Chapter XXV: Elizabeth Kenton, 428 (8)

From the commencement of the settlement, the Sabbath had been kept as a day of rest; and from 1789, regular service was performed in the north-west block-house at Campus Martius. The military law required the regular muster of troops every Sunday at ten o’clock. They were paraded by beat of drum, the roll called, arms inspected, and then the procession, headed by Colonel Sproat with drawn sword, the clergyman and the civil officers, with accompaniment of fife and drum, marched into the hall appropriated for divine service. The arms of the soldiers were placed by their sides, or in some convenient place, ready for use. “One Sunday morning in the latter part of September, Peter Niswonger, one of the rangers, went to visit a field he had planted with corn and potatoes, on the east side of Duck Creek. He had some fattened hogs in a pen, one of which he found killed, and a portion of the meat cut out and carried off. Several hills of potatoes had been dug, and in the loose earth he discovered fresh moccasin tracks; a proof that Indians had done the mischief. Peter hurried back to the garrison at the point, and gave the alarm. It was in the midst of morning service, and the inhabitants were generally assembled in the large block-house. The instant the words, ‘Indians in the neighborhood,’ were heard, the drummer seized his drum, and rushing out at the door, began to beat the long roll; the well known signal for every man to hasten to his post. The place of worship, so quiet a few minutes before, was now a scene of alarm and confusion. The women caught up their little children and hastened homeward, and the place of prayer was abandoned for that day. Anxiety for the fate of their brothers and husbands, who had gone in pursuit of the dreaded enemy, banished all thoughts but the silent, fervent prayer for their safe return. A party was soon mustered of five or six of the rangers, several volunteer citizens, and soldiers from the company stationed at the point. The men went up in canoes to the mouth of Duck Creek, where they left their water-craft. The more experienced rangers soon fell upon the trail, which they traced across wide bottoms, to the Little Muskingum. At a point about half a mile below where Conner’s mill now stands, the Indians forded the creek; and about a mile eastward, in a hollow between the hills, was seen the smoke of their camp fire. The rangers now divided the volunteers into two flanking parties, with one of the spies at the head of each; three of their number acting in front. By the time the ‘flankers’ had come within range of the camp, the Indians discovered their foes, by the noise of soldiers who lagged behind and were not so cautious in their movements, and instantly fled up the run on which they were encamped; two of their number leaving the main body, and ascending the point of a hill with a ravine on the right and left. The rangers now fired, while the Indians, each taking his tree, returned the shot. One of the two savages on the spur of the ridge was wounded by one of the spies on the right, who pushed on manfully to gain the enemy’s flank. The men in front came on more slowly, and as they began to ascend the point of the ridge, Ned Henderson, who was posted on high ground, cried, ‘Hence! there is an Indian behind that white oak; he will kill some of you!’ One of the white men instantly sprang behind a large tree; another behind a hickory too small to cover more than half his body, while the third jumped into the ravine. At the instant the Indian fired, he looked over the edge of the bank to see the effect of the shot, and saw the man behind the hickory wiping the dust of the bark from his eyes; the ball having grazed the tree without doing him any injury except cutting his nose with the splinters. At the same time the Indian fell, pierced with several balls.”

“The first Sunday school was taught by Mrs. Andrew Lake, a kind-hearted, pious old lady from New York, who had brought up a family of children herself, and therefore felt the more for others; she took compassion on the children of the garrison, who were spending the Sabbath afternoons in frivolous amusements, and established a school in her own dwelling. After parson Story’s services were finished, she regularly assembled as many of the younger children as she could persuade to attend, and taught them the Westminster catechism, and lessons from the Bible, for about an hour. Her scholars amounted to about twenty in number. She was very kind and affectionate towards them, so that they were fond of assembling to listen to her instructions. Her explanations of Scripture were so simple and childlike, that the smallest of the little ones could understand them, and were rendered very pleasant by her mild manner of speaking. The accommodations for the children were very rude and simple, consisting only of a few low stools and benches, such a thing as a chair being unknown in the garrison. One of her scholars, then a little boy of four years old, who gave me a sketch of the school, says--for lack of a seat he was one day placed by the kind old lady on the top of a bag of meal, that stood leaning against the side of the room. The seed thus charitably sown in faith and hope, was not scattered in vain; as several of her scholars became prominent members of the church.”

The offer of lands for military service brought new emigrants from Pennsylvania and Virginia, and the firmness and wisdom of directors and agents, backed by the counsel of old Revolutionary officers, preserved the settlement in the midst of formidable dangers. Among other inconveniences brought by war, the mills were stopped, and it was necessary to grind the corn in hand-mills, though flour might still be procured at “head-waters.”

There were but two hand-mills in the garrison, and a large coffee-mill, which had once belonged to a ship of war. The hopper held a peck of corn, and it was in great demand. After this imperfect grinding, the finest of the meal was separated with a sieve for bread, and the coarse boiled with a piece of venison or bear’s meat, making a rich and nourishing diet, well suited to the tastes of the hungry pioneers.

