 | A Mother's Courage. Wild scenes on the frontiers, or, Heroes of the West |  |
17. A Mother's Courage.
It was in the spring of 1785, and on a clear, beautiful
day, that a party, consisting of two men, a woman and a
child, were passing down the Ohio in a conveniently-sized
boat, for the purpose of joining some friends at a settlement
below. This party bore the surname of Marston,
and the relationship of husband, brother, wife, and
daughter. They had come from the interior of Pennsylvania,
transporting their goods by horses to the Alleghany,
and thence descending that river and the Ohio in the boat
they now occupied.
The eldest of the four was a large, tall, fine-looking man,
some thirty years of age, and the husband of the female
and father of the child. The wife appeared to be some
six or eight years the junior of her partner, was small,
slender and graceful, and possessed a countenance of more
than ordinary intelligence and beauty. The brother was
younger than the husband, and inferior in size and
strength, but comely of feature, and evidently a man of
considerable muscular power. The youngest of the party
of four summers, the favorite of all, and especially the idol
and joy of its fond and almost girlish mother, both of
whom seemed much out of place in journeying through
that wild, unsettled, and perilous region.
Thus far our adventurers had met with no material
accident or misfortune; nor had they seen any of those
fierce enemies of their race, who were then known to be
prowling through the great forests which stretched away
on either hand for hundreds of miles; but now they were
more directly entering the country inhabited by their
swarthy foes, and which had been more distinctly marked
by the aggressions of the latter upon their white invaders;
and as they turned their eyes toward the green and flowery
banks of the delightful stream, upon whose placid bosom
they were floating, it was less to admire the solemn
beauties of nature, than in dread of what those mighty
forests might conceal. Yet the men, as was natural they
should, relying upon their strength, and their skill in
the use of weapons, seemed less uneasy than the girlish
mother, who, at every unusual sound, would clasp her
offspring to her heart, and glance around her in fearful
apprehension.
“Mary,” said her husband, approaching her on one of
these occasions of alarm, which became more frequent as
she advanced on her journey, “how is it that you. who
become so timid?”
“I hardly know myself, William,” she replied, in a
sweet, musical tone, looking up with a smile, “unless it is
that we are entering a more dangerous region, and that I
am every moment growing more fond of our pretty little
Ada, and more fearful on her account;” and bending over
the child, which she now held in her arms, she imprinted a
mother's kiss of love upon its ruby lips.
“But I'm not afraid, mamma, when you and papa are
with me,” prattled the blue-eyed pet; “for I know nobody'll
hurt me where you are.”
“Ah, God bless your trusting innocence!” cried the
father, impulsively catching her up in his arms and covering
her cherub face with kisses. “No one shall hurt you
where I am—and may the good God keep us all from
harm!”
During their voyage down the river, it had sometimes
been necessary to lay up at night, especially in foggy
weather; but they had generally managed this matter with
great caution; securing their boat near, rather than at, the
shore, by making a line fast to some overhanging branch
and dropping a sort of rude anchor. At these stopping
places our voyagers had been the most apprehensive; yet
it was not at these that they were really most in danger,
sequel of our narrative will show.
On the very day that we introduce them to the reader,
but some two or three hours subsequent to the conversation
recorded, the little girl, in looking toward the Ohio
shore, became much attracted to a long line of beautifully-flowered
shrubbery, which so overhung the stream that a
branch might easily be broken in passing; and with
infantile glee she clapped her hands and exclaimed:
“Oh, papa, do get little Ada some pretty flowers!”
The boat was not far from the land, and the current set
in close to the bank, so that it was an easy matter to
comply with her wish; and the fond father, giving directions
to this effect, and himself taking an oar, was about to
push in toward the thicket, when the mother, with what
seemed to be a premonition of danger, quickly interposed,
saying, eagerly and earnestly:
“Nay, William, do not think of such a thing, but keep
further out in the stream! From some cause I am frightened—I
feel that danger lurks in every thicket, and I
know we cannot be too cautious.”
“Pooh, Mary, you are too easily alarmed!” replied her
husband; “no one would be more cautious than I, if I
thought there was danger; but there is none here, surely;
and little Ada might as well have a bunch of flowers to
please her.”
