gyrations over the broad sheet of ice in the
Muskingum, which for a few days in winter offered a fine field, close
to the garrison, for this healthful sport; and loud were the plaudits
from young and old, from spectators of both sexes, called forth by the
performance of the governor’s daughter. As a huntress she was equally
distinguished, and might have served as a model for a Diana, in her
rambles through the forest, had she been armed with a bow instead of
a rifle, of which latter instrument she was perfect mistress, loading
and firing with the accuracy of a backwoodsman, killing a squirrel on
the top of the tallest tree, or cutting off the head of a partridge
with wonderful precision. She was fond of roaming through the woods,
and often went out alone into the forest near Marietta, fearless of
the savages who often lurked in the vicinity. As active on foot as on
horseback, she could walk several miles with the untiring rapidity of
a practised ranger. Notwithstanding her possession of these unfeminine
attainments, Miss St. Clair’s refined manners would have rendered her
the ornament of any drawing-room circle; she was beautiful in person,
and had an intellect highly cultivated, having received a carefully
finished education under the best teachers in Philadelphia. Endowed
by nature with a vigorous constitution and lively animal spirits,
her powers, both of body and mind, had been strengthened by such
athletic exercises, to the practice of which she had been encouraged
from childhood by her father. He had spent the greater part of his
life in camps, and was not disposed to fetter by conventional rules
his daughter’s rare spirit, so admirably suited to pioneer times and
manners, however like an amazon she may seem to the less independent
critics of female manners at the present day. After the Indian war,
Miss St. Clair returned to her early home in the romantic glens of
Ligonier valley.
It is said that the first woman who came to Marietta was the wife of
James Owen, and that she received a donation lot of one hundred acres
from the Ohio company on this account. She gave shelter to a man who
had been put ashore from a boat on the way to Kentucky, and took the
small-pox from him, which soon spread, and most of the inhabitants were
inoculated to preserve them from the terrible ravages of the disease.
Hardly was this anxiety over than the great scarcity of provisions
already noticed prevailed; good corn rising to the price of two dollars
a bushel, and the distress increasing as the summer approached. There
were few cows and no oxen or cattle to spare; hogs were scarce, and the
woods were bare of game, the deer and buffaloes within twenty miles
having been killed or driven away by the Indians. In this extremity
great kindness was shown among the settlers, each sharing what he
had with his neighbors, and those who had cows dividing their milk.
The poor obtained supplies of fish from the river. The Indians this
year--1790--commenced a new species of warfare, by attacking boats in
the river usually owned by emigrants on the way to Kentucky. Their
principal rendezvous was near the mouth of the Scioto, and a favorite
device to get possession of a boat, was to make a white man stand on
the bank and entreat the crew to land and take him on board, saying he
had just escaped from Indian slavery and if recaptured would be put to
death. By this mode of appeal to the compassion of emigrants, the men
in several boats were induced to land, when the savages lying in ambush
would seize the boat or shoot down the crew from their hiding-place.
The decoy was sometimes an actual prisoner, whom they forced to act his
part, and sometimes a renegade white who joined them voluntarily for
the sake of a share in the plunder.
In October a large company of French emigrants arrived at Marietta,
coming down the Ohio in “Kentucky arks,” or flatboats. Many were from
Paris, and wondered not a little at the broad rivers and vast forests
of the West. The distress and destitution into which they were thrown
by the failure of the Scioto company to fulfil their contracts, and the
substitution of lands on the Ohio below the Kanawha, are mentioned in
another sketch. Gen. Rufus Putnam was commissioned by the principal men
in the Scioto company to build houses and furnish provisions for these
colonists, and did so at great loss, the company eventually failing
and dissolving. Indian hostilities commenced in January, 1791, with
an attack on the blockhouse at Big Bottom. This building stood on the
first or low bottom, a few rods from the shore on the left bank of
the Muskingum, four miles above the mouth of Meigs’ Creek and thirty
from Marietta. A few rods back, the land rose several feet to a second
or higher bottom, which stretched out into a plain of half a mile in
width, extending to the foot of the hills. Big Bottom was so called
from its size, being four or five miles in length, and containing
more fine land than any other below Duncan’s falls. Excepting the
small clearing round the garrison, the whole region was a forest. This
settlement was made up of thirty-six young men, but little acquainted
with Indian warfare or military rules. Confident in their own prudence
and ability to protect themselves, they put up a blockhouse which
might accommodate all in an emergency, covered it, and laid puncheon
floors, stairs, &c. It was built of large beech logs, and rather open,
as it was not chinked between the logs; this job was left for a rainy
day or some more convenient season. They kept no sentry, and had
neglected to set pickets around the blockhouse, and their guns were
lying in different places, without order, about the house. Twenty men
usually encamped in the house, a part of whom were now absent, and each
individual and mess cooked for themselves. One end of the building was
appropriated for a fire-place, and at close of day all came in, built a
large fire, and commenced cooking and eating their suppers,
A party of Indians came into a cabin occupied by a few of the men, near
the blockhouse, and spoke to them in a friendly manner, partaking of
their supper. Presently taking some leathern thongs and pieces of cord
that had been used in packing venison, they seized the white men by
their arms, and told them they were prisoners. Another party attacked
the blockhouse so suddenly and unexpectedly that there was no time for
defence, shooting down and tomahawking the men. One stout Virginia
woman, the wife of Isaac Meeks, who was employed as their hunter,
seized an axe and made a blow at the head of the Indian who opened the
door; a slight turn of the head saved his skull, and the axe passed
down through his cheek into the shoulder, leaving a huge gash that
severed nearly half his face; she was instantly killed by the tomahawk
of one of his companions before she could repeat the stroke. This was
all the injury received by the Indians, as the men were killed before
they had time to seize their arms which stood in the corner of the
room. While the slaughter was going on, a young man in the prime of
life sprung up the stair-way and out upon the roof; while his brother,
a lad of sixteen, secreted himself under some bedding in the corner of
the room. The Indians on the outside soon discovered the former, and
shot him in the act of begging them to spare his life, “as he was the
only one left.”
Twelve persons were killed in this attack. The savages had vowed that
before the trees put forth leaves, the smoke of a white man’s house
should not rise north-west of the waters of the Ohio. The inhabitants
assembled at the three stations at Marietta, Belprie and Waterford,
new blockhouses were built at the expense of the Ohio company, and
two hunters were employed to act as spies for each garrison. Gen.
Putnam complained to President Washington of the danger in which the
settlements stood of being entirely swept away without a reinforcement
of troops, and a military force was sent for their defence in the
ensuing summer.
The following incident is illustrative: “On a day in March, Rogers
and Henderson sallied out of the garrison at an early hour, to scout
up the Muskingum. They ranged diligently all day without seeing any
Indians, or discovering signs of their being in the neighborhood. Just
at night, as they were returning to the garrison by a cow-path, and had
come within a mile of home, two Indians rose from behind a log, fifty
yards before them, and fired. Rogers was shot through the heart, and as
he fell, Henderson attempted to support him, but he told him he was a
dead man, and he must provide for his own safety. He turned to escape
down the side of the ridge, to the bottom, and two more savages who
had reserved their fire, rose and discharged their rifles at him as he
ran; one of the balls passing through the collar of his hunting-shirt,
the other through the silk handkerchief which was bound round his
head, and formed a part of a ranger’s dress, barely grazing the scalp.
His blanket, folded like a knapsack on his back, probably saved his
life,--shielding the vital part by its numerous folds, from the passage
of a bullet. The Indians well knew what a protection this would be,
and therefore aimed at his head. After running a few hundred yards on
the back track, he discovered that the savages had taken a shorter
course and got ahead of him, and making a short turn to the right, up
a ravine, he crossed the ridge and came out into the valley of Duck
Creek, unmolested. While making this detour, he fell quite unexpectedly
on the camp of the savages, and saw one busily engaged in kindling a
fire, and so diligently occupied that he did not observe the white man.
Henderson could easily have shot him, but as his pursuers had lost the
direction of his course, he thought it imprudent by firing to give them
notice of his whereabouts, and went on to the garrison at the point.
The alarm gun was fired, and answered from Fort Harmer and Campus
Martius. The story spread through the village that Rogers had been
killed, and Henderson chased to the garrison by Indians, who were then
besieging its gates. The darkness of night added to the confusion of
the scene. The order, in case of an alarm, was for every man to repair
to his alarm post, and the women and children to the blockhouses. Some
idea of the proceedings of the night may be obtained from the narration
of an eye-witness:
“‘The first applicant for admission to the central blockhouse was Col.
Sproat, with a box of papers for safe keeping; then came some young men
with their arms; next, a woman with her bed and her children; and after
her, old William Moultin, from Newburyport, with his leathern apron
full of old goldsmith’s tools and tobacco. His daughter, Anna, brought
the china tea-pot, cups and saucers. Lydia brought the great bible;
but when all were in, ‘mother’ was missing. Where was mother? She must
be killed by the Indians. ‘No,’ says Lydia, ‘mother said she would not
leave the house _looking so_; she would put things a little to rights.’
After a while the old lady arrived, bringing the looking-glass, knives
and forks, etc.’”
From the commencement of the settlement, the Sabbath had been kept as
a day of rest; and from 1789, regular service was performed in the
north-west block-house at Campus Martius. The military law required
the regular muster of troops every Sunday at ten o’clock. They were
paraded by beat of drum, the roll called, arms inspected, and then the
procession, headed by Colonel Sproat with drawn sword, the clergyman
and the civil officers, with accompaniment of fife and drum, marched
into the hall appropriated for divine service. The arms of the soldiers
were placed by their sides, or in some convenient place, ready for use.
“One Sunday morning in the latter part of September, Peter Niswonger,
one of the rangers, went to visit a field he had planted with corn
and potatoes, on the east side of Duck Creek. He had some fattened
hogs in a pen, one of which he found killed, and a portion of the meat
cut out and carried off. Several hills of potatoes had been dug, and
in the loose earth he discovered fresh moccasin tracks; a proof that
Indians had done the mischief. Peter hurried back to the garrison at
the point, and gave the alarm. It was in the midst of morning service,
and the inhabitants were generally assembled in the large block-house.
The instant the words, ‘Indians in the neighborhood,’ were heard, the
drummer seized his drum, and rushing out at the door, began to beat the
long roll; the well known signal for every man to hasten to his post.
The place of worship, so quiet a few minutes before, was now a scene
of alarm and confusion. The women caught up their little children and
hastened homeward, and the place of prayer was abandoned for that day.
Anxiety for the fate of their brothers and husbands, who had gone in
pursuit of the dreaded enemy, banished all thoughts but the silent,
fervent prayer for their safe return. A party was soon mustered of
five or six of the rangers, several volunteer citizens, and soldiers
from the company stationed at the point. The men went up in canoes to
the mouth of Duck Creek, where they left their water-craft. The more
experienced rangers soon fell upon the trail, which they traced across
wide bottoms, to the Little Muskingum. At a point about half a mile
below where Conner’s mill now stands, the Indians forded the creek;
and about a mile eastward, in a hollow between the hills, was seen the
smoke of their camp fire. The rangers now divided the volunteers into
two flanking parties, with one of the spies at the head of each; three
of their number acting in front. By the time the ‘flankers’ had come
within range of the camp, the Indians discovered their foes, by the
noise of soldiers who lagged behind and were not so cautious in their
movements, and instantly fled up the run on which they were encamped;
two of their number leaving the main body, and ascending the point of a
hill with a ravine on the right and left. The rangers now fired, while
the Indians, each taking his tree, returned the shot. One of the two
savages on the spur of the ridge was wounded by one of the spies on
the right, who pushed on manfully to gain the enemy’s flank. The men
in front came on more slowly, and as they began to ascend the point of
the ridge, Ned Henderson, who was posted on high ground, cried, ‘Hence!
there is an Indian behind that white oak; he will kill some of you!’
One of the white men instantly sprang behind a large tree; another
behind a hickory too small to cover more than half his body, while
the third jumped into the ravine. At the instant the Indian fired, he
looked over the edge of the bank to see the effect of the shot, and saw
the man behind the hickory wiping the dust of the bark from his eyes;
the ball having grazed the tree without doing him any injury except
cutting his nose with the splinters. At the same time the Indian fell,
pierced with several balls.”
“The first Sunday school was taught by Mrs. Andrew Lake, a
kind-hearted, pious old lady from New York, who had brought up a family
of children herself, and therefore felt the more for others; she took
compassion on the children of the garrison, who were spending the
Sabbath afternoons in frivolous amusements, and established a school
in her own dwelling. After parson Story’s services were finished,
she regularly assembled as many of the younger children as she could
persuade to attend, and taught them the Westminster catechism, and
lessons from the Bible, for about an hour. Her scholars amounted
to about twenty in number. She was very kind and affectionate
towards them, so that they were fond of assembling to listen to
her instructions. Her explanations of Scripture were so simple and
childlike, that the smallest of the little ones could understand them,
and were rendered very pleasant by her mild manner of speaking. The
accommodations for the children were very rude and simple, consisting
only of a few low stools and benches, such a thing as a chair being
unknown in the garrison. One of her scholars, then a little boy of
four years old, who gave me a sketch of the school, says--for lack of
a seat he was one day placed by the kind old lady on the top of a bag
of meal, that stood leaning against the side of the room. The seed
thus charitably sown in faith and hope, was not scattered in vain; as
several of her scholars became prominent members of the church.”
The offer of lands for military service brought new emigrants from
Pennsylvania and Virginia, and the firmness and wisdom of directors
and agents, backed by the counsel of old Revolutionary officers,
preserved the settlement in the midst of formidable dangers. Among
other inconveniences brought by war, the mills were stopped, and it was
necessary to grind the corn in hand-mills, though flour might still be
procured at “head-waters.”
There were but two hand-mills in the garrison, and a large coffee-mill,
which had once belonged to a ship of war. The hopper held a peck of
corn, and it was in great demand. After this imperfect grinding, the
finest of the meal was separated with a sieve for bread, and the coarse
boiled with a piece of venison or bear’s meat, making a rich and
nourishing diet, well suited to the tastes of the hungry pioneers.
One instance of strict honor, in the midst of privation is mentioned
of the wife of an officer in the United States’ service, and one of
the most worthy men in the colony. During the period of the greatest
distress, the mother had consented to cook for a young man who owned
a lot adjoining hers, and ate his meals at his own cabin. While the
bread, which was made of musty meal, was baking, she always sent her
children out to play, and when baked, locked it immediately in the
owner’s chest, lest they should see it, and cry for a piece of what
she had no right to give them. When a few kernels of corn chanced to
be dropped in grinding, the children would pick them up like chickens,
and eat them. A few of the inhabitants had cows, for which, in summer,
the forest afforded ample provender. In the latter part of the winter,
the sap of the sugar maple, boiled down with meal, made a rich and
nutritious food; and the tree was so abundant, that as large quantities
of sugar were made as the number of kettles in the settlement would
permit. By the middle of July, the new corn was in the milk, and fit
for roasting; and this, with squashes, beans, etc., put an end to fears
of actual starvation. So urgent was the necessity, that these different
vegetables, before they were fully formed, were gathered and boiled
together, with a little meal, into a kind of soup much relished. It was
even said that the dogs would get at and devour the young corn.
Under these discouraging circumstances, the inhabitants contributed
all the money they could raise, and sent two active young men by land
to “Red Stone,” to procure supplies of salt meat and a few barrels of
flour. It was a hazardous journey, on account of the inclemency of the
weather--it being early in December--and danger from the Indians, who
since St. Clair’s defeat were more active in harassing the settlements.
The young men, however, reached head waters, and made the necessary
purchases, which they were about sending down the river when it was
suddenly closed by ice. Nothing, meanwhile, was heard of them at home,
and the winter wore away in uncertainty, some supposing the messengers
had gone off with the money, and others that they had been killed by
the savages. The ice broke up the last of February with a flood that
inundated the ground on which the garrison was built, and early in
March the young men arrived with a small Kentucky boat loaded with
supplies, and entering the garrison by the upper gate, moored their
ark at the door of the commandant, to the great relief and joy of the
inhabitants.
The expedition of Gen. Harmar having failed of its object, the
north-west territory was still a battle-ground for confederate tribes
from Lakes Erie and Michigan, from the Illinois, the Wabash, and the
Miamis. The famous chief, Little Turtle, was at their head. This
failure having made a deep impression, there was a demand for a greater
force under the command of a more experienced general; and Arthur St.
Clair was selected as most capable of restoring American affairs in
the north-west. His army was assembled at Cincinnati with the object
of destroying the Miami towns. Gen. St. Clair’s defeat on a branch of
the Wabash, November 4th, 1791, was one of the heaviest disasters in
the annals of savage warfare. Its effect was to expose the whole range
of frontier settlements on the Ohio, to the fury of the Indians, and
spread so much alarm among the inhabitants, that many talked of leaving
the country. Their final determination, however, was to stay and defend
their property, and the ensuing winter, in spite of disasters, brought
fresh arrivals of colonists. During the continuance of the war, the men
were obliged to work their fields with arms in their hands; parties of
fifteen or twenty laboring, while three or four were posted as sentries
in the edge of the woods or enclosure. Thus food for their families was
obtained at the risk of the rifle or the tomahawk.
The year 1791 was more fruitful of tragic events in the vicinity of
Marietta than any other. After that time the Indians were occupied
in defending their own borders, or their villages, against American
troops, and had little time for hostile incursions. The expenses
in which the war had involved the Ohio Company, caused the failure
of payment for the lands; petitions were presented to Congress for
donation lots, and those emigrants who came after the termination of
Indian hostilities obtained better lands, on more favorable terms,
than those who had undergone all the privations, labors, and sufferings
which preceded the privileged season.
“The winter of 1791-2,” says Spencer in his narrative, “was followed
by an early and delightful spring; indeed, I have often thought that
our first western winters were much milder, our springs earlier, and
our autumns longer than they now are. On the last of February, some of
the trees were putting forth their foliage; in March, the red-bud, the
hawthorn and the dog-wood in full bloom checkered the hills, displaying
their beautiful colors of rose and lily; and in April the ground was
covered with the May apple, bloodroot, ginseng, violets, and a great
variety of herbs and flowers. Flocks of parroquets were seen, decked
in their rich plumage of green and gold. Birds of every species and of
every hue, were flitting from tree to tree; and the beautiful redbird,
and the untaught songster of the west, made the woods vocal with their
melody. Now might be heard the plaintive wail of the dove, and now
the rumbling drum of the partridge, or the loud gobble of the turkey.
Here might be seen the clumsy bear, doggedly moving off, or urged by
pursuit into a laboring gallop, retreating to his citadel in the top
of some lofty tree; or--approached suddenly--raising himself erect in
the attitude of defence, facing his enemy and waiting his approach;
there the timid deer, watchfully resting, or cautiously feeding, or
aroused from his thicket, gracefully bounding off, then stopping,
erecting his stately head and for a moment gazing around, or snuffing
the air to ascertain his enemy, instantly springing off, clearing logs
and bushes at a bound, and soon distancing his pursuers. It seemed an
earthly paradise; and but for apprehension of the wily copperhead, who
lay silently coiled among the leaves, or beneath the plants, waiting
to strike his victim; the horrid rattlesnake, who more chivalrous,
however, with head erect amidst its ample folds, prepared to dart upon
his foe, generously with the loud noise of his rattle apprised him of
danger; and the still more fearful and insidious savage, who, crawling
upon the ground, or noiselessly approaching behind trees and thickets,
sped the deadly shaft or fatal bullet, you might have fancied you were
in the confines of Eden or the borders of Elysium.”
The author of “Miami County Traditions,” says: “The country all around
the settlement presented the most lovely appearance; the earth was
like an ash-heap, and nothing could exceed the luxuriance of primitive
vegetation; indeed, our cattle often died from excess of feeding, and
it was somewhat difficult to rear them on that account. The white-weed,
or bee-harvest, as it is called, so profusely spread over our bottom
and woodlands, was not then seen among us; the sweet annis, nettles,
wild rye, and pea-vine, now so scarce, every where abounded; they were
almost the entire herbage of our bottoms; the two last gave subsistence
to our cattle, and the first, with our nutritious roots, were eaten by
our swine with the greatest avidity. In the spring and summer months, a
drove of hogs could be scented at a considerable distance, from their
flavor of the annis root.”
When Gen. Putnam had concluded a treaty with the Indians on the Wabash,
fourteen of the chiefs came to Marietta, November 17th, 1792, under
the escort of American officers. The next day a public dinner was
given to them at Campus Martius, to which the officers of the garrison
and the citizens of Marietta were invited. The procession was formed
on the bank of the Ohio, where the boat landed, and the chiefs were
conducted, with martial music, to the north-east gate of the garrison,
a salute of fourteen guns being fired as soon as the head of the column
appeared in sight. The procession then moved through the gate to the
dining hall, a room twenty-four by forty feet large, in the hall of
the north-west block-house, where the feast provided had been arranged
by the ladies of the garrison. An eye-witness says: “The entertainment
was very novel, and the scene peculiar and striking. Shut up in the
garrison, and at war with the other tribes of the forest, shaking hands
with our red guests, and passing from one to another the appellation
of _brother_! It seemed to renew the scenes of the first year’s
settlement, and make us almost forget war was upon our border.”
After the banquet and ceremonies were concluded, the chiefs were again
conducted to their boats. The next day they were invited by several
gentlemen of the stockade garrison at the point, to smoke the pipe of
friendship; after which they proceeded on their journey.
Another of the female pioneers whose name tradition has preserved,
is Sally Fleehart, who became the wife of John Warth, a noted hunter
and ranger, and lived in one of the barracks. Warth learned to read
and write in the intervals of his ranging tours, and after the peace
settled in Virginia, and served as a magistrate, becoming a wealthy
planter and owning a number of slaves. His success was attributable to
the education given him by his wife, who had been brought up on the
frontier, and possessed not only unusual intellectual cultivation for
that class, but all the intrepidity and activity common to women at
that day, in a remarkable degree. She could fire a rifle with great
accuracy, and bring down a bird on the wing, or a squirrel from the
tree, as readily as could the practised arm of her husband.
The women resident in the forts had but little respite from anxiety
and dread, except in the depths of winter, when the Indians rarely
committed depredations, or lay in watch about the settlements. As
soon, however, as the wild geese, seen in flocks steering their
course northward, or the frogs piping in the swamp, gave token of
the approach of the more genial season, the return of the savage foe
might be expected. Thus the more timid part of the community, and the
elder females never welcomed the coming of spring with the hilarity
it generally awakens, preferring the “melancholy days” of gloom
and tempest, when they and their children were comparatively safe;
regarding the budding of trees and opening of wild flowers with sad
forebodings, and listening to the song of birds as a prelude to the
warcry of the relentless savage. The barking of the faithful watchdog
at night was another cause of terror, associated as it was with
visions of the Indian lurking in his covert; and it was seldom heard
by the timid mother without raising her head from the pillow to listen
anxiously for the sound of the distant warwhoop, or the report of the
sentry’s rifle; to sink again into uneasy slumber, and dream of some
wild deed or fearful occurrence. Some amusing incidents are related
of the alarm created in a garrison by the sudden outcry of persons who
were dreaming of Indian assault. This part of the suffering peculiar to
those times, can hardly be imagined in our days of peace and security.
One instance of the confusion created by a false alarm may be
given:--“One dark and rainy night in June, while John Wint, a youth
of eighteen, was on the watch in the tower of the middle blockhouse,
he saw by a flash of lightning a darklooking object climbing over a
log, which lay about fifty yards from the fort. A report had been
previously circulated of Indians being seen in the neighborhood, and
this appeared about the height of a man. At the next flash John hailed
and fired the same instant. All remained quiet outside; but the report
awakened every body within the garrison, and men came running from all
quarters in great alarm, thinking the savages were already upon them,
for no sentinel ever fired without good cause. The women came hurrying
along with their screaming children, and the soldiers with their guns
ready for service. In the midst of the tumult, Col. Sproat was soon on
the ground, and questioned the sentinel closely as to what he had seen
or heard. John was rather confused at the disturbance he had raised
without being able to state some more definite cause than the dark body
bearing resemblance to a man, which he had seen standing on a log. He
said he had fired at a white spot he saw above its head by the flash of
lightning, and there were many surmises as to what it could be; some
thinking it must be an Indian, others protesting John had fired at
nothing to see the fun of a night alarm, as he was known to be fond of
a little harmless sport. No further signs of the enemy were discovered,
as no one would venture out in the dark to reconnoitre for savages.
In the morning, after the gates were opened, a party went to the log
pointed out by John, and found a large black dog, which belonged to
one of the soldiers, with a rifle shot through the centre of a white
spot in his forehead.” The accuracy of the shot attested the sentry’s
excellence as a marksman, though much useless anxiety had been excited
by his mistake.
This is a brief notice of the earliest settlement in Ohio, the germ
whence has sprung a great and powerful State. The termination of the
Indian war, brought about by the victorious campaign of Gen. Anthony
Wayne, and the conclusion of the treaty at Greenville in 1795, restored
peace to the harassed settlements; mills were erected, roads opened,
and the inhabitants who had so long been immured within the walls of
forts, went forth to till their grounds and clear away the forest
unembarrassed by the dread of a lurking enemy.
Brickell, in his narrative of captivity among the Indians, relates a
curious anecdote of the escape of Mrs. Jane Dick. “Her husband had
concerted a plan with the captain of the vessel which brought the
presents, to steal her from the Indians. The captain concerted a plan
with a black man who cooked for McKee and Elliot, to steal Mrs. Dick.
The black man arranged it with Mrs. Dick to meet him at midnight in a
copse of underwood, which she did, and he took her on board in a small
canoe, and headed her up in an empty hogs-head, where she remained till
the day after the vessel sailed, about thirty-six hours. I remember
well that every camp and the woods were searched for her, and that the
vessel was searched; for the Indians immediately suspected that she was
on board, but not thinking of unheading hogsheads, they could not find
her.” This happened the summer before Wayne’s campaign.
* * * * *
Mary Heckewelder, the daughter of Rev. John Heckewelder, whose early
labors as a Moravian missionary among the Indians are well known, is
said to have been the first white child born in Ohio. The following
sketch was sent by her to the editor of the American Pioneer: “I was
born April 16th, 1781, in Salem, one of the Moravian Indian towns on
the Muskingum river, Ohio. Soon after my birth, times becoming very
troublesome, the settlements were often in danger from war parties, and
from an encampment of warriors near Gnadenhutten; and finally, in the
beginning of September of the same year, we were all made prisoners.
First, four of the missionaries were seized by a party of Huron
warriors, and declared prisoners of war; they were then led into the
camp of the Delawares, where the death-song was sung over them. Soon
after they had secured them, a number of warriors marched off for Salem
and Schönbrunn. About thirty savages arrived at the former place in the
dusk of the evening, and broke open the mission-house. Here they took
my mother and myself prisoners, and having led her into the street and
placed guards over her, they plundered the house of everything they
could take with them and destroyed what was left. Then going to take my
mother along with them, the savages were prevailed upon, through the
intercession of the Indian females, to let her remain at Salem till the
next morning--the night being dark and rainy, and almost impossible for
her to travel so far. They consented on condition that she should be
brought into the camp the next morning, which was accordingly done, and
she was safely conducted by our Indians to Gnadenhutten.
“After experiencing the cruel treatment of the savages for some
time, they were set at liberty again; but were obliged to leave
their flourishing settlements and forced to march through a dreary
wilderness to Upper Sandusky. We went by land through Goshachguenk to
the Walholding, and then partly by water and partly along the banks of
the river, to Sandusky creek. All the way I was carried by an Indian
woman, carefully wrapped in a blanket, on her back. Our journey was
exceedingly tedious and dangerous; some of the canoes sunk, and those
that were in them lost all their provisions and everything they had
saved. Those that went by land drove the cattle, a pretty large herd.
The savages now drove us along, the missionaries with their families
usually in the midst, surrounded by their Indian converts. The roads
were exceedingly bad, leading through a continuation of swamps.
“Having arrived at Upper Sandusky, they built small huts of logs and
bark to screen them from the cold, having neither beds nor blankets,
and being reduced to the greatest poverty and want; for the savages
had by degrees stolen almost everything both from the missionaries and
Indians on the journey. We lived here extremely poor, often having very
little or nothing to satisfy the cravings of hunger; and the poorest
of the Indians were obliged to live upon their dead cattle, which died
for want of pasture.
“After living in this dreary wilderness, in danger, poverty, and
distress of all sorts, a written order arrived in March, 1782, sent by
the governor to the half-king of the Hurons and to an English officer
in his company, to bring all the missionaries and their families to
Detroit, but with a strict order not to plunder nor abuse them in the
least. The missionaries were overwhelmed with grief at the idea of
being separated from their Indians; but there being no alternative,
they were obliged to submit to this, one of the heaviest of their
trials. The poor Indians came weeping to bid them farewell, and
accompanied them a considerable way, some as far as Lower Sandusky.
Here we were obliged to spend several nights in the open air, and
suffered great cold besides other hardships. April 14th, we set out and
crossed over a part of the lake, and arrived at Detroit by the straits
which join Lakes Erie and Huron. We were lodged in the barracks by
order of the governor. Some weeks after, we left the barracks with his
consent and moved into a house at a small distance from the town.
“The Indian converts gathering around their teachers, they resolved,
with the consent of the governor, to begin the building of a new
settlement upon a spot about thirty miles from Detroit, on the river
Huron, which they called New Gnadenhutten, and which increased
considerably from time to time. Here I lived till the year 1785, when I
set out with an aged missionary couple to be educated in the school at
Bethlehem.”
The murder of the Moravian Indians was one of the most atrocious
transactions in the history of the West. They consisted chiefly of
Delawares, with a few Mohicans; had been converted to Christianity
through the zeal and influence of Moravian missionaries, and had lived
ten years quietly in their villages of Gnadenhutten, Schönbrunn, Salem,
and Lichtenau. Although in friendship with the whites, they fell under
the displeasure of the border settlers, who suspected them of aiding
and abetting the hostile savages; an expedition against them was
undertaken in March, 1782, after some Indian incursions, by a party of
men chiefly from the Monongahela, led by Col. David Williamson; they
were induced by assurances of good-will, to assemble at Gnadenhutten,
and there were deliberately massacred in cold blood. It is said that
the number of killed was ninety-six, including women and children. Two
only of the devoted Indians made their escape.
* * * * *
“Ruhama Greene was born and raised in Jefferson County, Virginia.
In 1785, she married Charles Builderback, and with him crossed the
mountains and settled at the mouth of Short Creek, on the east bank of
the Ohio, a few miles above Wheeling. Her husband, a brave man, had on
many occasions distinguished himself in repelling the Indians, who had
often felt the aim of his unerring rifle. They therefore determined at
all hazards to kill him.
“On a beautiful summer morning in June, 1789, at a time when it was
thought the enemy had abandoned the western shores of the Ohio, Capt.
Charles Builderback, his wife and brother, Jacob Builderback, crossed
the Ohio to look after some cattle. On reaching the shore, a party of
fifteen or twenty Indians rushed out from an ambush, and firing upon
them, wounded Jacob in the shoulder. Charles was taken while he was
running to escape. Jacob returned to the canoe and got away. In the
mean time, Mrs. Builderback secreted herself in some drift-wood, near
the bank of the river. As soon as the Indians had secured and tied her
husband, not being able to discover her hiding-place, they compelled
him, with threats of immediate death, to call her to him. With a hope
of appeasing their fury, he did so. She heard him, but made no answer.
Here, to use her words,--‘a struggle took place in my breast, which I
cannot describe. Shall I go to him and become a prisoner, or shall I
remain, return to our cabin and provide for and take care of our two
children?’ He shouted to her a second time to come to him, saying, that
if she obeyed, perhaps it would be the means of saving his life. She
no longer hesitated, but left her place of safety, and surrendered
herself to his savage captors. All this took place in full view of
their cabin, on the opposite shore, where they had left their two
children, one a son about three years of age, and an infant daughter.
The Indians, knowing that they would be pursued as soon as the news of
their visit reached the stockade at Wheeling, commenced their retreat.
Mrs. Builderback and her husband travelled together that day and the
following night. The next morning, the Indians separated into two
bands, one taking Builderback, and the other his wife, and continued a
westward course by different routes.
“In a few days, the band having Mrs. Builderback in custody, reached
the Tuscarawas river, where they encamped, and were soon rejoined by
the band that had her husband in charge. Here the murderers exhibited
his scalp on the top of a pole, and to convince her that they had
killed him, pulled it down and threw it into her lap. She recognised it
at once by the redness of his hair. She said nothing, and uttered no
complaint. It was evening; her ears pained with the terrific yells of
the savages, and wearied by constant travelling, she reclined against
a tree and fell into a profound sleep, and forgot all her sufferings,
until morning. When she awoke, the scalp of her murdered husband was
gone, and she never learned what became of it.[25]
“As soon as the capture of Builderback was known at Wheeling, a party
of scouts set off in pursuit, and taking the trail of one of the bands,
followed it until they found the body of Builderback. He had been
tomahawked and scalped, and apparently suffered a lingering death.
“The Indians, on reaching their towns on the Big Miami, adopted Mrs.
Builderback into a family, with whom she resided until released from
captivity. She remained a prisoner about nine months, performing the
labor and drudgery of squaws, such as carrying in meat from the hunting
grounds, preparing and drying it, making moccasins, leggins and other
clothing for the family in which she lived. After her adoption she
suffered much from the rough and filthy manner of Indian living, but
had no cause to complain of ill-treatment otherwise.
“In a few months after her capture, some friendly Indians informed
the commandant at Fort Washington, that there was a white woman in
captivity at the Miami towns. She was ransomed and brought into the
fort, and in a few weeks was sent up the river to her lonely cabin,
and the embrace of her two orphan children. She then recrossed the
mountains, and settled in her native county.
“In 1791, Mrs. Builderback married Mr. John Greene, and in 1798, they
emigrated to the Hockhocking valley, and settled about three miles
west of Lancaster, where she continued to reside until the time of her
death, about the year 1842. She survived her last husband about ten
years.”[26]
XI.
REBECCA ROUSE.
Among other families who ventured on the long and perilous journey from
the granite soil of New England, in the year 1788, a year never to be
forgotten in the annals of Ohio, were those of John Rouse and Jonathan
Devoll. Before the period of the Revolution, Mr. Rouse had followed the
vocation of a whaleman and seaman, from the port of New Bedford, and
was now living on a small farm in the town of Rochester, Massachusetts,
near the little harbor of Mattepoisett. His family consisted of a
wife and eight children. Capt. Jonathan Haskell, who also lived in
Rochester, and had been an officer in the war, joined him in fitting
out the expedition, and furnished a large covered wagon and two of the
horses, Mr. Rouse furnishing the other two. An active young man, named
Cushing, who wished to settle in the west, was employed to drive the
wagon. As the journey was a long one, they took as few articles of
beds, bedding, and cooking utensils, as they could possibly do with
on the road. Their clothing and other goods were packed in trunks and
large wooden boxes made to fit the inside of the wagon.
The parting from their old neighbors at Mattepoisett, was one of much
tenderness, accompanied by many hearty adieus and sincere prayers for
their welfare on the journey, and their happiness in that far away
region. No one, at this day, can imagine with what dread and awe a
journey to the new territory west of the Ohio, was then viewed by the
simple-hearted people of New England. A party of young ladies, on
horseback, accompanied the females as far as “The Long-plain,” distant
six miles. Here they tarried for about a week amongst their kinsfolk
and former neighbors; for at this place Rouse had lived many years, and
here most of the children had been born.
The morning they left Mattepoisett, an interesting occurrence took
place which shows the strong attachment of the female heart to home
and relatives. A rich old farmer of that place, who had taken a great
liking to Bathsheba, the eldest daughter, and was anxious that his
son should obtain her for a wife, offered to give her by deed a nice
farm and good dwelling-house, if she would stay amongst them and not
go with the family to the West. But her affection for her parents,
sisters, and brothers was too great to forego the pleasure of their
society probably for the rest of her life, and the offer was declined,
much to the sorrow of the generous old man. The week flew rapidly away
in social intercourse with their kindred, and solemn and sorrowful
were the greetings of the farewell hour. The distance was so great,
and the dangers of the wilderness so many, that they all thought the
parting was to be final as to this world; and so indeed it proved to
the larger portion of them. Capt. Haskell joined them that morning from
Rochester, and early in October, 1788, they took their departure from
“The Long-plain,” and commenced their arduous journey to Muskingum, as
the new settlement was then called. They reached Providence the second
day, at evening--at which place they were joined by the family of
Jonathan Devoll, composed of Mrs. Devoll and five children. Mrs. Nancy
Devoll was the sister of Mrs. Rouse. Her husband had been absent nearly
a year, attached to the party of pioneers sent by the Ohio company
the autumn previous. He was the naval architect of the “May-flower,”
which conveyed the first detachment of men from Simrel’s Ferry, on
the Yohiogany, to the mouth of the Muskingum, and one of the first
who landed the 7th of April, 1788, on the soil of the present State
of Ohio. Their large covered wagon, with four horses, was fitted up
in a similar style to the other, and was driven by Isaac Barker, an
only brother of the married females, who had left a wife and family in
Rochester, till he could return and bring them the following year.
After travelling through New England, New York, and Pennsylvania, early
in November the pilgrims reached the foot of the mountain ranges, and
commenced the ascent of those rocky barriers which divide the sources
of the Susquehanna river from those which fall into the Ohio.
The evening after they left Carlisle, they were overtaken by an old
acquaintance and neighbor, who was also with his family on his way to
Muskingum. He had started about the same time with the others, with
an ox team of three yokes, and by dint of steady and late driving,
had managed to keep within a day’s march of them, and here, by making
a little extra exertion, he overtook them. Ox teams were preferred
to horses by many of the early New England emigrants, in their long
journeys to the new purchase. Probably one reason for this was their
greater familiarity with their use as beasts of draught; another, that
they were much better suited to work among stumps and logs, and were
also much less likely to be stolen by the Indians. Their rate of travel
was a little slower than that of the horse, but they could make about
twenty miles a day where the roads were good.
The roads at that day, across the mountains, were the worst that we can
imagine, cut into deep gullies on one side by mountain rains, while the
other was filled with blocks of sandstone. The descents were abrupt,
and often resembled the breaks in a flight of stone stairs, whose
lofty steps were built for the children of Titan rather than the sons
of men. As few of the emigrant wagons were provided with lock-chains
for the wheels, the downward impetus was checked by a large log, or
broken tree top, tied with a rope to the back of the wagon and dragged
along on the ground. In other places, the road was so sideling that all
the men who could be spared were required to pull at the side stays,
or short ropes attached to the upper side of the wagons, to prevent
their upsetting. By dividing their forces with Isaac, they made out to
prevent any serious accidents of this kind, although it seemed many
times impossible to prevent it. The ground, naturally moist and springy
on the sides of the mountains, was now rendered very muddy and wet
by the November rains, which had begun to fall almost daily. As they
approached the middle and higher ranges, the rain was changed to snow
and sleet, which added still more to the difficulties and dreariness
of the way. From the weight of the loaded wagons and the abrupt
acclivities of the road, it fell to the lot of the women and children
to walk up all the steep ascents--it being beyond the power of the
horses to pull their additional weight up many of the sharp pitches of
the mountains. The children often stuck by the way, or lost their shoes
in the mud, occasioning a world of trouble to the elder girls, to whose
share it fell to look after the welfare of the little ones.
After crossing the “Blue mountain,” the “Middle,” and the “Tuscarora
mountain,” late one Saturday evening they descended into the “Ahwick
valley,” and Mr. Rouse’s family put up at the house of an honest
German Dunkard, named Christian Hiples; while the other two teams
went to an old tavern stand, well known to the early pack-horsemen
and borderers of that region. This was a quiet and tolerably fertile
valley, environed by mountains. In it was seated old “Fort Littleton,”
and under the protection of its walls had sprung up, many years ago,
quite a thriving settlement, with a number of fine plantations. All
this part of the country, and as far east as Carlisle, had been, about
twenty-five years before, depopulated by the depredations of the
Indians. Many of the present inhabitants well remembered those days of
trial, and could not see these helpless women and children moving so
far away into the wilderness as Ohio, without expressing their fears at
the danger they would incur from the deadly hate of the Indians.
They tarried over the Sabbath, and the following Monday, under the
hospitable roof of this Christian Dunkard--whose long white beard,
reaching to the waist, greatly excited the curiosity of the children.
His family consisted of several young women, who treated the wayfaring
females with great kindness; heating their huge out-of-door oven for
them, and assisting them in the baking of a large batch of bread
for the journey, with many other acts of true Christian charity. On
Tuesday morning, when they departed, they loaded them with potatoes and
vegetables from their garden, as many as they would venture to carry,
without making any charge. They parted from them with many prayers and
good wishes for their welfare on the road, and the happy termination
of their long and perilous journey. The inhabitants generally treated
them kindly, and the further they advanced into the confines of the
wilderness, and left the older settlements, the more hospitality
abounded. They received them more readily into their houses, and more
willingly assisted them with their cooking utensils, or any other thing
they possessed, or the wayfarers needed.
While the travellers in Rouse’s wagon were treated so kindly, Isaac,
who was excitable and very headstrong, met with rather rough usage from
the hand of the old inn-keeper with whom he put up. This man had been
a great bruiser in his younger days, and had lost one eye in some of
these frays; a thing not at all uncommon among the early borderers. He
was naturally a rough man, and the loss of his eye added still more to
his ferocious appearance. It seems that he had placed the rounds of
the rack, in his stable, so close together it was next to impossible
for the horses to pull any of the hay through, so that, although there
was plenty before them, they were none the better for it. Isaac could
not stand quietly by and say nothing, when his hard-working horses
needed their food so much; and then to pay for that they did not eat
besides! He remonstrated with the landlord on the matter, but received
only abuse for his pains. After paying back a little of the same coin,
he fell to work and broke out every other round. The old fellow then
fell upon Isaac, determined to give him a sound beating; but in this he
was sadly mistaken, and got very roughly handled himself. The horses,
however, got plenty of hay, and Isaac told him he should be back again
in the spring, and if he found the slats replaced, he would give him
another and still sounder thrashing.
Three days after leaving the quiet valley, with much exertion and many
narrow escapes from oversetting, they reached the little village of
Bedford. During this period they had crossed “Sideling hill,” forded
some of the main branches of the Juniata, and threaded the narrow
valleys along its borders. Every few miles, long strings of pack-horses
met them on the road, bearing heavy burthens of peltry and ginseng, the
two main articles of export from the regions west of the mountains.
Others overtook them loaded with kegs of spirits, salt, and bales of
dry goods, on their way to the traders in Pittsburgh. The fore-horse
generally carried a small bell, which distinguished him as the leader.
One man had the charge of ten horses, which was as many as he could
manage by day, and look after at night. For many years this was the
manner in which nearly all the transportation was done over the
mountains. The roads were nearly impassable for wagons till near the
close of the Indian war, in 1795.
One of their greatest trials was in crossing the Alleghanies. Four
miles beyond Bedford, the road to the right was called the “Pittsburg
road,” while that to the left was called the “Glade road,” and led
to Simrel’s ferry, on the Yohiogany river. This was the route of the
emigrants, and led, as well as the other, across the Alleghany. In
passing this formidable barrier, our travellers were belated; and it
was nearly midnight before they reached the house where they were to
lodge. The night was excessively dark; the whole party, except the
younger children, were on foot, and could only keep the path by feeling
the bushes along the sides of the road. It so happened that Michael
Rouse and Capt. Haskell, who was their only guide, had gone ahead with
the other wagon, and was entirely beyond hail; leaving Isaac, with Mr.
Rouse and all the females, to pick their way along the miry road in the
best manner they could. In the midst of all this gloom, the spirits
of the former never flagged in the least; but the more difficulties
increased the louder he sang, and some of his most cheerful ditties
were echoed that night from the rocky side of the Alleghany. Mr.
Rouse, who had been often exposed to winds and storms, could not stand
the trudging along, ancle deep, in the mud and dark, without venting
his feelings in many a hearty curse on the vexations of the night. When
about a mile from the house, they were unexpectedly cheered at hearing
the lively whistle of Michael; and directly after, in a turn of the
road, espied the light of a lantern brought by Capt. Haskell, who had
returned after putting up his own team, to meet the stragglers and
guide them on the way. A bright fire was blazing on the hearth of the
little log inn, the warmth and sparkling of which soon restored their
spirits. It was past midnight before they had cooked and eaten their
suppers and spread their couches on the puncheon floor of the hut. The
fatigues of the journey caused them to sleep very soundly, and they
awoke the next morning with fresh courage to meet the trials of the day
before them.
In descending the Alleghany, the children and girls were much delighted
at seeing the side of the road covered with the vivid green leaves and
bright scarlet berries of the “partridge bush,” or “checkerberry.” It
was a common fruit at “The Long-plain,” and the sight of it reminded
them of their home and the scenes they had left. For a while the little
boys forgot the fatigues of the road at the sight of this favorite
fruit, and cheered each other with joyous shouts, as fresh patches from
time to time appeared by the side of the way. Even the married females
were exhilarated by the cheerful spirits exhibited by the children,
and partook freely of the spicy fruit which they collected in large
handfuls. As they descended the western slope of the mountains, the
springs of limpid water, which gushed fresh and pure from the earth
along its sides, now ran babbling along to join their puny rills with
those of the Ohio. This range is the dividing ridge between the eastern
and the western streams, and the travellers could now see the waters
which flowed towards the end of their journey.
After reaching the foot of this picturesque range, they had to cross
a region called “The Glades,” an elevated plateau, which, in many
points, bore a strong resemblance to the prairies of the west. The
soil was dark colored, thinly coated with trees, and covered with
coarse grass. In crossing “Laurel ridge,” which bounds the western side
of the glades, and is so named from the profusion of rhododendron,
or rosebay, and kalmia latifolia, or laurel, which cluster along its
rocky sides, the girls and older boys had to walk the whole distance.
The labor was the more difficult from the ground being covered with
snow, which had fallen to the depth of several inches on the sides
and top of the ridge, during the last twenty-four hours; while at the
same time it had been raining in the valley, or table land, between
the ranges. The bushes were bent down by the weight of the snow, and
partly obstructed the path; so that long before they got over, their
shoes were saturated with water, and their clothes were dribbled and
wet half leg high. The “boxberries” still showed their bright scarlet
faces, peeping out beneath the snow and ice, as large as common red
cherries. At the western foot of the ridge, their road was crossed by
a stream too deep for them to ford; and the girls being several miles
ahead of the wagons, whose progress was very slow, were much rejoiced
to find a cabin in which they could rest until the teams came up. The
rendezvous for the night was beyond the creek, as this was the only
place where they could get feed for their horses. While waiting at this
spot, a stout young mountaineer, clad in his hunting-frock and leggins,
came dashing along on a powerful horse, and very kindly, as well as
gallantly, offered to take the girls over the stream, if they would
trust themselves behind him on the horse, and conduct them safely to
the house where they were to stop. But his uncouth dress and their own
natural timidity made them decline the offer, choosing rather to wait
the arrival of their friends. Just at dark they came up, and taking
them into the wagons, they crossed the stream more to their own liking,
if not more safely than under the charge of the young mountaineer.
The following day they crossed “Chesnut ridge,” the last of the
mountain ranges, so named from the immense forests of chesnut trees
that clothe its sides and summit, for nearly the whole of its extent
in Pennsylvania and part of Virginia. The soil is sandy and rocky;
and so exactly adapted to the growth of this tree, that no part of the
world produces it more abundantly. In fruitful years, the hogs, from
a distance of twenty or thirty miles, were driven by the inhabitants,
every autumn, to fatten on its fruit. Bears, wild turkeys, elk and
deer, travelled from afar to this nut-producing region, and luxuriated
on its bountiful crop. The congregations of wild animals, on this
favored tract, made it one of the most celebrated hunting grounds, not
only for the Indians, but also for the white man who succeeded him in
the possession of these mountain regions. The children here loaded
their little pockets with chesnuts, and for a while forgot the pinching
cold of the half frozen leaves and frost covered burrs among which
they were scattered. Not long after crossing this ridge they reached
Simrel’s ferry, on the Yohiogany river. They hailed this spot with
delight, as they were to travel no further in their wagons, but finish
the journey by water. They were also glad on another account; two of
the horses had been failing for some days, were now near giving out,
and in fact died before reaching Buffalo, a small village on the Ohio
river.
It was now near the last of November, and winter fast approaching. In
a short time a boat was procured, as they were kept ready made for the
use of emigrants. The one they bought was about forty feet long and
twelve feet wide, but without any roof, as they could not wait for it
to be finished. On board of this they put their wagons, and contrived
to make a temporary shelter with their linen covers. The horses were
sent by land across the country to Buffalo, at the mouth of Buffalo
creek, distant by this route only fifty-three miles from the ferry, but
more than a hundred by water. This was a common practice with the early
emigrants, as the water of the Yohiogany was too shallow in autumn to
float a boat drawing over eighteen or twenty inches. In the stern of
the boat was a rude fire-place for cooking, and their beds were spread
on the floor of the ark.
After laying in a stock of food, they pushed merrily out into the
current of the “Yoh,” as it was familiarly called by the borderers
of that region, and floated rapidly along, sometimes grazing on the
shallows, and at others grounding on the sandbars. By dint of rowing
and pushing they made out to get on; especially after falling into the
larger current of the Monongahela, and reached Pittsburgh in safety
on Sunday evening. They were now at the junction of these two noble
streams, the Alleghany and Monongahela, and saw the waters of the
charming Ohio, the object of all their toils and were, apparently, at
the end of their journey. Near the point of land where the Ohio first
takes its name, they landed their uncouth and unwieldy water-craft,
making it fast to a stake on the bank. It was late in the afternoon,
and the men went up into the town to purchase some articles needed
to make the families comfortable in their downward voyage. Pittsburg
then contained four or five hundred inhabitants, and several retail
stores, and a small garrison of troops was kept up in Old Fort Pitt. To
our travellers, who had lately seen nothing but trees and rocks, with
here and there a solitary hut, it seemed to be quite a large town. The
houses were chiefly built of logs, but now and then one had begun to
assume the appearance of neatness and comfort.
Capt. Haskell and Mr. Rouse, for some cause now forgotten, did not
return to lodge in the boat, but stayed at the tavern; Michael, Isaac,
and Cushing had gone overland with the horses, so that the women and
children were left alone in the boat. In the middle of the night, one
of the older boys was awakened by the water coming into his bed on
the floor. He immediately raised an outcry, and in the midst of the
darkness, bustle, and confusion of the moment, they found the boat
was half leg deep in the water. Great was the consternation of the
older females, who thought, not without reason, that they must all be
drowned. It so happened that the water was not very deep where the
boat was moored, and as the gunwales rested on the bottom at the depth
of two or three feet, it could sink no further. This disaster was
occasioned by the falling of the river during the night; the land side
of the boat rested on the shore, while the outer corner settled in the
stream until the water ran through the seams in the planking above the
gunwale--they being badly caulked. They hurried on shore as fast as
they could. A kind-hearted man, by the name of Kilbreath, whose house
stood on the bank near the boat, heard the screams of the children, and
taking a light came to their assistance. He invited them all up to his
house and provided them lodging by a good warm fire; he then called
some men to his aid, and before morning, got the wet articles out of
the boat, and assisted the females in drying them. When Mr. Rouse and
Capt. Haskell came back in the morning, they were much chagrined at the
accident; as had they been on board, they thought it could have been
prevented. The next morning Mr. Kilbreath gave them all a nice warm
breakfast, and like the good Samaritan, would take nothing but their
grateful thanks for his trouble. Having baled out the boat and got her
once more afloat, they reloaded their household goods, got on board a
stock of provisions, and prepared to renew their voyage in the course
of the day.
It so happened that there was an old trapper and hunter by the name
of Bruce, who was familiar with the river, just ready to start down
stream in a large canoe, or pereauger, on a trapping expedition for
the winter, on some of the more southern waters; him they engaged for
a pilot, as was the custom in those early days, although there was but
little or no danger from the intricacy of the channel. His canoe was
about forty feet long, and had on board a barrel of flour, some fat
bacon, four beaver traps, a camp kettle, two tin cups, and a light axe.
These, with his rifle, blanket, and ammunition, formed his stock for
the winter. The canoe was lashed alongside the boat, and he came on
board as pilot.
It was near the middle of the afternoon, on Monday, when they put
out from Pittsburgh. The day had been cloudy and threatened rain
from the south. Just at evening the wind shifted to the northwest
and blew quartering across the bend of the river in which they were
then floating. It soon rose to a complete gale, and knocked up such
a sea, as threw the crests of the waves over the side of the boat,
threatening to upset, if not sink, the unwieldy craft. In this dilemma,
the pilot and all hands exerted their utmost at the oars, to bring
the boat to land on the “Federal,” or Pennsylvania shore; but the wind
and the waves were both adverse. The boat could have been landed on
the right, or “Indian shore,” but they feared to do so, lest in the
night they should fall into the hands of the Indians, who although
it was apparently a time of peace, robbed the boats and killed the
straggling whites at every favorable opportunity. The large pereauger
bounded and thumped against the side of the boat, threatening to break
in the planks, and was cut loose by the hand of the pilot. In this
extremity, when every fresh wave threatened to overwhelm them, Bruce
cried out to his shipmates, in a voice that was easily heard above the
storm, “We must put over to the Indian shore, or every man, woman and
child will be lost!” Previous to this, the more feeble portion of the
passengers had kept tolerably quiet, although exceedingly alarmed; but
this announcement, to the women and children, sounded like their death
knell, and the boat instantly resounded with their screams of despair.
Capt. Haskell, who had been accustomed to perils of various kinds, and
was a man of iron nerves, did what he could to calm their terrors.
Bruce, who was in fact a skilful pilot, as well as a brave man,
instantly laid the bow of the boat over to the Indian shore. The wind
and the waves both favored the movement, and with a little aid from the
oars in a few minutes she was riding in safety under a high point of
land, which sheltered them from the wind in comparatively quiet water.
