 | THE BACKWOODSMAN. Legends of the West |  |
THE BACKWOODSMAN.
The beautiful forests of Kentucky, when first
visited by the adventurous footsteps of the pioneers,
presented a scene of native luxuriance, such as has
seldom been witnessed by the human eye. So vast
a body of fertile soil had never before been known
to exist on this continent. The magnificent forest
trees attained a gigantic height, and were adorned
with a foliage of unrivalled splendour. The deep
rich green of the leaves, and the brilliant tints of the
flowers, nourished into full maturity of size and
beauty by the extraordinary fertility of the soil,
not only attracted the admiration of the hunter, but
warmed the fancy of the poet, and forcibly arrested
the attention of the naturalist. As the pioneers
proceeded step by step, new wonders were discovered;
and the features of the country, together with
its productions, as they became gradually developed,
continued to present the same bold peculiarities and
broad outlines. The same scale of greatness pervaded
all the works of nature. The noble rivers,
all tending towards one great estuary, swept through
an almost boundless extent of country, and seemed
size. The wild animals were innumerable. The
forests teemed with living creatures, for this was the
paradise of the brute creation. Here were literally
“the cattle upon a thousand hills.” The buffaloe,
the elk, and the deer roamed in vast herds, and
all the streams were rich in those animals whose fur
is so much esteemed in commerce. Here lurked
the solitary panther, the lion of our region, and here
prowled the savage wolf. The nutritious fruits of
the forest, and the juicy buds of the exuberant
thickets, reared the indolent bear to an enormous
size. Even the bowels of the earth exhibited stupendous
evidences of the master hand of creation.
The great limestone beds of the country were perforated
with spacious caverns, of vast extent and
splendid appearance, many of which yielded valuable
minerals; while the gigantic bones found buried
in the earth, far exceeding in size those of all known
animals on the globe, attested the former existence
in this region, of brutes of fearful magnitude.
Such were the discoveries of the first adventurers;
such the inducements which allured them onward,
and inclined them to linger in these solitudes, enduring
the severest privations, and beset by dangers
which might have shaken the firmest manhood.
But the pioneers were men whose characters were
not now to be formed in the school of adversity or
danger. They were the borderers, already trained
to war and the chase upon the extensive frontiers of
our country; men cradled in the forest, and accustomed
wolf, and the yell of the hostile Indian. Trained
to athletic sports and martial exercises, their
military propensities were cherished throughout
their whole lives, and became engrafted in their
nature. Martial habits mingled in all their rural
pursuits. If they travelled or walked abroad, it was
with the wary step, and jealous vigilance of the Indian:
with an eye continually glancing into every
thicket, and an ear prepared to catch the slightest
alarm of danger. They slept upon their arms, and
carried their rifles to the harvest field, to the marriage
feast, and to the house of worship. Simple,
honest, and inoffensive in their manners, kind and
just to each other, they were intrepid, fierce, and
vindictive in war. Under an appearance of apathy,
with a gait of apparent indolence, and with careless
habits, they were muscular and hardy, patient of
fatigue, ardent in their temperament, warm hearted,
and hospitable. They were the borderers of Virginia
and North Carolina, where they had long formed
a rampart between the less warlike inhabitants and
the savage tribes. In the war of the revolution
they had engaged with ardour; but while the acknowledgement
of our national independence
brought peace to the rest of our country, it left the
frontiers still embroiled with the savages.
The backwoodsmen therefore, when they first
emigrated into the western forests, had not to learn
the rude arts of sylvan life, or to study the habits of
the Indian and the beast of prey. These were
and with whom they delighted to cope.
They lived in cabins hastily erected for temporary
shelter, and as hastily abandoned when a slight
allurement at some distant spot invited them to
change their residence. Their personal effects were
of course few, and their domestic utensils rude and
simple. Their horses, their rifles, and their herds,
constituted their wealth; and with these they were
prepared at a moment's warning to push farther into
the wilderness, selling their habitations for a mere
trifle, or abandoning them to any chance occupant
who might choose to take possession, and conquering
for themselves a new home, from the panther
and the Indian.
In the settlement of Kentucky, the pioneers emigrated
singly, or in small parties. Unused to congregate
in large bodies, unless on special occasions,
and unaccustomed to military discipline, they chose
to rely for defence on their own personal courage
and vigilance. The boldest went foremost, traversed
the country fearlessly, and having selected
the choicest spots, however remote from other settlements,
built their cabins, surrounded them with
palisades to protect them from the Indians, and set
all enemies at defiance. Others followed and settled
around them, forming little communities, detached
from each other, and each organized independently,
for its own defence; and it was not until these insulated
settlements extended, so as to come into
contiguity, that the arm of government was felt,
while the vast deserts by which they were separated,
retained their pristine wildness, traversed in
common by the Backwoodsman and the Indian,
who never met without a conflict, which was usually
of the most exterminating character.
The ferocity of the Indian was not likely to be
tamed, nor his animosity to the white man to be
conciliated, by this state of things. He had to do
with men who had long been taught to consider the
savage as a natural enemy, as hateful as the serpent,
and as irreconcilable as the wolf; men whose ears
had been accustomed from infancy to legends of
border warfare, in which the savage was always
represented as the aggressor, and as a fiend stimulated
by hellish passions, and continually plotting
some detestable outrage, or horrible revenge.
Most of them had witnessed the Indian mode of
warfare, which spared neither age nor sex; and
many of them had suffered in their own families, or
those of their nearest friends. They were familiar
with the capture of women and children, the conflagration
of houses, and the midnight assassination of
the helpless and decrepid; and they had grown up
in a hatred of the perpetrators of such enormities,
which the philanthropist could hardly condemn, as
it originated in generous feelings, and was kept alive
by the repeated violation of the most sacred rights
and the best affections.
As the settlements expanded, the wealthy and
intelligent began to follow the footsteps of the
the patriotism of many of her distinguished revolutionary
officers, by large grants of land in Kentucky,
and some of these emigrated among the early settlers.
