Chapter XI: Part 11

Stories of such danger and fortitude as this can be but dimly realized by the women of to-day. Yet the annals of our early history are all too painfully darkened by such records; and it is well for the heroes of the prosperous present to know through what hardships this rich inheritance was secured to them. Emigration did not stop in Virginia any more than it had rested in Pennsylvania:

"Westward to the star of empire takes its way;"

and the glorious Valley of the Mississippi won forward the daring steps of the pioneers. It is known how long and terrible was the contest by which Kentucky was wrested, inch by inch, from her ancient owners, until her lovely soil, baptized in sorrow, received the name of the "dark and bloody ground." Here, as always where there is a chance for her development, and she is permitted to play her free part by the side of man, woman did her share of the onerous work, and had her share of the perils. One of the most terrible of the family histories of that period is the following, of the household of a widow, by the name of Shanks, full particulars of which are given in the history of Kentucky.

On the night of the 10th of April, 1787, the house of Mrs. Shanks, on Cooper's Run, in Bourbon County, was attacked by Indians. This house, which was a double cabin, consisting of two rooms, with an open way between, contained, at the time the assault was made, besides the widow herself, a widowed daughter, three other daughters, a young girl, and two sons of adult age. Although the hour was near midnight, one of the young men still remained up, and in the opposite room a sister was busily engaged at the loom.

An hour before, while they were yet unconscious of the actual presence of Indians, the suspicions of the son was aroused by the cry of owls, hooting to each other in the adjoining wood, in a rather unusual manner, and by the terror and excitement of the horses, who were enclosed, as customary, in a pound near the house.

Several times the young man was on the point of awaking his brother, but as often refrained, through fear of being ridiculed for his timidity. At length hasty steps were heard without, and then came several sharp knocks at the door, accompanied by the usual question of the wayfarer, "Who keeps this house?" spoken in very good English.

He hastily advanced to withdraw the bolt which secured the door, supposing the new comer to be some benighted settler, when his mother, whose greater experience had probably detected the Indian accent, instantly sprang out of bed, and warned her son that the men outside were savages.

The other son being by this time aroused, the two young men, seizing their rifles, which were always charged, prepared to repel the enemy. Conscious that their true character was discovered, the Indians now strove to break in the door; but a single shot from the loop-hole compelled them to shift their point of attack, when, unfortunately, they discovered the door of the other cabin, which contained the three daughters.

By some oversight in the construction of the cabin, none of the loops enabled the brothers to cover the door of the room in which their sisters were. The Indians soon forced it open by means of rails taken from the yard fence. The girls being thus placed at the mercy of the savages, one was instantly secured; but the eldest defended herself desperately with a knife, and succeeded in mortally wounding a savage before she was tomahawked. The youngest girl darted out into the yard, and might have escaped in the darkness; but the poor creature ran around the house, and, wringing her hands in terror, kept crying out that her sisters were killed.

The brothers, agonized almost to madness by her cries, were prepared to sally out to her assistance, when their mother stayed them, and calmly declared that the child must be abandoned to her fate. The next instant, the child uttered a loud scream, followed by a few faint moans, and then all was silent.

That portion of the house which had been occupied by the daughters was now set on fire, and the flames soon communicating to the opposite room, the brothers were compelled to fling open the door, and attempt to seek safety by flight.

The old lady, supported by her eldest son, sought to cross the fence at one point, while the widowed daughter, with her child in her arms, and attended by the younger of the brothers, ran in a different direction. The blazing roof shed a light over the yard but little inferior to that of day, and the savages were distinctly seen awaiting the approach of their victims. The old lady was permitted to reach the stile unmolested, but, in the act of crossing, received several balls in her breast, and fell dead. Her son providentially remained unhurt, and, by extraordinary agility, effected his escape. The other brother, being assailed by the Indians, defended his sister desperately for some time, and drew the attention of the savages so closely to himself, that she succeeded in eluding their vigilance. The brave and devoted young man was less fortunate; he fell beneath repeated blows from the tomahawks of his enemies, and was found at daylight, scalped and mangled in a most shocking manner.

Of the whole family, consisting of eight persons when the attack commenced, only three escaped. Four were killed on the spot, and one, the second daughter, carried off prisoner.

The alarm was soon given, and by daylight thirty men were assembled under Colonel Edwards, who pursued the Indian trail at a gallop, tracking the footsteps of the savages in the snow. The trail led directly into the mountainous country bordering upon Licking, and afforded evidences of great precipitation on the part of the Indians. Unfortunately, a hound had been permitted to accompany the whites, and, as the trail became fresh, and the scent warm, she pursued it with eagerness, baying loudly and giving alarm to the savages. The consequence of this imprudence was soon displayed. The enemy, finding the pursuit keen, and perceiving the strength of their prisoner beginning to fail, instantly sank their tomahawks in her head, and left her, still warm and bleeding, upon the snow. As the whites came up, she retained strength enough to wave her hand in token of recognition, and appeared desirous of giving them some information in regard to the enemy; but her strength was too far gone. Her brother sprang from his horse, and endeavored to stop the effusion of blood, but in vain. She gave him her hand, muttered some inarticulate words, and expired within two minutes after the arrival of the party.

