University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
THE VOYAGERS.

At the period of which we are writing, much of
the emigration from Virginia into Kentucky came
down the Great Kanawha in boats to the Ohio, down
the Ohio to Limestone (now Maysville), and thence
went into the interior by land. This was one of the
best routes for easy transportation of goods and
chattels, but was very dangerous, owing to the fact
that the Indians held possession of the territory
stretching away from the northern bank of the Ohio,
and were generally on the watch to decoy, ambush
and attack such parties as they considered inferior
to themselves in strength or numbers. For decoys
they had white men and women and even children—
some of them prisoners, who served them on compulsion,
a death of torture being the penalty for
refusing to act in the manner directed—and some of
them renegades—villains who had fled from justice
to the savages for protection—traitors to humanity—
who thus took a fiendish delight in wreaking vengeance
upon all of their nation and race. Their
mode of proceeding was well calculated to deceive
all but the most experienced and wary. As some
boat would be quietly floating down the placid river,

in the peaceful stillness of a lovely day, a cry of
distress would suddenly be heard from the northern
shore, and a man or woman, half naked, as if his or
her clothes had been rent to tatters by a hurried
escape through the thickets and brambles of the
wilderness, would immediately appear on the edge
of the stream, and, in the most piteous tones, implore
to be taken on board, declaring that he or she was
in a famishing condition, in peril of recapture, and,
if left there without succor, would certainly perish.
It was very trying to the most experienced and
cautious to resist these appeals for the aid which
could so easily be rendered—for white captives did
sometimes so escape, and their cries of distress were
terrible realities—but whenever their human hearts
yielded to the calls for mercy, in nine cases out of
ten their boat was captured by a concealed band of
savages the moment it touched the shore, and themselves
were either murdered on the spot, or stripped
and plundered and reserved for a more horrible fate.
It is true that a few wretched prisoners were at
different times thus rescued through the humanity
of the descending boatmen; but for every life so
preserved, at least twenty were sacrificed by the
wily savages, who were generally lying in ambush
and using the whites for decoys. To such an extent
in fact was this nefarious practice carried out, that
for years before the final treaty of peace at Greenville,
no descending boat, under the pilotage or
control of an experienced manager, would venture
to land under any circumstances whatever; and thus
more than one poor, wretched wanderer, whose
appeals for succor were no counterfeits, was left to
perish unaided, and perhaps curse the supposed
heartlessness of men and women who seemed to
turn a deaf ear to his prayers.

When our scouts, seven in number, including the
young artist, reached the mouth of the Great Kanawha—which
they did a few days after their meeting
at Limestone, without incident worthy of note—they
learned from the garrison at Point Pleasant that the
party they were to escort had not yet come down
the river. In fact the expected boats did not make
their appearance for nearly a week. They were three
in number—one loaded with passengers, another
with goods, and the third with horses. There were
in all—men, women and children, blacks and whites
—thirty-one souls, with ages ranging from seventy
years down to the infant of a few months. There
were twenty females, including three black slaves
and seven children; and eleven males, including two
stout negroes and three half-grown boys.

With most of these individuals we have only to
do in a general way. They were travelling into the
wilderness, to meet friends and relatives who had
gone there in advance of them to make permanent
homes, and in only so much as they chanced to
move in contact with the more prominent characters
in our drama of life will they be mentioned at all.

Among these latter, however, was one who deserves

immediate attention at our hands. She was a young
lady, in the fresh bloom of nineteen summers, of a
slender, graceful form, an intelligent, vivacious countenance,
and a dark, expressive, and somewhat merry
eye. Her features were regular, and her complexion
almost a brunette. In repose her face was sweet
and pretty; but when animated, with her bright
soul gleaming out in every lineament, it was perfectly
bewitching. In look, language, and manner,
she possessed a wonderful power of pleasing, and
she knew it. There was nothing more attractive
than her pretty mouth, with its full, round, half-parted
lips—nothing more charming than her smile
—nothing more musical than her laugh. She might
have been a coquette, only that at heart she had too
much principle to trifle or deceive by design; but
she was young, lively, and fond of admiration; and
if this combination sometimes led to the same result,
all the facts should be taken into consideration before
the passing of a severe judgment. She was the only
daughter of a man of some political distinction, who
had held the rank of colonel in the American army
during the war of the Revolution, which had just
closed. Her mother had died while she was a mere
child, and her only brother had been killed at the
battle of Brandywine. A maiden aunt had brought
her up with strict propriety, and looked well to her
education; but death had also removed this kind
lady about a year before the opening of our narrative,
and she was now on her way into the wilderness
to join her father, who had resolved to make his
future home in the heart of Kentucky, and cast his
lot with the people of the borders. She was attended
by an old negress, who had been her nurse and was
now her housekeeper; and by a young one, who had
been her playmate and was now her handmaid; and
so much did these servants love their young mistress,
that either would have died for her. By her companions
of the voyage, most of whom were persons
of inferior condition in life, she was spoken of with
envy or admiration, according to their different
natures and dispositions, but always as one with
whom they did not claim equality of station. Such
in brief was Isaline Holcombe, the fair personage
more than once alluded to by Rough Tom as the
colonel's daughter.