One instance of strict honor, in the midst of privation is mentioned of the wife of an officer in the United States’ service, and one of the most worthy men in the colony. During the period of the greatest distress, the mother had consented to cook for a young man who owned a lot adjoining hers, and ate his meals at his own cabin. While the bread, which was made of musty meal, was baking, she always sent her children out to play, and when baked, locked it immediately in the owner’s chest, lest they should see it, and cry for a piece of what she had no right to give them. When a few kernels of corn chanced to be dropped in grinding, the children would pick them up like chickens, and eat them. A few of the inhabitants had cows, for which, in summer, the forest afforded ample provender. In the latter part of the winter, the sap of the sugar maple, boiled down with meal, made a rich and nutritious food; and the tree was so abundant, that as large quantities of sugar were made as the number of kettles in the settlement would permit. By the middle of July, the new corn was in the milk, and fit for roasting; and this, with squashes, beans, etc., put an end to fears of actual starvation. So urgent was the necessity, that these different vegetables, before they were fully formed, were gathered and boiled together, with a little meal, into a kind of soup much relished. It was even said that the dogs would get at and devour the young corn.

Under these discouraging circumstances, the inhabitants contributed all the money they could raise, and sent two active young men by land to “Red Stone,” to procure supplies of salt meat and a few barrels of flour. It was a hazardous journey, on account of the inclemency of the weather--it being early in December--and danger from the Indians, who since St. Clair’s defeat were more active in harassing the settlements. The young men, however, reached head waters, and made the necessary purchases, which they were about sending down the river when it was suddenly closed by ice. Nothing, meanwhile, was heard of them at home, and the winter wore away in uncertainty, some supposing the messengers had gone off with the money, and others that they had been killed by the savages. The ice broke up the last of February with a flood that inundated the ground on which the garrison was built, and early in March the young men arrived with a small Kentucky boat loaded with supplies, and entering the garrison by the upper gate, moored their ark at the door of the commandant, to the great relief and joy of the inhabitants.

The expedition of Gen. Harmar having failed of its object, the north-west territory was still a battle-ground for confederate tribes from Lakes Erie and Michigan, from the Illinois, the Wabash, and the Miamis. The famous chief, Little Turtle, was at their head. This failure having made a deep impression, there was a demand for a greater force under the command of a more experienced general; and Arthur St. Clair was selected as most capable of restoring American affairs in the north-west. His army was assembled at Cincinnati with the object of destroying the Miami towns. Gen. St. Clair’s defeat on a branch of the Wabash, November 4th, 1791, was one of the heaviest disasters in the annals of savage warfare. Its effect was to expose the whole range of frontier settlements on the Ohio, to the fury of the Indians, and spread so much alarm among the inhabitants, that many talked of leaving the country. Their final determination, however, was to stay and defend their property, and the ensuing winter, in spite of disasters, brought fresh arrivals of colonists. During the continuance of the war, the men were obliged to work their fields with arms in their hands; parties of fifteen or twenty laboring, while three or four were posted as sentries in the edge of the woods or enclosure. Thus food for their families was obtained at the risk of the rifle or the tomahawk.

The year 1791 was more fruitful of tragic events in the vicinity of Marietta than any other. After that time the Indians were occupied in defending their own borders, or their villages, against American troops, and had little time for hostile incursions. The expenses in which the war had involved the Ohio Company, caused the failure of payment for the lands; petitions were presented to Congress for donation lots, and those emigrants who came after the termination of Indian hostilities obtained better lands, on more favorable terms, than those who had undergone all the privations, labors, and sufferings which preceded the privileged season.

“The winter of 1791-2,” says Spencer in his narrative, “was followed by an early and delightful spring; indeed, I have often thought that our first western winters were much milder, our springs earlier, and our autumns longer than they now are. On the last of February, some of the trees were putting forth their foliage; in March, the red-bud, the hawthorn and the dog-wood in full bloom checkered the hills, displaying their beautiful colors of rose and lily; and in April the ground was covered with the May apple, bloodroot, ginseng, violets, and a great variety of herbs and flowers. Flocks of parroquets were seen, decked in their rich plumage of green and gold. Birds of every species and of every hue, were flitting from tree to tree; and the beautiful redbird, and the untaught songster of the west, made the woods vocal with their melody. Now might be heard the plaintive wail of the dove, and now the rumbling drum of the partridge, or the loud gobble of the turkey. Here might be seen the clumsy bear, doggedly moving off, or urged by pursuit into a laboring gallop, retreating to his citadel in the top of some lofty tree; or--approached suddenly--raising himself erect in the attitude of defence, facing his enemy and waiting his approach; there the timid deer, watchfully resting, or cautiously feeding, or aroused from his thicket, gracefully bounding off, then stopping, erecting his stately head and for a moment gazing around, or snuffing the air to ascertain his enemy, instantly springing off, clearing logs and bushes at a bound, and soon distancing his pursuers. It seemed an earthly paradise; and but for apprehension of the wily copperhead, who lay silently coiled among the leaves, or beneath the plants, waiting to strike his victim; the horrid rattlesnake, who more chivalrous, however, with head erect amidst its ample folds, prepared to dart upon his foe, generously with the loud noise of his rattle apprised him of danger; and the still more fearful and insidious savage, who, crawling upon the ground, or noiselessly approaching behind trees and thickets, sped the deadly shaft or fatal bullet, you might have fancied you were in the confines of Eden or the borders of Elysium.”