The pursuit was renewed with additional ardor, and, in twenty minutes, the enemy was within view. They had taken possession of a narrow ridge, magnifying their numbers in the eyes of the whites, by running rapidly from tree to tree, and maintaining a steady yell in their most appalling tones.

The pursuers, however, were too experienced to be deceived by so common an artifice. Being satisfied that the number of the enemy must be inferior to their own, they dismounted, tied their horses, and flanking out in such a manner as to enclose the savages, ascended as rapidly as was consistent with a due regard to the shelter of their persons.

The firing commenced, and now they discovered, for the first time, that only two Indians were opposed to them. They had voluntarily sacrificed themselves for the safety of the main body, and had succeeded in delaying pursuit until their friends could reach the mountains. One of them was shot dead, and the other was badly wounded, as was evident from the blood upon his blanket, as well as that which filled the snow for a considerable distance. The pursuit was recommenced, and urged keenly until night, when the trail entered a running stream, and was lost.

We know of nothing more powerfully illustrating the life led by the women of those days, than the following statements, brief and simple as they are, made in the record of General Samuel Dale:

"About this time Joe Horn and Dave Calhoun went to their clearings to plant corn, very imprudently taking their wives and children with them, who camped in the field. Being both off hunting one day, the prowling savages made a clean sweep of these two families. The poor, heart-stricken husbands, almost crazy, returned to the fort, and the whole night was passed by all of us in lamentations and vows of vengeance.

"For several months after this, we were not troubled, and my brother and myself were boarded about ten miles off, at Halbert McClure's, to go to school. Returning, one morning, from a visit home, we fell in with old Mr. Bush, of Castlewood Fort, who informed us that he saw Shawnee 'signs' about, and that we must go back to Glade Hollow, and give the alarm. Unfortunately, father had left, the day before, for the salt works, on Holton river, and mother and the children were alone. About nine at night, we saw two Indians approaching. Mother immediately threw a bucket full of water on the fire, to prevent their seeing us, made us lie on the floor, bolted and barred the door, and posted herself there with an ax and a rifle. We never knew why they desisted from an attack, or how father escaped, who rode up three hours afterward.

"In two or three days all of us set out for Clinch Mountain, to the wedding of Hoppy Kincaid, a clever young fellow from Holston, and Sally McClure, a fine, bouncing girl of seventeen, modest and pretty, yet fearless and free. We knew the Shawnees were about—that our fort and household effects must be left unguarded, and might probably be destroyed—that we incurred the risk of a fight, or an ambuscade, capture, or even death, on the road; but in those days, in that wild country, folks did not calculate consequences closely, and the temptation to a frolic, a feast, a wedding, a dance till daylight, and often for several days together, was not to be resisted, and off we went.

"In half an hour we fell in with Captain Barnett, and twenty men from Holston, who warned us that Indians were about, and that he was scouting for them. Father, ever eager for a fight, joined this company, and we trudged on to Clinch Mountain. Instead of the bridal party, the well-spread table, the ringing laughter, and the sounding feet of buxom dancers, we found a pile of ashes and six or seven ghastly corpses, tomahawked and scalped! Poor Hardy McClure was dead; several others lay around. One daughter was still breathing, but soon expired. Mrs. McClure, her infant, and three other children, including Sally, the intended bride, had been carried off by the savages. They soon tore the poor infant from its mother's arms, and killed it, that she might travel faster.

"While they were scalping this child, Peggy McClure, a girl twelve years old, perceived a sink-hole at her feet, and dropped silently into it. It communicated with a ravine, down which she ran, and brought the news into the settlement. The Indians were too apprehensive of pursuit to search for her. The same night Sally, who had been tied and forced to lie down between two warriors, contrived to loosen her thongs and make her escape. She struck for the cane-brake, then for the river, and, to conceal her trail, resolved to descend it. It was deep wading, and the current was so rapid, she had to fill her petticoat with gravel to steady herself. She soon, however, recovered confidence, returned to shore, and finally reached the still-smoking homestead about dark next evening. A few neighbors, well armed, had just buried the dead. Kincaid was among them. The last prayer had been said when the orphan girl stood among them, and was soon in the arms of her lover. Resolved to leave no more to chance, at his entreaty, and by the advice of all, the weeping girl gave her consent, and, by the grave of the household, and near the ruined dwelling, they were immediately married."

Can imagination add anything to this vivid picture?

CAPTIVITY OF JONATHAN ALDER.

The narrative of the captivity of Jonathan Alder is one of great interest and value, being a source from whence can be derived much important information regarding the customs, habits and manners of the Indians, among whom he spent fifteen years of his early life. We regret that it is impossible to give more than an outline sketch of the incidents connected with his capture and adoption by the savages.

