University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
THE EXPEDITION FOR THE RESCUE.

On reaching Fort Jefferson, Sergeant Bomb was immediately
deposited upon a rude pallet, and Dr. McAllister called upon to dress
his wounds. After a careful examination of the hurt in his side,
the doctor declared that he was seriously, but not very dangerously,
injured; and that with care and good attendance, he would recover
and be able to be about in a few days. The result verified the
eccentric doctor's prediction. In less than a week the sergeant was
allowed to sit up and walk about his room, and in the course of a
fortnight was pronounced out of danger, and almost fit for duty.

Meantime Colonel Danforth and Major Allen had been active in
raising a small party of experienced hunters and spies, to accompany
them in their contemplated search for their lost friends; and
for this purpose had remained behind at Fort Jefferson, though the
majority of the soldiers had been forced to continue their retreat

the same night they reached there, owing to a want of provisions
to feed so large a number. The party in question was composed
of ten persons, namely, Colonel Danforth, Major Allen, Lieutenant
Wilkes, Sergeant Bomb, who insisted on going, and six experienced
athletic hunters and scouts, whom the Colonel had, by various
means, enlisted into his service, as day after day one after another
came dropping into the fort. This force the Colonel deemed sufficient
for his purpose; and as time enough had elapsed for the Indians
to become quieted, after the excitement occasioned by their
signal victory, it was decided the party should set off forthwith.
Accordingly the morning following the night on which this decision
was made, this little, but hardy, and intrepid band, armed with
rifles, pistols, knives, tomahawks, and costumed as hunters, with
hunting frocks, leggins, moccasins, and deer-skin caps, quitted Fort
Jefferson, and plunged into the forest on their adventurous and
perilous expedition. We may as well remark here, en passant, that
the Lieutenant Wilkes mentioned was one of the officers in Colonel
Danforth's regiment, whose wife had joined the escort commanded
by Sergeant Bomb; and the only one on the field, related
to any of that party of four, who had survived the fortunes of that
ill-fated day.

It was an early hour in the morning when our friends left the fort,
and the day was cloudy, raw, and cold, with a strong east wind,
which betokened a storm. The frosts of autumn had browned the
forest, and the dead leaves were falling in showers, and crumbling
and rattling under their careful tread. It had been decided, by
consultation, that the Piqua settlement, on the Great Miami, should
first be visited, and if no traces of the prisoners were to be seen, other
villages, in turn, should receive as close a scrutiny as should be
consistent with their own safety. Accordingly, they set off in an easterly
direction, bending their steps toward Piqua, distant some twenty-five
miles from their place of starting.

For several hours they pursued their journey without any occurrence
worthy of note, when one of the three scouts who had been
sent forward in advance of the main party, hurriedly returned, and
held his finger to his lips, in token of silence.

“What is it?” demanded the Colonel, in a low, guarded tone,
motioning his friends to halt, as the other came up to him.

“Thar's Injen sign ahead,” was the brief reply.

The speaker, whom we shall denominate John Carnele, was a
true specimen of the backwood's hunter, a class of beings now almost
extinct, or which can only be found occasionally in the still
Far West, beyond the borders of civilization. He was a tall athletic
man, some six feet in stature, with coarse features, bronzed by
exposure to all kinds of weather. He had a large, Roman nose,
and sharp, restless, keen, black eyes, which were habitually turned
from side to side, in quick succession, as if continually on the look

out for danger. He wore the loose hunting shirt, leggins, and moccasins
of the regular woodsman, with a belt buckled around his
waist, in which were confined tomahawk and scalping knife; and a
rude knapsack was strapped to his back, by leather thongs passing
over his shoulders and under his arms.

“Well, what did you discover?” pursued the Colonel.

“Why, I was jest stealing keerfully along—I always go keerful,
Curnel—and throwing my day-lights from side to side, before and
behind, when all at onc't it struck me that I seed a leaf as had
been crunched down in a way natur never did it. Well, I drapt
on my hands and knees, stretched over for'ards, and let my peepers
rest right plump upon it. As soon as I'd tuk a good look, I knewd
it was made by a sed-skin's mocca'; and then I sot to, to looking
for other sign. I wasn't more nor a few minutes, afore I made out
thar'd been a party of three about; but as they'd been dodging around
considerable, I concluded on 'em being hunters. At fust I thought
I'd foller on, and make 'em out; but remembering your orders,
Curnel, to come in and report on the fust sign, I tuk a back'ard
trail, and here I is.”