As the foremost boat, containing the passengers,
rounded up to the landing at Point Pleasant, Isaline
was standing, with her two black girls beside her,
on what might properly be styled the upper deck of
the rude craft, her bright eyes cast about her with a
look of curiosity and cheerful animation.

“Has we got dar now, Miss Isa?” inquired the old
nurse, as she straightened up her short, squat figure,
puffed out her thick lips, showed her white teeth,
and displayed the whites of her large, rolling eyes
on an ebony back-ground in a rather comical manner.

“If you mean our destination, Cilla, we are not

half way there,” good-naturedly answered her pretty
young mistress.

“Spect dat's what I does mean,” returned the
negress, with a look that showed she was not altogether
certain about the signification of the word.

“Some people axes a great many foolish questions
in de course ob dar lives,” put in the younger
negress, a rather pretty mulatto, with a toss of her
head that showed she laid claim to a decided superiority
over the other.

“And some people minds dar own businesses,
and doesn't trouble dar betters wid obserwations!”
retorted Cilla, with a fierce look of defiance.

“The imperdence of some people—” began the
younger, when her mistress interrupted her with:

“Come, come, Rhoda—and you, too, Priscilla—no
more wrangling—I'll not have it! See that young
man yonder, with his back against a tree and a paper
in his hand, his hat thrown up from his forehead
and his rifle by his side—what is he doing?”

“Sketching!” said a low, clear, bell-like voice.

Isaline started, with a slight flush, turned, and
confronted a young man, who had stolen up behind
her unperceived. He was perhaps five-and-twenty
years of age, of a fine, symmetrical form, and wore
a dress which, though in border style, was of finer
materials than were generally seen in the backwoods
at that period. His hat had a gay feather in
it, and was looped up with silver fastenings; his
hunting-frock, of bottle green, was of cloth which

had come from beyond the seas; his breeches were
of the finest-dressed deer-skin; his belt was worked
with wampum in fanciful devices; his hunting-knife
was silver mounted; his leggins were ornamented
with the quills of the porcupine; and he wore shoes,
instead of moccasins, of shiny leather, which were
adorned with silver buckles. His hands were soft,
and two of his fingers sparkled with rings. In
every respect he was a handsome man, with regular
features, dark, curly hair, dark, expressive eyes, a
slightly aquiline nose, and a perfect mouth; and yet,
with all his manly beauty, there was a something, it
was difficult to say what, which excited a secret
feeling of dread, or fear, or distrust—some such
feeling, in fact, as one might be supposed to experience
under the fascinations of a serpent. You felt
drawn to him, and yet repelled at the same time.
You fancied that, however brilliant his intellect,
there might be dark recesses in his soul, which
human penetration could not fathom. You felt that
he might dazzle—excite your wonder—your admiration,
perhaps—but could never win your love.
Who was he? and what was his history? No one
knew beyond what he had told of himself. For the
past year he had been a resident of the quiet village
in Virginia where Isaline Holcombe had been born
and reared. He had come there a stranger, and
given his name as Charles Hampton, from England,
the third son of an English lord. By birth and
means he had claimed to be a gentleman, travelling
partly for pleasure and partly with the view of purchasing
a property and settling permanently in
America. His finished manners and show of wealth
had made him an object of interest to the higher
classes, and he had been cordially received on his
own representation and given the entrée of the best
society. Among other ladies of note he had met
Isaline, and paid her much attention. Some thought
him a suitor for her hand. Perhaps he was. At
all events, no sooner had it been made known that
she was to go West, to meet her father and there
remain, than he had announced it as his intention
of trying his fortune in the wilderness also. Uniting
with those who were preparing for the same journey,
he had made suitable purchases and arrangements,
and was now so far on his way into the wild region
of peril. Of the state of affairs between him and
Isaline, it is only necessary to say that, possessing
the fascinations of the coquette, though with far
higher principle, she had already, young as she was,
won many a heart without yet losing her own.

