Chapter XII: Part 12

While the American army was encamped at Morristown, a man very shabbily dressed, and mounted on a broken-down nag, all of whose "_points_" were exhibited to the fullest extent, was seen one day to enter the camp, and pass leisurely through it, scrutinizing every thing as he went; and although he assumed a perfect nonchalance, and was to all appearance a simple-hearted and rather soft-headed country farmer, yet there was something in his manner which attracted the attention of an officer, who was drilling a squad of recruits in the open air. One of these thought there was something about the face which he recognized, and told his officer so. One of the squad was mounted and ordered to bring him back. Moody—for he it was who had thus boldly entered the American lines and reconnoitered their ranks—shot him dead as he came up, and secreted the body by the side of the road. Another being sent to assist the first, Moody secreted himself in the woods and escaped. Having been driven from his former haunts by the untiring activity of the Whigs, and being too well known to venture much abroad, he determined to join the British army in New York. While attempting to cross to the city with a companion in an open boat, they were captured, brought back to Morristown, and hung as traitors and spies. Moody was said to have come from Kingwood township, Hunterton County, and was employed by the British to obtain recruits in New Jersey among the Tory inhabitants, act as a spy upon the Americans, and by his maraudings to keep the inhabitants so busy at home as to prevent their joining or aiding the American army.

Another desperado of those days was Joseph, or "Joe Bettys," a remarkable character, who figured in the border wars of the Revolution. He was a renegade from the American army, and for a long while was the scourge of the New York frontier. His deeds were marked by an equal boldness and cruelty, that made him the terror of all who had the misfortune to be ranked as his enemies. His principal employment was the abduction of citizens to be conveyed into Canada, for each of whom he received a bounty; and in his expeditions for this purpose, he was always accompanied by small bodies of Indians. His hour for executing his projects was at night, and it frequently happened that his conduct was not confined to the securing of prisoners, but he often reveled in the destruction of property and the infliction of cruelty, and his victims were often tormented by every means his savage ingenuity could devise. Cold-blooded murder, and reckless barbarities of every kind, continually stained his soul. The section of country which suffered from his marauding expeditions, to this day is rife with stories of his daring and ferocity.

In the year 1776, he entered as Sergeant in the New York forces, in which capacity he served his country faithfully, until, being exasperated at the treatment which he received from one of his superior officers, and retorting with threats and menaces, he was reduced to the position of a common sentinel. This was more than he could bear, and he would have deserted, had not Lieutenant Ball, who had before befriended him, anticipating such a step, applied and procured for him appointment as Sergeant on board one of the vessels on Lake Champlain, commanded by Arnold, which he accepted. In an action that ensued, Bettys displayed a wonderful daring and gallantry, which receiving no other notice than the thanks of his General, he conceived himself slighted, and determined to retaliate. In the spring of 1777, he deserted and went over to the British forces, where he was soon elevated to the position of a spy, in which character he carried on the depredations we have spoken of.

Among the prisoners that he secretly seized and carried off in the early part of his career, was Samuel Patchim, afterward a Captain in the army. The account of his captivity and subsequent hardships, as here given, is as it was related by himself:

"I was captured by Bettys, taken into Canada, and confined in Chamblee prison, in irons. I was the only prisoner whom he had on this occasion brought into Canada. There were six or seven more of my neighbors when we started, to whom he gave the oath of allegiance and sent them back. As for myself, he said I had served Congress long enough, and that I should now serve the king. He wished me to enlist in his company, but soon found that this was not agreeable to my feelings. He then swore, that if I would not serve the king, I should remain in irons. I was confined in Chamblee prison four months; then I was removed to Montreal, and thence to an island, forty-five miles up the St. Lawrence, opposite Cadalake Fort. There I remained about one year. There were five prisoners in all, and we were guarded by sixty soldiers, seven sentinels at night. They had left no boats on the island by which we might make our escape, yet we all crawled out of the barracks at night, and went to the river side; there we made a raft by means of two or three logs and our suspenders, on which we sailed down the river five miles, when we landed on the Canada shore. There we appropriated to our own use a boat belonging to the British, and crossed over to the American shore. While going down the rapids, we had lost our little stock of provisions, and for eight days out of twelve which we spent in the woods, we had nothing to eat save frogs and rattlesnakes, and not half enough of them. We were chased eight days by the Indians, and slept every night on the boughs of some hemlock trees. At length we arrived at Northwest Bay, on Lake Champlain, when my companions, unable longer to travel, utterly gave out. I then constructed a raft on which to cross the lake, and having stripped my companions of their clothing, in order to make myself comfortable, left them to die of hunger and fatigue, and committed myself to the wintry waves. When in about the center of the lake, I was taken by the crew of a British ship, and conveyed to St. John's, from thence to Quebec, and finally to Boston, where I was exchanged and sent home."

Bettys seemed to have a particular delight in taking prisoners among his own townsmen, and especially those against whom he held any grudge. On one occasion, having taken one whom he supposed to be the object he sought, and his prisoner managing to escape, he deliberately shot him dead, and then discovered that he had made a fatal mistake, and killed one of his best friends.

