Chapter XXV: Elizabeth Kenton, 428 (2)

During the twelve years in which he officiated as Governor of Tennessee, his wife made his home delightful to him and his children. It was the rest of the weary, the asylum of the afflicted, well known as “the hospitable mansion of the first Governor, the people’s favorite.”

The education of Mrs. Sevier, in respect of literature and the embellishments of dress and music, was such as she acquired chiefly from reading the Bible, hearing the wild birds sing, and the Indians’ pow-wow. “I picked up a good deal,” she was accustomed to say, “from observation of men and their acts--for that was a business with us in the early settlements--and we examined the works of nature to some advantage; but as to school education, we had precious little of that except at our mothers’ knees.”

She embraced the religious sentiments of the Presbyterians, and her life throughout was exemplary and useful. In this faith she lived and died. A favorite expression of hers was: “I always trust in Providence.” And she taught her children that “trust in God, with a pure heart, is to be rich enough; if you are lazy, your blood will stagnate in your veins, and your trust die.” She would never be idle. Knitting often engaged her fingers, while her mind and tongue were occupied in thought and conversation. She always wore at her side a bunch of very bright keys.

After the death of Gov. Sevier on the Tallapoosa, in 1815, where he had gone to cement peace and establish the boundary with the Creek Indians, Mrs. Sevier removed to Overton County, in Middle Tennessee, where most of her children resided. She selected a most romantic and secluded spot for her own retired residence. It was upon a high _bench_, or spur of one of the mountains of that county, a few miles from Obeds River, with higher mountains on either side. There were some ten or fifteen acres of tillable land, and a bold never-failing spring issuing from near the surface of the level tract, which cast its pure cold waters down the side of the mountain hundreds of feet into the narrow valley. In a dense wood near that spring, and miles distant from any other habitation, did her sons erect her log cabins for bedroom, dining-room, and kitchen, and others for stable and crib. She resided for years at “The Dale,” with the General’s aged body-servant, Toby (who had accompanied him in all his Indian campaigns), his wife, Rachel, and a favorite female servant and boy. Seldom did she come down from her eyrie in the mountain. The aged eagle had lost her mate. She made her nest among the lofty oaks upon the mountain heights, where she breathed the air and drank the water untainted and undisturbed, fresh and pure, and nearest to the heavens.

We have visited her in that chosen spot. “The Governor’s widow” could never be looked upon as an ordinary countrywoman. Whoever saw her could not be satisfied with a single glance--he must look again. And if she stood erect, and her penetrating eye caught the beholder’s, he judged at once there was in that mind a consciousness of worth and an acquaintance with notable events. He would wish to converse with her. She used language of much expressiveness and point. She never forgot that she was the widow of Gov. and Gen. Sevier; that he had given forty years of his life to the service of his country, and in the most arduous and perilous exposure, contributing from his own means far more than he ever received from the public treasury; and yet he never reproached that country for injustice, neither would she murmur nor repine.

At times she was disposed to sociable cheerfulness and humor, as one in youthful days, and then would she relate interesting anecdotes and incidents of the early settlement of the country, the manners and habits of the people, of the “barefoot and moccasin dance” and “spice-wood tea-parties.” Her woman’s pride, or some other feminine feeling, induced her to preserve with the utmost care an imported or bought carpet, of about twelve by fifteen feet in size, which had been presented to her as the “first Governor’s wife,” and as the first article of the kind ever laid upon a “puncheon,” or split-log floor west of the Alleghany Mountains. Whenever she expected company upon her own invitation, or persons of character to pay their respects to her, the Scotch carpet was sure to be spread out, about the size of a modern bedquilt. But as soon as company departed, the ever-present and faithful servants, Suzy and Jeff, incontinently commenced dusting and folding, and it was soon again boxed up. Three times were we permitted the honorable privilege of placing our well cleaned boots upon this dear relic from the household of the first Governor of Tennessee, and of admiring the pair of ancient and decrepit branch-candlesticks as they stood on the board over the fireplace.

The bucket of cool water was ever on the shelf at the batten-door, which stood wide open, swung back upon its wooden hinges; and there hung the sweet water-gourd; and from very love of everything around, we repeatedly helped ourselves. The floors, the doors, the chairs, the dishes on the shelves--yea, everything seemed to have been scoured. There was a lovely cleanness and order, and we believe, “godliness with contentment.”

She was remarkably neat in her person, tidy, and particular, and uniform in her dress, which might be called half-mourning--a white cap with black trimmings. She had a hearth-rug, the accompaniment of the favorite carpet, which was usually laid before the fire-place in her own room, and there she commonly was seated, erect as a statue--no stooping of the figure, so often acquired by indolence and careless habit, or from infirm old age--but with her feet placed upon her rug, her work-stand near her side, the Bible ever thereon or in her lap, the Governor’s hat upon the wall--such were the striking features of that mountain hermitage.

There was resignation and good cheer--there was hospitality and worth in that plain cottage; and had not the prospect of better fortune, and attachment to children married and settled at a distance, induced her own sons to remove from her vicinity, she ought never to have been urged to come down from that “lodge in the wilderness.” But her last son having resolved to remove to Alabama, she consented to go with him and pass her few remaining days in his family.