The sudden transition from the jaws of death to this tranquil haven,
filled the hearts of the females with songs of gratitude; and the
boat was hardly moored to the bank before they sprung upon the land,
rejoiced once more to tread the solid earth, although it was the
dreaded Indian shore. Bruce soon kindled a fire by the side of a large
fallen tree, and setting up some forked sticks and poles, stretched
some blankets across, in such a way as to make a rude tent. Beneath
this shelter they spread their beds, choosing rather to risk the chance
of an attack from Indians than to trust themselves on the water again
that night. From the hunting camp of some white men, whose smoke the
pilot had noticed just before the storm came on, he procured a fine
fat saddle of venison, and the whole party feasted with cheerful hearts
that evening on the nice steaks of this delicious meat. Some they
broiled on the coals, while Bruce showed them how to roast it, hunter
fashion, on a hickory skewer filled full of pieces and stuck up in the
earth before the fire; this, with a cup of hot coffee, furnished a
very comfortable meal. They slept undisturbed that night; though ever
and anon, the sighing of the winds in the tops of the trees led the
more timid of the females to fancy they heard the stealthy approach of
Indians.
In the morning, the ground was covered with snow to the depth of
several inches, which had fallen while they were asleep. The day
following the storm was fine and pleasant, and the smooth, calm
surface of the Ohio exhibited a striking contrast to the tumult and
uproar which had agitated its bosom only a few hours before. From
Fort McIntosh, at the mouth of the Beaver, to the new settlement at
Muskingum, no white man had dared to plant himself on the Indian shore
of the river, with the exception of a small blockhouse a few miles
below Buffalo, which some hunters had built as a place to which they
might retreat if attacked by their enemies, while out hunting in the
region west of the river. Even here there was little or no clearing,
and all else was unbroken wilderness. They embarked early in the
morning and reached Buffalo that evening. In the course of the forenoon
they found the pereauger of Bruce lodged on the shore and filled with
water. It still contained the barrel of flour, meat, axe, etc., with
all the traps but one. The buoyancy of the light poplar wood of which
it was made, prevented it from sinking, and the ballast of the traps,
axe, etc., from upsetting; so that, quite unexpectedly, the old trapper
recovered his boat and goods, which he had given up as utterly lost. At
Buffalo, they were greeted with the loud laugh and boisterous welcome
of Isaac, who, with Michael and Shaw, had been waiting one or two days
with the horses for their arrival.
The women and children, still impressed with dread lest another storm
should overtake them, concluded to lodge on shore, and accordingly took
quarters for the night on the floor of a small log hut that stood at
the extremity of the point of land at the mouth of Buffalo creek. In
the morning Mrs. Devoll came near losing a part of her bedding. A gaily
ornamented new woollen blanket had attracted the attention of Mrs.
Riley, the mistress of the cabin, as it lay spread over the sleepers in
the night, and in the hurry and bustle of rolling up the bed clothes,
she adroitly managed to secrete it among her own bedding, stowed away
in the corner of the room. Mrs. Devoll soon missed it, and after a
careful but fruitless search among her own things, did not hesitate to
accuse the woman of secreting it. She roundly denied any knowledge of
the blanket. Being a resolute woman, and determined not to give it up
in this way, Mrs. Devoll made an overhauling of Mrs. Riley’s chattels,
when much to the chagrin and disappointment of the border woman, she
pulled out the lost article, rolled up in her dingy bedding. Thinking
they had recovered all the missing goods, they hurried aboard their
boat at the exciting call of Isaac, who was ready to depart, and in no
very good humor with the hospitality of Mrs. Riley. At Wheeling, where
they stopped for some milk, they discovered, much to their vexation,
that they had also lost a new two-quart measure, which they had brought
all the way with them for the purpose of measuring the milk they should
need to purchase on the road. In a few years after this adventure,
during the Indian war, this family of Rileys, who still lived in the
same spot, were all massacred by the savages.
At Grave creek they took on board a stout, hearty old man, as a
passenger, by the name of Green. He assisted Bruce and their crew, each
by taking turns at the oars and rowing all night, and with the music of
Isaac and the old man, who proved an excellent singer, they made out
to reach the mouth of Muskingum just at dark on Thursday evening, the
fourth day after leaving Pittsburg. Ice had been making in the Ohio
for the last twenty-four hours, and the travellers were fortunate in
arriving as they did, for the following morning the Muskingum river was
frozen over from shore to shore. Great was the consternation of Mrs.
Rouse, who had an instinctive dread of Indians, at seeing the woods
and side hill, back of Fort Harmer lighted up with a multitude of
fires, when she was told that they were the camp fires of three hundred
savages. They had come in to a treaty, which was held the ninth of
January following. It was early in December, and the emigrants had been
more than eight weeks on the road. The news of their arrival was soon
carried to Campus Martius, the name of the new garrison. Capt. Devoll
hurried on board, delighted once more to embrace his wife and children,
from whom he had been absent more than a year. Their goods and chattels
were put into the “Mayflower,” which was used as a receiving boat for
the emigrants, and with the women and children, landed at the Ohio
company’s wharf. Devoll had built a comfortable two-story house in one
of the curtains of the garrison, to which all were removed that night,
and his happy family slept once more under their own roof, in the far
distant region of the Northwest Territory.
The following spring, a company or association was formed to commence
the settlement fourteen miles below, on the right bank of the Ohio,
afterwards called Belprie. Capt. Devoll, Mr. Rouse, Michael, Capt.
Haskell and Isaac, joined this association. The latter returned to New
England, and moved out his family in the fall of 1789. By the time the
settlers were about to begin to reap a little of the fruits of their
hard labor, in clearing land, building cabins, etc., the Indian war
broke out, and they were all driven into garrison for some five years.
Many were the dangers and hardships they here endured, suffering most
from the small pox and scarlatina maligna.
In the summer of 1790, Bathsheba Rouse taught a school of young boys
and girls at Belprie, which is believed to be the first school of
white children ever assembled within the bounds of the present State
of Ohio. The Moravian missionaries had Indian schools at Gnadenhutten
and Schönbrunn, on the Tuscarawas, as early as the year 1779, eleven
years before this time. She also taught for several successive summers
within the walls of “Farmer’s Castle,” the name of the stout garrison
built by the settlers sixteen miles below Marietta. After the close of
the war the colonists moved out upon their farms. Mr. Rouse and his
family remained in Belprie. Bathsheba married, soon after the close of
the war, Richard, the son of Griffen Greene, one of the Ohio company’s
agents, and a leading man in all public affairs. Cynthia married the
Hon. Paul Fearing, the first delegate to Congress from the Northwest
Territory, and for many years a judge of the court. Elizabeth married
Levi Barber, for many years receiver of public moneys, and member of
Congress for this district during two sessions. The children of these
emigrant females, for wealth and respectability, rank among the first
of our citizens.
Thus closes this sketch of the early emigrants to Muskingum, whose
adventures are only the counterpart of other families who crossed the
Alleghany ranges in the year 1788. It is in fact a portion of the early
history of Ohio, and should be preserved for the same reasons that
Virgil has preserved the incidents of the voyage of Æneas from Troy to
Italy--they were the founders of a new state. Those days of hardship
cannot be reviewed with other than feelings of the highest respect for
the individuals who dared to brave the difficulties and uncertainties
of a pioneer life.[27]
XII.
SARAH WHIPPLE SIBLEY.
Sarah W. Sproat was born in Providence, Rhode Island, on the 28th
of January, 1782. She was the only child of Col. Ebenezer Sproat,
a gallant and accomplished officer of the Revolution, and the
granddaughter of Commodore Abraham Whipple, who also repeatedly
distinguished himself during that war by his activity and bravery.
At the commencement of the struggle. Commodore Whipple was wealthy,
but had impoverished himself by his advances to Government in fitting
out vessels and men for the public service, for which he was never
remunerated, and at its close he found he could no longer sustain the
style of living befitting his position in society, and to which he was
accustomed. His son-in-law, Col. Sproat, was in the same situation,
and both being too proud and high-spirited to conform patiently to
their change of circumstances, they determined to join a party of
their companions-in-arms, who were about to seek a new home in the yet
unexplored wilderness of the West.
They were of the advance party who landed in 1788 at the mouth of the
Muskingum, and commenced the settlement of Marietta. Burnet says in
his notes--“The early adventurers to the Northwestern Territory were
generally men who had spent the prime of their lives in the war of
Independence. Many of them had exhausted their fortunes in maintaining
the desperate struggle, and retired to the wilderness to conceal
their poverty, and avoid comparisons mortifying to their pride, while
struggling to maintain their families and improve their condition. Some
were young men descended from Revolutionary patriots who had fallen in
the contest, or became too feeble to endure the fatigue of settling a
wilderness. Others were adventurous spirits, to whom any change might
be for the better.”
The following year the new settlers were joined by their families.
It is difficult now to conceive the extent of the difficulties
against which these pioneers had to contend, besides the dangers that
surrounded them. So great was the difficulty of transportation that
they were only able to bring the most simple necessaries of life with
them. After their cabins were built, some of them were for months
without other doors than blankets, and with no furniture but the boxes
and trunks they had brought, which were converted into seats, beds,
and tables as the occasion required; and just as they were becoming
comfortable in their new homes, the fearful Indian war broke out, and
every day brought fresh accounts of horrible murders committed in the
immediate vicinity, almost at their doors. Col. Sproat determined
to remove his daughter to a place of safety, where she might at the
same time receive the necessary instruction which during the existing
disturbances she could not enjoy at home.
The Moravian school at Bethlehem then bore a high reputation, and in
1792, when Miss Sproat was but ten years old, she accompanied her
father over the mountains to Bethlehem, most of the way on horseback;
a journey that would be thought formidable at the present day. She
remained there three years, and then went to Philadelphia to receive
lessons in some accomplishments which she had no opportunities for
acquiring in Bethlehem. She resided while in that city in the family of
a friend of her father’s, and became strongly attached to its members.
She made many warm friends in Philadelphia, and left it with regret.
But her father had become impatient for her return, and went for her
in the spring of 1797. He at that time purchased a piano for her in
Philadelphia, the first taken west of the Alleghany mountains.
On her return, she found Marietta much changed and improved: the
inhabitants were no longer in fear of Indian incursions, and many new
settlers had been added to their number. It had become quite a town,
with a very pleasant society, and the danger they had shared in common
had tended to strengthen the bond which already united the early
colonists.
The years intervening between Miss Sproat’s return and her marriage,
passed away swiftly and happily. Being the only child, she was of
course much caressed by her parents, and her natural gaiety and
affectionate, generous disposition made her a favorite with her young
friends. Her father had taken great pains to make her an accomplished
horsewoman, and she was the constant companion of his rides. To this
habit of exercise she was indebted for the ease with which she made the
long and fatiguing journeys she was compelled to take in after life.
After the establishment of the Northwest Territorial Government the
General Court had its sessions alternately at Cincinnati, Detroit,
and Marietta. Mr. Sibley was a young lawyer of high standing, who had
removed from Massachusetts to Ohio in 1797, and soon afterwards to
Detroit. Judge Burnet says of him--“He possessed a sound mind, improved
by a liberal education, and a stability and firmness of character which
commanded general respect, and secured to him the confidence and esteem
of his fellow members.” He constantly attended the sessions of the
Court, and was of course frequently in Marietta. It was there that he
first became acquainted with Miss Sproat. They were married in October,
1802, but she did not go to Detroit until the following spring.
The way to Detroit at that time was by the Ohio river to Pittsburg,
across to Erie, and thence by water to Detroit; the least fatiguing but
a very tedious route. Being entirely at the mercy of wind and weather,
travellers were often ten days crossing the lake, and in one instance
a family was detained three weeks between Erie and the city of the
straits.
Mrs. Sibley was warmly welcomed on her arrival by her husband’s
friends, and so kindly treated that she soon felt at home. The society
was delightful at that time. The fort was strongly garrisoned, and
most of the officers were Southerners, possessing the warmth and ease
of manner peculiar to the South. The inhabitants of the town and its
vicinity were principally French. Some of these were descendants
of noble families in France, and prided themselves upon their
superior polish and refinement. For about six months in the year all
communication with the rest of the world was cut off by ice and snow.
At these seasons the people seemed determined to make up for their
isolation by increased sociability among themselves, and every one kept
open house. Some very agreeable persons resided on the opposite side
of the river, families of British merchants who had formerly lived in
Detroit, but on its cession to the Americans had removed to Canada. A
constant intercourse had always been kept up, and they joined in all
the gaieties of the place.
In August, 1804, Col. Sproat came to Detroit to take his daughter
home to visit her mother. As public business required Mr. Sibley’s
attendance at Washington during the winter, it was arranged that Mrs.
Sibley should return with her father to Marietta, and remain until
the following spring. Their journey was made on horseback. The whole
of the northern part of Ohio was at that time a dense wilderness, and
travellers were obliged to camp out at night. Mrs. Sibley often spoke
of an incident which occurred on this journey. The horse she rode was
one which Col. Sproat had brought on expressly for his daughter’s use,
and was a great favorite. He was unfortunately taken sick on the way,
and with difficulty they reached a spot suitable to encamp for the
night. Everything possible was done for the relief of the poor animal,
but all was in vain, and it was most distressing to hear his groans of
agony. The woods around seemed to be swarming with wolves attracted by
the cries of the horse, and they yelled and howled like so many demons.
The fires around the camp were all that prevented them from rushing
upon its inmates. Mrs. Sibley said she never spent such a fearful
night. The poor horse died towards morning, and they left him with
regret. Their journey was a long and fatiguing one, but they arrived in
safety at Marietta.
It was providentially ordered that Mrs. Sibley should spend that winter
at home, for she was thus enabled to cheer her father’s last days
by her presence. In February, without any previous warning, he was
attacked by apoplexy, and died immediately. He was yet in the prime
of life, being only fifty years old, and was generally regretted. His
death was a heavy affliction to his daughter, for the tie had been
unusually strong that existed between them; inheriting many of his
traits of character, she had been his companion and had shared with him
many daring adventures. He had almost idolized her, and she was equally
devoted to him. Col. Sproat had many warm friends among his brother
officers. The family still have in their possession a miniature of him
painted by Kosciusko. They were intimate friends, and it was taken
while they were together in winter-quarters during the Revolution.
Burr, on his first visit to Ohio, is said to have shed tears over the
grave of his old fellow-soldier.
Mrs. Sibley remained with her mother until the following summer, her
husband having in the mean time returned from Washington to Detroit.
In June, 1805, that city was entirely destroyed by fire. An extract
from a letter written at that time by Mr. Sibley to his wife, will
give an idea of the loss of property and the suffering that ensued.
“June 16,--We are all, without a single exception, unhoused. The town
of Detroit was on the 11th inst. in the course of three hours reduced
to ashes. You can readily conceive the consternation and consequent
confusion that prevailed. Much personal property, household furniture
and merchandize fell a sacrifice to the devouring element. I had, from
my situation, the good fortune to save our property from the fire,
but from the bustle that prevailed, and the thefts committed, I have
suffered considerably. We have been exerting ourselves since the fire
to relieve the distressed. They are numerous, and demand every exertion
we can make in their favor. The houses up and down the settlement are
full, and for want of room many families still remain encamped in
the open air. The gentlemen from the other side have been liberal in
furnishing provisions, which are still much wanted.
“My own loss, as compared with that of the citizens in general, is
so trifling that I have scarcely thought seriously upon the subject.
The want of a house, added to the entire suspension of business, is
the greatest inconvenience I experience. I believe the present scene
presents a phenomenon rarely to be met with; a whole town burned with
the exception of a single dwelling-house standing. What measures will
be adopted in rebuilding Detroit it is yet uncertain. A number of
us are exerting ourselves in order that we may procure more room by
widening the streets. A meeting will be held at Mr. May’s to-morrow,
when the subject will be discussed; the result will be uncertain.
What a gloomy prospect for our Governor, etc., when they arrive!
Not a single house for his reception or accommodation. Our country
was sufficiently poor before the late disaster--what will become of
a number of poor persons I know not, unless some benevolent aid is
offered from abroad. This last resource appears doubtful. We are not
known in the States, therefore we have but little expectation that they
will interest themselves for our relief.”
Mr. Sibley fitted up an old house which was then considered quite
a distance from town, a large open common intervening; situated on
the square opposite “the Biddle House,” now in the very heart of the
city. He occupied the same house until 1835, a period of thirty years.
As soon as it was rendered comfortable he went to Marietta for his
wife. Michigan had only lately been organized into a territory, and
upon the arrival of the newly appointed governor, Gen. Hull, Detroit
was a perfect scene of desolation. He was obliged to build a house
immediately, for there was not one for him to live in. The house he
erected was considered a splendid one at that time, and was the same
afterwards known as the American Hotel, which was burned in the fire of
1848. On Mrs. Sibley’s return, she again travelled on horseback, but
only as far as Sandusky, from which place they came in a vessel.
But few events worthy of note occurred during the interval between her
return and the war of 1812. She was then the mother of three children,
and for their sake, even more than for her own, looked forward with
dread to the prospect of another war. The events of that war, as
connected with Detroit, are too well known to require a repetition
here. Although exposed to so much danger, Mrs. Sibley remained with her
husband, and in all the trials and horrors of that eventful time, bore
herself most courageously.
At the time an attack upon the town was expected, it was thought
advisable to place the women and children for greater security within
the fort. During the terrible day of the cannonade, Mrs. Sibley said
that not one woman gave way to fear; that she never saw so much courage
displayed. All seemed nerved by the exigencies of the time, and by
the very danger to which they were exposed. They busied themselves
in giving the only assistance in their power, making cartridges, and
scraping lint for the wounded. Some dreadful scenes occurred on that
day. In the room adjoining that in which the ladies were collected,
four officers were shot by one ball. One of these was Mr. Sibley’s
cousin. When the news was announced of the surrender, the feeling of
regret and indignation expressed was intense. They were all prepared
for danger, but not for disgrace. As the American soldiers were marched
out of the fort, Mrs. Dyson, the wife of an officer, collected all the
clothing under the charge of the commissary, and threw it out of a
window to the soldiers as they passed by, declaring that the British
should not benefit by it.
After the surrender, Mr. Sibley applied to Gen. Proctor for permission
to go on with his family to Ohio. It was denied at first, but
afterwards granted, giving him only two days to make his preparations.
Thus hastily they left their home, to remain until happier times. The
vessel in which they embarked was a very small one, and exceedingly
crowded, but there was no alternative; and with heavy hearts they
sailed for Erie. They remained with Mrs. Sibley’s friends a year. As
soon as Detroit was given up to the Americans they started on their
return, but when they reached Cleveland found that it was rather late
in the season, the few vessels then on the lake being laid up for
the winter; and as it was impossible to go by land with a family of
children they were obliged to remain there all winter. Cleveland was
then but a small settlement, and separated by a dense wilderness from
the southern towns of Ohio. During the time the lake was closed, the
transportation of all articles was attended with great difficulty
and expense, consequently every thing was enormously high. Mr.
Sibley had expected to reach home before the winter, and was little
prepared for such a detention. He had lost greatly by the war, and
the utter cessation of all business for such a length of time with
one who depended upon his profession for the support of his family,
had so crippled his means that his inability to proceed homeward was
excessively inconvenient to him. The family was treated with much
kindness, but had to submit to great privation and discomfort, and they
were heartily glad when the return of spring allowed them to return to
Detroit.
Mrs. Sibley made but one more visit to Ohio, and that was in 1819.
She then received intelligence of the deaths, within a short time of
each other, of her aged grandparents, the venerable old Commodore and
Mrs. Whipple. Mrs. Sproat being thus left entirely alone, as she had
no other relatives in the west, she wrote to her daughter that if she
could come for her she would return with her to Michigan.
Mrs. Sibley did not hesitate, but leaving her family under the charge
of a faithful servant, set out on her journey. She went under the
care of a gentleman from Detroit, and to save fatigue went as far as
Sandusky in the new steamboat, “Walk in the Water,” the first steamboat
that ever ran on Lake Erie.
They sent their horses by a servant to meet them at Sandusky. This
journey to Marietta was the last ever taken by Mrs. Sibley on
horseback. She remained in Ohio only long enough to complete the
preparations for Mrs. Sproat’s removal. They returned by stage, as Mrs.
Sproat was too old to undertake the journey on horseback. Mrs. Sproat
remained with her daughter until her death, which took place in 1832.
The most eventful part of Mrs. Sibley’s life was now past. Henceforth
her time was principally occupied with the duties incumbent upon a
wife and mother, and these were well and faithfully performed. A large
family grew up around her, in whose minds it was ever her constant
endeavor to instil such high principles as should make them true to
themselves and useful members of society. To her most truly could the
scriptural passage be applied, “Her children shall rise up and call her
blessed.”
It is difficult to convey an adequate idea of the actual condition of
this portion of the great Mississippi valley in its transition state,
or the important part in the formation of its daily life that fell to
the lot of a pioneer matron. Of all these, there was not one better
fitted by nature and education for the time and place than this noble
woman. Blessed with a commanding person, a vigorous and cultivated
intellect, undaunted courage, and an intuitive and clear perception
of right and wrong, she exercised great influence upon the society in
which she lived. Affectionate in disposition, frank in manner, and
truly just as well as benevolent, she was during her whole married
life the centre of an admiring circle of devoted friends. As age crept
on, and disease confined her to the fireside, she still remained the
object of profound and marked respect to the people of the city which
had grown up around her, and when at length she was “gathered to her
fathers,” she died, as she had always lived, without one to cast a
reproach upon her elevated and beautiful character.
A revolution like that of 1776--the surrender upon the altar of
their country of the fortunes of the brave men who led the way to
freedom--the poverty of the government and its consequent inability to
repay these losses--the resulting necessity of making a home among the
savages of a great wilderness, and reducing that wilderness to a state
of law, order, and refinement; these were circumstances well fitted to
develope the strong traits of character in the men and women of the
great West. They cannot recur, and therefore we cannot expect again to
see such a race. They have passed away, and henceforward we may expect
what has always accompanied an age of refinement, the softening down
of strong points of character, and in too many instances, enervation
and effeminacy.
The husband of this honored lady, the Hon. Solomon Sibley, was for
many years one of the judges of the Supreme Court of the territory of
Michigan. He lived to be not only the last relic of the ancient bar of
Michigan proper, dating back to 1798, but also the last remaining link
connecting the profession in that State of the present day with that
of the Northwest Territory, of which he was a member previous to his
removal to Detroit.
He was a native of Massachusetts, and was admitted to the bar in
Virginia. In 1797, he practised law with his friend Judge Burnet,
of Cincinnati. In 1799, having removed to Detroit, he was elected
to the first territorial legislature of the Northwest Territory as
representative for the county of Wayne, which then embraced the present
State of Michigan. This body held its sessions in Cincinnati. In the
records of the Historical Society of Ohio, Judge Sibley is mentioned
as “among the most talented men of the House.” That he was held in the
highest estimation by his fellow-citizens, is evinced by the fact, that
as early as 1802 the electors of the town of Detroit voted him the
freedom of the corporation “for his eminent services in behalf of the
people of the territory.”
In the uniform, quiet, and unostentatious devotion of his time and
talents to the interests of his country, Judge Sibley continued to
receive marked evidences of universal respect and confidence, till
compelled by physical infirmity to retire from public life. In his
public relation of United States Commissioner--associated with Gen.
Cass to negotiate the treaty by which the Indian title to a large part
of the peninsula of Michigan was extinguished; as delegate representing
the territory of Michigan in Congress; as District Attorney of the
United States, and as Judge of the Supreme Court of Michigan, he won,
as he well merited, the affection, respect and entire confidence of
his contemporaries and associates. All who were acquainted with him
in private life cherished the highest respect and veneration for the
character he had so justly acquired and sustained during a long and
well spent life. In all private relations, he showed himself amiable,
pure, and true to the various interests confided to him; in public
ones, faithful, upright, and honorable; a sound and able lawyer, an
impartial, honest, and discriminating judge.
For several years before his death, his health being too infirm for
public duty, he gave himself up to the enjoyments of a happy home,
where, surrounded by friends, he was gathered to his fathers, April
4th, 1846, aged seventy-seven. The members of the bar of Detroit, and
officers of the respective courts assembled to express their regret,
and esteem for his noble character, and wore mourning for the usual
time.
XIII.
MARY DUNLEVY.
Few among the pioneer mothers presented in their lives a more
impressive example of the patient perseverance, courage, and energy of
character which distinguished the matrons of that day, than the subject
of the present brief sketch. The materials have been communicated by
one of her family, whose recollections enable him to describe much of
her experience in building a home in the wilderness.
Mary Craig was of Scottish parentage, and was born on the voyage from
Scotland to America, about the year 1765. The family then came to
settle in New York. At the commencement of the Revolutionary struggle,
Mary was but ten years old, but she could understand that the people
were unjustly oppressed, and her feelings were warmly interested in
favor of the patriots. Her father had died soon after reaching the
country, and she, with an elder sister and a younger brother, formed
the little family under her mother’s care. Their circumstances were
comfortable, though they were not wealthy, and but for the outbreak
of war, they would probably have remained together. The vicissitudes
and dangers to which the inhabitants of the city were subjected by
the approach of a hostile force, and the occupation of New York by
British troops, caused no little alarm to Mrs. Craig for the safety of
herself and children; she had few friends in the strange land, and
it therefore can hardly be wondered at that, renewing acquaintance
with a gentleman whom she had known in Scotland--now an officer in the
British navy--she listened favorably to his addresses, and finally
married him. Her husband, of course, was a loyalist, and Mary had by
this time become so thoroughly imbued with republican principles,
that no kindness on the part of her stepfather could reconcile her
to the restraints to which she was subjected in the family, in the
expression of political opinions. It was not long before she left her
home in the city, and went to reside at the house of Dr. Halstead,
in Elizabethtown, New Jersey. This proved to be a final separation
from the other members of her family. Her sister soon after married
an Englishman, and went to England; and when New York was evacuated
by the British, her stepfather, with her mother, brother, and an
infant half-sister, went with other refugees to Nova Scotia. Mary
bore her part, meanwhile, in the apprehension and dangers to which
the inhabitants of Elizabethtown were exposed during the war from
the frequent incursions of the enemy. She repeatedly risked her life
in endeavors to save the property of her friends from destruction,
which she would do by earnest appeals to the invaders, trusting that
her youth would ensure her own safety. On one occasion a sword was
drawn upon her, with a threat that she should be killed if she did
not leave the room; but she persisted, and finally saved the property
threatened. She was often occupied during the whole day or night in
running bullets, or in attendance upon the wounded or dying. When
the better time arrived, she witnessed the triumphal march of Gen.
Washington on his way to New York, being one of a number of young girls
who strewed the road with flowers as he passed. The disasters of a
tedious war were soon forgotten in rejoicings for the establishment of
liberty and peace; but for Mary the anxious part of life’s drama was
but just commenced. In 1787 she was married to James Carpenter. The
Northwest Territory, and especially the Miami country, was at that time
much talked about, considerable excitement prevailing on the subject
of emigration to the West, and Carpenter had recently returned from
a visit of exploration to the Miami purchase in company with Judge
Symmes and others. He was so much pleased with the new country that he
determined to settle there, and Mary’s inclination corresponded to his
own. They left New Jersey with the first little colony of Judge Symmes,
reached Limestone, now Maysville, Kentucky, late in the autumn of 1788,
and the men, and a few of the stronger among the women, immediately
repaired to Columbia, near the mouth of the Little Miami, five miles
above the site of Cincinnati. Here they commenced building a log fort
and cabins for the different families of the settlers, and laying out
fields and gardens for cultivation the next spring, while the feebler
members of the company remained in Kentucky during the winter.
In the spring, the fort being completed, all the settlers took up
their residence at the locality selected. The families occupied the
cabins built for them, but whenever there was an alarm of the approach
of hostile Indians, they fled to the garrison, which was defended
with all the strength of the colony, and the enemy chased away when
not in large parties. Yet, notwithstanding the utmost precaution,
the stealthy marauders sometimes succeeded in carrying off property
and capturing prisoners, and even in killing several persons in the
settlement. Mary, whose childhood had been familiar with the terrors
of civil war, and whose heart was stout and resolute, was to be tried
by the severest of sorrows. Carpenter’s arduous labors during the
first winter and spring in clearing the ground and assisting to raise
the buildings, had caused a hemorrhage of the lungs, the effects of
which brought on a decline, terminating in his death in less than two
years. Mary was thus left with two young children, without a relative
to protect her, in the midst of a wilderness, surrounded by savage
foes; but her courage and resolution did not falter under accumulated
trials. She knew that her children had no dependence except on her
care and labors, and trusting in the Providence whose kindness watches
over the widow and the fatherless, she determined to lean, with her
helpless babes, on His protection and guidance, and perform with
untiring energy the duties that lay before her. She was urged to take
up her residence in the fort, as she could not otherwise be safe from
the frequent assaults of the savages; but she persisted in remaining
in her cabin, notwithstanding the remonstrances of her neighbors, and
although her home was several hundred yards from the blockhouse. Her
wounded heart preferred solitude to society; the more so as in the
promiscuous company frequently assembled in the garrison, the rough
oaths of the soldiers might frequently be heard, and she resolved to
risk living alone, rather than be distressed by associations repulsive
to her delicate and sensitive nature. At the same time she planned the
measures she would take in the event of danger, leaving the result with
Him in whom her trust was placed. Beneath the puncheon floor laid in
every cabin, there was generally dug a small cellar in which vegetables
might be kept secure from frost. Every night she lifted one of these
pieces of timber, and placed her children in a rough bed she had made
in the cellar. As soon as they were asleep, the puncheon was laid down,
and the mother took her position where she could see the Indians, when
approaching, at a considerable distance. Here she would sit during
the whole night, engaged, in the hours of wakefulness, in knitting
or such housework as could be performed without any other light than
from smothered embers not permitted to give out the slightest blaze.
When the youngest child waked and required nursing, she would lift the
puncheon, and sit on the edge of the opened floor till it was lulled to
sleep, then deposit it once more in the secret bed and close the floor
over it. Her resolution was taken, should the Indians attack one door,
to make her escape by the opposite one to the fort, give the alarm,
and bring the men to rescue her children before the foe could discover
their hiding-place. Her fears were not groundless; the Indians were
often seen by her prowling about the little village, and on several
occasions, when all was dark and still, they came to the door of her
cabin, and attempted to enter. Finding the door barred, however, they
did not, for some reason or other, attempt to force it; so that the
widow and her children remained undisturbed, while from other parts of
the settlement property was stolen and prisoners taken, and one or two
individuals were shot in close vicinity to the fort.
The emigrants who established themselves at Columbia, were men of
energy and enterprise, and the little settlement for two or three years
contained more inhabitants than any other in the Miami purchase. The
second party destined for the Miami, was formed at Limestone; they
landed the 24th of December, 1788, on the north bank of the Ohio,
opposite the mouth of Licking river, and laid out a town, to which the
name of Cincinnati was given the following year. The third party of
adventurers to the purchase, under the immediate direction of Judge
Symmes, established a station at ‘North Bend,’ the most northern bend
in the Ohio below the mouth of the great Kanawha. The village has since
become distinguished as the home of President Harrison, whose tomb, on
one of its hills, can be seen from the river.
These three principal settlements of the Miami country had one general
object, and were threatened by one common danger; yet, says Judge
Burnet, there existed a strong spirit of rivalry among them, “each
feeling a pride in the prosperity of the little colony to which he
belonged. That spirit produced a strong influence on the feelings
of the pioneers of the different villages, and an _esprit du corps_
scarcely to be expected under circumstances so critical and dangerous
as those which threatened them. For some time, it was matter of doubt
which of the rivals, Columbia, Cincinnati, or North Bend, would
eventually become the chief seat of business.” The establishment of
the garrison at Cincinnati, made it the head-quarters and depôt of the
army. Fort Washington was the most extensive and important military
work in the territory. It was said that the removal of the troops from
the Bend, which was strenuously opposed by Judge Symmes, was caused by
an attachment on the part of the officer in command, to a beautiful
woman, whose departure to reside in Cincinnati opened the eyes of her
admirer to its advantages for a military post, and thus made it the
commercial emporium and the Queen City of the West.
I shall not hesitate to offer, in different memoirs, descriptions
of pioneer life furnished by individuals whose recollections are
entirely reliable. Although these may involve occasional repetition,
they will enable us to perceive any difference of habits or manners
in different parts of the country, and to appreciate more fully the
spirit of enterprise and power of endurance which made the way so much
easier to those who succeeded the early colonists. The densely wooded
mountain ranges were a formidable barrier at that period between the
old States and the new territories. The difficulties attending any
communication can hardly be imagined by those who enjoy the facilities
of travelling now, and made the work of the pioneer more arduous and
hazardous than in more recent settlements, where the emigrant has the
advantage of public conveyances, at least part of the way, and may find
the necessaries of life within a distance readily accessible. It was no
small undertaking to penetrate the unbroken forest, ascend or descend
rivers that had never before been navigated, and carry to a home in the
wilderness supplies for a household in a few chests. These usually held
the clothing of the pioneer’s family, while a few cooking utensils were
added to the stock, and occasionally a table or bureau; though for such
articles of furniture, as well as chairs and bedsteads, the settlers
generally depended on the rough manufacture of the country. Shelves
hewn by the axe supplied the place of bureaus and wardrobes, and two
poles fastened in a corner of the cabin, the outer corner supported by
a prop, answered the purpose of a bedstead, until better could be had.
The pioneer’s cabin was indeed a complete example of domestic economy.
It was built of unhewn logs, sometimes in a single day, by the owner
and eight or ten of the neighbors, who never refused their assistance.
The floor was made of split slabs or puncheons, as they were called,
dubbed with an adze, or where the resident was over nice, smoothed
with the broad-axe on the upper side. The doors were made of boards
riven from a tree of the proper length and thickness, and smoothed
with a drawing-knife. The windows, in the earliest settlements, were
made by cutting away the under and upper portions of two of the logs
of the house, forming thus a square opening of suitable size, in which
sometimes upright sticks were placed, covered with white paper, oiled
with hog’s fat or bear’s oil, to admit the light in place of glass, a
luxury not then to be procured. The fire-place was usually very large,
built up on three sides six or eight feet with stone, and then topped
with “cat and clay,” as it was termed. The cabin completed, the next
thing was to clear a piece of ground for a cornpatch. A shovel-plow
was generally used, as most convenient among the roots. The harness
consisted mostly of leatherwood bark, except the collar, which was made
of husks of corn plaited and sewed together.
Rough and uncouth in appearance as were these primitive cabins, they
could be made very comfortable, and for health seemed preferable to
many more civilized dwellings. One of them, sometimes containing but
a single room, with a rude loft reached by a ladder, was the happy
home of a numerous household; the children raised there growing up to
usefulness and eminence among their fellow citizens. The children thus
raised were generally of powerful frame, and possessed great physical
strength; their height and proportions, it is said, being known, as
a rule, to surpass those born after the erection of frame and brick
dwellings. Sickness also was rare among them.
It is true that these rude habitations had some inconveniences, which
might now be considered too formidable to contend with; and it may
be thought strange how a female of cultivation and refinement could
bring herself to live in one of them. Yet it is certain, that among
the early pioneers who came to the Miami country, were some ladies of
the highest consideration in New York and New Jersey; and it is no
less certain that they readily and cheerfully accommodated themselves
to the condition of things around them. The dressing-room and
ornamental toilette were lacking; but they were dispensed with for such
accommodations as necessity suggested. Each cabin usually contained two
beds in the lower room, and these were separated from each other by
full and flowing curtains around one at least, answering the purpose of
a partition and dressing apartment.
The women of those times, it has been often observed, were of a
sturdier nature than at the present day, and encountered both
hardships and dangers with a philosophy and a grace which can now be
hardly understood. Most of them undertook the labor of the household
unassisted, requiring no help except when children were born, till the
older ones grew old enough to be useful. There were but few single
young women in the early settlement; if any came with friends from the
east, they were very soon married and had their own household affairs
to attend to. In the summer, besides the ordinary housework, the wife
of the pioneer spun the wool which formed the winter’s clothing for
the male part of the family, as well as flannel for herself and the
girls; in the winter was spun the flax of which clothing was made the
ensuing summer. The buzz of the wheel, therefore, was heard at all
seasons in the cabins of the early settlers, and often in the winter
until the approach of midnight. Yet, with all these laborious duties,
which were regularly and faithfully performed, the pioneer mothers
found time to arrange their houses with the most scrupulous order and
neatness, and were not without their social enjoyments. The afternoons
of the long summer’s day were frequently spent in visiting or receiving
visits from neighbors within a few miles’ distance. No motive could
exist for a profession of friendship where the reality was not felt;
and distress in any family never failed to elicit the sympathy and
command the aid, so far as it could be rendered, of all the neighbors.
Social intercourse was intimate, and the interchange of expressions
of good feeling, sincere and constant; and never could one familiar
with these associations forget the smooth winding foot paths which led
through the deep forest and tall grass or underbrush from the house of
one pioneer to that of another, traversed daily on errands of business
or friendship, so that every family was kept acquainted with all the
occurrences of the day throughout the settlement. If a fat bear or
deer was killed by one it was generally divided, and the portions sent
round as a token of kindly regard. Game was abundant, and the turkeys,
venison and bear’s meat which so frequently loaded the rustic tables,
might well have been prized by the most fastidious epicures of advanced
civilization.
On the whole the life of the pioneer, though one of hardship and
danger, was one of stir and excitement, and a perfect freedom so
agreeable to the enterprising rover, that it may be questioned
whether it were not, for him at least, the happiest state of society.
There was freshness and novelty in the scenery around him and in the
adventurous experience of every day; the keen invigorating air of the
wildwood, and the constant exercise required, gave energy and activity
to body and mind, and sustained and exhilarated the spirits; no forms
or ceremonious customs constrained or chilled social manners, and no
jealousy or bitterness could arise out of difference in circumstances,
distinctions growing out of condition being entirely unknown in those
primitive communities. Good faith and honesty in business transactions
were taken for granted on both sides, and the lack of them would have
been punished by social outlawry. The general prevalence of good health
was promoted by the constant exposure which hardened the pioneers
to the sudden changes incident to a severe climate, and by their
simplicity of diet. The cakes and preserves which nowadays take up so
much of the attention of housekeepers in preparing, and are regarded as
essential articles of provision in genteel houses, were almost unknown.
The Kentucky “hoecake,” or the “johnny” or “journey cake,” of the Miami
Valley, formed the favorite winter bread, and was used during a great
part of the spring season. The corn was ground, before mills were
erected, in a hand-mill, or pounded in a hominy-block, made by burning
a hole in one end of a block of wood, the corn being pounded with a
pestle made by driving an iron wedge into a stick of suitable size.
When sufficiently pounded, it was sifted, and the finer portion made
into bread and mush, the coarser being boiled for hominy. The meat was
bear, venison, and wild turkey, as it was difficult to raise hogs or
sheep on account of the wolves and bears.
The amusements of the men were such as developed physical strength
and animated to cheerfulness. The chase, the principal one, served
the purpose of an exciting and healthy exercise, while it furnished
provision for the family. The women of course took no active part in
this sport, except when the bear hunt roused the whole neighborhood,
young and old, male and female, to partake in it with intense interest.
A bear chase was usually commenced by the sounding of a peculiar note
on the horn, which reverberated wildly among the hills and woods.
Presently the distant howl of the hunter’s dogs gave notice that the
hunters were in pursuit of the enemy. Every man now seized his rifle
and mounted his horse to join the chase, while those who could not do
this, ran to see what was done. Sometimes the pursuit would continue
all day, but generally it happened that in a few hours the bear was
compelled to “tree,” as it was called. As soon as the hunted animal
had thus taken refuge, the hunter who chanced to be nearest the spot,
summoned the others by a different note on his horn, and a few rifle
shots usually either brought down the fugitive dead, or forced him
to descend to escape the shower of bullets. When the bear found it
necessary to leave his retreat, his practice generally was to roll
himself into a ball-like shape by placing his head between his hind
legs, and throw himself from the height. On striking the ground he
would rebound several feet, and the instant he touched the ground
again, his back was against the root of the tree, while, raising
himself on his hind legs, he stood in an attitude of defiance, ready to
do battle with the dogs who by that time were collected and eager for
the assault. First with one fore paw and then with the other the bear
would despatch the dogs as they rushed upon him. But though he could
hold his ground thus bravely, it was not usually long before the fatal
shot in the head from the hunter’s rifle would lay the victim low, and
end the chase for the day. The meat was then divided among the hunters,
and they returned to their homes, weary and hungry, and perhaps
wet with the falling rain or snow. At their cabins warm fires and
comfortable suppers awaited them, and the incidents of the day afforded
material for pleasant conversation during the evening. The excitement a
chase of this kind always caused throughout the neighborhood can only
be imagined by one who has witnessed such an occurrence.
The wolf made havoc with the few sheep introduced, and the wild deer;
the bear confined himself to hogs. His practice was to spring suddenly
upon his victim, grasp him in his fore legs with irresistible force,
erect himself upon his hind legs like a man, and make off in an
instant with his load; the piercing squeal of the hog being the first
warning to the owner. A large bear, meeting with no obstruction, would
make his way through the woods in this manner, with a hog of good size,
faster than a man on foot could follow.
The establishment of schools and places for stated religious meetings
was coeval with the formation of every settlement, or at least attended
to as soon as the pioneers had secured themselves from the savages
and provided their families with the means of daily subsistence. The
schoolhouses, like the primitive cabins, were roughly constructed, but
in some of them men whose mental endowments and ripe scholarship have
raised them to eminence in after life, received the first rudiments
of education. It happened in some neighborhoods, it is true, that no
schools were established; but the evil effects of such neglect were
discernible long afterwards, and in some instances the want of general
intelligence is still evident in those portions of the country. The
privilege of hearing the gospel preached regularly every Sabbath, could
not often be enjoyed, as different and distant neighborhoods had to be
supplied, and there were but few pastors; but service was held, and
sermons were read when no clergyman could attend, and the announcement
that there was to be preaching would bring the settlers together from
many miles around. The strength of their attachment to the Sabbath
services is shown by the fact that they were not prevented, even when
threatened with Indian incursions, from meeting in large numbers, to
hear the word preached whenever an opportunity presented itself. While
the danger was imminent it was usual for all the men to carry fire-arms
and ammunition, as the law among them required every one to do;
sentinels being placed on the watch while service was going on. It was
not till after the peace which followed Wayne’s treaty at Greenville
that the necessity for carrying arms to religious meetings no longer
existed, and in the outer settlements the custom was kept up for some
years after. It was not an unusual sight to see a file of riflemen
with their shot pouches, and arms at rest, stationed around the large
congregations which in warm weather were accustomed to assemble in
the woods for religious worship. When the necessity for this strict
guard became less apparent, and the Indians had removed to a greater
distance, these forest assemblages on the Sabbath were very large,
different neighborhoods gathering in one place. It was not in the least
uncommon for men and women to ride on horseback eight and ten miles
to meeting, and the doing so was far from being considered a task or
hardship.
One of the first schools established in the Northwestern Territory was
in the settlement where Mrs. Carpenter lived. The young man who took
charge of it, Francis Dunlevy, had served in many Indian campaigns,
having, at the early age of fourteen, offered himself for military
service, and been received in place of one of his neighbors who had
been drafted, but who had a family dependent on him for support, and
was unwilling to go. This was in 1777, and from that time to his coming
to Columbia, he had been on service in occasional excursions against
the savages. He served at the time of the disastrous defeat of Crawford
at the Sandusky Plains in 1782, and after that time had travelled over
those portions of the Northwest Territory which now constitute Ohio,
Western Virginia, and the northern part of Kentucky. He was not only
a man of great courage, spirit, and enterprise, but of such industry
and perseverance, that in the midst of the labors and vicissitudes
of numerous campaigns, and the privations to which he was subject in
a forest life, he employed the intervals of leisure from military
occupations in study, and acquired a classical education.
Having made up his mind to reside for the future in the Northwest
Territory, he came to Columbia as teacher of the school in the
latter part of the year 1792. He heard the story of Mrs. Carpenter’s
trials, and the fortitude with which she bore them; he sought her
acquaintance, and finding in her a kindred spirit, in due time offered
his hand and was accepted. They were married in January, 1793. Mr.
Dunlevy was afterwards a highly respected member of the legislature
of the North-west Territory, and of the convention which formed the
constitution of Ohio. He also occupied, for fourteen years, the station
of presiding judge in the Court of Common Pleas.
For many years after her removal, Mrs. Dunlevy heard not a word from
any member of her mother’s family. In 1804 she received a letter from
her brother, directed to her “in the Miami country,” by which she was
informed of her mother’s death, and that her brother had returned
to the United States, and was then living near Lake Champlain. In
1806, her sister and her husband came from Liverpool to New York for
the purpose of finding the scattered members of the family, but they
learned on their arrival that the brother had died the same year, and
that Mary was living in the “far west.” A correspondence was held
between the sisters, and a meeting appointed at Pittsburg, the elder
sister insisting that she could not venture to encounter the dangers of
entering an Indian country, as she considered Western Ohio; but before
she left New York to proceed that far, she was seized with yellow fever
and died.
The two children of Mrs. Dunlevy by her first marriage attained to
womanhood and were married. Besides these, she had three sons and three
daughters, all of whom lived to maturity. The mother’s affection for
her children was one which absorbed every faculty of her nature. With a
resolution that to the last would never give way before difficulties,
she was delicate and susceptible in all her feelings, gentle, retiring,
and affectionate, and clinging with absolute dependence to those in
whom her devoted affections were centred. The death of her eldest
daughter, therefore, though she had been married, and lived at a
distance for some six years, was a blow from which she never recovered.
Her life was afterwards secluded, and her social intercourse entirely
confined to her children. A second daughter in five years followed the
first to the grave, and four years afterwards, her youngest son having
been called to a distant part of the country, was attacked by sudden
illness and died far from home. Under these accumulated afflictions the
spirit which had never faltered in the presence of danger, nor shrunk
from trial in every other form, sank in the prostration of grief. Mrs.
Dunlevy’s health failed after the death of her eldest child, and slowly
declined till 1828, when, without any particular disease, but a gradual
failure of nervous energy, she departed this life, at Lebanon, Ohio,
in the sixty-third year of her age. Judge Dunlevy survived her nearly
twelve years, and was laid beside her in the burial-ground of the
Baptist church, of which they had both long been members.
* * * * *
The following sketch of life in the woods is extracted from an article
written by John S. Williams, the Editor of the American Pioneer:
“Emigrants poured in from different parts, cabins were put up in every
direction, and women, children and goods tumbled into them. Every thing
was bustle and confusion, and all at work that could work. Our cabin
had been raised, covered, part of the cracks chinked, and part of the
floor laid when we moved in, on Christmas day! We had intended an
inside chimney, for we thought the chimney ought to be in the house.
We had a log put across the whole width of the cabin for a mantel, but
when the floor was in we found it so low as not to answer, and removed
it. We got the rest of the floor laid in a very few days; the chinking
of the cracks went on slowly, but the daubing could not proceed till
weather more suitable, which happened in a few days; door-ways were
sawed out and steps made of the logs, and the back of the chimney was
raised up to the mantel, but the funnel of sticks and clay was delayed
until spring.
“In building our cabin it was set to front the north and south, my
brother using my father’s pocket compass on the occasion. We had no
idea of living in a house that did not stand square with the earth
itself. This argued our ignorance of the comforts and conveniences of a
pioneer life. The position of the house, end to the hill, necessarily
elevated the lower end, and the determination to have both a north and
south door, added much to the airiness of the domicile, particularly
after the green ash puncheons had shrunk so as to leave cracks in the
floor and doors from one to two inches wide. At both the doors we had
high, unsteady, and sometimes icy steps, made by piling up the logs cut
out of the wall. We had a window, if it could be called a _window_,
when perhaps it was the largest spot in the top, bottom or sides of the
cabin at which the wind _could not_ enter. It was made by sawing out
a log, placing sticks across; and by pasting an old newspaper over the
hole, and applying some hog’s lard, we had a kind of glazing which shed
a most beautiful and mellow light across the cabin when the sun shone
on it. All other light entered at the doors, cracks and chimney.
“Our cabin was twenty-four by eighteen. The west end was occupied by
two beds, the centre of each side by a door, and here our symmetry had
to stop, for opposite the window, made of clapboards supported on pins
driven into the logs, were our shelves. Upon these shelves my sister
displayed in order a host of pewter plates, basins, dishes, and spoons,
scoured and bright. A ladder of five rounds occupied the corner near
the window. By this, when we got a floor above, we could ascend. Our
chimney occupied most of the east end; pots and kettles were opposite
the window under the shelves, a gun on hooks over the north door, four
split-bottom chairs, three three-legged stools, and a small eight
by ten looking-glass sloped from the wall over a large towel and
combcase. These, with a clumsy shovel and a pair of tongs with one
shank straight, completed our furniture, except a spinning-wheel and
such things as were necessary to work with. It was absolutely necessary
to have _three-legged_ stools, as four legs of any thing could not all
touch the floor at the same time.
“The completion of our cabin went on slowly. The season was inclement,
and laborers were not to be had. We got our chimney up breast high as
soon as we could, and our cabin daubed as high as the joists outside.
It never was daubed on the inside, for my sister, who was very nice,
could not consent to ‘live right next to the mud.’ My impression now
is, that the window was not constructed till spring, for until the
sticks and clay were put on the chimney we could possibly have no need
of a window; the flood of light which always poured into the cabin from
the fireplace would have extinguished our paper window, and rendered
it as useless as the moon at noonday. We got a floor laid over head
as soon as possible, perhaps in a month; but when it _was_ laid, the
reader will readily conceive of its imperviousness to wind or weather,
when we mention that it was laid of loose clapboards split from a
red oak, so twisting that each board lay on two diagonally opposite
corners, and a cat might have shaken every board on our ceiling.
“The evenings of the first winter did not pass off as pleasantly as
evenings afterwards. We had no corn to shell, no turnips to scrape, no
tow to spin into rope-yarn, nor straw to plait for hats, and we had
come so late we could get but few walnuts to crack. We had, however,
the Bible, George Fox’s Journal, Barkley’s Apology, and to our stock
was soon after added a borrowed copy of the Pilgrim’s Progress, which
we read twice through without stopping. The first winter our living
was truly scanty and hard; but even this winter had its felicities. We
had part of a barrel of flour which we had brought from Fredericktown.
Besides this we had a part of a jar of hog’s lard brought from old
Carolina; not the tasteless stuff which now goes by that name, but pure
leaf lard taken from hogs raised on pine roots and fattened on sweet
potatoes, and into which, while trying, were immersed the boughs of the
fragrant bay tree, that imparted to the lard a rich flavor. Of that
flour, shortened with this lard, my sister every Sunday morning made
short biscuit for breakfast.
“The winter was open, but windy. While the wind was of great use in
driving the smoke and ashes out of our cabin, it shook terribly the
timber standing almost over us. We were sometimes much and needlessly
alarmed. We were surrounded by the tall giants of the forest, waving
their boughs and knitting their brows over us, as if in defiance of
our disturbing their repose, and usurping their long uncontested
pre-emption rights. The beech on the left often shook his bushy head
over us as if in absolute disapprobation of our settling there,
threatening to crush us if we did not pack up and start. The walnut
over the spring branch stood high and straight; no one could tell which
way it inclined, but all concluded that if it had a preference it was
in favor of quartering on our cabin. We got assistance to cut it down.
“The monotony of the time for several of the first years was enlivened
by the howl of wild beasts. The wolves howling around us seemed to moan
their inability to drive us from their long and undisputed domain. The
bears, panthers and deer but seldom troubled us. When spring was fully
come and our little patch of corn, three acres, put in among the beech
roots, which at every step contended with the shovel-plough for the
right of soil, and held it too, we enlarged our stock of conveniences.
As soon as bark would peel off we could make ropes and bark boxes.
These we stood in great need of, as such things as bureaus, stands,
wardrobes, or even barrels were not to be had. Sometimes boxes made of
slippery elm bark, shaved smooth, and the inside out, were ornamented
with drawings of birds, trees, etc.
“We settled on beech land, which took much labor to clear. We could do
no better than clear out the smaller stuff and burn the brush, &c.,
around the beeches which, in spite of the girdling and burning we
could do to them, would leaf out the first year, and often a little
the second. The land, however, was very rich, and would bring better
corn than might be expected. We had to tend it principally with the
hoe, that is, to chop down the nettles, the water-weed, and the
touch-me-not. Grass, lamb’s-quarter, and Spanish-needles were reserved
to pester the better prepared farmer. We cleared a small turnip patch,
which we got in about the 10th of August. We sowed timothy seed, which
took well, and next year we had a little hay besides. The tops and
blades of the corn were also carefully saved for our horse, cow, and
the two sheep. The turnips were sweet and good, and in the fall we took
care to gather walnuts and hickory nuts, which were very abundant.
These, with the turnips which we scraped, supplied the place of fruit.
I have always been partial to scraped turnips, and could now beat any
three dandies at scraping them. Johnny-cake, also, when we had meal to
make it of, helped to make up our evening’s repast. The Sunday morning
biscuit had all evaporated, but the loss was partially supplied by the
nuts and turnips. Our regular supper was mush and milk, and by the time
we had shelled our corn, stemmed tobacco, and plaited straw to make
hats, etc., our appetites were sharp again. To relieve this difficulty,
my brother and I would bake a thin johnny-cake, part of which we would
eat, and leave the rest till morning. At daylight we would eat the
rest as we walked from the house to work.
“The methods of eating mush and milk were various. Some would sit
around the pot, every one taking therefrom for himself. Some would sit
at table and have each his tin cup of milk, with a pewter spoon, taking
just as much mush from the dish or the pot as he thought would fill his
mouth, then lowering it into the milk and taking some to wash it down.
This method kept the milk cool, and by frequent repetitions the pioneer
would contract a faculty of correctly estimating the proper amount of
each. Others would mix mush and milk together.
“To get grinding done was often a great difficulty, by reason of the
scarcity of mills, the freezing in winter and the droughts in summer.
We had often to manufacture meal in any way we could get the corn to
pieces. We soaked and pounded it, we shaved it, we planed it, and,
at the proper season, grated it. When one of our neighbors got a
hand-mill, it was thought quite an acquisition to the neighborhood.