But his bloody career was destined to find a retributive end. One day, in the winter of 1781-2, a suspicious-looking person was seen to pass over the farm of one John Fulmer, situated near Ballston Lake, in Albany County. A son of the farmer, Jacob, immediately obtained the aid of three of his neighbors, James and John Cory, and Francis Perkins, and started in pursuit of the suspicious stranger. There was a light fall of snow on the ground, by which means his course was easily tracked. But we will give an account of the enterprise in the words of Jacob Fulmer, one of the party:

"The morning had been foggy, and it appeared by the track that the man had made a circuitous route, as if lost or bewildered. After making several turns, we came at length in sight of a log house, where one Hawkins, a noted Tory, lived, toward which it appeared he had laid a regular line. We followed the track, and found that it went into the house. We approached undiscovered, for the snow was soft, and our footsteps were not heard. We went up to the door, and found it was unfastened, but heard people talking within. John Cory, who was the strongest of the party, now went forward, we following closely behind, and burst open the door. The man who was the object of our suspicions and search sat at the table eating his breakfast, with the muzzle of his gun leaning upon his shoulder, and the breech upon the floor between his knees. He grasped his musket, and presented it to fire at us, but was hindered for a moment to remove the deer-skin covering from the lock, and that moment lost his life. We seized him, took possession of his gun, and also two pistols, which he had in his coat pockets, and a common jack-knife. We then bound his arms behind him, with a pocket handkerchief, and conveyed him to my father's house. As yet, we knew not the name of our prisoner, but having asked him, he said: 'My name is Smith.' My mother knew him, and said: 'It is Joe Bettys.' He hung his head, and said: 'No, my name is Smith.' My sister Polly then came to the door, and said: 'This is Joe Bettys, I know him well.' She had known him before he went to Canada, as he had boarded at Lawrence Van Epps, in Schenectady Patent, while she lived in the same house. We then conveyed him to John Cory's house, about a quarter of a mile distant, where we pinioned him more firmly. He sat down in a chair by the fire, and asked permission to smoke, which was granted, and he then took out his tobacco box, and seemed to be engaged in filling his pipe, but as he stooped down, under pretence of lighting it, he threw something toward the fire which bounded from the forestick and fell upon the hearth. He then seized it, and threw it into the fire, before any one could prevent. John Cory then snatched it from the fire, with a handful of live coals. It was not injured. It was a piece of lead about three inches long, and one and a quarter inch wide, pressed together, and contained within it a small piece of paper, on which were twenty-six figures, which none of our company could understand. It also contained an order, drawn on the Mayor of New York, for thirty pounds sterling, payable on the delivery of the sheet-lead and paper inclosed. Bettys showed much uneasiness at the loss of the lead, and offered one hundred guineas to allow him to burn the paper. This we refused, for, though we did not understand the figures, we well knew the character of Bettys, as I had heard that he had killed two men at Shenesborough, near Whitehall, for fear of being betrayed in regard to the burning and plundering of a house in Chaughnawaga, and that he was generally known as a spy."

The narrative goes on to give the particulars of the journey to Albany, and the precautions taken to convey their prisoner safely through a district abounding with Tories, who were affected to Bettys, but no rescue was attempted.

Much rejoicing was expressed at the capture of the notorious Bettys, and when he was marched through Albany, the people gathered in masses to look upon him. In a short time he was brought to trial, on the charge of being a spy, found guilty, condemned, and accordingly executed in the month of April, 1782.

Among other similar excursions, Bettys once made an audacious eruption into the city of Albany, for the purpose of abducting General Schuyler, for whom he would have received a most liberal reward from the authorities in Canada, who so long and so vainly endeavored to get that chivalric officer into their possession. He was unsuccessful.

The attempt, referred to above, of Joe Bettys, to assassinate or take prisoner General Schuyler, was not singular in the history of that brave and beloved officer. He seemed fated to be ever surrounded with perils, in the seclusion of his home quite as much as on the field of battle. His noble private character, his fortune, and his high, unequalled, unresting patriotism, made him a shining mark for the malevolence of the British and Tories. His beautiful mansion, on Fish Creek, with his mills and property, to the amount of twenty thousand dollars, was wantonly burned by order of Burgoyne; and his life was in constant jeopardy from the hatred of his minions.

On one occasion a Tory, by the name of Wattenneyer, with a gang of miscreants like himself, assaulted his house, burst in the doors, took the guards—who were asleep in the basement—prisoners, and sought the person of the General; but, by a well-managed ruse, he frightened them into the belief that they were being surrounded, and they decamped, taking with them a large amount of silver plate and other valuables. At another period, an Indian had crept stealthily into the house, and concealed himself behind the door, where he awaited an opportunity to strike General Schuyler as he should pass to his chamber. A female servant, coming in through the hall, seeing the gleam of a blade in the dim light, which just enabled her to recognize the outline of a dusky figure, with much presence of mind, appeared not to have made the discovery, but passed into the room where the General sat, and, while pretending to arrange some articles upon the mantel, in a low voice informed him of her discovery at the same time adding, aloud:

"I will call the guard!"

This alarmed the secreted warrior, and, hearing the servant tread upon a creaking board in another hall, and believing the household aroused, he fled.

