Our situation was communicated to the General, who promised to make provision for us, by giving us written passports, and authorizing us to draw rations on the road wherever we could find any belonging to the United States—which was all that we could expect, or all that we asked, as he had no authority to pay us money. We waited a day or two for the fulfilment of this promise, when we renewed our application, telling him our necessities, how long we had been from home, where we had been taken prisoners, our anxiety to pursue our journey—but all to no effect; we only obtained promises. Having renewed our petitions for a week, we began to despair of success, and thought of seeking help from some other quarter. We were now satisfied that it was the purpose of the commanding officer to detain us there, place difficulties in our way of going home, that thereby we might be induced to enlist; he supposed that we would not certainly undertake such a journey on foot, without money or passports. This did alarm one or two of the company, who took the bounty and enlisted for five years. The rest of us now resolved to make a start towards old Kentucky; but before we left we made one more unsuccessful effort to obtain the necessary papers from the General. By this time a kind and noble hearted young Lieutenant, whose name was Frederick, became interested in our welfare, and wrote us a passport to draw upon any supplies belonging to the Government. This answered a good purpose where the keepers were young and ignorant, and did not understand their business; but our order was often protested.
Notwithstanding my fatigue and exposure to the night air, and a chill every day, my strength had much increased, yet I feared the fatigues of the long journey before us; but to my astonishment I had the last chill on the evening before we left the encampment—I never had another.
On a beautiful morning, about the first of June, 1814, we left the American army near Plattsburg, turning our faces towards home with light hearts and little money. I had but twelve and a half cents, and I believe I was nearly as wealthy as any of the company. And now I feel utterly at a loss to describe my feelings. Until now we did not feel entirely free; though in the American camp, we were under sentinels and military restraint. We had been for so long a time in prison, and suffering, that we seemed to have reached a new world almost. We little thought of the journey that was before us, but talked cheerfully of our situation, as we passed many beautiful farms in high promise, situated upon the sides of the lake. Above all, we felt hearts of sincere gratitude to a kind Providence, who had delivered us out of the hands of wild and ferocious savages, and hard hearted tyrants, and had again brought our feet to stand upon the soil of freedom.
We made our way up the lake on the right bank until we came to the ferry, which we found some difficulty in crossing, because we had no money to pay our passage. We told the keeper the true story of our errand—where we had been, and where we were going: after some hesitancy he took us all over without any pay. We then took the road leading to the head of lake Champlain; some of the people along this road were kind, but others looked upon us with suspicion. Our appearance was very shabby indeed—the coarse clothes which we received in Quebec, the winter past, were all in rags and dirt, and having no possible opportunity of getting a new supply, we were compelled to appear before all in our way in this garb. Our rags may have been an advantage to us, as they attracted notice, and curiosity would induce many to ask us questions, and thus we would have an opportunity of telling our history, and so gain something to sustain us upon our journey. This afforded us a good opportunity of ascertaining the dispositions of men. Many were suitably affected with our situation, and offered relief; but other cold blooded animals had no compassion—they lived within and for themselves—and we found some so destitute of all sense of respect as even to insult us.
After travelling together a short distance, we began to find that it would be with difficulty that we could travel through that country without money. We consulted together what way would be the best for us to take, and concluded to separate, as beggars had better go in small companies. When we parted, it was with the understanding that we would try to meet again at Oleann Point, on the Alleghany river. Thus we bid each other farewell, and broke off into companies of four. The company to which I belonged took the road leading from the head of the lake to Utica, in the State of New York. This road was mostly turnpiked, which made the travelling worse for us, as we were nearly barefooted, and our feet soon became sore, so that our stages were short. It would be impossible for me to relate the particulars of this journey through the State of New York; but one thing truth compels me to state, and that is, we suffered more from hunger while passing through this State than in all the rest of the way from Quebec to Kentucky. We found the people generally either too proud or too stingy to give us food, or to treat us like human beings. In passing through the little towns and villages our appearance would immediately attract attention, and in a few minutes the people would gather around us in great numbers; they would ask us a number of questions, which we would fully answer, though they often suspected us for being deserters. We occasionally found in these companies, persons who were touched by our appearance and story, so they would turn out and raise a few shillings to help us on our journey. The money thus raised we considered as common property, to be used for the benefit of all. We made it last as long as possible, by always purchasing the cheapest articles of food, and never spending any unnecessarily.