In after years, when we could get grinding by waiting for our turn no
more than one day and a night at a horse-mill, we thought ourselves
happy. To save meal we often made pumpkin bread, in which, when meal
was scarce, the pumpkin would so predominate as to render it next
to impossible to tell our bread from that article, either by taste,
looks, or the amount of nutriment it contained. Salt was five dollars
per bushel, and we used none in our corn bread, which we soon liked as
well without it. What meat we had at first was fresh, and but little of
that, for had we been hunters we had no time for the chase.
“We had no candles, and cared but little about them except for summer
use. My business was to ramble the woods every evening for seasoned
sticks, or the bark of the shelly hickory, for light. ’Tis true
that our light was not as good as candles, but we got along without
fretting, for we depended more upon the goodness of our eyes than we
did upon the brilliancy of the light.”
Howe relates an anecdote of one Henry Perry, who in the fall of 1803,
after getting up his cabin near Delhi, left his two sons and returned
to Philadelphia for the remainder of his family, but finding his wife
ill, and afterwards being ill himself, could not get back till the
next June. These two little boys, Levi and Reuben, only eleven and
nine years old, remained there alone, eight months, fifteen miles from
any white family, and surrounded by Indians, with no food but the
rabbits they could catch in hollow logs, the remainder of one deer
that the wolves killed near them, and a little corn meal that they
occasionally obtained of Thomas Cellar, by following down the “Indian
trace.” The winter was a severe one, and their cabin was open, having
neither daubing, fire-place, nor chimney; they had no gun, and were
wholly unaccustomed to forest life, being fresh from Wales, and yet
these little fellows not only struggled through but actually made a
considerable clearing! Jacob Forst, at an early day, when his wife
was sick and could obtain nothing to eat that she relished, procured
a bushel of wheat, and throwing it upon his shoulders, carried it to
Zanesville to get it ground, a distance of more than seventy-five miles
by the tortuous path he had to traverse, and then shouldering his flour
retraced his steps home, fording the streams and camping out nights.”
Dr. Hildreth says that for many years after the first settlement of
Ohio, salt had to be brought across the mountains on pack-horses.
“Those immense fountains of brine that now are known to exist deep in
the rocky beds below, were not then dreamed of; it was supposed that
the west would always be dependent on the Atlantic coast for salt,
and deeply deplored as a serious drawback on the prosperity of this
beautiful region. Although springs of salt water were known in various
places, they were of so poor and weak a quality as to require from
four to six hundred gallons of the water to make a bushel of salt; and
when made, it contained so much foreign matter as to render it a very
inferior article. Yet as it could be used in place of the imported
salt, and saved the borderer’s money, at that day not very plenty, it
was occasionally resorted to by the settlers, who, assembling in gangs
of six or eight persons, with their domestic kettles, pack-horses and
provisions, camped out for a week at a time in the vicinity of the
saline. These springs were generally discovered by hunters, and were at
remote points from the settlements.”
XIV.
ANN BAILEY.
The account of the first settlement of Gallipolis, Ohio, forms a
curious piece of pioneer history. When the disturbances of the French
Revolution had driven many families from their native country, an
office was opened in Paris for the sale of American lands owned by the
“Scioto Company,” and situated on the west bank of the Ohio river,
above the mouth of the Big Scioto in the Northwest Territory. A general
prospectus was issued, setting forth that the company owned a million
of acres; the advantages to the emigrant and ultimate value of the
land, were glowingly painted, and hundreds rushed to the agents to
purchase estates which might be acquired at a very moderate price. Some
five or six hundred emigrants, in eluding doctors, lawyers, officers,
merchants, manufacturers, mechanics, farmers, gardeners, etc., with
their deeds in their hands, and eager with hope and expectation, sailed
in February, 1790, from Havre de Grace, five ships being chartered to
convey them to Alexandria, Virginia. They were received with a warm
and hospitable welcome by the inhabitants of that town, supplied with
portions of their stores, and taught all that was necessary to learn as
to the manner of living in the new country.[28]
From a correspondence opened with the Secretary of the Treasury of the
United States, the emigrants learned that the Scioto Company had failed
in their engagements to government, and that the lands purchased from
the Treasury Board had reverted and been sold in 1787 to the agents
for the directors of the Ohio Company, pursuant to an act of Congress
passed the July preceding. This was the first knowledge they had of
their true situation, and the imposition practised on them. A general
meeting was called, and a committee appointed to go to New York and
demand indemnification of the acting agent for the Scioto Company,
while another committee was to appeal to President Washington for a
redress of their grievances. The result of the application to the
agent of the Scioto Company was the promise that other lands should
be secured to the emigrants in fulfilment of the engagements entered
into, and that the site of Gallipolis should be surveyed into lots,
houses erected, with defences against the Indians, and wagons and
supplies provided to convey the colonists to Ohio. Notwithstanding this
flattering report of their committee, many of them had no hope that the
promises would be fulfilled, and removed to New York, Philadelphia,
and elsewhere. As soon as wagons could be procured, the others left
Alexandria and passed through Winchester to Brownsville on the
Monongahela, where they were detained, as boats were not in readiness
to proceed. They had shanties to lodge in, but the fall rains had set
in, and they suffered many privations. Their voyage further was not a
pleasant one, the river being low, and shoals frequent; but after a
weary progress they reached the place of destination, in October, 1790,
and landed with great joy. Surveyors had been sent to lay out the town,
and workmen to build houses, and the first tree had been cut down on
the 8th of June, by Col. Robert Safford. Four rows of twenty cabins,
each with a door, windows, and wooden chimney, were put up, and as a
better sort of habitation for those of the superior class, two rows
of huts of hewn logs, a story and a half in height. Block-houses two
stories high were also erected, with a high stockade fence, forming a
sufficient fortification against attack. In one of the better cabins
was a room used for a ball-room and council chamber. As soon as the
quarters of each family were assigned, their massive chests were opened
and relieved of the ponderous contents, which were distributed in the
community.
They entered upon the new mode of life with cheerfulness and a social
spirit; they had soirées, music, and dancing regularly; some had
mingled in the higher circles abroad and had cultivated literary
tastes, and there were scientific men who had spent years of study in
the first European institutions. Few of them had ever wielded an axe,
but they did not shrink from severe labor; they cleared the forest,
prepared the soil for cultivation, and soon changed the wilderness
to a land of more inviting aspect. A corps of hunters brought in
regular supplies of game, and flour and grain were procured from
Western Pennsylvania. From the commencement of the settlement service
was performed by a Catholic priest, which was regularly attended by
the emigrants. In a short time different branches of business were
commenced, retail stores opened, and manufactures offered for sale and
carried to other places.
In the spring of 1791, a party was sent out to explore the lands
from Gallipolis to the confluence of the Big Scioto with the Ohio. A
keel-boat was chartered and a crew obtained, with hunters, spies, and
scouts, making a formidable appearance with their camp equipage and war
accoutrements, while the colonists assembled to bid them adieu. They
reached the mouth of the Big Scioto by the aid of poles, pikes, &c.,
ascended it about a mile, and encamped near the site of the court-house
in Portsmouth. The country was then explored, and the lands examined
along the banks of the river; the hunters bringing in abundance of
deer, turkeys, and other game. On their return to Gallipolis, their
report was joyfully received, and hope was entertained that the Scioto
company would yet put the colonists in possession of the lands they had
purchased.
It was now announced that a hostile band of Indians had been prowling
in the neighborhood; one emigrant was killed and two were taken
prisoners, while several horses and cattle were carried off. A
defensive force was organized, and on application to the Secretary
of War, assistance was sent. Few further depredations, however, were
committed by the Indians, though they came occasionally to peep at
the dances of the colonists, and the settlement continued for so long
a time to enjoy immunity from attack, that it was supposed that the
savages entertained unusually friendly feelings towards the French.
After the victories of Gen. Wayne and the establishment of peace, a
free intercourse was maintained between the residents at Gallipolis
and the colonists from Massachusetts living at Marietta. The former
soon became convinced that the agents of the Scioto Company could never
secure them in the possession of their lands, and after some further
endeavors to procure redress by prosecuting their claims, they were
obliged to give up the hope of having their rights conceded. In a
negotiation afterwards with the Ohio Company, many of the settlers were
disappointed, and feeling themselves deceived, left the settlement,
reducing the numbers of those remaining to about three hundred. A
petition to Congress for an appropriation of lands for their benefit,
presented by M. Gervais, resulted in the grant of twenty thousand
acres, to be equally divided among the French emigrants living at
Gallipolis at a certain time, under conditions that secured their
settling there for some years. Other grants were afterwards made to
other colonists opposite and below the mouth of Little Sandy River in
Kentucky. Improvements in the lands went on: apple and peach orchards
were planted, and the cider and brandy manufactured became a source of
revenue. New emigrants came in, and in 1803, Gallia county was erected,
Gallipolis being the county seat.
So interesting and romantic is the story of this settlement by the
French, that no apology will be necessary for connecting the narrative
with a brief notice of a remarkable woman, remembered by all the old
inhabitants of Gallipolis, and throughout Western Virginia, and known
by name to almost every child in the country. She was sometimes called
“Mad Ann,” and was a terror to refractory urchins. Her maiden name was
Hennis. She was born at Liverpool, married Richard Trotter at the age
of thirty, and came with him to the American colonies; both, on account
of poverty, being “sold out” to service, according to custom, for
the payment of the passage money, to a gentleman in Augusta county,
Virginia. Having served him faithfully for the stipulated time, they
became settlers.
The frontier having suffered much from Indian attacks, in the summer
of 1774, Lord Dunmore, governor of Virginia, collected forces for an
expedition against the Indian towns on the Scioto. Gen. Lewis, who
had signalized himself in the field of Braddock’s defeat, was ordered
to march with his division to the junction of the Great Kanawha with
the Ohio. Richard Trotter was a volunteer in his force. Lewis halted
on the ground now occupied by the village of Point Pleasant, to await
further communications from the commander-in-chief; but before his men
could erect defences, except a few fallen trees, the scouts came into
camp with intelligence that an army of Indian warriors was in their
immediate vicinity. The troops were put in battle array, and in a very
short time, on the morning of the 10th of October, a general engagement
took place, in which the Virginians suffered great loss, though the
Indians retreated. Among those engaged in this memorable battle, we
find the names of Shelby, Sevier, and James Robertson.
Trotter was killed in this battle. From the period of his death, a
strange and wild spirit seemed to possess the widow, who frequently
expressed her hatred of the Indians, and her determination to have
revenge. The opinion entertained by her neighbors that her intellects
were somewhat disordered, was confirmed by her entire abandonment of
all feminine employments. She no longer sewed, spun, or attended to
household or garden concerns, but practised with the rifle, slung
the tomahawk, and rode about the country attending every muster of
soldiers. She even in part discarded female attire, and was seen clad
in a hunting-shirt and moccasins, wearing her knife and tomahawk, and
carrying her gun. Her manly spirit and resolve to avenge the death of
her husband did not prevent her contracting a second alliance, and
it was as Ann Bailey that, several years afterwards, she followed a
body of soldiers sent to garrison a fort on the Great Kanawha, where
Charleston is now located. The men often practised shooting at a
target, and Ann, ambitious to display her skill, would contend with
the best marksmen and sometimes carry off the prize. At parade she
handled fire-arms with the expertness of a warrior, and the rifle was
her constant companion. Howe, in his historical work on Virginia,
mentions that she frequently acted as a messenger, carrying letters
from the fort to Point Pleasant, and that she generally rode on
horseback, with a rifle over her shoulder, and a knife and tomahawk in
her belt. At night she would encamp in the woods, letting her horse
go free, and then walking back some distance on the trail to escape
discovery by the vigilant savages.
Marauding parties of Indians were often seen in the valley of the
Kanawha, and the Virginians doubted not their intention of making a
desperate effort to dislodge them from this favorite hunting-ground.
A runner was sent from Capt. Arbuckle, at Point Pleasant, to Capt.
Clendenin, the commander of the garrison, with information that a
hundred or more Indian warriors had been seen the day previous crossing
the Ohio at Racoon Island, some ten miles below. It was supposed their
design was to attack the fort at Charleston, or at Big Levels, in
Greenbrier county. All the inhabitants around were immediately gathered
into the fort.
At this crisis the terrible fact was announced that their ammunition
was nearly exhausted. It was determined to send immediately to Camp
Union, now Lewisburg, for a supply; but few men could be spared from
the fort, and none was willing to encounter, with a small party, the
perils of a hundred miles’ journey through a trackless forest. Mrs.
Bailey heard of the difficulty, and instantly offered her services,
saying she would go alone. Her acquaintance with the country, her
excellent horsemanship, her perseverance, and fearless spirit, were
well known, and the commander of the garrison at length yielded to
her solicitation. A good horse was furnished her, with a stock of
jerked venison and johnny-cake; she set her face towards Greenbrier,
armed with rifle, etc., and resolutely overcoming every obstacle in
the ruggedness of the way through the woods, the mountains she had to
cross, and the rivers to swim, undaunted by the perils threatening from
wild beasts and straggling parties of Indians, she reached Camp Union
in safety, delivered her orders, and being provided with a led horse
fully laden, as well as her own, set forward on her return.
She used to relate how her trail was followed for hours together by
wolves, watching for an opportunity to attack her horses. When night
set in she was compelled to make large fires to keep the wild beasts
at bay. To protect herself in slumber from the danger of rattlesnakes
and copperheads, which infested the wilderness, she had to construct a
pioneer bedstead every night, by driving into the ground four forked
sticks about three feet high, adjust upon them other sticks to serve as
bed rails and slats, and overlay them with a quantity of green boughs,
her blanket serving as a musquito bar. Thus she would sleep amidst
the howling of wolves, the screaming of panthers, and the buzzing
of troublesome insects; at break of day replacing the loads on her
horses, and resuming her journey, her simple breakfast being eaten on
horseback. She arrived in safety with her supplies at the fort. It is
said that the premeditated attack was made the very next day, and that
the Indians were repulsed after a severe conflict. Mrs. Bailey was
actively employed during the siege, and tradition says, fired several
times upon the assailants. She always insisted that she had killed one
Indian at least, and thus accomplished her revenge. The commandant has
been heard to say that the fort could not have been saved without the
timely supply of ammunition, thus giving the credit to Mrs. Bailey’s
exploit, which indeed is scarcely paralleled even among the many
instances of heroism that abound in the history of the Revolutionary
war.
After the troubles with the Indians were over, Mrs. Bailey still
retained her singular habits. She spent much of her time in fishing
and hunting, and would shoot deer and bears with the expertness of a
backwoodsman. In person she was short and stout, and of coarse and
masculine appearance, and she seldom wore a full woman’s dress, having
on usually a skirt with a man’s coat over it, and buckskin leggins.
The services she rendered in the war had greatly endeared her to the
people, and her eccentricities were regarded with an indulgence
that would not have been extended to one who had no such claims to
gratitude. She annually visited many of the people of West Virginia,
and received presents in clothing and other articles. Gen. Newsom
recollects seeing her in his boyhood, passing from the Kanawha Valley
to the counties near the Alleghanies, and returning with her horse
laden with gifts from those who remembered her achievement. Thus “Mad
Ann” and her black horse, which she called “Liverpool” in honor of her
birthplace, were always greeted with a smile of welcome wherever she
chose to stop. When her son came to Ohio, where he owned a large body
of land, she came with him, and lived a few miles from Gallipolis. Here
she was accustomed to wander about the country, received by all as a
privileged visitor, and supplied according to her need. She seldom
failed, whenever there was a muster of the militia, to attend, armed
like a soldier, and march in the ranks. “Not a man of them would have
put her out,” said the General, in recounting the narrative. She loved
solitude, and spent most of her time alone, but often gathered the
neighbors around her to relate the story of her adventures. It must
be added that among her masculine habits she had that of drinking
occasionally, and that she sometimes exercised her skill in boxing, an
accomplishment in which she was well versed. She could read and write,
and seems to have possessed an unusual share of intelligence for one of
her station in life.
A gentleman residing in Nashville, said he had seen her frequently
near Point Pleasant, about the year 1810 or 1811. She called her gun
and canoe “Liverpool,” as well as her horse. She often took it upon
herself to enforce the keeping of the Sabbath by taking up such boys
as she found wandering about on that day, and compelling them to sit
around her in a cabin, while she opened school exercises for their
instruction, greatly to the terror of the delinquents. The gentleman
referred to said he was chased by her some distance on one of these
occasions, and though lamed by a bruise on his foot, ran as for dear
life, having made his escape by jumping out of the window of the hut
where she had imprisoned a number of boys.
Mrs. Bailey’s life was prolonged far beyond the ordinary limits;
according to her own account, she numbered several years over a
century. Her death took place in 1825. The place of her burial is on
a lonely hill near her son’s residence, in the solitude of the woods,
unmarked by a headstone. Gen. Newsom suggests that her remains should
be removed by the citizens of Virginia to the spot where the fort stood
in Charleston, and honored by a suitable monument.
XV.
ELIZABETH HARPER.
Elizabeth Bartholomew, one of the pioneer band who made the earliest
settlement in Northeastern Ohio, was born in Bethlehem, Hunterdon
County, New Jersey, February 13th, 1749. She was the sixteenth child
of her parents, and had still a younger sister. She was descended on
the maternal side from the Huguenots of France, and her ancestors
were persons of wealth and respectable rank, firmly attached to the
principles they professed, and willing to surrender all, and yield
themselves unto death, rather than give up their religious faith. They
removed to Germany after the revocation of the edict of Nantes; and
there is a family tradition that the grandmother of the subject of this
sketch, then a child, was brought from Paris concealed in a chest. She
married in Germany, and in an old age emigrated to America.
In 1771, Elizabeth was married to Alexander Harper, one of several
brothers who had settled in Harpersfield, Delaware County, New York.
At the outbreak of the Revolutionary war, these brothers immediately
quitted their peaceful occupations to enter into the continental
service, Alexander receiving a commission to act as captain of a
company of rangers. The exposed situation of that portion of country,
and the frequent visits of Indians and tories, made it necessary for
the whig families to seek the protection of Fort Schoharie. Mrs.
Harper repaired thither with her family, including the aged parents
of her husband. In time of comparative security, she lived at the
distance of about a mile from the fort. Here, when there was a sudden
alarm, she would herself harness her horses to the wagon, and placing
in it her children and the old people, would drive with all speed to
the fort, remaining within its walls until the danger was over, and
then returning to her occupations on the farm. As peril became more
frequent or imminent, the old people were removed to a place of greater
security, while Mrs. Harper, with her four children and a lad they had
taken to bring up, remained at home. One night they were startled by
the sound of the alarm-gun. The mother took the youngest child in her
arms, another on her back, and bidding the two elder hold fast to her
clothes, set off to escape to the fort; the lad running closely behind
her, and calling to her in great terror not to leave him. The fugitives
reached the fort in safety, and for the present Mrs. Harper concluded
to take up her abode there. She would not, however, consent to live
in idleness, supported by the labor of others, but undertook, as her
special charge, the bread-baking for the whole garrison, which she
did for six months. During her stay the fort sustained a siege from a
party of tories and Indians, commanded by British officers. Messengers
were despatched to the nearest posts for relief; but while this was
slow in arriving, the commanding officer, in opposition to the wishes
of all his men, determined on a capitulation, and ordered a flag of
truce to be hoisted for that purpose. The announcement of his intention
created a disaffection which soon amounted almost to rebellion. The
women, among whom Mrs. Harper was a leading spirit, had on that day
been busily occupied from early dawn in making cartridges, preparing
ammunition, and serving rations to the wearied soldiers. They heartily
sympathized in the determination expressed not to surrender without
another effort to repel the besiegers.
One of the men declared his willingness to fire upon the flag which
had been ordered to be hoisted, provided the women would conceal him.
This they readily agreed to do, and as often as the flag was run up
it was fired at, while the commander was unable to discover the author
of this expression of contempt for his authority. The delay consequent
on this act of insubordination and the displeasure of the soldiers,
prevented the capitulation being carried into effect, till the arrival
of reinforcements caused the enemy to retreat.
In the spring of 1780, Capt. Harper availed himself of an interval in
active service, to look after his property in Harpersfield. While there
with several of his friends, they were surprised by a party of Indians
and tories under Brandt, and taken prisoners, an invalid brother-in-law
being killed. Harper and Brandt had been school-fellows in boyhood, and
the chief did not fail to show a remembrance of the days thus spent
together. The Indian captor of Harper treated him with great kindness,
taking him, however, to Canada. Here his exchange was effected soon
afterwards, but he was not released till peace was concluded; being
offered, meanwhile, large rewards by the British if he would enter into
service on their side. Mrs. Harper remained in ignorance of his fate
during the time of his absence, and supposing him killed, mourned for
him, while she did not suffer grief to paralyze her efforts for the
protection and support of her family. All her characteristic energy
was devoted to keeping them together, and doing what she could towards
improving their shattered fortunes.
In the year 1797, a company was formed in Harpersfield, to purchase
lands in the country then called “the far west.” Besides Alexander
and Joseph Harper, the company consisted of William McFarland, Aaron
Wheeler, and Roswell Hotchkiss; others joining afterwards. In June
of that year these individuals entered into a contract with Oliver
Phelps and Gideon Granger, members of the Connecticut Land Company,
for six townships of land in what was then called New Connecticut, in
the Northwestern Territory. Three of these townships were to lie east
and three west of the Cuyahoga river. The Connecticut Land Company
drew their lands in the same year, and the township now known as
Harpersfield in Ashtabula County, was one of those which fell to the
company formed at the town of that name in New York.
In September commissioners were sent out by them to explore the
country. They were much pleased with the locality called Harpersfield,
and selected it as the township most eligibly situated for the
commencement of a settlement. On the 7th of March, 1798, Alexander
Harper, William McFarland, and Ezra Gregory set out with their families
on their journey to this land of promise. As the winter’s snow was
upon the ground, they came in sleighs as far as Rome, where they found
further progress impracticable and were obliged to take up their
quarters until the 1st of May. They then made another start in boats,
and proceeded to Oswego, where they found a vessel which conveyed them
to Queenstown. Thence they pursued their journey on the Canada side to
Fort Erie, being obliged to take this circuitous route on account of
there being no roads west of Genesee River, nor any inhabitants, except
three families living at Buffalo, while a garrison was stationed at
Erie, in Pennsylvania. At Fort Erie they found a small vessel which
had been used for transporting military stores to the troops stationed
at the West, and which was then ready to proceed up the lake with her
usual lading of stores. This vessel was the only one owned on the
American side, and the voyagers lost no time in securing passage in
her for themselves and their families as far as the peninsula opposite
Erie. As the boat, however, was small and already heavily laden, they
were able to take with them but a slender stock of provisions. Having
landed on the peninsula the party was obliged to stop for a week until
they could procure boats in which to coast up the lake, at that time
bordered by the primeval forest. After having spent nearly four months
in performing a journey which now occupies but two or three days, they
landed on the 28th of June at the mouth of Cunningham’s Creek.
The cattle belonging to the pioneers had been sent through the
wilderness, meeting them at the peninsula, whence they came up along
the lake shore to the mouth of the stream. Here the men prepared sleds
to transport the goods they had brought with them; the whole party
encamping that night on the beach. The next morning, Col. Harper, who
was the oldest of the emigrants, and was then about fifty-five, set out
on foot, accompanied by the women, comprising Mrs. Harper and two of
her daughters, twelve and fourteen years of age, Mrs. Gregory and two
daughters, Mrs. McFarland the Colonel’s sister, and a girl whom she
had brought up, named Parthena Mingus. Their new home was about four
miles distant, and they followed up the boundary line of the township
from the lake, each carrying articles of provisions or table furniture.
Mrs. Harper carried a small copper tea-kettle, which she filled with
water on the way to the place of destination. Their course lay through
a forest unbroken except by the surveyor’s lines, and the men who
followed them were obliged to cut their way through for the passage
of the sleds. About three in the afternoon they came to the corner
of the township line, about half a mile north of the present site of
Unionville, Ohio, where they were glad to halt, as they saw indications
of a coming storm. The women busied themselves in striking a fire, and
putting the tea-kettle over, while Col. Harper cut some forked poles
and drove them in the ground, and then felled a large chestnut tree,
from which he stripped the bark, and helped the women to stretch it
across the poles so as to form a shelter, which they had just time to
gather under when the storm burst upon them. It was not, however, of
long continuance, and when the rest of the men arrived, they enlarged
and enclosed the lodge, in which the whole company, consisting of
twenty-five persons great and small, were obliged to take up their
quarters. Their tea-table was then constructed in the same primitive
fashion, and we may believe that the first meal was partaken of with
excellent appetite, after the wanderings and labors of the day.
The lodge thus prepared was the common dwelling for three weeks, during
which time some of the trees had been cut down, and a space cleared for
a garden. The fourth of July was celebrated in the new Harpersfield
by the planting of beans, corn and potatoes. The next thing was to
build log cabins for the accommodation of the different families, and
when this was done the company separated. The location chosen by Col.
Harper was where he first pitched his tent, while his brother-in-law
took a piece of land about half a mile east of Unionville, near the
spot now occupied by the Episcopal Church, and Mr. Gregory put up his
dwelling close to the river where Clyde Furnace was afterwards built.
The settlers suffered from the sickness peculiar to a new country when
the season came. A hired man in Harper’s service was taken ill in
August, and soon after the Colonel himself was seized with the fever,
of which he died on the tenth of September. They had been able to
procure no medical aid, and a coffin was made by digging out the trunk
of a tree and hewing a slab for the lid. This melancholy event was a
peculiar and distressing affliction to the little band of pioneers,
and its effect on them would have been paralysing, but that the
firmness and energy exhibited by the widow, who now found her exertions
necessary to sustain the rest, restored the confidence and hope which
had nearly been extinguished by the loss of their leader. Although the
principal sufferer by the dispensation, she would not for a moment
listen favorably to the proposition made to abandon the enterprise.
When an invitation came from friends in Pennsylvania for herself and
daughters to spend the winter, both she and her eldest daughter,
Elizabeth, declined, knowing how necessary was their presence to keep
up the spirits of the little community, and that their departure would
discourage many who had intended coming to join them in their forest
home. The magnanimity of this resolution can be appreciated only in
view of the hardships they knew it would be their lot to share.
In the fall, another small vessel was built for use on the American
side of the lake, and two pioneers, one of whom was James Harper, were
sent to Canada to procure provisions for the winter. They despatched
four barrels of flour by this vessel, and waited some weeks for the
other, the captain of which had agreed to bring provisions up the lake
for them. Disappointed in this expectation, and hearing nothing of the
vessel, they were compelled to return when the season was far advanced,
without supplies; finding on their way home the remains of the vessel,
which had been wrecked near Erie. They found also that the vessel
which had on board the flour they had purchased had been driven into
the basin, and was too fast locked in the ice to proceed. They were
obliged therefore to remain till the ice became so strong that the
flour could be removed in sleds. They at length arrived at home just in
time to bring relief from absolute want to the settlers, who had lived
six weeks without any kind of breadstuffs, substituting salt beef and
turnips, the supply of which was just exhausted. Some grain had been
raised at Elk Creek, in Pennsylvania, but there were no mills in that
neighborhood, and the wheat afterwards procured there was brought in
hand-sleds on the ice to Harpersfield. The records of the Historical
Society state that the two sons of Mrs. Harper frequently brought bags
of grain packed on their backs. It was ground in a hand-mill somewhat
larger than a coffee-mill, which the pioneers had brought with them.
By keeping this constantly in operation enough flour was obtained for
daily use, mingled, of course, with the bran from which they had no
means of separating it, but having a relish and sweetness which such
necessity only could impart to the coarsest food.
There were no deer in the country at that time, but large droves of
elk, the flesh of which resembled coarse beef, were frequently seen.
The flesh of the bears was much more oily, and really very palatable;
racoons also were abundant and easily obtained, and were much used by
the settlers, although in after years of plenty they lost all relish
for “coon meat.” Hickory nuts were also abundant that year, and were
found a valuable article of food when other provisions failed. It is
worthy of notice, that in the severest straits to which the settlers
were reduced, the utmost harmony and friendly feeling prevailed among
them, and whatever game or provisions chanced to be obtained by any one
family was freely shared with the other two.
Towards spring the men were again sent for a supply of wheat, but by
that time the ice was growing tender, and the weather tended towards
thawing, so that they were detained on the way much longer than they
had expected, and on their arrival at home found the families reduced
to the last extremity, having been without provisions for two days.
In this time of distress, the fortitude and energy of Mrs. Harper
aided in supporting the rest; she was fruitful in expedients, and for
the last few days they had lived on the wild leeks she had gathered
from the woods and boiled for them. Their troubles did not terminate
with the severity of the winter. As soon as the lake opened, the men
set out for Canada in boats to procure provisions, but found so much
ice as they went down that they were unable to reach Buffalo without
much detention. In the meantime new difficulties arose in the little
settlement. The mill, on which all depended, was broken beyond hope of
repair, and there appeared no way of grinding the wheat, which they
could not pound so that bread could be made of it, and which, when
prepared by boiling, proved unwholesome food. In this extremity some
relief was afforded by the arrival, at the mouth of Cunningham’s Creek,
of Eliphalet Austin, who came to make preparations for a settlement at
Austinburgh, and gave the pioneers what they needed for immediate use
from his supplies of provisions, thus preventing them from suffering
till the return of their messengers.
Howe gives an anecdote of Mrs. John Austin, showing some of the
troubles of the settlers. “Hearing, on one occasion, a bear among her
hogs, she determined to defeat his purpose. First hurrying her little
children up a ladder into her chamber, for safety, in case she was
overcome by the animal, she seized a rifle, and rushing to the spot saw
the bear only a few rods distant, carrying off a hog into the woods,
while the prisoner sent forth deafening squeals, accompanied by the
rest of the sty in full chorus. Nothing daunted, she rushed forward to
the scene with her rifle ready cocked, on which the monster let go his
prize, raised himself upon his haunches and faced her. Dropping upon
her knees to obtain a steady aim, and resting her rifle on the fence,
within six feet of the bear, the intrepid female pulled the trigger.
Perhaps fortunately _for her_, the rifle missed fire. Again and again
she snapped her piece, but with the same result. The bear, after
keeping his position some time, dropped down on all fours, and leaving
the hog behind, retreated to the forest and resigned the field to the
woman.”
About this time an accident not uncommon in this forest life occurred
to Mrs. Harper. She went out one morning to find the cows, which had
strayed away, but not having yet learned to tell the north side of a
tree by the difference in the bark--a species of wood-craft with which
she afterwards became familiar--she lost herself, and wandered all day
along the banks of a stream that ran through the depths of the forest.
Her family, of course, became alarmed at her lengthened absence and
blew the horn repeatedly; but it was not until the shades of night
had fallen that she heard the signal, when she managed to light upon
the township line, and followed it to the clearing. In the summer
following, her sons were obliged to watch closely the hogs they had
brought from Canada, on account of the bears, which were very numerous
and destructive to stock. The men being occupied in clearing and
working the land, or procuring provisions, various out-door employments
were cheerfully assumed by the women. One evening Mrs. Harper, with
her eldest daughter, went out to look up the hogs, taking the path
leading to the nearest neighbor’s house. Presently they were startled
by seeing a small bear’s cub cross the path just in advance of them;
it was followed by another, and the old bear composedly brought up the
rear, taking no notice of the females, who made their way home with all
speed. The pigs came to their quarters directly unharmed. So frequent
were encounters with wild beasts, that the men never went beyond the
clearing without fire-arms.
In July, 1799, Major Joseph Harper, the Colonel’s brother, joined the
colony with his family, while a relative of the same name, with some
other families, made a settlement at Conneaut, “the Plymouth of the
Western Reserve,” some thirty miles down the lake. This year wheat,
corn, etc., were raised sufficient for the consumption; but there was
a scarcity of meat, the severity of the preceding winter having killed
several of their cattle, and many of the hogs being devoured by the
bears. The settlers were under the necessity, therefore, of depending
on wild game, and the ease with which they secured it in traps, or
by the unerring aim of their rifles, with their iron strength for the
endurance of fatigue in ranging the forest, might well entitle them
to be called “mighty hunters.” But they were heavily laden with daily
cares and laborious duties, which even the pleasures of the chase could
not induce them to neglect; the clearing of the land and the culture
of grain and vegetables demanded incessant attention, and the grinding
of the grain was a matter requiring the exercise of some ingenuity.
Corn they soon contrived to pound in mortars scooped in the top of oak
stumps, with a pounder attached to a spring-pole; but they were obliged
to send their wheat in boats down the lake as far as Walnut Creek,
in Pennsylvania, where a mill was erected this year. The families of
the new emigrants suffered considerably in the latter part of the
summer from sickness, and Mrs. Harper went down to the settlement at
Conneaut to offer assistance in attending to them. She remained some
weeks occupied in her ministrations of kindness, and was not ready
to return home till the last of November. Travelling in open boats
and on horseback were the only modes practicable among the pioneers;
the season was too far advanced for the first, and accompanied by her
relative, James Harper, our benevolent heroine started on her homeward
journey, the only road being along the lake shore. Fording the streams
at their mouth, they had ridden some fifteen miles when they came to
the mouth of Ashtabula Creek, across which a sand-bar had formed during
the summer, but had now given way to the increased force of the waters
flowing into the lake. Harper was not aware of the depth of the stream,
into which he rode without hesitation, and presently found his horse
swimming. He called out to warn his companion, but she was too anxious
to reach home to heed his remonstrance, and followed him fearlessly.
Both reached the other side with some difficulty, Mrs. Harper wet to
the shoulders, and in this condition she rode the remainder of the way,
arriving at home before midnight.
During the fall there were some accessions to the colony; Judge
Wheeler, who had married a daughter of Col. Harper, came in October
with his family, and Harper’s eldest son, who had been out the year
before and returned. For a year and a half after the settlement was
commenced, they were not visited by Indians, though they frequently
heard their dogs, and learned afterwards that they had not escaped the
observation of their savage neighbors, who had counted them and noticed
all their occupations and new arrivals. The winter of 1799-1800 was
remarkable for the depth of snow upon the ground. In consequence of
this, game could not be procured, and the Indians suffered severely.
Some thirty of them, unable to procure anything to satisfy the cravings
of hunger, came to the settlement to ask relief, and were treated with
the most generous hospitality. They remained six weeks, sheltered and
fed by the colonists, and when the snow was melted they found plenty of
game in the forest, which they showed their gratitude by sharing with
their white friends.
In March, 1800, Daniel Bartholomew brought out his family accompanied
by that of Judge Griswold, whose destination was Windsor. They came
on the ice from Buffalo, arriving only the day before the breaking up
of the ice left the lake clear as far as the eye could reach. In the
winter preceding, the whole Western Reserve had been erected into a
county, which was called Trumbull, the part of it comprising Ashtabula
being then included in one township, and called Richfield. In May there
were still further accessions, in consequence of which a scarcity was
experienced of provisions raised the previous year, and designed for
the use of a much smaller number. The settlers were again compelled
to send, in June, to Canada in an open boat, for fresh supplies. In
August, an election was held for the purpose of sending a delegation to
a convention appointed to be held at Chilicothe in the ensuing winter,
for the purpose of taking measures preparatory to the admission of Ohio
as a State into the Union. The winter of 1800-1801, passed without
any remarkable occurrence, the country being healthy and provisions
abundant. In the following June other families were added to the number
of inhabitants, and the summer was signalized by the erection of a
horse-mill, the first built in the country, and the only one for many
miles round, till others were built in Austinburgh. The sufferings of
the settlers from scarcity of food and other privations were now over,
the advance of improvement developing the resources of the country and
the farmers were able to enlarge their cleared lands, and cultivate
the soil to better advantage. Their friends from the East continued to
join them, and Mrs. Harper had the satisfaction of seeing her elder
children settled around her. In 1802, a school was established in the
settlement; supposed to be the first on the Reserve. The scholars
came from the distance of two miles and a half, and as the reputation
of the institution extended, they were sent from Windsor and Burton,
twenty and thirty miles distant. The same year regular meetings were
established by the “Lovers of Good Order,” and the year following saw
numerous accessions.
In about three years after the commencement of the settlement, the
Indians began to visit them periodically. They were chiefly Ojibways,
and belonged to Lake Superior in the summer, but came down every fall
in their bark canoes, and landing at the mouth of the streams, carried
their canoes on their heads across the portage to Grand River, seven
miles from the lake, where they took up their quarters for the winter,
returning west in the spring. They manifested a friendly disposition
towards the white men, and as the pioneers gave them assistance in
sickness and destitution, they endeavored to show their gratitude by
bringing them portions of such large game as they killed. Many a choice
piece of bear’s or elk’s meat, carefully wrapped in a blanket, has
Mrs. Harper received from her savage friends. One day she saw a party
of drunken Indians coming towards her house when the men were absent;
and she had just time to conceal a small keg of liquor under the floor
before they came in, demanding whiskey. They were told they could not
have any, but insisting that they would, they commenced a search for
it, and finding a barrel of vinegar, asked if that would “make drunk
come,” as if so, they would take it. Finding it not the right sort of
stuff, they insisted, before leaving the house, on treating the women
from a calabash of muddy whiskey which they carried with them.
During all the privations, trials and sufferings which Mrs. Harper was
compelled to undergo, she was never known to yield to despondency, but
with untiring energy exerted herself to encourage all within the sphere
of her influence, teaching them to bear up against misfortune, and make
the best of the home where their lot was cast. Her own family knew not,
until the hardships of pioneer life had been overcome, how much she
had endured--how many hours of anxiety and sleepless nights she had
passed in the days of darkness and disaster. She found her reward in
the affection and usefulness of her children, several of whom filled
important stations in their adopted State. During the war of 1812, the
country was exposed to all the dangers of a frontier, liable, on every
reverse of the American arms, to be overrun by hostile Indians. In time
of danger, Mrs. Harper’s advice was always eagerly sought, as one whose
experience qualified her to decide on the best course in any emergency.
Her grand-daughter well remembers seeing her one day engaged at the
house of her son-in-law in showing a company of volunteers how to make
cartridges.
Her life was prolonged to her eighty-fifth year, and she died on the
11th of June, 1833, retaining unimpaired until her last illness the
characteristic strength of her remarkable mind.
* * * * *
“In May, 1799, Joel and Sarah Thorp moved with an ox-team from North
Haven, Connecticut, to Millsford, in Ashtabula county, and were the
first settlers in that region. They soon had a small clearing on and
about an old beaver dam, which was very rich and mellow. Towards
the first of June, the family being short of provisions, Mr. Thorp
started off alone to procure some through the wilderness, with no
guide but a pocket compass, to the nearest settlement, about twenty
miles distant, in Pennsylvania. His family, consisting of Mrs. Thorp
and three children--the oldest child, Basil, being but eight years of
age--were before his return reduced to extremities for the want of
food. They were compelled to dig for and in a measure subsist on roots,
which yielded but little nourishment. The children in vain asked food,
promising to be satisfied with the least possible portion. The boy
Basil remembered to have seen some kernels of corn in a crack of one of
the logs of the cabin, and passed hours in an unsuccessful search for
them. Mrs. Thorp emptied the straw out of her bed, and picked it over
to obtain the little wheat it contained, which she boiled and gave to
her children. Her husband, it seems, had taught her to shoot at a mark,
in which she acquired great skill. When all her means for procuring
food were exhausted, she saw, as she stood in her cabin door, a wild
turkey flying near. She took down her husband’s rifle, and on looking
for ammunition, was surprised to find only sufficient for a small
charge. Carefully cleaning the barrel, so as not to lose any by its
sticking to the sides as it went down, she set some apart for priming
and loaded the piece with the remainder, and started in pursuit of the
turkey, reflecting that on her success depended the lives of herself
and children. Under the excitement of her feelings she came near
defeating her object, by frightening the turkey, which flew a short
distance and again alighted in a potatoe patch. Upon this, she returned
to the house and waited until the fowl had begun to wallow in the
loose earth. On her second approach, she acted with great caution and
coolness, creeping slily on her hands and knees from log to log, until
she had gained the last obstruction between herself and the desired
object. It was now a trying moment, and a crowd of emotions passed
through her mind as she lifted the rifle to a level with her eye. She
fired; the result was fortunate; the turkey was killed, and herself
and family preserved from death by her skill. Mrs. Thorp married three
times. Her first husband was killed in Canada in the war of 1812; her
second was supposed to have been murdered. Her last husband’s name was
Gardiner. She died in Orange, in Cuyahoga county, Nov. 1st, 1846.”[29]
* * * * *
The first surveying party of the Western Reserve landed at the mouth
of Conneaut Creek, on the 4th of July, 1796. One of the company
says--“We celebrated the day in the usual manner, so far as our means
enabled us, by drinking patriotic toasts of pure lake water from
tin cups, and firing the usual number of salutes from two or three
fowling-pieces.”[30] The party numbered fifty two persons, including
two women, Mrs. Gunn and Mrs. Stiles. The next day the laborers
commenced building a house as the dwelling-place of the families and
storehouse of their provisions. In their exploration the surveyors
discovered a fine bee tree. “We encamped, cut down the tree, and ate
to our satisfaction, each man filling his canteen; and the residue was
put into the bags of flour. Except for two or three days, while our
honey lasted, we lived on bread alone. On our arrival at the lake we
took the beach, and went east to our camp at Conneaut; and what was
remarkable, on our way we fell in with all three of the parties, who
had each finished their lines and joined ours. During our absence the
house had been completed, and Gen. Cleveland[31] had assembled there
a small tribe of Indians residing a few miles up Conneaut Creek, had
held a council with them, made them some presents, and established a
friendly intercourse. The General had furnished himself with an Indian
dress, and being of swarthy complexion, afforded an excellent likeness
of an Indian chief, and was thereafter known in the party by the name
of Pagua, the name of the chief of the tribe referred to.”
The first permanent settlement was not commenced till two years
afterwards. One of the early settlers, on his return from Erie, with
corn, along the ice on the lake shore, fell into an “ice hole” some
distance from the land, and after spending some time in vain efforts
to extricate his horse, took the meal, saddle and bridle upon his
shoulders, and made for the shore, with his clothes frozen stiff
upon him. On the beach he kindled a fire, and after partially drying
himself, proceeded on his journey. Some time after nightfall he came
to a stream on the west bank of which stood an empty cabin; to reach
this and spend the night was his desire, but with the stream he was
unacquainted. He built a large fire, and by the light of it ventured to
ford it with his load; fortunately the water was only about five feet
deep, and after much danger and difficulty he succeeded in reaching the
cabin, where, by building a fire, and running about to keep himself
awake, he spent the night. The next day at night he reached home,
almost exhausted by his load and want of food.
In the year 1798, small settlements, few and far between, sprinkled
the Reserve, and a small illbuilt schooner constituted the American
fleet on Lake Erie. Subsequently the Indian title to that part of the
Reserve lying west of the Cuyahoga, was extinguished, and the lands
were brought into market. An apology for a grist-mill had been erected
near Cleveland, which had no competitor within a hundred miles, and
gave general satisfaction, as few had any thing to grind. Five or six
log cabins had been built in what was called “the city of Cleveland.”
Capt. Edward Paine made the first sleigh-track through the wilderness
from Cataraugus to Erie, accompanied by his wife, her sister, and
a female cousin, and encamped two nights in the snow. In the fall,
business obliged James Kingsbury, the father of one of the families at
Conneaut--the first, it is said, that wintered on the Reserve--to go
to Connecticut; and it was the middle of November before he arrived at
Buffalo on his return. The snow had fallen to the depth of two and a
half feet, and the weather was extremely cold.
“From this point Mr. Kingsbury must leave the habitation of the white
man, and make his way through a wilderness, one hundred and thirty
miles, with no road to guide him except for a part of that distance
the beach of the lake. He was sensible of the condition in which he
had left his family; that they had but a scanty supply of provisions,
and that his absence had already been longer than was expected. These
circumstances, with the setting in of a winter so severe, filled his
mind with the painful apprehension that his family might be suffering
starvation. Having provided himself with such necessaries as he could
procure, with which he loaded his horse, he set forth on foot, and
leading his horse, pursued the beach of the lake. After a fatiguing
march through the snow, he reached the Indian settlement on the
Cataraugus. As from this place, on account of the bold projecting
bluffs, he could no longer follow the beach, he procured an Indian, by
the name of Seneca Billy, to guide him through the trackless forest,
and took his course through the woods, leading his horse as before
mentioned. In this manner he toiled through the deep snow, camping each
night in the midst of it, for several days, when he reached Presqu’
Isle. With much difficulty he was able at this place to procure a bag
of corn, for which he paid three dollars a bushel. Here he dismissed
his Indian guide, and again took to the lake, travelling upon the ice.
He had proceeded in this manner as far as the fire spring, near the
mouth of Elk Creek, when his horse broke through the ice, and though he
extricated him, he was so badly injured that he was obliged to leave
him; and taking the bag of corn upon his own back, he reached his home,
but not such a home as could afford him consolation after his excessive
toil and suffering. He found a family perishing for want of food. His
wife had given birth to a child, not only without any of those comforts
which in such cases are usually deemed indispensable, but destitute of
even the coarsest food, herself and family being in nearly a famishing
state. The father soon after his arrival was doomed to see the child
expire of starvation.
“The infant was, I believe, the first white child born on the Reserve.
Some three or four months afterwards, Mrs. Stiles, of Cleveland,
presented her husband with one more fortunate, not only as to life,
but the means of sustaining it; to wit--a donation of land by the
Company--at least so said rumor.
“As the supply which Kingsbury had brought would last but a short time,
it became necessary that he should procure more. The Connecticut Land
Company had stored the provisions for the use of their surveyors at
Cleveland, and Kingsbury knew that of this some barrels of salt beef
still remained. Having lost his horse, as before mentioned, and being
destitute of any other, it was fortunate that the severity of the
season, which had contributed to the suffering of his family by making
the ice excellent, facilitated at this time the means of supplying
their wants. Taking advantage of this, he went to Cleveland, (seventy
miles) and procuring one of the barrels of beef, drew it home upon
the ice on a hand-sled, in which he was assisted by a man then at
Cleveland. When they arrived they found the first shanty erected by the
Company, occupied by Capt. Hodge and family.”
The wife of Hon. John Walworth, one of the earliest settlers of Lake
County, shared with him all the toils and privations attendant upon a
settlement in the wilderness. An old pioneer writes of her, “In our
pioneer days she went hand in hand with her husband in all that was
kind, hospitable, and generous; and to her winning and attractive
manner, and her sprightliness and vivacity, we must in part attribute
the resort to their house of the polished and respectable part of the
community. Twice has that lady travelled from this country to the
furthest part of Connecticut and back, on horseback: I mention this
to show her resolution and perseverance.” Early in 1800, Mr. Walworth
brought his family in a sleigh to Buffalo, where they waited two weeks
for a sleigh to come from Presqu’ Isle, then proceeded on the ice till
they came opposite Cataraugus Creek. Leaving the sleighs and horses
some fifty or sixty roods out, the party went to the shore and encamped
under some hemlock trees, and partook of a repast seasoned with
hilarity and good feeling. The next afternoon all arrived in safety at
Presqu’ Isle, whence Mr. Walworth went back to Buffalo for his goods.
Mr. Walworth’s nearest neighbors east of his new purchase, were at
Harpersfield, fifteen miles distant. His family reached their new home
April 7th, 1800, and lived in a tent for two weeks, during which time
the sun was not seen.[32]
On the 4th July, 1801, the first ball was given in Cleveland, at Major
Carter’s log cabin under the hill. The company consisted of a dozen
ladies and from fifteen to twenty gentlemen. The dancers kept time to
Major Jones’ violin, on the puncheon floor, and occasionally refreshed
themselves with a glass of sling, made of maple sugar and whiskey; and
never was the anniversary celebrated by “a more joyful and harmonious
company, than those who danced the scamperdown, double-shuffle,
western swing, and half-moon” in that unostentatious place of
assemblage.
The first school opened in the town was taught, in 1802, by Miss Anna
Spafford, also in a room of Major Carter’s cabin. This “thorough
pioneer” appears to have been foremost in every advance of improvement.
An incident in which his wife was concerned, showing something of the
spirit of the times, I take from the MSS. referred to:--“In the summer
of 1803, Mrs. Carter observed John Orric and another Indian lad in her
garden, breaking some small fruit trees. Upon her reproving them, young
Orric knocked her down with his war-club and seriously injured her. The
lads fled immediately to the west side of the river to their fathers’
lodges. Several days afterwards, Major Carter, who was on the watch,
observed these lads, with others, amusing themselves with playing ball
and swimming on the beach of the lake. He went there and took the lads
prisoner, secured them with ropes, and took them to the Indian camp
on the side hill, telling them he was going to hang them. Not finding
Orric’s father at the lodge, he released the other lad, and directed
him to go and tell him he had John a prisoner and was going to hang
him for striking his wife. The lad did the errand faithfully, for the
Major soon heard the Indian whoop of alarm, followed speedily by the
war-whoop from the different lodges on the west side of the river.
John’s father soon arrived, much excited, and with all the savageness
of his nature depicted in his face, with his tomahawk uplifted ready
for deadly revenge. He confronted the Major, giving him one of those
fierce, gleaming stares, so significant in the Indian brave; but the
eyes of the Major met his and did not quail. The injured husband and
the enraged father stood and gazed long in silence, each glancing
defiance at the other; at length the eye of the savage turned from the
calm, fearless look of the white hunter, and he enquired the cause of
his son’s capture. Carter told him of John’s assault upon his wife,
and his determination to have him punished. By this time, traders and
other Indians had arrived and proposed to arrange the matter. John’s
father sent him with twenty dollars to give to Mrs. Carter, and ask her
forgiveness for the injury he had done; the Major agreeing to nothing
unless Mrs. Carter was satisfied. Mrs. Carter indignantly refused
the proffered money, and ordered John out of the house; he returned
crestfallen to the council and reported the failure of his mission. By
this time Carter became much enraged, and notwithstanding he was in the
midst of over forty Indians, most of them well armed, it was with great
difficulty he could be prevailed upon not to kill John upon the spot.
After a long parley, however, he agreed that the affair might rest for
the present; but on this condition, that if John was ever caught on the
east side of the Cuyahoga River he should certainly hang him.”
XVI.
ELIZABETH TAPPEN.
Elizabeth Harper was the second daughter of Alexander and Elizabeth
Harper, and was born February 24th, 1784, in Harpersfield. New York.
She was in the fifteenth year of her age when she accompanied her
parents to Ohio, in 1798, and was the oldest daughter who went with
them, her elder sister having been married some years and remaining in
their old home.
The labors and perils of commencing a settlement in an almost unbroken
wilderness, encountered by all who took part in this adventurous
enterprise, were shared without a murmur by the young girl, to whom
fell, of course, no small part of the work of the household and the
care of the younger children. The novelty of their mode of living, and
the wild forest scenery, with incessant occupation, caused the time to
pass speedily and pleasantly through the first summer; but with the
approach of a more rigorous season, their hardships commenced, and the
death of her beloved father brought before the bereaved family the
realities of their situation, far from early friends, and isolated from
the comforts of civilization. Elizabeth suffered much at this time of
gloom and distrust, with a longing for home, and fears for the future;
but the fortitude and resolution with which Mrs. Harper sustained
herself under the pressure of calamity, had a due influence on the
minds of her children, and the feeling of discontent was soon subdued.
During the absence of James, who went to Canada, as mentioned in the
preceding sketch, to procure provisions, another son, William, broke
his leg. The other boys were seven and nine years old, and as they
could do nothing of consequence, the work of providing firewood for use
in the house devolved entirely, for some four weeks, upon Elizabeth and
her younger sister, Mary. It was no easy task to cut, split, and bring
home all the fuel consumed, as the cabin was very open and large fires
were required.
The prospects for the approaching winter were very dark, owing to the
scarcity of provision and the want of comfortable quarters; and Mrs.
Harper thought it best to send her younger daughter to stay with some
friends at a settlement in Pennsylvania. She determined not to accept
the invitation for herself, and Elizabeth decided to stay with her
mother. The winter proved one of unusual severity, and the settlers
suffered greatly from the want of provisions after the wreck of the
only vessel on the southern shore of Lake Erie, their supplies having
to be brought from Canada. Twice the little community was reduced
almost to the point of starvation, having to relieve the cravings
of hunger with strange substitutes for wholesome food. On the last
occasion, when the men sent for supplies returned, they brought with
them a small quantity of coarse Indian meal boiled, which was called
samp. Mrs. Harper warmed a portion of this, and making some tea, called
her family to partake of the simple meal, then a luxury privation had
taught them to appreciate. Most of the children felt sick from absolute
want, and disinclined to touch the food, but after tasting it, they
were so eager for more that it required all the mother’s firmness to
restrain them from taking more than they could bear in so weakened a
state.
It has been mentioned that a quantity of wheat raised in Pennsylvania,
was brought on hand-sleds a distance of fifty miles on the ice to
the settlement, and ground in a small mill belonging to one of the
families. It was Elizabeth’s work to grind that required for her
family. She would take a peck of wheat and walk two miles and a half
to grind it, then carry home the meal and make it into bread. The mill
would grind no more than a bushel of grain in a day when constantly in
use, and three families were to be supplied. The men being occupied
in bringing the wheat and attending to other necessary duties, the
grinding was chiefly done by the women.
Many of the cattle belonging to the settlers died this winter, and
some of the oxen disappeared, supposed to have been killed and carried
off by the Indians. The disaster that caused so much inconvenience the
following season--the breaking of the little mill which had been so
useful, set them upon the invention of a substitute. A hole was burned
and scraped in the top of an oak stump, large enough to hold a quantity
of corn which was then pounded as fine as possible with a pounder
attached to a spring pole resembling a well-sweep, the heavy end being
fastened to the ground. This contrivance was called a mortar. Their
ovens were equally primitive. As neither brick nor stone was to be had,
a stump was hewn perfectly flat on the top, and a slab hewn out and
laid upon it. On this the women spread a layer of clay, and placed upon
it wood heaped up in the form of an oven, covering the whole except a
small opening at one end, with a thick layer of clay. It stood a short
time to dry, and then the wood was set on fire and burned out. The oven
thus manufactured proved an excellent one for use, and served as a
model for all the ovens in the country for some years afterwards.