“And here come the others,” spoke up Edward, pointing to the
right and left, where two men, from different directions, were seen
approaching, so as to form an angle where the main party stood.
“Probably they have seen the same traces.”

His conjecture was right. On coming up, the other scouts confirmed
the report of Carnele, and gave it as their opinion the Indians
could not be far distant.

“What is to be done?” asked the Colonel. “I fear we may be
discovered, the alarm be given, and our present design of reconnoitering
Piqua be frustrated.”

“Ef we could cotch one on 'em and kill tother two, without raisno
alarm, it's not unpossible we could turn the hull affa'r to our
advantage,” suggested Carnele; “for though a Injen prisoner is
powerful close about his people's secrets, yet I've knowed them as
you could skeer ekal to a white man; and ef we should happen to
git hold on a skeery one, it's not unpossible we could find out the
secret about where the prisoners is.”

“The idea is a good one, but how is it to be managed?” inquired
Colonel Danforth.

“Jest let me, and Wade, and Miller fix it,” rejoined Carnele.
“Jest you and the rest stay hereabouts, till we come back; and ef
such a thing can be done decent, we'll do it. Ef you're too cold,
jest start a fire to warm yourselves by, somewhar in the bushes
here; but don't raise no more smoke and blaze nor you can help,
for the red-niggers see a powerful ways, and they're as skeery as
deers.”

“Well, well, friends, do as you think best,” replied the Colonel;
“only restore me my wife and daughter, and you may command

both my purse and my gratitude. But do not make any mistake
in this matter—do not sacrifice all my hopes by an imprudent act.
Pardon me this caution to men as experienced as yourselves, and
remember that I am a husband and a father. Oh! it makes me
groan in spirit to think what my dear wife and child may now be
suffering.”

“Alas!” sighed Wilkes, “it is terrible!” while Edward turned
a way to secretly give vent to the emotions which agitated his
breast; nor was there one of the old hunters but felt a deep sympathy
in the cause they had undertaken.

“Rest assured, Colonel, and gentlemen,” said Miller, one of the
three that had been out as a scout—“rest assured, we'll do our
best; but don't count too much on us; for we're only human, and
the best may fail. But one thing I'll promise you, for myself; and
that is, if we are fortunate enough to discover the prisoners, they
shall either be set free, or Harry Miller shall walk his last trail.”

“So say we all,” cried Wade.

“Ay, all, all,” echoed the others.

“Gentlemen,” said the Colonel, his voice husky with emotion,
“I thank you from the depths of my heart, and may God preserve
you from harm?”

“To which I will add, amen!” rejoined the Lieutenant, hastily
brushing a tear from his eye.

“Well, ef all's fixed, let's tramp,” said Carnele, abruptly; and
turning on his heel, with his long rifle thrown into the hollow of
his left arm, he glided away, followed by Wade and Miller, Indian
file.

As soon as they had departed, the other three hunters declared
they could not remain idle, but would just scout around, and be
within sound of a rifle. Accordingly, they set off in another direction,
leaving the Colonel, Major, Lieutenant, and Sergeant to themselves.

“Come,” said the senior officer, “since we can do nothing for
the present in the way of assisting our friends, let us start a fire;
for I am chilled to the bone with this piercing cold wind.”

Leaving our friends in the act of carrying out Colonel Danforth's
suggestion, we will follow the first party of scouts. For something
like a quarter of a mile, they proceeded in the same manner as at
first—silently, steadily, warily. This brought them to a deep hollow,
or glen, through which ran a small stream, one of the western
branches of the Miami. Crossing this, they began their ascent of
the opposite hill; but had scarcely advanced fifty yards, when the
foremost suddenly came to a halt, and dropping quietly upon his
knees, examined the earth with great care.

“I make it out one o' the same varmints,” he said, at length, in
a whisper, as he rose to his feet: “what think you, Bill Wade, and
Harry Miller?”

