Chapter III: Part 3

“I am deeply grateful to you, my brothers,” said Clarke. “This gift will be well used and my people will be very thankful to you for it. God bless the noble settlers of Virginia!”

With a small force of seven men, the daring pioneer now went to Fort Pitt for the powder, and carrying it in canoes, safely transported it to a place called Limestone, Kentucky. Indians were thick in this country, and all were hostile. But he came safely through the wild places and carefully secreted the powder at various points, where it could be found by the borderers when needed.

Daniel Boone was now an old man and was so modest that he refused to thrust himself forward and become a leader around whom the settlers could rally. All eyes, therefore, turned to Clarke, whose merits were now recognized as a gallant fighter and able commander. The borderers saw that they here had an unselfish fellow who had their own interests in view, and who had obtained well-needed assistance for them. They knew that, without powder, they must be swept back before the storm of Indian invasion. The time for a leader had now come, and destiny had sent to the Kentuckians George Rogers Clarke—the brave and the noble.

This soldier now addressed the settlers upon several occasions and in several different places. He told them that they must assume an aggressive attitude and must attack the Indian villages, destroy their crops, burn their habitations, and teach them the horrors of invasion.

“We must not wait to be attacked ourselves,” said he. “We must do the attacking. We must strike before we are struck, and must hit hard.”

The Kentuckians were stirred by these speeches of Clarke and swore to follow him to the death.

“Lead on! Lead on!” cried they. “We will follow and will do our best to clear the land of our red enemies.”

This pleased the leader of the borderers, for he saw that his own spirit animated his men. He therefore wrote to the Governor of Virginia, telling him of his plans for border warfare, and requesting aid. Men and ammunition were sent him. An expedition was speedily organized at Louisville—then called the Falls of the Ohio—and the border soldiers started down the stream in boats. At the mouth of the Tennessee River a party of hunters were met with. From them Clarke learned that the garrisons at Kaskaskia and Kahokia were fully aware of his coming and were quite ready to give his men a hot reception.

“The greater portion of the French,” said the guides, “prefer American to English rule. You will find no difficulty in winning them over to your cause.”

These men were taken along as scouts, and, creeping quietly through the wilderness, they surrounded and captured Kaskaskia without shedding a drop of blood. So kind were Clarke’s followers to the inhabitants that many accompanied them on the march to Kahokia,—a town just opposite St. Louis, Missouri. Both places were populated mainly by people of French extraction who adhered to the cause of France in America.

Clarke was a diplomat. Some one has said that “he eked out the courage of a lion with the cunning of a fox.” At any rate, he knew enough to make a firm friend of the parish priest, Monsieur Gerbault, who consented to go to Vincennes—in the absence of the British commander, who had gone to Detroit—and induce the garrison there to embrace the cause of the Kentuckians. He was successful. After a lengthy harangue the fort went over to the Americans and its command was given to a Captain Helm, one of Clarke’s Lieutenants.

Clarke had accomplished what was thought to be the impossible. Without any difficulty whatsoever he had captured three forts and had persuaded all the inhabitants to join his standard. But these were the French. There were still the redskinned devils who would soon be burning, plundering, and massacring upon the borders. Clarke needed more men. So he promptly organized the French into militia companies with which to garrison the captured fort, appointed French officers to command them, and was thus able to use all of his Kentucky backwoodsmen in dealing with the redskins.

The French and Spaniards never asked for peace from the Indians but always harshly demanded whatever they might desire. Clarke determined to adopt their course. This kind of diplomacy is that which usually wins with the American Indian, for the red man could never comprehend why the whites would offer peace if they felt at all certain that they could accomplish their purpose by means of war. The Indians never made treaties unless they had met with a reverse and were in the presence of a superior enemy. When Clarke _demanded_ like a warrior it suited their ideas much better than if he had _asked_ like a squaw.

We now come to the most extraordinary event in his career: an event which marks him as a man of courage and capacity. When things were going against him he managed to turn the tide in his own favor with remarkable ability.

Braving great dangers and privations, he met the redskins in their own villages and conferred with them. Two attempts were made upon his life, but he escaped all harm and managed to secure a treaty of peace upon terms which the red men had first spurned. The treaty was signed and Clarke’s eyes looked hungrily at Detroit—the great stronghold of the British. He had not sufficient men to take it.

Two detachments from his small army captured a British post on the upper Wabash, garrisoned by forty men. This aroused the British to greater activity. The Kentuckians and French were coming too near for either pleasure or safety. Besides this, the savages had begun to waver in their allegiance to the British flag as they saw the success of the pioneers from across the Ohio River.

Vincennes, as you know, had gone over to the Americans, and there was but a small force there of French militia. Two Americans were in charge: a Captain Helm and a Mr. Henry. On the fifteenth day of December, 1778, the English Governor of Detroit appeared before the town with a large body of rangers and demanded its surrender. The French militiamen immediately ran up a white flag.

Hamilton approached the fort, and as he neared it, was surprised to find himself confronted by a cannon, behind which stood Captain Helm with a lighted match in his hand.

“Halt!” cried Hamilton. “My foolish fellow, I demand your instant surrender!”