In the autumn of the second year of the settlement, Mrs. Wheeler, Mrs.
Harper’s eldest daughter, came with her husband and family, and they
took up their residence in a cabin they built half a mile from that of
the widow. They were joined by several other families soon afterwards.
Some anecdotes of their encounters with the wild beasts of the
forest are remembered in family tradition. One summer evening in the
third year, when William Harper was returning about dusk from Judge
Wheeler’s, his attention was arrested by the sight of a bear just in
the path before him, engaged in devouring a hog he had just killed.
William fired at the animal without apparent effect, and was hastily
reloading his gun, when the bear desisted from his meal, and started in
pursuit of the new enemy. Fortunately, a large tree was near at hand,
which the young man ran round, the bear closely following and tearing
off pieces of the bark in his fury. William contrived, while dodging
him, to load his gun, and fired eleven times before the enraged animal
fell to the ground; then, completely exhausted by the efforts he had
made to keep the foe at bay, he hastened homeward, and met his brother,
who alarmed by hearing reports in such rapid succession, had come to
look for him. On going to the spot the next evening, they found the
bear quite dead, with ten of the eleven balls in his body, the tree
being entirely stripped of bark as high as he could reach.
It was not long after this that Elizabeth, while staying with her
sister in the absence of her husband, was alarmed by an attack from one
of these ferocious animals. A crazy woman belonging to the settlement
had come to stay the night in the house. Late in the evening they heard
a noise among some fowls roosting upon the projecting logs of the
cabin, and going to the door they distinctly saw a large bear standing
on his hind legs, trying to reach the fowls, that crowded together in
their terror above the range of his paws. It required all Elizabeth’s
presence of mind and energy to prevent the lunatic from rushing out;
but by alarming her fears she persuaded her to be quiet, and fastened
the doors. A more severe encounter took place some years afterwards,
in the house of her brother. A hungry bear broke into the yard and
attempted to catch a goose wandering on the premises. Mrs. Harper, the
sister-in-law, hastily called to her children to come in, and barred
the door; but the fierce creature had heard the sound of her voice, and
bent on securing his prey, sprang through the open window and attacked
her. Her clothes were much torn, and her arm badly scratched; but her
husband and a man who chanced to be with him coming to the rescue,
they beat off the bear with clubs, and killed him. The fright of Mrs.
Harper had such an effect upon her that she suffered in health for many
years.
When the school was established in 1802, the earliest on the Reserve,
Elizabeth Harper was employed to teach it. The following winter Abraham
Tappen was appointed to take charge of it, and some of the scholars
came from distant settlements. The school was taught alternately by
Tappen and Miss Harper during the winter and summer, for some years.
Religious meetings were established about the same time.
In 1806, Elizabeth was married to Abraham Tappen, then engaged as a
surveyor, and employed in equalizing the claims of land-holders. His
duties compelled him to be absent from home during a great part of
the time, and after they were settled, the labor of superintending
the clearing of a new farm devolved upon the wife. The work was done,
however, with an energy and cheerful spirit worthy the daughter of
such a mother; and a substantial foundation was thus laid for future
comfort and prosperity. For a few years the youthful couple lived in a
small log hut containing but one room, in which it was necessary very
frequently to entertain company, as Tappen’s acquaintance and business
associations with land owners and land agents brought strangers
continually to his house, and the duties of hospitality were esteemed
sacred in the most primitive settlements. Mrs. Tappen was often obliged
to spread the floor with beds for the accommodation of her guests and
the abundance of her table, and the excellent quality of her cooking,
could be attested by many who from time to time were the chance inmates
of her cheerful home. At that early period an unaffected kindness of
feeling, poorly replaced in a more advanced state of society by the
conventionalities of good breeding, prevailed among the settlers, and
some families were sincerely attached to each other. Good offices were
interchanged between neighbors every day, and a friendly intercourse
maintained by frequent visits. These were often paid from one to
another, even when a journey of fifteen miles on horseback, occupying a
whole day, had to be performed. The alarms and accidents to which a new
settlement is liable, tended also to bind the emigrants together for
mutual assistance and protection. One of a number of similar incidents
which occurred in 1811, caused much trouble to the Harper family. A
son of Mrs. Wheeler, nine years of age, had gone out alone to gather
chestnuts. The afternoon was sultry, and he was thinly clad, but it was
not long before a terrible storm of wind and rain came on, prostrating
acres of the forest, and swelling the streams in a little while to
torrents. Just before dark, Mrs. Tappen received a hasty summons to go
to her sister, whom she found half frantic with fears for the missing
boy. The alarm quickly spread, the neighbors assembled, and people
came from a distance of fifteen and twenty miles to aid in the search,
which was continued through the next day and the following one, without
success, till near the close of the third day, when the child was found
in so exhausted a state that in attempting to rise he fell upon his
face. His limbs were torn and filled with porcupine’s quills.
Not very long afterwards, another boy belonging to the settlement was
lost in the woods, and the members of his family, in the search for
him, called his name aloud repeatedly. It may not be generally known
that the panther, which at this time came frequently near the dwellings
of man, emits a cry resembling a human voice in distress. The calling
of the boy’s name was several times answered, as his friends supposed,
and after following the sound and hallooing some time, they discovered
that the voice was not human. In a state of torturing anxiety and
apprehension, they were obliged to wait for day-light, when the boy
made his appearance. He had wandered in an opposite direction from the
panther’s locality, and had found shelter at a house, where he remained
all night.
The experience of Mrs. Tappen during her residence in the backwoods was
full of such incidents. But the forest around them gradually receded
before the axe of the enterprising emigrant, the country became cleared
and cultivated, and with the progress of improvement the condition of
the early settlers became more safe and comfortable. Judge Tappen and
Mrs. Tappen still reside on the same farm which they first reduced to
cultivation, about half a mile from the spot where her father fixed
his dwelling on his first removal to the country. The little village
of Unionville, in Lake County, Ohio, has been built partly on Judge
Tappen’s farm, and partly on the land formerly owned by his wife, the
county line running through it.
XVII.
REBECCA HEALD.
It was the lot of this matron to have the story of her life associated
with one of the most remarkable and melancholy events recorded in the
annals of border warfare. She was the wife of Capt. Heald, commandant
at Fort Dearborn, Chicago, and bore a part in the scenes of the
massacre that took place there on the 15th August, 1812. A brief notice
of her will be an appropriate introduction to an account of that
memorable occurrence.
Rebecca Wells was the daughter of Col. Wells of Kentucky. Her uncle,
with whom she resided in early life, was Capt. William Wells. The story
of this brave man, who forms so conspicuous a figure in our frontier
annals, was a singular romance. When a child he was captured by the
Miami Indians, and became the adopted son of Little Turtle, the most
eminent forest warrior and statesman between Pontiac and Tecumseh, and
the leader of the confederated tribes. When old enough, the captive was
compelled to do service, and took a distinguished part in the defeats
of Harmar and St. Clair. It is said that his sagacity foresaw that the
white men would be roused by these reverses to put forth their superior
power in such a manner as to command success; and also that a desire
to return to his own people influenced him to abandon the savages.
“His mode of announcing this determination was in accordance with the
simple and sententious habits of forest life. He was traversing the
woods one morning with his adopted father, the Little Turtle, when
pointing to the heavens, he said, ‘When the sun reaches the meridian,
I leave you for the whites; and whenever you meet me in battle, you
must kill me, as I shall endeavor to kill you.’ The bonds of affection
and respect which had bound these two singular and highly gifted men
together were not severed or weakened by this abrupt declaration.”
Wells soon after joined the army of Gen. Wayne, who had taken command
of the troops after the resignation of St. Clair, and by his knowledge
of the forest, and of the Indian haunts, habits, and modes of warfare,
became an invaluable auxiliary to the Americans. He commanded a very
effective division of spies, of whom were the best woodsmen on the
frontier, served faithfully and fought bravely through the campaign,
and after Wayne’s treaty at Greenville in 1795 had restored peace
between the Indians and the whites, rejoined his foster father, Little
Turtle, their friendship remaining uninterrupted till the death of the
chief.
Gen. Hunt mentions an incident which may show the sanguinary spirit
of the border warfare. Capt. Wells made an excursion with Lieut.
McClenan and eleven men into the enemy’s country, following a trail
of Indians for two days. They came in sight of them just as they
were about encamping for the night, and waited till it was dark to
make their attack. Wells, having then assumed the dress of an Indian
warrior, advanced with his men, who, on the first alarm given by the
savages, threw themselves on the ground, while the Captain continued
to approach. Supposing him a friend, the Indians met and took him into
their camp, he taking the precaution to seat himself on the extreme
right of the war-party, and within view of McClenan. He then announced
himself as from the British fort Miami, and commenced giving the party,
consisting of twenty-two Indians and a squaw, the news from their
British allies. The squaw meanwhile placed over the fire a kettle full
of hominy, and as it began to boil, stirred it with a ladle, when the
party of white men, mistaking her motions for the concerted signal of
attack, fired upon the savages. The poor squaw received a shot, and
fell across the fire; the Captain saw that his life depended on prompt
action, and grasping his tomahawk, commenced the work of slaughter,
while his men rushed into the midst. All the Indians were killed except
three, who made their escape. Both the Captain and Lieutenant were
wounded.
In consideration of his services, Capt. Wells was appointed Indian
agent at Fort Wayne. At this post he continued until the war of 1812,
soon after the outbreak of which he departed for the purpose of
escorting the troops from Chicago to Fort Wayne.
The gentleman[33] to whom I am indebted for much of the information
contained in this sketch, visited Capt. Wells at Fort Wayne in 1809,
and there formed an acquaintance with his niece. One of his juvenile
amusements was setting up a target for her to shoot at with a rifle.
She and Capt. Heald were accustomed to go out with their rifles to
shoot at the bunghole of a barrel at a distance of one hundred yards,
and from continual practice Miss Wells had become extremely expert in
that soldierlike exercise. The Captain was at that time evidently a
candidate for the favor of the fair markswoman, and took great pleasure
in instructing her in every species of military accomplishment which
she took a fancy to learn. Shortly after this period they were married;
and in 1812 Capt. Heald was in command of the garrison at Chicago.
This, it will be remembered, was at that time a remote outpost of the
American frontier, scarcely to be called a settlement, as the only
inhabitants without the garrison were a few Canadians and the family
of a gentleman engaged in the fur trade, who had removed from St.
Joseph’s in 1804. He was a great favorite among the Indians, who called
him by a name signifying “the Silverman,” from the circumstance of
his furnishing them with rings, brooches, and other ornaments of that
metal. His influence with the tribes wherever his trading-posts were
dispersed, made him an object of suspicion to the British, and being at
length taken prisoner, he was detained in captivity till the close of
the war.
The peninsula of Michigan was then a wilderness, peopled only by
savages; and intercourse between the posts of Fort Wayne, Detroit,
and Chicago, was carried on by such hardy travellers as ventured
occasionally to encounter the perils and fatigues of the journey,
guided by a devious Indian trail, encamping at night beside a stream,
or seeking shelter in some hospitable wigwam, or even lodging among the
branches of the trees.[34] The fort at Chicago was constructed with
two blockhouses on the southern side, and a sallyport or subterranean
passage from the parade-ground to the river, designed either to
facilitate an escape, or as a means of supplying the garrison with
water during a siege. The chief officers at this time, besides Capt.
Heald, were very young men; the command numbered about seventy-five
men, not all of whom were able to do service. The garrison had
maintained a constant and friendly intercourse with the neighboring
Indians, and as the principal chiefs of all the bands in the vicinity
seemed to be on the most amicable terms with the Americans, no
interruption of their harmony was anticipated.
After the fatal event, however, many circumstances were recollected,
which should have opened their eyes. One instance may be mentioned.
In the spring previous, two Indians of the Calumet band came to the
post, on a visit to the commanding officer. As they passed through the
quarters, they saw Mrs. Heald and another lady playing at battledore,
and one of the savages said to the interpreter, “The white chiefs’
wives are amusing themselves; it will not be long before they are
hoeing in our cornfields.” This speech, then regarded as merely an idle
threat, or an expression of jealous feeling at the contrast with the
situation of their own women, was remembered mournfully some months
afterwards.
The first alarm was given on the evening of the 7th of April, 1812.
Near the junction of Chicago river with Lake Michigan, directly
opposite the fort, from which it was separated by the river and a
few rods of sloping green turf, stood the dwelling-house and trading
establishment of Mr. Kinzie. This gentleman was at home, playing the
violin for the amusement of his children; they were dancing merrily,
awaiting the return of their mother, who had gone a short distance
up the river to visit a sick neighbor. Suddenly the door was thrown
open, and Mrs. Kinzie rushed in, pale with affright, and hardly able
to articulate--“The Indians! The Indians! They are up at Lee’s place,
killing and scalping!” This was a farm intersected by the river, about
four miles from its mouth. Mrs. Kinzie, when she had breath enough to
speak, informed her startled family that while she had been “at Burns’,
a man and boy were seen running down on the opposite side of the river;
and that they had called across to Burns’ family to save themselves,
for the Indians were at Lee’s place, from which they had just made
their escape.” The fugitives were on their way to the fort.
All was now consternation. The family were hurried into two old
pirogues moored near the house, and paddled across the river to take
refuge in the fort, where the man--a discharged soldier--and boy had
already told their story. In the afternoon, a party of ten or twelve
Indians, dressed and painted, had arrived at the house, and according
to the custom among savages, entered and seated themselves without
ceremony. Something in their appearance and manner had excited the
suspicions of one of the family--a Frenchman--who observed, “I do not
like the looks of these Indians; they are none of our folks. I know
by their dress and paint that they are not Pottowattamies.” Upon this
the soldier bade the boy follow him, and walked leisurely towards the
two canoes tied near the bank. Some of the Indians asked where he was
going; on which he pointed to the cattle standing among the haystacks
on the opposite bank and made signs that they must go and fodder them;
and that they would return and get their supper. He got into one canoe
and the boy into the other. When they had gained the other side of the
narrow stream, they pulled some hay for the cattle, making a show of
collecting them, and when they had gradually made a circuit, so that
their movements were concealed by the haystacks, they took to the woods
near, and made for the fort. They had run about a quarter of a mile,
when they heard the discharge of two guns, and when they came opposite
Burns’ they called to warn the family of their danger and hastened on.
A party of five or six soldiers, commanded by Ronan, was sent from the
fort to the rescue of Burns’ family: they went up the river in a scow,
took the mother with her infant scarcely a day old, on her bed to the
boat, and conveyed her with the rest to the fort.
The same afternoon a corporal and six soldiers had gone up the river
to fish. Fearing that they might encounter the savages, the commanding
officer at the fort now ordered a cannon to be fired to warn them of
danger. Hearing the signal, they put out their torches and dropped down
the river in silence. It will be borne in mind that the unsettled state
of the country since the battle of Tippecanoe the preceding November,
caused every man to be on the alert, and the slightest alarm was
sufficient to ensure vigilance. When the fishing party reached “Lee’s
place,” it was proposed to stop and bid the inmates be on their guard,
as the signal from the fort indicated danger. All was still around the
house, but they groped their way, and as the corporal leaped the fence
into the small enclosure, he placed his hand upon the dead body of a
man, who he soon ascertained had been scalped. The faithful dog stood
guarding the lifeless remains of his master. The soldiers retreated
to their canoes, and reached the fort about eleven o’clock. The next
morning a party of citizens and soldiers went to Lee’s and found two
dead bodies, which were buried near the fort. It was subsequently
ascertained, from traders in the Indian country, that the perpetrators
of this bloody deed were a party of Winnebagoes, who had come into
the neighborhood determined to kill every white man without the walls
of the fort. Hearing the report of the cannon, they set off on their
retreat to their homes on Rock river.
The inhabitants of the place, consisting of a few discharged soldiers
and some families of half-breeds, now entrenched themselves in the
“agency house,” a log building standing a few rods from the fort.
It had piazzas in front and rear, which were planked up; portholes
were cut, and sentinels posted at night. The enemy was supposed to be
still lurking in the neighborhood, and an order was issued forbidding
any soldier or citizen to leave the vicinity of the garrison without
a guard. One night a sergeant and private who were out on patrol,
came suddenly upon a party of Indians in the pasture adjoining the
esplanade, and fired upon them as they made good their retreat. The
next morning traces of blood were found, extending some distance into
the prairie. On another occasion the savages entered the esplanade to
steal the horses, and not finding them in the stable, made themselves
amends for their disappointment by stabbing the sheep and then turning
them loose. The poor animals ran towards the fort; the alarm was given,
and parties were sent out, but the marauders escaped.
These occurrences were enough to keep the inmates of the fort in a
state of apprehension, but they were no further disturbed for many
weeks. On the afternoon of August 7th, a Pottowattamie chief arrived
at the post, bearing despatches from Gen. Hull, at Detroit, which
announced the declaration of war between the United States and Great
Britain; also that the island of Mackinaw had fallen into the hands of
the British.
The orders to the commanding officer, Capt. Heald, were “to evacuate
the post, if practicable, and in that event, to distribute all the
United States’ property contained in the fort and the United States’
factory or agency, among the Indians in the neighborhood.” After
having delivered his despatches, the chief, Winnemeg, requested a
private interview with Mr. Kinzie, who had taken up his residence
within the garrison, stated that he was acquainted with the purport
of the communications, and earnestly advised that the post should not
be evacuated, since the garrison was well supplied with ammunition
and provision for six months. It would be better to remain till a
reinforcement could be sent to their assistance. In case, however,
Capt. Heald should decide upon leaving the fort, it should be done
immediately, as the Pottowattamies, through whose country they must
pass, were ignorant of the object of Winnemeg’s mission, and a forced
march might be made before the hostile Indians were prepared to
intercept them.
Capt. Heald was immediately informed of this advice, and replied that
it was his intention to evacuate the fort; but that, inasmuch as he had
received orders to distribute the United States’ property, he would not
leave till he had collected the Indians in the neighborhood and made an
equitable division among them. Winnemeg then suggested the expediency
of marching out and leaving all things standing, for while the savages
were dividing the spoils the troops might possibly effect their retreat
unmolested. This counsel, though strongly seconded, was not approved by
the commanding officer.
The order for evacuating the post was read the next morning upon
parade, and in the course of the day, as no council was called, the
officers waited upon Capt. Heald, and urged him to relinquish his
design on account of the improbability that the command would be
permitted to pass in safety to Fort Wayne by the savages, whose thirst
for slaughter could hardly be controlled by the few individuals who
were supposed to have friendly feelings towards the Americans. Their
march must of necessity be slow, as a number of women and children,
with some invalid soldiers, would accompany the detachment. Their
advice, therefore, was to remain, and fortify themselves as strongly
as possible, in hopes that succor from the other side of the peninsula
would arrive before they could be attacked by the British from
Mackinaw. In reply to this remonstrance Capt. Heald urged that he
should be censured for remaining when there appeared a prospect of
a safe march, and that on the whole he deemed it most expedient to
assemble the Indians, distribute the property among them, and then ask
of them an escort to Fort Wayne, with the promise of a considerable
reward upon their safe arrival, adding that he had full confidence in
the friendly professions of the savages, from whom, as well as from the
soldiers, the capture of Mackinaw had been kept a profound secret.
The project was considered a mad one, and much and increasing
dissatisfaction prevailed among the officers and soldiers. The Indians
became every day more unruly. Entering the fort in defiance of the
sentinels, they often made their way without ceremony to the quarters
of the officers. On one occasion a savage took up a rifle, and fired
it in Mrs. Heald’s parlor. Some supposed this a signal for an attack,
as there was vehement agitation among the old chiefs and squaws; but
the manifestation of hostile feeling was suppressed, and the Captain
continued to feel confidence in such an amicable disposition among the
Indians, as would ensure the safety of his troops on their march to
Fort Wayne.
The inmates of the fort, meanwhile, suffered greatly from apprehension,
scarcely daring to yield to sleep at night, and a general gloom and
distress prevailed. The Indians being assembled from the neighboring
villages, a council was held with them on the 12th, Capt. Heald alone
attending on the part of the military, as his officers refused to
accompany him. Information had secretly been brought to them that it
was the intention of the young chiefs to fall upon them and murder
them while in council, but the Captain could not be persuaded of the
truth of this, and therefore left the garrison, while the officers
who remained took command of the block-houses which overlooked the
esplanade on which the council was held, opened the port-holes, and
pointed the cannon so as to command the whole assembly.
“In council, the commanding officer informed the Indians of his
intention to distribute among them, the next day, not only the goods
lodged in the United States’ Factory, but also the ammunition and
provisions with which the garrison was well supplied. He then requested
of the Pottowattamies an escort to Fort Wayne, promising them a liberal
reward upon their arrival there, in addition to the presents they were
now to receive. With many professions of friendship and good-will the
savages assented to all he proposed, and promised all he required.
“After the council, Mr. Kinzie, who understood well, not only the
Indian character, but the present tone of feeling among them, waited
upon Capt. Heald, in the hope of opening his eyes to the present
posture of affairs. He reminded him that since the trouble with the
Indians upon the Wabash and its vicinity, there had appeared a settled
plan of hostilities towards the whites; in consequence of which, it had
been the policy of the Americans to withhold from them whatever would
enable them to carry on their warfare upon the defenceless settlers
on the frontier. Mr. Kinzie recalled to Capt. Heald the fact that he
had himself left home for Detroit the preceding autumn, and receiving,
when he had proceeded as far as De Charme’s,[35] the intelligence of
the battle of Tippecanoe, he had immediately returned to Chicago, that
he might despatch orders to his traders to furnish no ammunition to the
Indians; all that they had on hand was therefore secreted, and such of
the traders as had not already started for their wintering-grounds,
took neither powder nor shot with their outfit.
“Capt. Heald was struck with the impolicy of furnishing the enemy, (for
such they must now consider their old neighbors,) with arms against
himself, and determined to destroy all the ammunition, excepting what
should be necessary for the use of his own troops. On the 13th, the
goods, consisting of blankets, broadcloths, calicos, paints, etc., were
distributed, as stipulated. The same evening, part of the ammunition
and liquor was carried into the sally-port, and thrown into a well,
which had been dug there to supply the garrison with water in case
of emergency; the remainder was transported as secretly as possible
through the northern gate, and the heads of the barrels were knocked
in, and the contents poured into the river. The same fate was shared
by a large quantity of alcohol which had been deposited in a warehouse
opposite the fort. The Indians suspected what was going on, and crept
as near the scene of action as possible, but a vigilant watch was
kept up, and no one was suffered to approach but those engaged in the
affair. All the muskets not necessary for the march were broken up and
thrown into the well, together with bags of shot, flints, gun-screws,
etc.
“Some relief to the general despondency was afforded by the arrival,
on the 14th of August, of Capt. Wells, with fifteen friendly Miamies.
He had heard at Fort Wayne of the order for evacuating Fort Dearborn,
and knowing the hostile determination of the Pottowattamies, had made a
rapid march across the country to prevent the exposure of his relative,
Capt. Heald, and his troops to certain destruction. But he came too
late. When he reached the post, he found that the ammunition had been
destroyed, and the provisions given to the Indians. There was therefore
no alternative, and every preparation was made for the march of the
troops on the following morning.
“On the afternoon of the same day, a second council was held with the
Indians. They expressed great indignation at the destruction of the
ammunition and liquor. Notwithstanding the precautions that had been
taken to preserve secrecy, the noise of knocking in the heads of the
barrels had too plainly betrayed the operations of the preceding night;
and so great was the quantity of liquor thrown into the river, that the
taste of the water, the next morning, was, as one expressed it, ‘strong
grog.’ Murmurs and threats were everywhere heard among the savages,
and it was evident that the first moment of exposure would subject the
troops to some manifestation of their disappointment and resentment.
“Among the chiefs were several who, although they shared the general
hostile feeling of their tribe towards the Americans, yet retained a
personal regard for the troops at this post, and for the few white
citizens of the place. These exerted their utmost influence to allay
the revengeful feelings of the young men, and to avert their sanguinary
designs, but without effect. On the evening succeeding the last
council, _Black Partridge_, a conspicuous chief, entered the quarters
of the commanding officer. ‘Father,’ said he, ‘I come to deliver up
to you the medal I wear. It was given me by the Americans, and I
have long worn it, in token of our mutual friendship. But our young
men are resolved to imbrue their hands in the blood of the whites. I
cannot restrain them, and I will not wear a token of peace while I
am compelled to act as an enemy.’ Had further evidence been wanting,
this circumstance would have sufficiently proved to the devoted band
the justice of their melancholy anticipations. Nevertheless, they
went steadily on with the necessary preparations. Of the ammunition
there had been reserved but twenty-five rounds, besides one box of
cartridges, contained in the baggage-wagons. This must, under any
circumstances of danger, have proved an inadequate supply, but the
prospect of a fatiguing march forbade their embarrassing themselves
with a larger quantity.
“The morning of the 15th arrived. All things were in readiness,
and nine o’clock was the hour named for starting. Mr. Kinzie had
volunteered to accompany the troops in their march, and had entrusted
his family to the care of some friendly Indians, who had promised to
convey them in a boat around the head of Lake Michigan, to a point[36]
on the St. Joseph’s river; there to be joined by the troops, should
the prosecution of their march be permitted them. Early in the morning
he received a message from a chief of the St. Joseph’s band, informing
him that mischief was intended by the Pottowattamies who had promised
to escort the detachment; and urging him to relinquish his design of
accompanying the troops by land, promising that the boat which should
contain himself and family, should be permitted to pass in safety
to St. Joseph’s. Mr. Kinzie declined accepting this proposal, as he
believed that his presence might operate as a restraint on the fury of
the savages, so warmly were the greater part attached to himself and
family. The party in the boat consisted of Mrs. Kinzie and her four
younger children, a clerk, two servants, and the boatmen, besides the
two Indians who acted as their protectors. The boat started, but had
scarcely reached the mouth of the river, when another messenger from
the chief arrived to detain them.
“In breathless expectation sat the wife and mother. She was a woman of
uncommon energy and strength of character, yet her heart died within
her as she folded her arms around her helpless infants, and gazed upon
the march of her husband and eldest son to almost certain destruction.
“As the troops left the fort the band struck up the dead march. On
they came in military array, Capt. Wells taking the lead, at the
head of his little band of Miamies--his face blackened, in token
of his impending fate,[37] and took their route along the lake
shore. When they reached the point where commences the range of sand
hill intervening between the prairie and the beach, the escort of
Pottowattamies, in number about five hundred, kept the level of the
prairie instead of continuing along the beach with the Americans and
Miamies. They had marched perhaps a mile and a half, when Capt. Wells,
who was somewhat in advance with his Miamies, came riding furiously
back.
“‘They are about to attack us,’ shouted he, ‘form instantly, and charge
upon them.’
“Scarcely were the words uttered when a volley was showered from
among the sand-hills. The troops were hastily brought into line, and
charged up the bank. One man, a veteran of seventy years, fell as they
ascended. The remainder of the scene is best described in the words of
an eye-witness and participator in the tragedy--Mrs. Helm, the wife of
Lieut. Helm, and step-daughter of Mr. Kinzie.
“‘After we had left the bank and gained the prairie, the action became
general. The Miamies fled at the outset. Their chief rode up to the
Pottowattamies, and said, ‘You have deceived the Americans and us;
you have done a bad action, and (brandishing his tomahawk) I will be
the first to head a party of Americans, and return to punish your
treachery;’ so saying, he galloped after his companions, who were now
scouring across the prairies.
“‘The troops behaved most gallantly. They were but a handful, but they
resolved to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Our horses pranced
and bounded, and could hardly be restrained, as the balls whistled
among them. I drew off a little, and gazed upon my husband and father,
who were yet unharmed. I felt that my hour was come, and endeavored to
forget those I loved, and prepare myself for my approaching fate. While
I was thus engaged, the surgeon came up. He was badly wounded. His
horse had been shot under him, and he had received a ball in his leg.
Every muscle of his countenance was quivering with the agony of terror.
He said to me, ‘Do you think they will take our lives? I am badly
wounded, but I think not mortally. Perhaps we might purchase our lives
by promising them a large reward. Do you think there is any chance?’
“‘Doctor,’ said I, ‘do not let us waste the few moments that yet remain
to us, in such vain hopes. Our fate is inevitable. In a few moments
we must appear before the bar of God. Let us endeavor to make what
preparation is yet in our power.’ ‘Oh! I cannot die!’ exclaimed he,
‘I am not fit to die--if I had but a short time to prepare--death is
awful!’ I pointed to Ensign Ronan, who, though mortally wounded, and
nearly down, was still fighting with desperation upon one knee.
“‘Look at that man,’ said I; ‘he at least dies like a soldier!’
“‘Yes,’ replied the unfortunate man, with a convulsive gasp, ‘but he
has no terrors for the future--he is an unbeliever!’
“‘At this moment, a young Indian raised his tomahawk at me. By
springing aside, I avoided the blow which was intended for my
skull, but which alighted on my shoulder. I seized him round the
neck, and while exerting my utmost efforts to get possession of his
scalping-knife, which hung in a scabbard over his breast, I was
dragged from his grasp by an older Indian, who bore me, struggling and
resisting, towards the lake. Notwithstanding the rapidity with which I
was hurried along, I recognised, as I passed them, the lifeless remains
of the unfortunate surgeon. Some murderous tomahawk had stretched him
upon the very spot where I had last seen him.
“‘I was immediately plunged into the water, and held there with a
forcible hand, notwithstanding my resistance. I soon perceived,
however, that the object of my captor was not to drown me, as he held
me firmly in such a position as to place my head above the water. This
reassured me, and regarding him attentively, I soon recognised, in
spite of the paint with which he was disguised, The Black Partridge.
“‘When the firing had somewhat subsided, my preserver bore me from the
water, and conducted me up the sand-banks. It was a burning August
morning, and walking through the sand in my drenched condition, was
inexpressibly painful and fatiguing. I stooped and took off my shoes,
to free them from the sand with which they were nearly filled, when a
squaw seized and carried them off, and I was obliged to proceed without
them. When we had gained the prairie, I was met by my father, who
told me that my husband was safe, and but slightly wounded. They led
me gently back toward the Chicago river, along the southern bank of
which was the Pottowattamie encampment. At one time, I was placed upon
a horse without a saddle, but soon finding the motion insupportable,
I sprang off. Supported partly by my kind conductor, and partly by
another Indian, who held dangling in his hand the scalp of Capt. Wells,
I dragged my fainting steps to one of the wigwams.’”
At the commencement of the action Capt. Wells was riding by the side
of his niece. He said to her that he was satisfied there was not the
least chance for his life, and that they must part to meet no more
in this world, then started away to charge with the rest. It is said
that Mrs. Heald saw him fall from his horse, struck by several rifle
balls. Another account states that after the surrender, while an Indian
was cruelly butchering some white children, Capt. Wells exclaimed,
“then I will kill too,” and set off towards the Indian camp near the
fort, where their squaws and children had been left. Several pursued
him, firing as he galloped along. He laid himself flat on the neck
of his horse, loading and firing in that position, but was at length
severely wounded, and his horse killed. Two friendly Indians who met
him endeavored to save him from his enemies, and supported him after
disengaging him from his horse, but he received his death-blow from
one of his pursuers, who stabbed him in the back.
The charging of the troops drove back the Indians a considerable
distance into the prairie, where the Captain ordered his men,
diminished by more than two thirds of their number, to halt, and after
a parley with the savages, agreed to surrender, stipulating that their
lives should be spared, and that they should be delivered at one of
the British posts, unless ransomed by traders in the Indian country.
It appeared afterwards that the savages did not consider the wounded
prisoners as included in the stipulation.
The lady whose narrative has been quoted, says, after she was taken to
the wigwam, “the wife of a chief from the Illinois river was standing
near, and seeing my exhausted condition, she seized a kettle, dipped
up some water from a little stream that flowed near, threw into it
some maple sugar, and stirring it up with her hand, gave it to me
to drink. This act of kindness, in the midst of so many atrocities,
touched me most sensibly, but my attention was soon diverted to other
objects. An old squaw, infuriated by the loss of friends, or excited
by the sanguinary scenes around her, seemed possessed by a demoniac
ferocity. She seized a stable-fork, and assaulted one miserable victim,
who lay groaning and writhing in the agony of his wounds, aggravated
by the scorching beams of the sun. With a delicacy of feeling scarcely
to have been expected under such circumstances, the chief stretched a
mat across two poles, between me and this dreadful scene. I was thus
spared, in some degree, a view of its horrors, although I could not
entirely close my ears to the cries of the sufferer. The following
night five more of the wounded prisoners were tomahawked.
“The heroic resolution of one of the soldiers’ wives deserves to be
recorded. She had from the first expressed a determination never to
fall into the hands of the savages, believing that their prisoners
were always subjected to tortures worse than death. When, therefore, a
party came upon her, to make her prisoner, she fought with desperation,
refusing to surrender, although assured of safe treatment; and
literally suffered herself to be cut to pieces, rather than become
their captive.
“The horse Mrs. Heald rode was a fine, spirited animal, and the Indians
were desirous to possess themselves of it unwounded. They therefore
aimed their shots so as to disable the rider, without injuring her
steed. This was at length accomplished, and her captor was in the act
of disengaging her hat from her head, in order to scalp her, when young
Chandonnai, a half-breed from St. Joseph’s, ran up and offered for her
ransom a mule he had just taken, adding the promise of ten bottles
of whiskey, so soon as he should reach his village. The latter was a
strong temptation. ‘But,’ said the Indian, ‘she is badly wounded--she
will die--will you give me the whiskey at all events?’ Chandonnai
promised that he would, and the bargain was concluded. Mrs. Heald was
placed in the boat with Mrs. Kinzie and her children, covered with a
buffalo robe, and enjoined silence as she valued her life. In this
situation the heroic woman remained, without uttering a sound that
could betray her to the savages, who were continually coming to the
boat in search of prisoners, but who always retired peaceably when told
that it contained only the family of _Shaw-ne-au-kee_. When the boat
was at length permitted to return to the mansion of Mr. Kinzie, and
Mrs. Heald was removed to the house for the purpose of dressing her
wounds, Mr. Kinzie applied to an old chief who stood by, and who, like
most of his tribe, possessed some skill in surgery, to extract a ball
from the arm of the sufferer. ‘No, father,’ replied he, ‘I cannot do
it--it makes me sick here!’ placing his hand upon his heart.
“From the Pottowattamie encampment, the family of Mr. Kinzie were
conveyed across the river to their own mansion. There they were closely
guarded by their Indian friends, whose intention it was to carry them
to Detroit for security. The rest of the prisoners remained at the
wigwams of their captors. The following morning, the work of plunder
being completed, the Indians set fire to the fort. A very equitable
distribution of the finery appeared to have been made, and shawls,
ribbons, and feathers, were seen fluttering about in all directions.
The ludicrous appearance of one young fellow, who had arrayed himself
in a muslin gown, and the bonnet of the commanding officer’s lady,
would under other circumstances have afforded matter of amusement.
“Black Partridge and Wau-ban-see, with three others of the tribe,
having established themselves in the porch of the building as
sentinels, to protect the family of Mr. Kinzie from any evil, all
remained tranquil for a short space after the conflagration. Very soon,
however, a party of Indians from the Wabash made their appearance.
These were the most hostile and implacable of all the bands of the
Pottowattamies. Being more remote, they had shared less than some
of their brethren in the kindness of Mr. Kinzie and his family, and
consequently their sentiments of regard for them were less powerful.
Runners had been sent to the villages, to apprise them of the intended
evacuation of the post, as well as the plan of the Indians assembled,
to attack the troops. Thirsting to participate in such a scene, they
hurried on, and great was their mortification, on arriving at the
river Aux Plaines, to meet with a party of their friends, having their
chief badly wounded, and to learn that the battle was over, the spoils
divided, and the scalps all taken.
“On arriving at Chicago, they blackened their faces, and proceeded
towards the residence of Mr. Kinzie. From his station on the piazza,
Black Partridge had watched their approach, and his fears were
particularly awakened for the safety of Mrs. Helm, who had recently
come to the post, and was personally unknown to the more remote
Indians. By his advice, she assumed the ordinary dress of a Frenchwoman
of the country, a short gown and petticoat, with a blue cotton
handkerchief wrapped around her head; and in this disguise she was
conducted by Black Partridge to the house of Ouilmette, a Frenchman
with a half-breed wife, who formed a part of the establishment of Mr.
Kinzie, and whose dwelling was close at hand. It so happened that the
Indians came first to this house in their search for prisoners. As
they approached, the inmates, fearful that the fair complexion and
general appearance of Mrs. Helm might betray her for an American,
raised the large feather bed and placed her under the edge of it, upon
the bedstead, with her face to the wall. Mrs. Bisson, the sister of
Ouilmette’s wife, then seated herself with her sewing upon the front
of the bed. It was a hot day in August, and the feverish excitement
of fear and agitation, together with her position, which was nearly
suffocating, were so painful, that Mrs. Helm at length entreated to
be released and given up to the Indians. ‘I can but die,’ said she,
‘let them put an end to my miseries at once.’ Mrs. Bisson replied,
‘Your death would be the signal for the destruction of us all, for
Black Partridge is resolved, if one drop of the blood of your family
is spilled, to take the lives of all concerned in it, even his nearest
friends, and if once the work of murder commences, there will be no
end of it, so long as there remains one white person or half-breed
in the country.’ This expostulation nerved Mrs. Helm with fresh
resolution. The Indians entered, and she could occasionally see them
from her hiding-place, gliding about and inspecting every part of the
room, though without making any ostensible search, until, apparently
satisfied that there was no one concealed, they left the house. All
this time, Mrs. Bisson kept her seat upon the side of the bed, calmly
assorting and arranging the patchwork of the quilt on which she was
engaged, although she knew not but that the next moment she might
receive a tomahawk in her brain. Her self-command unquestionably saved
the lives of all present.
“From Ouilmette’s the savages proceeded to the dwelling of Mr. Kinzie.
They entered the parlor, in which were assembled the family, with their
faithful protectors, and seated themselves upon the floor in profound
silence. Black Partridge perceived, from their moody and revengeful
looks, what was passing in their minds, but dared not remonstrate
with them. He only observed in a low tone to Wau-ban-see, ‘We have
endeavored to save our friends, but it is in vain--nothing will save
them now.’ At this moment a friendly whoop was heard from a party of
new comers, on the opposite bank of the river. Black Partridge sprang
to meet their leader, as the canoes in which they had hastily embarked
touched the bank, and bade him make all speed to the house. Billy
Caldwell, for it was he, entered the parlor with a calm step, and
without a trace of agitation in his manner. He deliberately took off
his accoutrements, and placed them with his rifle behind the door; then
saluted the hostile savages.
“‘How now, my friends! A good day to you. I was told there were enemies
here, but I am glad to find only friends. Why have you blackened your
faces? Is it that you are mourning for the friends you have lost in the
battle? (purposely misunderstanding this token of evil designs) or is
it that you are fasting? If so, ask our friend here, and he will give
you to eat. He is the Indians’ friend, and never yet refused them what
they had need of.’
“Thus taken by surprise, the savages were ashamed to acknowledge their
bloody purpose; they therefore said modestly, that they came to beg
of their friend some white cotton, in which to wrap their dead before
interring them. This was given them, together with some other presents,
and they took their departure from the premises.
“Little remains to be told. On the third day after the battle, the
family of Mr. Kinzie, with the clerks of the establishment, were put
in a boat, under the care of François, a half-breed interpreter, and
conveyed to St. Joseph’s, where they remained until the following
November. They were then carried to Detroit, under the escort of
Chandonnai and a trusty Indian friend, and together with their negro
servants, delivered up as prisoners of war to the British commanding
officer. It had been a stipulation at the surrender of Detroit by
Gen. Hull, that the American inhabitants should retain the liberty of
remaining undisturbed in their own dwellings, and accordingly this
family was permitted a quiet residence among their friends at that
place. Mr. Kinzie was not allowed to leave St. Joseph’s with his
family, his Indian friends insisting upon his remaining to endeavor
to secure some remnant of his scattered property, but anxiety for his
family induced him to follow them in January to Detroit, where he was
received as a prisoner, and paroled by Gen. Proctor.
“Of the other prisoners, Capt. and Mrs. Heald had been sent across the
Lake to St. Joseph’s the day after the battle. Capt. Heald had received
two wounds, and Mrs. Heald seven, the ball of one of which was cut out
of her arm with a pen-knife by Mr. Kinzie, after the engagement.
“Capt. Heald was taken prisoner by an Indian from the Kankakee, who had
a strong personal regard for him, and who, when he saw the wounded and
enfeebled state of Mrs. Heald, released his prisoner, that he might
accompany his wife to St. Joseph’s. To the latter place they were
accordingly carried by Chandonnai and his party. In the meantime, the
Indian who had so nobly released his captive, returned to his village
on the Kankakee, where he had the mortification of finding that his
conduct had excited great dissatisfaction among his band. So great
was the displeasure manifested that he resolved to make a journey to
St. Joseph’s and reclaim his prisoner. News of his intention being
brought to the chiefs under whose care the prisoners were, they held a
private council with Chandonnai and the principal men of the village,
the result of which was a determination to send Capt. and Mrs. Heald
to the island of Mackinaw, and deliver them up to the British. They
were accordingly put in a bark canoe and paddled by the chief of the
Pottowattamies, Robinson, and his wife, a distance of three hundred
miles along the coast of Lake Michigan, and surrendered as prisoners of
war to the commanding officer at Mackinaw.
“Lieut. Helm, who was likewise wounded, was carried by some friendly
Indians to their village, on the _Au Sable_ and thence to St. Louis,
where he was liberated by the intervention of Thomas Forsyth, a trader
among them. Mrs. Helm accompanied her father’s family to Detroit. In
the engagement she received a slight wound on the ancle, and had her
horse shot under her.
“The soldiers, with their wives and children, were dispersed among the
different villages of the Pottowattamies, upon the Illinois, Wabash,
Rock River, and Milwaukie, until the following spring, when they were
for the most part carried to Detroit, and ransomed. Some, however,
were detained in captivity another year, during which period they
experienced more kindness than was to have been expected from an enemy
in most cases so merciless.”
Gen. Hunt adds, that some months after the massacre at Chicago, he met
Capt. and Mrs. Heald, walking in the street in Detroit. They had just
come from Mackinaw in a vessel, and were much pleased to see their old
friend. Mrs. Heald had recovered from her wounds, and appeared to be as
well as she had ever been. It is probable that, after the termination
of the war, her life was one of quiet usefulness, like that of her
sister pioneers; the occurrences in which she had borne so prominent
a part serving to relate as truth more strange than fiction, to those
whose fortunes had led them into less stirring scenes.
MRS. HELM was the daughter of Col. McKillip, a British officer attached
to one of the companies who in 1794 were engaged in sustaining
the Indian tribes in Northern Ohio against the government of the
United States. He lost his life at the fort at the Miami Rapids, now
Perrysburg. He had gone out at night to reconnoitre, and returning in
a stealthy manner, was mistaken for an enemy, fired upon, and mortally
wounded by his own sentinel. His widow afterwards became the wife of
John Kinzie, with whom, in 1803, she removed to Chicago, then a mere
trading post among the Pottowattamies.
At the age of eighteen, the daughter was married to Lieut. Lina J.
Helm, of Kentucky. Her death took place at Watersville, in Michigan, in
1844, and was very sudden. She had just risen from the tea-table--one
of the company having read to her a newspaper paragraph relating
to Henry Clay; and she said, “I hope I shall live to see that man
President.” Scarcely were the words uttered, than she fell backwards
into the arms of an attendant and almost instantly expired. Her
interest in the great statesman is an evidence of the patriotic feeling
for which she was always remarkable. She was generous, high-minded,
and disinterested; possessing a calm strength of nature, and was
energetic and indefatigable in action. Her piety was pure and ardent,
yet wholly untinctured with fanaticism; the faith and love by which
the true Christian lifts his heart to God and with a sincerity and
devotion rarely equalled, did she obey the precept, “thou shalt love
thy neighbor as thyself.”
Our wonder may well be excited at the heroism and the sufferings borne
with such sturdy fortitude, of the pioneer women whose lot was cast in
the midst of the troubles upon the frontier. Yet their attachment to
this wild, unsettled life was still more remarkable; for as the country
became settled, they would encourage their husbands or sons to “sell
out,” and remove still further into the wilderness.
During the time of the possession of Detroit by the British, after the
surrender of Gen. Hull, the frontier settlement suffered much from
Indian depredation. The capture of the family of Mr. Snow, taken by
the Ottawa Indians from their home on Cole Creek, in Huron County, may
illustrate the experience of many unfortunates whose names tradition
has not preserved. Mr. Snow chanced to be absent, when his house was
surrounded by a hostile party, and his wife and nine children were
made prisoners. The savages immediately started on their return, and
had gone about five miles, travelling on foot, when it became evident
that Mrs. Snow, whose health was delicate, could not drag herself
much further. A brief council was held among the savages, and it was
decided that she must be killed. Two young men were appointed to put
the cruel sentence in execution, while the rest of the party moved
forward; the victim being ordered to keep her seat upon a log. Here her
lifeless body was found by her husband and the men in pursuit. It is a
somewhat curious circumstance, that one of the Indians who killed the
unfortunate woman, afterwards expressed his remorse for the deed, and
said he knew the Great Spirit was angry with him, for that the ground
had trembled when she screamed, and his right arm had become completely
withered by a rheumatic affection. His death might have been deemed
also a judgment for the crime; in a fit of intoxication he fell into
the fire and burned himself so severely that he expired in a short time.
“On a beautiful Sunday morning in Detroit,” continues my informant,
“I heard the scalp whoop of a war party coming up the river. When
they came near, I discovered that they were carrying a woman’s scalp
upon a pole, and that they had with them, as prisoners, a family of
nine children, from three years old up to two girls full grown. These
little captives had nothing on their heads, and their clothes were
torn into shreds by the brushwood and the bushes in the way by which
they had come. I went to meet them, brought them into my house, gave
them and their Indian captors a meal, with a few loaves of bread for
further use, and told the children not to be frightened or uneasy,
for that my brother would buy them from the Indians when he should
return from Canada, whither he had gone to spend the Sabbath with his
father-in-law. The next day the prisoners came again, accompanied by
about five hundred Indians. My brother paid five hundred dollars for
their ransom, and sent them home. The girls informed me that they had
been treated by the Indians with kindness and respect. Indeed, it may
be recorded, to the praise of the Indian character, and in extenuation
of their cruelties, that an instance has not been known of improper
conduct towards a captive white woman. Their apology for the murder
of Mrs. Snow was, that they feared her release might lead to their
discovery by the whites in pursuit.”
The Rev. J. M. Peck of Illinois mentions the name of Catharine Lemen,
as a pioneer who came to that region as early as 1786, with her husband
and two children. The family were exposed to Indian depredations
during the whole period of the border troubles; and many instances are
remembered in which she exhibited a heroic and Christian spirit. She
had ten children, four of whom became ministers of the gospel. Mrs.
Edwards, the wife of Governor Edwards, is also mentioned as a matron
distinguished for lofty and heroic traits of character. She sustained
her husband through his public life, having the entire management of
his large estate and its settlement after his death.
XVIII.
ABIGAIL SNELLING.
Thomas Hunt, the father of the subject of the present memoir was a
Revolutionary officer, and a native of Watertown, Massachusetts. He
entered the American army as a volunteer, and was soon commissioned
in the regular service; was in the expedition against Ticonderoga
commanded by Ethan Allen, and one of the party who made themselves
masters of Crown Point. He was with Gen. Wayne at Stoney Point, among
the volunteers of the “forlorn hope,” and was there wounded in the
ankle. In 1794, he joined the army under Wayne against the Indians,
and served out the campaign, returning then to his family residence at
Watertown. In 1798, he was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel
of the first regiment of infantry, and ordered to Fort Wayne, where he
remained until the death of Col. Hamtramck at Detroit, when he became
Colonel, and took the command of that post, remained there some time,
and afterwards went to Mackinaw.
Our heroine was but six weeks old when the family left Watertown,
and was carried on a pillow in such a vehicle as was then used for
stages, over very rough roads, for many miles only rendered passable
by logs placed side by side, forming what are termed corduroy roads.
The severity of the exercise, as may be remembered by those who have
travelled over such roads in a new country, always caused an outcry
on approaching them, from man, woman, and child, with petitions to get
out and walk; frequently at the risk of being bitten by rattlesnakes
which were often concealed between the logs. When they arrived at
Mackinaw, they went to the Government House, which they were to occupy.
The English commander had left it with the furniture, even the window
curtains suspended from the windows, and there was an air of comfort in
and about the house. The Fort stood on the height, the town was small,
the streets were very narrow, the houses built in the old French style,
and the town was enclosed with pickets, with a gate at each end.
One of the little girl’s earliest recollections was visiting in the
family of a Scotch gentleman, Dr. Mitchell, who had married an Indian
wife. She dressed herself in silks and satins when at home, but resumed
her native dress when among the Chippewas, her own people. She would
sometimes be absent many months, purchasing furs to send to Montreal,
for her agent there to sell; and in this way she amassed a large
fortune for her husband. At one time, after she had been absent more
than six months, it was reported that she had been killed by some rival
trader. She heard on her way home that such news had been received,
and when her flotilla appeared in sight, threw herself on the bottom
of her birch canoe. Her husband, with spy-glass in hand, was on the
beach, eagerly looking to see if indeed his wife was not there, and was
about turning away with a heavy heart, when she leaped from her bark
exclaiming, “Not dead yet!” Her two daughters were sent to Montreal to
be educated, and returned home highly accomplished and very beautiful
women. One of them afterwards married an officer.
Abigail was about seven years old when her parents left Mackinaw to
return to Detroit, on their way to St. Louis. The troops had left
Detroit but a short time when the town was burned to ashes, in 1805.
The little party reached Fort Wayne, where they rested for a week, at
which time Col. Hunt’s eldest daughter, not quite fifteen, was married
to the surgeon of the post, Dr. Edwards. She was left behind when the
family resumed their journey, and they proceeded in a flat-bottomed
boat, called an “ark,” which could only be used in descending with
the current. Col. Hunt had one of these boats partitioned off into
rooms, making a parlor, bed-rooms, and kitchen; bedsteads were put
up, and each apartment arranged in the same order as in a house. This
was a slow mode of travelling, but extremely comfortable, and little
apprehension was felt at that time of the Indians, although they
frequently surrounded the boat, begging for bread and some of their
“father’s milk” (whiskey). At Vincennes, the voyagers were hospitably
received at the house of Gen. W. H. Harrison, but their stay was short,
and they proceeded to St. Louis. Gen. Wilkinson was there at that time,
and ordered Col. Hunt to take command of the garrison at the mouth of
the Missouri, eighteen miles above St. Louis. This was about the time
of Burr’s conspiracy, and a court martial was immediately held to try
a Major Bruff, who was suspected of being one of his adherents. He was
acquitted. Then arrived at the garrison Lewis and Clark, from their
exploring expedition; and the peculiar appearance of their dress, made
of deerskins, the outer garment fringed and worked with porcupine
quills, something between a military undress frock coat and Indian
shirt, with their leggins and moccasins, three-cornered cocked hats and
long beards, caused no small wonder among the younger members of the
family.
Gen. Pike was at this time a captain in Col. Hunt’s regiment, and was
selected by the government to explore the Upper Mississippi. He left
his wife and little daughter under the protection of Col. Hunt, on his
departure in the following year. His absence was prolonged nearly two
years, during which time his friend was removed from this world. Col.
Hunt died after a protracted illness, in 1809. The dispensation was a
heart-breaking one to the devoted wife. She did not, could not, shed
a tear, but would sigh continually, and sometimes exclaim, “Oh! that
I could weep--what a relief it would be!” Ere long she was unable to
swallow solid food, and even liquids without difficulty. Some friends
thought visiting the grave would have the effect of making her weep,
but it threw her into spasms, after which no further effort was made,
and she gradually sank, until she died in six months after the death
of her husband.
Mrs. Hunt’s eldest son, twenty-two years of age, was then just
established in business as a merchant in Detroit. When he heard of
his father’s death, he prepared immediately to meet the family at St.
Louis, and on the journey tidings reached him that his mother also was
no more. This double bereavement, with the responsibility of a large
family depending upon his care, was too heavy a burden for his anxious
mind. He became ill of a fever, which reduced him so much, that on
arriving at St. Louis he could scarcely reach the house of a friend
where the family were awaiting his arrival. For the first time in her
life, his little sister felt a dreary sense of desolation--a knowledge
that she was homeless, and an orphan. No tender mother now called her
child to her in the evening to say her prayers; no longer were the
children assembled together on the Sabbath afternoon to be instructed
from the Bible and catechism. This feeling of loneliness added to the
poignancy of grief for her departed parents; the first of the sorrows
by which that young, gentle, loving heart was to be tried--the first
experience of the universal lot of humanity. The young mourner was led,
in that time of suffering, to turn to the Bible for consolation, and
was consoled in the promise there found, “I will be a father to the
fatherless.”
As soon as her brother had recovered his strength, the family commenced
their journey, their destination being Waltham, Massachusetts, where
their maternal grandfather, Mr. Samuel Wellington, resided. When they
reached Vincennes, they were again received into the family of Gen.
Harrison, and stayed two weeks to recruit. The mode of conveyance at
that time was in an open barge, with an awning stretched over it.
The crew were soldiers for a part of the way, afterwards Frenchmen,
“voyageurs,” as they were called. Tents were pitched every night, and
the evening was spent in preparing food for the following day. The
party was often supplied with game by the Indians, who frequently
spread their blankets around their fires to sleep for the night; yet
though the savages were friendly, the children could not divest
themselves of fear which often drove away sleep at night, to be made
up by sleeping all the next day in the boat. The next stopping place
was Fort Wayne, where the eldest sister, Mrs. Edwards, had been left
six years before. The meeting was an affecting one. The travellers
did not remain long, as Mr. Hunt’s business demanded his presence in
Detroit. One of the brothers, John E. Hunt, was left with Dr. Edwards,
and the youngest but one of the sisters (now married to Mr. Wendell,
of Detroit); and as soon as Mr. Hunt had arranged his business, the
rest resumed their journey, another brother, Thomas, being left in
Detroit in his brother’s store as clerk. Afterwards, in 1812, he was
commissioned in the army as captain.