When we arrived at Utica we found a recruiting party there; and here I picked up a pair of old shoes which had been thrown away by the soldiers; these enabled me to travel on the turnpike with more ease and speed. We found but few who were willing either to feed or lodge us without pay, though we only asked to lie upon the floor. Some absolutely refused to give us any shelter at all. I will here relate a case, and if I knew the name of the individual I would record it as a Warning to any one who might be tempted to treat any poor sufferer in like manner. After travelling hard all the day, we called at a house and asked the man the favor to stay and lie upon the floor until morning, at the same time informing him that we had been prisoners for some time, and that we were on our way to Kentucky, our native State, and that we would not ask him for any thing else. He told us pointedly that we could not sleep in his house. We then asked to sleep in the shop, (he was a wagon maker:) this he also refused; we then told him that we were much fatigued, and would be glad to have permission to lie down in his barn. He then refused in the most positive manner; telling us that there was a tavern about a mile ahead, and as they had the profit of travellers, they should have the trouble also. We left him to his conscience, and walked on toward the tavern, feeling that we were strangers indeed in a strange land, driven from door to door, fatigued and hungry, without one cent in our pockets, knowing not where we should find shelter; and returning too from fighting the battles of the country we were now passing through so poorly requited. At length we came to the tavern, and by stating our misfortunes we succeeded in gaining permission to sleep on the floor. Soon after our arrival supper was announced, but nothing was said to us. We laid down on the floor of the bar room hungry, tired and sleepy. If we had received such treatment in an enemy's country, we would not have been surprised, but we had been out fighting for the liberties of this very people—this made our sufferings the more acute. We made an early start next morning, supposing that the chance for breakfast would be as gloomy as that of the supper had been. We determined to go forward as far as possible, hoping soon to find another kind of people, who would help us.
When we applied in the evening for permission to lie in the barn, and were refused, there was a gentleman present who overtook us a day or two afterwards, and reminded us of the treatment, and that he was present; he gave each of us some money—he said that he had no money when he first saw us.
Not far from this hard place, we met a man of quite a different feeling. Near sunset we were passing his house, when he called to us and asked if we had any money; we told him we had none: "Well, you had better stop here with me and stay all night, for the man who keeps the next house is a tory, and will not permit you to stay without money." I need hardly say that we acceeded to his proposition. We were treated with kindness and hospitality, and for once fared well. This was a set-off to some former cases.
After we had passed through the thickly settled parts of New York, we came to the Gennessee country, which was at that time but thinly inhabited. We were now told that we would find serious difficulties in passing on without money; on the day that we entered what was called the wilderness we were entirely destitute, and had very serious fears of suffering more than we had yet been called to endure; but as our fears were rising to the highest pitch, we unexpectedly met a young officer belonging to the United States service; he inquired into our history carefully, and becoming satisfied with the account which we gave him of our capture and sufferings, he kindly gave us one dollar a piece, which was sufficient, with rigid economy, to carry us through the most dreaded part of the wilderness.
It may appear to the reader that I have given, a very cheerless and rigid account of the people along the road that we traveled through the State of New York; I am certain of the truth of the history, for a man starving knows when he receives any thing to eat, and also when he is refused. I am as certain of this part of the history, as that I was in the battle, and wounded at the river Raisin. Whether we fell upon the only niggardly people that lived in that part of the country, or whether the people were mostly tories there, I have no means of determining. It may be asked why I record these things? It may seem harsh to speak of them; it was much harsher to feel them. If people will sin publicly, and drive starving begging soldiers from their doors with contempt, those soldiers, if they should live to reach home, and should write an account of their trip, will be very likely to refer to such treatment. If those folks are yet living, a sermon upon "be careful to entertainstrangers," might not be entirely without its good effects upon them.