After the surrender of Burgoyne, the Tories, smarting under the disappointment of that event, and more deeply incensed than ever at General Schuyler, in whom they recognized one of the active causes of the British defeat, resolved upon his destruction. To attain this object, they selected two individuals, an Indian and a white man. The former had been in the habit of hunting and fishing on the General's place, and knew every part of the grounds, with the places in which they would be most likely to meet him, in his daily perambulations. He was a powerfully-built and active fellow, a dangerous opponent under any circumstances. The other was a weak-minded Irishman, who had received many favors from the General, and was, even then, in his employ; notwithstanding which, he could not resist the offered bribes, and consented to imbue his hands in his benefactor's blood, for a price. On the afternoon of a certain day, the two secreted themselves in a leafy copse, near which the General must pass in his accustomed ride. It was not long before they saw him approaching on horseback, and they proposed to shoot him as he passed.

General Schuyler had been made fully aware, by the abduction of so many of his friends and neighbors, who had been dragged from their homes and carried off to Canada—there to be retained as prisoners until exchanged—as well as by the many attempts to get possession of his own person, that he was in constant danger of being seized; but he did _not_ imagine that his enemies would descend to the use of the assassin's knife, and much less did he fear that such a blow would come from those whom he had befriended—who had eaten of his bread and been nourished by his bounty. His was one of these generous natures which, being devoid of guilt, loved not to suspect others. But civil war destroys all ties, severs all bonds, arouses man's most vindictive passions, arraying friend against friend, sometimes brother against brother. Conscience will, at times, assert herself, even under such influences. She reminded the Indian—savage as he was, unlettered, untutored in the finer feelings—of the many favors he had received at the hands of the man he was about to destroy; even as his eye glanced along the barrel of the rifle aimed at his benefactor, he repented his intention, and, with an impulse which did credit to his heart, he struck up the weapon of his companion, saying:

"I cannot kill him—I've eat his bread too often!"

The General rode by, unconscious that his life hung by the slender thread of an Indian's conscience.

One of the saddest pages in the history of our struggle for Independence is that which tells of hearths and homes desecrated, which should have enjoyed immunity, even in times of warfare. Not only did the British encourage the marauding of such desperadoes as Moody and Bettys, but their more brutal Hessians seemed hired to wreak the horrors of war upon the innocent dwellings of women and children.

The Rev. James Caldwell, pastor of the First Presbyterian Church in Elizabethtown, New Jersey, acted as Chaplain of the American army while in New Jersey, and, by his zealous patriotism, and patriotic appeals, often contributed to arouse the spirits of the soldiers, and to inspire them with a greater energy in the performance of their trying duties. He was very popular in the community, and received the unlimited confidence of Washington.

But his lofty patriotism, and unflinching zeal in the American cause, made him hated by the enemy, who sought every means to get him into their power, and a price was set upon his head. When preaching, he frequently was compelled to lay his loaded pistols by his side in the pulpit. At one time he resided in Springfield, but afterward removed to "Connecticut Farms," about four miles from Elizabethtown. Here was enacted the first part of the tragedy we are about to relate.

A company of British troops from New York, under command of the Hessian General, Knyphausen, landed in Elizabethtown, in June of 1780, and, marching directly into the interior, proceeded to wreak their cruelty upon every living thing that fell in their way. Houses were fired, cattle destroyed, helpless people murdered, or left without shelter, clothing or food. Mr. Caldwell heard of their approach, and immediately prepared to escape. He put his elder children in a wagon, and sent them on to some of his friends for protection. He then desired his wife, with the younger children, to take means of flight, but she announced her determination of remaining, as none would have cause to offer injury to her. Finding she would not yield to his persuasion, and believing it impossible that their resentment could extend to an unprotected mother, with her babe clasped to her heart, Mr. Caldwell resolved to leave them, and seek his own safety alone. He was mounted, and receiving the last assurance of her resolve to stay, when the gleam of arms announced the approach of the enemy, and he rode rapidly off.

Mrs. Caldwell, having concealed what things were of value, took her infant in her arms, and retired to her chamber, the window of which commanded the road. Here, with her three little ones around, she awaited the approach of the enemy, feeling conscious that her unprotected state would secure respect and safety. One little girl was standing by the window, watching the approach of the troops, when one of the soldiers left the road, and came to the window, which he had no sooner reached than he placed the muzzle of his gun against it, and deliberately fired, when Mrs. Caldwell fell suddenly back, and almost instantly expired.

Not content with depriving her of life, the inhuman monsters wreaked their cruelty on her senseless body. Her clothes were nearly torn off, and her body removed to the roadside, where it was subjected to every indignity, while the torch was applied to the dwelling, and then the work of destruction was done.

The effect of this terrible blow upon the husband can only be imagined. He was, that morning, standing upon the heights of Springfield, and, by the aid of a spy-glass, could see the smoke from the burning houses.

"Thank God," he exclaimed, "the fire is not in the direction of my house."

He was too soon to learn the sad mistake.

The royalists attempted to throw off the responsibility of this act, by asserting that Mrs. Caldwell was killed by a chance shot. But all the evidence goes to show that it was deliberately planned, and that the soldier by whose hand the bloody deed was committed, only acted in accordance with his orders. The fact that her body was allowed to be so rudely treated, while many of the officers felt their abhorrence for the deed, proves that, although they felt respect for her remains, they knew the will of their superiors, and therefore dared not show it.