So saying, and without heeding the remonstrances of his
more timid companion, he, assisted by his brother, turned
the boat up alongside the shrubbery; and both were in
the act of plucking a flowering branch—the little girl,
meanwhile, in her mother's trembling arms, clapping her
tiny hands with delight—when suddenly two sharp reports,
almost blended into one, rung out upon the still air; and
the brothers fell back together, the one shot through the
heart and the other through the brain.
At the same instant there came a series of terrific yells,
a rustling among the bushes, and two hideously-painted
savages came leaping into the boat. First making sure
of their victims, by plunging their knives several times
into their bodies, they next tore off their scalps, and
tauntingly shook the trophies in the very face of the now
petrified and horror-stricken wife and mother, who stood
like a statue of marble, as motionless and seemingly as
cold, her eyes glaring wildly, and the little girl clinging
to her in a terror she could not comprehend. Then attaching
each his scalp to his girdle, they made a flourish of
their tomahawks over the head of the mother, rather as it
seemed with the intention of terrifying than of striking
her. But finding her unmoved—for she was still paralyzed
with horror—one of them rudely snatched the
child from her arms, and made as if to dash out its brains
on the gunwale of the boat. This he might indeed have
malice—but the other interposed, and said something in
their native tongue; when, turning to the still immovable
mother, he struck her a blow with his fist, knocked her
down, and threw the shrieking child upon her.
The two Indians now proceeded to secure the boat, by
working it up under the overhanging bushes, and so disposing
of them as to completely conceal it from the view
of any party passing up or down the river, or looking out
from the opposite shore
By the time this was completed, poor Mrs. Marston had
in some degree recovered the use of her faculties, and had
begun to bemoan her hard fate in low, choking sobs, the
while straining her trembling child as tightly to her
anguished bosom as if she thought that her maternal
arm could shield it from her merciless foes.
One of the Indians now advanced to her side, and,
rudely pushing her with his foot, made signs that she must
get up and follow him ashore. She understood and complied
with his desire—for she had now some little hope
that her child would be spared to her—and with a mother's
undying love, she felt that she would willingly struggle
through any thing, endure every thing, for its sweet
sake.
We may not dwell upon her feelings, for none but a
mother so suddenly and terribly afflicted, and so hopelessly
her heart.
At a little distance back from the river, the Indian
bound his prisoner to a sapling, leaving the child free
beside her, and then returned to his companion, and
assisted him in securing their captured spoil.
They now seemed disposed to be merry—those grim,
inhuman monsters—as they gloated over their not invaluable
prize—stripping the dead of their garments, securing
their weapons and amunition, and reveling, like hungry
beasts, in the palatable edibles which their explorations
exposed—chatting glibly in their native tongue, and now
and then laughing merrily, but cantiously, as here and
there they fell upon what they considered a prize of more
than usual value—the last of these being no other than
a mysterious-looking keg, which they were not long in
discovering to be fire-water, and over which they not only
laughed, but around which they fairly danced, in fiendish
glee.
At length, placing the keg in the middle of the boat,
they knocked in the head with their hatchets, and began
to indulge in the exhilarating poison, gradually increasing
their at first light potations to a kind of drunken carousal,
which lasted for several hours, and finally ended in a state
of comple intoxication.
Meantime the poor mother had remained bound to her
the time in trembling apprehension lest something might
direct their thoughts to her, and she and her darling Ada
become fresh victims of their now liquor-maddened passions.
But as time wore on, and their potations grew
deeper, and their carousal more drunken, if not less
boisterous, a wild hope sprung up in her breast, that
through their final inebriation she might providentially
effect her escape; and from that moment she became more
intensely excited than ever, and listened with a still more
wildly palpitating heart, hushing the very murmurs of her
poor child by looks and whispers of terror that it seemed
instinctively to comprehend.
At last, just as the bright sun was setting, the long
wished-for moment seemed to arrive, the drunken sounds
having gradually died away to silence; and she reasoned
that her foes were now no longer in a condition to prevent
her escape, which peradventure she might effect, provided
she could immediately get free of her bonds.
But how was this to be done? Her hands were corded
behind her back, and her body made fast to the tree. She
tried to work herself loose, but her efforts only served to
tighten the cords and give her pain; and she was upon
the very point of uttering a shriek of despair, when she
remembered in time that the sound of her voice might fall
arouse them to action.
But stay! another strange, wild hope enters her breast!