After passing through this wilderness, we began to draw near to Oleann Point, the place where we had agreed to meet again when we parted at the head of lake Champlain. One company overtook us on the same day that we arrived at Oleann. Here we had intended to take water, but we could hear of no craft going down the river. Our money was gone, and provisions were scarce and dear, so we could not stay long here. Necessity, the mother of invention, drove us to seek out some way of getting on. We numbered eight persons at this time; I remember the names ofPhilip Burns, Patrick Ewing, Simon Kenton, Thomas Bronaugh, William McMillanandThomas Whittington. At length we concluded to build a raft of slabs that we found lodged against a bridge; so we all went to work; having walked so far, our wind was pretty good, and got our raft completed by sunset—on Sunday too. We then procured some bread, and set sail down the river a little before dark, not knowing what was before us, whether there were dangerous passes, or falls in the river—such was our destitute situation, that we were compelled to go on. Our provisions were nearly out, and Indians chiefly inhabited the country along the river down towards Pittsburg. During the night we had some difficulty in passing the drift at the short bends that are in the Alleghany, but went on tolerably well until next morning about breakfast time. I had laid myself down upon the dry part of the raft and fallen asleep, not having slept any during the night, as there was not room for more than two or three to lie down at once. We now came in contact with a driftwood, and the current was so strong that the raft was taken under almost instantly—we scrambled up on the drift, and after some difficulty got ashore. The raft came out below, and went on; and then we were left on foot again, among the Indians called Corn Planters. Fortunately for us, we had taken a Yankee passenger aboard our raft, who had some money with him, with which we bought a canoe from an Indian in which we came down the river until we reached Pittsburg. Before we reached Pittsburg we met a recruiting party at the mouth of French creek; the officer was very kind—he furnished us with a room to sleep in—gave us flour and whiskey. His object was to enlist some of us; we did not tell him that we would not enlist; we sat up however and baked bread enough whilst the others were asleep to last us to Pittsburg; and before the officer was out of his bed in the morning, we were paddling on towards home.
When we arrived at Pittsburg, we sold the canoe for five dollars, and purchased bread, and almost immediately took passage on a salt boat bound for Kanawha. But whilst we were in Pittsburg we there saw the British soldiers that guarded us at Detroit prison—they had been taken at the battle of the Thames—they were at liberty to go to any part of the town, and to work for themselves. We took this opportunity to remind them of the difference between their treatment of us, and our treatment toward them; they were compelled to acknowledge the truth, and praised our officers very highly.
We paid our passage upon the salt boat, by working at the oars, all except myself, who was the cook for the company. When we floated down as far as Kanawha we were there set upon the shore, and were once more compelled to look about for the means of continuing our journey. After we had been there a few hours we saw a raft of pine plank floating down the river; we hailed the owner, asked for a passage, and were taken aboard. On this raft I floated down to Maysville, where, thanks to a superintending Providence, I once again set my feet upon Kentucky soil, and breathed the air of my native State. Now I was almost naked; no person, as well as I can remember, had offered me a single article of clothing since I left Quebec. I had exchanged my pantaloons, given to me in prison, for an old pair which I found on the boat, thrown away as useless by some of the boatmen; my shirt had, by slow degrees, entirely disappeared; I had some where picked up an old coat that had been the property of some regular soldier—these two articles constituted my wardrobe, entire—I was barefooted, but had an old hat.
My companions had all left me higher up the river, and gone across the country as a nearer way home. When I left the raft and went into the town my situation excited attention, and soon all my wants were supplied. Some gave the stuff, and a number of tailors joined, and in a few hours I was clothed, and furnished with money to bear my expenses home. I felt the difference here between warm and cold hearted people. My anxiety was great to pursue my journey, so I ascended the steep hill that hangs around Maysville, and made my way through Georgetown and Frankfort, to Shelbyville, at which place I arrived on the 20th day of June, A. D. 1814.
Here, at length, after an absence of nearly two years, during all of which time I had been exposed to sufferings, dangers and privations, not having slept upon a bed until my return to my native land, I found myself among the friends of my childhood and my own beloved kindred. I had left them, when a mere lad, as a volunteer soldier in the company commanded by Captain Simpson, and I came back to them a man in years, though feeble in strength and frail in appearance. The meeting indeed was unexpected to them, and none can tell the fullness of joy that reigned in my own heart.
A kind and merciful Providence had preserved and sustained me through all the perils with which I was surrounded, and unto Him do I give the praise for my safety. Many years have passed since the occurrences detailed in this narrative took place. I may now almost be classed in the number of old men. My avocations have been those of peace. I have, for nearly twenty years, as an ordained Minister of the Methodist Episcopal Church, endeavored to teach the mild doctrines of my blessed master. Yet it may not be without its use to my young countrymen to know what their fathers have suffered. I have told them a plain unvarnished tale, which while it may encourage them to be bold in their country's cause, may also, acquaint them with what they owe to the generation that has just preceded them.