The following anecdote, connected with this invasion, shows pretty clearly who were the murderers of Mrs. Caldwell. The flames from the burning dwelling could be seen from "Liberty Hall," the residence of Governor Livingston, who was, at that time, absent from home. Parties of soldiers were continually passing the house, but, for some reason, it was spared. But about midnight a party of soldiers, partially intoxicated, rushed into the house. The maid-servant—all the males in the establishment having taken refuge in the woods, early in the day, to avoid being made prisoners—fastened herself in the kitchen; and the ladies—Mrs. Livingston and her daughters—crowded together like frightened deer, locked themselves in another apartment. Their place of retreat was soon discovered by the ruffians; and, afraid to exasperate them by refusing to come out, one of Governor Livingston's daughter's opened the door. A drunken soldier seized her by the arm; she grasped the villain's collar, and, at the very moment, a flash of lightning illuminated the hall, and, falling upon her white dress, he staggered back, exclaiming, with an oath:

"It's Mrs. Caldwell, that we killed to-day."

One of the party was at length recognized, and, by his intervention, the house was finally cleared of the assailants.[2]

Footnote 2:

Life of Livingston.

But the vengeance of Mr. Caldwell's enemies was not yet satiated; the tragedy so far was incomplete. It was on the 24th of November, 1781, that he himself fell beneath the ruthless murderer's hand, and the blow this time came from a source where he thought himself secure. On the day above mentioned, he went to Elizabethtown Point, for a Miss Murray, who had come from New York, under a flag of truce. After conducting her to his gig, he returned to the boat, to obtain a bundle which had been left behind. As he came on shore, the American sentinel challenged him, and demanded what "contraband goods" he had there. Mr. Caldwell stepped forward to tender the bundle to the proper officer, not wishing to enter into a dispute about it then, when the report of a musket was heard, and he fell dead, pierced by two balls. He had been shot by a man named Morgan, who had just been relieved from duty as a sentinel. He was arrested, tried, condemned, and was executed. There can be no doubt but that he was bribed to the deed by British gold, as there was no shadow of a cause to suppose that enmity existed between Mr. Caldwell and him.

Viewed from any point, these two murders were among the most atrocious acts perpetrated by the invaders of our country, and, in a history full of atrocities, they will always rank as bloody, fiendish and treacherous.

THE LEAP FOR LIFE.

At the siege of Fort Henry, near Wheeling, by a band of Indians, under the infamous Simon Girty, Major Samuel McCullough performed an act of daring—nay, desperate horsemanship, which has seldom, if ever, been equalled by man or beast, and before which the effort of the Pomfret hero pales into insignificance. Let us turn to the record.

Fort Henry was situated about a quarter of a mile above Wheeling Creek, on the left bank of the Ohio river, and was erected to protect the settlers of the little village of Wheeling, which, at the time of its investment, consisted of about twenty-five cabins. In the month of September, 1775, it was invested by about four hundred warriors, on the approach of whom the settlers had fled into it, leaving their cabins and their contents to the torch of the savages. The whole force comprising the garrison consisted of forty-two fighting men, all told; but there were among them men who knew the use of the rifle, and who were celebrated throughout the borders as the implacable enemies of the red-man, and as the best marksmen in the world. Of these, however, more than one half perished in an ill-advised sortie, before the siege commenced, and, when the fort was surrounded by the foe, but sixteen men remained to defend it against their overwhelming numbers. But their mothers, wives and daughters were there, and nerved the Spartan band to deeds of heroism to which the records of the wars of ancient and modern history present no parallel. Here it was that Elizabeth Zane passed through the fire of the whole body of red-skins, in the effort to bring into the fort the ammunition so necessary to its defense; here it was, also, that the wives and daughters of its noble defenders marched to a spring, in point blank range of the ambuscaded Indians, in going to and fro, for the purpose of bringing water for the garrison.

Messengers had been dispatched at the earliest alarm to the neighboring settlements for succor, and, in response to the call, Captain Van Swearingen, with fourteen men, arrived from Cross Creek, and fought his way into the fort without the loss of a man. Soon afterward, a party of forty horsemen, led by the brave and intrepid McCulloch, were seen approaching, and endeavoring to force their way through the dense masses of Indians, which nearly surrounded the station. Their friends within the fort made every preparation to receive them, by opening the gates, and organizing a sortie to cover their attempt. After a desperate hand-to-hand conflict, in which they made several of the Indians bite the dust, they broke through the lines, and entered the fort in triumph, without the loss of an individual. All except their daring leader succeeded in the effort. He was cut off, and forced to fly in an opposite direction. McCulloch was as well known to the Indians as to the whites, for his deeds of prowess, and his name was associated in their minds with some of the most bloody fights in which the white and red-men had contended. To secure him alive, therefore, that they might glut their vengeance upon him, was the earnest desire of the Indians, and to this end they put forth the most superhuman exertions. There were very few among them who had not lost a relative by the unerring aim and skill of the fearless woodsman, and they cherished toward him an almost phrensied hatred, which could only be satisfied in his torture at the stake.

