She ceased speaking and slowly began stretching her arms above her head, and with a long-drawn scream she fell over backward and I knew she had lost her reason.
[4]Also Daniel Boone’s Shawnee name in later years.
Also Daniel Boone’s Shawnee name in later years.
CHAPTER XOUR MEDICINE GROWS STRONGER
The Shawnees’ anxiety to start for the Ohio almost became a panic. The tragic manner in which they had been robbed of their victim, the screaming defiance of young Cousin, together with their losses in warriors, convinced them something was radically wrong with their war-medicine. Outwardly Black Hoof remained calm but I knew he was greatly worried. His medicine had designated Dale for the torture, and then had permitted a bullet to release the man.
Nor was it any small influence which the girl’s condition exerted in this desire to retreat. She seemed to be stunned. She walked about, but without appearing to hear or see her captors. There was none of the savages who did not believe her terrible scream prefaced her crossing the dividing-line between reason and insanity.
As an insane person she was under the special protection of the great manito, and black woe to him who interfered with her. The chief was eager to abandon her to be picked up by the settlers atHoward’s Creek, but she clung tenaciously to Cousin’s sister. The latter displayed no emotion over this preference, yet she did not repulse the girl. She even was gentle in caring for her.
Ward was for finishing me out of hand, but Black Hoof insisted I should carry packs and make myself useful before being dispensed with. Then again I would be something to display at the villages and something to dance about when it came to appeasing the ghosts of the slain warriors. We broke camp that night, and with malicious ingenuity Ward strapped packs on my shoulders until my back buckled. As he finished and was promising to thrust his knife into my legs if I displayed any weariness, Cousin’s sister came up and sharply directed him to remove the packs as I was to serve as a litter-bearer.
“The white woman asks for him,” she said. “Catahecassa gives him to me to help carry the medicine-woman.”
Ward raged, but Black Hoof upheld the girl; and although I knew Patricia was too insensible of her surroundings to ask for any one, I was keen to serve her. Lost Sister had fashioned a rude litter out of rawhide and two saplings, slack between the poles so the girl could not roll out. To my surprise she stepped between the saplings at the forward end and called on me to pick up the other end and march. I considered it to be a man’s work, but she madenothing of it, and never called a halt that she might rest.
In the morning the hunters brought in some deer-meat and turkeys, and we camped long enough to eat. Once more Ward endeavored to prevail upon the chief to put me out of the way. He played upon Black Hoof’s superstitions very cunningly by declaring the war-medicine would be very weak until I was killed. The chief was impressed, else he never would have come to stare at me.
It happened, however, that Patricia was delirious, and it was my hand on her head that seemed to quiet her. Lost Sister told a noble lie by volunteering the information that it was my presence that kept the girl quiet. Black Hoof and his braves had a great fear of the girl when she began her rambling talk. They believed she was surrounded by ghosts and talking with them. So Ward’s request was refused, and stern orders were given that I should not be harmed. When the home villages were reached, he added, I might be burned.
When we made our second camp on the Kanawha I called Black Hoof to me. I had been staked out in spread-eagle fashion and my guards had placed saplings across my body and were preparing to lie down on the ends at each side of me. I assured the chief there was no danger of my running away, as my medicine would wither and die, did I forsake the great manito’s child; and I asked him to relieve meof the cords and saplings. He told the warriors to omit the cords.
The next time we halted to snatch a few hours’ sleep he ordered that no more saplings be placed across me, that it would be sufficient to tie my ankles and wrists. This was a great relief. During this portion of the march the girl seemed oblivious to her surroundings, also to the fact that she was a captive. She showed a strong preference for Lost Sister’s company, and would glance about worriedly if the young woman left her sight.
So it devolved on the two of us, both white, to care for her. There were times when she babbled of faraway scenes, of Williamsburg and her old home, of the streets of Norfolk and Richmond. She talked with those she had known as children. When in this condition the Indians were glad to keep away from us. Even Ward would not willingly remain within hearing of her sweet voice could he avoid so doing. And alas! There were other times when she was almost violent, when only Lost Sister could soothe and quiet her.
By the time we reached the mouth of the Great Kanawha no guard was kept over me that I could perceive; nor were my limbs any longer bound at night. At each camp Lost Sister ranged the woods and brought in roots and herbs and made strange-smelling messes in a camp kettle and assiduously dosed the girl.
Rafts were quickly knocked together and the crossing made to the Indian shore. I had expected the band to dig out hidden canoes and descend to the mouth of the Scioto. Instead we struck into a trail across-country. The path was well worn, and the fork we followed ended at the Scioto above Chillicothe, the principal Shawnee town.
Much of the distance Patricia walked, although the litter was taken along for her convenience. Lost Sister talked with me at times and I began to feel that the barrier between us was much lower. But she never spoke of the settlements or her brother. Her talk was always a red talk and she never addressed me except in Shawnee.
From her I learned we were making for Cornstalk’s Town, some twenty-five miles above Chillicothe, located on Scippo Creek. Among border men this region was known as the Pickaway Plains. Near our destination was Grenadier Squaw’s Town, named after Cornstalk’s gigantic sister.
I suffered no incivility during the overland march. My status became that of an attendant on the great manito’s medicine-child. Patricia continued in a dazed state of mind, but after two days of arduous travel I detected her weeping. Lost Sister enigmatically warned:
“She is another woman. She is more like the woman she once was. She must keep close to her manito.”
I could interpret this only to mean that the girl was recovering from her mental shock and was recalling bits of the past, and that she was safe only so long as the savages believed her to be insane. At our last camp from Cornstalk’s Town Patricia insisted on walking beside me when the trace would permit it and she startled me by saying:
“My father was good to me.”
“Do you remember me?” I asked.
“Remember you, Basdel? Why, of course. What a queer question.” Then with a little frown she sighed and complained. “But I don’t understand why I am here with you and these Indians. I wonder if it is a bad dream, if I will soon wake up.”
I blundered along the best I could, striving to say nothing which might upset her. She suddenly refused to talk and began displaying much physical nervousness. Lost Sister promptly took her in hand and led her some distance in advance of me. That was the day the band split up, the bulk of the warriors leaving to go to their different villages. Half a dozen remained to press on to Cornstalk’s Town.