He was born in New Jersey, but removed with his father to Wythe County, Virginia, about 1780. In March, 1782, while he and his brother David were in search of a mare and her foal, which had strayed off into the woods, they were surprised by the appearance of a small party of Indians, who darted upon them from behind the trees, and, before Jonathan had time to make an effort at escape, he found himself in the grasp of a stalwart warrior, who threatened him with his tomahawk, and checked the effort, if the idea had risen in his mind. David, however, started to run, and was pursued by one of the Indians, who soon returned, leading him by one hand, and with the other holding the handle of a spear, which he had thrown at him, and which still remained in his body. On seeing this, another savage stepped up and took hold of the boy, holding him firmly in his grasp, while the first pulled the spear out of the wound by main strength. The poor fellow uttered a shriek of pain at this barbarous surgery, whereupon Jonathan moved toward him and inquired if he was hurt. He replied that he was, and in a few moments sank dying to the ground. Jonathan was hurried forward, while one of the Indians remained with the other boy; but in a few moments made his appearance with the scalp of David in his hand, and, as he approached, with an exhibition of the most fiendish delight, he shook the reeking trophy, from which the blood was still dripping, in the face of the lad, who was so horror-stricken at the fate of his brother as to be scarcely able to proceed. Finding it necessary, however, for the salvation of his own life, he urged himself to his utmost, and they soon overtook the balance of the party, with whom he found a Mrs. Martin, a neighbor, and a child, about five years old, whom the Indians had taken captive after murdering the husband of Mrs. Martin, and all the rest of her family. They did not long leave her this solace to her misery, but finding the boy somewhat troublesome, they killed and scalped it, and, to still the agonizing cries of the broken-hearted mother, one of the inhuman wretches drew the edge of his knife across her forehead, at the same time crying "scalp! scalp!" to intimate the fate in store for her if she did not stop her screams. Finding threats of no avail, they then cut switches, with which they beat her until she became quiet. One day, as the boy Alder was sitting on the ground, after eating his dinner, and being completely worn out with the fatigue of their long and rapid march, not having risen when ordered to do so, he observed the shadow of some one standing behind him with a tomahawk in his hand, in the attitude of striking. He turned suddenly around and beheld a warrior just in the act of tomahawking him. Finding himself discovered, perhaps, or struck with the good-natured look which the boy's face wore, he withheld the blow, and commenced feeling of his head. He afterward told the boy that the color of his hair had saved his life; for, upon noticing that it was black and thick, he had thought that he would make a good Indian, and therefore had concluded to take him to his tribe.

The party by whom Alder had been taken belonged to the Mingo tribe, whose village was on the north side of Mad River. After many days of weary travel, and foot-sore and weary, they arrived in its vicinity. The usual scalp-yell and whoop, announcing the presence of prisoners in the party, having been given, the whole village turned out to receive them, and Alder was obliged to undergo the ordeal of running the gauntlet. Two rows of Indian boys and girls were stationed in front of the council-house, armed with switches, and, exhausted as he was, he was compelled to run between them, and make his way within the door of the council-house for safety from their blows. Fortunately he accomplished this with his life, and was soon after adopted into an Indian family, after being purified of his white blood. This was done by washing him in a decoction of herbs, with soap; and after being dressed in the Indian fashion, with shirt, leggins, breech-clouts and moccasins, he was considered as one of the tribe. It is not to be wondered at that it was long before he could become in any way reconciled to his new way of life, and that he should mourn for that home which he never again expected to see. For all one year, the poor boy longed to return to his mother, brothers and sisters. Every thing was new and strange to him; he could not speak a word of their language; their food and manner of life disagreed with him; and, as if to render his misery more complete, he suffered dreadfully with the fever and ague. His adopted father was chief of the tribe, and he, as well as his squaw, endeavored to comfort him in every way possible, and render his situation comfortable; but they could not quiet his longings for home, and the poor little fellow spent many lonely, bitter hours, near the foot of a walnut-tree in the adjacent forest, weeping over his hard lot. The chief had three daughters, named Mary, Sally and Hannah. Of these, Sally was harshest, making Jonathan do all the work, and stigmatizing him as a "mean, lousy prisoner." Mary, the eldest, married a distinguished Shawnee chief, called Colonel Lewis, and Jonathan went to live with them for a time. Of this couple he speaks in the warmest eulogy. He says: "The Indians would generally collect at our camp evenings, to talk over their hunting expeditions. I would sit up to listen to their stories, and frequently fell asleep just where I was sitting. After they left, Mary would fix my bed, and Colonel Lewis would carefully take me up and carry me to it. On these occasions they would often say, supposing me to be asleep: 'Poor fellow, we have set up too long for him, and he has fallen asleep on the cold ground.' And then how softly would they lay me down and cover me up. Oh, never have I, nor can I, express the affection I had for these two persons."