With such feelings and incentives, they crowded around him as he dashed forward in the rear of his men, and succeeded in cutting him off from the gate. Finding himself unable to accomplish his entrance, and seeing the uselessness of a conflict with such a force opposed to him, he suddenly wheeled his horse, and fled in the direction of Wheeling hill, at his utmost speed. A cloud of warriors started up at his approach, and cut off his retreat in this direction, driving him back upon another party who blocked up the path behind; while a third closed in upon him on one of the other sides of the square. The fourth and open side was in the direction of the brow of a precipitous ledge of rocks, nearly one hundred and fifty feet in height, at the foot of which flowed the waters of Wheeling Creek. As he momentarily halted and took a rapid survey of the dangers which surrounded him on all sides, he felt that his chance was a desperate one. The Indians had not fired a shot, and he well knew what this portended, as they could easily have killed him had they chosen to do so. He appreciated the feelings of hatred felt toward him by the foe, and saw at a glance the intention to take him alive, if possible, that his ashes might be offered up as a sacrifice to the manes of their departed friends, slain by his hand. This was to die a thousand deaths, in preference to which he determined to run the risk of being dashed to pieces; and he struck his heels against the sides of his steed, who sprang forward toward the precipice. The encircling warriors had rapidly lessened the space between them and their intended victim, and, as they saw him so completely within their toils, raised a yell of triumph, little dreaming of the fearful energy which was to baffle their expectations. As they saw him push his horse in the direction of the precipice, which they had supposed an insurmountable obstacle to his escape, they stood in amazement, scarcely believing that it could be his intention to attempt the awful leap, which was, to all appearance, certain death. McCulloch still bore his rifle, which he had retained, in his right hand, and, carefully gathering up the bridle in his left, he urged his noble animal forward, encouraging him by his voice, until they reached the edge of the bank, when, dashing his heels against his sides, they hung, shivering on the brink of the abyss:

"For the horse, in stark despair,
With his front hoofs poised in air,
On the last verge rears amain.

"Now he hangs, he rocks between,
And his nostrils curdle in;
Now he shivers, head and hoof,
And the flakes of foam fall off,
And his face grows fierce and thin!

"And a look of human wo,
From his staring eyes did go;
And a sharp cry uttered he
In a foretold agony
Of the headlong death below."

The next moment horse and rider were in the air. Down, down they went with fearful velocity, without resistance or impediment, until one-half of the space was passed over, when the horse's feet struck the smooth, precipitous face of the rock, and the remainder of the distance was slid and scrambled over until they reached the bottom, _alive and uninjured_! With a shout which proclaimed his triumphant success to his foes above him, McCulloch pushed his steed into the stream, and in a few moments horse and rider were seen surmounting the banks on the opposite side.

No pursuit was attempted, nor was a shot fired at the intrepid rider. His enemies stood, in awe-struck silence, upon the brow of the bank from whence he had leaped, and, as he disappeared from their view, they returned to the investment of the fort. They did not long continue their unavailing efforts, however, for its capture; the numerous additions it had received to its garrison, the fearlessness exhibited in its defense, together with the feat they had witnessed, disheartened them, and they beat a hasty retreat on the morning after the event I have attempted to describe—not, however, until they had reduced to ashes the cabins without the stockade, and slaughtered some three hundred head of cattle belonging to the settlers.

An adventure equally marvellous, and somewhat resembling this, is related of Major Robert Rogers.

Among the most noted characters, whose exploits upon the frontier a century since were the theme and admiration of every tongue, the leader of the celebrated "Rogers' Rangers" stands pre-eminent. He was a man tall, vigorous, and lithe as the panther of the forest, with an eye that never quailed before the gaze of any human being. A perfect master of the art of woodcraft, he was resolute and fearless, and yet so cautious at times as to incur a suspicion of cowardice; but, although his name is tarnished by treachery to his own native state and country, the impartial observer of his life and actions cannot fail to award him the most unflinching courage and bravery.

Robert Roberts was born in New Hampshire, and, about the year 1760, was the leader of a body of provincial rangers, known by his own name. Among his associates was Israel Putnam, whose most daring exploits were performed while engaged with him in his forest warfare.

The date which brought Rogers into notice was that in which the great rival nations, France and England, were striving for the possession of the American continent. The rivalry had been going on for years, and, as might be expected, the Indians had been brought into the contest. These, almost invariably, were upon the side of the French; but it availed nothing in the end. The steady, indomitable, persevering spirit of the English settler could be stayed by no obstacle, and France saw that slowly and surely the red cross was supplanting her own _fleur de lis_ in the depths of the American forest.

Rogers' principal theater of action was that wild, mountainous region round Lake George, "the dark and bloody ground" intervening between the hostile forts of Crown Point and Ticonderoga. Here, in these gloomy solitudes, his resolute spirit encountered the jealous French, with their wily Indian allies, and here some of the most sanguinary conflicts and desperate encounters of the war occurred. More than once did the lonely hunter encounter this band threading their way through the woods as silent and as cautious as the savage himself; in summer they glided across and around the lake in their canoes, building their camp-fires in the wildest gorges of that romantic country; and in winter they skirted it on snow-shoes, or shot from one portion to another on skates. Their daring soon made their name famous through every civilized portion of the country. If a French messenger left Ticonderoga, he was almost certain to fall into the hands of Rogers, and any scouting party that ventured forth was sure to get a taste of the mettle of these fellows before they returned. But for the subsequent course of Rogers, he might be not unaptly termed the _Marion of the frontier_.