Ward was among those who left us and he was unwilling to go. His departure was a great relief to me. His presence frightened the girl, although she gave no sign of remembering him as having been a factor in her life. It was due entirely to Lost Sister’s appeal to Black Hoof that the renegade was ordered to Chillicothe.
As he was leaving us he promised me:
“I’ll yet see you eating fire. That white squaw will see me again.”
“I’ll dance your mangy scalp some time,” I retorted.
Whereat he used terms of abuse he had picked up from traders, and I struck him with my fist. Black Hoof stopped him from killing me, and threatened me with torture if I offended again. Then he ordered Ward to go.
The chief continued with us to Cornstalk’s Town, but Cornstalk was not there; so he went in search of him at Grenadier Squaw’s Town. Before leaving he gave orders that I was not to be molested so long as I did not attempt to escape. The town was inhabited by women and children largely, with a dozen men left to act as hunters.
It was plain that the fighting men of the tribe were gathering somewhere, probably at Chillicothe. Patricia was believed to be in touch with the manito, and was feared and respected accordingly. The days that followed were not unhappy for me; and Patricia appeared to be contented in a numb sort of way.
My own reaction to the anxieties and fears of our captivity devitalized me to a certain degree, I believed; else, I would not have been contented to settle down to the drowsy existence of village life. I did no hunting. I was a companion to the girlwhen she wished for my company. Aside from that capacity the Indians looked on me as if I had been a tree.
I talked on general subjects with Lost Sister, always waiting for her to blaze the trace our words were to follow. Her red husband remained aloof from her from the day she took charge of Patricia. Whether he resented her companionship with us I do not know, and after our arrival he disappeared for a time.
I discovered I was lacking in curiosity as to what each morrow had in store for us. It savored of the indifference of the fatalist. But I did come to the alert when I observed Patricia was rapidly returning to normal. I remembered Lost Sister’s warning, “She must keep close to her manito.” I was forced to repeat these words to her.
It was one of the hardest tasks I ever undertook. She suffered deeply when she began to grasp my meaning. She began to remember things concretely. Yet life was the stake, and the fact that my life was also involved helped her much. With the aid of Lost Sister I taught her how to be ever on her guard, how to carry herself when in the presence of the silent but ever watchful Indians.
Once the shock wore off somewhat she found it was not difficult to keep up her rôle. The most effective way to allay any suspicion was for her to talk aloud to herself. The savages believed she washolding conversation with inmates of the invisible world, and drew away from her. But while she improved, my lethargy continued. My physical and mental strength seemed to be sapped. I was content to lie on the bank of the creek, my mind idling with vagaries.
Some six weeks passed in this desultory fashion, then Cornstalk and Black Hoof returned to the village with three warriors and a negro woman. The woman had been captured at Sapling Grove within three hundred yards of Captain Evan Shelby’s house, the woman told me. She also informed me that her captors were led by a very large man, much whiter than any of his companions, and that he talked good English.
This description fitted either John Logan or Will Emery, the Cherokee half-breed. I decided the man was Logan. The woman was treated kindly. Immediately on arrival the two chiefs retired to a wigwam for a long talk. Then Black Hoof sent for me and Patricia. I warned her to pay no attention to them, and to talk much to herself. She acted admirably and was kept in the wigwam only a few minutes.
Cornstalk had watched her closely, and both he and Black Hoof were uneasy and relieved when she departed. Toward me their manner was incisive, and they demanded certain information. As I knew conditions had changed vastly since I was capturedI talked freely and improvised considerably. There was no military value whatever to the news that I imparted.
Cornstalk, who was a large man and of a commanding appearance, and possessing unusual intellectual powers, was keen to learn about individuals, especially about Daniel Boone. He asked how many men Boone could lead against the Shawnees. I told him all the border men would be glad to serve under him, that he was collecting fighting men when I was taken prisoner.
“Your tongue is split,” Cornstalk warned. “Be careful, or we will say that young medicine-woman does not need a liar to care for her. Be careful, or your tongue will be pulled out. The Shawnees will be glad to warm themselves at your fire. That man was sent to the Falls of the Ohio. He has returned to the settlements. He commands three forts in the lower valleys. Will he head riflemen to battle, or stay at the forts?”
I truthfully answered that I believed he would be given an important command. And I explained how Colonel Lewis would be over him as he would be over many other brave leaders. They knew Lewis and feared him. Their faces were very glum until I repeated Connolly’s message to Charles Lewis that peace with the tribes was very possible. Then they smiled grimly and Cornstalk informed me.
“Your Dunmore ordered his Long Knives tomarch against Shawnee towns ten sleeps after you were captured.”[5]
I was startled at the information and glanced through the opening of the wigwam as if expecting to see the lean militia men breaking from the woods. The chief added:
“But they seem to have trouble in starting. Perhaps they are very old men and can not walk fast. I shall send my young men across the Ohio to dig them out of the mud.”
“The Cherokees will not join the Shawnees,” I ventured.
Cornstalk eyed me menacingly.
“They will not because they have old women among them. They put their powder in bags, and put the bags in caves. Their powder is spoiled. After I whip your army the Cherokees will carry their axes into the Carolinas.”
I believed the Cherokees would do this, if our army were whipped. Turning to Black Hoof, Cornstalk asked:
“How long before you roast this white man?”
“After we have whipped the army of Dunmore and Lewis and Boone. Now he waits on the medicine-woman. After the battle there will be many white women to wait on her.”
I was dismissed and on reaching the open air I discovered I had left all my apathy behind me. The importance of time and the imperative need of immediate action was burned into my brain by Black Hoof’s words. I sought Patricia and found her seated on the bank, staring into the sluggish waters.
“I was thinking of you, Basdel,” she greeted, and she reached her hand to me. “I was remembering what I said in Salem about your rifle. I’m sorry. I did wrong.”
“Heavens, child! Abuse the rifle all you will!”
“It was abuse of you and of all that your rifle stood for. I mocked you because you were from the border. Poor father! He knew many Indians, but he did not understand them. Town ways seem mighty small and of no account now.”