She departed this life on the 2d October, 1836, at Russelville, in the State of Alabama, aged about eighty-two.

III.

REBECCA BOONE.

In the rural cemetery near Frankfort, upon a hill overlooking the river, under the shadow of protecting trees, are two green mounds, unmarked by slab or stone informing the stranger that the remains of two honored pioneers--Daniel Boone and his wife, rest beneath. The beauty of the locality is unrivalled, and it is not far from the magnificent monument erected by Kentucky to her brave officers fallen on the field of battle; the splendid shaft inscribed with their names, and surmounted by a figure of Victory holding crowns in her hands. It is hoped that ere long the State will do justice to the memory of those whose arduous efforts won a victory not less glorious over the untamed wilderness, and opened the way to others as bold and persevering.

It will be remembered that the father of Daniel Boone had his residence on the borders of the Yadkin in North Carolina, at no great distance from the eastern slope of the Alleghanies; then a frontier country, and the greater part of it unbroken forest. Near the farm here opened, was another owned by Mr. Bryan, comprising about a hundred acres beautifully situated on a gentle swell of ground; the eminence crested with laurels and yellow poplars, which half concealed the farmer’s dwelling. A wild mountain stream ran along the base of the hill. This Joseph Bryan was the oldest son of Morgan Bryan, of Virginia, the head of a very respectable family. His daughter, Rebecca, was born near Winchester, in Virginia.

Flint’s “Life of Boone,” contains the following account of his first meeting with his future wife, referred to as authentic by other biographers:

“Young Boone was one night engaged in a fire hunt with a young friend. Their course led them to the deeply timbered bottom which skirted the stream that wound round Bryan’s pleasant plantation. That the reader may have an idea what sort of a pursuit it was that young Boone was engaged in, during an event so decisive of his future fortunes, we present a brief sketch of a night fire hunt. Two persons are indispensable to it. The horseman that precedes, bears on his shoulder what is called a _fire pan_, full of blazing pine knots, which casts a bright and flickering glare far through the forest. The second follows at some distance with his rifle prepared for action. No spectacle is more impressive than this of pairs of hunters thus kindling the forest into a glare. The deer, reposing quietly in his thicket, is awakened by the approaching cavalcade, and instead of flying from the portentous brilliance, remains stupidly gazing upon it, as if charmed to the spot. The animal is betrayed to its doom by the gleaming of its fixed and innocent eyes. This cruel mode of securing a fatal shot is called in hunters’ phrase--_shining the eyes_.

“The two young men reached a corner of the farmer’s field at an early hour in the evening. Young Boone gave the customary signal to his mounted companion preceding him, to stop; an indication that he had _shined the eyes_ of a deer. Boone dismounted and fastened his horse to a tree. Ascertaining that his rifle was in order he advanced cautiously behind a covert of bushes, to rest the right distance for a shot. The deer is remarkable for the beauty of its eyes when thus shined. The mild brilliance of the two orbs was distinctly visible. Whether warned by a presentiment, or arrested by a palpitation and strange feelings within, at noting a new expression in the blue and dewy lights that gleamed to his heart, we say not. But the unerring rifle fell, and a rustling told him the game had fled. Something whispered him it was not a deer; and yet the fleet step, as the game bounded away, might easily be mistaken for that of the light-footed animal. A second thought impelled him to pursue the rapidly retreating game; and he sprang away in the direction of the sound, leaving his companion to occupy himself as he might. The fugitive had the advantage of a considerable advance of him, and apparently a better knowledge of the localities of the place. But the hunter was perfect in all his field exercises, and scarcely less fleet-footed than a deer, and he gained rapidly on the object of his pursuit, which advanced a little distance parallel with the field fence, and then, as if endowed with the utmost accomplishment of gymnastics, cleared the fence at a leap. The hunter, embarrassed with his rifle and accoutrements, was driven to the slow and humiliating expedient of climbing it. But an outline of the form of the fugitive, fleeting through the shades in the direction of the house, assured him that he had mistaken the species of the game. His heart throbbed from an hundred sensations, and among them an apprehension of the consequences of what would have resulted from discharging his rifle, when he had first shined those liquid blue eyes. Seeing that the fleet game made straight in the direction of the house, he said to himself: ‘I will see the pet deer in its lair,’ and he directed his steps to the same place. Half a score of dogs opened their barking upon him as he approached the house, and advertised the master that a stranger was approaching. Having hushed the dogs, and learned the name of his visitant, he introduced him to his family as the son of their neighbor Boone.

“Scarce had the first words of introduction been uttered, before the opposite door opened, and a boy apparently of seven, and a girl of sixteen, rushed in, panting for breath, and seeming in affright.

“‘Sister went down to the river and a _painter_ chased her, and she is almost scared to death,’ exclaimed the boy.