Can she make use of Ada! Can she venture the poor child
to the fearful risk of returning alone to the boat, and procuring
a knife! It is a thought as trying as death itself,
though less fearful than a long and hopeless captivity, and
it seems to be their only salvation. Time is passing—her
captors have become still—and something must be done!
Shall she risk the only alternative in her power? Something
seems to urge her to do so; and finally, wrought up
to a pitch of desperation little short of madness, she explains
to the trembling little creature what she needs of
her, and gives her directions how to proceed.
And that innocent little thing comprehended her, and
finally set out on her fearful mission. Oh! what a trial
was that to the tender nerves of that poor mother! and
from the moment of her departure, till that of her return,
the brief suspense was to her an age of horror. But the
child went, and returned in safety, and brought back a
knife, which she had stealthily taken from the very side of
one of the murderers of her father and uncle, and which
was even yet red with their blood.
The poor captive shuddered as she looked upon the fearful
weapon; and yet she experienced a faint gleam of joy,
at the thought that it would be the means of setting her
child.
Little Ada, by her mother's direction, soon cut the
binding cords; and the moment Mrs. Marston found herself
at liberty, she caught the heroic little girl in her arms,
covered her sweet face with kisses, and then, with an
almost bursting heart, knelt upon the ground, and poured
forth a fervent prayer of thanksgiving to the Great
Unseen.
Strengthened by this, she arose and prepared to act;
but the thought of what was before her, and the still
slender thread upon which her own life and that of her
child depended, brought back a sinking of the heart, and a
trembling of every nerve. What was to be done now?
She was alone in the great wilderness—a weak, feeble
woman—far from home and friends, and surrounded by
dangers of every imaginable description. Could she
escape on foot with her child? Impossible! they would
either starve or fall a prey to wild beasts or Indians. What
course then? for they must escape. There was the boat—but
then there lay the murderers of her husband and his brother
—and what could she do with them? Should she in turn
murder them, while they slept their drunken sleep? A
cold, icy shudder crept through her veins at the bare
thought! But then her child must be saved! and to save
that, by any means, was imperatively her duty.
We will not follow her thoughts. Enough that she at
last, carrying the child in her arms, resolutely but cautiously
returned to the fearful scene, where still lay the
dead bodies of her friends; and, almost beside them, but
upon some bales and boxes, nearly on a level with the gunwale,
their now drunken murderers.
With the knife firmly clasped in her hand, that widowed
mother reached the boat; she entered it; she stood over
her foes; they were in her power; she raised the knife;
should she strike? She hesitated—trembled—grew faint
of heart—her hand fell. She thought of her child, and
the arm was again nerved, and again raised, but again fell
powerless.
Ha! another thought! She hurried forward, placed
the child near the bow, and warned it not to speak or stir;
and then, seizing an oar, pushed the boat from the shore,
and set it drifting down the stream. Then darting forward
and securing the weapons of her enemies, she nerved
herself for the great trial, and, using all her strength, suddenly
rolled them both into the river.
On striking the water, one of the two Indians sunk
almost immediately; but the other, who perhaps had drank
less deeply, and was not so much intoxicated, began to
struggle for life, and soon appeared to recover sufficient
consciousness to comprehend what had happened, and
struck out fiercely for the boat. But that girlish mother,
the instinct of self-preservation, prepared to defend herself
even at the cost of life. She had pushed the Indians over,
because it was not in her heart to slay them in cold blood,
if she could escape by other means; but she was firmly
resolved not to be taken again; and bringing a rifle to bear
upon the struggling savage, she waited till she saw him
about to make a lodgement astern, and then pulled the
trigger. A flash, a report, a groan followed, and the
bubbling waters grew red above the grave of her foe.
All that long, terrible night that heroic mother watched
by her living child and its dead and gory father, and
labored hard to keep the boat from drifting to either
shore; but what pen may portray her mingled emotions
of grief for the dead and joy for the living—her hopes and
fears—her horror and despair? She lived through her
trials, however, and the next day was discovered by a
party of hunters, who, at her cries of distress, came to her
relief, and thus she was saved.
We will simply add, that that heroic little child, Ada
Marston, in after years became the wife of one of Kentucky's
most distinguished and chivalric sons.
| A Mother's Courage. Wild scenes on the frontiers, or, Heroes of the West | |