The author of “Miami County Traditions,” says: “The country all around the settlement presented the most lovely appearance; the earth was like an ash-heap, and nothing could exceed the luxuriance of primitive vegetation; indeed, our cattle often died from excess of feeding, and it was somewhat difficult to rear them on that account. The white-weed, or bee-harvest, as it is called, so profusely spread over our bottom and woodlands, was not then seen among us; the sweet annis, nettles, wild rye, and pea-vine, now so scarce, every where abounded; they were almost the entire herbage of our bottoms; the two last gave subsistence to our cattle, and the first, with our nutritious roots, were eaten by our swine with the greatest avidity. In the spring and summer months, a drove of hogs could be scented at a considerable distance, from their flavor of the annis root.”

When Gen. Putnam had concluded a treaty with the Indians on the Wabash, fourteen of the chiefs came to Marietta, November 17th, 1792, under the escort of American officers. The next day a public dinner was given to them at Campus Martius, to which the officers of the garrison and the citizens of Marietta were invited. The procession was formed on the bank of the Ohio, where the boat landed, and the chiefs were conducted, with martial music, to the north-east gate of the garrison, a salute of fourteen guns being fired as soon as the head of the column appeared in sight. The procession then moved through the gate to the dining hall, a room twenty-four by forty feet large, in the hall of the north-west block-house, where the feast provided had been arranged by the ladies of the garrison. An eye-witness says: “The entertainment was very novel, and the scene peculiar and striking. Shut up in the garrison, and at war with the other tribes of the forest, shaking hands with our red guests, and passing from one to another the appellation of _brother_! It seemed to renew the scenes of the first year’s settlement, and make us almost forget war was upon our border.”

After the banquet and ceremonies were concluded, the chiefs were again conducted to their boats. The next day they were invited by several gentlemen of the stockade garrison at the point, to smoke the pipe of friendship; after which they proceeded on their journey.

Another of the female pioneers whose name tradition has preserved, is Sally Fleehart, who became the wife of John Warth, a noted hunter and ranger, and lived in one of the barracks. Warth learned to read and write in the intervals of his ranging tours, and after the peace settled in Virginia, and served as a magistrate, becoming a wealthy planter and owning a number of slaves. His success was attributable to the education given him by his wife, who had been brought up on the frontier, and possessed not only unusual intellectual cultivation for that class, but all the intrepidity and activity common to women at that day, in a remarkable degree. She could fire a rifle with great accuracy, and bring down a bird on the wing, or a squirrel from the tree, as readily as could the practised arm of her husband.

The women resident in the forts had but little respite from anxiety and dread, except in the depths of winter, when the Indians rarely committed depredations, or lay in watch about the settlements. As soon, however, as the wild geese, seen in flocks steering their course northward, or the frogs piping in the swamp, gave token of the approach of the more genial season, the return of the savage foe might be expected. Thus the more timid part of the community, and the elder females never welcomed the coming of spring with the hilarity it generally awakens, preferring the “melancholy days” of gloom and tempest, when they and their children were comparatively safe; regarding the budding of trees and opening of wild flowers with sad forebodings, and listening to the song of birds as a prelude to the warcry of the relentless savage. The barking of the faithful watchdog at night was another cause of terror, associated as it was with visions of the Indian lurking in his covert; and it was seldom heard by the timid mother without raising her head from the pillow to listen anxiously for the sound of the distant warwhoop, or the report of the sentry’s rifle; to sink again into uneasy slumber, and dream of some wild deed or fearful occurrence. Some amusing incidents are related of the alarm created in a garrison by the sudden outcry of persons who were dreaming of Indian assault. This part of the suffering peculiar to those times, can hardly be imagined in our days of peace and security.

One instance of the confusion created by a false alarm may be given:--“One dark and rainy night in June, while John Wint, a youth of eighteen, was on the watch in the tower of the middle blockhouse, he saw by a flash of lightning a darklooking object climbing over a log, which lay about fifty yards from the fort. A report had been previously circulated of Indians being seen in the neighborhood, and this appeared about the height of a man. At the next flash John hailed and fired the same instant. All remained quiet outside; but the report awakened every body within the garrison, and men came running from all quarters in great alarm, thinking the savages were already upon them, for no sentinel ever fired without good cause. The women came hurrying along with their screaming children, and the soldiers with their guns ready for service. In the midst of the tumult, Col. Sproat was soon on the ground, and questioned the sentinel closely as to what he had seen or heard. John was rather confused at the disturbance he had raised without being able to state some more definite cause than the dark body bearing resemblance to a man, which he had seen standing on a log. He said he had fired at a white spot he saw above its head by the flash of lightning, and there were many surmises as to what it could be; some thinking it must be an Indian, others protesting John had fired at nothing to see the fun of a night alarm, as he was known to be fond of a little harmless sport. No further signs of the enemy were discovered, as no one would venture out in the dark to reconnoitre for savages. In the morning, after the gates were opened, a party went to the log pointed out by John, and found a large black dog, which belonged to one of the soldiers, with a rifle shot through the centre of a white spot in his forehead.” The accuracy of the shot attested the sentry’s excellence as a marksman, though much useless anxiety had been excited by his mistake.