“The ruddy, flaxen-haired girl stood full in view of her terrible pursuer, leaning upon his rifle, and surveying her with the most eager admiration. ‘Rebecca, this is young Boone, son of our neighbor,’ was the laconic introduction. Both were young, beautiful, and at the period when the affections exercise their most energetic influence. The circumstances of the introduction were favorable to the result, and the young hunter felt that the eyes had _shined_ his bosom as fatally as his rifle shot had ever the innocent deer of the thickets. She too, when she saw the light, open, bold forehead, the clear, keen, yet gentle and affectionate eye, the firm front, and the visible impress of decision and fearlessness of the hunter--when she interpreted a look which said as distinctly as looks could say it, ‘how terrible it would have been to have fired!’ can hardly be supposed to have regarded him with indifference. Nor can it be wondered at that she saw in him her beau ideal of excellence and beauty. The inhabitants of cities, who live in mansions, and read novels stored with unreal pictures of life and the heart, are apt to imagine that love, with all its golden illusions, is reserved exclusively for them. It is a most egregious mistake. A model of ideal beauty and perfection is woven in almost every youthful heart, of the brightest and most brilliant threads that compose the web of existence. It may not be said that this forest maiden was deeply and foolishly smitten at first sight. All reasonable time and space were granted to the claims of maidenly modesty. As for Boone, he was remarkable for the backwoods attribute of never being beaten out of his track, and he ceased not to woo, until he gained the heart of Rebecca Bryan. In a word, he courted her successfully, and they were married.”

Boone’s first step after his marriage was to find a suitable place where he might cultivate his farm, and hunt to the greatest advantage. His wife remained at home, while he went to explore the unsettled regions of North Carolina. When he had selected a locality near the head waters of the Yadkin, Rebecca, with the same resolute spirit of enterprise which afterwards led her to the wilds of Kentucky, bade farewell to her friends, and followed her adventurous husband. In a few months her home had assumed a pleasant aspect; a neat cabin stood on a pleasant eminence near the river, surrounded by an enclosed field; the farm was well stocked and with the abundance of game in the woods, the settlers had no lack of means for comfort and enjoyment. The rude dwelling frequently offered the traveller shelter; and by a cheerful fire and table loaded with the finest game, with the enhancing blessing of a hospitable welcome, was many a tale of adventure narrated, while as yet the surrounding forest was untouched by an axe. For some years the young couple lived in this sylvan retirement, till the fields of other emigrants opened wide clearings, and dwellings rose so thickly in the neighborhood as to form villages; when Boone made up his mind to remove to some wilder spot.

The country west of the Cumberland Mountains was almost unknown in 1760. Some few hardy adventurers had struck into the pathless forests which extended along the frontier settlements, but the Alleghanies had proved an insurmountable barrier to the families of settlers. The stories told by adventurers, meanwhile, who had ventured into the skirts of the wilderness, kindled the imagination of enterprising hunters. In 1767, Finley went still further, and penetrated through a portion of Tennessee. “There is nothing,” says the biographer of Boone, “grand or imposing in scenery, nothing striking or picturesque in the ascent and precipitous declivity of mountains covered with woods; nothing romantic or delightful in deep and sheltered valleys through which wind clear streams--that was not found in this region. Mountains stretch along in continuous ridges, and now and then shoot up into elevated peaks. On the summit of some spread plateaus, which afford the most romantic prospects, and offer every advantage for cultivation, with the purest and most bracing atmosphere. No words can picture the secluded beauty of some of the vales bordering the small streams, which fling their spray, transparent as air, over moss-covered and time-worn rocks, walled in by precipitous mountains, down which pour numerous waterfalls.”

The rich soil and inviting aspect of this country gave large ideas of its advantages; and as the wanderer penetrated into Kentucky, the luxuriant beauty of its plains, its rich cane-brakes and flower-covered forests promised everything desirable in a new home. The forest abounded with deer, elk, and buffaloes, and more savage wild beasts had their lair in its depths and in the thick tangles of the green cane; while pheasants, partridges, wild turkeys, &c., were as plenty as domestic fowls upon a farm. The report of Finley determined Boone to go westward, and others having been induced to join him in an exploring expedition, six assembled at his house on the first of May, 1769--all the neighbors being gathered to witness their departure. Mrs. Boone parted with her husband, who left his house laden with his rifle, hunter’s bag of ammunition, and light knapsack--the only luggage taken by the adventurers. Their expedition across the Alleghanies into the boundless forests of the Ohio valley, where the buffalo roamed like herds of cattle, has been elsewhere described. The land appeared the very paradise of hunters, and Boone could not imagine how any one who could fix his home in such a region, would stay among the barren pine-hills of North Carolina. The exploring party divided, to take different routes, and Boone and Stewart were taken prisoners by wandering Indians.