Many young gentlemen with elevated views
and liberal educations, followed; and some of those
who thus came with the rifle in hand, and commenced
their professional career amid the commotion
of the battle field, have since been widely
known to fame, as among the most distinguished
lawyers and statesmen of the nation.
There were others of a character still more essentially
peaceful, who at an early period braved the
dangers and privations of that unsettled region,
stimulated by a noble and self denying sense of duty.
While the tomahawk and fire brand were still busy;
when to travel from one settlement to another, required
the courage and hardihood of the hunter; the
ministers of the gospel penetrated into the wilderness,
and zealously pursued their sacred calling in
defiance of every danger. They learned to endure
fatigue, to provide for their wants, and to elude the
common enemy, with the sagacity of woodsmen;
and those of them who lived to enjoy the dignity of
grey hairs, and the luxury of peaceful times, could
narrate a series of strange adventures, and “hair
breadth 'scapes,” such as seldom occur in the lives
of the clergy.
The incidents of the following tale have their
date at a period when the settlements, though still
detached, began to be so strong as to be considered
and felt no longer any dread of predatory
incursions of the neighbouring savage. The one
particularly in which the scene is laid, had experienced
a long interval of uninterrupted peace; agriculture
was beginning to flourish, and the civil arts
had been introduced. The woodsmen still retained
their cabins, pursued the wild game for a livelihood,
and joined in distant expeditions against the savages,
and in defence of feebler settlements; while a number
of the class who might more properly be called
farmers, and several intelligent and wealthy families,
had moved into the neighbourhood. Civil
institutions had been introduced and the spirit of
improvement was awake. The sound of the axe
saluted the ear in every direction; roads were
opened; magistrates had been appointed, and were
assuming the authority of their stations; and females
who had heretofore confined themselves within
doors, brooding over their offspring like watchful
birds, and who had found even the sacred fortress
of women, the fire side, no protection from violence,
now felt at liberty to indulge the benevolent propensity
for visiting their neighbours, and talking
over the affairs of the community, which is said by
those acquainted with human nature, to be peculiar
to the sex.
Among other novelties, a camp meeting was
about to be held for the first time. This popular
mode of worship was familiar to the emigrants
from Virginia and North Carolina, where it had
and convenient in new settlements, where public
edifices had not yet been erected, and where private
habitations were too small to accommodate worshipping
assemblies; and the effort now about to be made
for its introduction in the west, was hailed as a
happy omen for the country. The spot was selected
with great care; the whole neighbourhood united in
clearing the ground, erecting huts, and making the
most liberal arrangements for the accommodation of
the concourse which was expected to be assembled.
For the convenience of obtaining water, a place was
chosen on the margin of a small rivulet, and near a
fine spring. The ground was a beautiful elevation,
sloping off on all sides, and crowned with a thick
growth of noble forest trees. The smallest of these,
together with all the underbrush, were carefully
removed, leaving a few of the most stately, whose
long branches formed a thick canopy, at an elevation
of fifty feet from the ground. The camp was
laid off in a large square, three sides of which were
occupied by huts, and the fourth by the stand or
pulpit. The whole of the enclosed area was filled
with seats roughly hewed out of logs.
A busy scene was presented on the day before
the meeting commenced, occasioned by the arrival
of the people, some of whom had travelled an immense
distance. The larger number came on
horseback, some in wagons, and some in ox-carts.
They were loaded with beds, cooking utensils, table
furniture, and provisions. These articles, however,
vicinity, who claimed the privilege of entertaining
strangers. The persons resident in the immediate
neighbourhood had each erected his own hut, with
the intention of accommodating, besides his own
family, a number of guests; large quantities of game
had been taken, beef, pigs, and poultry had been
killed, and the good wives had been engaged for
several days in cooking meat, and preparing bread
and pastry. The loads upon loads of good things
for the body, which were accumulated, were marvellous
to behold; not that there was any indulgence
of luxury, or extravagant display, but as was very
judiciously remarked on the occasion by a veteran
hunter, “it took a powerful chance of truck, to
feed such a heap of folks,” and the generous Kentuckians,
accustomed to practise the most liberal
hospitality, could not be backward on a public occasion.
The meeting commenced on Thursday, and lasted
until Monday, the whole of each day being occupied
with religious exercises. At day-light in the
morning, the voice of prayer was heard in each
hut, were the families were separately assembled,
as such, for worship. Shortly afterwards, the fires
were kindled around the encampment, and a few of
the females were seen engaged in cooking. A few
individuals then collected on the seats in the area,
and raised a hymn; others joined them, and the
number swelled gradually until nearly the whole
company was collected. They sang without books;
generally known. Some of the tunes were remarkably
sweet, and thus sung in the open air, under the
broad canopy of Heaven, and as it were in the immediate
presence of the great object of all worship,
were indescribably solemn and affecting; some were
peculiarly wild, and some cheerful; many of them
being the beautiful airs of popular ballads, which
were in this manner appropriated to Divine worship.
The balmy freshness of the morning air, the splendour
of the rising sun, the stillness of the forest,
and the wild graces of the surrounding scenery,
gave a wonderful interest to this voluntary matin
service. It was thus our first parents worshipped
their Creator in Paradise, thus the early Christians
assembled in groves and secluded places; and so
close is the union between good taste and religious
feeling, that while civilized nations have set apart
the most splendid edifices for worship, ruder communities,
in a similar spirit, assemble for the same
purpose at the most genial hour, and the most picturesque
spot. The heart powerfully excited by
generous feelings always becomes romantic; the
mind elevated by the noble pursuit of a high object
becomes enlarged and refined; and although such
impulses may be temporary, the virtuous actions
which they produce have a tendency towards the
soft, the graceful, and the picturesque, in their development.
After the morning hymn, the preachers
ascended the stand, and service was performed
before breakfast. The rest of the day, with the
filled in the same manner. But nothing could exceed
the solemn and beautiful effect of the meeting
at night. The huts were all illuminated, and lights
were fastened to the trunks of the trees, throwing
a glare upon the overhanging canopy of leaves, now
beginning to be tinged with the rich hues of
autumn, which gave it the appearance of a splendid
arch finely carved and exquisitely shaded. All
around was the dark gloom of the forest, deepened
to intense blackness by its contrast with the brilliant
light of the camp.