After a tedious journey of months, the travellers arrived at their
grand-father’s in Waltham. Abby was sent to a boarding school in Salem,
under the charge of Mrs. Cranch, and there remained until some time in
1811. Col. Henry J. Hunt of Detroit, who was then married to Miss Ann
Mackintosh of Moy, Canada, then came, in company with his wife, to take
his sister, and she returned with them to Detroit.
The following year, war was declared with Great Britain. The first
intimation had of it in Detroit was seeing the ferryboat hauled up,
and the ferryman taken prisoner and sent to Malden. This caused a
dreadful sensation in the town, especially in the house of Col. Hunt,
his wife being deprived of the privilege of communication with her
father’s family, and plunged into deep distress on that account. There
were many other families in the same situation; and brothers seemed
arrayed against each other. The only Protestant church near enough to
be attended every Sunday, was at Sandwich, nearly opposite Detroit,
and the Hunt family had always crossed the river on Saturday, spending
Sunday at Mr. Mackintosh’s in order to attend the Episcopal service. It
was the first Protestant church Miss Hunt had ever attended, and she
was there baptised and received the communion. The privation of such
privileges was deeply felt by her.
Before long, intelligence was brought of the approach and the arrival
of Gen. Hull’s army at the Maumee on the 30th of June. The troops had
collected at Dayton to the number of about two thousand drafted men
and volunteers from Ohio; the regular force comprising about three
hundred soldiers. They had cut their way through the wilderness and
endured many hardships. The 4th regiment, commanded by Col. James
Miller, had acquired a good reputation in the battle of Tippecanoe
under Gen. Harrison on the 6th of November, 1811. None of the officers
had distinguished themselves more than Capt. Snelling. He was one of
the gallant band that made a successful charge, and drove the enemy
into the swamp, putting an end to the conflict. An incident of this
battle gave occasion for the exercise of his benevolence. At dawn of
day a lad fourteen years old, was seen bending over the lifeless body
of his father, which lay weltering in blood, and proved to be that of
Capt. Spencer of the militia. The lad had been seen fighting by his
father’s side during the engagement, and even after his death, at one
moment weeping for his parent, the next loading his rifle and firing
upon the enemy. Capt. Snelling was much interested in the boy, took
charge of him, and afterwards petitioned for a cadet’s warrant, which
he received, and sent him to West Point. From that institution he
graduated at the termination of four years with honor, and while there
sent every month half his pay to his widowed mother, then in Kentucky.
He received a commission in the army and many years afterwards died,
having the rank of major.
Before leaving the Maumee, Gen. Hull sent a vessel to Detroit, in
which were placed his sick and most of his goods, sending with it his
instructions and army roll. The British at Malden having information of
the declaration of war, captured the vessel and unsuspecting crew, and
from them received the first intelligence of the war. Capt. Gooding, of
the 4th regiment, and his wife were on board. She related afterwards an
exploit of her’s while at Malden, which showed the tenderness of female
nature combined with manly perseverance and courage. The prisoners were
confined below deck, and very much crowded, as it was a small vessel;
the weather was very warm, they were fed with salt meat, without sugar,
tea or coffee, and many fell sick. When Mrs. Gooding was told by the
Captain of their situation, she set her wits to work to contrive how
to relieve them. She knew they were soon to be sent in the same vessel
to Montreal, and no time was to be lost. She obtained leave from one
in authority to visit a family up the river with whom she had formerly
been acquainted, and walked on a mile or more alone, without exactly
knowing what she was about to do, when she observed a large house on
a farm which seemed blessed with abundance. She entered, introduced
herself to the lady of the house, and told her, in a very pathetic
narrative, who she was, the situation of the sick prisoners, and her
desire to awaken sympathy in the hearts of those who had it in their
power to relieve them. The lady hesitated a moment and then said, “What
can I do in this matter? If I listen to the dictates of my own heart,
I could easily fill you a basket with coffee, tea and sugar, rice,
etc., but I dare not send it.” “Listen to the dictates of that heart,”
cried Mrs. Gooding, “I myself will carry the basket, and if you have
fresh meat for soup I can conceal it in the bushes until I can convey
it to the vessel.” The lady immediately had a lamb killed; Mrs. Gooding
herself hid it; managed to carry the basket on board that afternoon,
and in the evening, before nine o’clock, the four quarters of lamb.
Gen. Hull arrived with his army at Detroit early in July. Dr. Edwards
joined the army at Dayton, as Major of one of the regiments, and had
John E. Hunt with him, so that amidst the din of war their young
sister was rejoiced to see them again. In a few days Capt. Snelling
was introduced to Miss Hunt, as one of the heroes of Tippecanoe, by
Maj. Edwards; and soon after the young officer asked the brother’s
permission to address her. In due time they were engaged.
On the 12th July, Gen. Hull crossed the river to Sandwich, and
established his forces there, with a view to the attack on Malden. Many
of the officers urged him immediately to storm that place, which was
twelve miles below his encampment, and then very weakly garrisoned,
as was made known to the officers by deserters who came thence after
they heard Gen. Hull had crossed. Captain Snelling said, “Give me
permission, and with my company and those who will volunteer, I will
make the attempt.” Colonels Cass and Miller, by an attack on the
advanced party, on La Riviere Canard, showed that the men were able
and willing to push their conquest if the chance were given; but they
were suddenly recalled, and the enterprize was abandoned. On the 7th
of August Gen. Hull returned to Detroit, much to the disappointment
of the whole army, who now had lost all confidence in him, since he
had lost, by refusing to listen to his eager officers, the opportunity
of obtaining possession of the key to the Canadian provinces, when it
might have been taken with scarce the firing of a gun.
Col. Proctor soon after arrived at Malden, attempted to cut off
supplies from Ohio, and succeeded in stopping some stores on their
way to Detroit, at the river Raisin, thirty-six miles distant,
defeating Van Horn, who had been sent by Gen. Hull to escort them. On
receiving this intelligence, Gen. Hull sent three hundred regulars,
the 4th Regiment and two hundred militia, under the command of Col.
James Miller, to open the communication. The British had thrown up a
breastwork four miles from Brownstown, at a place called Monguagon,
behind which a great number of the Indians under Tecumseh lay
concealed. On the 9th of August, while on its march, the detachment
drew near the ambuscade. The advanced guard, commanded by Capt.
Snelling, was considerably in advance of the main body when suddenly
the attack was made on him. His party sustained themselves until Gen.
Miller, with the utmost speed and coolness, drew up his men, opened a
brisk fire and then charged. The British regulars gave way, but the
Indians under Tecumseh betaking themselves to the woods on each side,
did much execution. The British again rallied, and were again repulsed;
and Majors Muir and Tecumseh both being wounded, were compelled to
yield, retiring slowly before the bayonets to Brownstown. They would
all have been taken prisoners had they not had boats in readiness
to cross the river. During the engagement a mounted officer delayed
charging as he was ordered; Capt. Snelling directed him to dismount,
and himself sprung upon the horse. The officer being a tall man, he
found the stirrups much too long, but there was no time to be lost;
he therefore clung to the horse with his knees, and in this ludicrous
predicament performed the duty which belonged to another. His brother
officers often laughed at the recollection of his appearance at that
time.
Meanwhile his friends in Detroit hearing the roar of the cannon knew
there was fighting. Thomas Hunt was then a volunteer, and the feelings
of the young girl, whose brother and betrothed lover were in danger,
may be imagined. Young Hunt had rode a white horse, which returned
and stood at the stable door, the saddle pulled away and covered with
blood; and the conclusion was inevitable that he had fallen from his
horse, either killed or wounded. As cart after cart came in with the
wounded, Miss Hunt heard it whispered, “It must be Capt. Snelling,”
and on enquiry was informed that an officer answering the description
of him had been mortally wounded. In the agony of her feelings she was
about rushing by all to the cart when she was forcibly detained, and
some one went to ascertain if it indeed was so; but soon returned with
a bright countenance, saying, “it is not Snelling, it is Peters, and
he is only slightly wounded.” On further inquiry she learned that Mr.
Hunt was safe, having given up his horse for the use of a wounded man
who had fainted and fallen off. The next day the absentees returned. In
this engagement Capt. Snelling had his hat knocked off by a ball, and
the hilt of his sword grazed. At one time he observed an Indian from
behind a tree very near him raise his rifle to shoot him; he sprang
forward, knocked the gun from his grasp, and plunged the point of his
sword through his neck, when he fell lifeless. The Captain supposed
from the situation of the Indian that he had been previously wounded.
On the 13th of August, Miss Hunt, then only fifteen years old, was
married to Capt. Snelling by the Chaplain of Gen. Hull’s army. General
Hull and several other officers were present, with a few ladies. The
ceremony had been performed but a few moments when the drum beat to
arms; and Capt. Snelling instantly started up to go in search of his
sword. All rushed to the door except Gen. Hull, who laying his hand on
the young officer’s shoulder as he was about leaving the house, said,
“Snelling, you need not go, I will excuse you.” “By no means,” was the
reply, “I feel more like doing my duty now than ever.” “Stay, it is a
false alarm by my order,” said the General.
About this time, Gen. Brock reached Malden with reinforcements, and
immediately planted batteries opposite the fort of Detroit. From Col.
Hunt’s house the family could distinctly see the men at work, by the
aid of a spy glass. Then were seen two British officers with a white
flag of truce, crossing at the ferry; they were met at the wharf and
blindfolded, and were conducted to the first house, which happened to
be that of Col. Hunt. The youthful bride saw them enter the parlor with
Gen. Hull, his aid, who was his son, and some others; and the door was
locked. They demanded, in the name of Gen. Brock, a surrender, stating
that he should otherwise be unable to restrain the fury of the savages,
but were answered by a spirited refusal. The British officers returned
to the boat in the same manner, and presently the firing commenced
from their batteries, and continued without much effect until the next
morning.
About this time Michilimackinac was captured, and Lieut. Hanks, who
commanded, was sent on parole to Detroit; his wife being with him.
His command consisted of but fifty men, the enemy numbered over
one thousand, including Indians; and Lieut. Hanks had received no
information of the declaration of war! Being on parole, he was of
course bound to remain neutral, and it happened that he was in a room
with some others, when a shell from the enemy passed into the room,
scattering death and destruction. Mrs. Hanks was with the other ladies
in an adjoining room, where all were employed in making flannel bags
to put powder in for the cannon. When they heard the report and the
groans, all rushed to the door, for it was but a narrow entry that
divided the two rooms. Mrs. Hanks was in advance, when the door was
opened by one of the wounded, and Lieut. Hanks was seen with his bowels
torn open and dreadfully disfigured. A blanket was immediately thrown
over him by one who came in. Three others had been badly wounded and
two killed by that single bomb-shell. Mrs. Hanks saw at a glance the
condition of her husband, and that there was no hope of life, and for a
time she was bereft of reason.
It having been reported by some Frenchmen, that the British were
preparing to cross the river opposite Spring Wells, Capt. Snelling
was sent to watch their movements and report. He left Detroit about
nine o’clock in the evening, with a detachment of men, and returning
next morning before daylight, he reported to the General that from
appearances, they would cross the river at that point, three miles from
Detroit, that morning. The alarm of Gen. Hull now became extreme, and
his appearance that morning was pitiable. The balls were flying very
fast over the fort, and several men were killed; the chimney of the
room in which the ladies were at work, was struck and fell with some of
the roof into the apartment. The ladies were then advised to go into an
empty bomb-proof magazine for safety, and took Mrs. Hanks with them,
she being quite frantic. In passing the parade ground several shells
burst over them, but they escaped injury, and reaching the magazine
found it filled with women and children from the town; some fainting,
and some in convulsions with fear. The picture of woe was complete when
Mrs. Hanks was placed among the sufferers. Presently, Mrs. Snelling
heard herself called by name, and going to the door, found it was her
husband. He said, “My dear wife, I know not what moment I may be shot
down; I have come to say farewell, and ask you to make me a promise,
that in case I fall you will _never marry an Englishman_.” His weeping
bride assented without being able to speak, and they parted.
While the British were crossing the river, Gen. Hull was entreated by
the officers to prevent their landing, which they insisted could be
done; at least, they might sink every other boat; but he would not
allow a gun to be fired. The field officers, suspecting he intended
to surrender, determined on his arrest; this, however, was prevented,
in consequence of the absence of Colonels Cass and McArthur, who had
been detached with four hundred men on a third expedition to the river
Raisin. Had they been present, there is no doubt the project would
have been carried into effect. On that morning Gen, Miller was very ill
of chill and fever.
The morning of the 16th (three days after the marriage of our fair
friend) the British landed at Spring Wells, and marched up in solid
column along the river bank. The American troops now eagerly waited
for orders; they were strongly fortified, and cannon loaded with grape
stood on a commanding eminence, ready to sweep the advancing columns.
At this crisis, what was their mortification and disappointment, when
orders were given them to retire within the fort! When there, Capt.
Snelling saw Gen. Hull’s aid trying to plant a white flag: “Snelling,”
said he, “come and help me fix this flag.” “No, sir; I will not soil my
hands with that flag,” was the indignant answer.
Gen Hull, panic-stricken, surrendered the fortress without even
stipulating the terms; even Colonels Cass and McArthur’s detachment was
included. Language cannot adequately describe or express the emotions
that filled the hearts of those brave soldiers, as they stacked their
arms to be conveyed away by the British soldiers. Mrs. Snelling now
returned to her brother’s house, and for the first time saw Tecumseh.
He was a noble looking warrior, on horseback at the head of his band
of Indians, who had fired off their guns before they were permitted
to enter the town; they passed by the door in good order, being
evidently under restraint; but how long would it last! It was felt to
be a relief when Capt. Snelling informed his wife the vessels were in
sight in which all the prisoners were to embark. Col. H. I. Hunt was
permitted to remain on parole, Detroit being his home, and John E.
Hunt stayed with him; but Thomas, afterwards a captain in the army,
and the brother-in-law, Maj. Edwards, accompanied the prisoners. They
were put on board the Queen Charlotte, where they found Gen. Hull and
staff, with several other officers and their wives. They were very much
crowded, the state-rooms being occupied by the General and his staff,
while the rest made pallets on the cabin floor. It may be supposed
that no one slept much that night. Gen. Hull’s conduct was freely
discussed within his hearing; and bitter, bitter indeed, were the
feelings expressed against him. The next day, much to the satisfaction
of Mrs. Snelling, her party, with others, was put on board the vessel
commanded by Captain Mackintosh, at his request. He gave her up his
own stateroom, and handed her the key of the box that contained his
preserves and other niceties. He told the prisoners that if the army
had marched to Malden at the time they crossed the river, that post
would have been taken without the cost of a life.
When they arrived at Erie, the British guards took charge of the
captive troops, and each American captain was placed at the head of his
company, surrounded by a British guard, and marched to Fort George,
eighteen miles, where vessels were in readiness to proceed to Kingston.
Gen. Hull and his staff were placed in carriages. Mackintosh promised
Capt. Snelling he would place his young wife in the hands of a friend,
who would see that she had a conveyance to join him at Fort George. He
did so, but was obliged to return to his vessel; however, Mr. Warren
promised to send her the same afternoon. Soon after she was joined by
the wife of Capt. Fuller, of the 4th regiment. When Capt. Snelling then
bade a brief adieu to his wife, “You may have need of money,” said he,
and gave her a half eagle.
With much impatience the ladies waited for Mr. Warren to make his
appearance with a carriage. When tea was ready he came, but said all
the carriages in the place were gone, and he could furnish nothing
better than a lumber wagon. They eagerly exclaimed, “That will do, let
us have it!” “But you must not go on to-night, it is too late,” he
persisted; “the roads are filled with straggling Indians; it will not
do--it would be rashness to venture. I will have everything ready by
daylight to-morrow morning.” The ladies remonstrated against delay.
“They have all gone; the troops will embark, and sail without us, and
we shall be left behind.” “Oh, no!” replied Warren; “unless the wind
changes they cannot leave.”
His involuntary guests passed a sleepless night in his house. They
were up two hours before daylight, and endeavored in various ways to
rouse their host, but in vain. Day dawned; they opened the window, to
see if the wind had changed; it blew from the same direction, and they
were more calm. When the sun rose, they went to Mr. Warren immediately,
and begged the fulfilment of his promise. He went out, and expecting
him back every moment, they got their luggage ready in the hall, every
moment seeming an age. At length, a negro man drove up to the door
about nine o’clock, in a large lumber wagon; their hearts sank within
them, for they had supposed that Mr. Warren would accompany them.
The man came into the hall, and asked, “Is this the luggage? Heavy
load!--take all day to get there!” “And is not Mr. Warren going with
us “No, marm; cannot go; told me to go.” Thus the wedding tour of our
fair bride promised to be an adventurous one! Their fears were divided
between the negro man and the Indians who were straggling on the roads.
They had a great deal of baggage, and were completely in the power of
the driver. Mrs. Snelling said to him imploringly, “If you will make
haste, and take us safely through, I will give you this gold piece, and
our husbands, who are both Captains in the American army, will pay you
well besides.” The man answered that he would do his best.
When he stopped to water the horses at a tavern, there were a number
of Indians about the house, and the ladies begged the driver not to
let them know they were prisoners. They remained in the wagon while he
went for water, watching him narrowly however, and not suffering him to
delay a moment. When he resumed his seat, they breathed more freely. At
noon some crackers and cheese were purchased, and they prevailed upon
the driver to be satisfied with it for his dinner. Often they met three
or four Indians, who sometimes stopped the driver to talk to him, and
were inquisitive to know who the women were, what was in the trunks,
&c., &c. During such times, although the prisoners trembled in every
nerve, they appeared in a very merry mood, signifying to them and the
driver that they were in a hurry. He cracked his whip, and as they went
on, leaving the Indians behind, they set up a frightful yell, enough to
chill the blood with fear.
As they drew near Fort George, they became still more anxious, for as
nearly as they could judge the wind had changed, or was changing. It
was late in the afternoon, and still they had some distance to go.
Within a few miles of the fort, they met a foot traveller from there,
who told them all the vessels had gone except one. In that one Capt.
Snelling and Capt. Fuller were pacing the deck, sometimes looking
with eagerness towards the shore, then beseeching the Captain of the
sloop, who was a kind-hearted man, to delay only a little longer,
notwithstanding orders had been sent him to proceed. Just as the
words, “I can wait no longer, I must obey orders,” passed his lips,
handkerchiefs were seen waving from the shore; a boat was sent, and
the travellers were soon in their husbands’ arms. Even the rough but
kind-hearted sailor witnessing the scene, wiped his eyes; and as the
good Captain approached, the tears rolled down his cheeks. It was a
joyous, though a tearful meeting.
The next thought was for the baggage. Where was it? It had been left
in the lumber wagon, for no one had bestowed a thought upon it, and
the vessel was already miles from shore. The negro probably carried it
home as a prize, for the owners never heard of it again, though for
some time they entertained a hope that the trunks would be forwarded to
them. The Captain seemed to take quite an interest in Mrs. Snelling,
having learned she was a bride of but two weeks, and so young; and his
kind feeling was manifested by giving up to her his own stateroom, and
sometimes sending nice things from his table to her. Such kindness, at
such a time, was sensibly felt and appreciated. Capt. Snelling told
his wife he had a little difficulty while on the march with one of the
British officers who was with the guard. It was a very warm day, and
almost choked with dust and thirst, he stepped on the grass, a very
short distance from where he was marching, when the officer rudely
pushed him back. Pale with rage, “Sir,” said Snelling, “had I my sword
by my side, you would not thus dare to lay hands upon me. I trust the
day may come when I shall be able to show you how a gentleman ought to
behave under similar circumstances.” It was not a little singular that
this same officer was afterwards taken prisoner by the Americans, and
fell into the hands of Capt. Snelling, to be conducted to Fort Erie.
He was a married man, and expected to have been detained a long time
from his family. But his generous foe, then Inspector-General, used
his influence to effect his exchange. They parted with expressions of
sincere friendship.
The stay of the prisoners at Kingston was only sufficiently long to
remove them from the vessels to the large barges or batteaux which
were in readiness for the descent of the St. Lawrence. The lot of our
party fell again to the same boat in which were Gen. Hull and staff.
The journey was without much incident. At night they stopped at some
small village, where lodging in bed-rooms could not be had for all
who applied; and several times the high-spirited Capt. Snelling would
rebel and give expression to his feelings, when a room for which he had
spoken, would be given to a British officer.
On arriving at St. John’s, four or five miles from Montreal, the
prisoners were ordered to be arranged by companies, with their
officers, and marched under guard to the city. Gen. Hull and staff,
with an escort of British officers, went in carriages; the officers’
ladies two and two in gigs, and then the troops in the rear, with a
guard on each side, completed the procession. When they reached the
city, a full band of music went in advance of Gen. Hull’s carriage,
and began to play Yankee Doodle. The General having said in his
proclamation “I will go through Montreal with Yankee Doodle,” they were
determined to make good his promise.
It was evening, and the streets were illuminated, every window in every
house being filled with lights, and when the procession came opposite
Nelson’s Monument, there were cheers given, and a cry “hats off!” An
attempt was made to compel all to the act of reverence, by knocking
off the prisoners’ hats or caps. A militia officer tried it with Capt.
Snelling, “At your peril. Sir, touch me;” was the quick warning, and
before he could do anything rash, a regular officer rode up and rebuked
the militia officer. At this moment a lady made her way through the
crowd and guard towards the prisoners, and fell, overcome by emotion.
She was lifted up, and the Captain recognized Mrs. Gooding. His party
was conducted to a hotel, where they met Capt. Gooding also.
During the evening, after they had taken possession of their room,
a tap was heard at the door, and a servant brought in a tray, on
which were glasses and a decanter of wine, placed it on the table,
and said--“Capt. F---- will be here to see you, Capt. Snelling.” He
entered soon after, and Capt. Snelling saw in him the gentleman who
had insisted on knocking off his cap; he came to apologize for his
conduct, and requested permission to drink a glass of wine with him.
In a few days the married officers were paroled, and left Montreal
on their way to Boston. Here Captain and Mrs. Snelling remained
until he was exchanged, at which time he was ordered to Plattsburg
to join Gen. Hampton’s army. The admirable wife, who had shared his
dangers, remained in Boston. The separation lasted some months, when
unexpectedly the Captain made his appearance, informing Mrs. Snelling
that he was going to Washington city, having an extremely unpleasant
duty to perform, that of taking a man into custody that very night
while in bed, one of a party who supplied the enemy with provisions,
and must be taken to Washington. He left his wife about twelve o’clock
at night, saying he should have assistance, and she must not be uneasy,
for that if he succeeded in securing the man, he would stop in the
carriage and let her know of his safety. In two hours he returned,
told her they had succeeded, and that the prisoner was in irons in the
carriage, with a guard. “I pity his poor wife,” added he, “I wish you
to take a carriage to-morrow, drive to No. ----, Water Street, ask
for the lady of the house, and say to her that her husband will be in
Washington, for a few days, and then return to her in safety.” In two
weeks Capt. Snelling came back; the man had turned States’ evidence
against others, and had been dismissed.
About this time Mrs. Snelling’s eldest child was born--she being
only sixteen year’s of age. Her little daughter Mary beguiled many
an anxious hour of separation from her father; that father being in
constant peril. He passed through many dangers while in Plattsburg and
its vicinity, and rose rapidly in rank, Generals Izard and Macomb being
in command. Mrs. Snelling joined him there. Before long Gen. Izard’s
division was ordered to Fort Erie, and Capt. Snelling belonged to that
division. His wife remained in Burlington, on the other side of Lake
Champlain, and was there when Commodore McDonough gained his victory,
hearing distinctly the roar of the artillery, and relieved beyond
measure when the news came of the victory. It was shouted from mouth to
mouth, and from door to door, “Victory! Victory!”
The details of the siege of Fort Erie may be found in historical
works. At this time Snelling was in the staff of Gen. Izard, and was
Inspector-general, with the rank of Colonel. Gen. Brown commanded at
Fort Erie. When the troops went into winter quarters at Buffalo, Mrs.
Snelling again joined him at Buffalo with her little daughter. She had
travelled forty-one miles on horse-back, over the very same corduroy
roads she had been carried over eighteen years before. Her brother,
Capt. Hunt, met her at Batavia and carried little Mary on a pillow
before him; she had been very ill, and the journey restored her to
health.
After peace was proclaimed. Col. Snelling and his family, accompanied
by his wife’s brother, left Buffalo to visit friends in Detroit. They
embarked in a small vessel with a favorable wind, but the next day
there were indications of a storm; the wind veered round and they beat
about the lake several days. When the storm began to rage with fury,
there were no safe harbors near, and they made but little progress--and
were out of provisions and fuel. A few potatoes were found, but no fire
to cook them. Mrs. Snelling was very sea-sick, and did not require
food, but her little Mary lay by her side gnawing a raw potatoe. The
storm still increased, but the captain of the vessel hoped to reach
Cleveland with the side wind, and at daylight the third day they
found themselves opposite that place, though they dared not approach
the wharf. Guns of distress were fired but with little hope, for men
could not be found to risk their own lives to save them. The captain
then announced that his anchor dragged and he feared would not hold
the vessel. Soon were seen preparations to man a boat; it pushed off
from shore and approached the shoals; then was the greatest danger; it
passed over and reached the vessel. Capt. Hunt came to his sister and
said, “Abby, what will you do; remain here in so much peril, or go in
the boat, where there is perhaps greater?” She replied, “I will go.”
She was taken upon deck; the waves were terrific; the boat would now
rise on the summit of a huge billow, now plunge into a deep abyss, and
it seemed impossible that the lady and her child could be placed in the
boat. But in spite of peril, she hardly knew how, she was seated in the
boat with her child and her brother, and after a few minutes gained
courage to look back towards the vessel, of which she could only see
the top of the mast. At the moment they reached the shoals, a huge wave
broke over them and half filled the boat. Some of the men bailed while
others plied the oars with renewed energy. When they touched land Mrs.
Snelling was taken fainting from the boat and conveyed to an inn; and
it was several days before she recovered from the terrors of that storm.
Great was the joy that prevailed in the heart of every wife at the
return of peace. In the following spring, Snelling under the peace
organization, was Lieut. Colonel of the 6th infantry, and ordered to
Governor’s Island, Col. Atkinson commanding. He remained there with his
family over a year, when the regiment was ordered to Plattsburg, where
they had resided about four years when an order cams for St. Louis,
_en route_ for the Upper Mississippi or Missouri! Mrs. Snelling had
then three children, and her youngest sister and one of her brothers,
a graduate from West Point--Lieut. Wellington Hunt, then a married
man--were with her family.
The troops went up to the barracks at Bellefountain, where she visited
the graves of her parents, finding them in good order with the
exception of the railing which enclosed the mounds. Her youngest child,
fifteen months old, was then very ill; he had been named Thomas, after
his grandfather. He died and was buried beside his brave ancestor.
During the winter of their stay there, the sister, Eliza M. Hunt, was
married to Mr. Soulard, a French gentleman of great worth.
In the following summer, Snelling was promoted Colonel of the 5th
regiment, and ordered up the Mississippi, to relieve Lieut. Colonel
Leavenworth, who was also promoted to another regiment. He had
conducted the 5th regiment from Detroit to within eight miles of
the Falls of St. Anthony. The journey was exceedingly tedious and
disagreeable, in a keel boat laboriously propelled by men with long
poles, placed against their shoulders, along a gangway on each side of
the boat. The weather was very warm and the musquitoes numerous day
and night. The cabin was very low, confined, and uncomfortable. It was
three weeks or more before they arrived at Prairie du Chien, during
which time very little sound sleep was obtained by the young mother,
from fear of the Indians, the Sac and Fox, the most savage looking and
ferocious she had ever seen. They seemed to be very fond of dress, and
their faces were painted of all colors; the hair cut close to within
an inch of the top of the head, and that decorated with a variety of
ribbons and feathers, and often a small looking-glass suspended from
the neck. Many of them were certainly great beaux, but they looked
hideous, and were terrific objects to a timid woman.
When the voyagers arrived at Prairie du Chien, they found Gov. Cass
and his party; he held councils with the Indians, for the purpose
of bringing about a peace between the Sac and Fox tribes, Chippewas
and Sioux. Our friends were detained there several weeks by a
court-martial, of which Col. Snelling was President. They had still
three hundred miles to go before they reached the encampment of the
5th regiment, and there were several Indian villages on the route. The
magnificent scenery of this river has been often described. Lake Pepin
is a beautiful expansion about twenty-four miles in length, and from
two to four broad. At length they arrived safe through many fatigues to
the end of their journey, and received a hearty welcome from friends
they had never seen before, and from Capt. Gooding and his wife, whom
they were again delighted to meet. Their daughter had been married a
few days previous to the Adjutant of the regiment.
Great solicitude was felt to have a temporary garrison erected with
such defences as could be then made, before the long and severe
winter set in. The traders brought news that the Indians were very
insolent, and it was said a white man had been killed on the St.
Peter’s river. A council was called and the murderers were demanded,
hostages being taken from the council until they were delivered. They
were confined in the guard room, and narrowly watched. All felt that
the little community was exposed and almost at the mercy of an enemy,
and great exertions were made to complete the temporary barracks for
the winter with blockhouses and other defences. Indians meanwhile were
collecting in great numbers, and would sometimes show themselves at
a distance. The traders in the vicinity often came in, and said the
friendly Indians had gone in pursuit of the murderers, and no doubt
would succeed in taking them; but if they did not, the friends of
the hostages would attempt to rescue them. Scouts were accordingly
kept out every night, and the troops slept on their arms. For the
mother--trembling for her little ones more than herself, no sooner
would she close her eyes at night, than she would start, thinking she
heard the war whoop of the savages. The wolves too, half-starved, were
extremely daring, and if the cook happened to leave a bucket of swill
at the back door, they were sure to empty it of its contents.
As soon as the log barracks were finished, the families moved into
them. They were built in four rows forming a square, a blockhouse on
either side; and situated where the village of Mendota now stands. The
Indian hostages were now put in greater security. They were evidently
becoming impatient of restraint, and perhaps had doubts as to the
result. One morning as usual, they were taken a short distance into the
woods under guard, when suddenly one of them (there were three) started
and ran for his life. Those behind set up a yell and the guard fired at
him, but he was beyond reach. The others were immediately taken back
to the guard-house, and an interpreter sent for, who enquired of them
if it was a preconcerted plan of the whole; they declared it was not,
and that until the fugitive started to run, they were ignorant of his
design, and supposed it merely a sudden desire for freedom. They said
further that he would no doubt urge the immediate surrender of the
guilty parties, and laughingly said the lad was so fat, from being so
well fed, they were surprised to see him run so fast!
Col. Snelling and the Indian agent thought it advisable to send the
murderers to the agent at St. Louis, as soon as they should be brought
in and before navigation closed. At length they came, conducted by a
large number of their own tribe. There were two, but only one was sent
to St. Louis, as there was but one white man killed. It was represented
to the Indians in council, that when one white man killed another,
his life paid the penalty; and since one of their people had killed a
white man his life must pay the forfeit, unless their great father in
Washington should pardon him. The savages signified assent by a “ugh!”
As soon as the criminal was gone quiet was restored among the Indians
for the winter.
In September, 1819, Mrs. Snelling’s fifth child was born. Her sick
room was papered and carpeted with buffalo robes, and made quite warm
and comfortable. There were three ladies besides her in the garrison,
and they were like one family, spending their time instructing their
children, and receiving instruction in the French language from a
soldier who it was said had been an officer in Buonaparte’s army. Mrs.
Snelling, Mrs. Clark and an officer, comprised the class. During the
winter, parties of men were sent off to cut down trees, hew timber,
&c., for the permanent fort, which was to be built on the high point
of land between the mouth of the St. Peter’s and Mississippi, a point
selected by Gen. Pike when he explored the river, as a good site for a
fort, and on which Col. Snelling at once decided it should be built.
There was a tree standing at the extreme point, with the name of Pike
carved on it by his own hand. Strict orders were given “to spare that
tree” for it was looked upon by the officers as sacred to his memory,
and was carefully guarded, but the care was in vain. One morning it was
found cut down, and great was the lamentation. It never was known who
had done the deed; there was a mystery about it that was never solved.
The first row of barracks that were put up, were of hewn logs, the
others of stone. The fort was built in a diamond shape, to suit the
ground at the extreme point. Where the tree had stood, was a half-moon
battery, and inside this was the officers’ quarters, a very neat stone
building, the front of cut stone; at the opposite point a tower. The
fort was enclosed by a high stone wall, and is well represented in the
drawings of it.
At the expiration of two years, the regiment moved into the fort,
although not completed. The families of the officers occupied quarters
in the row assigned to them. It was just before this time that Mrs.
Snelling lost her youngest child--thirteen months old. In June,
1823, the first steamboat made its appearance at the fort, much to
the astonishment of the savages, who placed their hands over their
mouths--their usual way of expressing astonishment, and called it a
“fire-boat.” A salute was fired from the fort, as it was expected
that the Inspector general was on board; and it was returned from the
boat. The Indians knew not what to make of it, and they were greatly
alarmed, until all was explained. Additions were made to the society
of the garrison; several officers, who had been absent, returned to
their regiment, bringing wives and sisters, so that at one time the
company numbered ten ladies. There were six companies, which fully
officered, would have given eighteen or twenty officers, but there
were seldom or never that number present at one time. An Italian
gentleman came on the boat, who professed to be travelling for the
purpose of writing a book, and brought letters of introduction from
Mrs. Snelling’s friends in St. Louis. The Colonel invited him to his
house to remain as long as he pleased, and he was with them several
months. He could not speak English, but spoke French fluently, and
seemed much pleased when he found his fair hostess could speak the
language, she having learned it when a child at St. Louis. A French
school was the first she ever attended, and she thus early acquired a
perfectly correct pronunciation. She lamented on one occasion to Mr.
Beltrami, that her teacher had received his discharge, and was about
leaving, and he politely offered his services in that capacity. She
was then translating the life of Caesar in an abridged form, and from
the emotion betrayed by the foreigner at a portion of the reading, it
was concluded he had been banished from the Pope’s dominions at Rome,
and that the lesson reminded him of his misfortunes. The passport he
showed, gave him the title of “Le Chevalier Count Beltrami.”
About this time, Major Long’s expedition arrived, to explore the St.
Peter’s river, and when they left Beltrami accompanied them. When his
book was published at New Orleans, he sent Mrs. Snelling a copy. While
at the fort he was busy in collecting Indian curiosities. One day he
brought a Sioux chief into Mrs. Snelling’s room, who had on his neck a
necklace of bears’ claws highly polished, saying, “I cannot tempt this
chief to part with his necklace, pray see what you can do with him, he
will not refuse you.” “He wears it,” answered the lady, “as a trophy
of his prowess, and a badge of honor; however, I will try.” After some
time, Wanata said, “On one condition I will consent; if you will cut
off your hair, braid it, and let it take the place of mine you may have
the necklace.” All laughed heartily at his contrivance to get rid of
further importunity.
One day a call was heard from a sentinel on the river bank, to the
corporal of the guard, that a child had fallen into the river, and
several ran in the direction the sentinel pointed. The gardener who
was at work at a short distance, cried out, “It is the Colonel’s son,
Henry! Save him!” His mother heard the cry, “A child is drowning!”
and ran out upon the battery to see and hear what was the matter. She
saw them draw the boy out, place him on a blanket, and hasten up the
hill; they approached her house, when the Colonel hastened towards her
saying, “We came near losing our child!” and she saw it was indeed her
own. He was pale as death, but soon recovered, and lives to tell the
story of an immense catfish dragging him into the river while fishing.
In 1823, news was brought by the traders that two white children were
with a party of Sioux, on the St. Peter’s. It appeared from what they
could learn, that a family from Red River--Selkirk’s settlement--had
been on their way to the Fort, when a war party of Sioux met them,
murdered the parents and an infant, and made the boys prisoner. Col.
Snelling sent an officer with a party of soldiers to rescue the
children. After some delay in the ransom, they were finally brought.
An old squaw, who had the youngest, was very unwilling to give him up,
and indeed the child did not wish to leave her. The oldest, about eight
years old, said his name was John Tully, and his brother, five years
old, Abraham. His mother had an infant, but he saw the Indians dash its
brains out against a tree, then kill his father and mother. Because he
cried, they took him by his hair, and cut a small piece from his head,
which was a running sore when he was re-taken. Col. Snelling took John
into his family, Major Clark the other, but he was afterwards sent to
an orphan asylum in New York. The eldest died of lockjaw, occasioned
by a cut in the ankle while using an axe. His deathbed conversion was
affecting and remarkable. One day, after he had been ill several weeks,
he said, “Mrs. Snelling, I have been a very wicked boy; I once tried to
poison my father because he said he would whip me. I stole a ring from
you, which you valued much, and sold it to a soldier, and then I told
you a lie about it. I have given you a great deal of trouble. I have
been very wicked. I am going to die the day after to-morrow, and don’t
know where I shall go. Oh, pray for me.”
His benefactress answered, “John, God will forgive you, if you repent;
but you must pray, too, for yourself. God is more willing to hear than
we are to pray. Christ died to save just such a sinner as you are, and
you must call upon that Saviour to save you.” All his sins appeared to
rise before him as he confessed them, and he seemed to feel that he
was too great a sinner to hope for pardon. Mrs. Snelling read to him,
and instructed him. He never had received any religious instruction,
except in the Sunday school taught by Mrs. Clark and herself, and being
accustomed to say his prayers with her children, and always to be
present when she read the church service on Sundays. The next morning
after the above conversation, when she asked him how he had rested
during the night, he said, “I prayed very often in the night; I shall
die to-morrow, and I know not what will become of me.” For several
hours he remained tranquil, with his eyes closed, but would answer
whenever spoken to; then suddenly he exclaimed, “Glory! glory!” His
friend said, “John, what do you mean by that word?” “Oh! Mrs. Snelling,
I feel so good--I feel so good! Oh! I cannot tell you how good I feel.”
She knew not that he ever heard that word unless from her prayer-book.
He lost all consciousness on the day he said he should die, and expired
at the succeeding dawn.
During this year the commandant was visited by Gen. Scott and suite,
and the fort was completed. Heretofore it had been called Fort St.
Anthony, but Gen. Scott issued an order giving it the name of Fort
Snelling. He expressed his approbation of the construction and site of
the fort, etc., spent a week with his friends, and visited the falls
and a chain of lakes where they were used to amuse themselves fishing,
and where the water was so clear they could see the fish playing about
the hook. One of the lakes Mrs. Snelling named Scott Lake.
Another of her amusements was riding on horseback. When a child she had
been accustomed to ride every morning with her father, and acquired
great confidence in the management of a horse. Her husband seldom would
ride with her, but Capt. Martin Scott was in the regiment, and often
accompanied her. One day they saw a wolf; the dogs gave chase, and they
followed until they ran down the poor creature, the bonnet of the fair
huntress having fallen back, and her hair streaming loose in the wind.
In 1825, the family left Fort Snelling to visit their friends in
Detroit. It was late in the season, October, before they set out
homeward, by the way of Green Bay, where Mrs. Snelling’s brother,
Lieut. Wellington Hunt, was stationed. They spent a week in his family,
and when they reached Lake Pepin the ice was running so rapidly they
were compelled to stop; the ice had cut through the cabin so that it
leaked. A small log cabin was put up, and an express sent to the fort,
one hundred miles, for sleighs to convey them thither, and provisions,
as they had nothing but corn, which they boiled in ash-water with a
little salt. Fears were entertained by Col. Snelling that the express
might not reach the fort, and another was sent a week after. One day,
after two weeks, there was a sound of sleigh bells, and Henry, who
was the first to hear, ran to meet them, and soon returned with two
loaves of bread, which he threw into his mother’s lap, crying, “eat,
mother, eat.” The children ate bread as if famished, and even the
little Marion, but eight months old, partook of the general joy. They
had seen no Indians, who had all gone to their winter grounds. Some of
the officers came to meet the Colonel’s family, and they were soon on
the move again. They were welcomed back joyfully by all their friends,
and many of their favorite Indians came to see them. One poor savage,
who always furnished them with game, came leaning on his staff, looking
pale and emaciated; he was very sick, he said, and came to see them
once more before he died. He could scarcely crawl back to his lodge,
and the next day expired.
At this time a party of the Chippewas and Sioux held a council with the
Indian agent. There had been war between the two nations for a long
time; the agent desired to act as mediator between them, and sent for
them to meet him. After the council the two parties smoked the pipe
of peace. The Chippewas killed a dog, made a feast, and invited the
Sioux to their lodges, which were under the guns of the fort. In the
evening, about nine o’clock, the firing of guns was heard; the sentinel
called “corporal of the guard” repeatedly, in quick succession. The
wild cries of women and children were heard, for the Chippewas had
their families with them, and several Indians came rushing into the
hall of the commanding officer, trying to tell what was the matter.
The officer of the day reported that the Sioux, after partaking of the
hospitalities of the Chippewas, and being apparently good friends,
had some of them returned, placed their guns under the wigwams, and
fired, killing some and wounding others. The wounded were conveyed into
the hospital to have their wounds dressed. Other particulars of this
occurrence, with the determination of the Chippewas to have vengeance,
the action of the commanding officer, and the surrender and punishment
of the perpetrators of the deed, are related in another memoir. The
traders said the Sioux were perfectly satisfied, much more so than if
the offenders had been imprisoned and sent to St. Louis.
In 1826, Capt. Thomas Hunt, who was residing at Washington, wrote
to his sister, urging her and the Colonel to send their two eldest
children to him to be educated. Their daughter Mary was now fourteen,
and as Capt. Plympton and his wife were going, her parents got her in
readiness to accompany them. Her mother thought not it would cost so
many tears to part with her child; but when she returned home from the
boat, she told Mrs. Clark it “seemed like a death in the family.” Soon
an opportunity offered, and they sent Henry also.
In 1827 the Indians began to show signs of hostility near Prairie du
Chien; they murdered two white men and a young girl, the daughter of
one of them, and attacked two boats with supplies for Fort Snelling,
killing and wounding several of the crew. Col. Snelling ordered out
as many of his command as could be spared from the fort, and with his
officers descended the river to the relief of Fort Crawford, or to
attack any hostile force of Indians he might meet. There were two large
villages of Indians between the two forts, and it was expected, when
they approached, they would be attacked, but there was not an Indian
to be seen. When they reached Prairie du Chien, they ascertained that
the outrage had been committed by Winnebagoes and not Sioux. When Gen.
Atkinson heard this at St. Louis, he sent and seized the chief, Red
Bird, and one or two others, who were tried, convicted, and executed.
After an absence of six weeks, the party returned without being obliged
to fire a gun.
One day soon after his return, the Colonel came in to tell his wife the
express had brought them a mail, holding in his hand a letter sealed
with black. She exclaimed, “My Mary is dead.” “No,” said her husband,
“the letter is from Detroit.” It brought the intelligence of her much
loved brother Henry’s death. He was much loved and respected by all
who knew him; was mayor of the city and colonel of the militia, and
his funeral was the largest ever known in Michigan. After the massacre
at Frenchtown by the Indians, in 1813, he had spent a great deal of
money in ransoming prisoners, many of whom still affectionately cherish
his memory. He had proved a father to his sister and family, and was
mourned by them deeply and long.
In the fall of 1827, the regiment was ordered to Jefferson Barracks.
When the family arrived at St. Louis, they took lodgings for the
winter. Colonel Snelling having obtained leave to go to Washington to
settle some public accounts and to bring home his daughter. He wrote to
her mother in glowing terms of her improvement in person and mind, and
that she received much attention for one of her age, not yet sixteen.
“As Mary will not again,” he concluded, “have so good an opportunity, I
have encouraged her to accept invitations to the different soirées; she
has had cards for the season from all.” Mary wrote, “I have attended
many parties, but I do not enjoy them, for my dear mother is not with
me, and I am so impatient to embrace her.” Alas! the All Wise Disposer
of events had ordered it otherwise. One more letter her mother received
from her, and hoped before many weeks to see her, but at the time she
was expecting her arrival, a letter was written to her sister, Mrs.
Soulard, that Mary was dead!
Col. Snelling wrote afterwards, that on the 2d of February she had been
at Mrs. Clay’s party and danced, and had taken cold while standing to
wait for the carriage; the cold terminating in a brain fever. Mrs.
Adams, the wife of the President, showed great interest in the young
stranger, as did many others, and every attention was paid her that
could be desired; but there was no solace for the deep wound in the
mother’s heart. She had felt a presentiment that she should never more
see her daughter, and was in some measure prepared for the stroke which
almost crushed her: she was enabled to look with faith to Him from
whose hand it came, to feel that He was too wise to err--too good to
afflict willingly, and to bow in humble submission to the most painful
dispensation of his Providence. Her husband wrote that he should be
obliged to remain still longer in Washington; it would improve her
health to travel, and she must join him without delay. In May she left
St. Louis with her three children and nurse, found her husband and son
well, the latter much grown, and received a cordial welcome from her
brother and sister-in-law.
Her cup of affliction was not yet full; in two months her husband was
seized with inflammation of the brain and died in three weeks. In
communicating the sad event to the army, the General-in-Chief thought
it but an act of justice to make a public acknowledgment of his
services.[38]
At this period of distress Mrs. Snelling’s youngest child, Josiah, was
not expected to live. She resigned him willingly; but he was spared
to her, and lived to be her great comfort. In a month she was on her
way to Detroit. A farm three miles up the river belonged to her, and
thither she took her children. Her brother, George Hunt, took charge
of the farm and lived in her family. After residing two years upon it,
Mrs. Snelling found it necessary to remove into the city, where she
took a few boarders, and rented her farm. In 1835 she sold it for nine
thousand dollars, purchased a lot in the city and built a brick house.
Her son Henry, who had gone to New York on business, became acquainted
with Miss Putnam, the sister of the publisher, a lady of high literary
ability and intelligence, and they were soon afterwards married. Capt.
Thomas Hunt was at this time residing in Detroit. He died very suddenly
in consequence of a fall, leaving a very interesting family. Gov. Mason
offered Mrs. Snelling a high rent for her house, and she consented to
let it, provided he would purchase her new furniture, which he did. She
then accepted an invitation from her brother, Gen. Hunt, at Maumee
city, to reside in his family, having now only her daughter Marion
(afterwards Mrs. Hazard) and her youngest son with her. Her son James
had gone to West Point.
In 1841 Mrs. Snelling was married to the Rev. J. E. Chaplin, the
grandson of President Edwards. He was appointed principal to one of
the branches of the Michigan State Institution, and they removed to
White Pigeon in Michigan, where Mr. Chaplin died in 1846, much beloved
and lamented. For five years his wife had lived with him in great
happiness, and she felt that he had only gone home a little before her.
In 1844 her son James graduated, and was ordered to Texas in Gen.
Worth’s regiment. He was at the battle of Palo Alto and Reseca, in all
the battles with Gen. Taylor excepting Buena Vista. At that time Gen.
Worth’s regiment was with Gen. Scott’s division. He was at the siege
of Vera Cruz and Cherubusco, at which time Gen. Scott mentions him in
his dispatches. At Molino del Rey he was severely wounded; the ball
entering the left breast passed under his arm, and was cut out from his
back. He received two brevets, making him _passed_ captain. Although
his father had been in eleven skirmishes and battles he had never lost
a drop of blood, but the son was less fortunate, and at twenty-three
nearly lost his life. It was six weeks after seeing his name published
among those who were severely wounded before his mother heard from him
direct, and during that time, her state of suspense was terrible. One
day as she left home for a walk, she noticed the stage approaching her
house, and as it was passing, Mr. Hazard put his head out and said,
“You had better go back, there is some one here you would like to see.”
She turned to go back, saw the stage stop, and her son get out, and
sank on her knees returning thanks to God that her eyes again beheld
him. He afterwards went to Texas with his regiment.
In 1849 Mrs. Chaplin travelled with her nephew, Major Hunt, and her
two nieces up the Mississippi to Fort Snelling. She found twenty-one
years had made great changes and great improvements; the party went in
a splendid steamboat, beautifully furnished, with table sumptuously
supplied, and either side of the river was dotted with cultivated
fields and large towns--the transformation seemed almost magical. When
they arrived at the Fort, she met an old friend in Col. Loomis, who was
very polite in taking her about the country that she might see all she
could in the short time they had to stay. She visited the grave of her
little daughter, and could decipher the name on the stone although much
defaced. The Colonel promised to have a new one put up. An old Indian
woman recognized her, saying she had seen her a long time ago, and she
was much delighted to find she had been remembered. She also went over
the house so long occupied by her family. On their return they stopped
at St. Paul’s, where the governor of the territory resides, and there
found a niece who had married Mr. Welsh of Michigan.
One of the passengers taken in at that place, in conversation with one
of the ladies, related the story of the murder of the Chippewas by
the Sioux after the treaty, and the punishment of the guilty persons,
with some fanciful embellishment, by way of exemplifying the Indian
traits of generosity and self-devotion, stating that the friend of one
of the culprits had offered himself a voluntary victim in his place,
the other being a married man, and that the innocent substitute had
been delivered up to the Chippewas by the commanding officer. His
strictures on the conduct of Col. Snelling were interrupted by a mild
rebuke from Mrs. Chaplin, who informed him the account he had given
of the transaction was incorrect. “You seem to speak knowingly on the
subject, madam,” said the stranger. “I should be happy to get the right
story.” “I was the wife of that commanding officer,” she replied, “and
remember well all the circumstances;” which she then related, and was
told by the gentleman that he was writing a book, “and had received the
story from a trader.” His experience in this instance might be a lesson
to those who rely on floating traditions unsupported by competent
authority.
Mrs. Chaplin is now happily at home with her daughter, Mrs. Hazard, and
resides in Cincinnati. Her life has been a chequered and eventful one,
and many sorrows have fallen to her lot; but these have been borne
with resignation and submission to the will of her Heavenly Father,
to whose guidance she committed her youth, and who has blessed her
with the enjoyment of the peace and prosperity won through a period of
hardship and distress. Her family connections are numerous, and a very
large circle of friends and acquaintances admire her talents and love
her virtues.
XIX.
MARY McMILLAN.
Lanman, the author of a pleasing History of Michigan, says it embraces
three epochs; the first a romantic one, extending to 1760, when the
dominion over the small portion of inhabited territory passed from
France to Great Britain. The earliest gleam of civilization at that
period had scarcely penetrated its forests, and the boat-songs of the
French furtraders, as they swept its lakes, alone awoke the echoes.
The second epoch may be called a military one. It commenced with
the Pontiac war, and extends through the struggles of the British,
Indians, and Americans to obtain undisputed possession of the country;
terminating with the victory of Commodore Perry, the defeat of Proctor,
etc. The third and last period comprises the enterprising, mechanical,
and working age of Michigan, commencing with the introduction of the
public lands into market; it is the epoch of agriculture, manufactures,
and commerce; the day of harbors, cities, canals, and railroads, in
which forests have been surveyed and cleared, streams and lakes covered
with sails, States founded, and their internal resources developed.
A few small settlements were made along the lakes at a very early
period. Sault Ste. Marie, like the other French posts, had a fort and
chapel in 1688, and was a favorite resort for traders and savages on
their way to the forests of Lake Superior, its settlers being a few
Indians, called the Salteurs, who lived by fishing in the rapids. A
goldsmith, who went there afterwards, wrought from the pure copper
found in that region, bracelets, candlesticks, crosses, and censers,
for sale among the savages. From time to time Jesuit missionaries were
sent from Quebec and Montreal to these distant posts, but they remained
without any organized colonial government, or any connected history,
forming a part of the Canadian domain, inhabited only by wandering
Indians or migrating traders, whose headquarters were at Montreal
or Quebec. The vast tracts extending from the St. Lawrence to the
Mississippi, fertile, and watered by noble streams, with inland seas
offering facilities for commerce, were thus wandered over by herds of
deer, elk, and buffalo, or tribes as wild as the beasts of the forest.
Baron La Hontan, who came at a very early period, says, describing Lake
Erie, “It is assuredly the finest on earth; its banks decked with oak
trees, elms, and chestnuts, entwined with vines bearing rich clusters
to their tops, and its forests abounding with turkeys, deer, and wild
beeves, frequented too by warlike hunters.” The French scattered along
the lake border, were there for the purpose of pushing the fur trade
into the Indian territory, and except the commandants at the posts,
were chiefly merchants engaged in this traffic. The coureurs des bois,
or, rangers of the woods, were often half-breeds, and were hardy
and skilled in propelling the canoe, fishing, hunting, or sending a
rifle-ball to the “right eye” of the buffalo. They procured cargoes of
furs from the Indians, and carried large packs of goods across portages
in the interior, by straps suspended from their foreheads or shoulders.
They were familiar with every rock and island, bay and shoal, of the
western waters. The ordinary dress of a Canadian furtrader, was a cloth
fastened about the middle, a loose shirt, a “molton” or blanket-coat,
a red worsted or leathern cap, and sometimes a surtout of coarse blue
cloth, and cap of the same material; elk-skin trowsers, with seams
adorned with fringe; a scarlet woollen sash tied round the waist, in
which a broad hunting-knife was stuck, and buck-skin moccasins. In
later years they wore a shirt of striped cotton, trowsers of cloth or
leather, leggins like the Indians, deer-skin moccasins, colored belt of
worsted, with knife and tobacco-pouch, and blue woollen cap with red
feather. The half breeds were demi-savage, and were employed as guides
or rangers, to manage the canoes in remote trading excursions. European
goods were exchanged for peltries, which were taken to the depôts on
the lakes, and thence transported eastward. The individuals who devoted
their attention to agriculture usually wore a long surtout and sash,
with red cap and deer-skin moccasins, while the gentlemen visiting
the country preserved the garb in vogue in the days of Louis XIV.