“Patsy, you must get a grip on yourself. We must get clear of this village at once. We must get back to Virginia.”
She shivered and her eyes dilated as she stared at me and she muttered:
“I dread the woods, the silence, the darkness. The wolves howling at night. Worst of all is the creeping horror of being chased. No! No! I can’t stand any more, Basdel. The black horror comes over me when I let myself think of it. The dank woods—the silence—the awful stealth of night. No, no, Basdel. Let me die here.”
“Patsy, grip yourself! You can’t stay amongthese beggars. They think you are insane. That’s why they’ve spared you. But there’s going to be a battle soon. If they win they’ll bring many prisoners here. You must not be here then.”
She interrupted me with a little heart-broken cry and clapped her hands to her eyes to blot out some horrid picture. It was harsh, but the way she was inclining led to permanent madness.
“We will steal away and make the Ohio. The Indians are busy planning for the big battle. They’ll not spare many men to seek us. I will take you back to Virginia and across the mountains.”
“Or we will both die,” she whispered. “That wouldn’t be bad. To die and be out of it all—But I mustn’t speak for you, Basdel.”
“You speak for both of us,” I comforted. “Death isn’t terrible. This is.” And I swept my hand in a half-circle at the Shawnee wigwams forming the village. “Say nothing to Cousin’s sister. I will make my plans at once. A gun, some powder and lead, and then we will go.”
“And never come back to them alive?” she insisted, and she leaned forward and stared intently into my eyes.
“Never alive, sweetheart.”
“That is much better,” she quietly remarked. “And here comes my sister. She has been very good to me. I wish we could take her with us. Over the mountains, or to death.”
“She refused to go over the mountains with her brother. We must tell her nothing,” I warned.
Lost Sister gave me a quick glance as she came up. She gazed at Patricia in silence for a moment, then warned:
“The white woman must keep close to her manito. The eyes of the eagle and the ears of the fox are in this village.”
“She is having bad thoughts,” I told her. “Lead her thoughts through new paths.”
As I strolled away I heard her beginning a Shawnee myth, in which it was explained why the wet-hawk feeds while flying, and how the small turkey-buzzard got its tufted head.
According to the notches cut in my long stick it was the first day of September. Now that Cornstalk was back and in conference with Black Hoof the village became a center of importance. Notable chiefs and medicine-men of the northern tribes began to assemble. Lost Sister pointed out to me Puck-e-shin-wa, father of a six-year-old boy, who was to become one of the most remarkable Indian characters in our history, under the name of Tecumseh.
Young Ellinipsico, son of Cornstalk, was there, gay in his war-trappings and eager for the battle. Blue Jacket, another famous Shawnee chief and warrior, was in attendance. Of the allied tribes I saw Chiyawee the Wyandot, Scoppathus the Mingo,Redhawk the Delaware, and most interesting of all, John Logan, chief of the Mingos.
He was the son of a French man, who was adopted by the Oneidas, but he always claimed kin to the Cayuga, the term “Mingo” being loosely applied by our border men to any fragments of the Iroquois living outside the Long House in New York Province. Logan came and went inside an hour, spending all his time in a secret conference with Cornstalk.
I saw him as he strode through the little village, looking neither to right nor left, saturnine of countenance. He showed his white blood, being much lighter in complexion than the full-bloods. A warrior walked behind him, carrying his gun. The chief himself carried a long wand decorated with the ten or twelve scalps he had taken since Baker and Greathouse massacred his people at Baker’s Bottom.
Young Cherokees, stolen away from their nation to be in at the death of the white race in Virginia, were present without leaders. Black Hoof’s long absence from the villages was explained when a full score Ottawas filed into the opening and sang their war-song. Their spokesman loudly announced that they were but the advance of many of their tribe.
I feared I had waited too long, and was much relieved to learn from Lost Sister that warriors and chiefs were to move to Chillicothe at once and thereawait the coming of the western bands. Their going would leave our village practically deserted except for aged and broken men and the women and children.
Lost Sister said her husband was eager to take the path, and that it was Cornstalk’s plan to cross the Ohio instead of waiting to be attacked in his own country. She was vague as to the chief’s exact plans once he had crossed the river, but by joining her brief statements together I was led to believe Cornstalk had learned that the Virginia forces had been split into two armies, and that the masterly red strategist planned to surprise and annihilate one, and then attack the second. This information alone was of sufficient importance for me to risk my life many times in order to apprise my superiors of the trap being set for them.
By the time the sun was half-way down the afternoon sky all the chiefs were moving down the river bound for Chillicothe. Young Ellinipsico and a mixed band of warriors were left to arrange for guarding the girl. He would depart for Chillicothe on the morrow. I went in search of the girl and met Lost Sister standing by a big honey-tree. She asked me if I had seen her husband, and looked worried when I shook my head.
“He said he would not go without seeing me, and yet he is not here in the village. Your white woman—she walks far from her manito. It is bad for her.”
“She must leave here,” I boldly said. “I must take her away.” I had had no intention of taking her into my confidence, but I realized it would be impossible to make a start without her missing the girl. So I took the desperate course and did what I had warned Patricia not to do.
She drew her knife and cut some straight marks on the honey-tree.
“You see those?” she asked.
I bowed my head. Without explaining the relevancy of her question, she turned and walked rapidly toward the village. I stared at the marks and they told me nothing. There was nothing pictorial about them. I followed her among the wigwams, and was in time to see her leading Patricia into her wigwam. I sauntered after them, obsessed by the notion that strange forces were at work. The village seemed to be quiet and sleepy and yet the air was surcharged with threats of things about to happen.
When the storm broke it was from a quarter entirely different from anything I could have imagined. My first intimation that something unusual was happening was when a Shawnee ran into the village and began talking to Ellinipsico, who was lounging sleepily on the grass before his father’s wigwam. I heard Ellinipsico exclaim:
“He must not be hurt. He has felt the hand of the great manito on his head.”
I looked about for a weapon, so that I might go down fighting, for I first thought the stranger Indians were demanding me for a plaything, not understanding my true status as servant to the medicine-woman. I knew this was not the solution of the affair when Ellinipsico jumped to his feet and ran to the edge of the village, at every bound shouting to the Ottawas to hurry back to the village.
