Daniel Boone by John Stevens Cabot Abbott : Chapter 11

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
Chapter eleven of Daniel Boone by John S. C Abbott.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recorded by
Alison Hester Chapter eleven. Kentucky, organized as a state the
close of the War of the Revolution, bringing peace between
the colonies and the mother country, deprived the Indians of

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that powerful alliance which had made them truly formidable, being
no longer able to obtain a supply of ammunition from
the British arsenals, or to be guided in their murderous
raids by British intelligence. They also, through their chiefs, entered
into treaties of peace with the rapidly increasing immigrants. Though
these treaties with the Indians prevented any general organization of

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the tribes, vagabond Indians, entirely lawless, were wandering in all directions,
ever ready to perpetrate any outage. Civil society has its
highway robbers, burglars and murderers. Much more so was this
the case among these savages exasperated by many wrongs. For
it cannot be denied that they were more frequently sinned

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against than sinning. Their untutored natures made but little distinction
between the innocent and the guilty. If a vagabond white
man wantonly shot an Indian, and many were as ready
to do it as to shoot a wolf, the friends
of the murdered Indian would take revenge upon the inmates
of the first white man's cabin they encountered in the wilderness.

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Thus it was necessary for the pioneers to be constantly
upon their guard. If they wandered any distance from the
fort while hunting, or were hoeing in the field, or
ventured to rear a cabin on a fertile meadow at
a distance from the stations, they were liable to be
startled at any hour of the day or of the
night by the terrible war whoop, and to feel the

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weight of savage vengeance. This exposure to constant peril influenced
the settlers, as a general rule, to establish themselves in stations.
This gave them companionship, the benefits of co operative labor,
and security against any small prowling bands. These stations were
formed upon the model of the one which Daniel Boone

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had so wisely organized at Boonsboro. They consisted of a
cluster of bullet proof lie cabins arranged in a quadrangular
form so as to enclose a large internal area. All
the doors opened upon this interior space. Here the cattle
were gathered at night. The intervals between the cottages were
filled with palisades. Also, bullet proof loopholes through the logs

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enabled these riflemen to guard every approach to their fortress.
Thus they had little to fear from the Indians when
sheltered by these strong citadels. Emigration to Kentucky began very
rapidly to increase. Large numbers crossed the mountains to Pittsburgh,
where they took flat boats and floated down the beautiful
Ohio until they reached such points on its southern banks

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as pleased them for a settlement, or from which they
could ascend the majestic rivers of that peerless state. Comfortable
homesteads were fast rising in all directions. Horses, cattle, swine,
and poultry of all kinds were multiplied. Farming utensils began
to make their appearance. The hum of happy industry was

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heard where wolves had formerly howled and buffalo ranged. Merchandise
in considerable quantities was transported over the mountains on pack horses,
and then floated down the Ohio and distributed among the settlements.
Upon its banks, country stores arose, land speculators appeared, and
continental paper money became a circulating medium. This money, however,

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was not of any great value, as may be inferred
from the following decree passed by one of the county
courts establishing the schedule of prices for tavern keeping. The
court doth set the following rates to be observed by
keepers in this county. Whisky fifteen dollars, the half pint
rum ten dollars, the gallon a meal twelve dollars. Stabling

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or pasturage four dollars the night. Under these changed circumstances,
Colonel Boone, whose intrepidity nothing could daunt, and whose confidence
in the protective power of his rifle was unbounded, had
reared for himself on one of the beautiful meadows of
the Kentucky a commodious home. He had selected a spot

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whose fertility and loveliness pleased his artistic eye. It is
estimated that during the years seventeen eighty three and seventeen
eighty four, nearly twelve thousand persons emigrated to Kentucky. Still,
all these had to move with great caution, with rifles
always loaded, and ever on the alert against surprise. The

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following incident will give the reader an idea of the
perils and wild adventures encountered by these parties in their
search for new and distant homes. Colonel Thomas Marshall, a
man of much note in those days, had crossed the
Alleghenies with his large family. At Pittsburgh, he purchased a
flat boat and was floating down the Ohio. He had