They managed, however, to escape, and Boone joined his elder brother, while Stewart and another of their number were killed. The brothers were soon in want of ammunition, and the elder Boone returned to North Carolina, while Daniel, regardless of danger, remained alone in the rough cabin he had built, from the first of May to the 27th of July, 1770, at which time his brother came back with cheering news from his family. Having finished their survey, both returned to report to their neighbors what they had seen, and form a company of such persons as were willing to join the families of the Boones in their pioneer settlement. Their descriptions of the luxuriance of the country--its cane-brakes, clover plains, limestone springs, maple orchards, streams and forests filled with game and wild-fowl, were matched by fearful accounts from others of the depredations and cruelties of Indians, dangers of wild beasts, and diseases peculiar to a wild country; so that it was two years before preparations were completed for the expedition. The party commenced the march the 26th September, 1773, and were joined by forty persons in “Powell’s valley,” a settlement some distance westward; numbering about eighty in all. They crossed the wild and rugged range of mountains by the course the brothers had traced on their return, but they were not destined to proceed much further. As they descended the west side of Walden’s ridge, along a narrow defile, they were suddenly startled by the yells of Indians, and a fierce affray ensued, in which six men were killed, and some of the stock scattered and lost. In the general distress, the company decided unanimously on giving up the attempt to form a settlement in Kentucky, and returning to Clinch River, forty miles in the rear, where a number of families had already located themselves. It may be supposed that Mrs. Boone, whose eldest son had been slain in the encounter, had lost all spirit for the enterprise, and her husband was obliged to submit to the decision of the rest. Their new home, accordingly, was for some time on the banks of Clinch River. In June, 1774, Boone was required by Governor Dunmore of Virginia, to conduct a party of surveyors to the falls of Ohio. In 1775, he superintended the erection of a fort on the Kentucky River, afterwards called Boonesborough. The fort consisted of one block-house and several cabins, surrounded by palisades. This work was accomplished amidst troubles from the Indians, and when it was finished Boone returned for his family. They took up their abode at the earliest military station--except the house built by Harrod in 1774 in Kentucky--Mrs. Boone and her daughters being the first white women who had ever stood on the banks of Kentucky river.

It was the close of summer, and at this time the spot selected for their residence appeared in its best aspect. The early autumn was mild and beautiful, and arrangements were made for the cultivation of the land as soon as spring should open. Winter came, and passed with little discomfort. Their cabins were thoroughly daubed with clay; they had abundance of fuel, and were at no loss for game and provisions. Those who went out to fell trees, however, were constrained to be on their guard against attacks from Indians, who might aim at them from some covert in the woods, and the men never left home without carrying their rifles and knives. The women occasionally ventured a short distance without the palisades in the day-time, but never out of sight of the fort.

The months thus passed without monotony or want of excitement; spring opened, the trees to be felled were girdled, the brush cut down and burned, preparations made for ploughing the field, and a garden spot marked off, which, when the virgin earth had been thrown up, was given in charge to Mrs. Boone and her daughters. They had brought out a stock of seeds from the old settlements, and went out every bright day to plant them. The little party of women was reinforced, among others, by the daughters of Col. Calloway, a friend of Boone, who had brought his family to the station. Their fondness for possessing themselves of the spoils of the forest, led to a romantic instance of the peril of the times.

A little daughter of Boone, with Calloway’s two, was captured by Indians the 7th of July. Flint says they were gathering flowers in the woods when the savages rushed upon them; and that they were not missed till some time after they had been carried off. I copy the account given of the pursuit of Boone, and the recovery of the captives, by Col. Floyd, an actor in the scene--in preference to other narratives. He says the girls were taken out of a canoe in the river, within sight of Boonesborough. “The affair happened late in the afternoon, and the spoilers left the canoe on the opposite side of the river from us, which prevented our getting over for some time to pursue them. Next morning by daylight we were on the track, but found they had totally prevented our following them by walking some distance apart, through the thickest cane they could find. We observed their course, and on which side we had left their sign, and travelled upwards of thirty miles. We then imagined that they would be less cautious in travelling, made a turn in order to cross their trace, and had not gone but a few miles before we found their tracks in a buffalo path; pursued and overtook them on going about ten miles, just as they were kindling a fire to cook. Our study had been more to get the prisoners without giving the Indians time to murder them after they discovered us, than to kill the savages. We discovered each other nearly at the same time. Four of us fired, and all rushed on them, which prevented their carrying anything away, except one shot gun without ammunition. Mr. Boone and myself had a pretty fair shot just as they began to move off. I am well convinced I shot one through, and the one he shot dropped his gun; mine had none. The place was very thick with cane, and being so much elated on recovering the three little broken-hearted girls, prevented our making any further search. We sent them off without their moccasins, and not one of them so much as a knife or a tomahawk.”[6]

With the commencement of the war of the Revolution, the ravages of Indian warfare along the whole line of border settlements became more extensive and violent; British influence and resources securing the savages as their allies along the frontier, from the north-eastern part of Vermont and New York to the Mississippi. The story of Boone’s life is interwoven with the scenes of plunder, captivity, burning and massacre, which swept and in many instances desolated the infant colonies of the north and west. Yet new emigrants came, many of them of respectable standing, and some noted in the history of the time. Mrs. McGary, Mrs. Hogan, and Mrs. Denton, had taken up their residence in the fort at Boonesborough. At the same time hordes of savages crossed the Ohio with the design of extirpating these germs of social establishments in the Indian’s favorite hunting-ground, and in numerous detachments spread in every direction through the forest.