“I’ll never surrender,” answered Helm, “until you settle upon the terms with me.”

“You’ll be allowed to march out with all the honors of war,” said the British Governor. “And you will be held a prisoner until exchanged. The militia will be disarmed and paroled.”

“All right,” answered Captain Helm. “These terms suit me exactly.”

Imagine the feelings of the good, old Governor. Instead of seeing a great body of men debouch from the fort, preceded by a brilliant staff, out marched a few ragged militiamen headed by Captain Helm, with one solitary private. It is said that the noble soldier could not help laughing. At any rate, he felt so well over the affair that he did not attempt the reduction of Kaskaskia and Kahokia—as he should have done—but was content to send parties of his men on forays against the settlements along the Ohio River. News was soon brought to Clarke of the capture of Vincennes. The old war-dog was much disconcerted. Hamilton in possession of Vincennes! It was almost past belief, yet runners soon came to him from the frontier, who confirmed the ill tidings. What was he to do? He had only two hundred men. Hamilton had three or four times that number. It was the middle of winter and he was short of all manner of supplies. The entire country was flooded. He had a single flat-bottomed batteau. Should he wait to be attacked, or should he attempt the seemingly impossible and endeavor to re-take Vincennes? He answered the question by turning, one day, to his compatriots, and saying:

“Whether I stay here or march against Hamilton—if I don’t take him, he will take me. By Heaven, I’ll take him!”

And to this his men cried:

“Lead on! Where you go we will follow!”

Now was such a march as the world had seldom seen before. The brave and valiant Arnold, who took his rangers through the depths of the Maine forest to the attack on Quebec at the outbreak of the American Revolution, was such a one as this lion-hearted pioneer. Arnold lost a great many men: Clarke did not lose any; but the difficulties of the journey were severe. Through the cold of winter, the chilling rain, the mud and icy water,—the latter often three feet deep,—marched the Kentucky rangers. They reached a miserable country called “the drowned lands,” and for miles were waist-deep in the water. The way was full of crevasses and mud-holes into which some of the men sank up to their necks. Clarke was always in the front, sharing the hardships of his followers, and outdoing them in the contempt for peril and suffering. An occasional spot of dry ground—a few yards in extent—was a welcome sight to the half-drowned rangers. Still they pressed onward upon their mission.

“On, boys!” said George Rogers Clarke. “We will take this post or die in the attempt!”

Splashing forward, the scouts and rangers soon reached the two branches of the Wabash River. Ordinarily three miles of solid ground lay between the two streams. Now there was a continuous sheet of water before their eyes. The command stopped, amazed. They had come to an apparently unsurmountable obstacle. But there were no obstacles to George Rogers Clarke.

Striding to the front, and holding his rifle aloft in order to keep the priming dry, he dashed into the stream. The rest followed with songs and with cheers. But the chilling water soon made these cease, for it became an irksome task to breathe. They staggered with fatigue, but their leader never faltered, and there was not a man who would have deserted him. On the seventeenth day of February they reached the eastern shore of the Wabash and came to the lowlands of the Embarrass River. It was nine miles to their goal: the fortress of Vincennes. Every foot of the way was covered with deep water.

The situation seemed to be desperate. Clarke, however, was not the one to despair. Taking a canoe, he made soundings to see if some path might not be discovered through this inland sea. There seemed to be none—the water everywhere reached to his neck. The men were alarmed. Their faces looked blanched and pale. Was their march of untold hardships to end in death by cold and starvation?

A surprising thing now took place. Whispering to those nearest to him to follow his example, Clarke poured some powder into his hand, wet it with water and blackened his face as a sign that he would succeed, or die in the attempt. Then—uttering a loud whoop—he dashed into the water. The frontiersmen gazed wonderingly at him. Then they broke into song, rushed after him, and made for a ridge of high ground, which was followed until an island was reached. Here they camped, but next morning the ice had formed to the thickness of three-quarters of an inch. You can well imagine what were their prospects!

But Clarke was never daunted or dismayed. Making a speech to his half-starved and half-frozen command, he again plunged into the water.

“We must do or die!” said he. “On to Vincennes!”

With a rousing cheer his followers dashed in after him—pushed through the broken ice—and waded ahead. The water became more and more deep. Clarke feared, therefore, that the weaker members of the party would be drowned. Luckily he had a few canoeists with him, and these picked up the fainting ones and carried them to hillocks of dry land. The strongest were sent forward with instructions to pass the word back that the water was getting shallow, and they were told to cry “Land! Land!” when they got near the woods.

This cheered the drooping spirits of the faint-hearted. The water _never_ did get shallow. Woodland was certainly ahead, but when the men reached it water was up to their shoulders and they had to hang to the trees, bushes and logs, until rescued by the canoes. Some gained the shore in safety, some were so exhausted when they reached a small island that they could not climb up the bank and lay half in and half out of the water. Luck was with them, for a canoe came down the river in which were some Indian squaws and their children. They were captured, and with them was some buffalo meat, tallow, corn, and cooking utensils. Oh, lucky find! The weak were now rejuvenated by a hearty meal.