But we must hasten to our narrative. On Sunday
morning a company consisting of three persons, was
seen approaching the camp-ground. The elder of
these, who rode alone in advance of the others, was
Mr Singleton, a gentleman who had recently emigrated
from Virginia. He was a farmer, a well
educated man, in easy circumstances, who not being
religious, nor in any manner connected with the
sect under whose auspices the meeting was held,
contented himself with participating no further in
its proceedings, than by being a regular and respectful
attendant on the daily services. Miss Singleton
his only daughter, and Edward Overton her affianced
lover, were his companions. They were to
be married in a fortnight from this time. It is
unnecessary to inform the erudite reader, that the
young lady, who was just turned of seventeen, was
beautiful and interesting, and her lover tall and
handsome. Had they been otherwise, their lives
“mute inglorious” rustics in Gray's elegy. Dennie,
who has been called the American Addison,
once amused himself by criticising an advertisement
of a man who had stolen “a chunky horse,”
and with such a lesson before our eyes, we should
hardly venture upon a chunky young man for a
hero, or a hard favoured lady for a heroine. The
decree of literary ostracism by which short gentlemen
have been banished from the pages of fiction,
is, in our humble opinion, unjust, believing, as we
do, that to be an interesting man, and a tender
lover, it is by no means necessary to possess the
corporeal altitude of a grenadier. For the homely
and the dull we put in no plea: it is a standing rule
among writers, having a laudable care of their own
fame, not to waste their midnight oil upon ugly or
insipid people. The reader is therefore desired to
understand distinctly, that the young couple now
introduced, were not only worthy and amiable, but
were in point of appearance all that the most romantic
peruser of these veracious pages could
rationally desire.
As they rode slowly along, they were deeply engaged
in conversation; but it was easy to see from
the sedate demeanour of Ellen Singleton, that the
subject was suited to the day and the occasion.
She was naturally gay and volatile; but latterly her
thoughts had been turned to the subject of religion;
and as the day approached when she was to take
upon her the vows of wedlock, and to enter upon
necessity of directing her life agreeably to the precepts
of the gospel. To these virtuous resolutions
a new impulse had been given by the exercises of
the camp-meeting. Her heart was sensibly awakened,
and her judgment fully persuaded; and after
serious reflection and preparation she was now ready
to make a profession of her faith, by uniting herself
with the church, and assuming those engagements
which are imposed upon the disciples of the Redeemer.
These duties she expected to take upon
her that day; and Edward Overton felt deeply
affected as he noticed the solemn tone, the deep
conviction, and the firm determination of her mind;
for however a false shame may sometimes induce
the concealment of devotional feelings, under the
mistaken notion that they will be considered as the
evidence of weakness, the truth is, that a young lady
is never so interesting in the eyes of her lover, as
when conscientiously engaged in the performance of
her duty. The senses of a young man are easily
excited by beauty, wit, gaiety, and the thousand attractions
of feminine loveliness, but there must be
moral energy and pure principle, to secure his affections.
Edward had admired Ellen when he saw
her in the pride of beauty, and the flush of overflowing
spirits; he had long known her to be refined
and generous, and loved to contemplate her soft
attractions and delicate graces; but he now witnessed
the operations of her mind under a new
aspect, and when he saw the good sense, the energy,
in the determination to act up to her sense of duty,
his love rose to a sentiment of devotion. Formerly
Ellen had been in his eyes a beautiful vision, floating
along in the tide of youthful enjoyment; but
now that she had assumed an individuality of character,
asserted her independence as a moral agent,
and acknowledged her accountability to God, she
became invested with a dignity, which gave an
almost angelic sacredness to her charms.
On that day the concourse was greater than it had
been before; and those who had been for years accustomed
to the solitude of the forest, to alarm, toil,
and privation, felt their hearts elevated with a new
species of joy and gratitude, when they found themselves
surrounded by their countrymen, and united
with them in social and sacred duties. With many
of them the sabbath had long passed unhonoured
and even unnoticed, and its public acknowledgement
called them back to holy and happy feelings;
for there is in the observance of this day something
so noble, so heart-cheering, so appropriate to the
most virtuous impulses of our bosoms, that even the
thoughtless cannot divest themselves of its influence.
It is, to all who submit to its restrictions, a day of
repose, when “the weary are at rest, and the
wicked cease from troubling;” a day from which
care and labour are banished, and when the burthens
of life are lightened from the shoulders of the
heavy laden. But to him who sincerely worships
at the altar of true piety, and especially to one who
religion, the return of the long neglected sabbath
brings up a train of pure and ecstatic recollections.
To all it was the harbinger of peace, security, and
civil order. It was delightful to see a whole community,
who but recently had assembled only at
the sound of the bugle, or by the glare of the
beacon fire, now coming together by a spontaneous
impulse, to mingle their hearts and voices in the
rational and solemn exercises of religion. Insulated
as that congregation was from the rest of mankind,
the individuals composing it felt as if they were reunited
with the great human family, when they
resumed the performance of christian duties, and
knelt before the Redeemer of men, in common with
all Christendom, on his appointed day. Many of
them had reared the altar of worship in their own
families, and the sweet accents of praise had been
heard, ascending through the gloom of the forest,
mingled with the fiendish sound of the war-whoop,
and the dissonant yell of the beast of prey; and they
had seen days of moral darkness, of bodily anguish,
of almost utter despair, when it seemed as if their
prayers were not heard, and that God had abandoned
that land to the blackness of darkness forever.
But now He had set his bow in the heavens; His
altar was publicly reared, and His presence sensibly
felt; and they who believed in the reality of religion,
felt assured that a sign was given them that
they should not be destroyed from off the face of the
land. Never did those simple and affecting words
mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good
tidings, that publisheth peace.”