But the increase of danger did not drive back the pioneers, or prevent still further reinforcements. Those who first ventured into Kentucky and Tennessee, had come in small parties, but on their return to the old settlements they gathered companies of their friends and connections, old and young, with their wives and children, flocks and herds, resolved on emigration, and pledged by mutual necessity to stand by each other in life and death. There was among them none of the jealousy and want of unity which prevail, more or less, among their descendants; yet were not these primitive hunters assimilated to savages in their habits, but possessing keen and strong intellects as well as powerful frames, and every qualification for social life. The first care on reaching their destination was to select a spot for the new dwelling, usually chosen on a gently elevated ground of exuberant fertility, where trees were sparse, and there was no underbrush to prevent the hunter’s riding at full speed. The growth of cane, wild clover, and _pawpaw_ marked the best soil. Cabins being put up for immediate use, the little settlement was converted into a station. For this purpose it was necessary to enclose a spring or well, near a salt lick or sugar orchard if practicable; then a wide space must be cleared, so that the enemy could not approach close under the shelter of the woods. The station was to overlook, moreover, as much of the country as possible. It included from half an acre to an acre of ground, and the trench was usually dug four or five feet deep and planted with large and close pickets, forming a compact wall ten or twelve feet above the surface of the earth. The pickets were of hard timber and about a foot in diameter, and the soil around them was rammed into great solidity. At the angles were small projecting squares called _flunkers_, with oblique port-holes, from which the fire of sentinels within could rake the external front of the station; and in front and rear two folding gates swung on enormous wooden hinges. The gates were barred every night, and sentinels posted alternately, one being stationed on the roof in time of peculiar danger. These fortified places in the wilderness had their clean turfed area for dancing, wrestling, or other athletic exercises; the inmates of the fort passed their evenings sociably together, cheerful fires blazing within the enclosure, and suppers of venison and wild turkeys, wild fruits and maple beer were enjoyed with double relish amid the distant howling of wolves, or the Indian warwhoop, heard like the roar of the dying storm. Such was Bryants station in 1782, the nucleus of the earliest settlements in the rich and lovely country of which Lexington is the centre--and such were others built at that period.

The captivity of Boone, his escape and return to Boonesborough, and the Indian siege of that station in 1778--the last it sustained--belong to the biography of the renowned woodsman, not to this memoir. When during a long interval no information concerning Boone could be obtained, he was supposed by the people at the garrison and his family to have fallen a victim to savage vengeance. Mrs. Boone, believing herself widowed, at length resolved, with her children, to leave the western forests, and return to the banks of the Yadkin. Kentucky, she said, had indeed been to her a “dark and bloody ground.” The family returned to their friends in North Carolina, nearly five years having elapsed since they had started with the first party of emigrants for Kentucky. The friends from whom she then parted had heard afterwards of their disastrous encounter with the Indians, their return to Clinch River, and subsequent residence at Boonesborough; but knew nothing of their further trials. When about the close of the summer of 1778, these pilgrims returning from the western wilds were seen approaching on pack-horses, the sight caused no little surprise and wonder among the dwellers on the banks of the Yadkin. The mother wore deep mourning, and her dejected countenance showed the grief that had worn her strong spirit; the same melancholy was evident in the faces of her eldest surviving son, and the daughter who had been captured; the other children being too young to feel trial or change. The travellers were clad in skins, and the primitive habiliments of the wilderness, and as the cavalcade stopped at Mr. Bryan’s house, the neighbors collected to learn what had happened, and listen with deep interest to Mrs. Boone’s relation of her adventures and sorrows.

After having driven the enemy from Boonesborough, Col. Boone set out to cross the Alleghanies in pursuit of his wife and children; surmounting with iron strength of endurance the difficulties of the way. It may be imagined how joyfully his return was hailed by those who had so long believed him dead. They returned in the following summer to Boonesborough, which enjoyed tranquillity as the country became more thickly settled. Many incidents of interest after this re-union, in which Boone was prominent, are recorded in the history of Kentucky, but do not pertain to this sketch. One connected with another pioneer, may be mentioned as illustrative.

Benjamin Logan, who had brought his family from the Holston to Logan’s Fort, in March, 1776, was obliged afterwards to remove them for safety to Harrodsburgh. Before the attack on Harrodsburgh in the winter of 1777, he returned with six families to the cabins he had built, and commenced palisading the station. “On the 20th of May, while the females of the establishment were milking their cows, sustained by a guard of their husbands and fathers, the whole party was suddenly assailed by a large body of Indians, concealed in a canebrake. One man was killed and two wounded, one mortally, the other severely. The remainder reached the interior of the palisades in safety. The number in all was thirty, half of whom were women and children. A circumstance was now discovered exceedingly trying to such a benevolent spirit as that of Logan. While the Indians were still firing, and the inmates exulting in their safety while others mourned over their dead and wounded, it was perceived that one of the wounded, by the name of Harrison, was still alive, and exposed every moment to be scalped. All this his wife and family could discover from within. It is not difficult to imagine their agonized condition and piercing lamentations. Logan displayed on this occasion the same tender compassion and insensibility to danger, that characterised his friend Boone in similar circumstances. He endeavored to rally a few of the male inmates of the place to join him, rush out, and bring the wounded man within the palisades. But so obvious was the danger, so forlorn appeared the enterprise, that no one could be found disposed to volunteer his aid, except a single individual by the name of John Martin. When he had reached the gate, the wounded man raised himself partly erect and made a movement as if trying to reach the fort himself. On this Martin desisted from the enterprise and left Logan to attempt it alone. He rushed forward to the wounded man, who made some effort to crawl onward by his aid; but weakened by the loss of blood, and the anguish of his wounds, he fainted, and Logan taking him in his arms, bore him towards the fort. A shower of bullets was discharged at them, many of which struck the palisades close to Logan’s head, as he brought the wounded man safe within the gate, and deposited him in the care of his family.