They were upon an island of ten acres. It was truly an Eden for these half-drowned frontiersmen. A long rest soon strengthened the weakest, and by means of the Indian canoe, and a few batteaus which had been brought with them, they ferried over to Warrior’s Island, within two miles of Vincennes, and within plain view of it. Every man feasted his eyes upon the log fortress and forgot that he had suffered.

Let me here quote from Clarke himself. He says:

“Every man forgot his troubles. It was now that we had to display our abilities. The plain between us and the town was perfectly level. The sunken ground was covered with water full of ducks. We observed several men out on horseback, shooting them, and sent out many of our active, young Frenchmen to decoy and take one prisoner,—which they did.

“We learned that the British had that evening completed the wall of the fort, and that there were a good many Indians in town. Our situation was now truly critical. There was no possibility of retreat in case of defeat, and we were in full view of a town with six hundred men in it,—troops, Indians and inhabitants.

“We were now in the very situation that I had labored to get ourselves in. The idea of being taken prisoner was foreign to almost every man, as they expected nothing but torture. We knew that success could be secured only by the most daring conduct. I knew that a number of the inhabitants wished us well: that the Grand Chief—Tobacco’s son—had openly declared himself a friend of the Big Knives (Americans). I therefore wrote and sent the following Placard.

“TO THE INHABITANTS OF POST VINCENNES:

“GENTLEMEN:—Being now within two miles of your village with my army, determined to take the fort this night, and not being willing to surprise you, I take this method to request such as are true citizens to remain still in your houses. Those, if any there be, that are friends to the King, will instantly repair to the fort, join the ‘Hair buyer’ general, and fight like men. If any such do not go, and are found afterwards, they may depend on severe punishment. On the contrary, those who are true friends to liberty may depend on being well treated, and I once more request them to keep out of the streets. Every one I find in arms on my arrival, I shall treat as an enemy.

“G. R. CLARKE.”

This was written by a pioneer general with two hundred half-starved, half-frozen, and undrilled troops. Behind the walls of the fort were twice this number of well-drilled, well-fed, well-clad men. We can but admire his audacity and impudence. But did he fulfil his promises to his people at home. And did he take Hamilton?

The frontiersmen were soon in motion and marched upon the town. A hill intervened, and when he reached it, Clarke deployed his men across it several times. When they would get over, Clarke would run them around the base to the rear of the knoll—where they would be out of sight of the people in the fort—and then would march them across again. In this way he made the inmates of the fortress of Vincennes believe that he had a much larger force than was really his. The borderers soon seized all the positions which commanded the fort and waited until dusk before beginning the assault. “I fear that they will know my numbers, if I attack during daylight,” said the Kentuckian, “and this I do not want them to know.”

As night began to draw near, the crashing of rifles awoke the echoes of the forest and the fort was hotly assailed from every point of vantage. The Kentuckians were able marksmen and soon silenced the cannon of the redoubt. No sooner would a porthole be thrown open than the gunners would be shot down as they stood. After an hour of such work the firing ceased, and the garrison was summoned to surrender.

Hamilton was dumbfounded at the audacity of the Kentuckians. He was also much disconcerted by the actions of one hundred of his redskin allies, who, seeing the boldness of the frontiersmen, immediately transferred their allegiance to them and were anxious to join in the assault upon the post. In spite of this he refused to surrender.

A far heavier rifle fire was now opened upon the fort, so that no defender could look out of a porthole or expose himself in any manner whatsoever, without being shot down. An assault was determined upon.

At this juncture a couple of figures emerged from the principal gateway of Vincennes, bearing a flag of truce. When the emissaries arrived before Clarke, they brought word that Hamilton proposed a three days’ truce and an immediate conference. Clarke did not wish the British to know his real numbers, so he declined the truce. But he assented to have a talk with the English commander, some distance from the fort, at a place where the Englishman’s eyes could not see the small numbers of the Kentuckians.

After a long interview nothing came of the pow-wow. Hamilton asked to march out with all the honors of war and to be allowed to depart to Detroit, after giving the assurance that neither he nor his men would ever again bear arms against the Americans. Clarke was afraid that the soldiers would not keep their word and demanded a greater amount of money and stores than the Britisher was willing to allow him.

“I have sufficient force to take the fort by storm at any time I choose,” said Clarke. “Furthermore, I propose to capture all the detached parties that are now in the woods and are headed for Vincennes. Having put them out of the way, I intend to take the fort at my leisure. I will thus—at one stroke—put an end to all of those people that have been harassing the American frontier. In case I take you by storm, I intend to shut my eyes and let my men do their own pleasure, for such is the treatment that has been accorded to our own people by the officers of the Crown.”

The conference broke up, and so terrified was a Major Hay, who represented the English commander, that he could scarcely make his way back to Vincennes. As he wobbled along, a party of redskins—led by a white man painted as an Indian—was seen to approach the town. The newcomers apparently had no knowledge that the Kentuckians were foes, for they walked up as if they were nearing their own people.

