 | A Kentucky Hero. Wild scenes on the frontiers, or, Heroes of the West |  |
2. A Kentucky Hero.
It was a wild, fearful scene—a scene of carnage and
destruction. Loud shrieks of pain, and yells of rage,
defiance, and triumph, commingled with reports of musketry,
and here and there the clashing of steel, resounded
on every hand.
A small, but gallant, band of Kentuckians, were completely
surrounded by an overpowering horde of dusky
savages, and were fighting desperately while falling victims
to superior numbers—fighting for the hope of retreat,
but with none of victory.
The scene was partly in an open glade, and partly in a
surrounding forest, not far from the banks of the Ohio, in
what is now the State of Indiana, but which was then an
unapportioned and unsettled wilderness.
Over this open glade were hurrying hundreds of human
beings—some mounted and some on foot—some white, and
dressed in the rough costume of the borders—but more
of the dusky hue, half naked and hideously painted—and
of fighting wild beasts.
Many a riderless horse went snorting and bounding
away; while the ground was strewed with the dead and
dying—the latter soon ceasing from the agonies of life,
as the knife or tomahawk of either foe made his work sure.
There were old men and youths, and men in the prime of
manhood, all doing their duty bravely, and bearing down
the foe in close encounter, or being themselves borne down
to a bloody end.
Foremost among the Kentuckians, in the very hottest of
the fight, more desperate even than the oldest veterans,
rode a tall, fine-looking youth, who charged upon the foe
without regard to numbers or peril—and fast they fell
beneath the almost superhuman strength of his single arm.
Several times his horse was seized by the bit, and borne
back almost upon its haunches, while the uplifted tomahawk
was aimed at the head of the rider; but with the quickness
of thought, and the strength of a Hercules, the blows were
parried right and left, and returned with a precision that
laid his opposers bleeding beneath the feet of the fiery
animal, which literally trampled them into the dust, as the
undaunted youth still urged him on to new scenes of peril
and victory.
“On, comrades!” he shouted—and his loud, shrill voice
was heard above the din of battle. “On, for the honor of
number, we are not yet defeated; and will not be while
there is an arm left to strike!”
Almost as he spoke, a shower of balls was poured in
upon him, some cutting his clothes, some wounding him
seriously, while his gallant steed sunk under him. Springing
from the back of the falling beast, into the very midst
of his dusky foes, this noble youth, wounded and bleeding
though he was, still laid about him with desperation, the
balls whistling around him fearfully and a dozen arms
raised for his destruction.
Recklessly and desperately, however, alone and unaided,
he continued to fight his way through his savage foes,
back to the main body of his friends, where he arrived just
as the order came for retreat.
As several, who were mounted, wheeled their horses to
obey this welcome command, our hero dashed suddenly
in among them, and, seizing the bits of two animals, one
in either hand, he fairly brought them round, and so
quickly as almost to throw their riders, at the same time
shouting:
“For shame! for shame! who dares retreat—by any
order—by any command—and leave our wounded comrades
to the vengeance of our foes! Bear back, men—
if you be men—and let us bring off our companions with
honor, or perish with them!”
But his valiant call was unheeded by those who thought
only of saving their own lives; and the moment the youth
released his hold of their bridles, they dashed swiftly
away.
“My curses go with you, for pusillanimous cowards!”
he shouted after them; and then discovering another party
on foot, as eagerly retreating also, he threw himself in
before them, and exclaimed:
“Hold! I command you, by every feeling of honor, to
turn back and save the lives of our wounded friends!”
“Out of my way, boy!” said a tall, strapping fellow, as
he pushed eagerly forward to pass the youth: “you're not
our captain! Haven't you heard the order for retreat?
and don't you know, if you stand here a minute, you'll be
butchered and scalped by the bloody varmints around,
who've hemmed us in?”
“Yes! yes!” cried most of the rest; “Joe Hinkins says
right!”
“We'll all be killed if we stop here!” said one.
“Turn back, Bill, and don't make a fool of yourself!”
cried another.
“If we'd attempt to save the wounded, we'd purty soon
want somebody to save us!” put in a third.