W. ATHERTON.
Note.—On pages 29 and 30 of the foregoing narrative, mention is made of the reception, by the suffering volunteers, of a seasonable supply of clothes that had been made up and sent to the army by the patriotic ladies of Kentucky. I have, since the commencement of this publication, met with an article that appeared in the Frankfort Commonwealth (when that paper was under the editorial direction of Orlando Brown, Esq.) entitled "Kentucky Mothers," in which allusion is made to the same transaction. I have thought it not irrelevant to append it to this, as it shows, in a striking manner, the deep devotion to country felt by the ladies of Kentucky, and the extent of the sacrifices they were prepared to make. Although Mr. Brown did not give the name of this noble mother, I have his permission to state that the lady alluded to is the venerable Mrs. Elizabeth Love, who yet resides in Frankfort, beloved by all for her eminent worth, and characterized by high intellectual endowments associated with fervent piety, unaffected charity, and every trait that dignifies and adorns the female sex.
"The deep interest which passing events are giving to the history of the campaigns of the North-Western Army, naturally sets the memory to work in recalling the incidents that gave them their peculiar character. The achievments of the volunteers under the gallant Harrison, are written in the brightest pages of the records of their country, and must live so long as the human heart thrills at the contemplation of deeds of lofty heroism. But Kentucky does not point solely to her brave soldiers, and challenge admiration for them. Far, far from it; for to the noble mothers and daughters of our State belongs a chaplet of unfading laurels.Theyespoused the cause of their country with an ardour never surpassed in any land under the sun. Company after company, batallion after batallion, left the State for the scene of war, and although the bloodiest battles were fought, and men came home with thinned ranks and wearied frames, and the wail of the widow and the orphan was loud in the lament for the slain, the fire of patriotism burnt the brighter, and the women of Kentucky, never faltering, still urged on the men to battle. Although we were at that time but a very small boy, well do we remember all that passed under our observation at that stirring period. We remember the letters that were received from the volunteers describing their sufferings from cold and hunger and nakedness, and we remember, too, how the ladies united together for the purpose of sending clothing to the suffering soldiery. They formed themselves into sewing societies, made hunting shirts, knit socks, purchased blankets and fitted up all kinds of garments that could add to the comfort of the troops. The ladies of the town of Frankfort, alone, sent two wagon loads of clothing to the frontier, which arrived most timely, and warmed alike the hearts and bodies of the volunteers, for they reminded them that such wives and mothers and sisters deserved to be defended at every possible hazard.
A Spartan mother is said, on presenting a shield to her son, to have told him "to return,with it or upon it." It is recorded of another, that when her son complained of the shortness of his sword, she bade him "take one step nearer his enemy and he would find it long enough." And for such sayings as these, the Spartan women have ever since been renowned in history. We remember an incident that occurred in our own presence during the last war, that proves that a Kentucky mother was fully equal in courage and love of country to any of those whose fame has survived for so many ages. We beg leave to relate it, and will do so in as few words as possible.
Soon after the battle of the river Raisin, where the Captain of the Frankfort company (Pascal Hickman,) had been barbarously massacred in the officers' house after the surrender, Lieutenant Peter Dudley returned to Frankfort for the purpose of raising another company. The preceding and recent events of the campaigns had demonstrated to all that war was, in reality, a trade of blood, and the badges of mourning, worn by male and female, evidenced thathereits most dire calamity had been felt. He who wouldvolunteernow, knew that he embarked in a hazardous enterprise. On the occasion alluded to, there was a public gathering of the people. The young Lieutenant, with a drummer and fifer, commenced his march through the crowd, proclaiming his purpose of raising another company, and requesting all who were willing to go with him, to fall in the ranks. In a few moments he was at the head of a respectable number of young men; and, as he marched around, others were continually dropping in. There was, in the crowd of spectators, a lad of fifteen years of age; a pale stripling of a boy, the son of a widow, whose dwelling was hard by the parade ground. He had looked on with a burning heart, and filled with the passion of patriotism, until he could refrain no longer, and, as the volunteers passed again, he leaped into the ranks with the resolve to be a soldier. "You are a brave boy," exclaimed the Captain, "and I will take care of you;" and a feeling of admiration ran through the crowd.