When they had approached within a few yards of the men under Clarke, they were fired upon and two were killed. Three others were badly wounded. The remainder—six in all—turned in flight, but were soon taken prisoners. They were tomahawked by the red allies of the Kentuckians; their bodies were thrown into the river; and wild war-whoops announced this fact to the red men in the fort. These became enraged and frightened when they discovered that Hamilton was unable to protect them.

Clarke only smiled, for he had hoped that they would bring on a mutiny within the walls of Vincennes, and it is exactly what occurred. Seeing that he was unable to hold the allegiance of his own red adherents, the once bold Hamilton decided upon capitulation. On February twenty-fourth a white flag was displayed over the log walls, and, after a short parley, a truce was decided upon. The Kentuckians secured fifty thousand dollars’ worth of military stores. Besides this they detached the Indians from the English and took away from the Britons the entire northeast territory, which would otherwise have been held by them when peace was concluded. Clarke, with his two hundred raw Kentucky riflemen, had won a notable victory.

Think of it! The long march, the terrible rivers of frozen ice, the lack of proper food, the toilsome journey through deep forests! Then the cheek and gall of that saucy message to Hamilton, safe in a strong fortress with twice the number of men as those half-frozen backwoodsmen outside! Then the daring attack, the wonderful accuracy of the rifle fire, and the final victory! Such men were heroes. Whether your sympathies be with Kentuckian or Britisher, you must admit it, and you must—I own—take off your hat to Clarke: the twenty-seven year old leader of this gallant band.

But what of the subsequent career of this wonderfully successful man? Alas! What we know of his thereafter does not abound to his credit. To the enthusiasm of youth he joined the daring ambition of the born soldier: never satisfied. Always anxious to move forward and on, he asked the Kentucky Assembly for men and agreed to capture Detroit; to destroy the English power for all time; and to prevent further combination of unfriendly tribes of red men. He was promised both soldiers and ammunition, but they never came. It is said that in disgust at his forced inaction he took to drink for relief from his worries. He became dissipated, morbid, and a recluse.

For some time he rested in inactivity near the Falls of the Ohio, and about the year 1780 built Fort Jefferson on the Mississippi. He then journeyed to Richmond, Virginia, in order to appeal in person for the necessary means for taking Detroit. His plans were thought well of and were approved. But the measure never passed the legislature. Before it could be put into effect he was appointed to command a body of troops who were to check the aggressive operations of Benedict Arnold. He was made a Brigadier-General and was authorized to collect a large force, which was to meet at Louisville (the Falls of the Ohio) and was to fall upon Detroit and destroy this strong citadel of British authority.

Misfortune seemed to follow upon his footsteps. The force was never collected and the projected campaign had to be abandoned. He and his men had several brushes with marauding bands of Ohio Indians, and in 1782 took part in the unfortunate battle of Blue Licks, in Kentucky. Rallying a detachment of one thousand men, Clarke invaded the Indian towns, but the savages fled from their villages and scattered, so that there was no one to fight when the borderers entered. Fortune had forsaken George Rogers Clarke, and, although in 1786 he led another expedition of one thousand men against the Indians on the Wabash River, it resulted in an absolute failure. His followers were mutinous. The campaign had to be abandoned. The hero who could inspire a march of two hundred miles through half-frozen forests had lost his former magnetism. He had begun to go down hill.

Dispirited, somewhat broken in health, and faint-hearted, the bold frontiersman sought the seclusion of his hut near the Ohio River. Here, he was offered and accepted a commission in the French armies west of the Mississippi, for this land was then under the lilies of France. An expedition was about to be made against the Spaniards upon the lower reaches of the river, but a revolution in France overturned the party in power and destroyed all the plans of those in America. Clarke was soon no longer Major General, and, forced to a life of inactivity, he returned to an isolated and lonely existence in his log hut. At forty years of age he was a prematurely old man, and in 1817 he died at Louisville, Kentucky: a town which was growing rapidly in size and which had been the scene of many of his early triumphs. Exposure and neglect of the proper laws of living had done their work.

George Rogers Clarke was a remarkable man. As a youngster he was brimful of enthusiasm, of vigor, of magnetism. He carried an expedition through to success in the face of fearful obstacles. Had he shown the white feather for an instant he would have met with ignominious failure. His courage, his cheerfulness, his optimism impelled him on to victory. Had he been able to govern his appetite for liquor he would have been a man of splendid usefulness in his later years. His collapse at the early age of forty is full witness to the deplorable effects of the inability of a strong man to curb his passions. One can but look upon his career with sadness and regret.

JOHN SLOVER:

SCOUT UNDER CRAWFORD AND HERO OF EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURES

TWO red men paddled down the White River, far in the western portion of the state of Virginia, one bright morning in the month of May, 1765. As they rounded a bend in the stream, before them was a little trapper’s son, apparently with no one with him. He was throwing pebbles into the water and was laughing as they splashed upon the surface of the stream.

“How!” grunted one of the braves. “I like to have young paleface in my lodge. I make him take the place of my own papoose, whom the Great Spirit has stolen from me.”

“You can get him,” suggested the other. “Come on, let us paddle towards the little one and capture him.”