“The station, at this juncture, was destitute both of powder and ball, and there was no chance of supplies nearer than Holston; all intercourse between station and station was cut off. Without ammunition the fort could not be defended against the Indians, and the question was how to obtain a supply in this pressing emergency. Capt. Logan, selecting two trusty companions, left the fort by night, evading the besieging Indians, reached the woods, made his way in safety to Holston, procured the necessary supplies of ammunition, and packed it under their care on horseback, giving them directions how to proceed. He then left them, and traversing the forest by a shorter route on foot, reached the fort in safety ten days after his departure. The Indians still kept up the siege with unabated perseverance, and the hopes of the diminished garrison had given way to despondency. The return of Logan inspired them however with renewed confidence.”

We select another narrative in detail, to convey an idea of Indian hostility on the one hand, and the manner in which it was met on the other. “A family lived on Cooper’s run, in Bourbon county, consisting of a mother, two sons of mature age, a widowed daughter with an infant in her arms, two grown daughters, and a daughter ten years old. The house was a double cabin. The two grown daughters and the smaller girl were in one division, and the rest of the family in the other. At night a knocking was heard at the door of the latter division, asking in good English and the customary Western phrase: ‘Who keeps house?’ As the sons went to open the door, the mother forbade them, affirming that the persons claiming admission were Indians. The young men sprang to their guns; and the Indians finding themselves refused admittance at the door, made an effort at the opposite one. That door they soon beat open with a rail, and endeavored to take the three girls prisoners. The little girl sprang away, and might have escaped in the darkness and the woods, but the foolish child under a natural impulse ran to the other door and cried for help. The brothers within it may be supposed would wish to go forth and protect the feeble and terrified wailer. The mother taking a broader view of duty, forbade them. The savages soon hushed the cries of the distressed child by the merciless tomahawk. While some of the Indians were engaged in murdering this child, another was binding one of the grown girls whom he had captured, the other young woman defending herself with a knife which she had been using at a loom at the moment of attack. The intrepidity she displayed was unavailing. She killed one Indian and was herself dispatched by another. The savages meanwhile having obtained possession of one half the house, fired it. The persons shut up in the other half had now no other alternative than to be consumed in the flames rapidly spreading towards them, or to go forth and expose themselves to the murderous tomahawks that had already laid three of the family in their blood. The Indians stationed themselves in the dark angles of the fence, where, by the bright glare of the flames, they could see everything, and yet remain themselves unseen. Here they could make a sure mark of all that should escape from within. One of the sons took charge of his aged and infirm mother, and the other of his widowed sister and her infant. The brothers emerged from the burning ruins, separated and endeavored to spring over the fence. The mother was shot dead as her son was piously helping her over, the other brother being killed as he was gallantly defending his sister. The widowed sister, her infant and one of the brothers escaped the massacre and alarmed the settlement. Thirty men, commanded by Col. Edwards, arrived next day to witness the appalling spectacle presented around the smoking ruins of this cabin. Considerable snow had fallen, and the Indians were obliged to leave a trail which easily indicated their path. In the evening of that day, they came upon the expiring body of the young woman, apparently murdered but a few moments before their arrival; the Indians having been premonished of their pursuit by the barking of a dog that followed them. The white men overtook and killed two of the savages that had strayed behind, apparently as voluntary victims to secure the retreat of the rest.”

After numerous perils and escapes, and great services to the country, Boone had the privilege of rejoicing in the peace that followed the defeat of the northern tribes of Indians by General Wayne. His perseverance had triumphed over all obstacles, and the kindred spirit of his wife had aided and encouraged him in his various adventures, whether descending the Alleghanies, tracing the course of the Cumberland and Tennessee, roaming through the forests of Kentucky, wandering a captive through the wilderness to the great lakes, or following the waters of the Wabash, Miamis, and Scioto. When the tide of emigration had poured into the country, and disputes and litigation arose as to the ownership of land, the band of primitive pioneers was dispersed, and Boone moved his family to the woods on the banks of the Great Kanawha, having heard that deer and buffaloes were to be found on the unsettled lands near that river. Their home was for some years near Point Pleasant; but game was not so abundant as could be desired, and the report of adventurers returned from the vast prairies and unexplored forests of the Missouri, determined Boone once more to flee from the encroaching advance of civilization. Taking up his rifle and light luggage, he set out with the faithful companion of his wanderings and their children, driving their stock before them, and passed through Cincinnati in 1798. They settled in St. Charles County, about forty miles above St. Louis. After Missouri had come under the government of the United States, the tide of emigration and enterprise again swept by the dwelling of our pioneers, driving off the game, and changing the hunting grounds into farms. A follower too, even more sure to overtake them, came on apace; old age with its consequent infirmities. Mrs. Boone died in March 1813. A most faithful and efficient helpmeet had she proved to the pioneer, possessing the same energy, heroism, and firmness which he had shown in all the vicissitudes of his eventful career, with the gentler qualities by which woman, as the centre of the domestic system, diffuses happiness and trains her children to become useful and honored in after life. Having shared willingly in the hardships, labors and dangers of those adventurers whose names live in grateful remembrance, she is entitled to some portion of the renown that has embalmed them.