A loud outcry answered him from the forest. To my amazement Ellinipsico slowed down his mad pace and appeared to be reluctant to enter the woods. The few Shawnees and Mingos in the village followed his example in timidity. Then above the war-cry of the Ottawas rose the roar of Baby Kirst, punctuated by the crack of a rifle and the death-yell of a savage.
Now I understood. The Ottawas, ignorant of Kirst’s condition, had met him blundering through the woods and had essayed to halt his progress. He promptly had offered fight, and they were at it, with the odds greatly in favor of the Indians. In my excitement I ran to where Ellinipsico stood. He was dancing with rage and fright. Beholding me, he ordered me to dive into the growth and stop the fight.
I glanced back and saw Lost Sister and Patricia leaving the wigwam. Lost Sister began leading her charge toward the south end of the village and jerked her head at me as though calling on me tofollow. It was driven into my mind that this was the time to escape with the girl. I plunged into the woods and no Indian cared to dog my steps.
I made as if to go to the scene of the fearful confusion, but once out of sight of Ellinipsico and his men I turned to intercept the course taken by Lost Sister and Patricia. I miscalculated the distance, or else the combatants made a rapid shift of ground, for before I knew it I was standing on the edge of a most ferocious struggle. Kirst was still mounted and bleeding from a dozen wounds. His long rifle was being swung for a club.
My first view of him was as he splintered the butt on an Ottawa head. He bawled in triumph. The Ottawas, expecting no diversion so near the village, were armed only with their knives and axes. A fellow leaped on to the horse and tried to stab him from behind, and one immense hand reached back and caught him by the neck and held him in midair, and squeezed the life from the painted body, and then hurled him among the remaining warriors.
The girl must come first, but it was not in my heart to pass without contributing something to Kirst’s advantage. I snatched up a war-club, dropped by a slain savage, and hurled it into the thick of them, bowling over two. Kirst’s horse went down, disemboweled. Now Kirst was at a great disadvantage, but his long arms gathered up two of the Ottawas, and I heard their ribs crack, as with apleased grunt the simple fellow contracted his embrace.
But now they were piling upon him, striking and stabbing, a living mound which for the moment concealed the big fellow. Then the mass began to disintegrate, and savages staggered back and fell dead, or suffering from terrible wounds. Kirst rose to his feet only to fall on his face as if shot through the head, although he received no wound at the time that I could perceive.
My last glance was fleeting, but it sufficed to count six silent forms of Ottawas who would never cross the Ohio to attack Lord Dunmore’s armies. One Indian, gasping with pain, with both arms hanging like rags, lurched by me but not seeing me, his gaping mouth trying to sound his death-song. Ellinipsico was calling on his men to follow him, and I sped away.
Baby Kirst had fulfilled his destiny and would babble his way through the forests no more. The force which had destroyed his reason had paid the full price the law of compensation had worked out.
Could I find the girl without returning to the village I hoped the confusion resulting from the bloody struggle would permit me to steal away with her. I swung back toward the opening and soon discovered Patricia and Lost Sister. The latter on beholding me called me by name, the first time she had ever done so. As I ran to them she fiercely said:
“Take your white woman and go! Cross the Ohio but do not go up the Kanawha. Follow the Guyandotte or Sandy, into the valley of the Clinch. You must hurry!”
As if the day had not been hideous enough a bepainted warrior burst through the undergrowth as she finished, with his bow raised and an arrow drawn to the head. Beneath the war vermilion, I recognized Lost Sister’s husband. She threw out her arms and smiled scornfully and cried:
“You hide in the bushes to watch me? I thought so.”
Then she was down with an arrow buried to the feathers.
I leaped into the bushes and grappled with the murderer before he could draw another arrow from his quiver. He dropped his bow and endeavored to hurl me to the ground. As we whirled about I saw Patricia kneeling beside Lost Sister and striving to pet her back to life. One glimpse, and then all my attention was needed for my adversary. He was quicker than I, and his freshly oiled body made him hard to hold; but I was far the stronger.
“His knife, Basdel; Look out;” screamed Patricia; and I was glad to note there was no madness in her voice.
I had him by his right wrist, my left arm shoved under his chin and into his red throat. The girl’s gaze sent my gaze downward. He was trying towork the knife from its sheath before I could force him backward or break his neck. But the sheath was too long for the knife and he could not reach the handle with his fingers until he had forced the blade upward by pinching the tip of the sheath. I did not try to interfere with his maneuver, but settled myself solidly to hold him from escaping.
“The knife, Basdel!” she shrilly repeated. Then she nearly upset my calculations by trying to thrust a bough between my foe’s feet. Only by a nimble maneuver did I escape being tripped; but it was heartening to know Patricia could respond to my needs.
“Stand clear!” I panted. “I have him!”
“But the knife!” she despairingly cried.
“He’s getting it for me!” I replied.
Now he had managed to work the haft clear of the leather and his left hand was closing on it. His eyes told me that much. Instantly I changed my tactics. I dropped my left arm to seize his left wrist. I released his right wrist and with my free hand tore the weapon from his grasp. He struck me in the head with his free fist, but I felt it none as he did not have the white man’s trick of delivering a buffet. We went down side by side, and by the time we had rolled over once he was dead by his own knife.
Retaining the weapon, I ran to Patricia as she collapsed by the side of the dying woman.
“I am all right! Get up!” I commanded.
Cousin’s sister smiled grimly, and whispered:
“He has been watching us. He saw me come here when I scratched the tree. He has been hiding—The marks I made on the honey-tree—Look behind it—the pea-vines—. Tell Shelby I send him a little sister—” And she had solved all her problems, and had passed into the compassion of the manito whose gentleness and understanding surpass all comprehension.
Patricia was weeping softly, as one who sorrows with an aching heart, but not as one who is afraid. I gathered her up in my arms and made for the honey-tree close by. I stood her on her feet, and exhorted her to be brave as the time had come for us to take to flight. I plunged into the pea-vines behind the tree. A new thrill of life fired me as I fished out my own rifle, a powder-horn, shot-pouch and linen patches. Cousin’s sister had even remembered to provide a roll of buckskin and an awl for mending our moccasins, and a small package of smoked meat.