“There, boys—the red devils are a-coming like mad!”
shouted a fourth.
With this they all set up cries of alarm, and plunged
they were seeking to avoid—for there a considerable body
of Indians fell upon them, and, gaining an advantage
through their surprise and terror, tomahawked and scalped
them to a man.
With a cheek red with shame, our young hero now
darted forward and intercepted still another party, who
had likewise begun their flight—and this time his appeal
was listened to. Turning back, they stopped a small
mounted party; and getting them to dismount, they began
to pick up the wounded wherever they could find
them, and place them upon the horses—which, as fast as
loaded, they dispatched with a small escort toward the
Ohio, nearly half a mile distant—the youth still exerting
himself to cheer all parties.
While thus engaged in their work of mercy, a body of
Indians, about twice their number, came rushing down
upon them; and another terrible encounter took place;
during which the youth was struck by some four or five
more balls—one shattering his left arm, three inflicting
flesh-wounds upon different parts of his body, but none of
them, fortunately, touching a vital part.
Finding the victory not so easy as they expected, several
of their number having either been killed or wounded in
this new encounter, the assailing Indians suddenly drew
back from our dauntless little band, and set off in pursuit
would not be likely to make so desperate a stand.
“Three cheers for us, comrades!” cried the youth.
Three cheers were accordingly given, with hearty good
will; and then they recommenced gathering up their
wounded friends, there being now several of their own
immediate party to be assisted likewise.
In his different encounters thus far, our young hero had
broken every weapon—his rifle, knife, and tomahawk—
and he now proceeded to re-arm himself. Having found
and thrust two weapons into his belt, he picked up a rifle,
and, holding it between his knees, his left arm hanging
useless by his side, he coolly proceeded to load it with
his right, all the while speaking encouragingly to those
around him. By the time this was completed, his companions
were ready to set out for the river; but just as
they were about to depart, a voice from another quarter of
the field cried out:
“Save me! save me! For the love of God, save me!”
“I know that voice,” said the youth; “it is a brave
fellow who calls on us; and we must save him, at all
hazards!”
“I fear it's more than we can do to save ourselves,”
returned one; “the cursed Indians are at work all around
us; and if we escape as it is, it'll be a miracle.”
“Save me!” called out the voice again; “in humanity's
got to die, I want to die in Old Kentucky, among my
friends.”
This was an appeal hard to be resisted by brave men
with feeling hearts; but it might have been resisted,
nevertheless, and the poor fellow been left to his fate, had
it not been for the gallant youth, who declared he would
die on the field sooner than leave a companion in such a
strait.
On reaching the spot where the poor fellow lay, they
found him with one leg and one arm broken, and a serious
wound in his breast. Lifting him up carefully, they
hastily bore him to the only horse which was not yet
laden; and carefully placing him upon the back of the
beast, they were just in the act of setting forward, when
the youth, who had been quickly darting over the field and
examining the fallen, called out to them that there were
two more yet with life, who must on no account be deserted.
As two of the party ran back to pick them up,
another small body of Indians—who for the last few
minutes had been busy in a different quarter, and had now
returned to the main field of slaughter—poured in upon
them a close volley, and literally cut them down over the
wounded they were assisting, at the same time rushing in
upon them with brandished tomahawks and furious yells.
Finding there was no hope of saving any more, our
“Let us give them a farewell volley!” which was immediately
done—several of the savages in turn falling beneath
the fatal aim of the Kentuckians.
“Now, then, for a retreat!” pursued the youth, who,
though himself a mere private in the ranks, was listened to
and obeyed with the deference due to an officer in full
command. “Load up, men, and guard the wounded with
your lives! In Heaven's name, do not desert them, whatever
may be your fate! I will run forward and give notice
of your approach, that those who set out ahead of us may
not push off the last boat before you reach them.”
“We'll all come in together, William, or you'll never
see us again!” replied one of his comrades; and as they
began to urge their horses forward, the youth darted into
a thicket and disappeared in advance of them.