An anecdote or two illustrative of the insecurity of families in those days, and of the horrors undescribed in most cases, may not be inappropriate before closing this memoir. In the spring of 1780, Alexander McConnel, who lived at Lexington, then a small cluster of cabins, having killed a buck in the woods, went home for a horse, and returning, was seized and carried off by five Indians. After several days’ travel, when they reached the banks of the Ohio, they omitted the precaution of binding him closely one night, merely tying the buffalo tug around his wrists, and fastening it to their bodies; and he resolved on making his escape. About midnight, casting his eyes in the direction of his feet, they fell on the glittering blade of a knife which had escaped its sheath, and was lying near the feet of one of the Indians. He could not reach it with his hands, but with some difficulty grasped the blade between his toes, and drew it within reach. He then cut his cords, and silently extricated himself from his captors; but he knew it would be necessary to kill them, to avoid pursuit and certain death. After anxious reflection, his plan was formed, and carefully removing the guns of the Indians, which were stacked near the fire, and hiding them in the woods, he took two, and returning to the spot where his enemies were still sleeping, he placed the muzzles of each on a log within six feet of his victims, and pulled both triggers. Both shots were fatal; he then ran to secure one of the other rifles, and fired at two of the savages, standing in a line, killing one and wounding the other, who limped off into the forest. The fifth darted off like a deer, with a yell of astonishment and terror. McConnel not wishing to fight any more such battles, selected his own rifle from the stack, and made the best of his way to Lexington. A Mrs. Dunlap, who had been several months a prisoner among the Indians on Mad River, soon afterwards came to the same place, having made her escape, and reported that the survivor had returned to his tribe with a lamentable tale of an attack by a large party of white men, who had killed the poor bound prisoners, as well as his companions![7]

An adventure of a different kind befel McKinley, a school teacher, in the following year. While sitting alone at his desk, he heard a slight noise at the door, and saw an enormous wild cat. He rose to snatch up a cylindrical rule to defend himself, but the creature darted upon him, tore his clothes from his side, and buried her claws and teeth in his flesh. He threw himself on the edge of the table, and pressed the assailant against its sharp corner with all his force. Her cries, mingled with his own, now alarmed the neighbors, and after a few moments the dead animal was disengaged from her prey, though her tusks were dislodged with some difficulty from between his ribs.

In the beginning of 1794, a party of Indians killed George Mason, on Flat Creek, twelve miles from Knoxville. In the night he heard a noise in his stable, and stepped out; was intercepted before he could return, by the savages, and fled, but was fired upon and wounded. He reached a cave, from which he was dragged out and murdered, and the Indians returned to the house to despatch his wife and children. Mrs. Mason heard them talking as they approached, and hoped her neighbors, aroused by the firing, had come to her assistance. But perceiving that the conversation was neither in English nor German, she knew they were enemies. She had that very morning learned how to set the double trigger of a rifle. Fortunately the children were not awakened, and she took care not to disturb them. She had shut the door, barred it with benches and tables, and taking down her husband’s well charged rifle, placed herself directly opposite the opening which would be made by forcing the door. Her husband came not, and she was but too well convinced he had been slain. She was alone in darkness, and the yelling savages were pressing on the house. Pushing with great violence, they gradually opened the door wide enough to attempt an entrance, and the body of one was thrust into the opening and filled it, two or three more urging him forward. Mrs. Mason set the trigger of the rifle, put the muzzle near the body of the foremost, and fired. The first Indian fell; the next uttered the scream of mortal agony. The intrepid woman observed profound silence, and the savages were led to believe that armed men were in the house. They withdrew, took three horses from the stable, and set it on fire. It was afterwards ascertained that this high-minded woman had saved herself and children from the attack of twenty-five assailants.

The opportunity seems favorable to notice the spirit and manners of those primitive times of Kentucky history. After the period of the attack on Bryant’s Station, and the disastrous battle of the Blue Licks, which took place on the 18th of August, 1782, notwithstanding the dangers which surrounded the settlements, they began to have more of the aspect of communities. The proportion of women, which had hitherto been so small, became larger, and a license to marry is said to have been the first process issued by the clerks of the new counties. The first settlers having generally been composed of those who had braved the perils of settling the frontiers of the adjacent states, their helpmates were accustomed to labor and hardship. The duties of the household were discharged by the females.