The Captivity of Jonathan Alder.—_Page_ 15.
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At the end of a year, or little more, Jonathan acquired their language, and became in a measure reconciled and contented; but their food, which was principally hominy and meat, went against him for a long time. As soon as he grew stout enough to carry a rifle, they gave him an old musket to begin with, and told him he must learn to hunt. Delighted with his new trust, and pleased with the idea of becoming a hunter and a warrior, he devoted himself to learn the use of the piece. His first essays were made upon mud-turtles, which he would approach as they lay basking on a rock in the sunshine; and when he had acquired skill enough to kill them by hitting the rock just beneath them, and thus blowing them into the air—sometimes to the height of six or seven feet—he tried his skill upon larger game. Alder remained with the Indians until after the treaty with Wayne, in 1795. He gives many particulars of great interest concerning the movements of the Indians during the long and bloody wars which preceded that propitious event. Peace being established, and almost all the white prisoners having returned to their former homes and friends, he began to feel a desire to see his mother and his relatives again. His long residence among the Indians, however, had deprived him of all knowledge of the English language, and he had lost all recollection even of the State in which he had lived. He had not, therefore, the least clew to aid him in the search.

Watching his opportunity, however, and having long entertained the idea of escaping, he at last succeeded in eluding the suspicions of his red friends, and in beginning his enterprise. Choosing a season of the year when game and berries were plenty, and stocking his bag with dried venison, he set out, avowedly, on a hunting expedition; and the true object of his journey was not suspected for some days after the time of his expected return. He had nothing to guide him toward the white settlements, except a knowledge that they lay in a northerly direction. His skill in woodcraft being equal to that of the Indians', he was enabled to bear the fatigues and discouragements of his wanderings. A band of red men, whom he encountered, treated him as one of themselves, they belonging to a friendly tribe; and, after three weeks of solitary marches, sleeping at night as the circumstances permitted, he emerged into a country once familiar to him, but now considerably changed during the fifteen years of his absence.

But his friends, nor their surroundings, were not so much changed as himself. He was not only an Indian in his appearance, but in many of his feelings. Glad as he was to _get back_, he soon became very home-sick for the wild life he had abandoned. The clothes, the warm beds, the chairs, the food and table, the restraints of civilization, were, for a time, almost insupportable. It was but very gradually that the white blood of his ancestors begun to stir anew in his veins, and the powerful ties and instincts of early associations to break up the strong bonds of more recent habits. He was almost as many years in becoming a white man as he had been in growing an Indian.

A writer upon the character of the Indians, in his defense of them, says that if an Anglo-American were placed in the same circumstances with a native, he would make a precisely similar person in every trait and habit. "This averment is sustained by a reference to the white people who had been taken prisoners in childhood and brought up among the Indians. In every such case, the child of civilization has become the ferocious adult of the forest, manifesting all the peculiarities, tastes and preferences of the native Indian. His manners, habits, propensities and pursuits have been the same; his fondness for the chase and his aversion to labor the same; so that the most astute philosophical observer has been unable to detect any difference, except in the color of the skin; and, in some instances, even this distinction has been removed by long exposure to the weather, and the free use of oils and paints. There have been cases in which the children of white parents, who have been raised among the Indians from early infancy, have been taken home, in middle life, to their relatives, but have refused to remain, and have returned to the tribes in which they were brought up. One case of this kind occurred within the knowledge of the writer. A female, captured in infancy, and reared among the Indians, was brought in by them at the treaty of Greenville, and sent to her parents in Kentucky. She soon became so discontented and restless that, in spite of all their efforts, she left them, returned to her former associates, and was again happy." All of which is doubtless true, but does not disprove the many barbarous instincts of the red-men.

In the fall of 1788, Matthias Van Bebber, aged eighteen, and Jacob, aged twelve years, were out a short distance from Point Pleasant, with a horse, when they were waylaid by four Indians. Jacob was leading the horse, and Matthias was a short distance ahead, with a rifle across his shoulder, when the Indians fired two guns at Matthias. One of the balls struck him over the eyes, momentarily blinding him; he sprang one side, and fell into a gully. Jacob, on hearing the report of the guns, fled, pursued by three of the savages. Matthias, in the mean time, sprang up and took to a tree. The remaining Indian did the same. The lad brought up his gun to an aim, the Indian dodged, when the former improved the opportunity to fly, and escaped to the fort. The other three, after a tight chase of half a mile, caught Jacob, who, being very active, would have escaped, had not his moccasins been too large. They then retreated across the Ohio with their prisoner. He was a sprightly little fellow, small of his age, and his captors, pleased with him, treated him kindly. On the first night of their encampment, they took him on their knees and sang to him. He turned away his head to conceal his tears.

On arriving at their town, while running the gauntlet between the children of the place, an Indian boy, much larger than himself, threw a bone, which struck him on the head. Enraged by the pain, Jacob drew back, and running with all his force, butted him over, to the great amusement of the gazing warriors. He was adopted into an Indian family, where he was used with kindness. On one occasion his adopted father whipped him, but not severely, which affected his new mother and sister to tears. After remaining with the tribe about a year, he escaped, traveling five days through the wilderness to his home. When he arrived at maturity he was remarkable for his fleetness. None of the Indians who visited the Point could distance him in running.