As the redskins approached, the boy looked at them with no sign of fear, and laughed at their solemn-looking faces. But they did not laugh. Instead of this, the one in the bow leaped upon the shore, seized the youngster, and carried him to the canoe, where he was bound by deer thongs and was quickly paddled down stream. His parents looked for him in vain that evening, and for many evenings, but their little son never returned. Thus John Slover became a ward of the redskins.

The Indians were then living at Sandusky, upon the Ohio River, and here the little white boy grew up to be a man. Adopted by the Miami tribe, he learned to love their ways, to live the wild, roving life as a trapper and hunter, and to be more at home in the forest than in the houses of those of his own race. In the autumn of 1773, a treaty was made at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, between the Miamis and the whites, and at this place was a big gathering of the savages and frontiersmen, with their families. Jack Slover was interested in the affair and hung around the clusters of talkers, who were eagerly discussing the terms of the articles of agreement.

“Hello!” came a voice, as he was near one animated group. “If this isn’t little Jack Slover grown to be a man! Turn around, son, and see if you don’t recognize me.”

The adopted ward of the Miamis spun about upon his heel, and there saw a raw-boned trapper, who was gazing at him with an inquiring eye.

“I certainly do not recognize you,” he replied. “Who are you, anyway?”

The young fellow knew of his kidnapping, when a small boy, but had never cared to go back to his own people.

The frontiersman now seized him by the shoulders. “Why, I’m your father’s brother, Tom Slover! I saw that you were not a Miami the minute I looked at you, and I found out that you had been captured many years ago by the Indians. Upon closer inspection it was easy to perceive that you were my brother’s son. My boy, we have been waiting to find you for years. You will now come back to us, won’t you?”

Young Slover hung his head, for he was loath to part from the friends and companions of his youth. He was on the point of refusing, but, just then, another frontiersman approached who announced that he was his father. The meeting between son and parent was not demonstrative; in fact, the youth rather drew away from his own flesh and blood. Soon, however, he became more reconciled, and, after an hour’s conversation, agreed to accompany his kinsmen to their home in Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania.

The conference was soon over, both Indians and whites were agreed upon the terms of the treaty, and the captured son of the pioneer went back to his own country, where he seemed to be contentedly abiding at the outbreak of the American Revolution. He was one of the first to enlist, and, because of his experience in woodcraft, was made a sharpshooter. In this branch of the service he did good work, and was honorably discharged at the close of the struggle with the Mother Country.

Some years after the Revolutionary War—in 1782—the redskins of the Middle West became very bold, and made frequent incursions upon the white settlements of Ohio, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia. Prompt vengeance was demanded by the pioneers who had penetrated into the wilderness and had there built their homes. An expedition was determined upon, and Colonel William Crawford—a brave officer of the Revolutionary War—was selected as its commander. The time and place of rendezvous were fixed for May 20th, 1782, at a point on the western shore of the Ohio, forty miles above Fort Pitt. There were four hundred and fifty volunteers; among them an accomplished surgeon, Dr. Knight.

Just before the expedition got under way, Colonel Crawford approached Slover, and said:

“My good friend, we are in need of a scout and guide upon our expedition. You know this country like a book, so I would like to engage you as one of our forerunners and assistants. Will you go with us?”

The adopted ward of the Miamis was reluctant to accept.

“I have lived with these Indians whom you intend to attack,” said he. “I have slept with them; hunted with them; have eaten with them. Surely you would not have me turn upon all of my old friends?”

The Colonel smiled.

“Yes, but what sort of friends?” he answered. “Here they have been murdering innocent women and children. Have been burning homes, killing cattle and horses. They have been subjecting their prisoners to horrible tortures. You are too much of a man not to appreciate the need of checking these onslaughts upon our people.”

“The whites are gradually encroaching upon their lands,—the lands which they believe that the Great Spirit has given to them,” replied Slover, in a deliberate tone. “Can you blame them for resenting these advances? They are children, too, of the wilderness and they fight like the wild beasts who surround them.”

“Then you refuse to accompany us?”

“No, not so. Upon thinking over the matter, I believe that it is impossible for the two races to live side by side, unless one race is supreme. That the whites will overrun the country is only too evident. I will go with you, for I certainly do not approve of the manner in which they have conducted their warfare, and I believe that they must be punished.”

The march was soon commenced, but, in a few days, some of the volunteers broke ranks and started for their homes. It was impossible to hold them. Further signs of insubordination were soon in evidence, some of the men demanding that they be sent back to their cabins, declaring that their horses were jaded and that their provisions were almost exhausted. Not long afterwards two skulking Indians were seen spying upon the advance. They were fired upon, but escaped. It was now evident that all secrecy was out of the question. The men grew mutinous and were so unruly that the officers requested them to continue for only one day longer, and then if no Indians were found they were to return. This was being discussed when one of the advance pickets dashed in, crying out: “The Indians are ahead of us about a mile. They are drawn up in the timber and are waiting for us!”

At this news a loud whoop came from the lusty throats of the frontiersmen, and they discontinued their complaints. Priming their rifles and fingering their powder-horns, they pressed forward to the attack, while their leader, Crawford, who had fine military judgment, saw that the enemy had seized a position of great strength, from which they must be driven at once. He therefore urged on his men to the charge.