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passed the mouth of the Canawa River without any incident
of note, occurring about ten o'clock one night, as his
boat had drifted near the northern shore of the Solitary Stream,
he was hailed by a man upon the bank, who,
after inquiring who he was, where he was bound, et cetera, added,
I have been posted here by order of my brother

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Simon Gerdy, to warn all boats of the danger of
permitting themselves to be decoyed ashore. My brother regrets very
deeply the injury he has inflicted upon the white men,
and to convince them of the sincerity of his repentance
and of his earnest desire to be restored to their society,
he has stationed me here to warn all boats of

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the snares which are spread for them by the cunning
of the Indians. Renegade white men will be placed upon
the banks, who will represent themselves as in the greatest distress.
Even children taken captive will be compelled, by threats of torture,
to declare that they are all alone upon the shore,
and to entreat the boats to come and rescue them.

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But keep in the middle of the river, said Gerdy,
and steal your heart against any supplications you may hear.
The colonel thanked him for his warning, and continued to
float down the rapid current of the stream. Virginia had
passed a law establishing the town of Louisville at the
falls of the Ohio. A very thriving settlement soon sprang

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up there. The nature of the warfare still continuing between
the Whites and the Indians may be inferred from the
following narrative, which we give in the words of Colonel Boone.
The Indians continued to practice mischief secretly upon the inhabitants
in the exposed part of the country. In October, a
party made an incursion into a district called crab Orchard.

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One of these Indians, having advanced some distance before the others,
boldly entered the house of a poor, defenseless family in
which was only a Negro man, a woman and her children,
terrified with apprehensions of immediate death. The savage, perceiving their
defenseless condition, without offering violence to the family, attempted to

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capture the Negro, who happily proved an overmatch for him,
and through the Indian on the ground. In the struggle,
the mother of the children drew an axe from the
corner of the cottage and cut off the head of
the Indian while her little daughter shut the door. The
savages soon appeared and applied their tomahawks to the door.

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An old, rusty gun barrel without a lock lay in
the corner, which the mother put through a small crevice,
and the savages, perceiving it, fled. In the meantime, the
alarms spread through the neighborhood. The armed men collected immediately
and pursued the savages into the wilderness. Thus providence, by
means of this Negro saved the whole of the poor

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family from destruction. The heroism of Missus Merrill is worthy
of being perpetuated not only as a wonderful achievement, but
as an illustrative of the nature of this dreadful warfare.
Mister Merrill, with his wife, little son, and daughter occupied
a remote cabin in Nelson County, Kentucky, on the twenty

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fourth of December seventeen ninety one. He was alarmed by
the barking of his dog. Opening the door to ascertain
the cause, he was instantly fired upon by seven or
eight Indians who had crept near the house, secreting themselves
behind stumps and trees. Two bullets struck him, fracturing the
bones both of his leg and of his arm. The savages,

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with hideous yells, then rushed for the door. Missus Merrill
had but just time to close and bolt it when
the savages plunged against it and hewed it with their tomahawks.
Every dwelling was at that time a fortress whose log
walls were bulletproof. But for the terrible wounds which mister
Merrill had received, he would, with his rifle shooting through loopholes,

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soon have put the savages to flight. They, emboldened by
the supposition that he was killed, cut away at the
door till they had opened a hole sufficiently large enough
to crawl through. One of the savages attempted to enter.
He had got nearly in when missus Merrill cleft his
skull with an axe, and he fell lifeless upon the floor. Another,

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supposing that he had safely effected an entrance, followed him
and encountered the same fate. Four or more of the
savages were in this way dispatched when the others, suspecting
that all was not right, climbed upon the roof, and
the two of them endeavored to descend through the chimney.
The noise they made directed the attention of the inmates

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of the cabin to the new danger. There was a
gentle fire burning upon the hearth. Merrill, with much presence
of mind, directed his son, while his wife guarded the
opening of the door with her axe, to empty the
contents of a feather bed upon the fire. The dense,
smothering smoke filled the flu of the chimney. The two savages,