One of the most interesting histories on record of the return of white prisoners from among the red-men is connected with Boquet's defense of Fort Pitt, and his expedition from that fort into the wilderness, to overawe his adversaries by the display of his strength, and to recover the vast number of men, women and children, held by the savages, amounting, in all, to over three hundred. Fort Pitt stood on the present site of Pittsburg, and, at the time of which we write, 1772, was the only spot, excepting Fort Detroit, from the Falls of Niagara to the Falls of St. Mary, over which the English flag waved. Our splendid territories were being ravaged by the Indians; families, who had effected a home and comforts, being driven back by the tomahawk, with their scattered remnants, to the East, from which they had emigrated, or into Fort Pitt, which alone opposed itself to the murderous waves which dashed against, and threatened to undermine it. It withstood, like Fort Detroit, a long siege by the savages, was reinforced, the reinforcements, before reaching the fort, having given battle to, and defeated the Indians.

The Indians, disheartened by their overwhelming defeat, and despairing of success against the fort, now that it was so heavily reinforced, retired sullenly to their homes beyond the Ohio, leaving the country between it and the settlement free from their ravages. Communication being rendered safe, the fugitives were able to return to their friends, or take possession of their abandoned cabins. By comparing notes, they were soon able to make out an accurate list of those who were missing—either killed or prisoners among various tribes—when it was found to contain the names of more than two hundred men, women and children. Fathers mourned their daughters, slain or subject to a captivity worse than death; husbands, their wives, left mangled in the forest, or forced to follow their savage captors—some with babes at their breasts, and some, whose offspring would first see the light in the red-man's wigwam—and loud were the cries for vengeance which went up on every hand.

Boquet wished to follow up his success, and march at once into the enemy's country, and wring from the hostile tribes, by force of arms, a treaty of peace, which should forever put an end to those scenes of rapine and murder. But his force was too small, and the season too far advanced. He matured his plans during the winter, and in the spring began his preparations. The Indians, in the meantime, had procured powder from the French, and, as soon as the snow melted, commenced their ravages along the frontier. The aroused and desperate people of Pennsylvania furnished a thousand men, and Virginia a corps of volunteers, which, added to Boquet's five hundred regulars, made a force of nearly two thousand men, with which he was instructed to advance into the enemy's territory, and, by one grand movement, crush the offending tribes. His route was without any water communication, and lay through the heart of an unbroken wilderness. The expedition was to be carried out without boats, wagons, or artillery, and without a post to fall back upon in case of disaster. It was, indeed, an isolated and a novel affair. It was autumn before all obstacles were overcome, and the army under way. It struck directly into the trackless forest, with no definite point in view, and no fixed limit to its advance. It was intended to overawe by its magnitude—to move, as an awful exhibition of power, into the heart of the red-man's dominions. Expecting to be shut up in the forest at least a month, receiving in that time no supplies from without, it had to carry along an immense quantity of provisions. Meat, of course, could not be preserved, and so the frontier settlements were exhausted of sheep and oxen for its support. These necessarily caused the march to be slow and methodical. The corps of Virginia volunteers went in front, preceded by three scouting parties—one of which kept the path—while the two others moved in a line abreast, on either side, to explore the woods.

Under cover of these, the ax companies, guarded by two companies of light infantry, cut two parallel paths, one each side of the main path, for the troops, pack-horses, and cattle, which followed. First marched the Highlanders, in column, two deep, in the centre path, and in the side paths, in single file, abreast—the men six feet apart—and behind them the corps of reserve, and the second battalion of Pennsylvania militia. Then came the officers, and pack-horses, followed by the droves of cattle, filling the forest with their loud complainings. A company of light-horse walked slowly after these, while the rear-guard closed the long array. No talking was allowed, and no music cheered the way. In this order the unwieldy caravan struggled along, neither extremity of which could be seen from the centre, it being lost amid the thickly-clustering trunks and foliage in the distance.

Some days they would make but two or three miles, and again, when the way was less obstructed, would make ten, fifteen or eighteen miles. On the fourth day of their march, near some deserted Indian huts, they came upon the skull of a child, stuck upon a pole.

There was a large number of men in the army who had wives, children and friends prisoners among the Indians, and who had accompanied the expedition for the purpose of recovering them. To these the skull of this little child brought sad reflections. Some one among them was, perhaps, its father, while the thought that it might stand as an index, to tell the fate of all who were captured, made each one shudder. As they looked at it, bleached by the sun and rain, the anxious heart asked questions it dared not answer.

Keeping on their course, they pursued their difficult march, day after day, much of the time through a tangled wilderness, but occasionally, from some high point, catching glimpses of marvellous splendor of sky and scenery, the purpled sunlight of October wrapping all objects in a kind of enchantment. At times the path was so overgrown with bushes, that every step had to be cleared with the ax; again, it would be over marshes, so wet that bridges had to be constructed, to keep the cattle from sinking; and still again, the men would be cheered by an easy and rapid day's journey, along the banks of some pleasant stream. Ohio is even yet renowned for its glorious forests, and these, now dressed in all the gorgeous coloring of Indian summer, gave frequent pictures of beauty which impressed the roughest of the sturdy soldiers.