This is a brief notice of the earliest settlement in Ohio, the germ whence has sprung a great and powerful State. The termination of the Indian war, brought about by the victorious campaign of Gen. Anthony Wayne, and the conclusion of the treaty at Greenville in 1795, restored peace to the harassed settlements; mills were erected, roads opened, and the inhabitants who had so long been immured within the walls of forts, went forth to till their grounds and clear away the forest unembarrassed by the dread of a lurking enemy.

Brickell, in his narrative of captivity among the Indians, relates a curious anecdote of the escape of Mrs. Jane Dick. “Her husband had concerted a plan with the captain of the vessel which brought the presents, to steal her from the Indians. The captain concerted a plan with a black man who cooked for McKee and Elliot, to steal Mrs. Dick. The black man arranged it with Mrs. Dick to meet him at midnight in a copse of underwood, which she did, and he took her on board in a small canoe, and headed her up in an empty hogs-head, where she remained till the day after the vessel sailed, about thirty-six hours. I remember well that every camp and the woods were searched for her, and that the vessel was searched; for the Indians immediately suspected that she was on board, but not thinking of unheading hogsheads, they could not find her.” This happened the summer before Wayne’s campaign.

* * * * *

Mary Heckewelder, the daughter of Rev. John Heckewelder, whose early labors as a Moravian missionary among the Indians are well known, is said to have been the first white child born in Ohio. The following sketch was sent by her to the editor of the American Pioneer: “I was born April 16th, 1781, in Salem, one of the Moravian Indian towns on the Muskingum river, Ohio. Soon after my birth, times becoming very troublesome, the settlements were often in danger from war parties, and from an encampment of warriors near Gnadenhutten; and finally, in the beginning of September of the same year, we were all made prisoners. First, four of the missionaries were seized by a party of Huron warriors, and declared prisoners of war; they were then led into the camp of the Delawares, where the death-song was sung over them. Soon after they had secured them, a number of warriors marched off for Salem and Schönbrunn. About thirty savages arrived at the former place in the dusk of the evening, and broke open the mission-house. Here they took my mother and myself prisoners, and having led her into the street and placed guards over her, they plundered the house of everything they could take with them and destroyed what was left. Then going to take my mother along with them, the savages were prevailed upon, through the intercession of the Indian females, to let her remain at Salem till the next morning--the night being dark and rainy, and almost impossible for her to travel so far. They consented on condition that she should be brought into the camp the next morning, which was accordingly done, and she was safely conducted by our Indians to Gnadenhutten.

“After experiencing the cruel treatment of the savages for some time, they were set at liberty again; but were obliged to leave their flourishing settlements and forced to march through a dreary wilderness to Upper Sandusky. We went by land through Goshachguenk to the Walholding, and then partly by water and partly along the banks of the river, to Sandusky creek. All the way I was carried by an Indian woman, carefully wrapped in a blanket, on her back. Our journey was exceedingly tedious and dangerous; some of the canoes sunk, and those that were in them lost all their provisions and everything they had saved. Those that went by land drove the cattle, a pretty large herd. The savages now drove us along, the missionaries with their families usually in the midst, surrounded by their Indian converts. The roads were exceedingly bad, leading through a continuation of swamps.

“Having arrived at Upper Sandusky, they built small huts of logs and bark to screen them from the cold, having neither beds nor blankets, and being reduced to the greatest poverty and want; for the savages had by degrees stolen almost everything both from the missionaries and Indians on the journey. We lived here extremely poor, often having very little or nothing to satisfy the cravings of hunger; and the poorest of the Indians were obliged to live upon their dead cattle, which died for want of pasture.

“After living in this dreary wilderness, in danger, poverty, and distress of all sorts, a written order arrived in March, 1782, sent by the governor to the half-king of the Hurons and to an English officer in his company, to bring all the missionaries and their families to Detroit, but with a strict order not to plunder nor abuse them in the least. The missionaries were overwhelmed with grief at the idea of being separated from their Indians; but there being no alternative, they were obliged to submit to this, one of the heaviest of their trials. The poor Indians came weeping to bid them farewell, and accompanied them a considerable way, some as far as Lower Sandusky. Here we were obliged to spend several nights in the open air, and suffered great cold besides other hardships. April 14th, we set out and crossed over a part of the lake, and arrived at Detroit by the straits which join Lakes Erie and Huron. We were lodged in the barracks by order of the governor. Some weeks after, we left the barracks with his consent and moved into a house at a small distance from the town.