As the order came, the pioneers dismounted and rushed boldly upon the redskins in front and upon the flanks, hunting them from the woods, across an open field, and into some dense forest-land in the rear. Here the savages were heavily reinforced, and Crawford’s Rangers were almost driven from the timber by the wily braves, who were now fighting from every bush, stump, hillock and tree. The battle waged with great fury until dark, when the savages withdrew, and the trappers slept upon the ground, ready to resume the affair in the morning.

As daylight appeared the battle was renewed at long range, neither side being anxious for a hand-to-hand engagement. It was plainly evident that the Indians were constantly being reinforced. Their whooping and yelling grew more and more derisive, and they began to extend their lines so as to flank the men of the frontier. For this reason, the officers decided upon a retreat.

Slover, the scout, was far over to the right, watching some horses, and no news of the intended movement was brought to him. Soon the uproar of retreat came to his ears and warned him of his danger. He therefore selected the finest horse among those under his charge, mounted it, and fled after his comrades, who became rapidly disorganized. The red men fired a volley in the direction of the frontiersmen, at which one of the Crawford Rangers shouted: “The enemy have found out our design! Save yourselves! Save yourselves!”

Panic now became general, and so great was the disorder that it was plainly heard in the lines of the Indians, among whom was the famous renegade, Simon Girty. “Out, men,” he cried, “and pick up the stragglers, for these Americans have whipped themselves!”

Those who had been wounded were dropped at the beginning of the rout and were speedily dispatched by the tomahawks of the savages. The rest fled in whatever way they could, without semblance of order or discipline, and, as they ran helter-skelter through the forest, were pursued by the exultant redskins with wild and blood-curdling whooping. Slover galloped along with some difficulty, as the ground was very rough, and soon found further obstructions in his path, for a wide bog lay before him, which extended for a great distance in either direction.

Some of the fugitives were unable to get across the bog on foot, but Slover and a few others were able to cross on their horses. As they fled on through the darkness of night, behind them echoed the horrid yells of the savages, the rifle shots of the whites, and the shrieks of the wounded. Six fugitives joined the fleeing scout, two of whom had lost their rifles, and, as the Indians were pressing them furiously, they headed for the settlement of Detroit, hoping to elude the red men as they went. They ran into another portion of the swamp a few hours later, and halted there for a slight repast of cold pork and corn bread—of which they had a small supply in their haversacks.

As they were seated upon some stumps, and were munching their repast, they were startled by an Indian whoop very close at hand.

“We are discovered,” whispered Slover. “Hide yourselves, my men, in the tall grass.”

Not many moments afterwards, a band of Shawnees passed by, laughing and talking among themselves, apparently with no idea that the pioneers were near. They were well satisfied with the signal defeat which they had administered to Crawford and his men; had many scalps and much plunder. When they were gone, Slover and his companions continued on their way, entering upon a sea of waving grass, which made it evident that any skulking red men would soon discover their whereabouts.

Silently they plodded across the prairie, but suddenly the man in advance called their attention to the fact that some moving objects were approaching.

“Lie low, boys!” he shouted. “I think that a crowd of redskins are just in front of us.”

He was right, and, as they hid in the tall grass, a troop of Indians passed by, moving rapidly and noisily along. Fortunately the red men did not discover their trail, and with great shouting and singing had soon walked out of hearing. The trappers arose, continued their flight, and kept a sharp lookout for enemies. They were soon to meet with more children of the forest.

Two of the fugitives now became very lame and were unable to keep up with the rest of the party. One had a bad attack of rheumatism; so bad, in fact, that he fell way behind the rest and did not come up, although they whistled, called, and strove to attract his attention in every possible way, in spite of the danger of being discovered by lurking redskins. They finally went on without him, and gave him up for lost. He at length reached Wheeling in safety, having passed through many dangers and hairbreadth escapes from capture by roving Indians.

Slover and his friend were hurrying towards the settlements, and naturally left a well-defined trail behind them. This was followed for several days by a band of Shawnees, who finally decided that the whites would be easy to capture and decided to ambush them.

This they did, and, as the frontiersmen were quietly passing between some high bluffs, a volley rang out from either side and two of their number fell dead. The rest sprang immediately to the shelter of trees, where Slover took aim at one of the Indians who could be seen raising his hand.

“Do not fire,” said he, in excellent English. “If you surrender to us, you will be well treated. We will take you to our houses and will allow you to leave, in a short time, for your own people.”

Slover and two of the frontiersmen gave themselves up immediately, but a young fellow named John Paul refused to do so, and, rushing to the rear, managed to get away. The redskins peppered the air with bullets, but none hit the fugitive and he got safely beyond range. After a long and arduous trip through the wilderness, he at length reached the frontier settlement at Wheeling, West Virginia.

As John Slover and his companions were being taken along by the Indians, one of them recognized him as the young paleface who had been brought up by the Miamis.

“You no good, Mannuchcothe,” said he. “You fight against your own brothers. You kill your own people. Ugh! Ugh! We fix you for this.”