At length they descended to a small river, which they followed until it joined the main force of the Muskingum, where a scene of a very different character awaited them. A little above and below the forks, the shores had been cultivated, and lined with Indian houses. The place was called Tuscarora, and, for beauty of situation, could not well be surpassed. The high, luxuriant banks, the placid rivers, meeting and flowing on together, the green fields, sprinkled with huts, and bordered with rich, autumnal foliage, all basking in the mellow October light, and so out of the way there in the wilderness, combined to form a sweet picture, which was doubly lovely to them after being so long shut up in the forest. They reached this beautiful spot Saturday afternoon, and, the next day being Sunday, they remained in camp, men and cattle being allowed a day of rest. The latter, revived under the swell of green grass, and, roaming over the fields, gave a still more civilized aspect to the quiet scene. The next day, the army moved two miles further down the Muskingum, and encamped on a high bank, where the stream was three hundred feet wide.

The following day six chiefs came into camp, saying that all the rest were eight miles off, waiting to make peace. Boquet told them he would be ready to receive them next day. In the meantime he ordered a large bower to be built, a short distance from camp, while sentinels were posted in every direction, to prevent surprise, in case treachery was meditated.

The next day, the 17th, he paraded the Highlanders and Virginia volunteers, and, escorted by the light-horse, led them to the bower, where he disposed them in the most imposing manner, so as to impress the chiefs, in the approaching interview. The latter, as they emerged from the forest, were conducted, with great ceremony to the bower, which they entered with their accustomed gravity, where, without saying a word, they quietly seated themselves, and commenced smoking. When they had finished they laid aside their pipes, and drew from their pouches strings of wampum. The council, being thus opened, they made a long address, in which they were profuse in their professions of peace, laying the whole blame of the war on the young men, whom, they said, they could not control.

Boquet, not wishing to appear eager to come to a settlement, replied that he would give his answer the next day, and the council broke up. A passing storm, however, prevented a meeting of the council until the day following that first set. Boquet's answer was long and conciliatory; but the gist of it was that he would make peace on one condition, and no other—that the Indians should give up all the prisoners in their possession within ten days.

Remaining quietly in camp until Monday, he again ordered the tents to be struck, and recommenced his march, to show his determination to enforce his commands. In three days he reached the forks of the Muskingum; and, judging this to be as central a position as he could find, he resolved to remain there until his mission was accomplished. He ordered four redoubts to be built, erected several store-houses, a mess-house, a large number of ovens, and various other buildings for the reception of captives, which, with the white tents scattered up and down the forks of the river, made a large settlement in the wilderness, filling the Indians with alarm. A town with nearly two thousand inhabitants, well supplied with horses, cattle and sheep, and with ample means of defense, was well calculated to awaken the gloomiest anticipations in the breasts of the ancient inheritors. The steady sound of the ax, day after day, the lowing of cattle, and all the bustle of civilization, echoing along the banks of the Muskingum, within the very heart of their territory, was more alarming than the resistless march of a victorious army; and, anxious to get rid of such unwelcome company, they made every effort to collect the prisoners scattered amid the various tribes.

Boquet remained here two weeks, occupied with sending and receiving messengers who were charged with business relating to the restoration of the captives. At the end of this time, two hundred and six, the majority of them women and children, had been received into camp. An hundred more yet remained in the hands of the Indians. These they solemnly promised to restore in the spring, and, as the leafless forest, the biting blast, and occasional flurries of snow, reminded Boquet of the coming on of winter, he determined to retrace his steps to Fort Pitt.

These two weeks, during which the prisoners were being brought in, were filled with scenes of the most intense, and often painful excitement. Some of the captives had been for many years with the Indians, recipients of their kindness and love; others had passed from childhood to maturity among them, till they had forgotten their native language, and the past was to them, if remembered at all, but a half-forgotten dream. All of them—men, women and children—were dressed in Indian costume, and their hair arranged in Indian fashion. Their features, also, were bronzed by long exposure to the weather, so that they appeared to have passed more than half way to a purely savage state. As troop after troop came in, the eager looks and inquiries of those who had accompanied the army to find their long-lost families and kindred, made each arrival a most thrilling scene. In some instances, where the separation had only been for a short time, the recognition was simultaneous and mutual, and the short, quick cry, and sudden rush into each other's arms, brought tears to the eyes of the hardy soldiers. In others, doubt, agony, fear and hope, would in turn take possession of the heart, chasing each other like shadows over the face, as question after question was put, to recall some event or scene familiar to both, till at last a common chord would be touched, when the dormant memory would awake as by an electric shock, a flood of fond recollections sweep away all uncertainty, and the lost one be hurried away amid sobs and cries of joy. Sometimes the disappointed father or brother would turn sorrowfully away, and, with that hope deferred which maketh the heart sick, sadly await the arrival of another group. But the most painful sight was when a mother recognized her own child, which, however, in turn, persisted in looking on her as a stranger, coldly turning from her embrace, and clinging to its savage protector; or when a mutual recognition failed to awaken affection on one side, so entirely had the heart become weaned from its early attachments. In these cases, the joy of the captors knew no bounds; the most endearing epithets and caresses would be lavished on the whilome prisoner. But when they saw them taken away, torrents of tears attested their sincere affection and grief. The attitude of intense interest, and the exhibition of uncontrollable sorrow of these wild children of the forest, on one side, and, on the other, the ecstatic joy of the white mother as she folded her long-lost child in her arms, and the deep emotion of the husband as he strained his recovered wife to his bosom, combined to form one of the most moving, novel spectacles ever witnessed in the American wilderness.