The two hunters appealed to, now stepped forward, and after a
close examination of the ground, asserted that, to the best of their
judgment, it was one of the three moccasin prints they had previously
discovered.”

“Let's divide,” rejoined Carnele. “This trail as comes in from
the left, and goes straight up the hill, I'll foller, while you two
strike off ayther way. Ef ye diskiver any thing new or startling,
make a bee line for the top o' this hill, so as to hit a straight line
from here, and you'll find me thar a waitin.”

As he spoke, Carnele glided stealthily forward, parting the
bushes carefully, while the others, separating, moved away to the
right and left, in the same silent and cautious manner. To the
brow of the hill, in a direct line, was not less than a hundred
yards; and it was therefore several minutes before Carnele reached
it. The side of the hill which he ascended, was heavily timbered;
but on its summit was an opening of several acres in extent, where
the tangled, withering grass, interspersed with innumerable wildflowers,
all now in a state of blight and decay, proclaimed the
fertility of the soil, and gave one an idea of the Eden-like beauty
of the scene when viewed in all the bright and golden luxuriance
of mid-summer. This opening extended some half way down the
opposite side of the hill, toward the same stream our scouts had
crossed, which wound around its base in the form of an ox-bow or
magnet. What seemed a little remarkable, not a living tree or
bush was to be seen within this open space; but all around it,
the forest stood up dark, bold, and abrupt, reminding one of a
light, pleasant, airy picture, set in a black, heavy, cumbersome
frame.

But though there was not a tree, bush, or stone, for the eye to
rest upon, within the area described, there were three dark objects
that failed not to rivet the attention of the wily old hunter, as he
carefully parted the bushes which skirted the clearing at the
point where he gained the top of the eminence. On a little knoll,
which commanded a view of the whole opening, and squatted
around a fire that had been kindled of dried grass and brush, for
double purpose of warming them and cooking their mid-day meal,
were three half-naked savages, busily engaged in roasting and devouring
slices of meat, which ever and anon they cut from the carcass
of a deer that lay within reaching distance. From the spot
where Carnele first beheld them, the distance was too great for a
certain shot; but below them, to the nearest cover, was apparently
not over a hundred yards; and there he felt certain a sure aim
would tell.

He had not been watching the Indians long, when the bushes to
the right were carefully parted, and Harry Miller glided silently to
his side; and a moment or two later Bill Wade also made his appearance,
so alike had these two scouts timed their movements.

“Well,” observed Carnele, scarcely above his breath, “you
seed the three varmints—so what hev you got to propose?”

“That we gain the nearest cover to them, and give them the
contents of our rifles,” said Wade.

“Two on 'em, you mean,” rejoined Carnele; “for one on 'em,
you know, has got to be tuk alive.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, you and I, I reckon, had best do the shootin' part, and
let Harry here, do the runnin'; for his legs is a heap the longest,
and I've knowed him do some tall walkin' afore now.”

This personal allusion of the old hunter occasioned a smile, which
was extended to a broad grin on the face of Wade, as Harry threw
forward one foot, and displayed a leg which certainly had its full
share of extension. In other respects, he was well proportioned,
and would pass for a very good-looking man of thirty. His countenance
was one expressive of more than ordinary intelligence, which
was particularly perceptible in his clear bazel eye. He was noted
as one of the fleetest runners on the frontier; and there were the
very fewest number, even among the savages, that could keep him
company on a trial race. His history was somewhat eventful.
When quite a youth, he and a younger brother, named Christopher,
had been taken prisoners by the Indians, during one of their marauding
expeditions into the State of Kentucky. On returning
home, two of the Indians adopted the brothers; and in course of
time the latter became real savages—at least in appearance, manners,
and customs, if not in feelings. For a number of years, Harry
remained with his captors, apparently contented; but at last he
began to tire of Indian life, and longed to return to his white friends.
Taking advantage of a favorable opportunity, he at last set out
alone, after vainly trying to persuade his brother to accompany him.
He finally succeeded in reaching the settlements, though he suffered
severely on his journey for want of food. But during his residence
among the Indians, he had imbibed new habits, and could never
afterward content himself to settle down to a quiet life. Hunting
and scouting had since been his principal delight and employment.
He could speak the Shawnee and Wyandott languages almost as
fluently as a native, and had often acted as an interpreter between
the white men and red. He enjoyed his wild life remarkably, as
in fact a true woodsman can alone enjoy it, and had been often
heard to say, that he only needed the company of his brother to
render him perfectly happy.