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suffocated with the fumes, after a few convulsive efforts to ascend,
fell almost insensible down upon the hearth. Mister Merrill, seizing
with his unbroken arm a billet of wood, despatched them both.
But one of the Indians now remained peering in at
the opening in the door, he received a blow from
the axe of Missus Merrill, which severely wounded him. Bleeding

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and disheartened, he fled alone into the wilderness. The only
one of the eight who survived the conflict, a white
man who was at the time a prisoner among the
Indians and who subsequently effected his escape, reported that when
the wounded savage reached his tribe, he said to the
white captive in broken English, I have bad news for

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the poor Indian. Me lose a son, me lose a broder.
The squaws have taken the breech clout and fight worse
than the long knives. But the Indians were not always
the aggressors. Indeed, it is doubtful whether they would have
ever raised the war whoop against the white men had
it not been for the outrages they were so constantly

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experiencing from unprincipled and vagabond adventurers who were ever infesting
the frontiers. The following incident illustrates the character and conduct
of these miscreants. A party of Indian hunters from the South,
wandering through their ancient hunting grounds of Kentucky, accidentally came
upon a settlement where they found several horses grazing in

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the field. They stole the horses and commenced a rapid
retreat to their own country. Three young men, Davis, Caffrey
and mc clure pursued them. Not being able to overtake
the fugitive, they decided to make reprisals on the first
Indian they should encounter. It so happened that they soon
met three Indian hunters. The parties saluted each other in

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a friendly manner and proceeded on their way in pleasant companionship.
The young men said that they observed the Indians conversing
with one another in low tones of voice, and thus
they became convinced that the savages meditated treachery. Resolving to
anticipate the Indian's attack, they formed the following plan while

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walking together in friendly conversation, the Indians, being entirely off
their guard, Caffrey, who was a very powerful man, was
to spring upon the lightest of the Indians, crush him
to the ground, and thus take him a prisoner. At
the same instant, Davis and McClure were to shoot one
of the other Indians, who, being thus taken by surprise,

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could offer no resistance. The signal was given, Caffrey sprang
upon his victim and bore him to the ground. McClure
shot his man dead. Davis's gun flashed in the pan.
The Indian, thus narrowly escaping death, immediately aimed his gun
at Caffrey, who was struggling with the one he had grappled,
and instantly killed him. McClure, in his turn, shot the Indian.

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There was now one Indian and two white men, but
the Indian had the loaded rifle. McClure's was discharged and
Davis's missed fire. The Indians, springing from the grasp of
his dying antagonist, presented his rifle at Davis, who immediately fled,
hotly pursued by the Indian. McClure, stopping only to reload

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his gun, followed after them. Soon he lost sight of both.
Davis was never heard of afterwards. Doubtless he was shot
by the avenging Indian, who returned to his wigwam with
the white man's scalp. McClure, after this bloody Fray, being
left alone in the wilderness, commenced a return to his

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distant home. He had not proceeded far before he met
an Indian on horseback accompanied by a boy on foot.
The warrior dismounted and in a token of peace, offered
mc clure his pipe. As they were seated together upon
a log. Conversing, mc clurea said that the Indian informed
him by signs that there were other Indians in the

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distance who would soon come up, and that then they
should take him captive, tie his feet beneath the horse's belly,
and carry him off to their village. McLure seized his gun,
shot the Indian through the heart, and plunging into the forest,
affected his escape. About this same time, Captain James Ward,
with a party of half a dozen white men, one

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of whom was his nephew, and a number of horses,
was floating down the Ohio River from Pittsburgh. They were
in a flat boat about forty five feet long and
eight feet wide. The gunwale of the boat consisted of
but a single pine plank. It was beautiful weather, and
for several days they were swept along by the tranquil stream,

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now borne by the changing current towards the one shore
and now towards the other. One morning, when they had
been swept by the stream within about one hundred and
fifty feet of the northern shore. Suddenly several hundred Indians
appeared upon the bank, and uttering savage yells, opened upon
them a terrible fire. Captain Ward's nephew, pierced by a