“I was not aware, Mr. Hampton,” said Isaline,
with rather marked emphasis, as she turned upon
him with a slightly flushed face, “that I was putting
my question to you! If you had a heavier foot,
your approach might be oftener heard!”

“I trust I have given you no offence, Miss Holcombe!”
he said, with a perceptible flush on his own
dark features.

“Offence may be too strong a term,” she answered,

with dignity; “but sudden surprises are not always
agreeable.”

“I crave your pardon, then! aad if I had a pair
of hob-nails, I would put them on and stumble my
way up to you!” returned Hampton, with such serio-comic
earnestness that Isaline, with the ridiculous
picture forming in her mind, burst into a hearty
laugh.

“I forgive you, Sir Knight of the `Clouted
Brogues!' ” she cried. “But what of that fellow
yonder? who is he? and what is he sketching?”

“Who he is, is more than I know,” replied Hampton;
“and, saving your presence, more than I care
to know: some country bumpkin, no doubt, who
knows how to handle his rifle better than his pencil,
and his axe and hoe better than either. From his
manner of looking and working, I judge he is trying
to make a rough sketch of this boat and its motley
passengers; but as we just now happen to be the
most conspicuous figures of the group, I hope we
may not be made to resemble either sheep, or cows,
or even respectable bears!”

Isaline laughed merrily; and tapping her old
nurse on the shoulder, she said:

“That man is drawing your likeness, Cilla. Only
think of your being mistaken for a cow!”

“'Fore Heaben, Miss Isa, he shan't make no sich
critter of dis chile!” cried the black, rolling her eyes
angrily, and hurrying away, with the graceful waddle
of a goose.

“And what say you to it, Rhoda?”

“Oh, I'm not a bit skeered!” replied the waiting-maid,
pouting her lips in derision.

As the boat drew up to the landing, quite a large
group of men, women and children, consisting of
the scouts and the inmates of the fort, collected on
the bank, to meet and exchange civilities with the
voyagers; and in a very short time they were promiscuously
mingled—a part from the shore leaping
on board the boat, and a number from the boat
springing upon the land. Some from both parties
had met before, and these greeted each other like
old friends, and there was a general feeling of cordiality
among all, for such was the direct simplicity
of the backwoods, where the freezing formality of
fashionable usage was either not understood or
wholly disregarded.

Among the foremost to leap aboard the boat was
Rough Tom, whose manner was that of a man having
authority.

“Whar's the colonel's darter?” was his first
inquiry, as he elbowed his way among the crowd.

Some one directed him to where Isaline was still
standing, in company with Hampton, an amused and
interested spectator of what was taking place, and
the next minute he was by her side. Her grace and
beauty, to say nothing of her dress, seemed to take
him a little by surprise, and cause him more embarrassment
than he had expected to feel; but he
was naturally too blunt and straightforward to hesitate

long about addressing any one with whom he
had business. Doffing his hat, and making a rude
bow—a remarkable act of polite gallantry on his
part—he said:

“And so you're Colonel Holcombe's darter, hey?”

“I have the honor so to be!” returned Isaline,
with polite dignity and an inquiring look.

“Ye-es,” drawled the old woodman, fumbling with
his hat, and looking directly into her face, with a
kind of rude admiration, “I didn't 'spect to see quite
so purty a gal.”

“Well, man, what is your business with this
young lady?” spoke up Hampton, in a haughty tone,
with a flush of anger, as if he felt there was an
insult offered to one whom it was his duty to protect.

Rough Tom turned his gaze from Isaline to the
speaker, and coolly and deliberately surveyed him
from head to foot and from foot to head. Then a
sullen frown settled on his brow, and there was a
good deal of contempt in his words, as he said:

“What's that to you?”

“Everything, fellow, since I claim to be this
lady's protector!” quickly answered Hampton, with
a flash of angry defiance.

“Who gin you the right?”

“That is my business, fellow!”

“Wall,” growled old Tom, with a grin of contempt,
“ef she don't hev nothing better'n sich a
popified monkey as you to purtect her through the

wilderness, her sculp won't be wo'th a possum's tail
to her in a week!”

