University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

At the close of a fine autumn day, a solitary traveller
found himself bewildered among the labyrinths of
the forest, near the shores of the Ohio. He had taken
his departure early in the morning from the cabin of a
hunter, to whose hospitality he had been indebted for his
last night's lodging and supper—if that deserves the
name of hospitality which consisted of little more than
a permission to spread his blanket, and eat his provisions,
by the woodsman's fire. We call it so because
it was granted in a spirit of kindness. When he parted
from his host in the morning, he learned that the settlement
to which he was destined was fifty miles distant,
and he spurred onward in the confident hope of reaching
his journey's end ere the setting in of night. Before the
day was half spent, he began to suspect that he had
taken the wrong path; but unwilling to retrace his steps,
he still pushed on in the expectation of meeting with
some human habitation from which he could take a new
departure.

It was, as we have before remarked, forty years ago,
and this country was still a wilderness; the Indian
tribes had been driven to the opposite shore of the Ohio,
but continued to revisit their ancient hunting grounds,
sometimes in peace, but oftener impelled to war by their
insatiable appetite for plunder and revenge. Small colonies
were thinly scattered throughout the whole of this
region, maintaining themselves by constant watchfulness
and courage, and every here and there a station—
a rude block-house surrounded with palisades—afforded
shelter to the traveller, and refuge, in time of danger, to
all within its reach. Between these settlements, extensive
tracts remained uninhabited and pathless, blooming
in all the native luxuriance and savage grace, which
had captivated the heart of their earliest admirer among
the whites, the fearless and enterprising Boon.

On the same evening, Mr. Timothy Jenkins, the sole
proprietor, occupant, and commander of “Jenkins'
Station,” might be seen alternately plying his axe, with
a skill and vigor of which a backwoodsman alone is
master, and shouldering huge logs of wood, under the
burthen of which, any other sinews than such as were
accustomed to the labor, would have been rent asunder.
It was evident that Captain Jenkins was preparing for a
vigorous defence of his garrison against an enemy of no
mean importance, and was determined to guard against
the inroads of a frost, by building a log heap in his fire-place.
That the latter was of no ordinary dimensions
might have been readily inferred from the quantity of
fuel required to fill it; for Timothy, like a true Kentuckian,
never considered his fire made, until the hearth

was stowed full of the largest logs which his herculean
limbs enabled him to carry. An unpractised observer
might have supposed that he was laying in a supply of
fuel for the winter, when the hospitable landlord was
only performing a daily labor. And here it is necessary
to inform those who have not enjoyed the luxury of
reposing in a cabin, that the fire-place is generally
about eight feet in width, and four or five in depth, so as
to contain conveniently about a quarter of a cord of
wood, which quantity produces a cheerful warmth, the
more necessary as the doors are left standing open.

Having performed this duty, Captain Jenkins threw
down his axe, with the air of one greatly relieved by
having gotten fairly through a disagreeable job, and
relaxing into the ordinary indolence of manner, from
which the momentary stimulus of necessary exertion
had aroused him, sauntered round his inclosure with one
of his hard bony hands stuffed in either pocket. Perceiving
that an aperture had been made in the outworks
by the removal of one or two of his pickets, which had
rotted off and fallen to the ground, he proceeded to close
the breach.

“They are of no use, no how,” said the Captain;
“the Indians have not paid me a visit these eighteen
months, and may never come back. It seems right hard
to be at the trouble of barricading them out, when they
don't try to get in; but, howsever,” he continued, as he
raised the prostrate timbers, and propped them in their
places, “I'll put the wooden sogers on post again, if it's
only for a show—they keep the hogs and wild varments
out, and if an inemy should come, it will sort o' puzzle

'em to find out the weak place.” Having thus compromised
with his indolence, he stopped the breach in such
a manner as to have deceived the eye of a hasty
observer, and returned to the house, hastened by the
sound of loud talking and mirth which proceeded from
his guests.