The Leap for Life.—_Page_ 46.
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It was sometimes the custom of Rogers to leave his men in camp, and venture into the forest unaccompanied by any one. At such times he often wandered a dozen miles away, easily making his way back through the trackless forest at night again. It was on one of these occasions that he met with the following adventure.

It was in the dead of winter, and his men, as usual, were on snow-shoes. They encamped at night in a deep hollow along the lake, and the next morning Rogers left them, with instructions to remain in their present quarters until his return.

He took a direction toward Ticonderoga, and, about the middle of the day, reached a point near the northern end of the lake. During this journey, it is hardly necessary to say that he was on the alert for his enemies. He knew they lurked in every part of the forest, and that the scalp of no white man would afford half the rejoicing that his would. Up to this point, however, his experienced eye had failed to detect the first signs of their presence.

He was contemplating the scene around, carefully taking in all its parts, when he heard the breaking of the snow-crust behind him. Turning his head, he discovered, in one instant, that he had walked directly into a trap. On one side was the steep, precipitous side of the mountain, descending down to the lake; while on the other, radiating outward, so as to cut off all escape, he saw nearly thirty Indians rapidly shuffling toward him on their snow-shoes, yelling with delight and exultation at the prospect of his certain capture.

They had probably followed him for miles, in the hope of taking him alive, and he had thus given them a better opportunity than even they dared hope for.

Rogers comprehended his imminent danger, but he stood a moment as quiet and self-possessed as if they were his own men approaching. It took scarcely a second for him to understand his situation. He saw it was impossible to elude the Indians by undertaking to _dodge through them_—that is, by running toward them; they were too many, and the space afforded was too small.

"Howsumever, here's my compliments," said Rogers, raising his rifle and shooting the leader of the party, "and you haven't got my top-knot yet."

With this, he threw his rifle from him, and started off at the top his speed, the pack pursuing with yells and shouts. Rogers was very fleet of foot, and for a short distance he gained ground upon his pursuers. It was not exactly running, as a man on snow-shoes can not properly be said to do that. The motion is entirely different, the feet not being lifted, but shoved forward with all rapidity possible. As Rogers expressed it, he did some "tall sliding" on that occasion, the truth of which will soon be apparent.

At the moment of starting he had no well-defined idea of what he should do; but after going a few rods, he formed the determination that, before falling into the hands of the Indians, he would _go over the mountain_! Those who have seen the mountain, near the northern end of Lake George, known as "Roger's slide" (the name of which is derived from the circumstance here given), will understand the appalling nature of such an exploit as Rogers contemplated. Any sane man would consider it downright suicide. We know not the exact distance of this descent, but are certain that it is more than _one thousand feet_ to the edge of the lake, and the entire distance a sheer precipice.

But Rogers did not hesitate; there was no time for hesitation. His mortal enemies were behind and approaching. He reached the edge of the mountain. He saw the white, field-like surface of Lake George far below him, and the long, glistening snowy descent stretching down, down, down, till the brain grew dizzy with looking. He appeared but a mere speck on the summit, viewed from below, so great was his height. He gave one glance behind him, sprang high in the air, so as to give his body a momentum at starting, and squatting on his snow-shoes, down he went.

Oh, the ecstacy of that ride! Nothing on earth could equal it. Rogers has said that the most thrilling moment of his life was the one occupied in that fearful descent. As his body gathered motion, a feeling similar to that produced by electricity passed through him, and for the space of five minutes he was in reality insane. Downward he shot like a meteor, his passage through the still air making it seem like a hurricane, and the fine, sand-like particles of snow making him appear as if shrouded in mist to the amazed Indians above. Rogers scarcely breathed. He saw nothing, felt nothing but a wild ecstacy, and knew nothing, until he awoke, as it were, and found himself gliding far out on the surface of the lake, carried forward by the irresistible impulse he had gained in his descent.

Then he arose and looked about him. His snow-shoes were worn out by the friction, and taking them off, he cast them from him. The Indians still stood at the top of the mountain; but on beholding his exploit, they believed him under the protection of the Great Spirit, and did not attempt to continue the chase. Rogers made his way back to his company, reaching them late at night, and none the worse for his adventure, except in the loss of his snow-shoes and his rifle.

There are many other incidents connected with Rogers' career, but the one given will suffice to show the intrepid spirit that ever characterized him.

As if to prove that, brave as the pioneers were, they had their peers amid the "red-skins," we find the record of a leap, almost as marvelous as that of McCullough, performed by Weatherford, the celebrated half-breed, who gave Jackson trouble in his efforts to rid the southern country of the Indians.