Agriculture was then limited to a few patches of corn and wheat, the
grain being ground in wind-mills. The French soldiers, with their blue
coats turned up with white facings, and short-clothes, and the priests
with their long gowns and black bands, who had their stations near the
forts, formed a strong contrast in their appearance to the Indians who
loitered around the posts.[39]
The women made coarse cotton and woollen garments for the Indian
traders. The amusements were chiefly dancing to the violin, and hunting
in the forests; to which may be added the observance of the festivals
enjoined by the church. Fishing was a constant occupation; canoes
passed in every direction over the streams and bays, and the varieties
of fish now esteemed so delicious, were taken in great abundance, and
formed a principal article of food. The social condition of these
primitive inhabitants was not as civilized as in the larger colonial
settlements; the humble emigrants went out with their tents, their
axes, their hoes, their stores of ammunition and provisions, and their
cattle, to win a subsistence by hard labor, and had little regard
to the amenities which are the growth of a settled community. The
priests had much influence, and frequently was the lonely altar, with
its rude candlesticks and censers carved from native copper, erected
under the forest boughs, surrounded by savages in the wild costume
of their tribes, deer or buffalo skins, with the cincture of the war
eagle on their heads, their necklaces of bear’s claws, and moccasins
embroidered with porcupine’s quills. The solemn chant went up amidst
the distant howling of wild beasts, and the solitary bark chapels,
adorned by no sculptured marble or golden lamps, but surmounted by
the rudely framed cross, looked out on a domain of prairie, lake, and
unbroken forest; yet was the wealth of art surpassed:
“Iris all hues; roses and jessamines
Reared high their flourished heads between, and wrought
Mosaic; under foot the violet,
Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay,
Broidered the ground, more colored than with stones
Of costliest emblem.”
A volume might be written upon the Indian mythology of the lakes.
Each rock, island, lake, river, wood and cataract along the shores of
Michigan, had its presiding genius, good or evil; legends peopled the
earth and air, spirits floated through the forests and danced along the
streams; manitous of darkness performed their orgies in the storms, and
the islands abounded with golden sands watched like the fleece of old,
by serpents, birds of prey, and mighty giants. To these, sacrifices of
tobacco pipes and other offerings were continually presented. In 1721,
Charlevoix was informed that Michabout was the manitou of the lakes,
and the island of Michilimackinac his birth-place. The name of this
island signifies “a great turtle,” from its resemblance to one, or in
the Chippewa speech, “the place of giant fairies.” This deity, it is
said, created Lake Superior that his Indians might catch beaver; and
the savages believe the fragments of rock at the Sault and other rapids
are remains of the causeway constructed by him to dam up the waters.
The social condition of the settlers of Michigan was not much improved
by the transfer of the country from the French to the British
government. By the capitulation of Montreal, the French subjects were
permitted to remain, and the fur trade was prosecuted by their agency
under English companies. Till 1762 the peninsula remained quiet,
while war raged at a distance; but the war of the Pontiac confederacy
soon carried disturbance to its borders. The details of this period
belong to history. It is proper merely to mention the plot by which
this famous Indian chief aimed to destroy the fort of Detroit. He had
ordered his Indians to saw off their rifles, conceal them under their
blankets, and gain admission to the fort under pretence of holding a
peaceable council. On a signal given by his delivering a belt of wampum
in a specified manner, the savages were to rush on the soldiers, and
fling open the gates to the body of warriors on the outside. Word was
then sent to Major Gladwyn that Pontiac would hold a council with the
English commander on the 9th of May, 1763. The evening before, an
Indian woman employed by the Major to make some elk-skin moccasins,
brought them to the fort. Gladwyn, pleased with her work, bespoke more,
and having paid her for the first, sent a servant to see her safely
through the gates. Here she lingered, looking wistfully at the river,
and her behavior appearing singular, the servant asked the cause of
her delay, but received no answer. The commanding officer then called
her in, and asked why she hesitated, when, calling to mind his former
kindness, the woman said she would not take away the skin, as she would
not be able to bring it back. This remark exciting suspicion, she was
induced by promises of safety and reward, to reveal the whole plot. The
officers thought it a trick, but the night was spent in preparation;
guards were placed on the ramparts, and every man was ready for
defence. Their suspicions were confirmed by the distant sounds heard of
the war-songs and dances of the Indians. In the morning Pontiac came
with his chiefs and braves to the council-house, and was received by
the Major and officers. The appearance of warlike preparation could not
escape the Indians, and when they were seated on the skins, Pontiac
asked the cause, which he was told was the necessity of military
discipline. He professed much friendship for the English in his speech,
but his gestures became violent as he approached the point when he
was to give the concerted signal. The officers drew their swords, the
soldiers at the doors clattered their arms, and as the chief presented
the belt in his usual manner, thus failing to give the signal, the
Major accused him of being a traitor, and pulling aside his blanket,
showed his rifle. The Indians were ordered to quit the fort instantly,
being assured of safety beyond the pickets, and were received by the
warriors without with yells and firing, and other demonstrations of
hostility towards the garrison, the more fierce on account of the
failure of the enterprise.
During the Revolutionary struggle the peninsula remained in comparative
quiet. Although constituting a part of the Canadian territory, a
magazine of arms for the savage allies of the loyalists, and a mart
where scalps were bought and sold, it can boast no prominent events to
give interest to its history, because not made the theatre of action.
A mere outpost of Canada, it was a magnificent extent of wilderness,
in which the axe had scarcely felled a tree; trackless, save where
Indian trails wound through the dense forests and flowery oaklands;
unbroken, except by scattered Indian villages and corn-fields studding
the prairies, or the solitary posts of furtraders. The treaty of 1783
included the peninsula within the bounds of American territory. At
this time its sparse white population consisted chiefly of French and
English, whose settlements were confined to the vicinity of trading
posts along the lakes and the banks of the principal rivers. When the
ravages of the savage tribes on the frontier were terminated by the
victories of Gen. Wayne and the treaty in 1795, the tide of emigration
began to flow more steadily westward. Michigan was erected into a
separate territory in 1805, but the progress of settlement was slow,
and the principal business carried on was still the fur trade.
In 1810 the island of Mackinaw, a romantic point, rising like an altar
from the realm of waters, was the central mart of traffic, and the
lakes were sprinkled with canoes of traders and Indians; the merry
Canadian voyageur bartering his trinkets at booths scattered along the
shores, and the red warrior with his fantastic ornaments, his silver
armlets and embroidered moccasins, coming to exchange his treasures, or
on fishing and hunting excursions. The fur merchants went up the lakes
in large canoes, manned by Canadians, to meet their agents returning
from the remote wilderness at Fort William, one of the principal
pioneer posts of the northwest country. The council house was a large
wooden building, hung with trophies of the chase, and Indian implements
of war or peaceful employment. Thus the romantic aspect of the country
had not yet disappeared, though the post was crowded with traders,
and the epoch of mercantile enterprise was in its meridian. The
semi-barbarous dominion exercised for a century over the lakes and the
region on their borders, had not yet been swept away even by the wings
of commerce.
The war of 1812 was a crisis which brought renewed devastations upon
the frontier, and the borders were overrun by the British and their
savage allies. Although, by act of Congress in May of this year, two
millions of acres were ordered to be surveyed, little inducement was
held out to emigrants to penetrate a remote wilderness, through which
there were no roads, and as late as 1820 Detroit, Frenchtown, Mackinaw,
and Sault Ste. Marie, were the chief settlements within the present
limits of the State. When, some time afterwards, expeditions were
projected for exploring the country, the interior was yet a ranging
ground for savages and wild beasts, intersected by Indian trails, with
here and there, by the lakes or streams, a few clusters of log houses,
or the huts of Frenchmen; the roads constructed in 1823 scarcely
passable in the most favorable season. Gradually, however, the forest
began to resound with the huntsman’s axe, and the log tenements of
the hardy pioneers to stud the wilderness. The social progress of
the territory was not marked by any stirring events. The advance of
emigration along its rivers was solitary and silent; the cannon and
bayonet had long since given place to the plough and the woodman’s
axe, and the subjugation of the wild forest was achieved without the
necessity of disputing possession of the soil with human foes. The
emigrants scattered themselves by degrees over the interior, finding
a dry and fertile soil, well adapted for culture, and a country rich
in varied and picturesque scenery. The lake-like and rolling prairies,
with their wooded islands and forest borders, were beautiful beyond
description; the white oak openings were like stately parks enamelled
with flowers, and the burr-oak groves like orchards studded with large
pear trees. The mounds rose from thirty or forty to two hundred feet,
and hill and dale, secluded lake and forest tract, with its dense
growth of beech, black walnut, elm, maple, hickory, oaks of different
kinds, etc., its luxuriant wild grape vines and rich underwood,
presented scenes that might well captivate the new comers. One by one,
or in small numbers, wagons bearing the families of the pioneers,
with their furniture, might be seen winding over the rough roads or
along the shores; then smoke rose curling through the woods from the
prostrate trunks of smouldering trees; the settler having cleared a
small space, built his log house, while his cattle fed on the luxuriant
herbage in the vicinity; the labors of the plough followed those of the
axe, the winter was weathered through, and the succeeding year saw him
an independent freeholder, with a market at his door for the produce of
his farm.
Mrs. McMillan was among the early settlers of the eastern portion of
Michigan. Her removal with husband and children from a populous and
cultivated region, was a laborious journey, performed in the manner
above mentioned, in a small wagon, laden with a few necessary articles
of comfort for their new home; by slow and toilsome stages--their
nights being passed under some temporary shelter, insufficiently
protected from the attacks of wild beasts, and subject to inconvenience
from night dews, cold winds, and troublesome insects. Their
establishment was attended with the same circumstances of labor and
hardship, which have been described in numerous other cases. We pass to
some incidents that may serve to illustrate the times, as well as show
the courage and energy of this strong-hearted matron.
In 1813 she was living on the Canada side, in a small house on the
banks of the Thames, a beautiful little river whose bright waters were
often skimmed by canoes of savages intent on plunder or slaughter,
the shrill war-whoop often resounding from the depths of the woods.
McMillan had left his family to enter into active military service,
and their home was two miles distant from the nearest neighbor. The
country had been kept in a continual state of alarm by marauding
parties of Indians, who did not hesitate to kill and capture, as well
as rob the defenceless settlers. Mrs. McMillan suffered the more from
anxiety at this critical period, as in the absence of her husband
the care of their young children devolved entirely upon her, and her
sole protection was her own prudence and energy. One day having heard
rumors of the approach of a hostile party, and being apprehensive of
a sudden attack, she took her infant and walked to the nearest house
in search of information. There she was startled with the intelligence
that savages had been seen in the vicinity, and that they had gone
in the direction of her dwelling, where they would probably stop
during the day. The matron thought of the little ones she had left
at home unprotected, and a sickening terror entered her heart. She
stayed to hear no more, but hastened homeward, bearing in her arms the
unconscious babe who might now be all that remained to her. As she
came near, her eyes were eagerly strained for a sight of those beloved
ones who were accustomed to run to meet her; all was silence; and when
she dashed open the door and stood within the dwelling, a scene of
desolation met her view! Every article of furniture had disappeared;
the floor was dusty with the track of footsteps, and not one of her
children was anywhere on the premises.
The alarm and anguish of the mother may be better imagined than
described. The fatal idea had flashed at once on her mind, that her
little ones had been either murdered or carried away captive by the
merciless Indians. In this terrible emergency she lost none of her
self-possession, nor her usual sagacity of judgment. The savages could
not have gone far, and her only course was to cross the river and seek
aid immediately. But there was no canoe, nor mode of conveyance; she
could not swim, nor could she leave her helpless infant behind her. She
was not long in discovering a way to overcome the difficulty. Hastily
rolling some logs into the water, she placed two boards across them,
forming a kind of raft, on which she stepped cautiously, carrying her
babe, managed to hold the frail craft together while she guided its
course, and reached the opposite shore in safety. Here her terror
and anguish were suddenly changed into joy; the children had heard
of the near approach of Indians immediately after their mother’s
departure, and having taken the precaution to put the furniture in the
cellar, out of the intruders’ way, they had crossed the river to seek
protection from the neighbors on the other side.
On another occasion Mrs. McMillan suffered from Indian depredation. A
large party from the different tribes was on the way to Toronto, and
in the course of a single day some two hundred of them stopped at her
house, plundering it of all it contained. McMillan was still absent,
and the mother did not dare to interfere for the rescue of any portion
of her property, lest she should draw down vengeance upon herself and
her innocent children. The work of spoiling went on, therefore, while
they stood quietly aloof. A fine flock of geese, which she had raised
with care, was on the grass before the door, and the Indians soon
commenced execution among them. Mrs. McMillan started forward to save
her favorites; but a gun was instantly levelled at her, with the threat
of shooting, if she ventured to interrupt the sport. Like many other
matrons of that day, she prided herself on a handsome set of pewter
dishes and plates, which her industrious scouring kept as bright as
silver. Their polish and beauty pleased the Indians, who tried them
by biting, to ascertain if they were real silver, and the whole stock
speedily passed into the possession of the depredators, who left only
a knife and a tin cup in the house. When the last of the enemy had
passed over the river, the terrified family found themselves in safety,
but exhausted with hunger, while nothing in the shape of food was left
about the place. They were compelled to fast till supplies could be
brought from a distance of several miles.
When the war was over, and comparative quiet established, McMillan and
his family, with two or three others, removed to Detroit, ascending
the river on a large raft. The trials of the wife were not ended.
Straggling bands of savages were still lurking in the neighborhood
of the city, ready for any deed of robbery or bloodshed. One evening
when McMillan had left his home for a short time, the silence was
broken by the report of a gun, which caused some alarm to his wife and
children, though they were far from anticipating the extent of their
calamity. The father’s prolonged absence caused apprehension, which was
terminated by fatal certainty; during the night his lifeless body was
brought home. This blow was severely felt by the bereaved wife, but a
sense of duty to the loved ones dependent on her, prevented her from
being utterly overwhelmed. It may be imagined, after this sad tragedy,
how anxiously passed the nights in her lonely dwelling. In the middle
of one dark night, the roar of the alarm guns was again heard. The
affrighted mother sprang up, gathered her children hastily together,
and knowing well there was no safety within doors, hurried with them
from the house. The house of a friend at a considerable distance,
offered shelter, but the darkness was intense; the fugitives lost their
way, and ere long found themselves in the midst of the deep mire for
which the roads of Detroit were formerly so celebrated. More urgent
peril, however, was behind them; they struggled on, leaving their shoes
in the mud, and managed to escape to the house of their friend, where
they were received with kindness. The mother’s quick eye, scanning her
rescued group, now discovered that her son, eleven years of age, was
missing! The alarm was given, and the next day men were sent in every
direction about the country to search for him; but all in vain. It was
too certain that he had been captured, and the distracted mother feared
he had been murdered by the relentless savages. For four long months
she endured the tortures of suspense. She then learned that her boy had
been taken prisoner, and was still held in captivity at some distance
from the city. The sum demanded for his ransom was speedily sent, and
he was restored to the arms of his mother. During his captivity he had
fared hardly, subsisting chiefly on buds and roots, and never having
even a piece of bread. This son is now living at Jackson, Michigan.
After the termination of the Indian troubles, Mrs. McMillan maintained
her family by her exertions, giving each of her children a substantial
education, with such training as to fit them for every duty and
vicissitude of life. She made enough to purchase a valuable piece of
land near the Presbyterian church, with a large framed house, which is
now known as the Temperance or Purdy’s Hotel. Mrs. McMillan resides in
the city with one of her sons, and is often solicited by those who have
heard something of her romantic history, to relate her adventures in
detail, and describe the life led by many who like her, encountered the
perils of war in a new country.
XX.
CHARLOTTE A. CLARK.
This lady accompanied her husband, who was commissary to the United
States troops, in November, 1819, to a military station on the Upper
Mississippi, situated on the St. Peter’s side of the river. Several
persons went with them from Prairie du Chien; the voyage being made in
keel-boats, and the waters so low that the men were obliged frequently
to wade in the river and draw them through the sand. Six weeks were
occupied in passing over the distance of three hundred miles, one week
of which was spent at Lake Pepin.
Having reached the place of destination, the company were obliged to
live in their boats till pickets could be erected for their protection
against the Indians, who not understanding the object of this invasion
of the wild, or the display of arms and ammunition, might fall upon
them in some unguarded moment. Huts also had to be built, though in
the rudest manner, to serve as a shelter during the winter from the
rigors of a severe climate. After living with her family in the boat
for a month, it was a highly appreciated luxury for Mrs. Clark to find
herself at home in a log hut, plastered with clay, and “chinked” for
her reception. It was December before they got into winter quarters,
and the fierce winds of that exposed region, with terrific storms now
and then, were enough to make them wish to keep within doors as much as
possible. Once, in a violent tempest, the roof of their dwelling was
raised by the wind, and partially slid off; there was no protection
for the inmates, but the baby in the cradle was pushed under the
bed for safety. Notwithstanding these discomforts and perils, the
inconveniences they had to encounter, and their isolated situation, the
little party of emigrants were not without their social enjoyments.
They were nearly all young married persons, cheerful and fond of
gaiety, and had their dancing assemblages once a fortnight. An instance
of the kindness of the commanding officer, Col. Leavenworth, deserves
mention. One of the other officers having been attacked with symptoms
of scurvy, and great alarm prevailing on that account, the Colonel
took a sleigh, and accompanied by a few friends, set off on a journey
through the country inhabited by Indians, not knowing what dangers he
might encounter from their hostility, or the perils of the way, for
the purpose of procuring medicinal roots. The party was absent several
days, and in the meantime collected a supply of hemlock and spignet,
which they used with excellent effect in curing the disease.
In the ensuing summer, when Col. Snelling had the command, Fort
Snelling was begun. St. Louis, distant nine hundred miles, was at that
time the nearest town of any importance. After the erection of the
fort, Mrs. Clark says--“we made the first clearing at the Falls of St.
Anthony, and built a grist-mill.” The wife of Capt. George Gooding,
of the 5th regiment, was the first white woman who ever visited those
beautiful falls. She afterwards married Col. Johnson, and went to
reside in St. Louis. The daughter of Mrs. Clark, now Mrs. Van Cleve
of Ann Arbor, was born while the troops were stationed at Prairie du
Chien. At that time Col. Leavenworth received orders to go up to the
place where, in the following summer, Fort Snelling was built. He went,
though he had at this time no wholesome provisions; even the bread,
it was said, was “two inches in the barrels thick with mould;” no
vegetables were to be had, and several of the men were perishing with
scurvy. The Sioux Indians were in the vicinity, and they were mutually
suspicious of each other, so that no game could be bought; nor was
there a prospect of matters being mended till more amicable relations
could be established. The prices of such fresh edibles as could be
procured at Prairie du Chien were enormous; a small and lean chicken
procured for a sick lady cost a dollar; beets as large as the finger,
one dollar a dozen; and onions were ten dollars a bushel. The cold
is described as so intense that the soldiers called out merely while
they could answer to the roll, often had their faces frost-bitten; the
thermometer at seven in the morning being known to stand thirty-five
degrees below zero.
Mrs. Clark remained at Fort Snelling, with the exception of about a
year, till 1827. The only young lady in the company was married when
about fifteen years of age, to a Mr. Dennis, also of the army. The
wedding took place in the winter, and the bridal party was obliged
to descend the river, three hundred miles, on the ice, to Prairie du
Chien, to have the ceremony performed. The monotony of their life was
varied by continual alarms and excitements, from the encounters of the
hostile tribes of Sioux and Chippewas, who came frequently into their
close neighborhood, and were not scrupulous as to deeds of violence
and treachery towards each other. The incidents we shall mention,
illustrative of other experiences, are alluded to in a preceding memoir.
The quarters within the fort were crowded, and Mrs. Clark’s house,
a substantial stone building, stood without the walls a few rods
distant, on the military land adjoining. After the conclusion of the
amicable treaty already mentioned, the Chippewas had pitched their
camp at the foot of a hill not far from this house. About nine o’clock
in the evening, the family was alarmed by an unusual noise in that
direction, and the discharge of firearms. A gentleman who was at that
time the guest of Mr. Clark, entered in haste and some trepidation,
saying that a bullet had just whistled past his head, and that there
must be some difficulty “below.” The seclusion of the dwelling was
thought of with terror whenever there was any alarm at night, though
the sight of the fort close at hand gave courage to all in the daytime.
Protection and aid, however, were promptly invoked, and the troops
aroused. It appeared that some of the Sioux, after having sat in the
wigwams of the Chippewas, smoked the pipe of peace, and bid them
good night, had deliberately turned about and fired upon them. The
confusion that ensued may be imagined; the Chippewas flew to arms, and
the treacherous Sioux made their escape. The commanding officer of
the garrison had the wounded taken to the hospital, and attended to
as well as the circumstances permitted. Among them was an aged chief
and his little daughter, only ten years of age, in whom the ladies
were deeply interested. She was much injured, and survived but a short
time. The Indians called upon the commander, as the representative of
their “great father,” to compel the Sioux to render satisfaction for
this cruel outrage; and in pursuance of the instructions of government
to commanders on the out-posts, to maintain peace as far as possible
between the hostile tribes without interfering in their affairs, he
sent an order to the chiefs requiring the surrender of the young men
who had been guilty.
Not long after this, a large party of Sioux was seen approaching the
fort. “We could see them,” said Mrs. Clark, “for a long way on the
hills by which Fort Snelling is surrounded, and it was easy to perceive
at once that they were disposed to resist the summons. The interpreter,
who was a thorough fellow, and knew how important was an aspect of
courage and determination in dealing with savages, went out to meet
them, and informed them what would be the consequence of their refusal
to comply with the just demand; their great father, the President,
would send into the country as many warriors as there were leaves on
the trees, or blades of grass under their feet, and these would kill
and burn until not a Sioux should be left. A hurried council was held
by the chiefs, and at length it was decided that the criminals should
be given up.” They were accordingly delivered, and put in durance to
await the pleasure of the injured tribe. Meanwhile the old chief who
had been wounded and bereaved of his child, was rapidly sinking to the
grave, and true to his warrior nature, desired only to live long enough
to see just vengeance overtake the murderers. They were appointed to
suffer the Indian punishment of running the gauntlet.
An enclosed piece of ground was selected, not far from the fort,
lined with men and women of both tribes, the soldiers of the garrison
being also spectators of the scene. The dying chief appeared, borne
on the shoulders of his young men; and all was soon in readiness. If
the condemned could reach the further side of the fence, where their
friends were stationed, their lives were safe. Again to quote Mrs.
Clark: “A gentleman who chanced to be in company with several Chippewa
braves who had just come from the fort, and were walking towards
the ground, told me they were laughing and talking as if perfectly
indifferent to what was going on, till they reached the place where the
deadly work was about to commence. Then their countenances underwent a
fearful change almost instantaneously, expressing the darkest passion
and the most ferocious hatred.”
The scene was one of intense and terrible interest. It lasted but
a few moments, amid cheers from both sides, and yells that were
absolutely deafening. The children of the white residents who witnessed
it, partook of the wild excitement. “My brother Malcolm,” says Mrs.
Clark’s daughter, “a little fellow, threw up his cap, and shouted with
the rest. One young Indian--‘Young Six’ he was called--had petted us
frequently, and was a great favorite; we were anxious he should escape,
and watched his fearful race with breathless eagerness. He reached
the fence, and sprang upon it; a moment more and he would have been
safe among his friends, who were ready to receive and welcome him,
when suddenly he bounded high in air and fell, pierced by a shower
of bullets.” Women and men then rushed frantically upon the bodies
of the slain; the scalps were torn off, and the corpses horribly
mutilated with hatchets, the squaws even thrusting their fingers into
the bullet-holes, and licking the blood as it flowed! When the savage
avengers supposed they had done their duty to their lost friends, the
scene was closed with their scalp-dance, the fearful orgies being
prolonged several hours.
Perhaps, in the exposed and perilous situation of the garrison, the
commandant could not venture to interfere with the execution of savage
vengeance; for the mangled bodies of the slain were suffered to lie
a long time unburied. The old chief, feeling now that his time was
come for departure to the spirit-land, caused himself to be painted
according to Indian custom, and the scalps to be hung round his neck,
sang his own death-song, and expired with the calmness of a hero or a
philosopher.
The daughter of Mrs. Clark was married to Mr. Van Cleve while her
parents were at Fort Winnebago. They were obliged to send one hundred
miles for the clergyman--Rev. Dr. Gregory, then missionary to the
Indians near Green Bay. It was said that when he arrived, it was well
he was familiar with the service, being so snow-blind from his long
drive, that he could not have read it.
Mrs. Clark is described as still a very handsome woman, with grey hair
neatly arranged over a classic head, and a countenance lighted up with
intelligence and spirit when in conversation, with great sweetness
of expression at all times. She interests every one who forms her
acquaintance, and often delights her friends by a narration of the
incidents of her pioneer experience, delineating the scenes at Fort
Snelling with so much graphic and vivid power that they seem to pass
before the auditor. Her children inherit her talent, with her agreeable
person and manners, and are ornaments of the polished society in
which they move. Mrs. Van Cleve resides at Ann Arbor, Michigan; Mrs.
Clark, Miss Clark and Mrs. Lincoln, in Cincinnati, and another married
daughter on the other side of the river in Kentucky. Malcolm Clark has
spent many years at a distance from civilization among the aboriginal
tribes, and is now a trader near Fort Benton in Oregon, married to a
woman of the “Black Foot” Indians. He is highly respected by them, and
called “Lesokin,” or “four bears,” because he killed four of those
animals one morning before breakfast. In 1850 he returned to “the
settlements,” on a visit to his family, bringing his two elder children
to his sister to be educated at Ann Arbor. The girl--Pistapowaca--had
been christened before her arrival by a Roman Catholic priest, but the
boy--Natiena--was baptized in St. Andrew’s church in that village--the
grandmother herself leading him to the font, and appearing as the only
sponsor. The father had a Spanish boy with him, bound to his service
by a tie of gratitude, whose duty it was to attend the children. Mr.
Clark wore his Indian dress--the leggins ornamented with human hair--as
far east as St. Louis--and so much had his complexion changed, that his
sisters would scarcely have recognized him. The mother had cheerfully
consented to part with her children for their good, for she had a stout
heart, and knew they ought to be taught many things. Her boy, she said,
would certainly return; he was to be a great chief, as her father had
been; and so, when the canoe was ready for the departure of her husband
and children, she accompanied them to the river side, and as the bark
pushed off, threw herself upon the ground, concealing her face in her
dress. When, after rounding a point, they again caught sight of her,
she was still lying motionless, absorbed in grief. When the father left
his children to return to his distant home, the little girl, taught to
subdue the expression of emotion, would not suffer herself to cry out;
but clasped her throat with her hands to choke down her feelings.
One incident in Clark’s early life is characteristic. When a mere lad,
the men at the fort had trapped a wolf, and were debating how they
could manage to muzzle him, before taking him out. Malcolm passing by,
inquired what they were about, and immediately offered to hold the
animal. Suiting the action to the word, he clapped his hands on either
side the creature’s jaws, and held them forcibly together, while the
soldiers slipped on the cords. Clark was at West Point when the Texan
difficulties with Mexico broke out, and departed to join the service;
working his way afterwards to his present home, where the traders have
established a garrison of their own, for protection against the hostile
Indians. Nearly all of them have married Indian women, who, proud of
the alliance, have become the “exclusives” of the country, refusing to
hold intercourse with other squaws. The boy aforementioned was the son
of a Spaniard by an Indian wife, and had been captured by a party of
Indians who had come unexpectedly upon the garrison, seized him while
others escaped, and were about to satiate their revenge by torturing
him. Watching his opportunity, with wonderful address, Clark rushed out
at the gate of the fort into the midst of the savages, caught the boy,
and was again safe within the walls before the Indians had recovered
from their surprise. The poor lad was wounded severely by the hatchets
thrown at him, the scars of which he bore ever afterwards. He became
so much attached to his deliverer, that he could not be induced at any
time to separate from him.
* * * * *
Hezekiah Geer was one of the most enterprising among the pioneers
of Illinois. His residence is now at Galena, where he is one of the
largest lead dealers in that region; and his present prosperity, nobly
earned as it has been, is doubly enjoyed from the remembrance of the
hardship, privation, and actual suffering endured on their first
migration into the country, when the means of the new settler were
inadequate without incessant toil to the wants of a large family; when
for years they scarcely saw the face of a clergyman, except at distant
intervals an itinerant missionary. The reward of these labors, which
Mr. Geer’s children share in peace and abundance, she who partook all
his cares, and practised every self-denial to lighten them, did not
live to enjoy. They removed from Massachusetts to the southern part of
Illinois some time about 1820, when the portions of country now covered
with smiling villages and thriving farms were a wilderness untrodden
save by the roving hunter, the surveyor, or the savages who receded
before the footsteps of civilization. Her experience is much the same
with that of many others who left home and kindred to seek better
fortune in the forest, and found themselves obliged to struggle with
difficulties they had never, or but faintly imagined.
During the Black Hawk war a large part of Michigan and the neighboring
territories suffered much from apprehension of danger, kept up by
floating rumors that the Indians were intent on depredations and
incited to attack the whites by the occurrences that had taken place
in Illinois. Mr. Geer and his family had then been living at Galena
some years. The inhabitants of the place and neighborhood were in a
state of excitement from continual alarms, and prepared to take refuge
in the fort, in case of the appearance of the dreaded enemy. It was an
object with the commander to assure himself that he might depend on
the promptitude and courage of his troops and the citizen volunteers
in case of sudden attack, and he adopted a singular method of testing
these qualities. One dark and stormy night he caused a select number
to march off silently to a hill not far distant, where they raised
the Indian war whoop. The ruse was but too successful in creating a
general panic; the soldiers of the garrison and men of the village
were instantly on the alert and ready for action; but the terror and
confusion that prevailed among the helpless women and children, were
beyond the power of language to describe. Mrs. Geer was at that time
the mother of a young infant, with twins not more than two years
old. Springing out of bed and hastily throwing on a few articles of
clothing, she caught in her arms her babe and one of the twins--her
eldest daughter--and followed by the other children, rushed forth,
hurrying to the shelter and protection of the fort. Mr. Geer was at
that time holding a command, having been on duty since the breaking
out of the war. The effects of this cruel experiment were fatal to
some of the children who were borne into the cold night air and storm
by their terrified mothers. Both those Mrs. Geer carried in her arms
died from the effects of the exposure. Yet in the midst of the general
consternation occasioned by the alarm, some of the women found time to
laugh; for one man who in his fear had hid himself in a corner of the
room where they were gathered in the fort, was discovered by some of
them, and driven out with a flourish of broomsticks.
Mrs. Clark said that while her husband was at Fort Winnebago, it was
no uncommon thing to test the courage of the soldiers by getting
up a false alarm. The lead mines were then attracting considerable
attention, and desertions to them were so common among the soldiers
in the winter of 1819, that orders were often given to beat the long
roll at dead of night, that it might be ascertained who was missing.
The commanding officer, just before this signal sounded, would go
round to the beds of those soldiers in whose fidelity he had confidence
to notify them of the object of the alarm. But the women even of his
own family, though warned, could not hear the dismal note of the drum
without a thrill of terror. It may be supposed that experiments of this
kind could not be frequently repeated with the intended effect.
At the time of Mrs. Geer’s last illness and death, her husband sent two
hundred miles for an Episcopal clergyman to administer the sacrament
and baptize his children; but the spirit could not linger for the “slow
arrival,” and had already gone to sit at the heavenly table of Him on
whom her hopes of everlasting life were fixed. Her last resting place
is near the great Mississippi.
Mrs. Geer’s name was Charlotte Clark. She was the sister of Rev.
William A. Clark, D.D., Rector of All Saints’ Church, New York, Rev.
Orin Clark, D.D., formerly Rector at Geneva, New York, and Rev. John A.
Clark, D.D., of Philadelphia. Mrs. William A. Clark should be numbered
among the Western female pioneers. When a young and gay girl, she
removed with her godparents, Mr. and Mrs. TenEyck, and the Vredenburghs
to Skeneateles, then almost a wilderness. At the time of her marriage,
Mr. Clark was one of the first missionaries of the Episcopal church in
Western New York; and to him she proved a true co-worker in his duties,
conforming cheerfully to the circumstances in which she was placed,
and giving up her own inclinations at all times. She became the mother
of nine children. The family removed to Buffalo about 1817, and to
Michigan in the spring of 1837, after which Mrs. Clark suffered every
year from the fevers of the country, which undermined a constitution
naturally strong. She is retiring in manner and domestic in her habits,
yet fond of society at home, and charming all who approach her. The
habit acquired through years of self-denial of sacrificing her own
inclinations, has caused her to think less of the merely ornamental
than the useful in life. In the first year after her marriage, she was
accustomed to wear white muslin dresses; but “some of the congregation”
in the country village where her husband officiated, decided that she
was “too much dressed,” and finding that the matter was commented on,
she laid aside the obnoxious garments and never afterwards wore white.
The corner stone of the first Episcopal church in Buffalo was laid by
Mr. Clark. He lived but three years after leaving the city of New York
for Michigan, and lies buried in a beautiful opening near the village
of Brighton, Livingston County. His children owe the cultivation of
their talents, and their usefulness in life, to the judicious training
of their parents, and most affectionately do they acknowledge the
obligation. They have truly risen up to call their mother blessed. Two
of them, Chloe and Mary H. Clark, now reside in Ann Arbor, Michigan,
and one is a minister of an Episcopal church in Cincinnati.
XXI.
SARAH BRYAN.
In the severe labors peculiar to pioneers in a new country, the trials
and privations they were compelled to encounter from day to day, Mrs.
Bryan was as conspicuous as any of the early settlers of Michigan.
She came with John Bryan her husband, to Ypsilanti, taking up their
residence on a small farm at what is now called “Woodruff’s Grove.”
Her journal says: “We left Geneseo October 7th, 1823, for our new
home--arrived in Detroit in ten days; put up at the Widow Hubbard’s,
who kept a sort of boarding house, and deposited our goods in the
cellar till my husband could go out to the “Grove” (as the settlement
was then called) and procure a team to move us through. He returned
in three days with a man, two yoke of oxen, and a wagon, which we
found was not sufficient to contain all our goods and the family. This
consisted of five children, besides myself and husband. Fortunately
for us, however, we found a young man who was going out with but half
a load, and persuaded him to take the remainder of ours. After a
wearisome and almost indescribable journey of four days through thick
woods, my husband cutting the road before us with an axe, we came,
the night of October 23rd, to the beautiful Huron shore. We had the
privilege of staying in a log cabin till we could build one of our own,
which we moved into the last day of December. Eight weeks after this,
February 27th, 1824, Alpha was born; we called him Alpha Washtenaw
the latter name being given in honor of the county, and the former
on account of his being the first white child born in the county.”
Allen and Ramsay, the first settlers of Ann Arbor, agreed to mark the
auspicious event by presenting the infant with a lot of land at the
county seat.
“It was amusing that first fall and winter to hear the corn mills in
operation every morning before daylight. There were but two in the
settlement, made by burning a hole in the top of a sound oak stump,
large enough to hold a peck or more. After scraping the coal clean from
the stump, one end of a stick, some six feet long and eight inches in
diameter, was rounded, and it was suspended from a spring-pole so that
the rounded end would clear the stump when hanging loosely. A hole was
bored through this pestle and a stick driven through projecting on each
side for handles, and the mill was finished. One man would pound a
peck of dry corn in half an hour so that half of it would pass through
a sieve for bread; the coarser part being either ground again or
boiled for hominy. Very little bread of any other kind was used in the
settlement for the first two years. But as regards my own experience,
the autumn of 1824 was the most trying. Thus far we had encountered few
more inconveniences than we anticipated in the wilderness, and I was
prepared for them, prepared to bear all without a murmur. In October
Mr. Bryan accepted an offer to finish a building at Maumee city, and
shipped his tools at Detroit, where he had been doing an eight months’
job. He came home and stayed a few days to provide some wood, and told
me if he was likely to be more than three weeks absent, he would return
at the end of that time and put up more provisions, as our small stock
would be then exhausted. No person had then attempted to penetrate
the forest from our place to Monroe, but rather than go round by
Brownstown, he determined to take the risk of finding his way through
the woods alone. My heart sank within me to think of what would be my
fate and that of my six children, if any evil should befal him alone
in the forest; I however summoned my fortitude and resolved not to be
faint-hearted.”
An attack of illness followed. “The three weeks passed; a good supply
of potatoes was nearly all the provisions we had left, and I began
to look with great anxiety for my husband. A felon on my right hand
deprived me entirely of the use of it for more than three weeks. With
the pain, fatigue, and want of sleep I was ready to despair, but for
my children’s sake I kept up my resolution; still no tidings came from
Mr. Bryan, and my fears for his safety became more and more painful.
Two months passed, and brought cold December for me and my little ones,
but brought no news from him whose duty it was to provide for us. My
sufferings became extreme. I tried to get some one to go in search of
him, and ascertain at least if he ever got through the woods alive, but
I had no money even to bear expenses, and all told me they ‘guessed’
he was safe and would soon return. How myself and babes were to live
meanwhile I knew not. We had eaten nothing but potatoes for several
weeks; the neighbors were nearly as destitute and had nothing to lend,
even if I could have borrowed when I could not expect to pay again. For
a temporary change in diet from potatoes alone, I ventured to borrow
a few ears of corn, promising to pay if Mr. Bryan ever returned; this
I shelled and boiled to jelly, which we relished very much while it
lasted.
“It was now the 23d of December; I had been all day trying to induce
some one to go to Maumee for tidings, and had succeeded in obtaining
a promise from a young man that he would go in two or three days if I
would get a horse. Alas! horses were as scarce as bread, and I knew
it would be impossible to procure one. I returned home and stood in
our log cabin door, thinking what to do next, when my husband rode
up, and put an end to my fears. He had written several letters, which
were delayed in Detroit, and never reached me. Finding wages high, and
the roads very bad, he had concluded to remain, supposing I was well
provided for. Our sufferings for five or six years after this were
even greater, if possible, than before, but it would take a volume to
describe them.”
These difficulties passed over. Mr. and Mrs. Bryan had what served
for a competence in those days, and were of excellent character and
industrious habits; being of respectable stock, and training up their
children to become useful members of the community. Their care and
efforts were required for a large family; and those who live within
reach of all the advantages of civilization, can hardly understand
the difficulties in the way of improvement which existed in a pioneer
settlement. There were no public schools, no churches, nor did there
seem to be any Sabbaths, judging from observation of the habits of some
of the backwoodsmen. The first Sabbath school gathered together in
this place, was in the summer of 1828. That same year a small school
was kept in a log room some twelve or fourteen feet square, by a young
woman whose education hardly fitted her for the employment. Mrs. Bryan,
with a few other women of the settlement, took a great interest in the
Sunday school, and some other efficient plans for benevolent effort
were set on foot through her active agency and coöperation. She was
directress of the first benevolent society in that part of the country.
The new emigrants at that time suffered much from sickness peculiar to
the region, and often whole families were prostrated at once by the
fever of the country. Mrs. Bryan did not spare herself when her aid
or nursing was required by her neighbors; day and night found her at
the bedside of the suffering, or in the shanties of the poor, and many
an invalid who had no comfortable shelter has been taken to her own
home, provided with everything requisite, and waited upon with all the
tenderness and care of a mother.
As the children grew older, the want of a good school was more sensibly
felt; and as there was none in the vicinity, Mrs. Bryan appropriated
to the purpose the best room in her house, and engaged a young man of
good education, who was in want of a comfortable home, to teach her
children, with others in the village who were permitted to join them.
Thus was a good foundation laid for the advantages afterwards enjoyed,
and each member of their large family received a substantial English
education. Some of them have since attained to distinguished excellence
in the higher departments of literature. The eldest daughter, now
residing in Illinois, was equalled by few scholars of the time in
various branches of study, particularly mathematics; and the second
daughter is now Mrs. Lois B. Adams, with whose high reputation as a
poet and prose writer many American readers are acquainted. Her first
poetical effusions appeared in the Kalamazoo Telegraph, in which paper
Mr. Adams had an interest at the time of her marriage. She now resides
in the southern part of Kentucky, where she has charge of a female
seminary.
In 1835 or ’6 Mr. and Mrs. Bryan removed from Ypsilanti, and at
present are living in Constantine, Michigan. They had eight children
at the time of their removal, and all have grown up to respectability
and usefulness, having in early life had the judicious training of
a religious mother, who watched over them in love, guiding them by
precept and example, and by her affectionate and cheerful spirit
diffusing perpetual sunshine in her home.
A lady whose family lived in Livingston county, one of the most
recently settled in Michigan, and inhabited generally by poor people,
says their range of what might be called society was limited to less
than half a dozen families, the nearest distant about four miles,
and some ten or more from each other. They had left a large circle
of friends in the city of New York, and as it may be supposed, felt
the change to the wild country; yet were they contented and cheerful,
pining only when prevented by inclement weather from wandering through
the woods or fields in summer, plucking the wild flowers which grow in
such profusion and beauty in the openings. The annual fires kindled by
the Indians and first settlers to destroy the old grass, and prepare
for an early and abundant crop in spring, are said to have produced
many of the openings, the flames extending often beyond the marshes or
prairies. The farmers were in the habit of ploughing trenches round
the outside of their fences to ensure their safety; yet sometimes the
fire did serious damage among haystacks, wheat or barns, to which the
wind carried it. In consequence of this danger, severe legal penalties
were attached to the act of setting fire to marshes, yet it continued
to be practised for years till they became private property, sadly
marring the beauty of the view, destroying the trees, and preventing
the growth of the young oaks. The bushes which sprang in a season from
their roots, called “oak-grubs,” are difficult to remove from the
soil. A poor man whose means just sufficed to remove his family, and
perhaps keep one cow, had often to work out many days before he could
afford to hire a “breaking up team,” which was a plough constructed for
the purpose, and from five to seven yoke of oxen. The wife picked and
dried berries in the fall, often in marshes so wet that she was obliged
to wear her husband’s boots. By the sale of cranberries, she furnished
herself with many little comforts she could not otherwise have
procured. Flour could always be had at the mills in exchange for this
article. By such industry and patient perseverance was the way prepared
for the occupation of those lands by an intelligent, enterprising, and
now prosperous people. Not the least of the sufferings of the primitive
settlers arose from sickness, whole families having to pass through
the terrible acclimating, often at the same time, and the ravages
of disease sometimes leaving desolate the widow and the orphan, far
distant from kindred or early friends. At such time the sympathy and
kind offices of neighbors were never withheld, even though they might
also be suffering and almost destitute. Physicians were few and far
apart in the inland counties, and even when their attendance could be
had, their want of knowledge of the local fevers was often the source
of mischief rather than good.
A change has now passed over the face of the country. How progressive
has been the expression “the far West!” Many years since it might have
meant the western part of New York, as a resident of its metropolis
once said she had been “out west” to visit her sister, who lived at
Pennyan, in Yates County! A young woman of Skeneateles was engaged many
years--her friends being unwilling to let her marry and go so far away
as the Ohio; and when finally the knot was tied, she remained three
years under the parental roof before she could be permitted to take so
long and perilous a journey. From the Ohio the foot of emigration bore
“the far West” farther; it settled for a while in Indiana, Illinois
and Michigan, then passed to Iowa and Wisconsin, and now is wavering
beyond the Mississippi in Minnesota, with the cry for Oregon and
California. And not long since, we noticed a jocular proposition to
erect a tollgate at the boundary of the domain of the United States, in
the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
* * * * *
Sylvia Chapin, the wife of Dr. Cyrenius Chapin, was the oldest pioneer
among the first settlers of Buffalo. In all the vicissitudes she
experienced, she well and faithfully discharged the duties that lay
before her, as wife, mother, neighbor, and Christian woman; exhibiting,
with the high qualities of firmness and energy, a quiet dignity,
gentleness and kindliness which won the affection of those who knew
her best, as well as commanded the respect of her acquaintances. Her
“patient continuance in well doing,” has met its reward in the comfort
and respectability of her advanced age, passed among her children and
descendants.
Dr. Chapin came to Buffalo with his family in 1805. It is stated in
Turner’s “Pioneer History of the Holland Purchase of Western New York,
etc.,” that in 1806 there were but sixteen houses in the place, and
those located on what is now called Main Street. It will be remembered
that in December 1813 the town was burnt by the British, who had
crossed near Black Rock. On hearing their firing, Chapin, who commanded
a portion of the citizen soldiery, went to meet the enemy, and holding
up his cane, with a white handkerchief fastened to the end, obtained
a parley, and finally a promise that the town should be spared. Mrs.
Chapin at this period of anxiety was compelled to leave home to assist
in the care of her daughter’s sick husband, but before her departure
instructed her two other little girls to sleep always with a bundle of
necessary clothing under their heads, and in case of alarm, to go off
with the rest of the citizens if necessary. The agreement not to molest
the town was violated. Dr. Chapin was on duty, and of course unable
to attend to his children. Louisa related how they were waked at dead
of night with the noise and confusion in the streets, hurriedly made
their simple preparations, and stepped out of doors to join the crowd.
In the darkness, amid the severity of winter, women and children took
up their doleful march. The first glimmering of day mingled with the
lurid glare from their burning dwellings, and at almost every step
those who fled from their homes encountered the wounded and fugitives
from the action below. In the pressure and confusion of the crowd
hurrying onward, mothers were separated from their children, and lost
sight of each other, being in many cases for days ignorant of the
fate of their beloved relatives. On, on our fugitives went through
the dark deep woods, continually within hearing of the savage yells
around them, and trembling with fear, for they could not tell where the
Indians were, and they seemed to be coming upon them. Finally, after
a travel of some hours, the little girls halted with the rest, and
were refreshed with a drink of milk at a farmhouse. In the mean time,
while this was going on in the neighborhood of Buffalo, Mrs. Chapin was
overwhelmed with anxiety about her husband and children. The sick man
she nursed had died, and she was for weeks uncertain of the fate of her
children, and for some days of that of her husband, for she knew there
had been an engagement.
One woman of masculine bearing, Mrs. St. John, persisted
notwithstanding the general alarm, in staying with her young daughters
to protect their property, and succeeded in obtaining the favor of
having the house she occupied exempted from destruction. It was the
only building saved except the stone jail, which resisted the efforts
to set it on fire. The house was afterwards presented to Mrs. St. John
by the authorities. A neighbor on the opposite side of the street, a
Mrs. Lovejoy, was less fortunate. It was supposed that fear had driven
her into temporary insanity; she made no attempt to solicit mercy or
protection, but barricaded her doors and windows, and thus awaited the
intruders. For a while she was unmolested, till an Indian, bent on
plunder, effected his entrance; then, instead of submitting to what was
inevitable, the loss of her goods, Mrs. Lovejoy attempted to rescue
them, and defended herself with a large carving knife. In a contest for
a red merino long shawl she wounded the savage, nearly severing his
thumb from his hand. The Indian ran across the way to Mrs. St. John,
whom he ordered to bind it up; then hurried back, she knew too well for
the purpose of vengeance. The next thing she heard was a scream, and
presently the savage appeared again, a scalp with a woman’s long hair
hanging from his belt.
Mrs. Chapin preserved several pieces of plate which were at that
time in her possession. A silver pitcher in her house bears the
inscription:--“Presented by the citizens of Buffalo to Colonel Cyrenius
Chapin, the brave soldier, the good citizen, the honest man.”
Tradition says that Tecumseh often caused much annoyance to one lady in
Detroit, by cutting the air with his tomahawk close to her daughters’
heads; also that her ingenuity devised a scheme of revenge on one
occasion, when her children had the measles, and the chief had laid
himself on her floor to sleep. She gave him the pillow from under the
heads of the sick ones, hoping he would take the disease and lose his
life by following the Indian practice of jumping into the water in
case of fever. There was no time to test the success of her plan, for
shortly after this occurred the battle of the Thames, in which Tecumseh
lost his life.
A woman in one of the remote counties of Michigan told one of her
neighbors, that after her removal to her new house, when the few
provisions they had been able to bring were exhausted, and the roads
so wretched through the heavily timbered land that it was scarcely
possible to bring supplies from Detroit, her family had lived on potato
tops, boiled with a little salt, till something better could be raised.
In the early settlement of Wayne county a family having succeeded in
getting a pig, penned it up and began to fatten it for slaughter,
when the matron one day, at home alone with her children, was alarmed
by the sight of a huge bear helping himself without ceremony at her
out-of-door larder. Fortunately, she was acquainted with the use of a
rifle, and having wounded, succeeded in driving away the bear; he was
afterwards tracked by the men, and his thieving career ended with his
life.
The story of Lucy Chapin--no relative of those mentioned--is mentioned
among the reminiscences of this period. A New England family, sensible,
well-educated, and accustomed to all the advantages found in long
established communities, from a flaw in the deed securing their farm,
found themselves suddenly homeless. One of the brothers, who had
learned the carpenter’s trade, went with his sister Lucy to Hamburg,
near Buffalo, and purchased land, which he set about clearing to make
a home for his mother and the rest of the family. He built a rough
log hut, which was for some time without a window, the opening being
closed when it was cold or stormy, and the room left in darkness. The
brother was obliged to work out at his trade, for means to carry on
improvements at his own place, and meanwhile the sister was often left
alone for three weeks at a time. She became so nervously sensitive,
that the slightest noise would alarm her, and but for a determined
spirit, and her brother’s cheerful temperament, she thought her reason
would have given way. On one occasion, a weary old man called at the
house to ask for a cup of water; Lucy, terrified she knew not at what,
ran off, and was found by her brother on his return after one of his
long absences, sitting on a stump weeping. He encouraged her, and both
returned home, where they found the stranger waiting quietly. Their
neighbors lived at a considerable distance, and were all poor and
illiterate; they found no congenial society, avoided all association
with others except what necessity and civility required, and led a
life of hermit-like seclusion, Lucy assisting to provide necessaries
by sewing whenever she could get any work to do. It was not long
before a family by the name of Russell, agreeable, intelligent, and
kind-hearted, came to live in their vicinity; they had been banished
by change of fortune from their early home, but were cultivated, and
had books, and their arrival was joyfully welcomed by the emigrants.
Miss Chapin afterwards kept house in Buffalo for her brother Roswell,
who was engaged in the practice of law, and many anecdotes are told
of her economy, industry, and ingenuity. She described, among her
experiences in the backwoods, her sufferings during an illness when
the snow-wreaths often lay upon the coverlet of her bed; their only
security for the door, till it could be hung, being to push the
wash-tub against it. She would never allow her friends at home in New
England to know the trials she endured. “They can never know the half,”
she used to say. The loneliness, anxieties, and hardships she suffered
so long, seriously impaired her health in after life.
An anecdote illustrative of female quickness of apprehension and
presence of mind, is related of the housekeeper of Gen. Porter, at
Black Rock. Early one morning, before the General had risen, a party
of Indians in the British service, who had crossed from the Canada
side, came to the door, demanding to see him. The housekeeper, without
betraying the least surprise or alarm, informed them that the General
had just gone up to Buffalo, pointing to the road which led thither
by the most circuitous course. As the savages hurried away, in hopes
of overtaking the object of their pursuit, she gave the alarm to the
General, who lost no time in mounting his horse and riding by the
shortest way to the town, where he arrived in time to make preparation
for the enemy.
Mr. Turner relates a story of “a night with the wolves,” which is worth
mentioning as an incident of pioneer life. One of the early settlers
of Niagara County had just finished building a log hut--the door only
wanting--in the woods, for the occupancy of his family. It was so far
to go to mill, that when it was necessary to fetch a supply of flour,
he was always obliged to be a night away from home. One night, in his
absence, the wife heard wolves snarling just at the door, which was
only defended by a blanket. Terrified for the safety of her young
children, she forgot all fears for herself, and stood with axe in hand
at the opening, keeping guard during the long hours of that night, till
the howling died away in the distance, and she was satisfied the fierce
creatures would return no more.
“The early settlers in Farmershill, Cataraugus, drew up a code of rules
for their mutual advantage, from which the following curious section is
extracted: ‘If any single woman over fourteen years of age shall come
to reside in our village, and no one of this confederacy shall offer
her his company within a fortnight thereafter, then in such case our
board shall be called together, and some one shall be appointed to make
her a visit, whose duty it shall be to perform the same, or forfeit the
approbation of the company and pay a fine sufficiently large to buy the
lady thus neglected a new dress.’ Few towns,” continues Turner, “in
the Purchase have been more prosperous; and it is quite likely that
this early regulation aided essentially in the work of founding a new
settlement and speeding its progress.
As an offset to the above, the same writer gives an account of a
bachelor’s settlement in Orleans County, which, as might be expected,
turned out a failure. A cotemporary says: “They began in a year or two
to go east and get them wives.” This broke up the establishment, and
most of its bachelor founders became Benedicts and heads of families.
“By perseverance I succeeded early one morning in getting to the old
burial place of the Senecas. The Indian church--now used as a stable,
with hay protruding from the windows and manure heaps outside--arrested
my attention, and I stopped opposite the lane leading from the main
road to the spot I sought. At the end of this lane, leaping over a
broken rail fence, and following a little foot-path running by the side
of a potato patch, a few steps brought me to one of the most beautiful
and quiet nooks in the world; a pleasant opening, rather more elevated
than the rest of the field with which it was enclosed, and shaded here
and there by large oaks, the branches of which were now swaying in
the wind, and sighing a requiem to the memory of the red man. Graves
were thickly sown around--some marked by boards, others only by the
swelling of the turf. There were four marble slabs; two in a picketed
enclosure were monuments of white children; one of the daughter of a
clergyman, probably the local missionary. The most prominent, which
was not enclosed, bore the inscription, ‘In memory of the white woman,
Mary Jemison, daughter of Thomas Jemison and Jane Irwin, born on the
ocean between Ireland and Philadelphia in 1742 or ’3, taken captive
at Marsh Creek, Pa. in 1755, carried down the Ohio, adopted into an
Indian family in 1759, removed to Genesee River, naturalized in 1817,
removed to this place in 1831. Having survived two husbands and five
children, leaving three still alive, she died Sept. 19th, 1833, aged
about ninety-one years, having a few weeks before expressed a hope of
pardon, etc.’ A little beyond Mary Jemison’s grave, was that of Red
Jacket, the celebrated orator and chief.” The stone was much mutilated,
being broken off so as to deface the inscription.