As he ran through the wood toward the river, his rifle
thrown across his shoulder, his eye constantly on the alert
for the foe, he passed over the gory corpse of many a companion,
who had been overtaken, slain, scalped, and even
stripped of his clothing—and which, in fact, at different
intervals, marked the course of the retreat from that disastrous
field of battle.
At last, faint and almost exhausted, our brave youth
reached the bank of the river, just as the only boat at that
point, heavily laden with the escaping fugitives, was in the
were, fortunately, none of the enemy—but above and
below were sounds of conflict—and an attack was every
instant expected.
“Hold, comrades!” he shouted, presenting his weak
and bloody figure to their view. “I am just in advance
of a few more of our friends, who are hurrying up with
the wounded!”
“Get aboard yourself, if you want to,” replied one;
“but don't ask us to wait for any more—for another party
would sink us—to say nothing of the savages, who may
attack us here at any moment.”
“Yes, jump aboard,” said another; “and quick, too—
or we'll have to leave you as well as them.”
“Never!” returned the youth, with a mingled flush of
pride and shame; “never will I desert my friends in such
a cowardly manner! Until the others arrive, I will not
put my foot aboard your boat, whatever may be the consequences.”
“Then we'll have to leave you among the rest,” called
out a third; “for it's better a few should perish than all;
and all will, if we stay here a minute longer.”
He seized an oar as he spoke, and was about to push
off the boat, regardless of all lives save his own, when the
youth, throwing his rifle across the root of a fallen tree,
pointed the muzzle at his breast, and exclaimed:
“Beware! the first man that sends that boat one inch
from the shore until our comrades are aboard, I will shoot,
so help me God!”
The man, knowing the youth, and knowing him to be
one who would keep his word, at once threw down the
oar, muttering some bitter curses upon his folly; but a
few of the others, moved to feelings of shame and admiration
by his heroic self-sacrifice, took part with our hero,
and declared that all should escape, or all perish together.
This at once raised an altercation; and hot and angry
words had begun to pass between the different parties,
when, fortunately for all, the last escort arrived, and were
immediately hurried on board—the boat, by this additional
weight, being sunk to her very gunwale, so that it was
feared another pound might swamp her.
The youth, who had meantime stood back, giving
directions, and refusing to enter till the very last, on
seeing the condition of things, told his comrades to push
off at once, and he would find a way to save himself; and
without waiting for a reply, he hurried up the stream a
few yards, to where some horses stood panting, which had
escaped from the field of battle; and selecting one of these,
he, by great exertion, considering his weak and wounded
condition, got upon his back, and forced him into the
stream, and toward the opposite shore.
The moment the men in the boat perceived that the
bank; but not a moment too soon; for they had scarcely
got a dozen yards out, when a large body of Indians, who
had been attacking the boats below, came hurrying up
along the bank, and at once poured in upon them a heavy
volley. Only one or two of them were wounded, however
—most of the enemy's balls going wide of the mark—and
with loud yells of defiance, the Kentuckians returned the
fire, and then pulled eagerly for the opposite shore.
The wounded youth urged his horse toward the boat;
but just before he reached it, another ball of the enemy
struck him, and shattered his right arm; when, bending
over, he seized the mane of the horse with his teeth, and
so clung to him, till, overcome by pain and the loss of
blood, he fainted and rolled from his back into the water,
from whence he was rescued by his companions at great
peril to themselves.
This heroic youth, who so self-sacrificingly saved his
friends, and was himself most providentially preserved
through many a perilous encounter besides these enumerated,
subsequently rose to enviable distinction, and
became one of the prominent men of the West. In 1810
he removed to Cincinnati, where he passed the remainder
of his days. During the war of 1812 he was appointed
Major General of the Ohio Militia; and, in 1829, Surveyor
General of the public lands of Ohio, Indiana, and
brave in deed, and was ever noted for his public spirit and
benevolence. He died in 1831; and the public were then
called to mourn the loss, and do honor to the memory, of
a distinguished fellow-citizen—the subject of our present
notice—General William Lytle.
| A Kentucky Hero. Wild scenes on the frontiers, or, Heroes of the West | |