It was on the 29th of December, 1813, that the Mississippi volunteers attacked the Indians, under circumstances of almost unparalleled difficulty, after enduring incredible hardships. Without tents or blankets, without proper clothing, more than half starved, some of them without shoes, in inclement weather, this heroic band had marched over one hundred miles through a pathless forest, to meet and subdue the wary foe. And now, on this 29th of December, says General Samuel Dale, who was one of the party, "the weather was very wet and bitter cold; we had neither meat, coffee, nor spirits." The savages were fortified in a strong defensive position, a town which they called their holy city, and which their prophets declared was invulnerable to the whites—that the ground would open and swallow them up, should they venture to set foot on it. Nevertheless, the gaunt volunteers, worn with their sufferings, gave such fierce battle to the confident Indians, that they drove them out of their holy city of refuge, and Weatherford, one of their most trusted leaders, barely escaped destruction. He was mounted on a powerful charger, and being hotly pursued by a band of whites, who knew him well, and were eager to secure the prize, he urged his horse to its utmost speed. Soon a ravine, at least twenty feet wide, and of great depth, yawned before him; the very barrier of nature which he had relied on as a protection in case of assault from enemies, now rose before him, to threaten his own life. But he only drew the rein a little tighter, spoke a low word to his favorite steed, and over the horrible ravine flew the obedient animal, as if love and fear had given it wings—over the gaping ruin, and down the bluff into the Alabama. The gallant courser swam the river scornfully, his chief holding his rifle excitedly over his head, and shouting his war-whoop exultingly, as he ascended the opposite bank.

This renowned leader was born at the Hickory Ground, in the Creek nation; his father, Charles Weatherford, was a Georgian; his mother, the beautiful Schoya, was half-sister of the famous Creek chieftain, General McGilivray. William Weatherford had not the education of his grandfather, but nature had endowed him with a noble person, a brilliant intellect, and commanding eloquence. He was, in every respect, the peer of Tecumseh.

And now that we have mentioned the name of General Dale, we can not forbear giving, in his own words, an account of one of his characteristic adventures. His life was full of such. He calls it his canoe fight:

"After this rencounter, I put thirty of my men on the east bank, where the path ran directly by the river side. With twenty men I kept the western bank, and thus we proceeded to Randon's Landing. A dozen fires were burning, and numerous scaffolds for drying meat denoted a large body of Indians; but none were visible. About half past ten, A. M., we discovered a large canoe coming down stream. It contained eleven warriors. Observing that they were about to land at a cane-brake just above us, I called to my men to follow, and dashed for the brake with all my might. Only seven of my men kept up with me. As the Indians were in the act of landing, we fired. Two leaped into the water. Jim Smith shot one as he rose, and I shot the other. In the meantime, they had backed into deep water, and three Indians were swimming on the off side of the canoe, which was thirty odd feet long, four feet deep, and three feet beam, made of an immense cypress-tree, especially for the transportation of corn. One of the warriors shouted to Weatherford (who was in the vicinity, as it afterward appeared, but invisible to us): 'Yos-ta-hah! yos-ta-hah!' ('They are spoiling us.') This fellow was in the water, his hands on the gunwale of the pirogue, and as often as he rose to shout, we fired, but didn't make out to hit him. He suddenly showed himself breast-high, whooping in derision, and said: 'Why don't you shoot?' I drew my sight just between his hands, and as he rose again I lodged a bullet in his brains. Their canoe then floated down with the current. I ordered my men on the east bank to fetch the boats. Six of them jumped into a canoe, and paddled to the Indians, when one of them cried out: 'Live Injins! Back water, boys, back water!' and the frightened fellows paddled back faster than they came. I next ordered Cæsar, a free negro, to bring a boat. Seeing him hesitate, I swore I would shoot him as soon as I got across. He crossed a hundred yards below the Indians, and Jim Smith, Jerry Anstill, and myself, got in. I made Cæsar paddle within forty paces, when all three of us leveled our guns, and all three missed fire! As the two boats approached, one of the red-skins hurled a scalping-knife at me. It pierced the boat through and through, just grazing my thigh as it passed. The next minute the canoes came in contact. I leaped up, placing one of my feet in each boat. At the same instant, the foremost warrior leveled his rifle at my breast. It flashed in the pan. As quick as lightning, he clubbed it, and aimed at me a furious blow, which I partially parried, and, before he could repeat it, I shivered his skull with my gun. In the meantime an Indian had struck down Jerry, and was about to dispatch him, when I broke my rifle over his head. It parted in two pieces. The barrel Jerry seized, and renewed the fight. The stock I hurled at one of the savages. Being then disarmed, Cæsar handed me his musket and bayonet. Finding myself unable to keep the two canoes in juxtaposition, I resolved to bring matters to an issue, and leaped into the Indian boat. My pirogue, with Jerry, Jim and Cæsar, floated off. Jim fired, slightly wounding the savage nearest me. _I now stood in the center of their canoe, two dead at my feet, a wounded savage in the stern, who had been snapping his piece at me, during the fight, and four powerful warriors in front._ The first one directed a furious blow at me with a rifle; it glanced upon the barrel of my musket, and I staved the bayonet through his body. As he fell, the next one repeated the attack. A shot from Jerry Anstill pierced his heart. Striding over them, the next sprang at me with his tomahawk. I killed him with my bayonet, and his corpse lay between me and the last of the party. I knew him well—Tas-cha-chee, a noted wrestler, and the most famous ball-player of his clan. He paused a moment, in expectation of my attack, but, finding me motionless, he stepped backward to the bow of the canoe, shook himself, gave the war-whoop of his tribe, and cried out: '_Samtholocco, Iana dahmaska, ia-lanesthe, lipso, lipso, lanestha!_' ('Big Sam, I am a man! I am coming! come on!') As he said this, with a terrific yell, he bounded over the dead body of his comrade, and directed a blow at my head with his rifle which dislocated my shoulder. I dashed the bayonet into him. It glanced around his ribs, and hitching into his backbone, I pressed him down. As I pulled the weapon out, he put his hands upon the sides of the boat, and endeavored to rise, crying out: '_Tas-cha-chee is a man. He is not afraid to die._.' I drove my bayonet through his heart. I then turned to the wounded villain in the stern, who snapped his rifle at me, as I advanced, as he had been snapping it during the whole conflict. He gave the war-whoop, and in tones of hatred and defiance, exclaimed: '_I am a warrior—I am not afraid to die!_' As he uttered these words, I pinned him down with my weapon, and he followed his eleven comrades to the land of spirits. During this conflict, which was over in ten minutes, my brave companions, Smith and Anstill, had been straggling with the current of the Alabama, endeavoring to reach me. Their guns had become useless, and their only paddle was broken. Two braver fellows never lived. Anstill's first shot saved my life. By this time my men came running down the bank, shouting that Weatherford was coming. With our three canoes we crossed them all over, and reached the fort in safety."