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ball in the breast, fell dead in the bottom of
the boat. Every horse was struck by a bullet. Some
were instantly killed, others severely wounded, struggled so violently as
to cause the frail bark to dip in the water,
threatening immediate destruction. All the crew except Captain Ward, were

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so panic stricken by this sudden assault that they threw
themselves flat upon their faces in the bottom of the boat,
and attempted no resistance, where even the exposure of a
hand would be the target for a hundred rifles. Fortunately,
Captain Ward was protected from this shower of bullets by
a post which for some purpose had been fastened to

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the gunwale. He therefore retained his position at the helm,
which was an oar, striving to guide the boat to
the other side of the river. As the assailants had
no canoes, they could not attempt to board, but for
more than an hour they ran along the banks, yelling
and keeping up an almost constant fire. At length the

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boat was swept to the other side of the stream
when the miscreants abandoned the pursuit and disappeared. Quite a
large party of emigrants were attacked by the Indians near
what is now called Skagg's Creek, and six were instantly killed.
A missus mc clure, delirious with terror, fled she knew
not where, followed by her three little children and carrying

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a little babe in her arms. The cries of the
babe guided the pursuit of the Indians. They cruelly tomahawked
the three oldest children and took the mother and the
babe as captives. Fortunately, the tidings of this outrage speedily
reached one of the settlements. Captain Whitley immediately started in
pursuit of the gang. He overtook them, killed two wounded too,

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and rescued the captives. Such were the scenes enacted during
a period of nominal peace with the Indians. There has
been transmitted to us a very curious document giving an
account of a speech made by mister Dalton, a government agent,
to a council of the Indian chiefs, upon the announcement
of peace with Great Britain. And their reply, mister Dalton said,

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my children, what I have often told you is now
come to pass. This day I received news from my
great chief at the falls of the Ohio. Peace is
made with the enemies of America, the white flesh, the Americans,
French and Spanish. This day smoked out of the peace pipe.
The Tomahawk is buried, and they are now friends. I

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am told by the Shawanese, the Delawares, the Chickasaws, the Cherokees,
and all other red flesh have taken the long knife
by the hand. They have given up to them the
prisoners that were in their hands. My children on the Wabash,
open your ears and let what I tell you sink
into your hearts. You know me near twenty years I

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have been among you. The long Knife is my nation.
I know their hearts. Peace they carry in one hand,
and war in the other. I leave you to yourselves
to judge. Consider, and now accept the one or the other.
We never beg peace of our enemies. If you love
your women and children, receive the belt of the Wampom.

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I present you return me my flesh you have in
your villages, and the horses you stole from my people
in Kentucky. Your corn fields were never disturbed by the
long Knife. Your women and children lived quiet in their
houses while your warriors were killing and robbing my people.
All this you know is the truth. This is the

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last time I shall speak to you. I have waited
six moons to hear you speak and to get my
people from you. In ten nights, I shall leave the
Wabash to see my great chief at the falls of
the Ohio, where he will be glad to hear from
your own lips what you have to say here is tobacco.
I give you smoke, and consider what I have said.

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Mister Dalton then presented Piankashaw, the chief of the leading
tribe assembled in council, with a belt of blue and
white wampalm. Pian Kshaw received the emblem of peace with
much dignity and replied, my great father the long Knife,
you have been many years among us. You have suffered
by us. We still hope you will have pity and

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compassion upon us, on our women and children. The sun
shines on us, and the good news of peace appears
in our faces. This is the day of joy to
the Wabash Indians. With one tongue. We now speak. We
accept your peace belt. We received the tomahawk from the English.
Poverty forced us to it. We were followed by other tribes.