“They milked the cows, prepared the meats, spun and wove the garments of their husbands and children; while the men hunted the game of the woods, cleared the land, and planted the grain. To grind the Indian corn into meal on the rude and laborious hand-mill, or to pound it into hominy in a mortar, was occasionally the work of either sex. The defence of the country, the building of forts and cabins, fell most properly to the share of the men; though in those hardy times, it was not at all uncommon for females, during a siege, to run bullets and neck them for the rifle. Deer skins were extensively used for dress, to compose the hunting shirt, the long overalls, the leggins, and the soft and pliable moccasins; the buffalo and bear furnished the principal covering for the night. Handkerchiefs tied round the head, often supplied the place of hats; strips of buffalo hide were used for ropes. Stores or shops were unknown; wooden vessels either prepared by the _turner_, the _cooper_, or their rude representatives in the woods, were the common substitutes for table furniture. A tin cup was an article of delicate luxury almost as rare as an iron fork. Every hunter carried a knife, too aptly called a _scalping knife_, in the hands of the white man as well as in those of the Indian; and one or two knives would compose the cutlery of families. The furniture of the cabin was appropriate to the habitation; the table was made of a slab, or thick, flat piece of timber, split and roughly hewn with the axe, with legs prepared in the same manner. This latter instrument was the principal tool in all mechanical operations, and with the adze, the auger, and above all, the _rifle_, composed the richest mechanical assortment of Kentucky. Stools of the same material and manufacture, filled the place of chairs. When some one more curiously nice than his neighbors, chose to elevate his bed above the floor (often the naked ground), it was placed on slabs laid across poles which were again supported by forks driven into the floor. If, however, the floor happened to be so luxurious as to be made of puncheons (another larger sort of slabs), the bedstead became hewed pieces, let into the sides of the cabin by auger holes in the logs. The cradle of these times was a small rolling trough, much like what is called the sugar trough, used to receive the sap of the sugar maple. Still the food in these rude habitations, and with this rough and inartificial furniture, was the richest milk and finest butter furnished by the luxuriant pasture of the woods, covered with the rich pea vine and the luscious cane. The game of the country, it has been already seen, struck the experienced eye of even Boone as profuse beyond measure; it was the theme of admiration to every hunter; nor did the abundance afford slight assistance to the whites in their conquest of the land. The enemy would never have permitted provisions to have been transported, or to have grown by the slow and peaceable processes of farming; and the consequence must have been that the stations would have been starved into surrender, but for the providential supply of the deer, the buffalo, and the bear. These were to be obtained by every gallant rifleman; and this so abundantly that the buffalo has often been shot in order to enjoy either its hump or its tongue. The hospitality of these times was much less a merit than an enjoyment; often a protection to both parties. The fare was rough, but heartily and generously divided with every fellow-woodsman.”[8]

Generosity, hardihood, bravery, and endurance of suffering, were prominent and undeniable features in the character of these first settlers. But the female sex, though certainly an object of more regard than among the Indians, had to endure much hardship, and occupy a rank inferior to the male partner, among the _earliest_ emigrants, the state of society exercising high physical qualities rather than mental or artificial endowments.

* * * * *

ANNA INNIS, widow of Hon. Henry Innis, and mother of Mrs. J. J. Crittenden, died at Cedar Hill, near Frankfort, Kentucky, May 12th, 1851. This lady was one of the pioneers of Kentucky, and has been the pride of her State and an ornament to the country. Her early days were spent in the wilderness, and yet in the society of such men as Clarke, Wayne, Shelby, Scott, Boone, Henderson, Logan, Hart, Nicholas, Murray, Allen, Breckenridge, and all the great and heroic spirits of the West. She saw Washington as he led his broken army through the Jerseys, and as he returned in triumph from Yorktown. Of this remarkable woman the _Frankfort Commonwealth_ says:

“Her tenacious memory retained all she had seen, and she became the chronicler of her own times, and interwove her narrative with traditions of the past. Providence had been kind in all his dealings with her. He had blest her with a strong mind and constitution, and with great cheerfulness and courage. He had blessed her in her ‘basket and her store.’ He had blessed her in her children, and at last when the message came, having borne all the trials of a long and eventful life with heroic firmness, she died in the full communion and fellowship of the Presbyterian Church, of which she had been long an exemplary member.”

Another of the eminent daughters of Kentucky was the mother of Gen. Leslie Combs, whose maiden name was Sarah Richardson. She was of a respectable Quaker family of Maryland, connected by blood with the Thomases and Snowdens. Leslie, the youngest of twelve children, was just eighteen when he started as a volunteer to join the Kentucky troops ordered to the northern frontier, under Gen. Winchester, in 1812. Two of his elder brothers had previously entered the service, and with earnest entreaties he prevailed on his parents to let him go, setting forward alone a few weeks after the army had marched. “I shall never forget,” were his words in after years, “the parting scene with my beloved and venerated mother, in which she reminded me of my father’s history, and her own trials and dangers in the early settlement of Kentucky, and closed by saying to me ‘as I had resolved to become a soldier, I must never disgrace my parents by running from danger; but die rather than fail to do my duty.’ This injunction was ever present to me afterwards in the midst of dangers and difficulties of which I had then formed no idea, and stimulated me to deeds I might otherwise, perhaps, have hesitated to undertake or perform.”