“Well,” he answered, in reply to Carnele, “if it 's decided that
I'm to do the running, we had better be on the move, or the game
will be lost.”

“Nothing more truer nor that thar argement,” rejoined Carnele,
who, being the oldest hunter,—his age was about forty,—took it
upon himself to act as leader to the party.

Accordingly, all three set off, Carnele in advance, and in about
five minutes arrived at the cover nearest to the savages. Along
the edge of the opening lay a fallen tree; and resting their rifles
on this, Carnele and Wade took a preparatory glance at their victims
across the barrels. The latter were in high glee; and as they
roasted and devoured their meat, they chatted and laughed, and
occasionally jumping up, cut wild and grotesque antics around the
fire. For several minutes the scouts watched them in silence, as
the cat does her game; and then Carnele said, hastily, in a whisper:

“Come, come, we must stop their fun, for the Cunnel 'll git
tired 'o waitin'. I think it 'll do—eh, Bill?”

“A sure shot, I reckon,” replied the one addressed.

“Well, then, you take the right one, I'll take the left, and the
centre varmint we'll leave to Harry's legs.”

“All right,” rejoined the other. “I'm ready.”

“One moment,” said the old hunter, sighting his rifle—“we must
both shoot together. Harry, give the word.”

“Fire!” returned the other, after a moment's pause.

“Both rifles flashed together as he spoke; only one report was
heard, and with cries of pain, two of the savages sprang up suddenly,
and fell back upon the earth.

With a wild, loud whoop, Harry Miller instantly bounded through
the bushes into the opening, in pursuit of the third, who, changing
a merry laugh to a yell of dismay, on witnessing the horrible
tragedy that had taken place before him, turned and fled, shaping
his course down the hill, so as to gain the forest at a point about a
hundred and fifty yards distant from where Miller emerged from it.
Perceiving his intention, the scout redoubled his exertions, well
knowing if he could head him off, and keep him in the open field,
his capture would be comparatively easy. It was a close contested
race, and for several moments it was doubtful which would win.
The superiority of Miller as a runner, was now made strikingly
apparent. He had a third further to run than the Indian; and yet,
for a time, it was thought he would beat him, notwithstanding the
remarkable odds against him. But the Indian won by a few feet,
and bounded into the cover with a yell; though Miller was so near
him that he could easily have buried his tomahawk in his head,
had it been his design to kill instead of taking him alive.

But the savage had no time to congratulate himself on so trivial
a victory; for scarcely a moment elapsed after his entering the
cover, ere the rustling of the bushes and dried leaves announced
that his pursuer was close upon him. Just below him was a steep
bank, which overhung the little stream we have before mentioned;
and finding there was no chance of escape for him, either to the
right or left, the panting and frightened savage, as a dernier resort,
gave a loud yell, and a leap, and down he went out of sight. The
next moment the scout, without a thought of consequences, and

only fearful the fugitive might escape, leaped boldly after him.
Down, down he went, some fifteen or twenty feet, and then found
himself quietly sticking in mud and water up to his waist, within
reaching distance of the object of his pursuit, who was alike in the
same disagreeable predicament.

The moment the Indian found his pursuer in such close proximity,
he drew his knife, the only weapon he had retained in his
flight, and under the expectation of an immediate attack, prepared
to sell his life as dearly as possible. Turning fiercely upon him,
Harry brandished his tomahawk, and addressing him in Shawnee,
informed him that he did not seek his life, but that unless he threw
away his knife instantly, he would brain him on the spot.

On hearing this, the Indian gave one quick, eager glance around,
as if to convince himself there was no hope of escape, and then
quietly sunk his knife in the mud, thus tacitly surrendering himself
a prisoner.