In the evening, when Mr Singleton and his
daughter were about to return home, Edward
Overton hastened to join them. Ellen had that day
been among the number who became attached to
the church, and deeply absorbed in devotional feelings,
had abstracted her senses and thoughts from
all other subjects. Edward had watched her with
deep emotion, and he now approached her with a
feeling of reverence, such as he had never felt towards
her before. She extended her hand, and
spoke to him with her usual kindness of manner,
but in a tone in which seriousness was mingled with
unwonted tenderness; and as he assisted her to
mount her horse, whispered to him not to accompany
them: “I cannot converse with you this
evening, Edward,” said she, “I wish to be alone,
and I am sure that you will gratify me—come tomorrow.”
He saw the propriety of her request,
and pressing her hand affectionately, bade her adieu,
with a promise to visit her early the next morning.
The sun had just set as Mr Singleton and his
daughter left the camp-ground, but having only a
short distance to go, they were in no haste. It was
a serene evening in September. The air was still
and soft, and the sky had that richness and brilliancy
of colour, which travellers describe as peculiar
to the genial atmosphere of Italy. The leaves
still hung upon the trees, and some of them retained
brown, or deep scarlet, giving to the foliage
every variety of hue. The wild fruits were abundant.
The grape vines were loaded with purple
clusters. The persimmon, the paw-paw and the
crab-apple, hung thick upon the trees, while the
ground was strewed with nuts. Ellen, who was
fatigued with the confinement of the day, enjoyed
the exercise, and the balmy air of the evening, and
felt that the passing moments were among the most
delightful of her life. They were in unison with
her feelings, and emblematic of her situation: she
had passed the joyous spring of life, and a season of
riper enjoyment, of serene quiet, and useful virtue
was pictured to her fancy in agreeable perspective.
They had nearly reached home when they met
one of their neighbours, with whom Mr Singleton
wished to converse for a few moments; he therefore
stopped, desiring Ellen to ride slowly forward.
Absorbed in her own reflections, and not dreaming
of danger, she gave the rein to her spirited horse,
who, impatient to return to his stable, quickened his
pace imperceptibly, and she was soon out of sight
of her parent. But their dwelling was now in
view, and she felt no alarm, until her horse suddenly
stopped, and snuffed the air, as if in great terror.
She had heard of the keenness of scent by which
these animals discover the approach of an Indian,
and the affright that they evince on such occasions;
and feeling confident that nothing but the vicinity
of a savage, or of some ferocious beast, could thus
in order to return to her father. But the horse
stood as if fixed to the ground, trembling, and snorting
with an accent of agony; and before she could
form any other resolution, a party of Indians, lying
in ambush on each side of the road, rushed forward,
and dragged her from her horse, while the high
bred animal, becoming frantic with terror, tore the
bridle, which they had seized, from their grasp, and
made his escape at full speed.
The savages having secured their prize, immediately
began to retreat towards their towns at a rapid
pace, forcing the afflicted girl to exert her utmost
strength to keep up with them. It soon however
grew dark, and they proceeded at a more deliberate
gait, but still pursued their journey through the
whole night, groping their way amid dense thickets
beset with thorns and briars, and over ravines and
the trunks of fallen trees, with ease to themselves,
but with brutal violence to the delicate frame of
their captive. Poor Ellen had need now of all the
consolations which the religion that she had just
professed could afford. She had been told that day
that she would meet with afflictions that would try
her faith, but that God would never forsake those
who believed on him; and she now threw herself
entirely upon him for protection. She prayed
earnestly and sincerely, and felt a conviction that
she was heard. Her courage rose with her confidence,
and she went forward without a murmur,
resigned to meet her fate, whatever it might be.
high spirit, and while she humbly relied upon
divine protection, saw also the propriety of exerting
herself; and knowing that the Indians would soon
be pursued, she deliberately laid plans to retard the
retreat, and disclose their path. Keeping up an
appearance of diligence and obedience, she contrived
to linger at the various obstacles which
obstructed their way, while she employed herself,
whenever she could do so without attracting notice,
in tearing off small pieces of her dress, and dropping
such articles as she could dispense with, in places
where they would be likely to attract attention.
The darkness of the night favoured this scheme; her
reticule, handkerchief, &c. were thus strewed by
the way, and in brushing through the thickets she
broke the twigs with her hands, as signals to her
pursuers.
The morning added to her griefs. The warrior
who claimed her, and who seemed to be the leader
of the party, having led her during the night by
thongs of skin bound round her wrists, now removed
the bands, and seemed to contemplate his
prize with complacency. He assured her, in
broken and barely intelligible English, of kind
treatment, and promised that, if she behaved well,
he would make her his wife. When Ellen shook
her head in alarm, as if dissenting from this matrimonial
arrangement, he said, “May be, you think
I cannot support you. That is a mistake. The
Speckled Snake is a great hunter. My lodge is on
and the big fish love to swim. The plains all round
my village are covered with deer and buffaloe. The
stars in the heavens are not so many as the cattle on
our hunting grounds. The white man does not come
there to destroy every thing that the Great Spirit
made for his red people, like the hurricane when it
sweeps through the woods. I can outrun the elk;
I am stronger than the buffaloe; I am more cunning
than the beaver. They call me the Speckled
Snake, because I can conceal myself in the grass,
so that my enemies step on me before they see me.
I have only three squaws. I can support another
very well, and my lodge is big enough for three or
four more. You need not be afraid of my women
treating you ill. I will beat them unmercifully if
they strike you. My squaws fear me; I whip them
severely when they quarrel with each other. Women
need a great deal of whipping.”
Late in the morning they halted to eat and rest.
Ellen had no appetite for food. She had now been
walking for fourteen hours without cessation, over
hills, and through swamps and thickets. Her feet
were swelled and lacerated, and her hands and arms
torn with briars. Worn down by extreme fatigue
and mental exhaustion, she began to suffer intense
thirst and violent pains. But her bodily afflictions
were light in comparison with the gloomy anticipations
of her mind, and the shock already inflicted
on her sensitive heart. She found her companions
more brutal and loathsome than even prejudiced
her forward with pointed sticks, and would have
beaten her, had she not endeavoured to anticipate
their wishes. They devoured their raw and almost
putrid meat with the gluttony of beasts; and exhibited
altogether a ferocity which seemed to belong to
fiends rather than to human beings. The idea of
remaining in their power was dreadful; death she
thought would be infinitely preferable to such captivity.
