University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

“It's a baver!” said Paddy, in reply to Van Wiggens,
who, upon awaking from his troubled slumber, and hearing
the report of a gun on the river-bank, had walked in that
direction. Paddy, as he answered, was endeavouring to
take a steady aim at the “varmint,” which, most singularly
for a beaver, did not sink beneath the surface, but persisted
in its efforts to ascend the low embankment.

“Let me see!” said Van Wiggens, cocking his gun and
peeping over. “Tam your Irish eyes!” he cried, a moment
after; “if you shoot him I'll kill you! He's a dousand
dimes better as you!”

“What! Isn't it a baver?” asked Paddy, upon hearing
a low whine.

“Baver, de teiffel! It's my Vatch!” cried Van Wiggens,
dropping his rifle and sliding down into the water,
unmindful of the chilling bath, and hugging the poor shivering
animal in his arms. “Poor Vatch!” he exclaimed,
in broken tones of pity and affection; “you've been swimming
all night to reach your master, who has nobody else
to love since Mrs. Wan Viggens sold herself to der teiffel.
And de savages nearly starved you, Vatch! See how little
your pelly is! And de tammed fool Irishman,” he continued,
in tears, “has been shooting at you for a baver, as
he calls it. Come, Vatch! you shall have blenty of my
breakfast before te hot fire.” Still holding the grateful
dog in his arms, Van Wiggens ascended the embankment
and strode toward the fire, while Paddy sat down on a log
and gazed after him.

Paddy continued to sit there, enjoying the fumes of the
broiling venison, and gradually yielding to the exhilarating
influences of such a lovely morning in so genial a climate,
when, lifting his head, he saw the smoke of a gun just discharged
on the opposite side of the river

“What are the blackguards afther now?” said he, soliloquizing,
as he beheld a dozen savages on the bank gazing
at him. A moment after, and simultaneously with the report,
a leaden ball struck the log on which he sat and just
between his knees. He was not at first aware of the nature
of the messenger, although he felt a stinging sensation
from the particles of lead radiating on the hard surface of
the wood. He gazed a moment at the blue spot between
his legs, and, becoming conscious of having been made the
target of the marksman across the river, fell down suddenly,
and screamed “Murther!” so loudly and repeatedly
that many of the men came running in that direction.

The Indians witnessing this scene yelled with delight,
not doubting that one of their foes had fallen.

“Take care!” said Boone, standing over Paddy with an
upraised club. “If you stir hand or foot, you'll be bitten!”
And the next moment the club descended, and crushed an
enormous rattlesnake within a few inches of Paddy's head.

“Murther! murther! murther!” cried Paddy, rolling
away with great power and velocity.

“Stand up, mon! Ye're not dead yet, and ye were
not born to be shot, droowned, or poisoned,” said Hugh
McSwine.

“Och, Mr. Bone,” cried Paddy, “I thought these ugly
bastes went into their howls when the frosts came!”

“So they do,” said Boone. “This fellow was going to
the cliff yonder, but stopped to sun himself on the warm
side of the log.”

“And sure I was doing that same thing meself! But it
wasn't the baste that made me cry out.”

“Why should you holler murder for a snake?” said
Kenton. “Why not kill 'em and be done with it?”

“Och, it was the bullet!”

“Bullet?” repeated several.

“Yes, I'm shat! The baste made me forgit it! Yes,
I'm shat! See here!” and, unwrapping his leggins, Paddy
exhibited several slight punctures and bruises. He then

pointed to the blue marks on the log, and described the
attitude in which he had been sitting.

The whole party, who had heard the rifle, laughed
heartily at Paddy's expense.

“That was close grazing,” said Kenton, “and it would
have given a black eye. He must have aimed at the tops
of the trees.”

This incident over, the party, after a hearty repast, set
out in the direction of Boone's station. They followed a
broad buffalo-trail which led to the mineral springs afterward
known as the Blue Licks.

The climate seemed to have a most extraordinary effect
upon the spirits of all. Kenton was continually leaping
up, hallooing, and letting off some hunter's joke that produced
laughter. Boone's eyes had a bright, merry look.
Several of the prisoners who had been captured in Kentucky,
and among them a hale, hearty fellow named Chapman,
had a propensity for crowing.

“Foo! Vat's dat schmells so?” exclaimed Van Wiggens,
who rode a short distance in advance.