Miller now made several desperate efforts to extricate himself;
but finding it to be impossible, without assitance, as each attempt
only sunk him deeper in the mire, he called lustily to his companions
to come to his assistance. Presently Carnele and Wade made
their appearance on the high bank above; but on beholding the
discomfiture of their friend, and his captive, both with faces elongated
to a woful extent, the sight impressed them so forcibly with
the ridiculous, that for several minutes they could do nothing more
effective than hold their sides and laugh. This over, they set to
work in earnest; and by means of deer-skin ropes, which they
carried with them, succeeded at last in getting Miller and his captive
upon dry land. Carnele then despatched Wade to inform the
Colonel and his party of their success, and to bid them hasten forward,
as the day was wearing away, and he was anxious to get
within sight of the Piqua village by dark, if such a thing were possible.
He then bound the hands of the Indian, and, in company
with Miller, set off for the fire, driving the captive along before him.

We have said it was a bitter cold day; and in consequence Miller
felt greatly chilled and benumbed, by reason of his immersion
in the mud and water. The fire, however, soon restored warmth
and circulation to his blood, and he began to view the whole
affair in the light of a most excellent joke; though at first, during
the merriment of his companions, he had regarded himself in the
same catagory with the frog in the fable—“if it were fun to them,
it was death to him.”

Meantime, Carnele had busied himself in trying to gather some
information from the captive, as to who he was, and to what tribe
he belonged; but the savage kept a stubborn silence, and would
not answer.

“I say, Harry, I can't make nothin' out 'o the varmint—so 'spose

you try your hand at him,” said the scout, at last, turning away to
examine the dead Indians, and take off their scalps.

Miller now put questions to his captive in Shawnee, Huron, and
English; but the latter preserved an immovable countenance,
never so much as showing, by the change of a single feature, or
by the gleam of his eye, that he understood what was addressed to
him. He was apparently a young warrior, about twenty-five years
of age, and his features seemed to bespeak intelligence—though
so bedaubed were they with paint and mud, that it was almost impossible
to make out their original expression. He was of medium
stature, stood erect, and had altogether a very lithe and nimble
appearance; though he was not, as we have seen, any match for
such a runner as Miller. With the exception of the before mentioned
mud and paint, his arms, neck, breast, and a part of his
legs, were mostly bare—his only covering being a large panther
skin around his loins, with a strip of the same passing obliquely
from left to right across his back, and breast, together with short
leggings below his knees, and rude moccasins on his feet.

“Now I'll tell you what it is, young red-skin,” said Miller, at
length, in a rather savage tone, greatly vexed at the other's obstinacy—“I
know you understand Shawnee, for it was that language
I used when I ordered you to throw away your knife; and so if
you don't answer my questions, before the party comes that I'm expecting,
I'll have you roasted at a slow fire.”

But still the young Indian made no reply; and with an imprecation
that we will not repeat, Miller turned away, and seated himself
at the fire, to await the arrival of Colonel Danforth, and receive
further instructions. It was not many minutes after this before the
expected party made their appearance; and on informing the Colonel
of the obstinacy of the prisoner, he decided that it would not
be worth while to lose any more time, but that all should set off for
Piqua, taking the young savage along; and that at the first stream
they crossed, the latter should receive a thorough washing—stating
it as his belief, from what little he had seen of his features, that he
would turn out to be a white man. Accordingly, the whole party
again set out, taking along a good supply of the deer meat, to serve
them for their supper, and leaving the remainder of the carcass,
and the dead Indians, to be devoured by wild beasts.

Their most direct route to Piqua lying across the stream below,
the party halted for a few minutes on its bank, while a couple of the
scouts took the prisoner down to the water and effectually removed
the dirt and paint from his face. As the Colonel had anticipated,
he, indeed, turned out to be a white man; and after gazing upon
him in silence for a few minutes, during which time emotions deep
and strange agitated his breast, Miller walked up to him, and exclaimed
in Shawnee:

“Neethetha Posetha.”[1]

To the surprise of all, the prisoner started, and looking wonderingly
on the other, replied, in the same dialect—

“Who speaks?—who is it that knows Posetha?”

“My brother! my long lost brother!” cried Miller, in English,
instantly throwing his arms around the captive's neck, and shedding
tears of joy, while the latter stood passive and amazed at what was
taking place.