John Slover began to think that perhaps what the savages had promised was not to take place, and when once they came in sight of their town, their whole demeanor changed. They began to howl and cry out:

“You are some of those who wish to drive us from our country. Death to you! Death to you!”

The squaws, warriors, and children came running to meet the captives and began to whip and beat them. Then they took the oldest of the frontiersmen and blackened his face with charred sticks.

“Are they going to burn me, Slover?” the poor fellow gasped.

“Do not answer, Mannuchcothe!” shouted the Indians. “Do not answer! We will not hurt him! We will adopt him!”

The red men now took the prisoners to Waughcotomoco, another of their towns, about two miles off, but sent a runner in advance to announce their coming. As the captives came in sight of it they saw hundreds of Indians in a double line, ready to make them run the gauntlet. This they did, and although Slover got through safely, the frontiersman whose face had been blackened, was knocked down, kicked, beaten, and shot full of arrows. He reached the council chamber, where he thought that he would be safe, and, although he seized one of the posts with both hands, he was torn away from it and was soon dispatched with a tomahawk.

Slover, meanwhile, was left alone, but he had no cheerful thoughts, for before him lay the bodies of Harold, the son of Crawford, the American leader; of a Colonel Harrison; and of several other prominent soldiers of the American army. They had all been killed during the retreat. His remaining companion was led away to another town and was never again heard of; while the gallant scout, himself, was now confronted by a young Miami buck, who said in the Indian language:

“Mannuchcothe, you must come before a council and must explain to the old men why you deserted our tribe. Mannuchcothe, it will go ill with you.”

The sharpshooter did not worry, for he did not believe that his old friends would go back on him. In this he was correct, for there seemed to be no great amount of malice towards the ex-Miami, until the appearance of a white renegade—James Girty—the brother of the famous Simon. This scoundrel made an impassioned speech, in which he said:

“My Indian brethren, this white captive should suffer death. For not only has he deserted you for your enemies—the palefaces—but when I asked him how he would like to live with you again, he told me that he would care to remain only long enough to take a scalp and then escape. He is your enemy at heart and has even now been fighting against you. Death, and torture before death, would not be too severe for him.”

The scout was outraged and angered by these remarks.

“What you say is not true,” he replied. “I have never in my life made the statement that I would only remain long enough with my red brethren to take a scalp and then escape. I entered this war with reluctance, and I had not fired a shot up to the time that I was captured by my old companions. I am a friend of the Miamis and always will be their friend.”

To these remarks the red men grunted an assent and allowed him to move, unbound, around the village. He was assigned to a lodge with an old squaw, who became very much attached to him, and, not many days afterwards, came to him and said:—

“That James Girty is influencing my brothers against you. If you have a chance to escape, you must do so, for I fear that they intend to put you out of the way.”

Not long afterwards a council of Shawnee, Wyandot, Delaware, Chippewa, Miami, and Mingo braves decided that Slover had been untrue to their race, and that he must suffer punishment and death. Two warriors appeared before his wigwam in order to carry him away, but the old squaw covered him with her blanket and said that he should not go. When the two bucks endeavored to enter, she threw a pot of boiling water at them.

This was too much for the warriors, who retreated before the scalding fluid, but they soon returned with James Girty and forty Indians, who overpowered the fighting squaw. Slover was seized, bound, and his body was painted black. This was a sign that he was to be tortured and eventually killed.

Five miles from Waughcotomoco was another Indian town, to which the scout was marched. A vast number of red men greeted his coming with fierce cheering, and formed in two lines in order to make him run the gauntlet. As he raced between them, they struck him with clubs, with spears, and with their hands. In spite of this he was not badly hurt and could walk without assistance to another small town, two miles further on, where—in an unfinished council house—he was fastened to a stake. Brush was piled around his feet and this was lighted for his torture. “I will meet death like a brave man,” said Slover to himself. Then, turning to the Indians, he cried out: “You shall rue the day that ever you put an end to John Slover. My white brothers will avenge me a hundredfold.”

An Indian orator arose, and, with a fierce and vindictive speech, sought to fan the flame of the red men’s passions to the highest pitch.

“How! How!” cried many voices.” It is well that the white man should die. How! How!”

Slover glowered upon the yelling mob as the crackling flames began to creep nearer to his feet. But now an unexpected interposition of nature occurred, which was greatly in the victim’s favor.

A high wind arose; dense, black clouds covered the sky; the growling of thunder drowned the words of the orator and the yelling of his hearers. A sheet of rain burst upon the fire at the stake, extinguishing it completely, and Slover saw the Indians scatter to the cover of their wigwams, where they called out to him:

“We will burn you to-morrow. The Great Spirit has helped you, but he cannot save you.”

The shower lasted for over an hour, and when it had concluded the red men gathered around the stake, where they beat and kicked their captive until eleven o’clock at night. Then a brave called Half Moon asked him if he did not want to go to sleep.

“I am exhausted,” replied the scout. “If you intend to kill me to-morrow, loosen my bonds and let me rest.”