“The Indian converts gathering around their teachers, they resolved, with the consent of the governor, to begin the building of a new settlement upon a spot about thirty miles from Detroit, on the river Huron, which they called New Gnadenhutten, and which increased considerably from time to time. Here I lived till the year 1785, when I set out with an aged missionary couple to be educated in the school at Bethlehem.”

The murder of the Moravian Indians was one of the most atrocious transactions in the history of the West. They consisted chiefly of Delawares, with a few Mohicans; had been converted to Christianity through the zeal and influence of Moravian missionaries, and had lived ten years quietly in their villages of Gnadenhutten, Schönbrunn, Salem, and Lichtenau. Although in friendship with the whites, they fell under the displeasure of the border settlers, who suspected them of aiding and abetting the hostile savages; an expedition against them was undertaken in March, 1782, after some Indian incursions, by a party of men chiefly from the Monongahela, led by Col. David Williamson; they were induced by assurances of good-will, to assemble at Gnadenhutten, and there were deliberately massacred in cold blood. It is said that the number of killed was ninety-six, including women and children. Two only of the devoted Indians made their escape.

* * * * *

“Ruhama Greene was born and raised in Jefferson County, Virginia. In 1785, she married Charles Builderback, and with him crossed the mountains and settled at the mouth of Short Creek, on the east bank of the Ohio, a few miles above Wheeling. Her husband, a brave man, had on many occasions distinguished himself in repelling the Indians, who had often felt the aim of his unerring rifle. They therefore determined at all hazards to kill him.

“On a beautiful summer morning in June, 1789, at a time when it was thought the enemy had abandoned the western shores of the Ohio, Capt. Charles Builderback, his wife and brother, Jacob Builderback, crossed the Ohio to look after some cattle. On reaching the shore, a party of fifteen or twenty Indians rushed out from an ambush, and firing upon them, wounded Jacob in the shoulder. Charles was taken while he was running to escape. Jacob returned to the canoe and got away. In the mean time, Mrs. Builderback secreted herself in some drift-wood, near the bank of the river. As soon as the Indians had secured and tied her husband, not being able to discover her hiding-place, they compelled him, with threats of immediate death, to call her to him. With a hope of appeasing their fury, he did so. She heard him, but made no answer. Here, to use her words,--‘a struggle took place in my breast, which I cannot describe. Shall I go to him and become a prisoner, or shall I remain, return to our cabin and provide for and take care of our two children?’ He shouted to her a second time to come to him, saying, that if she obeyed, perhaps it would be the means of saving his life. She no longer hesitated, but left her place of safety, and surrendered herself to his savage captors. All this took place in full view of their cabin, on the opposite shore, where they had left their two children, one a son about three years of age, and an infant daughter. The Indians, knowing that they would be pursued as soon as the news of their visit reached the stockade at Wheeling, commenced their retreat. Mrs. Builderback and her husband travelled together that day and the following night. The next morning, the Indians separated into two bands, one taking Builderback, and the other his wife, and continued a westward course by different routes.

“In a few days, the band having Mrs. Builderback in custody, reached the Tuscarawas river, where they encamped, and were soon rejoined by the band that had her husband in charge. Here the murderers exhibited his scalp on the top of a pole, and to convince her that they had killed him, pulled it down and threw it into her lap. She recognised it at once by the redness of his hair. She said nothing, and uttered no complaint. It was evening; her ears pained with the terrific yells of the savages, and wearied by constant travelling, she reclined against a tree and fell into a profound sleep, and forgot all her sufferings, until morning. When she awoke, the scalp of her murdered husband was gone, and she never learned what became of it.[25]

“As soon as the capture of Builderback was known at Wheeling, a party of scouts set off in pursuit, and taking the trail of one of the bands, followed it until they found the body of Builderback. He had been tomahawked and scalped, and apparently suffered a lingering death.

“The Indians, on reaching their towns on the Big Miami, adopted Mrs. Builderback into a family, with whom she resided until released from captivity. She remained a prisoner about nine months, performing the labor and drudgery of squaws, such as carrying in meat from the hunting grounds, preparing and drying it, making moccasins, leggins and other clothing for the family in which she lived. After her adoption she suffered much from the rough and filthy manner of Indian living, but had no cause to complain of ill-treatment otherwise.

“In a few months after her capture, some friendly Indians informed the commandant at Fort Washington, that there was a white woman in captivity at the Miami towns. She was ransomed and brought into the fort, and in a few weeks was sent up the river to her lonely cabin, and the embrace of her two orphan children. She then recrossed the mountains, and settled in her native county.

“In 1791, Mrs. Builderback married Mr. John Greene, and in 1798, they emigrated to the Hockhocking valley, and settled about three miles west of Lancaster, where she continued to reside until the time of her death, about the year 1842. She survived her last husband about ten years.”[26]

XI.