In a little time, the news was borne to the widow, that her son was marching with the volunteers. It struck a chill into her heart, for he was her oldest son. In a few moments she came in breathless haste, and with streaming eyes, to the father of the editor of this paper, who was her nearest neighbor, and long tried friend. "Mr. Brown," said she, "James has joined the volunteers! the foolish boy does not know what he is about. I want you to make haste and get him out of the ranks. He is too young—he is weak and sickly. Mr. Brown, he will die on the march. If he does not die on the march he will be killed by the enemy, for he is too small to take care of himself. If he escapes the enemy he will die of the fever. Oh, my friend, go and take him away." After a few moments, she commenced again—"I do not know what has got into the boy—I cannot conceive why he wants to go to the army—he could do nothing, he is able to do nothing." Again she paused; and at last rising from her seat, with her eyes flashing fire, she exclaimed—"BUT I WOULD DESPISE HIM, IF HE DID NOT WANT TO GO!" That noble thought changed the current of her reflections, and of her grief—she went home, prepared with her own hands the plain uniform of that day for her son, and sent him forth with a mother's blessing. The lad went on with the troops, bore all the toils of the march, was in the battle at Fort Meigs, and fought as bravely and efficiently as the boldest man in the company. The widow's son again came home in safety. Her patriotism has not been unrewarded. On yesterday I saw that son bending over the sick bed of the aged mother. He is the only surviving child of a numerous family, and has been spared as the stay and prop of her declining years.
Is it any wonder that the Kentuckians are brave and chivalric? Were they otherwise, they would be recreant to the land of their birth, and a reproach to their mothers' milk."
Erratum.—ForCaptain Watson, readCaptain Matson, wherever it occurs.
*Footnote[return] Having marked the place where this old Frenchman lived, in order that I might the more readily find him, should I ever be permitted to visit the country again: and having taken particular notice of the house, I found no difficulty in ascertaining its location, and even the very habitation in which the old tory resided.
After the lapse of about eighteen months, from the time I was there a prisoner with the Indians, I was there again underGeneral McArthur, who commanded a regiment of mounted volunteers—one battalion of which was from Kentucky, under the command of MajorPeter Dudley.
Passing by this old man's house, in company with Benjamin Whitaker, our Lieutenant, we met this man in the street near his own house; I immediately recognized him as the individual who had so inhumanly assisted in the massacre of young Mr. Blythe, at Stony creek.
I mentioned the circumstance to Whitaker, and asked his advice in reference to the course best to be pursued; who instantly replied, "let us take him." I was glad of the opportunity, and forthwith approached him, and the first salutation, as near as I can recollect, was, "Well sir, do you know any thing of me?" His reply was, "No sir, I know nothing about you." "Well sir," said I, "I know you very well." He seemed at first to be somewhat surprised at my confident address, and looking on me very earnestly seemed to express some doubts on the subject. I, however, soon removed the old man's doubts, by remarking to him, "You are the man who was guilty of the cruel and inhuman act of assisting the savages in killing one of the prisoners at Stony creek, taken at Raisin, January 23, 1813. You are the very man, sir, and I saw you do it." These words come upon him, no doubt, very unexpectedly; and being seconded by the voice of conscience within, made him tremble. He discovered evident marks of fear, his countenance grew pale in an instant; and finding that his very fear had betrayed him, he did not deny it; but offered as an excuse that the Indians required it of him, and that he was afraid to refuse. This excuse, however, did not satisfy us. We considered, that as a citizen of Detroit, he had no business with the British army in time of battle. We, therefore, took him, without any further ceremony about it, and delivered him over to the proper authorities. He was confined in jail for eight or ten days, and then brought out for trial. I, of course, was the only evidence that appeared against him. He plead the same excuse he did when we first arrested him.
After nearly a whole day's managing in the matter, between the lawyers and the jury, and after alarming the old fellow nearly to death, they acquitted him.
I soon found that this circumstance had enraged the French population against me—particularly the old Catholic French. I, therefore, found it necessary, when going alone up town, to take my gun with me well loaded: this I considered a sufficient protection against any attack from that quarter.