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We are sorry for it. Today we collect the scattered
bones of our friends and bury them in one grave.
We thus plant the tree of peace, that God may
spread its branches, so that we can all be secured
from bad weather. Here is the pipe that gives us joy.
Smoke out of it. Our warriors are glad. You are
the man we present it too. We have buried the tomahawk,

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have forigned friendship never to be broken. And now we
smoke out of your pipe. My father. We know that
the Great Spirit was angry with us for stealing your
horses and attacking your people. He has sent us so
much snow and cold weather as to kill your horses
with our own. We are a poor people. We hope
God will help us, and that the long knife will

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have compassion on our women and children. Your people who
are with us are well. We shall collect them when
they come in from hunting. All the prisoners taken in
Kentucky are alive. We love them, and so do our
young women. Some of your people mend our guns and
others tell us they can make rum out of corn.

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They are now the same as we, and one moon
after this we will take them back to their friends
in Kentucky. My father, this being the day of joy
to the Wabash Indians, we beg a little drop of
your milk to let our warriors see that it came
from your own breast. We were born and raised in
the woods. We could never learn to make rum. God

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has made the white men masters of the world. Having
finished his speech, Piankashaw presented mister Dalton with three strings
of blue and white wampalm as the seal of peace.
All must observe the strain of despondency which pervades this address,
and it is melancholy to notice the imploring tones with

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which the chief asks for rum, the greatest curse which
ever afflicted his people. The incessant petty warfare waged between
vagrant bands of the Whites and the Indians, with the
outrages perpetrated on either side, created great exasperation. In the
year seventeen eighty four, there were many indications that the

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Indians were again about to combine in an attack upon
the settlements. These stations were widely scattered, greatly exposed, and
there were many of them. It was impossible for the
pioneers to rally in sufficient strength to protect every position.
The savages, emerging unexpectedly from the wilderness, could select their

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own point of attack, and could thus cause a vast
amount of loss and misery. For a long time, it
had been unsafe for any individual or even small parties,
unless very thoroughly armed, to wander beyond the protection of
the forts. Under these circumstances, a convention was held of
the leading men of Kentucky at the Danville Station to

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decide what measures to adopt in view of the threatened invasion.
It was quite certain that the movement of the savages
would be so sudden and impetuous that the settlers would
be compelled to rely mainly upon their own resources. The
great state of Virginia, of which Kentucky was but a
frontier portion, had become rich and powerful, but many weary

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leagues intervened, leading through forests and over craggy mountains between
the plains of these distant counties and Richmond, the capital
of Virginia. The convention at Danville discussed the question whether
it were not safer for them to anticipate the Indians
and immediately to send an army for the destruction of
their towns and crops north of the Ohio. But here

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they were embarrassed by the consideration that they had no
legal power to make this movement, and that the whole question,
momentous as it was and demanding immediate action, must be
referred to the state government far away, way beyond the mountains.
This involved long delay, and it could hardly be expected
that the members of the General Court and their peaceful

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homes would fully sympathize with the unprotected settlers in their
exposure to the tomahawk and the scalping knife. Several conventions
were held, and the question was earnestly discussed whether the
interests of Kentucky did not require her separation from the
government of Virginia and her organization as a self governing state.

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The men who had boldly ventured to seek new homes
so far beyond the limits of civilization were generally men
of great force of character and of political foresight. They
had just emerged from the War of the Revolution, during
which all the most important questions of civil pulity had
been thoroughly canvassed. Their meetings were conducted with great dignity

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and calm deliberation. On the twenty third of May seventeen
eighty five, the Convention at Danville passed the resolve with
great unanimity that Kentucky ought to be separated from Virginia
and received into the American Union upon the same basis
as the other states. Still that they might not act

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upon a question of so much importance without due deliberation,
they referred the subject to another convention to be assembled
at Danville and August. This convention reiterated the resolution of
its predecessor, issued a proclamation urging the people everywhere to
organize for defense against the Indians, and appointed a delegation
of two members to procede to Richmond and present their

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request for a separation to the authorities there. The legislature
of Virginia was composed of men too wise not to
see that separation was inevitable, separated from the parent state
by distance and by difficulties of communication in those days
most formidable, They saw that Kentuckians would not long submit
to be ruled by those whose power was so far

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removed as to surround every approach to it with the
greatest embarrassment. It was without its wrongs and tyranny and misgovernment,
the repetition of the circumstances of the Crown and colonies,
and with good judgment, and as the beautiful language of
the Danvil Convention expressed it, with sole intent to bless