REBECCA ROUSE.

Among other families who ventured on the long and perilous journey from the granite soil of New England, in the year 1788, a year never to be forgotten in the annals of Ohio, were those of John Rouse and Jonathan Devoll. Before the period of the Revolution, Mr. Rouse had followed the vocation of a whaleman and seaman, from the port of New Bedford, and was now living on a small farm in the town of Rochester, Massachusetts, near the little harbor of Mattepoisett. His family consisted of a wife and eight children. Capt. Jonathan Haskell, who also lived in Rochester, and had been an officer in the war, joined him in fitting out the expedition, and furnished a large covered wagon and two of the horses, Mr. Rouse furnishing the other two. An active young man, named Cushing, who wished to settle in the west, was employed to drive the wagon. As the journey was a long one, they took as few articles of beds, bedding, and cooking utensils, as they could possibly do with on the road. Their clothing and other goods were packed in trunks and large wooden boxes made to fit the inside of the wagon.

The parting from their old neighbors at Mattepoisett, was one of much tenderness, accompanied by many hearty adieus and sincere prayers for their welfare on the journey, and their happiness in that far away region. No one, at this day, can imagine with what dread and awe a journey to the new territory west of the Ohio, was then viewed by the simple-hearted people of New England. A party of young ladies, on horseback, accompanied the females as far as “The Long-plain,” distant six miles. Here they tarried for about a week amongst their kinsfolk and former neighbors; for at this place Rouse had lived many years, and here most of the children had been born.

The morning they left Mattepoisett, an interesting occurrence took place which shows the strong attachment of the female heart to home and relatives. A rich old farmer of that place, who had taken a great liking to Bathsheba, the eldest daughter, and was anxious that his son should obtain her for a wife, offered to give her by deed a nice farm and good dwelling-house, if she would stay amongst them and not go with the family to the West. But her affection for her parents, sisters, and brothers was too great to forego the pleasure of their society probably for the rest of her life, and the offer was declined, much to the sorrow of the generous old man. The week flew rapidly away in social intercourse with their kindred, and solemn and sorrowful were the greetings of the farewell hour. The distance was so great, and the dangers of the wilderness so many, that they all thought the parting was to be final as to this world; and so indeed it proved to the larger portion of them. Capt. Haskell joined them that morning from Rochester, and early in October, 1788, they took their departure from “The Long-plain,” and commenced their arduous journey to Muskingum, as the new settlement was then called. They reached Providence the second day, at evening--at which place they were joined by the family of Jonathan Devoll, composed of Mrs. Devoll and five children. Mrs. Nancy Devoll was the sister of Mrs. Rouse. Her husband had been absent nearly a year, attached to the party of pioneers sent by the Ohio company the autumn previous. He was the naval architect of the “May-flower,” which conveyed the first detachment of men from Simrel’s Ferry, on the Yohiogany, to the mouth of the Muskingum, and one of the first who landed the 7th of April, 1788, on the soil of the present State of Ohio. Their large covered wagon, with four horses, was fitted up in a similar style to the other, and was driven by Isaac Barker, an only brother of the married females, who had left a wife and family in Rochester, till he could return and bring them the following year.

After travelling through New England, New York, and Pennsylvania, early in November the pilgrims reached the foot of the mountain ranges, and commenced the ascent of those rocky barriers which divide the sources of the Susquehanna river from those which fall into the Ohio.

The evening after they left Carlisle, they were overtaken by an old acquaintance and neighbor, who was also with his family on his way to Muskingum. He had started about the same time with the others, with an ox team of three yokes, and by dint of steady and late driving, had managed to keep within a day’s march of them, and here, by making a little extra exertion, he overtook them. Ox teams were preferred to horses by many of the early New England emigrants, in their long journeys to the new purchase. Probably one reason for this was their greater familiarity with their use as beasts of draught; another, that they were much better suited to work among stumps and logs, and were also much less likely to be stolen by the Indians. Their rate of travel was a little slower than that of the horse, but they could make about twenty miles a day where the roads were good.

The roads at that day, across the mountains, were the worst that we can imagine, cut into deep gullies on one side by mountain rains, while the other was filled with blocks of sandstone. The descents were abrupt, and often resembled the breaks in a flight of stone stairs, whose lofty steps were built for the children of Titan rather than the sons of men. As few of the emigrant wagons were provided with lock-chains for the wheels, the downward impetus was checked by a large log, or broken tree top, tied with a rope to the back of the wagon and dragged along on the ground. In other places, the road was so sideling that all the men who could be spared were required to pull at the side stays, or short ropes attached to the upper side of the wagons, to prevent their upsetting. By dividing their forces with Isaac, they made out to prevent any serious accidents of this kind, although it seemed many times impossible to prevent it. The ground, naturally moist and springy on the sides of the mountains, was now rendered very muddy and wet by the November rains, which had begun to fall almost daily. As they approached the middle and higher ranges, the rain was changed to snow and sleet, which added still more to the difficulties and dreariness of the way. From the weight of the loaded wagons and the abrupt acclivities of the road, it fell to the lot of the women and children to walk up all the steep ascents--it being beyond the power of the horses to pull their additional weight up many of the sharp pitches of the mountains. The children often stuck by the way, or lost their shoes in the mud, occasioning a world of trouble to the elder girls, to whose share it fell to look after the welfare of the little ones.