* * * * *
Mrs. Anderson, whose house was visited by depredators, boldly faced
them for the protection of her property. Seating herself on a trunk
they were about to carry off, she told them they might shoot her,
but should never possess it while she lived. The Indians, with a
significant “ugh” left her, saying she was too much of a man to be
robbed. One of the early settlers in Plymouth, Wayne County, Michigan,
showed a more timid spirit and fared worse, it being her practice at
first to yield implicitly to their demands. Once she was compelled
to hand out of the oven the rolls she had just baked for supper.
One evening, her husband having gone to a neighbor’s a quarter of a
mile distant, her child lying asleep in the bed, and she occupied in
sewing, the door was softly opened, and an Indian entered, “with the
stealthy tread peculiar to the moccasined foot.” He made signs that he
wanted whiskey. After going around the house as if in search of the
article, followed by the savage, she took up her child, and making him
understand that it was to be had at the neighbor’s house, motioned him
to follow her, and walked the whole distance through the woods with him
to the place of safety, where she arrived breathless with terror and
agitation.
* * * * *
Eliza Bull, afterwards Mrs. Sinclair, visited the capital of Wisconsin
in 1846 or ’47, and describes the country as very new, and the
society extremely limited. The scenery of the locality was wild and
picturesque, and from the window of her room at the inn Mrs. Bull could
frequently see as many as thirty-six prairie fowls going to roost in a
single tree. Every evening in the winter the sound of men stunning fish
by striking on the ice was plainly to be heard. One large room in the
capitol was appropriated to public gatherings of all descriptions, and
in the course of a single week would be used for dancing assemblies,
public lectures, funeral services, and preaching by the Methodist
congregation. At the balls, the belle of the company was usually the
chambermaid of the tavern which was the place of entertainment, a
young lady of ash-colored complexion, and locks of similar hue, whose
fairy feet were graced with red morocco boots. The party was often
enlivened by the presence of members of the legislature. These, with a
respectable attendance of their constituents, shuffled around the room
with great energy, having cigars in their mouths, and for the most part
wearing their hats. If their boots or shoes were found inconvenient in
their Terpsichorean evolutions, they were kicked off without ceremony,
and the figures completed in stocking-feet. When supper was ready, the
company rushed pell-mell through a dark passage to the “provender,” on
which they fell to work without mincing.
Near Madison are four small lakes, beside one of which, on “Sauk
Prairie,” then quite removed from the neighborhood of civilized
residents, stood the dwelling of an Austrian named Harazthy. He was
said to be a count, and his wife’s manners indicated that they had been
accustomed to cultivated society. It was rumored that his voluntary
banishment from his country had been caused by political difficulties,
and that he wished to seclude himself from the sight and society of
men, having been made misanthropic by disappointed ambition. His
father--who was called a general, and always wore his military dress,
came out with the family. The elder Mrs. Harazthy did not long survive
her removal, but died of very home sickness. The younger used to relate
how many years before, a gipsey fortune-teller had foretold that they
would remove to a far country, and that the count’s mother would die in
their new home. Mrs. Sinclair described this foreigner as a fine, tall
and “rosy-faced” woman, with very pleasing manners, and conversation
made the more interesting by her foreign accent and imperfect command
of English. For months after her removal she refused to receive
visitors, but often at twilight would sit at her window looking out
upon the wild and strange scenery, watching sometimes whole droves of
wolves coming down to the lake to drink. Her family was once startled
in the night by piercing cries, and found at their door a poor woman
with a child in her arms; she had been terrified by what she took for
signs of a meditated Indian attack, and had run twelve miles barefoot
through the snow to seek protection, her husband being absent. Her
alarm proved groundless, but she had endured as much as if flying from
a troop of enemies. The Austrian mentioned kept a variety store for the
Indians and the few settlers who lived in that portion of country. His
log dwelling-house was picturesquely situated on the margin of the lake
and the forest.
XXII.
MARY ANN RUMSEY.
The perils and privations incident to the occupation of the lands
in Michigan by the first settlers were not, indeed, so terrible or
so romantic as those encountered at an earlier period, when the
adventurous few who penetrated the wilderness were exposed to the
fury of a savage foe, and assaults far more to be dreaded than those
of the wild beasts of the forest. Yet the later pioneers, if they
had not to dispute the possession of the soil at the risk of their
lives, had their trials and sufferings--their dangers too--not the
less difficult to endure because the narration is rather amusing than
thrilling. They had also to struggle with that feeling of isolation
and loneliness which presses heavily on those who have severed all
the endearing ties of home, where cluster those fond attachments only
formed in youth. Many a sad hour was passed in remembrance and regret
by the young wife in the absence of her husband, when she had no
sympathizing friend in whose bosom she could pour her griefs. Little
given to repining as she might be, faithful to her duties, and disposed
to make the best of everything, still thoughts of the loved ones from
whom she had parted for life would weigh on her spirits, and fill her
eyes with tears, brushed hastily away while she busied herself about
her household employments. A touching instance of the heart’s yearning
for companionship occurs to memory, mentioned by one of the female
pioneers, who had been three weeks in their new home without having
seen the face of another woman. “One Sunday,” she said, “I told my
husband that beyond the thick wood, just in the rear of our dwelling,
I could see from the upper window another log house. I wanted him to
go there with me; we went, and as we approached I saw the woman come
out, appearing to be busy about something at the back door. _That was
enough_; I did not care to go any further; we went home; I had seen
her, and that satisfied me.”
Ann Arbor is the county seat of Washtenaw County. The Indian name,
_Washtenong_, signifies “grand” or “beautiful,” and Grand River takes
its name from the same word. It was called “Arbor,” on account of
the noble aspect of the original site of the village, which was a
burr oak opening, resembling an arbor laid out and cultivated by the
hand of taste. For the prefix of “Ann,” it was indebted, according to
undeniable tradition, to two prominent women whose husbands were the
first purchasers and settlers in the vicinity. Some have maintained
that the place owed its entire name to them, from the fact that they
lived, until houses could be built, in a kind of rude arbor made by
poles covered with boughs. However that may be, it is certain that John
Allen and Walter Rumsey gave the name to the new settlement, afterwards
confirmed by State authority, and ever since retained. Their first
garden was the ground now occupied as the public square; and here
Allen, who had considerable skill in these matters, planted and raised
a fine stock of vegetables, enabling them to supply the neighbors
whom their persuasions had induced to join their little community.
The two leaders above mentioned came in February, 1824, Rumsey being
accompanied by his wife. This couple emigrated from some part of the
State of New York, which has furnished so many enterprising families
among the inhabitants of Michigan. Some of the New England stock, who
were a little proud of their land of the pilgrims, were accustomed to
say they “had _stopped_ some years in the State of New York on their
way to the West.”
The arbor, or tent, which formed the first shelter for this little
party, and served them as such for two weeks, was made of their
sleigh-box, with a rag carpet spread over boughs of trees, which were
of course denuded of leaves; for there grew not an evergreen within
miles, except a few cedars on a hill some two miles from the locality.
They had brought with them a few barrels of provisions; and as there
were no regular roads all the way to Detroit, and the travelling was
tedious and difficult, they lost no time in making a treaty with the
roving Indians, who agreed to furnish them with regular supplies of
corn and venison. On this they subsisted while they industriously
prepared the ground and planted grain and vegetables to serve them
for the coming summer and winter. “Ann Arbor” had been the favorite
dancing ground of the Pottawattomies, many families of whom lived in
the neighborhood. Their place of council was in the light “opening”
selected by Allen for his garden, on which at this time there was
scarcely a tree. Those that now adorn the square, have been since
planted; most of them more than ten years afterwards.
The visits of the Indians were peaceable enough, and generally
welcome, for they brought deer and wild turkeys to exchange for other
articles, game being then abundant in the woods. Sometimes, indeed,
when they found none but women at home, they showed themselves a little
disposed to encroach upon hospitality. Mrs. Rumsey confessed being
frightened at one time by their wild behavior; but assuming a stern
and commanding air, she bade them begone, flourishing a broom at the
same time; and though they could not have been said to be afraid of
her weapon, they did not hesitate to obey. All the cotemporaries of
Mrs. Rumsey agree in describing her as a woman of remarkable beauty
and distinguished appearance, and of energetic character, singularly
fitted to be a useful pioneer in a new country where difficulties and
discouragements must be met with unflinching courage, fortitude, and
patient perseverance. Her commanding aspect--whether natural or the
result of a habit of being foremost in enterprise--was well suited to
her qualities of determination and strength of purpose. Her cheerful
disposition, disregard of hardships, and resolute way of “making the
best of everything,” have often been mentioned with admiration. “When
we had been out land-hunting,” said Mr. Allen, “or otherwise engaged
through the day, so that we returned late and tired out, she was always
ready for us with good humor and _a good supper_.” By such aid and
encouragement is it that woman--a true help-meet--can hold up man’s
hands and strengthen his heart when disquieted by care and vexation.
To be enabled to appreciate the worth of such a household companion,
one must have spent a year at least in the backwoods. Experience
and necessity here furnished the best kind of education, fitting
for the endurance of every trial, and the thorough enjoyment of the
labor-bought pleasures which are relished most keenly when alternated
with privations.
In the course of a few months other families moved into the
neighborhood; and on the succeeding Fourth of July (1824), there was a
joyous celebration of the nation’s birthday. The anniversary falling on
a Sunday, it was kept on Monday, having been celebrated the Saturday
before at “Woodruff’s Grove,” near the site of the present village of
Ypsilanti. About forty guests, among whom were the women of course, sat
down to partake of the rustic dinner. It was either on this occasion,
or on the anniversary following, celebrated also at Ann Arbor, that
the family of Mr. White, one of the “neighbors,” were put to much
inconvenience by the escape of their oxen; which calamity imposed on
them the necessity of walking home in terror, for the distant howling
of wolves could be heard all the way. At the assemblage on the Fourth
of July, 1825, the white inhabitants of the county were present in
mass--forty or fifty in all.
The howling of wolves was a species of nocturnal music often listened
to by the pioneers of Michigan. A lady who removed there many years
later, says that on moonlight evenings they often stood to hear their
howling, some three miles distant, answered by the barking of their
dogs. The sound was distinct, and appeared to be much nearer. In the
early settlement of the country, a woman going one day to the spring
for water, saw, as she supposed, the dog belonging to the family
drinking, and finding that he did not get out of the way as she came
up, struck him with her pail, which she then filled and carried back
to the house. There she saw the dog lying quietly under the bed, and
a sudden flash of recollection convinced her that she had seen a wolf
at the spring. She roused the men, and the animal was pursued and
killed. Notwithstanding the cowardice of the gray wolf, it was always,
especially in packs, a terror to the women of the country. Other wild
beasts were disposed to dispute with man the possession of their forest
domain. A young woman in Livingston County, standing one day outside
her “shanty,” fancied she heard a crackling in the boughs of the tree
above her, and looking up, caught the eyes of a panther glaring upon
her, as the animal was preparing for a fatal spring. With a presence of
mind which the habit of looking danger in the face alone could give,
she stepped cautiously backward, still keeping her eyes steadily fixed
on the creature, and slipping behind the blanket which served for a
door, took down her husband’s rifle, which was kept loaded and ready
for use. Lifting a corner of the blanket, she deliberately took aim and
fired; the shot took effect, and the panther fell to the ground in the
death-struggle.
In the eyes of her neighbors, Mrs. Rumsey was a prominent female
member of the community; for such qualities of mind, in a primitive
state of society, never fail to exercise a controlling influence.
Something of romance, too, was added to the interest surrounding her.
It was said--though it might have been mere gossip--that her early
life had been clouded by unhappiness consequent upon an ill-assorted
marriage, and that she had little to regret in the years passed in
her former home. Little was known of her story, for she never showed
herself inclined to be communicative on the subject, and the intuitive
delicacy of her associates forbade their scrutiny into what plainly did
not concern them. Those were not the days withal when news travelled
on the wings of the wind, or with the flash of the lightning; and
if there had been aught in the experience of former years which she
did not wish to recall, Mrs. Rumsey was in no danger of having it
snatched from the friendly keeping of the past, and paraded before
the curious gaze of the public. So the mystery about her remained
unfathomed, as she did not choose to explain it. Her circumstances
at that time were comfortable, and happy in her round of duties, it
did not appear that she suffered her thoughts to dwell on the past,
though once, in a moment of great distress, on the occasion of the
sudden death of a beloved child, she let fall expressions which set
afloat the conjectures of her neighbors, and awakened curiosity which
was never fully satisfied. She was not, however, the less respected
on that account. In the first stages of society, when no artificial
distinctions are recognized, and social intercourse is unrestricted by
form, the standing of individuals is seldom questioned if they prove
useful and agreeable. Mr. Rumsey died at Ann Arbor, and his widow
afterwards married a Mr. Van Fossen, and removed to Indiana, where she
died.
The first sleighs used by these primitive settlers were made by bending
two poles, which served for runners, a crate for the box surmounting
them. The large double sleigh was an improvement pertaining to a more
advanced stage. Before grain could be raised it was often necessary,
notwithstanding the aid of their Indian allies, to go to Detroit to
procure flour--a journey which usually consumed a week. Whenever it
had to be performed, the labor of every man in the settlement was in
requisition to put the roads in order. In one case, when the head of a
family was detained two or three weeks by some accident at the mill,
the wife dug ground-nuts and picked up every other edible thing that
could furnish food for herself and children. Another woman who was
reduced to her last biscuit, declared laughingly that she would not
have it said they ever were out of bread in her western home, and had
the biscuit placed every day on the table for a fortnight, till new
supplies came. Game, particularly venison, was plenty in those days,
and some of the settlers, who were excellent hunters, killed enough for
the use of their families and for the demands of hospitality.
The second “Ann,” who gave the village of Ann Arbor its name, came
to Michigan in October, 1824, with the parents of her husband, and
his brother, James Turner Allen, who has ever since resided there
and raised a large family. The Allens were from Augusta county in
Virginia, and well to do in the world; they brought several horses and
other stock with them, a useful accession to the means of the little
settlement. The women performed nearly all the journey on horseback,
Ann Allen carrying her infant child in her arms. This child is now the
wife of Dr. Waddell, and is living in Virginia. Mrs. Allen entered
with a ready spirit of enterprise into the laborious duties required
of the wife of a settler. As the community increased, her husband was
called to fill official stations of importance. He was afterwards
twice elected Senator to the legislature, but the roving habits of his
early life, like those of Daniel Boone, were in the way of his living
contented in a settlement that could no longer be termed “wild,” when
lands further west were yet unexplored. He went to California when the
gold fever was at its height, and died there.
His widow returned to Virginia. Her bearing and manners were those of a
well-bred lady; uniformly gentle and quiet, and marked by the ease and
refinement which evince habitual acquaintance with good society. Her
maiden name was Barry; she was left an orphan at an early age, and sent
to Ireland to be reared under the care of a maiden aunt. Her education
was completed at Baltimore, under the charge of her maternal uncle, Mr.
Keim. She was quite an heiress, and was married first to Dr. McCue, of
Virginia. Her many admirable qualities and winning traits of character,
are remembered by all her former neighbors in the village.
Elizabeth Allen, her mother-in-law, still lives at Ann Arbor. The
character of this excellent matron, who is often described as the ideal
of a pioneer, is so remarkable as to call for a brief notice. Coming so
early to the backwoods, she had to encounter not a few dangers as well
as inconveniencies from the frequent visits of savages, as yet not used
to the sight of civilization. In her youth she was eminently handsome,
and even at the age of seventy-six retains a most prepossessing
appearance, having a tall and symmetrical figure, but slightly bent,
with a complexion showing the freshness of habitual health. Hers was a
proud and happy bridal in the Old Dominion, and she was fondly attached
to the country where her best years had been spent; but she murmured
not when it became her duty to follow her husband to a distant land.
He now lies buried near the spot he chose for his home, with many
relatives around him; and by the widow’s direction, a place beside him
is reserved for her. Her religious faith, always sound and bright--for
she had made it the staff and guide of life--has been strengthened
by the chastening sorrow she has been called to endure; and the
humility with which she has submitted to every painful dispensation,
offers a salutary lesson both to the afflicted and the prosperous.
She has always been noted for the strong practical sense which fits
its possessor for every event and vicissitude, in every station of
life; yet is her heart open and kind, her benevolent impulses withal
being regulated at all times by sterling judgment. She is one of those
persons of whom it can be said, “Place her in any situation, and she
will appear well.”
In her reminiscences of those early days, Mrs. Allen often speaks of
two young women in particular, who did much to enliven the society
of the place. One of them, Miss Hopy Johnson, undertook the charge
of the school kept in a small log house, to which she was frequently
obliged to walk quite a distance from down the river. The exposure
in all weathers, and with but indifferent protection against the
cold and wet, injured her health, and one evening she informed the
school she should not be able to teach any longer. James, one of Mrs.
Allen’s grandchildren, then under her care, came running home, so out
of breath that he could hardly speak, and entreated his grandmamma to
take the teacher to live in her house. She promised to decide after
consulting her husband, who was then busily engaged in making “Michigan
bedsteads” of tamarack poles stripped of the bark. Plenty of beds had
been brought from Virginia; but some arrangement might be necessary for
the accommodation of another inmate. However, the child’s entreaty was
so urgent for an answer before Miss Johnson should have dismissed her
pupils and gone home, that his grandmother bade him “tell her she may
come and take us as she finds us.” He ran back delighted, and presently
returned with the teacher, so grateful for the offer of a home which
enabled her to continue her beloved occupation, that when the little
boy led her in with--“Grandmamma, here is Miss Johnson,” she sank upon
a seat and wept for joy. This little incident throws an interesting
light on the manners of that day. When asked how they enjoyed life in
the privation of so many comforts and of the society of old friends,
Mrs. Allen would reply: “We were all brothers and sisters then. When
my son Turner was married, he said, ‘You have always given the other
children a good wedding; I want you to do as well by me;’ and so we
invited everybody in the village, and had as good a supper as could be
got up.”
True to the habits of a matron of the olden time, Mrs. Allen has always
shown a delicate sense of propriety in her deportment and conversation.
She looks back with some pride to the days of her bellehood, and speaks
occasionally of the sixteen offers received before she was eighteen;
but with her characteristic regard for decorum, tells of the reproof
she once administered to one over forward suitor. In the mountainous
parts of Virginia, where carriages were but little used, the men and
women were accustomed to travel altogether on horseback. Miss Tate
(afterwards Mrs. Allen) was one day in attendance at a funeral, after
the conclusion of which the newly bereaved widower rode up to the side
of her horse, and to her extreme surprise, expressed a wish that she
might be induced to consent to fill the place of the dear departed one
whose mortal remains had just been laid in the grave. The young lady
regarded him with astonishment and displeasure, and sternly forbade him
to name that subject to her again under a year. Just a year from that
day he proposed in due form, and was rejected!
Mrs. Allen is accustomed to express herself at all times in a manner
so forcible and decisive, and at the same time with so much dignity,
as to evince talent of no ordinary kind. Frequently her language
rises almost to the poetical, without the least design of ornamental
expression. Speaking of a grandchild who was extremely cold in her
manner, she said, “I loved her much, that is, all she would let me
get at to love.” At another time, when a young mother, showing her
little daughter, apologized for the dirt on her hands, as she had
been playing in a sand heap, the matron replied, “It will do her no
harm; there is always rain enough in the heavens to wash such clean;”
thus unconsciously using a phrase nearly identical with the words of
Shakespeare, a poet with whom she was by no means familiar. Being once
asked if she had not reared a large family, she answered, “Oh, no, I
have only had seven children. I laid out to have no less than a dozen;
but the grandchildren left motherless whom I have brought up, perhaps
make out the number.” She has reared five of these, and has lived to
see the third generation.
There was a single piano in the settlement, owned by a Miss Clark, now
Mrs. Kingsley; and seldom did she touch the keys without unexpected
listeners. Often, as a shadow darkened the window, could she observe
the form of a Pottawattomie Indian, accompanied perhaps by two or
three squaws with their papooses. This patriarch of pianos is still
extant, and stands as prim as ever upon its thin legs, a type amongst
the scores that have succeeded it, of a bygone age, and representing
something of the stately politeness and formal breeding of the ladies
and gentlemen of its own date.
Some, with an obstinately rustic taste, seemed to prefer the rudest
articles of furniture used in the infancy of the settlement, to the
modern improvements afterwards introduced. A housewife in Michigan,
finding the men of her establishment too busy _clearing_ to lend her
much aid, set about contriving a press in which she could make cheese.
She succeeded in making one in the corner of a rail fence; and it was
observed that, thrifty as she was, she could not be induced without
great reluctance, to exchange this press of her own contrivance for one
of more pretension, though adopted and praised by all her neighbor.
Among the privations of the early settlers, not the least was the
difficulty of hearing from the friends they had left at “the East.” Not
only were the mails slow and uncertain, but the postage of a letter was
twenty-five cents; a fourth of a man’s pay for a hard day’s work. So
expensive a treat could not be often indulged in, and accordingly it
seldom happened that more than one or two letters were exchanged in the
course of a year by a single emigrant family.
The burning of the marshes often running far into the upland, which was
done every year by the Indians and old hunters, was sometimes attended
by accidents, the fire extending to the opening and overrunning the
land to the destruction of oak-grubs and tall trees. An enterprising
and industrious young emigrant had built a comfortable house in a
pleasant opening for himself and his sisters, one of whom had charge of
it. One day while she was alone, the brother being absent on business,
she discovered that the grass was on fire, and that the devouring
element was rapidly approaching. All her efforts were bent to keep
it from the premises; but finding she could do nothing to check its
progress, and that the outhouses were in imminent danger, she ran to
the door of her dwelling for her bonnet, threw in her apron which she
pulled off hastily from a woman’s instinctive impulse of neatness, and
without looking back, hurried to the nearest neighbor’s, some three
miles off, for assistance. As soon as possible she returned with help;
but they were greeted by a melancholy sight. The burning of the grass,
it was evident, had not extended to the house; but the building was in
flames, and past the hope of saving even an article of furniture. The
poor girl then discovered that the fire must have originated from her
apron, which probably concealed a spark when she threw it in; and thus
she had the chagrin of knowing that her very eagerness had been the
means of depriving herself and family of the only shelter they could
call their own.
The mention of fire reminds us of another curious anecdote recorded
in the annals of Detroit. There was at one time a town ordinance that
every house should be provided with a butt of water for use in case
of fire, the owner being subject to a fine in case of disobedience.
A widow whose neglect had been passed over several times by the
inspectors, one day saw them coming on their usual errand, and resolved
that they should not have it to say they had found her cask _empty_,
jumped into it herself. The stratagem so pleased the men that, laughing
heartily, they fetched water and filled the butt for her.
Some other incidents illustrative of the times, are mentioned by the
old settlers. One tells how a large sleighing party went at night to
Dexter, and how Judge Dexter figured as a seer, and told the fortunes
of the company. They were very merry returning, though it was near
morning, and intensely cold. A sudden breakdown took place, and one of
the gentlemen was obliged to go back some distance to borrow an axe
to repair the damage. Those left waiting, fearing that without some
precaution they should perish with cold, spread the buffalo skins on
the hard snow, and had a lively dance upon them; till the sleigh being
mended, they returned to Ann Arbor without further hindrance.
The inhabitants of Detroit may remember a remarkable old woman, Mrs.
Chappel by name, a true “Betty O’Flanagan,” who followed in the rear
of Wayne’s army, and afterwards kept pushing away from civilization.
At the time my informant knew her, she kept a small tavern on the
Pontiac turnpike, much resorted to by the young men of the town, it
being just distant enough for a pleasant ride. As the hostess was
very homely, they were accustomed to call her in jest “Old Mother
Handsome;” listening often to the reminiscences with which she was
wont to interlard her preparations for supper. When grumbling at the
trouble given her, she would declare that she should have been better
off had “Mad Anthony” lived. She would have been a fine character for a
romance, and deserves more than a mere mention, as a representative of
the spirit of her day among the ruder class of settlers.
XXIII.
HARRIET L. NOBLE.
In 1824 there was almost as great an excitement in Western New York
about going to Michigan as there has been recently in regard to
California. One of those enterprising settlers, the wife of Nathaniel
Noble, has favored me with some of her recollections, which present a
graphic picture of early times in this State. No language could be so
appropriate as her own.
“My husband was seized with the mania, and accordingly made preparation
to start in January with his brother. They took the Ohio route, and
were nearly a month in getting through; coming by way of Monroe, and
thence to Ypsilanti and Ann Arbor. Mr. John Allen and Walter Rumsey
with his wife and two men had been there some four or five weeks, had
built a small house, moved into it the day my husband and his brother
arrived, and were just preparing their first meal, which the newcomers
had the pleasure of partaking. They spent a few days here, located a
farm a little above the town on the river Huron, and returned through
Canada. They had been so much pleased with the country, that they
immediately commenced preparing to emigrate; and as near as I can
recollect, we started about the 20th of September, 1824, for Michigan.
We travelled from our house in Geneva to Buffalo in wagons. The roads
were bad, and we were obliged to wait in Buffalo four days for a boat,
as the steamboat ‘Michigan’ was the only one on the lake. After waiting
so long we found she had put into Erie for repairs, and had no prospect
of being able to run again for some time. The next step was to take
passage in a schooner, which was considered a terrible undertaking
for so dangerous a voyage as it was then thought to be. At length we
went on board ‘the Prudence,’ of Cleveland, Capt. Johnson. A more
inconvenient little bark could not well be imagined. We were seven days
on Lake Erie, and so entirely prostrated with seasickness, as scarcely
to be able to attend to the wants of our little ones. I had a little
girl of three years, and a babe some months old, and Sister Noble had
six children, one an infant. It was a tedious voyage; the lake was
very rough most of the time, and I thought if we were only on land
again, I should be satisfied, if it was a wilderness. I could not then
realize what it would be to live without a comfortable house through
the winter, but sad experience afterwards taught me a lesson not to be
forgotten.
“We came into the Detroit river; it was beautiful then as now; on the
Canada side, in particular, you will scarce perceive any change. As we
approached Detroit, the ‘Cantonment’ with the American flag floating
on its walls, was decidedly the most interesting of any part of the
town; for a city it was certainly the most filthy, irregular place I
had ever seen; the streets were filled with Indians and low French, and
at that time I could not tell the difference between them. We spent
two days in making preparations for going out to Ann Arbor, and during
that time I never saw a genteelly-dressed person in the streets. There
were no carriages; the most wealthy families rode in French carts,
sitting on the bottom upon some kind of mat; and the streets were so
muddy these were the only vehicles convenient for getting about. I said
to myself, ‘if this be a Western city, give me a home in the woods.’ I
think it was on the 3d of October we started from Detroit, with a pair
of oxen and a wagon, a few articles for cooking, and such necessaries
as we could not do without. It was necessary that they should be few
as possible, for our families were a full load for this mode of
travelling. After travelling all day we found ourselves but ten miles
from Detroit (at what is now Dearborn); here we spent the night at a
kind of tavern, the only one west of the city. Our lodging was the
floor, and the other entertainment was to match. The next day we set
out as early as possible, in hopes to get through the woods before
dark, but night found us about half way through, and there remained
no other resource but to camp out, and make ourselves contented. The
men built a large fire and prepared our supper. My sister and myself
could assist but little, so fatigued were we with walking and carrying
our infants. There were fifteen in our company. Two gentlemen going to
Ypsilanti had travelled with us from Buffalo; the rest were our own
families. We were all pretty cheerful, until we began to think of lying
down for the night. The men did not seem to dread it, however, and
were soon fast asleep, but sleep was not for me in such a wilderness.
I could think of nothing but wild beasts, or something as bad; so that
I had the pleasure of watching while the others slept. It seemed a
long, long night, and never in my life did I feel more grateful for the
blessing of returning day. We started again as early as possible, all
who could walk moving on a little in advance of the wagon; the small
children were the only ones who thought of riding. Every few rods it
would take two or three men to pry the wagon out of the mud, while
those who walked were obliged to force their way over fallen timber,
brush, &c. Thus passed the day; at night we found ourselves on the
plains, three miles from Ypsilanti. My feet were so swollen I could
walk no further. We got into the wagon and rode as far as Woodruff’s
grove, a little below Ypsilanti. There were some four or five
families at this place. The next day we left for Ann Arbor. We were
delighted with the country before us; it was beautiful in its natural
state; and I have sometimes thought that cultivation has marred its
loveliness. Where Ypsilanti now stands, there was but one building--an
old trading-house on the west side of the river; the situation was
fine--there were scattering oaks and no brushwood. Here we met a large
number of Indians; and one old squaw followed us some distance with her
papoose, determined to swap babies. At last she gave it up, and for
one I felt relieved.
“We passed two log houses between this and Ann Arbor. About the middle
of the afternoon we found ourselves at our journey’s end--but what a
prospect? There were some six or seven log huts occupied by as many
inmates as could be crowded into them. It was too much to think of
asking strangers to give us a place to stay in even for one night
under such circumstances. Mr. John Allen himself made us the offer of
sharing with him the comfort of a shelter from storm, if not from cold.
His house was large for a log one, but quite unfinished; there was a
ground floor and a small piece above. When we got our things stored in
this place, we found the number sheltered to be twenty-one women and
children, and fourteen men. There were but two bedsteads in the house,
and those who could not occupy these, slept on feather beds upon the
floor. When the children were put in bed you could not set a foot down
without stepping on a foot or hand; the consequence was we had music
most of the time.
“We cooked our meals in the open air, there being no fire in the house
but a small box-stove. The fall winds were not very favorable to such
business; we would frequently find our clothes on fire, but fortunately
we did not often get burned. When one meal was over, however, we
dreaded preparing the next. We lived in this way until our husbands got
a log house raised and the roof on; this took them about six weeks, at
the end of which time we went into it, without door, floor, chimney, or
anything but logs and roof. There were no means of getting boards for
a floor, as everything must be brought from Detroit, and we could not
think of drawing lumber over such a road. The only alternative was to
split slabs of oak with an axe. My husband was not a mechanic, but he
managed to make a floor in this way that kept us from the ground. I was
most anxious for a door, as the wolves would come about in the evening,
and sometimes stay all night and keep up a serenade that would almost
chill the blood in my veins. Of all noises I think the howling of
wolves and the yell of Indians the most fearful; at least it appeared
so to me then, when I was not able to close the door against them. I
had the greatest terror of Indians; for I had never seen any before
I came to Michigan but Oneidas, and they were very different, being
partially civilized.
“We had our house comfortable as such a rude building could be, by
the first of February. It was a mild winter; there was snow enough
to cover the ground only four days, a fortunate circumstance for us.
We enjoyed uninterrupted health, but in the spring the ague with its
accompaniments gave us a call; and by the middle of August there were
but four out of fourteen who could call themselves well. We then
fancied we were too near the river for health. We sold out and bought
again ten miles west of Ann Arbor, a place which suited us better;
and just a year from the day we came to Ann Arbor, moved out of it to
Dexter. There was one house here. Judge Dexter’s; he was building a
sawmill, and had a number of men at work at the time; besides these
there was not a white family west of Ann Arbor in Michigan territory.
Our log house was just raised, forming only the square log pen. Of
course it did not look very inviting, but it was our home, and we must
make the best of it. I helped to raise the rafters and put on the
roof, but it was the last of November before our roof was completed.
We were obliged to wait for the mill to run in order to get boards for
making it. The doorway I had no means of closing except by hanging up
a blanket, and frequently when I would raise it to step out, there
would be two or three of our dusky neighbors peeping in to see what
was there. It would always give me such a start, I could not suppress
a scream, to which they would reply with ‘Ugh!’ and a hearty laugh.
They knew I was afraid, and liked to torment me. Sometimes they would
throng the house and stay two or three hours. If I was alone they would
help themselves to what they liked. The only way in which I could
restrain them at all, was to threaten that I would tell Cass; he was
governor of the territory, and they stood in great fear of him. At last
we got a door. The next thing wanted was a chimney; winter was close
at hand and the stone was not drawn. I said to my husband, ‘I think
I can drive the oxen and draw the stones, while you dig them from the
ground and load them.’ He thought I could not, but consented to let me
try. He loaded them on a kind of sled; I drove to the house, rolled
them off, and drove back for another load. I succeeded so well that
we got enough in this way to build our chimney. My husband and myself
were four days building it. I suppose most of my lady friends would
think a woman quite out of ‘her legitimate sphere’ in turning mason,
but I was not at all particular what kind of labor I performed, so we
were only comfortable and provided with the necessaries of life. Many
times I had been obliged to take my children, put on their cloaks,
and sit on the south side of the house in the sun to keep them warm;
anything was preferable to smoke. When we had a chimney and floor, and
a door to close up our little log cabin, I have often thought it the
most comfortable little place that could possibly be built in so new a
country; and but for the want of provisions of almost every kind, we
should have enjoyed it much. The roads had been so bad all the fall
that we had waited until this time, and I think it was December when
my husband went to Detroit for supplies. Fifteen days were consumed in
going and coming. We had been without flour for three weeks or more,
and it was hard to manage with young children thus. After being without
bread three or four days, my little boy, two years old, looked me in
the face and said, ‘Ma, why don’t you make bread; don’t you like it? I
do.’ His innocent complaint brought forth the first tears I had shed
in Michigan on account of any privations I had to suffer, and they
were about the last. I am not of a desponding disposition, nor often
low-spirited, and having left New York to make Michigan my home, I had
no idea of going back, or being very unhappy. Yet the want of society,
of church privileges, and in fact almost every thing that makes life
desirable, would often make me sad in spite of all effort to the
contrary. I had no ladies’ society for one year after coming to Dexter,
except that of sister Noble and a Mrs. Taylor, and was more lonely than
either of them, my family being so small.
“The winter passed rather gloomily, but when spring came, everything
looked delightful. We thought our hardships nearly at an end, when
early in the summer my husband was taken with the ague. He had not
been sick at all the first year; of course he must be acclimated. He
had never suffered from ague or fever of any kind before, and it was
a severe trial for him, with so much to do and no help to be had. He
would break the ague and work for a few days, when it would return.
In this way he made his garden, planted his corn, and thought he was
quite well. About August he harvested his wheat and cut his hay, but
could get no help to draw it, and was again taken with ague. I had it
myself, and both my children. Sometimes we would all be ill at a time.
Mr. Noble and I had it every other day. He was almost discouraged, and
said he should have to sell his cattle or let them starve. I said to
him, ‘to-morrow we shall neither of us have the ague, and I believe
I can load and stack the hay, if my strength permits.’ As soon as
breakfast was over, I prepared to go into the meadow, where I loaded
and stacked seven loads that day. The next day my husband had the ague
more severely than common, but not so with me; the exercise broke the
chills, and I was able to assist him whenever he was well enough,
until our hay was all secured. In the fall we had several added to our
circle. We were more healthy then, and began to flatter ourselves that
we could live very comfortably through the winter of 1826; but we were
not destined to enjoy that blessing, for in November my husband had his
left hand blown to pieces by the accidental discharge of a gun, which
confined him to the house until April. The hay I had stacked during the
summer I had to feed out to the cattle with my own hands in the winter,
and often cut the wood for three days at a time. The logs which I alone
rolled in, would surprise any one who has never been put to the test of
necessity, which compels people to do what under other circumstances
they would not have thought possible. This third winter in Michigan
was decidedly the hardest I had yet encountered. In the spring, Mr.
Noble could go out by carrying his hand in a sling. He commenced
ploughing to prepare for planting his corn. Being weak from his wound,
the ague returned again, but he worked every other day until his corn
was planted. He then went to New York, came back in July, and brought
a nephew with him, who relieved me from helping him in the work out
of doors. Although I was obliged to stack the hay this third fall, I
believe it was the last labor of the kind I ever performed. At this
time we began to have quite a little society; we were fortunate in
having good neighbors, and for some years were almost like one family,
our interests being the same, and envy, jealousy, and all bitter
feelings unknown among us. We cannot speak so favorably of the present
time.
“When I look back upon my life, and see the ups and downs, the
hardships and privations I have been called upon to endure, I feel
no wish to be young again. I was in the prime of life when I came to
Michigan--only twenty-one, and my husband was thirty-three. Neither of
us knew the reality of hardship. Could we have known what it was to
be pioneers in a new country, we should never have had the courage to
come; but I am satisfied that with all the disadvantages of raising a
family in a new country, there is a consolation in knowing that our
children are prepared to brave the ills of life, I believe, far better
than they would have been had we never left New York.”
In view of the formidable journey described by Mrs. Noble from Detroit
to Ypsilanti, it should be mentioned that it is thirty miles by
railroad, and ten miles thence to Ann Arbor; Dexter being still ten
miles further. As a confirmation of her remark about the awe in which
the Indians stood of Cass, an incident may be mentioned. One summer’s
day, accompanied by his negro man, he rode up, on his way from the
West, to the door of one of the early settlers in this county, to get
a draught of water from the well. As he was about going on, a party of
a hundred Indians on their way from Detroit, stopped also, and began
stacking their guns by the side of the house, evidently intending to
make a long stay. The woman, who chanced to be alone, was very much
frightened, and as the savages paid no attention to her request that
they would go on, she begged Gov. Cass to interfere. He spoke a few
words to them in their own language, and as soon as they knew him,
they shouldered their weapons and were “marching off in double quick
time.”
The old picturesque looking windmill on the American side of the
Detroit river, is the one to which all the people in western Michigan,
some thirty years ago, were obliged to come for their grinding. It is
now dismantled of its wings, and the tower in a ruinous state.
The lady whose narrative is quoted is, it will be acknowledged,
“a pioneer indeed.” She is, moreover, an interesting and charming
woman, and admirable in all the relations she has filled. Her manner
is described as being remarkably attractive, and her portraiture in
conversation of the hardships and peculiarities of pioneer life, as
being vivid and thrilling. “She talks with so much spirit,” says one
of her friends, “that I know she can make a more sprightly narrative
than any I have read.” Her children have prospered and are most highly
respected, and neither they nor their descendants will be likely to
forget how deeply they are indebted to a mother so enterprising and
energetic, and so affectionately mindful of their interests.
* * * * *
The village of Dixboro’ in Washtenaw County, Michigan, was first laid
out by Mr. Dix of Massachusetts, and was once somewhat flourishing,
though now a miserable looking place, owning scarce a dwelling that is
not in a state of dilapidation. The inhabitants are not remarkable for
superstition; yet it is curious to notice how strong is the current
belief even to the present day, in an old ghost story. “To doubt it,”
says a resident, “is to offer a personal insult.” The tale ran briefly
thus: A new settler by the name of Van Wart, a relative of one of the
captors of André, who had taken up his quarters in a house recently
occupied by a widow then deceased, testified to the nocturnal visits
of an apparition, whom the neighbors supposed to be no other than the
woman’s ghost. From what transpired during these visitations, it was
supposed she had been murdered by her brother-in-law for the sake of
concealing some crime committed years before. The matter was made the
subject of legal investigation, and Van Wart’s testimony taken in full,
under oath, by the magistrate before a jury. The grave was opened and
the body examined to ascertain if her death had been caused by poison;
probably the only instance in this century at least of a corpse being
disinterred upon the evidence of a ghost! The appearance of the dead
was startlingly like the description given by the ghost seer, who, had
never seen her living; but nothing was found to justify condemnation
of the accused, who was accordingly released and left the country. The
Scotch physician who attended the woman in her last illness, and was
supposed to be implicated in the deed, also quitted the community. The
old log house is still standing, with the room called Tophet, because
appropriated to the use of the sick as a hospital--now in a sadly
tumbledown condition, but once the seat of cheerful hospitality. In
the olden time, many a merry company from Ann Arbor was wont to resort
there, spending the evening in dancing and festivity. Ypsilanti and
Dexter were also favorite places of resort for sleighing and pic-nic
parties. The latter village was laid out by Judge Dexter, brother to
the celebrated lawyer of that name in Boston.
Miss Frances Trask was a cousin of Mrs. Dix, and figured prominently
at that day in the little community as a belle somewhat on the
Amazon order. She had much talent, with a degree of cultivation that
caused her to be looked up to with respect as a person of unusual
accomplishments; she possessed, moreover, real worth and good qualities
of heart; but her eccentricities and unfeminine defiance of general
opinion in many trifling matters, often startled her quiet neighbors,
and made it necessary for those who loved her most to defend her from
censure. She was much admired by the men; her piquancy of wit, force
and decision of character, and a sort of happy audacity, setting off to
advantage her personal attractions. Yet she was not wanting in fitness
for the usefulness peculiar to woman; in cases of sickness she could
do more than any one else, and would watch for many nights together,
bearing fatigues under which an ordinary constitution must have sunk.
In emergencies that required prompt action, her energy was praised
with enthusiasm by her own sex. Finally, when pecuniary embarrassments
made it necessary for Dix and his family to leave their home, and the
wife, a gentle, ladylike creature, was overpowered with grief, and
could do little to expedite preparations, Frances was the _nerve_ of
them all. She packed up everything, dressed the children one by one
the last morning, placing each on a chair when in readiness, with
orders not to move, and with cheerful alacrity arranged everything for
their departure. She had accustomed herself to firing at a mark, and
was considered one of the best shots in the country, besides being
able to ride a horse with any racer. It was said she could cut off a
chicken’s head at an almost incredible number of rods, and that she
often went out deer hunting; but this last tradition does not vouch
for. She was the life of pic-nics or pleasure parties, and seldom let
pass an opportunity of making a smart or satirical speech, sometimes at
the expense of delicate regard for the feelings of others. A certain
Judge Thompson, who had held office at Batavia at the time of Morgan’s
abduction, as sheriff of the county, and had earned a notoriety in no
wise enviable, chanced to be helping her at a pic-nic on one occasion,
and began to rally her on her penchant for meat; “Yes,” she retorted,
“I am fond of flesh; you of blood;” a rejoinder which was keenly felt
by the mortified official.
On another occasion the lady seems to have met her match, being
excessively annoyed by a gallant who chose to vex her by pretending to
mistake her name, calling her “Miss Trash,” and then correcting himself
with an apparently confused apology. She used to laugh heartily in
mentioning a speech meant to be particularly ill-natured, levelled at
her at a dinner party at Ypsilanti by a lady of her own stamp, who had
become irritated beyond forbearance by some of her sallies. Looking
significantly at Miss Trask, she gave her toast, saying, “When Boston
next takes an emetic, I hope it will turn its head towards the ocean.”
It may well be imagined that those to whom Miss Trask chose to be
amiable, liked her much, while she was thoroughly detested by those
who had suffered from the arrows of her wit. Strange as it may seem,
she was held in high esteem by many of her own sex, notwithstanding
her boldness of carriage, from which it may be inferred that she
affected to be more lawless than she was in reality. She accompanied
Mr. Dix and his family when they removed to Texas. Some two years
since, when she returned on a visit to Michigan, the manifest change
and improvement in her bearing and manners were the subject of general
remark. She had grown absolutely quiet and dignified; so that those who
had heard only of her early fame, expressed some disappointment at not
finding her the dashing, sprightly creature she had been represented.
Time and the trials and labors incident to life in a new country had
tamed her wild spirit; she had mourned the loss of a brother in the
Texan service, and had undergone a second term of the difficulties
and privations of pioneer life. The government of Texas, however, had
shown that they appreciated her services by voting her a large tract of
land in compliment to her opening the first seminary for young ladies
in that State. This possession, with the portion of land assigned to
her deceased brother, made her a wealthy woman. Among the curiosities
she brought from her new home, her Mexican blanket attracted great
attention from its novelty, elegance and richness. Some said it had
been valued in Boston at a thousand dollars. A story had gone about,
the details of which were denied by the heroine, that during the
struggle in Texas, a Mexican attempting to force his way into the house
at a time when Mr. Dix was too ill to act on the defensive, had been
shot by the intrepid sister-in-law.
It may be conjectured that Miss Trask had many admirers. She had been
engaged at Dixboro’ to Sherman Dix, a relative of her brother-in-law,
and somewhat her junior; but they quarrelled, it was said, upon one
occasion when she was suffering from an attack of ague--about some
trifling matter, and the suitor was peremptorily dismissed. When the
family removed to Texas some years afterwards, the young man followed,
and remained a bachelor; whether on account of a lingering attachment
to the fair inconstant, or some other reason, it has not been recorded.
Miss Trask’s matrimonial destiny at length overtook her; she married at
Austin a Mr. Thompson, and was left a widow in a few months. Her nephew
by marriage is Secretary of State in Texas and a son and daughter of
Mr. Thompson reside at Chicago.
* * * * *
Among the early settlers of Michigan who deserve a notice, should be
numbered Mrs. Hector Scott, the daughter of Luther Martin, the lawyer
who so ably and successfully defended Aaron Burr. She came to the
State before 1837, and is still residing in Detroit. She has passed
through many severe reverses and trials; but her intellectual ability,
energy, and firmness of character, have sustained her, constraining the
admiration and respect of all who enjoy her acquaintance. Like her,
Mrs. Talbot, once a celebrated beauty, retains the dignified manners of
the olden time. She was the daughter of Commodore Truxton. She still
resides on her farm near Pontiac; the ancient log house embowered in
eglantine, and showing evidence within doors of a refinement of taste
which can invest with elegance the homeliest materials.
At Union City, in the southern part of Michigan, lives Mrs. Mosely,
daughter of the missionary, Bingham, and the first white child born in
the Sandwich Islands. The first child born at the Falls of St. Anthony
was Mrs. Horatio Van Cleve, the daughter of Maj. Nathan Clark. Orren
and Ann White, descendants of the New England pilgrims, came to Ann
Arbor the second year after its settlement, and still reside on the
place they purchased, about two miles from the village.
Mrs. Goodrich, one of the pioneers, who came with her husband and
family to Michigan as early as 1827, prides herself somewhat on a
thrifty grape vine which ornaments her beautiful garden, brought by
her from New England, and a shoot from those vines at “Bloody Brook,”
the tempting clusters of which enticed the unfortunate young men
whose massacre gave name to the locality Miss Hoit, who lived in the
northern part of Livingston County, when the country was covered with
thick forests, wandered one day so far, while gathering wild flowers,
that she entirely lost her way. In her distress she heard the tinkling
of cow-bells, and following the sound, remained with the cattle till
evening, when she went home in safety under their escort.
The wife of a pioneer who had lived in “the bush” nearly three years
without seeing another white female face, has spoken of the delight
with which she found a dandelion in bloom near her door-step. Probably
the seed of the golden flower had been brought with that of the “tame
grass,” as they called “timothy” in distinction from the native marsh
grass; and its unexpected appearance brought back so vividly her old
home associations and remembrance of the beloved ones there, that she
could not resist the impulse to “sit down and have a good cry.” “I felt
less lonely,” she said, “all that day, and ever since. My dandelions
are the only ones in the settlement, and I take care that they and the
white clover, which has since made its appearance, shall not run out.”
Another in Illinois, who had for a long time lived without windows,
found herself at last able to indulge in the luxury of glass panes, and
had a small window set, so that she could see to sew in the day-time in
winter. All the first day, while plying her needle, she found herself
continually looking off, to wonder at the novelty of what she had been
formerly used to regard as an indispensable convenience. The dwellers
on the heavily timbered land, which unlike the pleasant “openings”
where the sunshine falls, afforded no relief except the “clearing”
marked with blackened stumps, were subjected to dangers as well as
inconvenience. Mrs. Comstock, describing her primitive home in Shiwasse
County, says,--“We had previously had a log house erected in the woods,
but we came up in a boat by the river, and when we reached the spot,
were obliged to have a road cut before we could get to our home. Here
for a long time I never dared trust our children outside the enclosure
for fear of the bears; for those animals would often come close about
us, even to the fence.”
Many of the families who had removed to Detroit before the war of 1812,
returned east previous to its outbreak, being in dread of attacks from
the Indians in the neighborhood, who were known to be in British pay,
and made frequent demonstrations of hostility; sometimes encamping near
the houses of residents in numbers of three or four hundred. Captives
brought to Detroit by the savages, were often purchased there to save
them from a more terrible fate. A young girl who had been thus taken
into a family, one day seeing a party of Indians pass by, uttered
a piercing shriek, and fell senseless to the floor. On recovering
consciousness, she declared that she had seen her mother’s scalp in
possession of one of the savages, recognizing it by the long light
braid of hair. Her story was confirmed by a person who had seen the
mother and daughter brought with other prisoners from near Sandusky,
Ohio. The mother being in feeble health, and unable to travel as fast
as was required, was tomahawked, her daughter being hurried on in
ignorance of the cruel murder.
At the time of Hull’s surrender, the women expressed much indignation.
A Mrs. Woodward, since well known in Detroit, mentions a hairbreadth
escape. One morning during the war, she had risen, dressed herself as
usual, and was sitting by an open window which looked upon the Canada
side; suddenly a cannon-ball whizzed past her face and buried itself
in the side of the house. She avers that it actually straightened the
curls of her hair.
The preceding notices may serve to show something of the privations and
perils encountered by female pioneers in Michigan, and the heroism,
patience, and energy with which they were met, as well as afford a
glimpse into the peculiar character which, marking the early settlers,
has in some degree been transmitted to their children.
XXIV.
Even as late as 1835, the emigrants who poured into Michigan, often
building their homes in the dense forest or on wild prairie land, are
entitled to be called pioneers. An idea of the scenery of portions
of the peninsula at that period, and the mode of living among the
early settlers, may be given best in the language of one who has had
opportunity of observing them. For this purpose, I am permitted to make
a few extracts from a manuscript journal kept by a highly gifted and
accomplished lady, now residing in the western part of New York, who
travelled in that year on horseback through the lower peninsula:
“Bronson (now Kalamazoo), May 28th, 1835. Owing to the uniform progress
of journeying day after day from Jacksonburgh to Marshall, a distance
of thirty-six, and from Marshall hence, of thirty-seven miles, ‘the
little lines of yesterday’ have well-nigh faded without being noticed.
The memory of the beautiful, and of such beauty--a forest in its
wildness--is so much more powerful than distinct, and having the same
characteristics, presents so much uniformity that but little record can
be made. On our route we passed over some twenty miles through the wild
woods, without seeing a human being. The foliage was just bursting from
its numberless sheaths into rich drapery, our pathway was literally
strewn with flowers, the horses pressing them at every step, while the
birds in their leafy homes, deluged the otherwise unbroken stillness
with wild and delicious melody. The silence of the deep forest, during
the brief intervals of these untaught lays, seems strangely oppressive;
yet ere you can analyze its unwonted power, earth’s lyre, with its
myriad tones, is struck again, and you are roused to the liveliest
sympathy. I had somewhat the feeling of Milton’s Eve, differently
applied. She asked, ‘Wherefore all night long _shine_ these?’ My
heart-query was, ‘Wherefore all this wealth of varied note and strain?’
But the same heart answered, ‘These feathered songsters know of home,
and love, and sweet companionship, and joyously give thanks for the
gift of being, telling to each other, and to Him who made them, of the
blessing of life.’
“This day we first saw the Kalamazoo River--a narrow, dark stream. We
stopped at a small log cabin, which on its shingle sign advertised
‘Entertainment for man and beast;’ doubtless after the fashion of the
settlements the proprietors had left, and we were grateful for any
shelter from the noonday sun. I noticed, while sitting in an inner
room, to which, as a lady traveller, I was ceremoniously conducted,
that the landlord eyed my husband with singular, yet irresolute
attention. I did not fancy, however, that he had ever seen him
before. He was an odd-looking personage; rather slight in his general
proportions, and short in stature; he had large, prominent features,
overshadowed by a shock of coarse yellow hair, faded and worn, that
gave him a wild and savage aspect, particularly as this hair and his
complexion seemed scarcely to vary a shade in tint. After repeated
advances, accompanied with stolen and hurried glances at my husband,
he rushed out from his so-called bar, and broke out into a sort of
earnest thanksgiving, blessing him for having ejected him from one
of the small pieces of land contracted to settlers in western New
York. He went on to say that he did not at first recognize him, but
he did now, and could tell him that sending him from that farm was
one of the best things that ever happened to him; that after he was
sent away because he could not pay a cent on his land, he came to
this place, and would not give ten acres of it for fifty like that he
left in the State of New York. Setting aside the intrinsic value so
earnestly put forth, this new and much-prized possession was truly a
beautiful spot. The dark current of the river was rushing with arrowy
swiftness past the trail on which he had piled his log dwelling. A fine
piece of rising ground formed the back-ground, which was imperfectly
subdued by cultivation, while a little to the west a scene lay revealed
that might do for a glimpse of fairy-land. A small lake, with its
sparkling waters, reposed like a jewel in its dark green setting.
The forest, on the one side, was enlivened with the luxuriance of
the dog-wood, now in full blossom as far as the eye could reach. The
large white flowers dispensed in such profusion, gave more the aspect
of a boundless garden of lilies, than the unsuspected treasures of
an uncultivated wilderness. There were clear openings on the other
side, the meadow-like ground being just sprinkled with trees, as if
arrayed for picturesque landscape beauty, affording wider vistas from
the foliage only making itself seen in delicate tracery, not being yet
quite unfolded.
‘Many an elf and many a fay
Here might hold their pastime gay.’