Thus armed once more I took the girl’s hand and stole through the woods, following the well-beaten path that led to Chillicothe, and planning to swing to the east and skirt the town under the cover of darkness. I desired to emerge on the Ohio at a point opposite the mouth of the Big Sandy. For some time we could hear the wailing and howlingof the Shawnees in Cornstalk’s Town as they mourned for the dead Ottawas, and Patricia was sadly frightened. My ears were tingling for fear they would catch the cry of discovery, but young Ellinipsico was there instead of Black Hoof, and our flight was undiscovered.
[5]Expedition against Indian towns ordered July 24th. Boone returned from Kentucky to the settlements August 27th.
Expedition against Indian towns ordered July 24th. Boone returned from Kentucky to the settlements August 27th.
CHAPTER XIBACK TO THE BLUE WALL
We reached the Ohio and I soon found a canoe. The trip down the Scioto had its danger thrills, and twice we narrowly escaped meeting bands of warriors on the main trace. I stuck to the path because of its advantages. None below us knew we had left the upper town, and would not be looking for us. In the beaten path there was much less chance of leaving signs for some scout to pick up and follow. I knew warriors would be scouring the country in all directions once the news of our escape was carried to Chillicothe, but the Scioto path was the last one they would expect us to take.
I had remembered Lost Sister’s warning and planned to follow the Big Sandy until its head waters interlocked with those of the Clinch and Holston. It was nerve-wearing work, that crossing of the Ohio. With each dip of the paddle I expected rifles to crack behind me and canoes to poke their noses through the overhanging foliage and make after us. I could not see that the girl breathed duringthe crossing, and I kept her in front of me as her face was a mirror to reflect instantly any danger on the Indian shore.
We landed at the mouth of Four-Mile Creek without any disturbing incidents. I told her we were four miles above the mouth of the Scioto and she was for placing more distance between us and that river at once. But it was impossible to travel all the time. Now we were foot-free, and as I had my rifle the Shawnees would pay high before catching up with us, I assured her. I had been at Four-Mile Creek the year before to survey five hundred acres of good bottom-land for Patrick Henry, and was of course familiar with the locality.
Five hundred yards back from the Ohio was an old fort. I took the girl there to rest while I patched our moccasins. The Indians said this structure was so ancient that no one knew who built it. As a matter of fact it was the remains of George Croghan’s stone trading-house. Traces of an Indian town, antedating the fort, were also to be observed. Very possibly it was occupied by the Shawnees before they built their first town at the mouth of the Scioto on the west bank. It was from this Scioto town that Mary Ingles escaped in 1755, and the history of her daring and hardships rather belittled my feat in bringing Patricia from the upper town.
The poor girl continued extremely nervous andI feared she would collapse. Now that she had tasted freedom she feared the Indians were hot on our trail. Her gaze was constantly roving to the Ohio. She was fearing to behold the Shawnees paddling across to recapture us. The moccasins had to be mended, however, as the night travel down the Scioto path had sadly damaged them.
As I sewed the whangs through the rips and hastily patched the holes I could see her worriment was increasing. That period of delay was more trying to her fortitude than when we were making the détour around Chillicothe and our very lives hung on luck, or the mercy of her manito.
“There is something in the river,” she whispered, her slight figure growing rigid.
“Only a log,” I told her.
“Look! Isn’t there something moving in the bushes?” And she clutched my arm.
“Only the wind ruffling the tops,” I soothed.
She was silent for a few minutes and then confessed:
“I dread and hate the river, Basdel. I wish we could get out of sight of it.”
“It’s a short trip in the canoe to the Big Sandy.”
“And with the possibility of an Indian hiding behind every stump and log along the shore!”
“Then we will hide the canoe and strike across the bend. A few creeks to cross, and inside of two days we should reach the Big Sandy. It’s aboutthirty-five miles and there is the blaze left by the surveyors. Do you wish that? It will be harder for your feet than riding in the canoe. It may be easier on your nerves.”
“Anything, Basdel, to get away from the river! And can’t we start now? I know we shall see the Indians coming across to catch us if we stay here much longer.”
I tossed her her moccasins and quickly mended mine and put them on. Leaving her to wait until I could draw up the canoe and hide it, I proceeded to conceal all traces of our landing as best I could, and then told her I was ready.
The bottoms on this side of the river are narrower than on the Indian shore, and the old surveyors’ blaze proved to be a wet path. The small creeks were bordered with cane and when we encountered them it was hard on the girl. But she minded hardships none, and once we were out of sight of the river she regained some of her spirits. But a glimpse of the blue river brought back her old fears as though the Ohio were some monster able to reach out and seize her.
Before night I proved the river could be good to us. Against her will I had swung down to the shore and was leading her along a narrow beach in order to escape a bad tangle of briers when I had the good fortune to discover a bateau lodged against the bank. The girl begged me not to go near italthough it was obviously empty. I insisted and was rewarded with a bag containing a bushel of corn. Now we could have cooked it in our kettle had we been provided with that indispensable article. As it was there was life in munching the corn.
The undergrowth was a nuisance, being composed of pea-vines, clover, nettles, cane and briery berry bushes. I would not stop to camp until I could reach a tract free from the stuff. As a result it was nearly sunset by the time we halted in a mixed growth of hickory, ironwood and ash on the banks of a tiny creek. Here we could pick a path that left no signs. We rested a bit and then followed the creek toward its outlet for half a mile and came to a log cabin.
The girl dropped to the ground, glaring as if we were beholding the painted head of a Shawnee. I assured her it was a white man’s cabin and probably empty. Leaving her behind an elm, I scouted the place and satisfied myself there had been no recent visitors there. I called to her to join me and proudly displayed an iron kettle I had found by the door. But when I would have left her to make the kettle boil while I looked for a turkey, she refused to stay and insisted on accompanying me.