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its people. They agreed to a dismemberment of its part
to secure the happiness of the whole. It is not
important here to enter into a detail of the various
discussions which ensued and of the measures which were adopted.
It is sufficient to say that the communication from Kentucky
to the legislature of Virginia was referred to the illustrious

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John Marshall, then, at the commencement of his distinguished career,
he gave, to the request of the petitioners his own
strong advocacy. The result was that a decree was passed,
after tedious delays, authorizing the formal separation of Kentucky from Virginia.
On the fourth of February seventeen ninety one, the new state,

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by earnest recommendation of George Washington, was admitted into the
American Union. It does not appear that Colonel Boone was
a member of any of these conventions. He had no
taste for the struggles in political assemblies. He dreaded, indeed,
the speculator, the land jobber, and the intricate decisions of
the courts, more than the tomahawk of the Indian, and

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he knew full well that should the hour of action come,
he would be one of the first to be summoned
to the field. While therefore others of the early pioneers
were engaged in these important deliberations, he was quietly pursuing
those occupations congenial to his tastes, of cultivating the farm
or in hunting game in the solitude of the forests.

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His humble cabin stood upon the banks of the Kentucky River,
not far from the station at Boonsborough, and thoroughly acquainted
as he was with the habits of the Indians, he
felt quite able in his bullet proof citadel to protect
himself from any maraudering bands which might venture to show
themselves so near the fort. It seems to be the

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lot of humanity that life should be composed of a
series of storms rising one after another in the palace
and in the cottage in ancient days, and at the
present time we find the sweep of the inexorable law,
that man is born to mourn, sorrow is for the
sons of men, and weeping for Earth's daughters. The cloud

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of menaced Indian invasions had passed away, when suddenly the
sheriff appears in Boone's little cabin and informs him that
his title to his land is disputed, and that legal
proceedings were commenced against him. Boone could not comprehend this. Kentucky,
he regarded almost his own by the right of his discovery.

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He had led the way there, he had established himself
and family in the land, and had defended it from
the incursions of the Indians. And now, in his advancing years,
to be driven from the few acres he had selected
and to which he supposed he had a perfect title,
seemed to him very unjust. Indeed, he could not recognize

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any right in what seemed to him but the quibbles
of the lawyers. In his autobiography, he wrote, in reference
to his many painful adventures, my footsteps have often been
marked with blood. Two darling sons and a brother have
I lost by savage hands, which have also taken from
me forty valuable horses and abundance of cattle. Many dark

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and sleepless nights have I been a companion for owls,
separated from the cheerful society of men, scorched by the
summer's sun and pinched by the winter's cold, an instrument
ordained to settle the wilderness. Agitated by the thought of
the loss of his farm, and deeply wounded in his feelings,
as though a great wrong had been inflicted upon him,

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Boone addressed an earnest memorial to the legislature of Kentucky.
In this he stated that, immediately after the troubles with
the Indians had ceased, he located himself upon lands to
which he supposed he had a perfect title, that he
reared his house and commenced cultivating his fields. And, after
briefly enumerating the sacrifices he had made in exploring, settling,

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and defending Kentucky, he said he could not understand the
justice of making a set of complicated forms of law
superior to his actual occupancy of the land selected, as
he believed, when and where it was, it was his
unquestioned right to do so. But the lawyers and the
land speculators were too shrewd for the pioneer. Colonel Boone

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was sued. The question went to the courts, which he detested,
and Boone lost his farm. It was indeed a very
hard case. He had penetrated the country when no other
white man trod its soil. He discovered its wonderful resources
and proclaimed them to the world. He had guided settlers

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into the region, and by his sagacity and courage, had
provided for their wants and protected them from the savage.
And now, in his declining years, he found himself driven
from his farm, robbed of every acre, a houseless, homeless,
impoverished man. The deed was so cruel that thousand cents

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in reading the recital, had been agitated by the strongest
emotions of indignation and grief, And of chapter eleven