One of the captive women had an infant, three months old, at her breast, born in the Indian's wigwam. A Virginia volunteer instantly recognized her as his wife, stolen from his log-cabin six months previous, and rushing forward he snatched her to his bosom, and flew with her to his tent, where, tearing off the savage costumes of both, he clothed them in their proper garments. After the first burst of joy was over, he inquired after his little boy, two years old, who was carried off at the same time she was made prisoner; but his wife could give no tidings of him. A few days after, another party of prisoners arrived, in which was a child whose appearance answered to the description of this little fugitive. The woman was sent for and the child placed before her. She looked at it a moment and shook her head. But the next instant the powerful maternal instinct triumphed, and, recognizing in the little savage before her her lost darling, she dropped her babe, and snatching him to her bosom, burst into a torrent of tears. The husband caught the babe from the ground, and the couple hurried away to his tent. The poor Indian mother watched their retreating forms, and then burying her head in her blanket, sobbed aloud. A scene equally affecting occurred between an aged mother and her daughter, who had been carried off nine years before, and adopted in a distant tribe. Though the latter had passed from childhood to womanhood in the forest, differing from other young squaws only in the tint of her skin, which her wild life could not wholly bronze, the eyes of the parent detected the features of her child in the handsome young savage, and calling her by name, she rushed forward to embrace her. The latter, having forgotten her name and language, and all her childhood's life, looked on wondering, and turned, frightened, to her Indian parent. The true mother tried in every way to recall the memory of her child, and awaken recognition, but in vain. At length, despairing of success, she gave way to the most passionate grief. Boquet had been a silent witness of the painful interview. Moved at the grief of the mother, he approached her, and asked if she could not recall some song with which she used to sing her child to sleep. Brightening at the suggestion, she looked up through her tears, and struck a familiar strain, with which she used to quiet her babe. The moment the ears of the maiden caught the sound, her countenance changed, and as the strain proceeded, a strange light stole over her features. All stood hushed as death, as that simple melody floated out through the forest, watching with intense interest the countenances of the two actors in this touching scene. The eager, anxious look of the mother, as she sang, and the rapidly changing expression of the captive's face as she listened, awoke the profoundest sympathy of Boquet's generous heart, so that he could hardly restrain his feelings. Slowly, almost painfully, the dormant memory awoke from its long sleep; at length the dark cloud was rent asunder, and the scenes of childhood came back in all the freshness of their early springtime, and the half-wild young creature sank in joy on her mother's bosom.

Some of the children had been so long with their captors that they regarded them as their true parents, crying bitterly at being separated from them. Stranger still, the young women had become so attached to their savage but kind husbands, that, when told they were to be given up to their white friends, they refused to go; and many of them had to be bound and brought as prisoners to camp. The promise that they should take their half-breed children with them, could not change their wishes. On the other hand, the Indians clung to them with a tenacity and fondness which made the spectators forget that they were gazing upon savages. It was pitiful to see their habitual stoicism give way so completely at the prospect of separation. They made no effort to conceal their grief; the chieftain's eye, which gleamed like his tomahawk in battle, now wept like a child's. His strong nature seemed wholly subdued; his haughty bearing changed to one of humility, as he besought the white men to treat his pale-face squaw tenderly. His wild life suddenly lost all its charms, and he hung round the camp to get a sight of her whom, though she was lost to him, he still loved. He watched near the log-building in which she was left, leaving it only to bring from the forests pheasants, wild pigeons, or some delicacy to lay at her feet. Some of the young captive wives refused to be comforted, and, using that sagacity they had acquired during their sojourn with the red-men, managed to escape from their white friends, and, joining their swarthy lovers, fled with them to the forest.

The American wilderness never before presented such a spectacle as was exhibited on the banks of the Muskingum. It was no longer a hostile camp, but a stage on which human nature was displaying its most noble, attractive traits; or, rather, a sublime poem, enacted in that lovely natural temple, whose burden was human affection, and whose great argument, the common brotherhood of mankind.

Boquet and his officers were deeply impressed. They could hardly believe their own eyes when they saw young warriors whose deeds of daring ferocity had made their names a terror on the frontier, weeping like children over their bereavement.

A treaty of peace having been concluded between the various tribes, Boquet, taking hostages to secure their good behavior, and the return of the remaining prisoners, broke up his camp on the 18th of November, and began to retrace his steps towards Fort Pitt. The leafless forest rocked and roared above the little army, as it once more entered its gloomy recesses; and that lovely spot on the banks of the Muskingum, which had witnessed such strange scenes, lapsed again into its primeval quiet.