Fortunately I perched a turkey within two hundred feet of the cabin. I hung the kettle in the fireplace and built a good fire under it and then dressed the turkey. For some reason the girl preferred theopen to the cabin and remained outside the door. As I finished my task she called to me excitedly. Grabbing my rifle, I ran out. She was pointing dramatically at a big blaze on a mulberry-tree. The scar was fresh, and on it some one had written with a charred stick:
Found some people killed here. We are gone down this way. Douglass.
“What does it mean?” she whispered, her eyes very big as she stared at the dusky forest wall.
“That would be James Douglass,” I mused. “He came down here with Floyd’s surveying-party last spring. I wonder who was killed.”
“Enough to know the Indians have been here,” she said, drawing closer to me. “Can’t we go the way they did and be safe?”
“We might make it. But ’gone down this way’ means they started for New Orleans. A long, roundabout journey to Williamsburg.”
“Oh, never that! I didn’t understand,” she cried. “I will be braver. But if the nearest way home was by the Ohio I would go by land. Anything but the river! Remember your promise that we are not to be taken alive. Now let’s push on.”
“And leave this excellent shelter?” I protested.
“Men have been killed here. I can’t abide it. A few miles more—please.”
Of course she had her own way, but I made her wait until we had cooked some corn to a mush and I had broiled the turkey. I could have told her it would be difficult for us to select any spot along the river which had not been the scene of a killing. So we took the kettle and left a stout, snug cabin and pushed on through the darkness to the top of a low ridge, where I insisted we must camp. We made no fire.
I estimated the day’s travel to have been twelve miles at the least, which was a good stint for a man, let alone a girl unused to the forest. Nor had the work wearied her unduly. At least she had gained something from her captivity—a strength to endure physical hardships which she had never known before. With good luck and half-way decent footing I believed another sunset would find us at the Big Sandy. That night was cold and I sorely regretted our lack of blankets.
Before sunrise I had a fire burning and the kettle of mush slung on a green sapling for further cooking. Patricia was curled up like a kitten, and I recovered my hunting-shirt and slipped it on without her knowing I had loaned it to her for a covering. She opened her eyes and watched me a few moments without comprehending where she was. With a little cry she jumped to her feet and roundly unbraided me for not calling her to help in the work.
I pointed out a spring, and by the time she wasready to eat the hot mush and cold turkey, the fire was out and we were ready to march. Our lack of salt was all that prevented the meal from being very appetizing. We were not inclined to quarrel with our good fortune, however, but ate enough to last us the day. As the first rays touched the tops of the trees we resumed the journey.
We covered a good ten miles when we had our first serious mishap since leaving the Indian village. Patricia had insisted she be allowed to take the lead where the blazed trees made the trace easy to follow. I humored her, for she kept within a rod of me. We struck into a bottom and had to pick our way through a stretch of cane.
Afraid she might stumble on to a bear and be sadly frightened, I called on her to wait for me. But she discovered a blaze on a sycamore beyond the cane and hurried forward. Half-way through the cane she slipped on a wet root and fell on her side. Ordinarily the accident would not have been serious, but the moment I saw the expression of pain driving her face white I knew she was hurt. I dropped the kettle and picked her up. She winced and groaned and said it was her arm. I carried her to the high ground and made her sit while I examined her hurt. I expected to find the bone broken. I was happily disappointed, and yet she was hurt grievously enough. A section of cane had penetrated the upper arm near the shoulder, making anasty wound. As the cane had broken off in the flesh it was necessary for me to play the surgeon. Using a pair of bullet-molds I managed to secure a grip on the ugly splinter and pull it out. She gave a little yelp, but did not move.
“The worst is over,” I told her. “Now we must dress it.”
Returning and securing the kettle, I dipped water from a spring and lighted a fire and hung the kettle to boil. Then I hunted for Indian medicine. I soon found it, the bark of a linn or bee-tree root. This I pounded and bruised with the butt of my rifle and threw it into the kettle to boil. Patricia remained very patient and quiet, her eyes following my every move.
“You’re as useful as a housewife, Basdel,” she remarked. “More useful than most women could be.”
“Only a trick learned from the environment,” I lightly replied. “Does it hurt much?” This was rhetorical, for I knew a stab wound from the cane smarted and ached most disagreeably.
“Not much,” she bravely replied. “I’m sorry to bother you, though.”
“You’ll soon be as fit as a fiddle,” I assured her. “Border men are continually helping each other in this fashion.”
As soon as the kettle boiled I washed the wound in the liquid and made sure all of the cane had beenremoved. This additional probing caused her pain but she showed no signs not even by flinching. The application at once had a soothing effect. We waited until the medicine had cooked down to a jelly-like consistency, when I applied it as a salve, working it into and thoroughly covering the wound. Then I tied it up with a strip torn from her skirt. Rather rough surgery, but I knew it would be effective.
She bitterly lamented over the time we were losing, and blamed herself so severely that I finally consented to go on, providing she would keep behind me. Had the hurt been in her foot we would have been forced to camp for several days.
Toward night the country grew more broken and much rougher, and I knew we were nearing the Sandy. I feared she might trip over some obstacle, and we camped before the light deserted us. I told her we were within a few miles of the river and that we ought to strike it at the mouth of Savage Creek, some four or five miles from the Ohio. After starting a fire, she volunteered to remain and feed it while I looked for game. This in the way of doing penance, perhaps. I had the good luck to shoot a deer and we dined on venison.
After we had eaten she sat close by the fire and was silent for many minutes. That she was meditating deeply was shown by her indifference to the night sounds which usually perturbed her. Thehowling of the wolves, and the scream of a panther, leaping to make a kill, passed unheard. Suddenly she declared:
“You were right, Basdel.”
“About what, Patsy?”
“About my not fitting in west of the mountains.”
“That was said before you were tried. No woman, even border-born, could be more brave than you have been.”
“And I was so woefully wrong when I made fun of your long rifle. I want you to forgive me.”
“Patsy, don’t. You are wonderful.”
“Still being good to me, Basdel. But I know the truth now. Back over the mountains I was wicked enough to feel a little superior to frontier folks. No. Don’t wave your hands at me. I must say it. I even felt a little bit of contempt for those brave women who went barefooted. God forgive me! I was a cat, Basdel. A vicious cat!”