Half Moon untied the strands which bound the weakened frontiersman, carried him to a log hut, and there bound him to a pole in the centre, with deer thongs which cut tightly into his flesh. A rope was placed about his neck and was tied to a rafter of the house. Three guards were placed to watch him, and, as Half Moon departed, he said:

“Get a good sleep, paleface. You will need it, for to-morrow you will eat fire. This is what comes to you for fighting against your own people.”

The scout had not yet lost all hope of making his escape, and carefully considered the possibility of getting away. Two of his guards were soon asleep; the third (an aged brave) smoked a long, clay pipe and told him that he had seen many palefaces tortured at the stake. “Some weep like squaws,” said he. “Others bear it like men. You have once been a redskin and should be able to stand the fire without crying. You should come through without a bit of trouble.”

On and on he thus rambled until he became worn out—his head dropped upon his breast—and he began to snore loudly. As the noise of his heavy breathing came to the ears of the scout, he began to work vigorously at his bonds. By wriggling, tugging, and pulling, at last his hands were free. He reached for the thong about his neck and began to chew it with his teeth.

As he turned and twisted in an endeavor to free himself from this remaining bond, day began to break and the pale light of dawn flooded the cabin. The talkative old Indian awoke; yawned; stretched; and looked around at the captive; but Slover clasped his hands behind his back as if they were still tied, and stood perfectly still. The red man turned over upon his side and again composed himself in sleep. It was now or never with the captured frontiersman.

Again seizing upon the rope, Slover gave it a few strong jerks, and, biting it with his jaws for a second time, suddenly parted it. With his heart bumping against his side like a trip-hammer, he stole noiselessly from the lodge. Not an Indian was stirring, and, darting toward a corn field, he narrowly missed stepping upon a squaw with her two children, who were asleep beneath a tree. He crept through the growing stalks, and upon the other side saw quite a number of ponies. Taking the rope from his arm, he made a slip-noose of it; selected a fine, young horse; threw it over his head; mounted, and rode away like mad. His life depended upon his exertions.

As he dashed off, he heard a door open in an Indian lodge and knew that the red men were astir. They would soon discover his absence. He would be followed by all of the swiftest and hardest-riding men of the encampment. No wonder that he dug his heels into the flanks of his pony and urged him to do his very best.

At ten o’clock he reached the Scioto River,—now much swollen by the recent thunder shower. But his horse was winded and he had to stop in order to give him both water and breath, for he was blowing from his exertions. He plunged into the stream, crossed it, and continued his flight at the fastest pace which his horse was able to make. Finally the faithful animal began to pant and stagger. He was done for.

As the Indian pony fell upon his side, Slover leaped to the ground and heard a wild yelping behind him in the forest. He thus knew that the Indians were hot upon his trail. The horse had carried him seventy miles at a fast pace, which is extraordinary. But the animal was now lying prostrate, with the glaze of death showing in his eye. He had run a good race.

The scout bounded forward, loping through the underbrush, timber, and tall grass, and leaving as little trail as he could. But his exertions were wearing heavily upon him, and, about ten o’clock that night, he fell exhausted to the ground. He lay in a stupor for two hours.

When he was again able to move, a full moon cast its silvery light over the dense woodland, where he had fallen, and no sound broke the stillness of the night save the weird call of a whippoorwill. The redskins could easily have captured him had they been close upon his track, but his care in leaving little trace of his flight had thrown them from the pursuit. Breathing more easily, he again continued his race for life, and, as day came, abandoned his trail for a low, rough ridge, where was little grass or soft earth. On, on, he continued, occasionally stopping to listen at the sounds of the forest, but, except for the occasional call of a bird, no voice came to his expectant hearing. The red men had lost heart and had returned to their wigwams.

As evening came, the frontiersman reached the banks of one of the creeks which empty into the Muskingum, and again sank exhausted to the earth. The mosquitoes swarmed upon him, biting him unmercifully, and as his hunting suit (which the red men had allowed him to put on when tied) was torn to tatters by the nettles and briars, they had a splendid opportunity to get at his bare flesh. Some wild berries furnished him with much-needed food,—the first he had eaten since his escape,—and, if we are to believe his word for it, he says that he was so terrified with fear, that he had forgotten to feel hungry during his flight. “I was fairly peeled from head to foot by briars and mosquitoes,” he has written. “And I was now so hungry that I fell upon two crawfish which I found behind a rock in the Muskingum, and ate them raw.”

The scout was now refreshed, and plunging into the Muskingum, swam to the other shore. Two days later he reached the Ohio River, opposite Wheeling, West Virginia, and seeing a man in a skiff who was apparently fishing, called out to him in a loud voice:

“Hallo! Hallo! Comrade! I’m a fugitive from the Indians and was one of Crawford’s men. Come! Take me over to the settlement!”

The fellow did not seem anxious to hasten to his relief, for he was afraid that Slover was one of the white renegades who had joined the redskins and was anxious to trap him. After a long harangue he finally rowed to the place where the tattered scout was standing. The refugee fairly hugged him for joy, and, in a few minutes, was again safe in the settlement, where he was greeted with warm and affectionate regard by the other men of the frontier, who had received many stragglers from the ill-fated expedition under Colonel Crawford.