Like all generous minds, she had, too, in
the moment of her severest sufferings, a sympathy
for others which was more poignant than her own
afflictions. She thought of her father, who had no
child but herself, and whose heart would be wrung
with intense agony by this event; and of Edward
Overton, the devoted lover, whose affections were
so closely linked with her own: and pictured to
herself the misery they would endure upon her account.
Still her courage remained strong, and her
confidence in heaven unshaken; and as her captors
swallowed their hasty meal, she sunk upon her
knees, clasped her hands together, and with a countenance
beaming calm resignation, engaged in audible
prayer, while the Indians gazed at her with a
wonder not unmingled with awe.
Here we shall leave her for the present, while we
introduce another character to the reader's acquaintance.
At a distance of some fifteen or twenty
miles from the place of holding the religious meeting
above alluded to, a solitary hunter was “camped
out” in the woods. He had selected a spot in a
flat of wet alluvion land, to which the wild
grazing animals resorted at this season, when the
grass and herbage were beginning to wither upon
the uplands. His camp was simply a roof resting
on the ground, formed by leaning stakes of wood
together, so as to make them meet at the top, and
covering them with bark. It was not more than
four feet high, and intended only to accommodate a
single person in a reclining posture; and was placed
in a thicket, so concealed by vines and branches, as
not to be discoverable, except by close inspection,
while the aperture, which supplied the place of a
door, commanded a view to some distance in front.
Not far from it was an Indian war path, leading
from the flat to the uplands; and the hunter seemed
to have purposely placed himself in a position from
which he would be likely to see the war parties of
the savages, should any pass, without being discovered
by them.
The hunter was a man of middle height, not remarkably
stout, but with a round built, compact
form, happily combining strength with activity.
His countenance was mild and placid, showing an
amiable and contented disposition; and his eye was
of a quiet contemplative kind. The muscles of his
face were rigid, and strongly developed, and his
complexion darkened by long exposure to the
weather; but there were no lines indicating violent
or selfish passions. It was a bold, manly countenance,
but the prevailing expressions were those of
too, about the eye, which showed that its possessor
was not deficient in humour. He was evidently a
man of strong mind, of amiable propensities, and of
great simplicity of character. The quiet courage of
his glance, the self possession and calm vigilance of
his manner, together with a certain carelessness and
independence of mien, would have pointed him out
as a genuine pioneer, who loved the woods, and was
most happy when roaming in pursuit of game, or
reclining in his solitary retreat, with no companion
but his faithful dog. Nor was this fondness for the
silence of the wilderness the result of unsocial
feelings: the hunter loved his friend, and enjoyed
the endearments of his own fireside; but he forsook
them in the same spirit in which the philosopher
retires to the seclusion of his closet,—to enjoy unmolested
the train of his own reflections, and to
follow without interruption a pursuit congenial with
his nature. Though unacquainted with books, he
had perused certain parts of the great volume of nature
with diligent attention. The changes of the
seasons, the atmospherical phenomena, the growth
of plants, and the habits of animals, had for years
engaged his observing powers; and without having
any knowledge of the philosophy of schools, he had
formed for himself a system which had the merit of
being often true, and always original.
On the same night in which Ellen Singleton was
captured by the Indians, the hunter whom we have
described slept in his camp. It was dark, but
until near the dawn of day, when his dog, who lay
on the outside, suddenly started up and uttered a
low whine. The watchful hunter, accustomed to
awake at the slightest alarm, raised his head and
listened. The dog snuffed the air for a moment,
and then crept cautiously into the camp, as if to
apprise his master of approaching danger. The
latter seized his rifle, and crept from the place of
concealment, while the dog, with bristling hair,
crouched on the ground, uttering at intervals a low
suppressed moan, intended only for the ear of the
master. The hunter looked cautiously around, and
having satisfied himself that no enemy was within
striking distance, directed his scrutiny to a spot
where the war-path crossed the summit of a small
knoll, which was bare of timber, and beyond which
the blue sky could be seen. As he watched, a human
figure was seen dimly traced on the horizon,
passing rapidly over the summit of the knoll,
along the Indian trail. Another, and then others
followed, until the hunter had counted seven; but
their forms were too indistinct to enable him to make
any guess as to their character. He had other data
however upon which to form a judgment. “Indians!”
muttered he to himself, “yes, Drag would
not crouch between my feet, trembling, and whining,
and bristling, like a scared pig, if he did not
scent a red skin. I can almost think I smell them
myself. They have been in some devilment now,
the abominable wretches! How they sneak off like
sight, he placed his mouth against a hollow tree to
give a more sepulchral tone to his voice, and imitated
the screech of the owl. The figure halted,
and uttered a low short sound resembling a different
note of the same bird; but the hunter continued his
mournful serenade in loud prolonged accents, until
the human prowler, apparently satisfied that it was
the night song of the real bird, and not the signal of
a friend, resumed his silent march. An owl, the
tenant of a neighbouring oak, and who was the
identical music master of our hunter, took up the
strain with increased vivacity, but in a tone so
nearly resembling that which had just ceased, as to
have deceived the nicest ear, and the hunter resumed
his reflections.
“Well, I've fooled them—and not the first time
either. They are my old acquaintances, the Mingoes;
and that is the signal of the Speckled Snake—
the prince of mischief—the head devil of his tribe.
Oh, the beggarly cut-throat villains! If I had Billy
Whitley here now, or Simon Kenton, or Ben Logan,
the way we'd fix these seven Indians would be
curious. Some honest man's cabin is blazing now,
I warrant, and his wife and children butchered. It
is ridic'lous, I declare. They have no more
bowels of compassion than a wolf. But, after all,
the Indians have some good qualities. They are
prime hunters, I will say that for them, and they
are true to one another. I don't blame them, a
grain, for their hatred to the Long Knives. That
for human blood, and their cruelty to women and
children is ridiculous. It does no good to nobody,
and is ruinous to the pleasant business of hunting;
for a man cannot take a little hunt of a month or
two, without the danger of having his cabin burnt,
and his family murdered in his absence. Well, it is
no use for me to sit here; I'll take another nap, and
look after the Speckled Snake in the morning.”