“Fellow, you are insolent, and don't seem to know
you are addressing a gentleman!” said Hampton, his
temper almost getting the better of his dignity.

Tom gave a loud, contemptuous laugh; and then
suddenly changing his appearance and manner to
one of startling ferocity, he stepped forward, shook
his finger in Hampton's face, and said in a low, but
terribly impressive, tone:

“See he yar, strannger—you don't seem to know
that you're talking to a man that kin jest turn you
inside out, like the skin of a eel, and arter that ram
you down your own throat!”

“Physically, I admit, you are my superior,” returned
Hampton, with a somewhat quailing eye, and
placing one hand on the haft of his knife; “but you
will please bear in mind there are weapons that can
make up for the lack of bodily strength!”

“Is it fight, strannger?” demanded the old woodman,
with a convulsive clutch of his rifle.

“No, not here, by any means!” cried Isaline, who
now seemed to think it time to interfere.

“I axes your pardon, marm, for gitting my mad
up for this slinking finiky, and overlooking your
sweet face! but you see, marm, when he begun to
poke his nose in 'twixt me and you, it fotched up
the devil in me as big as a catermount, and I forgot
myself. I've come straight from your father, marm,
and brung you a letter from him!”

“My father!” cried Isaline, with an expression of
eager delight; “oh, I'm so glad! Quick! tell me
—how is he? what did he say? where is the letter?”

“Wall, that I haint got about me—Harry Colburn,
my pardner, tuk charge of that.”

“Who is he? and where is he?” almost impatiently
demanded Isaline.

“He's a gintleman, full-blooded, and none of your
monkey make-believes!” replied old Tom, with a
contemptuous glance toward the scowling Hampton;
“but whar he ar', that's another thing—though,
wharsomever he ar', I'll bet a deer-skin agin a charge
of powder he's spyling paper with a pictur!”

“Is he an artist, then?” said Isaline.

“So'thing like that I believe they calls it.”

“Perhaps that is him yonder, then, by that tree?”

“As sure as shooting!” cried Tom, looking in the
direction indicated: “I knowed it!”

“Oh, call him hither, at once—I am so anxious
to get the letter from my father!” said Isaline.

Tom shouted the name of his young companion,
in a tone loud enough to be heard a mile. Henry
looked up.

“He-yar!” continued the scout; “the colonel's
darter wants yer!”

The young man looked steadily at the boat for a
few moments, and then, putting aside his drawings,
hurried down to the landing and came aboard. As
he approached Isaline, he, like the old woodman,
seemed struck with her air and beauty, and a modest

blush mantled his handsome face. Isaline greeted
him with one of her sweetest smiles.

“Your friend here tells me,” she said, “you bring
me a letter from my dear father!”

“If I have the honor of addressing Colonel Holcombe's
daughter!” returned Henry, lifting his hat,
with a graceful bow.

Isaline bowed assent, with another fascinating
smile, and the other immediately produced the missive,
with its large red seal and gay ribbon. Isaline
eagerly opened it, and for the next five minutes
remained completely absorbed with its contents.
While she was so engaged, Rough Tom drew Henry
aside and conversed with him in low tones; and
Charles Hampton, with a dark frown on his brow,
paced moodily to and fro, with his eyes fixed on the
deck, as if brooding over the insult he had so recently
received.

“Thanks for good news, my friends—for so I see,
by my father's sanction, I am entitled to call you!”
at length exclaimed Isaline, addressing the scouts.
“You are named in the letter as Thomas Sturgess
and Henry Colburn, and I am desired to put all
confidence in you, and to consider myself completely
under your charge!”

“Tom Sturgess—Rough Tom—that thar's me!”
said the old woodman; “and with the colonel's own
hand-write for me to see you safe through the wilderness,
I'd jest like to know who's got arything to say
agin it!” and he glanced triumphantly and defiantly

at Hampton, who seemed to scowl more darkly, but
without lifting his eyes.

“I am most proud and happy to be one assigned
to so pleasant a duty!” said Henry Colburn, turning
his gaze upon the fair girl with an admiring blush.

Their eyes met, and in that moment something
passed between the souls of each which neither had
experienced before. By a simultaneous impulse,
both silently turned their glances aside and encountered
the dark, fiery orbs of Charles Hampton,
and both felt that in the same minute of time they
had looked upon the good and evil of their future
destiny.