The fortress popularly known as “Jenkins' Station,”
consisted simply of a circular inclosure, formed by a
picketing composed of long sticks of timber planted
firmly in the ground, and was intended to protect the
domicil of honest Timothy against a sudden onset of the
Indians. At that period every farmer who ventured to
pitch his tent in advance of the settlements, fortified his
house in this manner; others, who followed, settled
around him, and sought shelter in the station upon any
sudden emergency. Thus these places, although private
property, partook of the nature of public defences,
and became widely known; and travellers made their
way from one station to another, so that they also
became houses of entertainment, and those of the owners
of them who would accept pay from wayfaring persons,
were, in a manner, forced into the business of tavern-keepers.
The proprietor moreover, became a captain,
by common consent; because, as the people gathered
here in time of danger, and it was natural that he should
command in his own house, that office fell to him during
a siege, and of course pertained to him through life.
And such is the love of military titles among a people
who are mostly descended from warlike ancestors, that
however the individual thus honored may be afterwards
distinguished, though he may become a legislator, or

even a magistrate, his military designation is seldom
merged in any other.

The dwelling of Captain Jenkins was composed of
two log houses, covered under the same roof, so as to
leave a wide passage between them, after the most approved
fashion of a Kentucky log cabin. Round the
fire-place, which occupied nearly the whole gable-end
of the house, sat five or six men recently dismounted
from their horses, who were compensating themselves
for the fatigue and abstinence of a day's travel, from
the contents of a bottle which was circulating rapidly
among them.

“Come on, Tim Jenkins,” said one of them to the
landlord, as he entered, “step forrard, and touch the
blue bottle to your lips. Your whiskey is as good as
your fire; and that is saying a great deal, for you are
the severest old beaver to tote wood that I've seen for
many a long day.”

“I like to warm my friends inside as well as out,
when they call on me,” rejoined Jenkins, “the nights
are getting powerful cold, and they say it's not good for
a man to lie down to sleep with a chill in his blood.”

“I say so too,” said the other: “I don't know what
cold is good for, except to give a man an appetite for his
liquor—”

“Or long nights,” continued the host, “but to get
sober in—so here's good luck to you, Mr. Patterson, and
to you gentlemen, all.”

At this moment the attention of the company was
arrested by a loud “hallo!” uttered without, and Mr.
Jenkins hastened to receive a new guest. He soon returned,

introducing a young gentleman of a very prepossessing
appearance, whose dress and manners
announced him as an inhabitant of a more polished
country than that in which he found himself. It was
our friend Mr. George Lee, who having been lost in the
forest, as we have seen, had continued to grope his way
in great perplexity, until he chanced to fall into a path
which led him to the “Station.” Bowing cheerfully to
the rough sons of the forest, as they greeted him with
the usual “How d'ye do, stranger?” he seated himself
and began to throw off his spurs, leggins, gloves, and
other travelling accoutrements, while Patterson and his
companions, after a passing glance, resumed their bottle,
and their mirth.

Tired and cold, Mr. Lee drew his chair towards the
fire, and remained for a time solely occupied in the
enjoyment of its comfortable warmth. Patterson sat
by the table replenishing his glass, and pressing his
companions to drink, talking all the while in a loud and
overbearing tone, and growing more and more boisterous,
until the annoyance awakened Mr. Lee, from a
kind of stupor that was creeping over him. He raised
his head, and discovered the eyes of one of the party
fixed upon him, with a gaze so eager, and so malignant,
as to attract his own instant attention. The man, whose
countenance displayed nothing remarkable, except a
ferocity unmingled with the least touch of human feeling,
no sooner caught the eye of the young traveller,
than he drew back, as if to avoid observation. Mr.
George Lee was a young gentleman, by no means
remarkable for penetration; but he was bold and manly,

nad mixed with the world more than most persons of
his years, and had a tolerable faculty of knowing men
by their looks—a faculty which by no means evinces
a high degree of intellect, but more frequently is found
in ordinary minds. He looked round upon the company
into which he had been accidentally thrown, and for the
first time his eye rested upon the savage features of Patterson.
The latter was a large stout man, evidently
endued with more than common strength. There was
a considerable degree of sagacity in his countenance,
and his strong peculiar language seemed to be that of
one accustomed to think and speak without constraint.
His blood-shot eye, and bloated skin, betokened habitual
intemperance; the fierce and remorseless expression
of his face was rendered more terrific by a large scar
on his forehead, and another on his cheek, while the
whole appearance of the man was bold, impudent, and
abandoned. He possessed, or, what was more likely,
affected, joviality and humor, continually pressing his
companions to drink, and giving to every remark a
strangely extravagant and original turn, which always
created laughter. Another peculiarity was the loudness
of his coarse voice—partly from habit, partly out of an
assumed frankness, and an affectation of not caring who
heard him, and partly to produce an impression of his
superiority upon those around him, he always spoke as
loud, even in a small room, as another person would in
haranguing a multitude. But when intoxicated, this
peculiarity became very striking; then he bellowed and
roared—uttering his sentiments with an astonishing
energy of language, and a horrible profusion of the
most terrific oaths, in a voice naturally loud, and now
pitched to its highest and harshest note, and with a
wonderful vehemence of gesture. This characteristic
had gained for him the nick-name of “Roaring Bob,”
by which he was as well known as by his proper christian
and surnames.