MOODY, THE REFUGEE.

In about the central part of Sussex county, New Jersey, two miles south of the village of Newton, the county seat, are two ponds or bodies of water, which go by the name of the "Big" and "Little Muckshaw." The lower, or Little Muckshaw, loses itself, at its western extremity, in a marsh or swamp, which is almost impassable, except after a long drought. This vicinity possesses some considerable interest, from having been the haunt of one of those fiends in human shape, who preyed upon the substance of the patriotic citizens of the neighborhood during that gloomy period in our Revolutionary contest, when even the Father of his country was wrapped in despondency at the prospect for the future.

Bonnel Moody was a ruffian of the deepest dye, and possessed of all those qualities which constitute an accomplished freebooter and highwayman. He was cunning as a fox; energetic and determined in the pursuit of an object; void of all pity or remorse; avaricious as a miser; and with a brute courage which made him formidable in combat, he was a dangerous enemy in the midst of the inhabitants of Sussex county, as they learned to their cost during the war. His place of retreat, or rather, his lair—for it was more like the haunt of some wild beast than the abode of human beings—was on the west side of the swamp above mentioned, where nature seemed to have provided him with a retreat more impregnable than art could have furnished him. A point of land projects into the western side of the marsh, affording only a very narrow and difficult foothold for one man to pass between its base and an inlet of the pond which washes the foot of the rocks. The ledge then recedes in the shape of a crescent, forming a little cove, with water in front and rocks behind and above. About forty-five yards from this point is a huge rock, screened by overhanging trees and shrubs, in which is a cavern, where Moody and his gang of marauders found shelter when their deeds of rapine and murder had roused the inhabitants of the vicinity to rid themselves of the dangerous foe. This cavern is eighteen feet high in front, gradually receding until it meets the foundation at a distance of fifteen feet, and about fifty feet in length from north to south. Beyond this cavern the ledge again approaches the marsh, into which it projects, forming an elbow almost impossible to pass around, and on the opposite side it again recedes, presenting a bold and rugged aspect, heightened by the gloom of perpetual shade, numerous cavern-like fissures, and masses of rock which have fallen, from time to time, from the overhanging ledge. One of these is a large, flat slab, about ten feet long, six high, and between three and four feet thick, which has fallen in such a position as to leave a passage behind it of about a yard in width. The rocks above project over this slab, so as to shield it effectually from that quarter, and a half-dozen men might defend themselves behind this natural buckler against the attack of an army. Such was the haunt of Moody, and his congenial band of Tory cut-throats and murderers; and from here, like a flock of ravenous wolves would they issue, when opportunity offered, and lay waste and destroy all within their reach until danger threatened, when they would retreat to this natural fastness with their ill-gotten plunder, here to divide and secrete it. From the brow of the ledge, which rises nearly a hundred feet from the water, they had a fair view of every avenue to their hiding-place, and no one ever approached it alive except Moody and his associates, or perhaps some friend of theirs, with provision or information. There were those so lost to principle as to furnish this crew of land-pirates with the necessaries of life, and with accurate intelligence of every movement, on the part of the Americans, which occurred in the vicinity. Several attempts to capture the wretch were frustrated by these loyal friends. At one time, when a party, having tracked him for some distance, were about to spring upon him, he was alarmed by a negro in time to make his escape; and on another occasion a young woman mounted a horse and rode some twelve or fourteen miles, of a dark night, to warn him of a projected attack by a party of Whigs, who had determined to capture him at all hazards. One cold winter night he broke into the house of a Mr. Ogden, and after robbing it of every thing of any value, he took the old man out in the yard, and made him take an oath not to make known his visit until a sufficient time had elapsed for himself and his party to make their escape. Two or three men who were working for Mr. Ogden, and who slept in a loft up stairs, not feeling bound by the old man's oath, alarmed the neighborhood and commenced a pursuit. Their track was easily followed in the snow, and in the morning they came upon a camp where the marauders had slept over night, and where their fires were still burning. The chase was kept up until they reached Goshen, in the State of New York, where they recovered part of the plunder, but the rascals escaped. These expeditions in pursuit of the Tory wretch were called "Moody-hunting," and were followed up frequently with great energy.

One night, about twelve o'clock, he made his appearance at the bedside of the jailer, and demanded the key of the jail. The poor frightened official readily gave it up, although he had often declared that he would not surrender it to him, and with it Moody opened the doors and set all the prisoners free. Two of them were condemned to death; one, who was condemned to die for robbery, being unacquainted with the neighborhood, wandered about all night and next day in the woods, and was discovered in a hollow tree the next evening by a party of "coon-hunters," who brought him back; and he was hung in front of the jail, protesting his innocence to the last. He was subsequently proved to be guiltless of the crime for which he suffered; and the wretch who actually committed the deed confessed on his death-bed that he it was who did the act for which another had suffered. On this occasion, Moody was more just than the law, and the prisoner's cause better than his fortune.

Moody, the Refugee.—_Page_ 32.
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