After crossing the “Blue mountain,” the “Middle,” and the “Tuscarora mountain,” late one Saturday evening they descended into the “Ahwick valley,” and Mr. Rouse’s family put up at the house of an honest German Dunkard, named Christian Hiples; while the other two teams went to an old tavern stand, well known to the early pack-horsemen and borderers of that region. This was a quiet and tolerably fertile valley, environed by mountains. In it was seated old “Fort Littleton,” and under the protection of its walls had sprung up, many years ago, quite a thriving settlement, with a number of fine plantations. All this part of the country, and as far east as Carlisle, had been, about twenty-five years before, depopulated by the depredations of the Indians. Many of the present inhabitants well remembered those days of trial, and could not see these helpless women and children moving so far away into the wilderness as Ohio, without expressing their fears at the danger they would incur from the deadly hate of the Indians.

They tarried over the Sabbath, and the following Monday, under the hospitable roof of this Christian Dunkard--whose long white beard, reaching to the waist, greatly excited the curiosity of the children. His family consisted of several young women, who treated the wayfaring females with great kindness; heating their huge out-of-door oven for them, and assisting them in the baking of a large batch of bread for the journey, with many other acts of true Christian charity. On Tuesday morning, when they departed, they loaded them with potatoes and vegetables from their garden, as many as they would venture to carry, without making any charge. They parted from them with many prayers and good wishes for their welfare on the road, and the happy termination of their long and perilous journey. The inhabitants generally treated them kindly, and the further they advanced into the confines of the wilderness, and left the older settlements, the more hospitality abounded. They received them more readily into their houses, and more willingly assisted them with their cooking utensils, or any other thing they possessed, or the wayfarers needed.

While the travellers in Rouse’s wagon were treated so kindly, Isaac, who was excitable and very headstrong, met with rather rough usage from the hand of the old inn-keeper with whom he put up. This man had been a great bruiser in his younger days, and had lost one eye in some of these frays; a thing not at all uncommon among the early borderers. He was naturally a rough man, and the loss of his eye added still more to his ferocious appearance. It seems that he had placed the rounds of the rack, in his stable, so close together it was next to impossible for the horses to pull any of the hay through, so that, although there was plenty before them, they were none the better for it. Isaac could not stand quietly by and say nothing, when his hard-working horses needed their food so much; and then to pay for that they did not eat besides! He remonstrated with the landlord on the matter, but received only abuse for his pains. After paying back a little of the same coin, he fell to work and broke out every other round. The old fellow then fell upon Isaac, determined to give him a sound beating; but in this he was sadly mistaken, and got very roughly handled himself. The horses, however, got plenty of hay, and Isaac told him he should be back again in the spring, and if he found the slats replaced, he would give him another and still sounder thrashing.

Three days after leaving the quiet valley, with much exertion and many narrow escapes from oversetting, they reached the little village of Bedford. During this period they had crossed “Sideling hill,” forded some of the main branches of the Juniata, and threaded the narrow valleys along its borders. Every few miles, long strings of pack-horses met them on the road, bearing heavy burthens of peltry and ginseng, the two main articles of export from the regions west of the mountains. Others overtook them loaded with kegs of spirits, salt, and bales of dry goods, on their way to the traders in Pittsburgh. The fore-horse generally carried a small bell, which distinguished him as the leader. One man had the charge of ten horses, which was as many as he could manage by day, and look after at night. For many years this was the manner in which nearly all the transportation was done over the mountains. The roads were nearly impassable for wagons till near the close of the Indian war, in 1795.

One of their greatest trials was in crossing the Alleghanies. Four miles beyond Bedford, the road to the right was called the “Pittsburg road,” while that to the left was called the “Glade road,” and led to Simrel’s ferry, on the Yohiogany river. This was the route of the emigrants, and led, as well as the other, across the Alleghany. In passing this formidable barrier, our travellers were belated; and it was nearly midnight before they reached the house where they were to lodge. The night was excessively dark; the whole party, except the younger children, were on foot, and could only keep the path by feeling the bushes along the sides of the road. It so happened that Michael Rouse and Capt. Haskell, who was their only guide, had gone ahead with the other wagon, and was entirely beyond hail; leaving Isaac, with Mr. Rouse and all the females, to pick their way along the miry road in the best manner they could. In the midst of all this gloom, the spirits of the former never flagged in the least; but the more difficulties increased the louder he sang, and some of his most cheerful ditties were echoed that night from the rocky side of the Alleghany. Mr. Rouse, who had been often exposed to winds and storms, could not stand the trudging along, ancle deep, in the mud and dark, without venting his feelings in many a hearty curse on the vexations of the night. When about a mile from the house, they were unexpectedly cheered at hearing the lively whistle of Michael; and directly after, in a turn of the road, espied the light of a lantern brought by Capt. Haskell, who had returned after putting up his own team, to meet the stragglers and guide them on the way. A bright fire was blazing on the hearth of the little log inn, the warmth and sparkling of which soon restored their spirits. It was past midnight before they had cooked and eaten their suppers and spread their couches on the puncheon floor of the hut. The fatigues of the journey caused them to sleep very soundly, and they awoke the next morning with fresh courage to meet the trials of the day before them.