Our friend George Lee, who had never before seen a
man whose presence excited so much disgust, turned
from him, and looked round upon his associates. They
were a villanous and ruffian set, who seemed fit instruments
to perpetrate any crime, however base or bloody.
There was one person present, however, whose countenance
drew his regard the more forcibly, from the contrast
it presented with those around. It was that of a
young man whose placid features, and neat though
coarse dress, indicated an acquaintance with the decencies
of social life. There was a fine expression of ingenuousness
in his face, and his clear blue eye sparkled
with vivacity and intelligence. He seemed to be under
some constraint, for, although addressed by the party as
an acquaintance, his answers were brief, and while he
treated them with civility, he appeared to be not disposed
to join their conversation, or share their mirth. At an
early hour, a plentiful supper was spread, to which the
whole of this ill-assorted party sat down; and immediately
after, Mr. Lee, pleading fatigue, retired to
repose.

A weary traveller needs no poppies strewn upon his
pillow, “to medicine him to that sweet sleep” which is
the reward of toil; and on this occasion, although the
imagination of our friend George, never very active,

was considerably excited by the novel scenes he had
just witnessed, his reflections were soon drowned in
forgetfulness. He had not slept long, when his slumber
was suddenly broken by a cold hand, which grasped
him by the shoulder. He started up in alarm, and was
about to speak, but was prevented by a voice addressing
him in a firm but hurried tone, so low as to be barely
audible: “Do not speak—you are in danger—rise and
follow me—be quick and silent!” The first impulse of
the traveller's mind, was distrust towards his mysterious
visitor, for whose secret warning he could not
readily perceive any rational ground; but as he proceeded
mechanically to obey the mandate, his generous
nature, not easily awakened to suspicion, repelled the
hasty suggestion of doubt, and induced him to follow his
guide with confidence. The latter, again cautioning him
to silence, led the way to the open air, and proceeding
under the shadow of the house, to an aperture in the
stockade, passed out of the inclosure, and hastily penetrated
into the forest. Mr. Lee pursued the rapid, but
noiseless footsteps of his conductor, amazed at the suddenness
of the adventure, and perplexed with his own
endeavors to guess its probable cause or issue. It will
be readily imagined that his conjectures could lead to
no satisfactory conclusion, and that his situation—decoyed
into the solitude and darkness of the forest, by a
stranger—perhaps one of those whose felon glances
had attracted his attention—was such as to have created
alarm in the stoutest heart. Yet there is something in
every young and chivalric bosom, which welcomes danger
when it assumes an air of romance; and George
Lee, while internally blaming his own imprudence,
which seemed to be leading him from a fancied to a real
danger, could not resist the curiosity which he felt to
develope the mystery, nor resolve to abandon an adventure
which promised at least novelty. His uncertainty
was of short duration; for his guide, after a few minutes'
rapid walking, emerged into an open clearing, and halted;
and as he stood exposed in the clear moonlight, Mr. Lee
had no difficulty in recognizing the young forester whose
prepossessing appearance he had remarked as affording
so strong a contrast to the suspicious looks and brutal
manners of his associates.

Pointing to a ruined cabin near which they stood, “It
is fortunate for you, sir,” said the guide, “that our landlord's
stable within the stockade was filled before you
arrived, and that your good nag was sent to this sorry
roof for shelter.”

“I shall be better able to appreciate my good fortune,”
said Lee, endeavoring to imitate the composure
with which the other had spoken, “when I learn in
what manner I am to be benefited by the bad lodging
of my horse.”

“By the badness of his lodging nothing,” said the
other, “by its privacy, much—to be brief, you must
fly.”

“Fly! when—how?”