At the first appearance of day-light, the hunter
sprang from his bed of skins. No time was required
for the toilet, for he had slept with all his accoutrements
about him, and came forth equipped at all
points. His whole dress was of tanned buckskin,
fitted closely to his form, and so arranged as to protect
every part of his person from the thorns and
briars which might assail it, in passing rapidly
through the brushwood of the forest. Under one
arm hung a large powder horn, which had been
selected for the beauty of its curve and texture, carefully
scraped and polished, and covered with quaint
devices, traced with the point of the hunter's knife;
under the other was suspended a square pouch of
leather, containing flints, patches, balls, steel, tinder,
and other “little fixens,” as a backwoodsman would
call them, constituting a complete magazine of supplies
for a protracted hunt. On the belt supporting
the pouch, in a sheath contrived for the purpose,
was the hunter's knife, a weapon with a plain
wooden handle, marvellously resembling the vulgar
instrument with which the butcher executes his
rock, where it had been artfully concealed, our
pioneer supplied a small wallet with a store of dried
venison, in order to be prepared for a march of
several days, should occasion require. A broad
leathern belt, secured round the waist by a strong
buckle, confined the whole dress and equipment,
and supported a tomahawk.
Thus clad, and prepared for action, the hunter,
after carefully examining the priming of his rifle,
scraping the flint, and passing his eye along the
barrel to see that all was right, strode off towards
the place where he had seen the Indians. “To
think of their having the impudence to walk along
a footpath, like white people,” muttered he; “they
must know that, if they have been in mischief, the
settlements will be raised, and the horsemen will
follow this trail. They didn't keep it long, I judge,
but only fell in to here on the broken ground, to get
along a little faster.” Having reached the path,
he examined it closely, but the hard ground afforded
him but little satisfaction, and he proceeded cautiously
towards a rivulet, or in the vernacular of
the country, a branch, that meandered along the
foot of the hill. Here he was again disappointed, for
the Indians had cunningly diverged from the path,
and crossed the water by a log, leaving no trace of
their footsteps. “Aye, they are cunning enough,”
soliloquized the hunter, “I couldn't expect them to
cross the branch at a ford, like a mail-carrier in the
settlements. But they can't fool me; I have not
of thieving Mingoes. The Speckled Snake is
famous for these tricks, and has done his best, there
is no mistake about that; but no animal that moves
upon feet can walk these woods without making a
sign.”
“Well, it is a pleasant life that the hunter leads,
after all, though it is a hard one,” continued he, as
he opened his collar, bathed his face and hands in
the clear stream, and seated himself on a log, to
enjoy the cool morning air. “Nature did not make
these clear waters, and beautiful woods, merely for
the use of treacherous Indians,—no, nor for land
speculators and pedlars. Here is quiet and repose,
such as they know nothing of who toil in their
harvest fields, or bustle about in crowded cities.
And what is the use of all their labour? The
enemy steals into the settlement, and in a moment
their stacks, their barns, and their houses are all in
flames, or the pestilence walks abroad, and they die
by hundreds, like the Indians in a hard winter.
The hunter avoids both extremes: he lays up provisions
for the winter, but does not accumulate so
much property as to tempt the Indian to rob, or the
lawyer to fleece him. It makes me sorry when I
go into the settlements, where the people are getting
so crowded that there is no comfort, and where
there is so much strife. It is so with all animals:
confine cattle in a yard, and they will hook each
other, or chickens in a coop, and they will peck out
each other's eyes. But there is no stopping them;
before many years, and the time will come, when
there will not be a buffalo in Kentucky. It is bad
enough now. There are settlements already, where
a woodsman cannot find his way for the roads and
farms.”
At this moment the tread of a horse was heard.
The hunter threw his rifle over his arm, and stepped
behind a large tree, to be prepared for friend or
foe. In a moment, Edward Overton made his appearance,
dashing along the war-path. His horse
was panting and covered with foam, his dress torn,
and his countenance haggard. The hunter emerged
from his concealment to meet him. They were
strangers to each other, but no time was lost in useless
ceremony or unnecessary questions, and Edward
soon related the catastrophe of the preceding
evening.
“Mr Singleton's daughter, eh?” said the hunter
coolly, “I have heard tell of the gentleman, though
I never saw him. Very much of a gentleman, I
expect—he came from Culpepper—I killed a deer
once in sight of his plantation—though I never saw
the man, to know him. Well the way these Indians
act is curious.”
“Shocking!” exclaimed the youth, “this atrocious
act exceeds all former outrages.”
“Well, I can't say as for that,” replied the hunter,
“though I am sorry for the young woman—
they took my own daughter once, and I can feel for
another man's child. But where is your company?”
“I became separated from them in the woods,
and accidentally struck this path.”
The hunter then related what he had seen, and
the youth, elate with new hope, urged an instant
pursuit.
“There are six of them, and but two of us,” said
the hunter.
“No matter if they were a hundred,” replied the
inpatient Overton, “she is suffering agony, and
every moment is precious. Even now she may be
at the stake.”
“That is true. The savages treat their prisoners
very ridiculously sometimes. But, young gentleman,
I see you carry a fine looking rifle,—can you
handle it well.”
“As well as any man. Never fear me—I will
stand by you. I would die a thousand deaths for
that dear girl.”
“I reckon you would; I see it in your eye. If
there is not good Virginia blood in you, I am mistaken.
The misfortune is that a man can only die
once, however willing he might be to try it over
again. Well, there is nothing gained without risk—
and I feel for this poor child. Don't be in a fret,
young man, I am just waiting to let you take breath.
I will go with you provided you will obey my instructions.
Now, mark what I say: hitch your
horse to that tree, and leave him—examine your
priming, and pick your flint—then fall into my
track, tread light, keep a bright eye out, and say
a half a dozen naked Mingoes.”