In descending the Alleghany, the children and girls were much delighted at seeing the side of the road covered with the vivid green leaves and bright scarlet berries of the “partridge bush,” or “checkerberry.” It was a common fruit at “The Long-plain,” and the sight of it reminded them of their home and the scenes they had left. For a while the little boys forgot the fatigues of the road at the sight of this favorite fruit, and cheered each other with joyous shouts, as fresh patches from time to time appeared by the side of the way. Even the married females were exhilarated by the cheerful spirits exhibited by the children, and partook freely of the spicy fruit which they collected in large handfuls. As they descended the western slope of the mountains, the springs of limpid water, which gushed fresh and pure from the earth along its sides, now ran babbling along to join their puny rills with those of the Ohio. This range is the dividing ridge between the eastern and the western streams, and the travellers could now see the waters which flowed towards the end of their journey.

After reaching the foot of this picturesque range, they had to cross a region called “The Glades,” an elevated plateau, which, in many points, bore a strong resemblance to the prairies of the west. The soil was dark colored, thinly coated with trees, and covered with coarse grass. In crossing “Laurel ridge,” which bounds the western side of the glades, and is so named from the profusion of rhododendron, or rosebay, and kalmia latifolia, or laurel, which cluster along its rocky sides, the girls and older boys had to walk the whole distance. The labor was the more difficult from the ground being covered with snow, which had fallen to the depth of several inches on the sides and top of the ridge, during the last twenty-four hours; while at the same time it had been raining in the valley, or table land, between the ranges. The bushes were bent down by the weight of the snow, and partly obstructed the path; so that long before they got over, their shoes were saturated with water, and their clothes were dribbled and wet half leg high. The “boxberries” still showed their bright scarlet faces, peeping out beneath the snow and ice, as large as common red cherries. At the western foot of the ridge, their road was crossed by a stream too deep for them to ford; and the girls being several miles ahead of the wagons, whose progress was very slow, were much rejoiced to find a cabin in which they could rest until the teams came up. The rendezvous for the night was beyond the creek, as this was the only place where they could get feed for their horses. While waiting at this spot, a stout young mountaineer, clad in his hunting-frock and leggins, came dashing along on a powerful horse, and very kindly, as well as gallantly, offered to take the girls over the stream, if they would trust themselves behind him on the horse, and conduct them safely to the house where they were to stop. But his uncouth dress and their own natural timidity made them decline the offer, choosing rather to wait the arrival of their friends. Just at dark they came up, and taking them into the wagons, they crossed the stream more to their own liking, if not more safely than under the charge of the young mountaineer.

The following day they crossed “Chesnut ridge,” the last of the mountain ranges, so named from the immense forests of chesnut trees that clothe its sides and summit, for nearly the whole of its extent in Pennsylvania and part of Virginia. The soil is sandy and rocky; and so exactly adapted to the growth of this tree, that no part of the world produces it more abundantly. In fruitful years, the hogs, from a distance of twenty or thirty miles, were driven by the inhabitants, every autumn, to fatten on its fruit. Bears, wild turkeys, elk and deer, travelled from afar to this nut-producing region, and luxuriated on its bountiful crop. The congregations of wild animals, on this favored tract, made it one of the most celebrated hunting grounds, not only for the Indians, but also for the white man who succeeded him in the possession of these mountain regions. The children here loaded their little pockets with chesnuts, and for a while forgot the pinching cold of the half frozen leaves and frost covered burrs among which they were scattered. Not long after crossing this ridge they reached Simrel’s ferry, on the Yohiogany river. They hailed this spot with delight, as they were to travel no further in their wagons, but finish the journey by water. They were also glad on another account; two of the horses had been failing for some days, were now near giving out, and in fact died before reaching Buffalo, a small village on the Ohio river.

It was now near the last of November, and winter fast approaching. In a short time a boat was procured, as they were kept ready made for the use of emigrants. The one they bought was about forty feet long and twelve feet wide, but without any roof, as they could not wait for it to be finished. On board of this they put their wagons, and contrived to make a temporary shelter with their linen covers. The horses were sent by land across the country to Buffalo, at the mouth of Buffalo creek, distant by this route only fifty-three miles from the ferry, but more than a hundred by water. This was a common practice with the early emigrants, as the water of the Yohiogany was too shallow in autumn to float a boat drawing over eighteen or twenty inches. In the stern of the boat was a rude fire-place for cooking, and their beds were spread on the floor of the ark.