“Now; upon your horse, unless you prefer some
other mode of travelling.”

“Fly!” repeated Mr. Lee, incredulously, “from
what?”

“From danger—pressing and immediate danger.”

The young traveller stood for a moment irresolute,
gazing at the placid features of the backwoodsman, as
if endeavoring to dive into his thoughts. His embarrassed
air, and suspicious glance, did not escape the
forester, who inquired,

“Are you satisfied?—will you confide in me?”

“I cannot choose but trust you—and there is that in
your countenance which tells me my confidence will not
by misplaced; I only hesitated under the suspicion that
I was to be made the subject of some idle jest.”

“I have been too familiar with danger,” said the other,
“to consider it a fit subject for pleasantry. Had you
looked death in the face as often as I have done, you
would have learned to recognize the warning voice of a
friend who tells you of its approach.”

“Enough,” replied Lee, “pardon my hasty suspicion
—and let me know what has excited your apprehensions
for my safety.”

“First let us saddle your horse,—we delay here too
long.” So saying, the young woodsman hastened into
the cabin, and with Mr. Lee's assistance equipped the
gallant steed, whom they found sounding his nostrils
over a full trough, with a vigor which announced as well
the keenness of his appetite as the excellence of his food.

“Your nag has a good stomach for his corn,” said
the backwoodsman, leading him out into the moonlight,
“and if he does not belie his looks, he travels as well as
he feeds;” and, without waiting for a reply, he threw the
bridle over the animal's neck, and, returning into the
cabin, produced the baggage, great coat, and other
equipments of Lee, who, now more than ever astonished

at the conduct of his companion, prepared in silence for
his journey.

“Are you ready?” said the forester.

“I am ready.”

“Then mount, and follow me.”

The guide struck into the woods, and, proceeding with
the same noiseless steps which Lee had before remarked,
strode forward with a rapidity to which neither the darkness
of the forest, nor the thick undergrowth of tangled
bushes, seemed to present any obstacle. They proceeded
in silence, the horse following instinctively the footsteps of
the forester, until the latter striking into a hard foot-path
halted, and, advancing to the horseman's side, placed his
hand on the pummel of the saddle.

“With common prudence, you are now safe,” said he
—and after a moment's hesitation he continued in a low
rapid tone; “those scoundrels in the house have laid a
plan to rob and murder you.”

“Is it possible? Can they be such base—”

“It is true—I have not alarmed you on bare suspicion.
I overheard their plan—and knowing the men, I was
satisfied that you could save your life only by flight.”

“But our landlord—surely he is not privy to their
design.”

“He is not.”

“Why then should I fly? If he and yourself will
stand by me, I could defy a regiment of such fellows.”

“You do not know your danger—to return would be
madness—Jenkins, though an honest, is a timid man; as
for myself, I would cheerfully aid you, but circumstances
forbid that I should embroil myself with those

men at present. Besides, you cannot remain at the
station always, and your departure can never be effected
with such safety as now, before the enemy is on the
alert. Farewell—keep that path, and you are safe.” So
saying, he disappeared, and our traveller, with a heavy
heart, resumed his journey.

If Mr. Lee had found his situation perplexing on the
preceding day, while wandering in uncertainty through
the forest, it was certainly more so now, when surrounded
by the gloom of night. Unable to see the way, he
was obliged to trust entirely to the instinct of his horse,
who kept the path with surprising sagacity. Sometimes
he found himself descending into a ravine, sometimes
the splashing of water announced that he was crossing
a rivulet, and sometimes a bough overhanging the path
would nearly sweep him from his seat; but he continued
to move cautiously along, satisfied that he could encounter
no danger more pressing than that from which he
had escaped. He was aware that the outlaw is often
found on the extreme frontier of our country, perpetrating
deeds of violence and fraud, beyond the reach of the
civil authority. In those distant settlements, and at the
early period of which we write, the inhabitants, thinly
scattered, were fully occupied in providing for their own
defence and sustenance, and the wholesome restraints of
law, if they existed, were but feebly enforced. At such
points, gangs of ruffians would sometimes collect, and
for a time elude, or openly defy, the arm of justice.
Carefully avoiding to give offence to their own immediate
neighbors, and striking only at a distance, they for a
time escaped detection. The honest settler, simple and

primitive in all his habits, unwilling to meddle with laws
which he little understood, endured the evil so long as
the peace of his own community remained undisturbed;
until roused at last by some daring act of violence, he
hunted down the felon, as he would have chased the panther.
That Patterson and his associates belonged to that
class of marauders, Mr. Lee had little doubt; and he
judged correctly, that if they had really marked him out
as their prey, he could only be protected by a force
superior to their own.