The former apathy of the hunter's manner had
entirely vanished. The excitement was sufficient
to call out his energies. His eye was lighted up
with martial ardour, his lips were compressed, and
his step firm and elastic. Without waiting for further
parley, he dashed forward, with a rapid stride,
followed by his young and not less gallant companion.
With unerring sagacity he struck at once
into the trail of the enemy. “Here is plenty of
Indian sign,” said he, pointing to the ground,
where the youth could see nothing, “and a beautiful
plain track it is—almost as plain as some of the
roads in the old dominion—there is the place
where they crossed the branch, on that log, and
here is the print of a woman's foot, a small slender
foot with a shoe on, such as the ladies wear in the
old settlements—it is narrower than our women's
shoes, that we make in these parts—there is the
other foot, without a shoe—she has lost one, poor
thing—and there is a drop of blood on that leaf!”
Overton groaned, the tears started from his eyes,
and his limbs trembled with emotion.
“Keep cool, young man—be a soldier—no one
can fight when he is in a passion. Blood for blood
is the backwoodsman's rule. We shall have them
at the first halt they make. They cannot travel all
the time, without stopping, no more than white
folks.”
The hunter now advanced with astonishing rapidity,
it had a steadiness and vigour, which yielded to no
obstacle. His course was as direct as the flight of a
bee, and his footsteps, owing to a peculiar and habitual
mode of walking, were perfectly noiseless, except
when the dry twigs cracked under the weight
of his body. His eye was continually bent on the
ground, at some distance in advance of his course;
for he tracked the enemy not so much by the footprints
on the soil, as by the derangement of the dry
leaves or growing foliage. The upper side of a
leaf is of a deep green colour and glossy smoothness;
the under side is paler, and of a rougher texture,
and when turned by violence from its proper position,
it will spontaneously return to it in a few
hours, and again expose the polished surface to the
rays of light. The hunter is aware of this fact, and
in attentively observing the arrangement of the foliage
of the tender shrubs, discovers, with wonderful
acuteness, whether the leaves retain their natural
position. So true is this indication, that where the
grass is thick and tangled, a track of lighter hue
than the general surface, may be distinctly seen for
hours after the leaves have been disturbed. The
occasional rupture of a twig, and the displacing of
the branches in the thickets afford additional signs;
and in places where the ground is soft, the foot
prints are carefully noticed. Other cares, also,
claimed the attention of the woodsman. His vigilant
glance was often thrown far abroad. He approached
every covert, or place of probable concealment,
passed through dangerous defiles, where the enemy
might be lurking, suddenly forsook it, and taking a
wide circuit, struck into it again far in advance.
Thus they proceeded for three hours, with unremitting
diligence and silence, when the pioneer
halted.
“Here are fresh signs,” said he, “the enemy are
at hand; sit down and let us take breath.”
The youth, whose confidence in his guide was
now complete, obeyed in silence. The hunter
again examined his arms.
“This is a charming piece,” said he, in a low
voice, “she never misses when she has fair play.
It is a pleasant thing to have a gun that will not
deceive you in the hour of danger. But then a
man must do his duty, and have every thing in
order.”
Overton had been accustomed all his life to hunt
occasionally for amusement. He was a young man
of considerable muscular powers, and possessing
the high spirit, and the apitude in the use of weapons,
which are so characteristic of the youth of
his country, was no mean proficient in the exercises
of the forest. He now followed the example of his
guide. They laid aside their coats and hats, drew
their belts closely, and began to advance slowly,
taking every step with such caution as not to create
the slightest sound. They soon reached the summit
of a small eminence, when the backwoodsman
halted, crouched low, and pointed forwards with his
indicated, and beheld with emotions of indescribable
delight, mingled with agony, the objects of
his pursuit. At the root of a large tree sate the
Indians, hideously painted, and fully equipped for
battle, voraciously devouring their hasty meal. At
a few yards distance from them knelt Ellen, in the
posture already described, awaiting her fate with all
the courage of conscious innocence, and all the resignation
of fervent piety. Overton's emotion was
so great, that the hunter with difficulty drew him to
the ground, while he hastily whispered the plan of
attack, a part of which had been concerted at their
recent halt. “Let us creep to yon log, and rest
our guns on it when we fire. I will shoot at that
large warrior who is standing alone—you will aim
at one of those who are sitting; the moment we
have fired we will load again, without moving,
shouting all the while, and making as much noise
as possible;—be cool—my dear young friend — be
cool. Overton smothered his feelings, and during
the conflict emulated the presence of mind of his
companion.
They crept on their hands and knees to the fallen
trunk of a large tree, which lay between them and
the enemy, and having taken a deliberate aim, the
hunter gave the signal, and both fired. Two of
the savages fell, the others seized their arms, while
our heroic Kentuckians reloaded, shouting all the
while. Ellen started up, uttering a shriek of joy,
and rushed towards her friends. Two of the enraged
her, before they should retreat. Edward
Overton and his companion rushed to her assistance.
One of the Indians had caught her long hair, which
streamed behind her, in her flight, and his tomahawk
glittered above his head, when Edward
rushed between them, and received the blow, diminished
in force, on his own arm. Undaunted, he
threw himself on the bosom of the savage, and they
rolled together on the ground, in fierce conflict.
The hunter advanced upon his adversary more deliberately,
and practising a stratagem, clubbed his
rifle. The Indian, deceived into the belief that his
piece was not charged, stopped, and was about to
throw his tomahawk, when the backwoodsman,
adroitly bringing the gun to his shoulder, shot him
dead. Two other foemen remained, and were
rushing upon the intrepid hunter, when the latter
perceiving that the struggle between Overton and
his antagonist was still fierce and doubtful, hastened
to his assistance, and with a single blow of his
knife, decided the combat. Edward sprung up,
reeking with blood, and stood manfully by his friend,
prepared for a new encounter; but the parties being
now equal in number, the two remaining savages
retreated.