“Good heavens, Patsy! Say it all and have done with it. Call yourself a pirate.”
She would not respond to my banter, but fell to staring into the handful of coals. Then the tears began streaming down her face, and at last she sobbed:
“Poor girl! Poor girl! She was a wonderful friend to me. She never had any chance, and you can never know how hard she tried to keep my spirits up; how ready she was to stand betweenme and harm—me, who has had every chance! And to end like that! And yet it was far worse to live like that. It’s best as it is, but God must be very good to her to make up for what she lost. Tell me, Basdel, did she suffer much when she died?”
She could be talking only of Cousin’s sister. I declared:
“She suffered none. It’s best for her as it is.”
She fell asleep with her back against a black walnut, and I spread my hunting-shirt over her, for the air was shrewdly cool. In the dying coals I saw pictures, wherein Kirst, Dale, and Lost Sister paraded in turn; the fate of each the result of race-hatred, and a race-avidity to possess the land. And a great fear came over me that the girl leaning against the walnut, the mass of blue-black hair seeming to bow down the proud head, was destined to be added to the purchase-price the frontier was ever paying.
It was her talk and tears that induced this mood, for I knew the Shawnees would have overtaken us by this time had they found our trail on the Kentucky shore. Common sense told me that for the remainder of our journey we would, at worst, be compelled to avoid small scouting-parties that had no intimation of our presence on the Big Sandy.
But so many gruesome pranks had been played by Fate that I was growing superstitious. And Ifeared lest the girl should be snatched from me at the last moment, just as safety was almost within sight. I slept poorly that night and what little rest I did obtain was along toward morning.
The girl awoke me; and I felt my face burning as I beheld her standing there, staring down accusingly, the hunting-shirt spread across my chest. I sprang to my feet and slipped into the shirt, which was made like a coat, and waited for her to speak.
“So you’ve been sleeping cold,” she said.
“Nay. Very warm,” I replied, becoming busy with my moccasins.
“After this I will keep awake nights.”
“I did not need it. I always take it off at night It makes me too warm.”
“You lie most beautifully, Basdel.”
“How is the arm this morning?”
“Much better. But you must be more honest with me. You must not lie any more.”
“You’re making a mountain out of a hunting-shirt. It is too warm to wear at night in this mild weather.”
“You’re hopeless. Of course it is not too warm in the warm sunshine.”
I was glad to let it go at that. And there was no warm sunshine this morning. The heavens were overcast with gray cold clouds that rode high and brought wind rather than rain. We missed the sun. Town-dwellers can never know the degree of dependencethe forest wanderer places on the sunlight for his comfort and good cheer. Despair becomes gaiety under the genial rays. It is not surprising the sun should be the greatest of all mysteries to the Indians, and therefore their greatest medicine or god.
We ate of the venison and mush and started for the river. The distance was not great, but the way was very rough, and there were no more blazed trees to guide us, the surveyors’ trace passing below us and closer to the shore. But I was familiar with the lay of the land and it was impossible for me to go far wrong as long as all streams flowed into the Ohio and we crossed at right angles with their general course.
I carried the kettle slung on my rifle and with my right hand gave the girl aid when the path became unusually difficult. A wrenched ankle would leave us as helpless as a broken leg. It required three hours of painful effort to bring us to the Sandy.
I found a fording and carried her across to the east shore and soon located a trader’s trace. She never dreamed that her father often had traveled along this faint path in his visits to the Ohio Indians. Now that the footing was easier she had time to gaze about, and the aspect depressed her.
The immense hills of sandrock were worn into deep and gloomy ravines by the streams. In the walls of the ravines black holes gaped, for caveswere almost as numerous as springs. To encourage a lighter mood I explained that these very caves made the country an ideal place for hiding from the Indians.
She broke into my talk by moaning:
“May the good God help us! See that!”
She was pointing to a dark opening across the river. This framed the face of the devil. For a moment I was sadly startled, then laughed hysterically in relief.
“It’s a bear, with a white or gray marking on his face,” I explained. “He is harmless. See! He’s finished looking us over and goes back into his den.”
But the effect of the shock to her nerves did not wear off for some time. To prepare her against more glimpses of bruin I told her how the broken nature of the country made it a favorite region for bears, and that it had been long known along the border as a famous hunting-ground for the big creatures.
“I feel just as if it was the guardian spirit of an evil place, that it is spying on us and plotting to harm us,” she confessed.
Whenever the trace permitted I swung aside from the river and took to the ridges. The tops of these were covered with chestnuts and their sides with oaks. More than once on such détours I sighted furtive furry forms slipping away from their feast on the fallen nuts, but Patricia’s gaze was not sufficientlytrained to detect them; and she wandered through the groves without knowing we were literally surrounded by bears.
While a wild country, it was relieved by many beautiful touches. Such were the tulip-trees, or yellow poplar. Many of them towered a hundred feet with scarcely a limb to mar the wand-like symmetry of the six-foot boles. Scarcely less inspiring were the cucumber-trees, or mountain magnolias, which here reached the perfection of growth.
Scattered among these tall ones were white and yellow oaks; and they would be considered giants if standing alone. These were the serene gods of the forest, and they had a quieting influence on my companion. It was with regret that I led her back along the rough shore of the river.
I shot a young bear, but Patricia displayed a foolish repugnance and would eat none of it. Later in the day I killed a deer with such a minute charge of powder as emphatically to establish my excellence as a marksman for that one shot at least. We were nearly three days in making the Tug Fork of the Sandy.
The girl bore the hardships well. The wound on her arm healed rapidly, and whatever she actually suffered was mental rather than physical. Our kettle proved second only to my rifle in importance, and if the fare lacked the savor of salt our appetites made up for the deficit. When we reached the Tug we were in the region celebrated for Colonel AndrewLewis’ “Sandy Creek Voyage of Fifty-six,” as it was styled with grim facetiousness.
It was one instance when Colonel Lewis failed of carrying out an enterprise against the Indians. It was a retaliatory raid against the Shawnees and his force was composed of whites and Cherokees; and his lack of success was due largely to the inefficiency of the guides who undertook to pilot him to the mouth of the Sandy. I told the girl of the expedition as it was lacking in horrible details, and with other carefully selected narratives tried to keep her from brooding.