Occupied with such reflections, he continued to grope
his way, until he supposed the night must be nearly
exhausted. The moon, whose beams had occasionally
reached him through the shadows of the forest, had gone
down, and the darkness was quite impenetrable. He
stopped often, turning his eyes in every direction, to discover
the first beam of the morning. Never did night
appear so long—he counted hour after hour in his imagination—until
his impatience became insupportable.
The silence of the forest, so long continued and so death-like,
became painfully distressing; but when it was suddenly
broken by the savage howl of the wolf, or the
fearful screaming of the owl, the traveller involuntarily
started, and was not ashamed to acknowledge a thrilling
sense of danger. Even now, the panther might be
silently crawling along his track, watching for a favorable
opportunity to spring upon his prey, the hungry
wolf might be scenting his approach, or the Indian
crouching in his path. Wearied with conjecture, a
feverish excitement took possession of his frame, and he
thought he could cheerfully encounter any peril, rather

than be thus tortured with darkness and suspense. Bodily
fatigue was added to his sufferings, and at length he
dismounted to seek a momentary relief by change of
posture, and threw himself on the ground at the root of a
tree, holding his bridle in his hand; and the vividness of
his sensations subsiding with the inaction of his frame,
he was unconsciously overcome by sleep.

When Mr. George Lee awoke, the morning was far
advanced. The bridle had fallen from his hand, and his
horse was grazing quietly near him. Stiff and aching
with cold, he remounted, and pursued his journey. The
road, if such it could be called, was no other than a narrow
path, winding through the forest, of sufficient width
to admit the passage only of a single horseman. Pursuing
the course of a natural ridge, the traveller passed
through a hilly region, clothed with oak and hickory
trees, and thickly set with an undergrowth of hazle-bushes
and grape-vines; often halting to seek the path
which was concealed by the intertwining brush, or
covered with fallen leaves, and sometimes delaying to
gather the nuts and fruit, which offered their luxuries in
abundance. Thence descending into the rich alluvion
flats, his way led through groves of cotton-trees and
sycamore, whose gigantic trunks ascending to an
immense height were surmounted with long branches
so closely interwoven as almost to exclude the light of
heaven. Sometimes the graceful cane skirted his path,
and he waded heavily through the tangled brake, embarrassed
by the numerous tracks beaten by the wild
grazing animals, who resort to such spots, or alarmed
by the appearance of beasts of prey, who lurk in these

gloomy coverts. Alternately delighted with the beauties
of nature, or chilled by the dreary solitude of the wilderness,
our traveller passed rapidly on, sometimes
enjoying those absorbing reveries in which young minds
are apt to revel, and sometimes indulging the apprehensions
which his situation was calculated to excite. For
the bear, the wolf, and the panther, still lurked in these
solitudes, and the more dangerous Indian yet claimed
them as his heritage.

The sun was sinking towards the western horizon,
when he reached the broken country bordering on the
Ohio. His heart, which had been saddened by the monotonous
gloom of interminable flats, and the intricacy
of miry brakes, was cheered as the hills rose upon his
view, and his faithful horse moved with renewed vigor
when his hoof struck the firm soil. Still, the apprehension
of approaching night was not without its terror.
The backwoodsman alone, accustomed to such scenes,
inured to the toils of the chase, and versed in the stratagems
of border warfare, can contemplate with indifference
the prospect of a solitary encampment in the
forest; and our traveller began to look impatiently for
the signs of human habitation. He listened with intense
interest to every sound. In vain; the deer still galloped
across his path, stopping to gaze at the harmless
stranger, then throwing back their horns, and leaping
leisurely away with graceful bounds. The owl hooted
in the dark valleys, sending forth yells so long, so loud,
and so dismal, as to mislead the traveller into the momentary
belief, that it was the mournful wail of human
misery; while the long shadows falling across the deep

ravines, and seen through myriads of yellow leaves
which floated on the breeze, assumed fantastic shapes to
the now heated fancy of the tired wayfarer.