This fight occurred November 13, 1813, at Randon's Landing, Monroe County, ten miles below Weatherford's Bluff.

If any one thinks this a Munchausen account, given by Dale, of his rencounter, he can satisfy himself of its exact truth, by reference to the records, all the circumstances of this memorable fight having been verified before the Alabama Legislature.

One of the leading spirits in those stirring days was Mrs. Catherine Sevier, wife of one of the most distinguished pioneers. Her maiden name was Sherrill, and her family, as well as that of her future husband, emigrated from North Carolina and Virginia to what is now East Tennessee, settling first upon Watauga river. Mr. Sherrill's residence was finally upon the Nola Chucka. He was a tiller of the soil, a hard-working man, and "well-to-do in the world;" but he was also skilled in the use of the rifle, so that it was said, "Sherrill can make as much out of the ground and out of the woods as any other man. He has a hand and eye to his work—a hand, an eye, and an ear, for the Indian and the game."

Buffalo, deer, and wild turkeys came around the cabins of those first settlers. A providence was in this which some of them recognized with thankfulness.

Jacob Brown, with his family and friends, arrived from North Carolina about the same time with the Sherrills, and these two families became connected by intermarriage with the Seviers, and ever remained faithful to each other through all the hostile and civil commotions of subsequent years. The Seviers were among the very earliest emigrants from Virginia, aiding in the erection of the first fort on the Watauga.

With few exceptions, these emigrants had in view the acquisition of rich lands for cultivation and inheritance. Some, indeed, were there, or came, who were absconding debtors, or refugees from justice, and from this class were the Tories of North Carolina mostly enlisted.

The spirit of the hunter and pioneer cannot well content itself in a permanent location, especially when the crack of a neighbor's rifle, or the blast of his hunting-horn can be heard by his quick ear; therefore did these advanced guards frequently change their homes when others _crowded_ them, at _miles distance_. It must be remembered that their advance into the wilderness could only be made by degrees, step by step, through years of tedious waiting and toilsome preparation. And thus, though they had a lease of the land for eight years from the Cherokees, a foothold in the soil, stations of defense, and evidently had taken a bond of fate, assuring them in the prospect of rich inheritances for their children, they could not all abide while the great West and greater Future invited onward. Richer lands, larger herds of buffaloes, more deer, and withal so many Indians were in the distance, upon the Cumberland and Kentucky rivers. The emigrants advanced, and they took no steps backward. In a few years they were found organizing "provisional governments" in Kentucky, and at the Bluffs, the site of the beautiful capital of Tennessee. These Watauga and Nola Chucka pioneers were leading spirits throughout.

In the first Cherokee war of 1776, the early settlements were in great danger of being destroyed. The prowling savages plucked off the settlers in detail, and, though somewhat successful in these aims, they resolved to attack the settlements and stations at different points on the same day—in June, 1776. But they were so defeated in the battles of Long Island, and at the Island Flats, on the Holston, and in their attack and siege of the Watauga Fort, that a happy chance was wrought, and hopes of quiet were encouraged.

The attack on the latter station was conducted by an experienced Indian chief, Old Abraham, of the Chilowee Mountain region. This was a fierce attack, but the fort fortunately held within it two of the most resolute men who ever touched the soil of Tennessee—James Robertson and John Sevier—they having then no higher title than Captains. Some thirty men were under their command or direction.

The approach of the Indians was stealthy, and the first alarm was given by the flight and screams of some females, who were closely pursued by the Indians in large force. One of the women was killed, and one or two captured. In this party of females was Miss Catherine Sherrill, daughter of Samuel Sherrill, who had moved into the fort only on the previous day.