“Our landlady for the hour seemed to share fully her husband’s feelings
of self-gratulation, though she told me it was pretty hard times when
they had to live in and under their ox-wagon during the early spring
days, while the logs were felled and put up for their home. This log
house would be quite an object of interest to persons unaccustomed
to the pristine dwellings of the western territories. It seemed to
consist of three distinct buildings, probably put up at different
periods, to meet the increasing demands of ambition as prosperity more
abounded. What was evidently the first pile of logs, was used as a
bar-room of the roughest construction. This also served as a counter
for the ready-change business of this much frequented inn. The boards,
or rather planks of the floor, were hewn, and laid down so unequally
as to be perilous to an unwary or even rapid step. Directly in the
rear was the kitchen, in which the culinary implements and table
necessaries were arranged, evidently with an attempt at order without
the recognized law thereunto of anything in heaven or earth. The
cooking apparatus was so simple, and the vessels for various uses so
few in number, as to excite my wonder and admiration at woman’s homely
tact and skill; and wayworn traveller though I was, the preparation
for our noonday meal was almost as engrossing as the partaking thereof
after it was prepared. A third division of the house served as a
_parlor_ for our hostess, and as an occasional bedroom for ‘special
people’--a phrase which I found quite current as a designation for the
more fastidious class of travellers, who now began to pass through
this hitherto almost unknown territory. Above the main part of these
buildings extended a sort of garret, lighted by a window of four small
panes in one end, and the opening of the ladder-way--the only mode of
entrance. This was the dormitory of India-rubber like capacity for the
multitudes who in this season of land-speculation, did here nightly
congregate.
“On the fifth of June, we pursued our journey toward the south-eastern
part of the territory, intending to take a look at Lake Michigan from
the mouth of the St. Joseph’s River. Our way lay through forests and
openings similar to those through which we had passed for days, but
afterwards we struck into the more heavily timbered land, which the
growth of the advancing season had clad with cumbrous garments of
foliage, closing up the vistas of beauty and light; in places denying
the summer sun its right to rest upon the flowers and shrubs it had
but lately warmed into being. At nearly noon, we came upon the edge
of a large prairie, the largest in the Territory, which although
much smaller than those spread farther westward, had still all the
distinctive features of those vast and undulating plains. The landscape
was expanded and beautiful, and yet one can scarcely make intelligible
the penetrating sentiment of its beauty. Perhaps the first influence
consisted in the sense of relief from the pent up feeling we had
experienced in the close pressure as it were, of the deep, dark forest
from which we emerged. In the centre of this plain was a collection of
‘innumerous boughs’ like an island in the midst of circling waters. The
prairie was begirt by a belt of timbered land, though the outline was
so dim in the distance, as rather to look like a lazy cloud resting for
support upon the verge of the horizon. We gave our horses the reins,
and they cantered merrily across the rich plain, the whole covered
in this early summer with short and close grass. Innumerable flowers
raised their variegated heads between the tiny meshes of network woven
by the wild pea, while the butterflies, with their bright tints and
quick fluttering wings, were perpetually upspringing, startled by our
approach. After crossing the prairie we again struck into the forest,
having previously stopped at the island inn for some refreshment.
“Towards evening, as was our wont, we felt that we must look along our
way for some lodging for the night. Our custom had been, except in the
villages, not to seek accommodation at the inns scattered at irregular
distances along the road. The new settlers continually moving in toward
their purchases, and the number of speculators in pursuit of locations
on which to raise, not dwellings, but future fortunes, so completely
filled them up, as to render it an impossibility to find for a lady
even momentary seclusion, much less repose. Our practice was as soon as
we found the shadows beginning to lengthen, to stop at the first decent
log house and ask for a drink of water. Getting the water afforded
time and opportunity for reconnoitering; and if the tin cup or basin
in which the draught was offered looked clean, and the premises in
any way inviting by comparison, we made the request that we could be
accommodated for the night. We had not on this evening seen any houses,
the tract of country through which we had been passing for some hours
being without settlement.
“On coming up to some woodmen whose gleaming axes told that their
whereabouts was near at hand, we stopped, and after exchanging mutual
glances of inquiry, my husband asked if they could tell us where we
could find a tavern? They looked at each other and then askance at
us. The question was repeated again; they looked bewildered, when
my husband thoughtfully changed his phrase and said--‘Where can I
stay to-night, and have good care taken of my horses?’ The answer
then came quickly--‘Oh, at Nicholas B--’s, the Hooshier’s, he has a
first-rate place, and takes in every night a great many folks.’ We made
two or three further inquiries and passed on, with our expectations
considerably raised in prospect of the promised accommodation.
“Just after sunset, we reached the place designated by the woodman, and
peering through the gloaming, I espied a good-sized frame barn, with
an enclosure, and all the appearance of a well stocked barn and rick.
I fairly screamed with delight, so important to our further journey
was the welfare of our horses, and so certain did the indication
seem of a comfortable resting place for my own wearied limbs. We
soon came out of the forest, upon the edge of a small prairie; there
stood the barn in very truth, but I looked around in vain for the
house which I had pictured in such glowing colors to myself, as
presenting some comparison in size and comfort to the barn. A sudden
chill of loneliness came over us. There lay the prairie, about three
hundred acres in extent, shrubless and bare, except the patches of
recent cultivation, which, however, in the dim light, gave but little
indication of richness or growth. The trees shut us in completely, and
after traversing the deep forest as we had been for hours, we could not
even let imagination picture a livelier or brighter scene beyond. Night
came rapidly on, while we stood baffled, without a present sign of
human existence. Our horses had for a mile or two been lagging, perhaps
in memory of the morning scamper and noon-day refreshment; and now the
whole group seemed peculiarly sensible of the influence of solitude,
which in us soon resolved itself into utter dreariness. A fresh glance
of scrutiny, however, enabled us to descry a very small hut jutting
into the woods, as uninviting a log house as we had seen in all our
wanderings. We both looked at it for some moments without speaking,
so completely paralyzed were all our high raised expectations. I then
exclaimed, ‘We cannot stay in that hovel.’ But fastidiousness was soon
displaced by eagerness with me, when my husband calmly said--‘We must
find shelter there or in the barn, for no further can we go to-night.’
We urged our horses to the door; a well stood directly in front of
it, a rare and great treasure in a new settlement, and after grateful
notice of this, my husband entered the dwelling. He asked the woman
civilly, ‘if she could accommodate us for the night.’ Her answer came
quick in utterance and shrill in tone. ‘I suppose I shall have to,
any way.’ Such was our welcome. But necessity here giving no scope to
pride, or even wonted self-respect, obliged me to dismount and receive
the favor so grudgingly bestowed. The woman was perhaps about thirty
years of age, plain in feature, and old-fashioned beyond my memory in
attire. Her dress was a thick striped material, woven to defy time and
its ravages. It was unlike any fabric to which I had been accustomed.
It fitted the figure almost closely, low in the neck, with sleeves just
coming below the elbow. The dress was extremely short-waisted, without
a particle of fulness in the skirt, save the ordinary plaiting just
behind essential to convenience. She had on no shoes or stockings, and
a faded bandana handkerchief was tied in a loose knot around her neck.
Her hair was bound straight about her head, and fastened with some sort
of a metal comb, just large enough to perform its office.
“On my entrance a wooden chair was handed me, after being hurriedly
dusted; it was low and rickety, but it instantly bestowed the promise
of rest, which I so much craved after sitting so many hours in the
saddle. My husband, without entering the hut, went on the woman’s
vague direction to find the landlord, that our horses, whose prospects
of accommodation were so far beyond ours, might speedily receive
attention. As soon as he was gone, I essayed an acquaintance with my
hostess, and soon believed that her want of courtesy at our reception
proceeded more from a fear of not being able to make us comfortable,
than from vexation at the present trouble. Two children, the eldest
of them not more than two years of age, divided her care with the
present bustle of preparing a meal and entertaining me by rapid
talking. Her face became almost pleasant with the interest it soon
showed in transforming me into a newspaper, from which she could
extract without much trouble the information desired by woman, let
her nook of the world be ever so obscure, or her connection with the
things without ever so slight. I had in my daily progress become quite
used to this sort of questioning, and in some instances had to make
my tarrying a lasting memorial of usefulness, by drawing patterns
of certain garments, collars, caps, etc., with a coal on the floor
or table, where paper could not be had, so that when cloth could be
procured the latest mode might be used in its fashioning. While thus
engaged in conversation, growing in self importance every moment, and
quite forgetting that I was an unwished-for guest, I took a survey of
the house. It was, of course, built of logs, fourteen feet by sixteen;
its sides five feet six inches in height, and the roof covered with
strips of bark. A few scattering boards made the floor. It had not
the ordinary stick and round chimney common to log houses, but a sort
of box was made of split logs at one end of the room; this was filled
in with dirt and ashes, and the fire built in the centre of it. An
opening in the ill-made roof permitted the smoke to find egress, though
occasional puffs during the process of getting supper, advised us of
its loitering presence. After my survey of the room itself, I began
to take notice of the furniture, and more especially of its sleeping
facilities. Two bedsteads, each sustained by _one_ post---quite an
anomaly in my previous experience of cabinet furniture; a large chest,
which had evidently borne journeying when the essay at house-keeping
was made away from the paternal home; a small box of home manufacture,
and some other absolute essentials to the wants of even the poorest
dwelling, constituted its wealth. I must add a note of description of
the bedsteads. Two sides were formed by the projection of the logs of
which the hut was made into the room; the _one_ post supported the
other two pieces, which were on the other ends inserted into the sides
of the house. Feather-beds were heaped high upon them, and these were
covered with blue and white woollen coverlids, doubtless part of the
portion brought by the young wife to her husband. Small pillows, with
clean-looking cotton pillow-cases, completed their decoration.
“I had noticed that my hostess, during her bustle and constant chat
with me, had gone frequently to the door, and looked anxiously into the
increasing darkness, I of course supposed from no other motive than
a desire to find out whether my husband had found hers, and secured
attention for our horses. But not so interested was she in her stranger
guests. At another visit to the low door, her anxiety could not be
restrained, and she exclaimed, ‘I wonder where my children can be!
They ought to have been here more than an hour ago; they are always
out of the way when I want them.’ I looked aghast. More children!
How many--how old! What could be done with them! I had been puzzling
myself to know how _six_ of us could be accommodated in the two beds,
and in this tiny room; and now an indefinite number to be expected,
how could we be made even tolerably comfortable? Speculation--quiet
though it was--was soon to be ended by more precise apprehension, when
_four_ children, three boys and a girl, came rushing from the woods
into the house, animated by all the buoyancy of hungry little mortals
just liberated from a day’s confinement and control. It being quite
dark without, the light, small as it was within the dwelling, formed a
strong contrast, and the little urchins were so suddenly arrested upon
perceiving a stranger, that they stood like so many statues, incapable
of thought or movement. The remonstrance of the mother quickly restored
them, and then began importunate demands for something to eat. Thus
there were six children, the father and mother, with ourselves, to be
stowed away for the night. It was in vain for me to speculate upon the
probable disposition of these numbers, so trusting as I had often done
before to the elastic capabilities of these log houses, I determined to
bide my time.
“Our host came in with my husband, both bending low in passing through
the door. My husband gave a wistful glance at me, and seemed reassured
when a _widened_ rather than a _lengthened_ face was turned upon him.
Truth to tell, I was almost convulsed with laughter at some of the
previous proceedings of my hostess. The ill-jointed planks which served
for our floor, were quickly brushed hither and thither with an Indian
broom (made of wood finely splintered); the flying dust seeming to
have no particular destination, save to seek new places of deposit.
The children were repeatedly hushed and pushed into sundry nooks and
corners, while the cooking of the supper went on. The little urchins
peered at the stranger, and anon played tricks with each other, when
a sudden burst, caused by outbreaking mischief, would occasion a new
effort at quieting. In process of time our supper was served, and ere
long we gathered to the meal. The table was an oaken plank, supported
by three stout sticks put into bored holes, for legs. A table-cloth
being altogether a superfluous luxury, we dispensed with it; some
bread, baked in an open kettle, pork fried in the same utensil, and
tea with maple sugar, formed the variety presented to us. Neither
milk nor butter were afforded, and yet we were at a regular house of
entertainment, kept by a large landed proprietor. Strange to say, the
meal was quite palatable, eaten with a healthful appetite after a
day’s ride on horseback of some thirty-five miles. Soon after tea, the
children being fed by pieces put into their hands during the time we
were supping, I ventured to hint, that as I was very tired I should
like to go to bed. The woman went to the chest which I had before
noticed, took out two clean sheets, spread them upon one of the feather
beds, and again put on the woollen coverlet, although it was a June
night, a fire burning briskly, and ten persons were to inhabit the
small apartment. Immediately after the bed was prepared, the hostess
said in an authoritative tone to her husband, ‘Nicholas, the lady
wishes to go to bed; turn your face to the wall.’ Nicholas, as if
accustomed to this nightly drill, wheeled swiftly about, and stood as
still as if suddenly become one of the scanty articles of furniture.
“This said Nicholas looked somewhat like a barbarian, his bushy head
and unshaven beard presenting quite a wild appearance. He however
seemed intelligent enough for his locality and business, and took
most excellent care of our horses. My toilet for the night was very
speedily made, and I threw myself on the bed, having first removed the
odious coverlet. Still no new developements were made in reference to
the accommodation of the youthful group; ere long, however, sundry
signs of sleepiness appeared, betokened by fretfulness and some
quarrelling, and then the mother proceeded to lift out two trundle beds
made of pieces of board nailed together. The absence of rollers made
the operation rather laborious, but the husband and father vouchsafed
not his aid. It was finally done by the woman alone, and into these
five of the little ones were speedily placed. Very soon after, the dim,
flickering light was put out, and we were left utterly abandoned, as I
feared, to suffocation. I remonstrated decidedly against the shutting
of the door, but was told there was fear of the wolves; and indeed
before morning our ears were saluted with the shrill, though somewhat
smothered howl of these prowlers of the forest. I bore the heat and
bad air for several hours, and then in desperation for want of a pure
breath, I commenced picking the chinking out from between the logs at
the side of the bed, and in this way secured for myself a breathing
place, amid the enjoyment of which I fell asleep, and awaked not until
the broad sunbeams were laughing in my face.
* * * * *
“During the last week we have made an excursion into the upper part
of the lower peninsula of Michigan. Early in the morning of Monday,
we left the village and crossed the Ke-Kalamazoo in a miserably
constructed scow, and soon after receiving a wrong direction, lost our
way. Pursuing, however, a trail for some distance, not knowing whither
it would lead us, we came to an Indian trader’s house, pleasantly
located upon the banks of the river. We met before we reached this
place, some Indians curiously and fantastically dressed with feathers,
ribbons, &c. They were mounted on ponies, and seemed bound on some
official expedition. They all appeared happy and good-natured. The
trader gave us very vague directions for our onward way, but perhaps
as definite as a route through an uninhabited forest could be made.
The direction was after this fashion:--Take the right hand trail, then
the left, and afterwards strike across the woods to the right of the
sun, with some intimation that at certain distances lakes would be
seen, and openings which would give us fresh energy and perseverance.
Making practical these suggestions as far as we might, aided by a
pocket compass and the extra bestowment of shrewdness with which my
husband is endowed, we reached a prairie where there was a small
settlement, and stopped for a few moments to avail ourselves of the
intelligence, if so be we could find any, of a man loitering by the
side of the trail, in hopes of further direction, and then passed
into the dense wilderness. Our destination was an Indian village at a
distance of twenty-six miles. The interval had no human habitation, and
we were carefully charged to follow without deviation the particular
trail to the village. Here and there were traces of a recent Indian
encampment, and in one or two places we saw the smoke ascending from
their unextinguished fires. The country had the same beauty with which
we had become so familiar. The few clouds were motionless, the water
in the many lakes we passed sparkled, but scarcely showed the tiniest
ripple. As before nature’s deep repose was broken, when the many
birds swelled out their rich choruses, and every little trill met our
ears with peculiar distinctness. We passed over a number of small but
beautiful prairies, like garden spots covered in wild luxuriance with
flowers of every form and hue emitting delicate and delicious perfume.
This last seemed rather peculiar to this part of the country, for in
spite of what philosophers tell us, wild flowers have ordinarily no
fragrance to common perception. In some districts we rode through dark
and tangled forest, the straggling, yet by its heavy masses closely
plaited foliage, bounding our vision to a few feet on either side,
and then almost before we felt the confinement we passed out into an
opening, where the bright sunbeams darting quick lines of light left
the shadowed portion darker from the contrast. Again we would ride
among the trees on the smooth turf, not a shrub or a brush marring
the velvet surface, while the lofty trees overarching in their rich
foliage, canopied our pathway.
“The hours of the day seemed long in passing, from the necessity
of carefully watching the trail, and not having any incident linked
to humanity to enliven us. About half an hour before the summer sun
was to sink to his rest, we came upon the edge of a wet prairie or
marsh about half a mile in extent. I shrank from crossing it, as the
uncertain tread of my horse’s feet upon the yielding turf made my
seat unsteady, and altogether annoyed and repelled me. But there was
no alternative; the trail wound across it in its zigzag line, and we
dared not at that hour run the risk of delay, lest we should lose in
the deepening twilight its uncertain guidance. We pressed on, feeling
at every step that our horses at the next might sink their hoofs too
deeply for extrication. The peculiarity of this marsh was in the fact
that there was not the slightest appearance of mud; all was a bright
green sward, or would have been in the glowing sunshine, but this was
resting on a watery bed, into which it sank at every pressure. We
however at last safely crossed the marsh after some toil, when lo,
a new anxiety awaited me. A dark stream intervened between us and
the solid ground, and as the spot where we stood was evidently the
ford, cross it we must. The pool, or creek, or whatever might be its
appropriate designation, was black as Erebus, with sloping banks, and
though narrow, looked so deep in the uncertainty, that I quite feared
it would engulph us. My husband bade me tarry until he had crossed it,
and I felt quite sick with fear for him when I saw him plunge in. The
struggling of his large and powerful horse tended not to reassure me,
but when safely across, he said he would return and exchange horses
with me. I could not think of permitting him to do so, and this gave me
a momentary spasm of courage, trusting to the agility, if not strength
of my own animal. The moment of descent into the pool was the last of
distinct consciousness, and I was borne through I know not how. When
I recovered I found myself sitting upon the ground, the muddy water
streaming down my face, where it had been thrown in profusion by my
terrified husband. He had expected to see me fall from my horse into
the stream. I had not been well for a day or two, and this descent into
the turbid waters quite unnerved me.
“To our dismay we perceived our horses had strayed, and already it
was almost too dark to see the trail, our sole guide. I immediately
anticipated an unguarded night in the wild wood before us; but a
kind Providence induced our steeds to regard my husband’s well known
whistle, and both returned to our eager grasp. Ere it was quite night
we heard the cheering sound of a woodman’s axe, and guided by its
repeated stroke, soon perceived a dim light in the distance. On coming
up to the man, who seemed to be cutting wood for culinary purposes of
the night, we asked for the trader; the man said he was about home,
and could accommodate us and our horses for the night. We passed on.
I entered the dwelling; it was laid up with logs, some fifty or sixty
feet square, and but very recently erected. It had neither door,
window, nor division between earth and roof. There was no floor laid,
except for a small part of it, which formed a sort of dais, on which
were two bedsteads and beds. A large pleasant-looking Frenchwoman met
me, and in imperfect English gave me a cheerful welcome. I believe she
was really delighted to greet me, so seldom did a woman find her way
to her far-off dwelling. I was utterly weary, but the large, bare,
unfurnished room gave but little promise of seclusion or quiet. Supper
was soon served, venison, cranberries and bread, with a good cup of
tea, sweetened with maple sugar, forming our meal. I soon found that
eleven men, with the trader and his wife, and her maid of all work,
were to occupy the same sleeping apartment with my husband and myself.
I was too much jaded, however, to regard the absence of even such
proprieties of life with much sensibility, and begged to go to bed,
as my only prospective comfort on earth. In this I was gratified, and
within an hour after my arrival I had taken possession of one of the
two visible beds. My fellow-lodgers I believe rested on buffalo skins
strewn at their will about the earth enclosed by the logs.
“Soon after going to bed I discovered what my husband had carefully
kept from me--that we were surrounded by some two hundred Indians, who
were now sheltered in the hut the trader had abandoned for this new
one, and were preparing to hold, this night, one of their peculiar
festivals. Soon after they commenced their hideous singing and dancing,
accompanied by the beating of sticks upon something that resembled
a gong, altogether forming a combination of sound and movement as
revolting as any thing I ever saw or heard. In the intervals when they
paused for rest, the night hawks, wheeling close to our low hut, by
their wild shrill cries effectually set sleep at defiance. Never amid
earth’s varied experiences shall I forget that night.
“Feverish and ill, I arose the next morning, with scarcely purpose
enough to link thought with plan, but on the suggestion that if we
proceeded on our journey to the Grand River country, I must suffer
myself to be paddled across the Thornapple river by an Indian, alone
with him in his canoe, while our horses should swim under the guidance
of my husband, I decided that it was not possible, and soon after got
ready to retrace our steps. To avoid the re-crossing of the marsh,
and the discomforts of the evening before, the Indian trader, at our
suggestion, indeed solicitation, promised to be our guide by a more
circuitous route. To be our companion it was necessary to catch one of
the many Indian ponies that were feeding in a drove not far from the
hut. The process amazed me much. A rope was fastened to the side of the
house, some four feet from the ground, and two or three of the Indians
held the line firmly at the other end, while others drove the horses
up towards the house, and when sufficiently near, quietly enclosed
them with the circling cord, which as soon as the horses perceived,
they yielded quietly, and the one selected even bowed his head to the
halter. Experience had evidently taught them that resistance was vain.
* * * * *
“Late on Saturday afternoon we arrived at the village of ----, where we
proposed spending the Sabbath. Externally the inn promised well, as it
was large, well ventilated, and apparently comfortably furnished. We
soon tested the truth of the ever applicable maxim, that ‘appearances
often deceive.’ Our supper was one of the worst prepared and most
uncomfortable meals that had been offered in all our journey. The
utter want of cleanliness was absolutely disgusting, and no part of
the house seemed in its arrangement to recognize the fact that human
comfort and health required as indispensable the use of fresh water
and soap. I was shown with some parade into my room, which was a large
one, furnished barely with the things required, and soon retired after
a serious conflict between weariness and the revulsion of feeling
occasioned by the appearance of the bed. However, fatigue triumphed;
and protecting myself from contact with sheets and pillow-cases as best
I might, I threw myself upon the bed. Almost immediately after I was
informed in a sort of apologetic way, that my room was the thoroughfare
of the sleeping loft above; and as there was no other ingress or
egress, I was compelled to acquiesce in the arrangement, as if it were
a matter of course. Some twenty men passed thus to their repose; but as
they were sad laggards on the beautiful Sabbath, I was able to get up,
and take such time as I pleased for my toilet, without fear of being
disturbed.
“The evening before I had asked the little handmaid of the inn to
bring me in the morning a basin of water and a towel, having provided
myself with the latter article in case of need on my journey, but not
thinking of using my own in a large inn, and that in one of the chief
villages in Michigan. In the morning I again demanded of the girl the
indispensable convenience, which she speedily brought in the form of
an earthen _pint_ bowl of water, and a coarse towel, not quite half a
yard square. I however received it gratefully, and determined to make
the best of it until I could find pump, cistern, or spring, when to my
amazement and amusement too, in a few moments the girl returned with
the request that I would _lend_ my towel to the Judge (the Circuit
Court was holding a session there), and she would _return_ it in a few
moments.
“After a breakfast which was but a slight improvement upon the
evening meal, we asked if there was any religious service held in the
place, and were told that there was, at the usual hour, in a certain
school-house to which we were directed, and which we reached after
a disagreeable walk across a marsh. The school-house resembled in
proportions a ten-pin alley, rude and incomplete in construction, and
exhibited marks (such as broken windows, etc.) of physical energy
ill directed, rather than the practical effects of any mental skill.
When we reached the house about a dozen were assembled, which number
increased in about twenty-five minutes to as many persons. I became
weary and impatient, but the audience contented themselves while
awaiting the arrival of their minister who was regularly employed to
preach twice on the Sabbath, with conversation one with another. After
a while, when the delay even to the villagers seemed unreasonable and
unaccountable, and possibly the ‘on dits’ of the past week had been
thoroughly gone over, there was a visible stir in the congregation, and
as if with one consent they evinced a disposition to inquire into the
matter. At last one man arose, observed that there must be something
the matter with their minister, and inquired if any one present
had heard of his having left town. No one seemed to know anything
respecting him, and then a proposition was made to disperse. A hymn was
given out by some one who commenced without delay in a powerful and
rather pleasant voice, and sang manfully through six verses of a hymn
unknown I presume to the rest of the audience, and which was entirely
inappropriate to both time and circumstances.
“Before this was quite ended the people began to go out, and at
its close there was a general movement. Suddenly this seemed to be
arrested, and we all stopped at the whisper, ‘He has come--he is here!’
We again took our seats, and the clergyman walked in and up to the desk
with calm unruffled mien, as if the ordinary hour for his duty had but
just arrived. After sitting a moment, with due solemnity he arose, and
instead of offering prayer, or any religious sentiment, said coolly,
‘My friends, I did not hear the bell when it was rung this morning,
and forgot to look at my watch; I was waiting for the bell when one
of the young men came up for me. As there are so few left here of the
congregation, I think we will wait for service until the afternoon.’
And then, without a prayer, benediction, or reminder of any sort that
this was holy time, we were allowed to depart.
“That afternoon my husband and myself preferred to worship in the
glorious temple of the adjoining forest, where we found
“‘’Neath cloistered boughs the floral bell that swingeth,
And tolls its perfume on the passing air.
Makes Sabbath in the woods, and ever ringeth
A call to prayer.’”
* * * * *
A few extracts from another journal of a lady residing in Michigan,
whose family removed thither in 1837, and as usual occupied a log cabin
till their house was ready, will further illustrate our subject.
“The house stood on a plain which had once been covered with beautiful
trees, of which now remained only the stumps--for every thing like a
tree which could possibly cast its longest shadow within range of the
dwelling had been hewn down; and there, as an old woman said to me,
‘the sun could shine in nicely all day long, looking so _improvement_
like;’ and there the tenement stood, not with bare walls, for the
native bark had not left the logs. A small door gave entrance to its
one room, eighteen or twenty feet square; one little window with four
panes of glass made darkness, dust, and cobwebs visible; a huge ‘Dutch
chimney’ occupied the opposite side, and as time had been busy with
its untempered clay, having broken away one half its hearth and left
many of its ribs bare, added greatly to the dust and litter covering
the black oaken boards of the floor. These boards had been laid down
without planing or nailing to the beams on which they rested, and
it behoved one to step daintily in approaching their extremities. I
giddily wished to be first to set foot within our new home, and had
jumped from the carriage and rushed to the latch-string, exclaiming
‘now on your patron lady call,’ when I found myself landed in the
cellar. Fortunately it was not very deep, and on my ascension, mamma’s
rueful face warned me to make merry of it all. New rough boards
were laid about half way across the beams overhead, and these our
‘landlord’ called the ‘chamber floor.’ The ascent was by a ladder of
most primitive construction.” * * *
“We have knelt together in prayer for the first time in our new home,
and have gathered around the family board to our first ‘meal in our own
wilderness. This family board was two boards resting at either end on
barrels, and we sat on our trunks, as we have no chairs; our furniture
cannot be brought from Detroit until the mud assuages and the dry land
begins to appear. Seventeen of us sat down, and my dear father looked
quite patriarchal, dispensing food to such a multitude. Such artificial
distinctions as servant and master not eating together, are not to be
known among us.” * *
“We have tacked sheets against the edges of the boards constituting
the ‘chamber floor,’ which are to be drawn up during the day, and at
night let down to form a sleeping room for what our helps call the
‘females.’ We have made a bedstead for papa and mamma, by putting
together six large trunks, which during the daytime serve us for seats,
and fortunately we brought a feather bed in the baggage-wagon. For the
rest we have filled straw ticks with the sweet smelling marsh hay.
“_May 24th._--Last night just as sleep had pressed his heaviest seal
upon our eyelids, the fearful cry of ‘fire,’ dispelled his poppy charm.
We waked to a startling consciousness of danger, at the red glare and
roaring crackling flames. Then dash went the cold water, darkness
followed, and then came running little rivulets of the extinguishing
element, making deposits around our beds upon the floor. We were half
frozen for the rest of the night, and this morning they are building a
new chimney. The logs are sawn out, and large cobble stones piled one
upon another--the chinks filled in with clay--then from among the trees
of the forest are sought out a couple of bent boughs with exactly the
right curve--these are the jams, and are fastened--the upper ends from
ten to twelve feet apart--in the beams that support the second floor.
They are set from five to six feet from the logs of the house side,
into which their lower ends are securely fastened. A quantity of green
wood is then split up into slats, nailed across these and also laid up
above them as children build pens with corn cobs, gradually lessening
as they approach the roof, from which they rise some two feet; the
whole is finally plastered over with new clay, and the chimney is now
ready for use; the blue smoke begins to curl from its top; and there
will be no danger of this one’s taking fire for some years; being made
of such green materials. It was a good thing that mamma with her New
York notions about fires, refused to go to sleep last night without two
pails of water in the house, although the men had to go a quarter of a
mile to the creek for it. This perseverance in an old habit saved us
our present home, as the fire never could have been extinguished if the
water had not been on the spot.
“Our carpenter is making us some seats and a table. The latter consists
of two wooden horses with a moveable top, made of four boards nicely
planed and joined together: the seats are slabs about four feet long,
with four sticks driven for legs. They are one and all to go out of
doors at nights, to let the beds come in--the latter take day board on
the fence. Some wooden pins have been driven into the logs on one side
of the house, and boards placed upon them for shelves, and on these
must repose the milk-pans, dishes, &c. When we would go into the cellar
we take up an entire board and jump down about four feet. But what
are a few trifling inconveniences in the midst of a world so robed in
beauty, so garlanded with flowers!
“_May 25th._--Papa inquired yesterday at dinner of our landlord if he
could find us a washerwoman. His characteristic reply was, that he
presumed the widow Lewis would willingly come and help us wash, if she
was sure of being ‘treated like a human.’ ‘And how shall that be?’
asked papa. ‘Oh, if the young ladies will call on her. You know the
folks round here think you are all so proud.’ Papa looked at me, and I
said I would call if it was not too far. ‘Oh they live just over the
hill, not more than half a mile. Mrs. Lewis is the daughter of old Mr.
Dean, who was here this morning--she has five children--there are two
married sons with their wives and two children each, also living with
them in the house, and then there is another daughter, Jenny Deans, as
they call her, quite an old girl.’ My ideas brightened at the charmed
name of ‘Jenny Deans,’ and I began to fancy it would be pleasant to
call--and so call we did--but the Deans were all gone for the cows.
We went in and had a little chat with old Mrs. Deans, whose pale grey
hair neatly folded beneath the plain cap, looked quite beautiful. It
was a very comfortable new log house, with its clean and stationary
floor--its two doors opening opposite each other--its large sash
window, home-made chairs and bedsteads too. ‘Your house is much better
than Mr. B--’s,’ observed I, in reply to some inquiry of the old dame,
as to how we liked living in a log house. ‘Ah yes,’ said she, ‘but
it will do you good to learn how poor people live.’ It seems to give
the people here indescribable happiness to know we are worse off than
themselves.
“About an hour after our return, the whole missing population of the
Dean mansion returned our call. We arranged with them the preliminaries
for ‘the great wash,’ which is to come off to-morrow. Mamma could not
coax them to take it to themselves although, because of the scarcity
of water in our own immediate neighborhood, the clothes are all to be
taken to their own washing ground on the banks of a beautiful lake, a
little back from their house. The widow Lewis would have one of us to
help her, although offered double the amount to do it alone. And so
I shall attend upon her ladyship to-morrow, although mamma will not
believe that I know anything about washing. Papa came to our aid with
the observation, ‘the children must all learn to work, and the sooner
they begin the better.’
“_May 27th._--Yesterday was one of those glorious days when earth, sky
and sunshine, seem to have met in gala mood to celebrate the carnival
of time. At an early hour the requisites for the grand washing were
placed in our oxen chariot, and the children, who looked upon the whole
as a fine frolic, mounted on top of the load. How beautiful looked
the world as we slowly wended our way beneath those stately old oaks
which, shading the flowery lawns, deserve the name of oak orchards.
The birds were singing and the sun was shining, and not yet were the
dewdrops exhaled. Those pert little children of spring, the anemones
and violets, were everywhere opening their blue eyes. On one side of
a growing wheatfield, a soft green sward sloped gently to the shore
of a little gem of a lake, bordered by a stately growth of park-like
trees on all sides but one, where a heavy growth of tamarack cast a
deep shadow, beautiful from the contrast of cheerful light. In the
most picturesque spot on the borders of this lake was built our gipsy
fire--and around it were gathered such a group! The beau of the morning
was the man who owns our log tenement, and acts in the double capacity
of landlord and laborer; beside him sat upon the same log Jenny Deans.
Oh, with what a broken pinion came fancy from her dreamland flight--and
yet she seems a character in her way--dressed in a gown of many
colors, from the oft application of a new piece to the old garment.
Her ugliness, however, faded to a thing of naught beside the Lewis
family--the whole of whom, six in number, were present with us for the
entire day. * * * *
“Mamma is beginning to look almost worn out with her many cares, and
constant watching and anxiety about papa, who suffers continually. It
seems as if those who sit beside the sick and suffering endure half
their agony, feel every pain that racks the anguished nerves, and
almost lose their identity in the strong sympathy that hour after hour
binds frail woman to the side of the weary couch, through long nights
suspending every breath and motion of the tired frame, longing to hush
the very beatings of her heart, lest she disturb the light half slumber
of the invalid. Ah, these are the hours that take large drafts from
life, that dim the flush of youth, that drink the dew of the morning.
But they give the soul its beauty and perfection, and therefore should
we rejoice that they are woman’s allotted task.” * *
“_May 29th._--Mrs. B---- was telling us to-day that many people lived
for weeks last winter on boiled acorns. It is almost impossible to get
seed for planting--potatoes after the eyes were cut out, it is said,
have sold for ten dollars a bushel.”
“_June 1st._--A barrel of white fish is spoiled to-day. The field mice
have got into the milk pans and committed suicide.”
“_June 2nd._--Returning with little Jessie from a visit, as the
twilight was beginning to grow shadowy, we crossed the desert marsh
and came in sight of a lonely house on its verge. On the height that
overlooked our way, stood a woman looking weird as any Meg Merrilies
that ever haunted “Ellengowan.” Her form was tall, straight and very
lank, a closely clinging, scanty garment of a gloomy gray material
added, if possible, to her height; her head was covered with a red
bandanna, pinned cornerwise beneath her chin, in her hand she held an
oaken stick, and just as we came near she was lifting up her voice to
cry aloud. The shriek formed itself into the words, “have you seen
Mary? have you seen Mary or the cow?” I had not seen Mary or the cow,
and went on my way wondering. It seems the tall woman is no common
person. According to the heraldry of the wild woods the Winchel’s are
quite a distinguished family. Such distinction would have suited the
leader of a bandit horde in the dark forests of old Germany, or have
given renown to one of the fierce barons of feudal times. Uncle Jake,
as the head of the house is called, inhabits the lonely log cabin by
the marsh-side, and exercises his taste for cruelty at the expense of
his cattle instead of the lives of his fellow creatures, so we call him
an old savage, and probably his name will die with him, as die yearly
many of his flocks and herds from the effects of his blows. Strange to
say, however, this rude, fierce man, with all his uncurbed passions and
taste for club discipline, has never been known to ill-treat his wife.
It is said she commands his respect in an extraordinary degree by her
quiet dignity of manner and womanly reserve, never noticing his violent
outbursts of rage, nor interfering in the least with his proceedings,
though he has during the few years of their sojourn here, beaten two
cows to death and several oxen. Their food is of the coarsest kind, but
she asks no luxuries; the social tea-kettle finds no place on their
hearth, no chicken scratches in the desolate barnyard, no soft-furred
pussy purrs beside the door, no dog could live upon the premises; corn,
bread, potatoes, and milk when the cow gets leave to live, constitute
their bill of fare the year round. Only one child and that a daughter
has come to the desolate home of these people, the Mary who was missing
to-night.
“_June 3rd._--We had another visitor this afternoon, A pleasant, kind
looking man, of a most excellent countenance, rode up to the door and
claimed papa as a cousin, and was recognised at once though they had
not met for twenty years. He has a house full of daughters with whom
we are to be excellent friends, although they live some fifteen miles
hence, and he promises us some chickens and a kitten, a necessary kind
of domestics that we have not yet seen in the region round about. A
good old woman, too, has sent for the washing, which she will perform
at her own house, without any of us acting as laundry maids. The drove
of calves is increasing, and they begin to talk about sacrificing the
two oldest, but Liney and Niagara shall not want for petitioners before
the house of Lords.”
“_June 10th._--Rain! rain! rain! For three days the windows of heaven
have been opened, and torrents of water have fallen over the earth, and
some few cataracts have found their way through our roof, which, by the
way, is not shielded by shingles, but covered with long slabs held down
by poles of tamarack or willow.
“When the door is open the rain beats in, and when it is closed the
chimney smokes. The cattle, on social thoughts intent, have gathered
round the house, from which no fence excludes them, and thus increase
the mud every body is bringing in on their feet. The beds are piled up
in one corner; the table seems more huge than ever; the topheavy slab
seats are continually tumbling over; papa’s rheumatism is horrible; the
baby cries because of the smoke; the men, under shadow of the ladder,
are mending nets and making hoe handles, ox bows, and whip stocks,
and of course increasing the general litter with their whittling;
the children are building play-houses under the table, and of course
greatly facilitating the motion of the pen essaying to write above. The
four little panes of glass just make darkness visible, and around them
those who would read or write congregate--a solemn looking assemblage,
and as ruminating as those chewing the cud without. But the children
are coming from under the table asking for a story; the babe consents
to go to sleep; the shavings are swept into the fire, which therefore
concludes to blaze more and smoke less; our good father is falling into
a doze, and so the owl’s eyes shall be laid aside with madam goose’s
fragment, and pleasant fairydom come with its gorgeous dreams at the
juvenile bidding. It will not take much imagination after this week’s
experience for them to believe that whole nations of people could live
in a nut-shell, or more magnificent still, inhabit gorgeous palaces
within the cup of the lily.”
XXV.
ELIZABETH KENTON.[40]
The name of Simon Kenton has a conspicuous place in the annals of the
early pioneers, second only to that of the renowned woodsman, Daniel
Boone. One of the counties of Kentucky is named after him, and the
incidents of his life are related in the history of that State and
in many biographical sketches, forming a narrative more thrilling in
interest than any romance ever written. Such instances of desperate
and mortal encounter, such hairbreadth escapes from imminent peril,
such hours of fearful suspense and sudden alternations from hope to
despair, from the very grasp of death to unexpected deliverance, were
surely never pictured by pure imagination. Born in Virginia, he was
involved when scarcely grown to manhood in a romantic adventure growing
out of rivalry in love, which came near to having a fatal termination,
and launched him into life with no protection but a resolute spirit
and a robust frame. Leaving his home, he plunged into the wilderness
of the Alleghany mountains, and joining parties of explorers and
traders, spent two or three years in hunting and trapping in the
neighbourhood of the Kanawha river, till the breaking out of the war
between the Indian tribes and the colonies in 1774, in which campaign
he did service as a spy. With two companions he afterwards penetrated
the wilds of Kentucky and built a cabin on the spot where now stands
the town of Washington, aiding the other settlers in their struggles
with the Indians, and meeting with many adventures. The most remarkable
of these--unparalleled in the history of the West--is the succession
of incidents that followed his capture by the Indians when carrying
off some of their horses. For weeks his fate vibrated between life and
death, the gleams of sunshine quickly followed by deepest gloom, no
efforts or wisdom of his own availing aught to save him at any time,
but the changes in his fortune wrought by seeming accidents. He was
tied, Mazeppa-like, on the back of an unbroken horse; was eight times
exposed to the gauntlet, and three times bound to the stake, with no
prospect of rescue from a terrible death. Once he was saved by the
interference of Simon Girty, who, learning his name, discovered in him
an old companion and friend; once the celebrated Mingo chief, Logan,
interceded in his behalf, and he was rescued by an Indian agent. These
experiences, and his after services with Gen. George Rogers Clarke,
and in other campaigns to the close of Wayne’s decisive one, are fully
related in recent biographies.
The first wife of Gen. Kenton was Martha Dowden, to whom he was
married about 1785, in Mason County, Kentucky. They lived together ten
years, when she died, leaving him four children, all of whom lived to
maturity. The only survivor among them is the wife of John McCord, of
Urbana, Ohio.
Elizabeth, the second wife, was the youngest daughter of Stephen
Jarboe, a native of France, who settled first in Maryland, where he
married Elizabeth, the daughter of Thomas Clelland. She was a well
educated woman, and a deeply spiritual Christian, in membership with
the Presbyterian Church. The family removed to Mason County, Kentucky,
about the year 1796, at which time Elizabeth, the daughter, was
seventeen years old. Her opportunities of education had been such
as were usual in that early day, when the acquirements of women were
generally confined to reading, writing, and the elements of arithmetic.
Not long after the removal to Kentucky, Mr. Jarboe was obliged to go
to Maryland, whence he was prevented from returning to his family by
ill health, for seven or eight years. It will be borne in mind that
travelling, in those days, was no light undertaking. Within that time
Mrs. Jarboe with her children had removed into what is now Clarke
County in Ohio. Her home was with her youngest son, Philip Jarboe,
about four miles north of Springfield, where she died in the spring
of 1808. Shortly after her death Mr. Jarboe was enabled to return,
and in the same year, at the same house, he also closed his earthly
pilgrimage. His acquaintances remember his arrival--a feeble old man,
sadly emaciated, coming, as he said, to lay his bones by the side of
her who was the companion of his youth. After a life of many sorrows
they sleep in a quiet spot within sight of the Mad River and Lake Erie
Railroad, near their last home on earth.
Their daughter Elizabeth was a young woman of rare attractions of
person and manner, and as it may be supposed, had numerous admirers.
Among these a Mr. Reuben Clark had found favor in her eyes, and it
was expected that she would marry him. But the sagacious pioneer and
hero of Indian encounters had seen and loved her, and moreover had
lost none of his early aversion to a rival. He gave young Clark some
employment which took him to Virginia, and would oblige him to be
absent a considerable length of time. Having removed him from the scene
of action, he laid siege presently to the heart of the fair lady, and
brought the citadel, ere long, to terms of capitulation. They were
married in the year 1798, at Kenton’s Station, the Rev. William Wood
of the Baptist Church officiating; nor did the wife ever again see her
former lover.
A few months after the marriage, General and Mrs. Kenton removed to
Cincinnati, where they resided six or eight months, and removed in the
spring of 1799, to what was then called the Mad River country. Their
first residence was near a trading house kept by a Frenchman named De
Baw, about four miles north of Springfield. The whole region, at that
period, was an almost unbroken wilderness, traversed continually by
parties of Indians, who, though not openly hostile, were exceedingly
troublesome. Often when intoxicated they would visit the cabins of the
settlers, and finding the men absent, by threats extort provisions
and whiskey from the women. On one occasion, when there were no men
on the premises, and all was quiet in Mrs. Kenton’s cabin, the door
was suddenly burst open, and a drunken Indian, entirely naked, came in
and demanded whiskey, threatening to kill her, with furious gestures,
in case of refusal. When he found his menaces were likely to be of
no avail, he snatched up the child, her eldest daughter, out of the
cradle, and made for the camp of the savages as fast as his feet could
carry him. The feelings of the terrified mother cannot easily be
described; but her agony of suspense was soon over; the rest of the
party immediately brought back the child, and called upon Mrs. Kenton
to say what punishment should be inflicted on the delinquent. She
required nothing, however, but to be protected against such outrages in
future.
The home of the forest warrior consisted of two roughly constructed log
cabins, with the usual accompaniment of puncheon floors, mud chimneys,
clapboard doors, etc. Here were established Kenton’s family, composed
of himself and wife with five children, and his two mothers-in-law
with their families, besides some black people. Their experiences of
privation and suffering during the earliest years of the settlement
may be understood in some measure by those already described; but
there were circumstances which added much to the trials that fell to
the lot of Mrs. Kenton. The General, it will be remembered, being one
of the earliest pioneers of Kentucky, besides defending the first
settlers against their Indian foes, had located their pre-emptions,
traversing with them the rugged mountains and rich valleys in search
of the best lands. The latch-string of Kenton’s cabin always hung
outside the door, and a welcome was ready for all who sought his
hospitality. His generosity and habitual kindness to strangers had
contributed as much as that of any other man in Kentucky to stamp the
character for liberal hospitality, since proverbially attached to the
State. He was extensively known, and had the reputation of wealth;
his wealth, however, consisted wholly in Kentucky land claims, which
were totally unproductive, while his cabin was the resort of every
shelterless emigrant, land hunter, or soldier, and even the wandering
Indian had liberty at any time to claim the supply of his wants. The
readers of Gen. Kenton’s life will recollect the incident of an Indian
at old Chilicothe seizing an axe and breaking his arm with it. The
name of this savage was Boner, and it was afterwards his custom to
come frequently to his house, and after eating and drinking, amuse the
company by acting out a pantomime representing his own outbreak of
fury, and the terror and grief of Mrs. Kenton on that occasion.
With this continual influx of visitors, for whom provision was
necessary as well as for the wants of a large family, with means of
procuring none of the luxuries and but few of the comforts of life,
and without congenial society, the first ten years of Mrs. Kenton’s
residence in Ohio were passed in incessant toil and privation, relieved
by little of the quiet so necessary to one like her, and so ardently
desired. But she was a seeker of “a better country,” and the firm
faith of a Christian sustained her in every difficulty. In 1808 she
became a member of the Methodist Episcopal Church. In 1810, Gen. Kenton
removed to Urbana, in Champaign County, where the family lived eight
years. Here their privations were less, but Mrs. Kenton suffered from
incessant mental anxiety caused by the injustice done her husband,
and the loss he sustained in endeavoring to recover something of his
extensive land claims in Kentucky. Being wholly uneducated, he was
obliged to entrust the management of his business to agents who proved
dishonest, and involved him in inextricable lawsuits in which he was
mulcted in heavy costs. Nay more, truth compels the record which is
a stain upon the national honor--the barbarous laws then in force,
sanctioning these wrongs, permitted the imprisonment of the brave
pioneer, and his confinement within “prison bounds,” for several of the
best years of his life. Thus was he reduced from a supposed condition
of opulence to abject poverty, and even pursued like a felon, his free
spirit harassed by more than the deprivation of liberty to the limbs,
the sense of cruel injustice and oppression.
Mrs. Kenton possessed a disposition peculiarly sensitive, and these
wrongs and sorrows embittered what should have been the happiest
years of her life. In 1818, having procured a small portion of wild
land in what is now Logan County, they took up their residence
upon it, obtaining from it a meagre living, far from those who had
thronged around them in the days of their prosperity. In 1836, after
enduring much suffering, Gen. Kenton departed this life, rejoicing
in the prospect of one where his portion could not be taken from
him. His faithful wife attended him in his painful illness with the
assiduous tenderness and care bestowed by a mother on her child. Her
spirits, already weighed down by calamity, were broken, and her strong
constitution impaired by the exertions necessary in this labor of
love, and after her husband’s death she never recovered her health or
cheerfulness. In the same year she removed to Indiana. Her strength
gradually declined until the autumn of 1842, when she became almost
helpless. Having long looked on approaching death with calmness and
Christian hope, she quietly made a disposition of her remaining
effects, leaving to each of her children and grand-children a small
bequest, in token of affectionate remembrance. To the sons of her
eldest daughter, Mrs. Parkison, she left quilts on which she had
wrought their names with her own hand. Her faculties were retained
perfectly to the last, though she spoke not for some hours before the
final moment. Her sufferings terminated at the residence of J. G.
Parkison, her son-in-law, in Jasper County, Indiana, Nov. 27th, 1842.
Mrs. Kenton was rather tall, and had a very graceful figure; her
complexion was extremely fair, and she had blue eyes and dark hair.
Her daughter, Mrs. Parkison, describes her appearance on one occasion,
on returning from Dayton, thirty miles distant, where she had been to
acknowledge a deed. She wore a dark calico dress made in the fashion
then called a habit; long-waisted, and the skirt plaited full all
around; over this a “joseph,” or short riding dress of brown cassimere,
with green spots, and a green silk or satin bonnet differing little
from the late fashion, without a cap.
This lady remembers, among the visitors at her father’s house, old
Isaac Zane, who had an Indian wife. He brought his half-breed daughter
to be instructed by Mrs. Kenton in the knowledge and manners of the
white ladies. Ebenezer Zane, his son, was also a frequent visitor,
and told Miss Kenton he had named his little daughter--Matilda--after
her. The child received the customary present, and some twenty year’s
afterwards Mrs. Parkison was surprised at being shown a piece of the
new dress given her little namesake by the General. Mrs. Parkison still
resides in Indiana.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] For an account of this expedition, and the planting of the
settlement, see the memoir of Sarah Buchanan,--_Women of the American
Revolution_. Vol. iii. p. 310.
[2] Valentine Zavier (the original family name), the father of John
Sevier, was a descendant from an ancient family in France, but born in
London; emigrated to America; settled on the Shenandoah, Va.; removed
thence to Watauga, N. C.; and finally settled on the Nola Chucka, at
Plum Grove.
[3] The private orderly, or memorandum-book of Col. De Poister, on whom
the command devolved after Ferguson was killed on King’s Mountain,
and who ordered the surrender, was, with other papers, handed to Col.
Sevier. This book was presented to the writer of this memoir by Mrs.
Gen. Sevier and her son, G. W. S., after the writer’s marriage into the
family.
[4] See Wheeler’s North Carolina.
[5] When the paper currency of North Carolina was so depreciated that
a $100 bill would rarely buy “a pone of corn-bread and slice of ham,”
and many persons would not take it at all in exchange for provisions
or other property, the _soldier_ could always purchase an ample supply
at a fair estimate at Plum Grove, and thus by sales of lands, personal
property, and perhaps in satisfaction for his military and public
services, did the “old Continental currency” accumulate in the desk of
Gen. Sevier to sums of between $200,000 and $300,000, which, with his
papers, were left in the hands of his son, the late Col. G. W. S., of
Tennessee.
[6] See Butler’s History of Kentucky. Some of the biographies of Boone
state that he went alone on the expedition. Flint gives a beautiful
romance which unfortunately has been contradicted on reliable authority.
[7] McClung’s Sketches of Western Adventure.
[8] Butler’s Kentucky.
[9] Haywood.
[10] Copied from MS. letter in the Historical Collection at Nashville.
[11] MS. Letter.
[12] Burnet’s Notes.
[13] Haywood gives the date of the taking of the fort as the 10th
September, but in his appendix the 15th.
[14] For the incidents connected with the attack on Buchanan’s Station,
see _Women of the American Revolution_, vol. iii., Memoir of SARAH
BUCHANAN, which should be read in connection with the Tennessee
Sketches in this volume. In it the Shawanee chief is represented as
performing the heroic part really performed by Kiachatalee.
[15] Mrs. Shelby.
[16] Flint--Indian Wars of the West.
[17] See De Hass for this and following anecdotes.
[18] This memoir is taken from “Sketches of Virginia, Historical and
Biographical,” by Rev. William Henry Foote, D.D., portions being
abridged. The authentic materials were obtained by him from Rev. James
Morrison the son-in-law and successor to Rev. Samuel Brown.
[19] American Pioneer, vol. II.
[20] Doddridge’s Notes.
[21] American Pioneer.
[22] Memoir of Jane Gaston, Vol. III. page 229
[23] A description of this battle, communicated by a southern
gentleman, has been rendered superfluous by the very full and graphic
account contained in Mr. Wheeler’s excellent _History of North
Carolina_, recently published.
[24] See sketch of Elizabeth Zane. “_Women of the American
Revolution._” Vol. II.
[25] Her husband commanded a company at Crawford’s defeat. He was a
large, noble looking man, and a bold and intrepid warrior. He was in
the bloody Moravian campaign, and took his share in the tragedy, by
shedding the first blood on that occasion, when he shot, tomahawked and
scalped Shebosh, a Moravian chief. But retributive justice was meted
to him. After being taken prisoner, the Indians inquired his name.
“Charles Builderback,” replied he, after some little pause. At this
revelation, the Indians stared at each other with malignant triumph.
“Ha!” said they, “you kill many Indians--you big captain--you kill
Moravians.” From that moment, probably, his death was decreed.
[26] Historica. Collections of Ohio.
[27] The foregoing memoir is much shortened from the original one by
Dr. Hildreth.
[28] This account is abridged from one prepared by Gen. Lewis Newsom,
one of the early residents of Gallipolis. He has also favored me with
notices of Mrs. Bailey’s life.
[29] Historical Collections of Ohio.
[30] MSS. in possession of John Barr, Esq., of Cleveland.
[31] Moses Cleveland, the Director of survey commenced by the
Connecticut Land Company.
[32] MS. of J. Barr, Esq.
[33] Gen. John E. Hunt, of Maumee City, Ohio.
[34] I have availed myself throughout this sketch, of a narrative of
the massacre printed at Chicago in 1844; said to be written by an
accomplished lady residing in that city.
[35] A trading establishment--now Ypsilanti.
[36] The spot now called _Bertrand_, then known by the name of _Parc
aux Vaches_, from its having been a pasture-ground belonging to an old
French fort in that neighborhood.
[37] Col. Johnson says that Capt. Wells seeing all was lost, and not
wishing to fall into the hands of the Indians, wetted powder and
blacked his face in token of defiance, provoking the Indians, in the
heat of the action, by taunts and jeers, to despatch him at once,
instead of attempting to take him prisoner.
[38] “Colonel Snelling joined the army in early youth. In the battle
of Tippecanoe, he was distinguished for gallantry and good conduct.
Subsequently and during the whole of the late war with Great Britain,
from the battle of Brownstown to the termination of the contest, he was
actively employed in the field, with credit to himself and honor to
his country.--_Letter written by order of Major-General Macomb, dated
August 21st, 1828._
[39] Lanman’s History.
[40] The papers relating to Mrs. Kenton were received after the volume
was stereotyped, which accident causes the appearance of the memoir
thus out of its proper place. It should be read next to that of Rebecca
Boone. I am indebted to the kindness of B. Henkle, Esq., of Rensselaer,
Indiana, to whom the materials were furnished by the daughter of Gen.
Kenton.
Transcriber's Notes:
Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.
Perceived typographical errors have been changed.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIONEER WOMEN OF THE WEST ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works
provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg
Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516,
Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