In another moment Miss Singleton was in the
arms of the heroic Overton. We shall not attempt
to describe the joy of the young lovers. Ellen,
who had thus far sustained herself with a noble courage,
and whose resignation to her fate, dictated by
won the admiration of her savage captors, and perhaps
preserved her life, now felt the tender affections
of the woman resuming their gentle dominion
in her bosom. The faith, the hope which had
supported her, though resulting from rational deductions,
had been almost superhuman in their
operation; but the gratitude to Heaven that now
swelled her heart, and burst in impassioned eloquence
from her lips, was warm from the native
fountains of sensibility. Sudden deliverance from
all the horrors by which she had been surrounded,
was in itself sufficiently joyful; but it came infinitely
enhanced in value, when brought by the hand of
her lover; and when Edward Overton found that,
though fatigued and bruised, she had suffered no material
injury, his joy knew no bounds.
As for the hunter, he was engaged, like a prudent
general, in securing the victory. He had carefully
reloaded his gun, and having with his dog pursued
the fugitives for a short distance, to ascertain that
they were not lurking near, began to inspect the bodies
of the slain, and collect their arms.
“Not a bad morning's work,” said he, “here are
four excellent guns, tomahawks and knives. Some
of our people want arms badly, and these will just
suit.”
As he surveyed the field of battle, a flush of
triumph was on his cheek; but it was evident that
his paramount feelings were those of a benevolent
nature, and that his sympathies were deeply enlisted.
couple, “as happy as a pair of blackbirds in a new
ploughed furrow. This has been a sorrowful night
to both of them, but they will look back to it hereafter
with grateful hearts. They did not know before
how much they thought of each other.” He
then approached the young lady, and with the
kindness of a father, inquired into her sufferings and
wants; and began to provide for her comfort.
In a few minutes a shout was heard, and another
hunter, clad like the first, joined them. “Ah,
here you are,” exclaimed the new comer, as he
gazed at the scene of action; “the work's all done,
and here's the Speckled Snake as cold as a wagon
tire. I have been on the trail all the morning.”
“Pity but you had been here,” replied the first
hunter, “we have had a smart brush, I assure you.”
“A pretty chunk of a fight, I see; there's no two
ways about that. I knew the crack of your rifle,
when I heard it, and hurried on. But I could n't
get here no sooner, no how. Well, there's always
plenty of help when it's not wanted. The woods
is alive with rangers.”
“Is my father among them?” inquired Miss Singleton.
“Oh yes—and the old gentleman is coming along
pretty peart, I tell you. I took a short cut about
a mile back, and left them. I never saw such a
turn out, no how. The camp ground was emptied
spontenaciously, in a few minutes after the news
came. How do you stand it, Madam?”
“I am dreadfully bruised, but no bones are
broken,” replied Ellen, smiling.
“That is a mere sarcumstance,” replied the
rough son of the forest, waving his hand, “it's a
mercy, madam, that the cowardly varments had n't
used you up, body-aciously. These Mingoes act
mighty redick'lous with women and children.
They aint the raal true grit, no how. Vile on
them! they ought to be essentially, and particularly,
and tee-totally obflisticated off of the face of the
whole yearth.”
A party of horsemen now arrived, among whom
was Mr Singleton. A litter was soon prepared for
the rescued lady, who was borne on the shoulders
of men, in joy and triumph, to the settlement, and
found herself repaid for her sufferings by the assiduous
attentions and affectionate congratulations of
her friends and neighbours. When Mr Singleton
had heard the particulars of the rescue, he pressed
the happy Overton to his bosom, and looked round
for the brave hunter, to whom he owed so deep a debt
of gratitude, but he was no where to be seen. On the
arrival of the horsemen, he had given the trophies
of the fight in charge to one of them, and retired
with his companion. Mr Singleton was deeply
chagrined, for he felt a sense of obligation to the
generous backwoodsman, which, as he knew that
no other compensation would be received, he
wished to acknowledge.
“Where can he have gone?” exclaimed he, “I
must see him!”
“You will hardly have that pleasure to-day,”
replied one of the company. “No one ever saw
him sitting down to chat, when there were Indians
about. He is on the trail of the two that fled, and
will have them before he sleeps.”
No sooner was this communication made, than a
party set out to join in the pursuit, and it was afterwards
understood that they overtook the veteran
pioneer, only in time to participate in the last scene
of the tragedy of that eventful day.
Ellen Singleton recovered her health rapidly, and
the wedding took place on the day that had been
appointed. Agreeably to the hospitable custom of
this country, a general invitation was given, and
the whole neighbourhood was assembled. They
had already collected, when Mr Singleton joined
them, in company with the veteran woodsman, the
most conspicuous character in this legend. He was
now dressed like a plain respectable country gentleman.
His carriage was erect, and his person
seemed more slender than when cased in buckskin.
Though perfectly simple and unstudied in his manners,
there was nothing in them of the clownish or
bashful, but a dignity, and even an ease approaching
to gracefulness. His countenance was cheerful
and benevolent, and in his fine eye there was a
manly confidence mingled with a softness of expression,
which afforded a true index of the character of
the man. His hair, a little thinned, and slightly
silvered with age, gave a venerable appearance to
his otherwise vigorous and elastic form. His
and amiability of life, as well as his public
services, rendered him an universal favourite, and
his entrance caused a murmur of pleasure.
“I have had some trouble,” said Mr Singleton,
“in finding our benefactor, whose modesty is as
great as his other good qualities. But as the happiness
of this occasion would have been incomplete
without him, I have presevered. And now, my
friends and neighbours, allow me to acknowledge
publicly my gratitude for his intrepid conduct on
the late mournful occasion, when my only child
was rescued from a dreadful captivity by his generous
interference; and to exert the last act of my
parental authority by decreeing that the first kiss
of the bride shall be given to the pioneer of the
west—the Patriarch of Kentucky.”
“Thank you,” replied the veteran, “but as I
have no wish to take such a liberty with any gentleman's
wife, I shall apply now for my reward to
Miss Singleton, leaving it to Mrs Overton to
compensate a certain brave young gentleman, to
whom she owes a great deal more than to me.”
And so the matter was settled, greatly to the
satisfaction of all parties.
| THE BACKWOODSMAN. Legends of the West | |