“Oh, God! I thank thee that at last thou hast granted my
prayer! pursued Henry Miller, fervently. “Oh! Christopher, don't
you know me?” he continued, looking eagerly into the other's face.
“Don't you remember your brother Henry, that was taken by the
Indians at the same time you were, but who afterward got away
from them?”

“Yes, me now know,” replied Christopher, in broken English,
returning the warm embrace of the other; and then suddenly
starting back, he added—“Posetha warrior now—no cry—squaw
cry.”

“Posetha is warrior no longer,” rejoined Henry: “he must
join the pale-face, and not fight against his brothers.”

“No,” returned the other, with dignity, “Posetha's brothers
Indian—him got no other.”

“We are all your brothers,” now interposed Colonel Danforth,
who, with the rest, had stood looking on in amazement, during this
wonderful scene. “Christopher—for so I hear you are called—you
must henceforth go with us, and fight no more against your race;
the red man is our enemy.”

“The red-man Posetha's brother,” persisted the other, drawing
himself up haughtily, with an air of defiance.

The Colonel was about to make some reply, when Henry stepped
forward, and in a low tone said:

“Pray, Colonel Danforth, let me deal with him, for I know his
nature better than you, and an ill-timed word might ruin all our
hopes.”

“Your are right,” returned the veteran officer. “Draw him
aside, and confer with him, and we will await the result; and as
the other complied with his request, he added—“This is indeed
most wonderful! that brother should meet brother under such
strange circumstances!”

“The ways of Providence are sometimes very remarkable,” observed
Edward, reflectively.

“May we not take this as a good augury of our own success?”
rejoined Wilkes.

“We will hope,” replied Danforth, heaving a deep sigh; “we
will hope,” and he relapsed into a thoughtful mood.

Some ten minutes elapsed, and then rejoining the party, Miller
said, in a low tone, so as not to be overheard by his brother:

“I've got good news for you all. Christopher says that there's
a number of women prisoners in Piqua; and that for my sake he'll
help us to get them away, provided we'll set him free, and allow
him to take his own course.”

“Truly this is cheering!” rejoined Colonel Danforth, not a little
excited, as indeed were all the others. “But can you trust him,
Harry?'

“I think we can, Colonel. I never knew him to break a
promise.”

“Act, then, as you think best, and may Heaven guide you
aright!”

“Yes, I'd jest let him go,” observed Carnele, who stood along
side, and who felt himself privileged to bestow his advice on all
occasions: “yes, I'd jest let him go; for sence we've got the grease
and mud off on him, he looks a heap honester. Besides, he's your
brother, Harry, and nothin' good'll come 'o keepin' him tied up like
a snappin' bull dog. No, no—let him go—that's the advice of old
John Carnele, and he's seed a few snakes in his day.”

Harry held another short conference with his brother, and then
cutting his hands loose, told him he was free. Posetha uttered a
few emphatic words in Shawnee, and then, with a whoop, as of
triumph, he bounded away, and disappeared in the forest.

“Alas! I fear we have been imprudent,” exclaimed Colonel
Danforth anxiously. “If he betrays us now, we are lost. What
do you think, Harry?”

“I don't think he'll betray us, Colonel. His last words give me
reason to hope we've made him our friend; but I can't tell how
much Indian life may have altered his nature. I'ts too late to
repent at all events; and so I think we had best resume our
journey.”

“Yes, yes, we must reach Piqua to-night—for something tells
me we shall then be near our friends,” cried Edward, with energy.

“Forward, then,” rejoined the Colonel, “and may a watchful
Providence guide our steps aright, and deliver from evil hands those
near and dear to us!”

With this the whole party again set off at a rapid pace, the scouts
as usual taking the lead. A little after nightfall, they arrived at a
point commanding a view of the lights of the Piqua village. Here
they halted, ate a hasty meal, held a council of war, and finally
decided on reconnoitring the town forthwith. For this purpose
they divided into pairs, and separated, with the understanding that
all should rendezvous at the place of separation before mid-night,
and each report on what they had seen.

Alas! for human calculations. Midnight came, and a part of the
company met according to agreement—but it was a gloomy meeting.

However, let us not anticipate the result, but first in order follow
the adventures of our hero, and his companion, John Carnele.