She seldom mentioned her father, and when she did it was usually connected with some phase of life over the mountains. I believe that she was so thankful to know he escaped the torture that his death lost much of poignancy. Only once did she revert to his taking off, and then to ask:
“Was there a single chance for him to escape?”
And I emphatically declared he never had the ghost of a chance from the moment he fell into Black Hoof’s hands.
Another ruse to keep her mind engaged was to trace out our course with a stick on a patch of bare earth. I showed how we should travel to the north fork of the Sandy and then strike to the head of Bluestone, and follow it nearly to the mouth before leaving it to cross New River; then a short journey to the Greenbriar and Howard’s Creek.
Had I had any choice I should have preferred totake her over the mountains to Salem, but my time was not my own and it was imperative that I leave her at the first place of safety and be about Governor Dunmore’s business. My decision to make Howard’s Creek was strengthened by an adventure which befell us near the end of our first day on the Tug. We were casting about for a place to camp when we came upon five Indians, three squaws and two hunters.
Patricia was greatly frightened on beholding them, and it was some time before I could make her understand that they were friendly Delawares, accompanied by their women, and not painted nor equipped for war. After calming her I addressed them and learned they were from White Eye’s village. They were afraid to go near the settlements.
Many “Long Knives,” as they called the Virginia militia, were flocking to the Great Levels of the Greenbriar, and a forward movement of a whole army was shortly to be expected. As the presence of a large force of our riflemen so near Howard’s Creek would insure the safety of that settlement I knew it to be the proper ending of our journey.
I induced Patricia to remain in camp with the Indians while I went out and shot a bear. The bear was very fat and I gave all the meat to the natives, for which they were grateful. One of them had a smoothbore, but no powder. I could spare him none.
Patricia was now convinced the Indians would not harm us, but she would not consent to making camp near them. We walked several more miles before she was willing to stop and cook the kettle.
My tally-stick gave the thirteenth of September as the date of our arrival at Howard’s Creek. The settlers informed me I had lost a day somewhere on the long journey and that it was the fourteenth. Nearly all the young and unmarried men were off to fight in Colonel Lewis’ army, and many of the heads of families, including Davis and Moulton.
Those who were left behind gave us a royal welcome. Uncle Dick, the aged one, fell to sharpening his long knife with renewed vigor. Patricia and I had been counted as dead. Dale’s death had been reported by young Cousin, and it caused no great amount of sorrow. The girl was never allowed to suspect this indifference. In reply to my eager inquiries I was told that Shelby Cousin was at the Great Levels, serving as a scout.
For once Howard’s Creek felt safe. With nothing to worry about the men and women became garrulous as crows. The children played “Lewis’ Army” from sunrise to sunset. The Widow McCabe swore she would put on a hunting-shirt and breeches and go to war. The passing of men between the levels and the creek resulted in some news and many rumors. The meeting-place at the levels was called Camp Union. Colonel Lewis, pursuantto orders from Governor Dunmore, had commenced assembling the Augusta, Botetourt and Fincastle County troops at the levels on August twenty-seven. Cornstalk’s spies had served him well!
His Lordship was to lead an army, raised from the northwest counties and from the vicinity of Fort Pitt, down the Ohio and unite with Colonel Lewis at the mouth of the Great Kanawha. Colonel Charles Lewis, with some Augusta and Botetourt troops, had left Camp Union on September sixth to drive the cattle and four hundred pack-animals to the mouth of the Elk, where he was to make canoes for transporting provisions to the Ohio.
The main army had marched from Camp Union on the twelfth, although Colonel Lewis had received a letter from Dunmore, urging that the rendezvous be changed to the mouth of the Little Kanawha. Colonel Lewis had replied it was impossible to alter his line of march.
From a fellow sent out to round up stray bullocks I learned the army would avoid the deep gorge and falls in the river by marching ten miles inland and parallel to the east bank, joining Colonel Charles Lewis at the Elk.
By another man I was told how the militia men were given to shooting away their precious ammunition, and how the colonel had warned that unless the practise ceased no more powder would be givenout. That the Indians were active and not afraid of the troops was evidenced by an attack on Stewart’s Fort, only four miles from Camp Union. And this, before the troops marched.
Colonel William Christian was in command of the rear-guard, and his men were much disgruntled at the thought of not being in the forefront of the fighting. What was most significant to me, although only an incident in the estimation of the men left at Howard’s Creek, was the attack made by two Indians on two of Lewis’ scouts, Clay and Coward by name.
The scouts had separated and one of the Indians fired on and killed Clay. Thinking him to be alone, the Indians ran to get his scalp, and Coward at a distance of a hundred yards shot him dead. Coward then ran back toward the line of march and the surviving Indian fled down the Great Kanawha to inform the Shawnee towns that the Long Knives were coming.
I lost no time in securing a horse and a supply of powder and in hurrying to say good-by to Patricia. She was very sober when I told her I was off to overtake the army. Placing both hands on my shoulders, she said:
“Basdel, I know you’ve forgiven all the disagreeable things I’ve said to you. I will wait here until I hear from you. I will pray that you have an equal chance with the other brave men.”
“I will come back and take you over the mountains.”
“If you will only come back you may take me where you will, dear lad, even if it be deeper into the wilderness,” she softly promised.
And Mrs. Davis bustled out of the cabin and energetically shooed the curious youngsters away.
And now I was riding away to battle, riding right joyously over the chestnut ridges and through the thick laurel, through stretches of pawpaw, beech and flowering poplar, with the pea-vine and buffalo grass soft underfoot. And my heart was as blithe as the mocking-bird’s and there was no shadow of tomahawk or scalping-knife across my path.
I knew the destiny of the border was soon to be settled, that it hinged on the lean, leather-faced riflemen ahead, but there was nothing but sunshine and glory for me in that September day as I hastened to overtake the grim-faced man who believed His Lordship, John Murray, fourth Earl of Dunmore, Viscount Fincastle, Baron of Blair, Monlin and of Tillimet, was Virginia’s last royal governor.