“The mineral springs,” said Charles. “Our horses have
been for some time pricking forward their ears and snuffing
the breeze. And will we not find buffalo there?” he continued,
addressing Boone.

“Certainly. Don't you see the fresh sign? And we
must kill a supply for the winter.”

A profound silence ensued as they proceeded, and all
gazed in admiration at the most lovely country they had
ever beheld. The climate was truly delightful, the soil
fertile, and the surface pleasantly diversified with hill and
valley, woodland and prairie. It teemed with game of
every description; and hardly a minute passed that some
one of the party did not behold buffalo, elk, bear, or
deer.

Kenton led a number of men in advance of the rest to
the Licks, and soon their guns were heard dealing death
among the buffalo. Those huge animals had collected that
autumn in vast multitudes. They had gone thither from
all the adjacent countries for hundreds of miles round,
meeting as if by concert at a common rendezvous; and it
was feared they would soon be followed by the Indians,
their natural proprietors. Therefore, Boone advised a

speedy departure from the vicinity. A few hours would
suffice for the slaughter of buffalo.

Boone remained with Charles and Julia, having no disposition
to partake of the sport. His thoughts dwelt upon
his family, who had been left at the settlement on the Kentucky
River, and from whom he had been separated many
months. He would soon see them if they still remained at
the station. But who could tell, in a time of such vicissitudes,
what might have happened?

“Mr. Bone! Mr. Bone!” cried Paddy, who, with the
rest, drew rein and listened to a strange rumbling sound
which appeared to shake the very earth, “what is that?
Is it a harrycane?”

“Follow me!” cried Boone, with an excited countenance.
And they had no sooner paused under the boughs of a
dense grove of giant sugar-maples, several hundred paces
west of the great trail, than an immense drove of the wild
cattle came rushing past. It was a torrent which would
have swept through an opposing army.

“Merciful heaven!” cried Julia, as the astounding apparition
swept by.

“There is no danger here,” said Charles, breathing
freely. “Mr. Boone has saved us.”

“And ye're quite sure we're saved?” asked Paddy.
“Then, be the powers, I'll have a crack at 'em!” And,
after a hasty aim, he fired at the moving mass of animals,
the nearest of them being only some fifty paces distant.
“Howly Vargin!” he cried, “I've kelt a dazen at layst.
Saa how they tumble over!” He had, indeed, by a lucky
shot, brought one of them down, and many of the rest fell
over him. Several, untouched by Paddy's lead, were
trampled under-foot and never rose again. And when the
thundering mass had vanished, it was with great exultation
that Paddy claimed them all as the extraordinary product
of his fire.

Resuming the broad buffalo-trail, the travellers approached
the Licks. In the immediate vicinity of the
springs the earth seemed to have been scooped out or trodden
down many feet in depth, for hundreds of paces in
circumference; and this had been done by the animals
resorting thither for ages.

The hunters had already collected a vast number of

tongues; and these, with the best of the skins, made quite
as heavy a burden as the horses could bear.

About the middle of the afternoon of the second day
after crossing the Ohio, the party paused on the summit
of a high cliff on the northern bank of the Kentucky River.
With a palpitating heart, Boone gazed in silence at the
narrow tract of bottom-land on the opposite shore. Then,
seeing the smoke curling up from the cabins, his face beaming
with delight, and every nerve quivering with pleasurable
excitement, he uttered a loud, clear halloo upon the
still air, which was borne over the surface of the bright
water. After a brief pause it was answered from the other
side by a voice Boone seemed to recognise; and this was
succeeded by a dozen others. Though long given up as
dead, Boone's halloo was known. Whoops and cheers
were soon uttered in quick succession, and the people were
seen running about in great commotion.

“Thank heaven, I see women and children!” said
Julia.

“But not mine! not mine!” said Boone, straining his
eyes, with his hands on his forehead. “I see my brother,
two sons, but no wife, no daughter! Gone! They would
have known my voice better than the rest. Not there!
no, they are not there!”

“You should not suppose they have fallen into the hands
of the enemy,” said Julia, witnessing his emotion with concern,
“since the rest seem to have escaped.”

“No,” said he, recovering his self-possession, “I have
no fear of that. I know what has happened. They supposed
me dead, and returned to North Carolina. No
matter. They have not taken the fort and the country
with them, and I can bring them back.”

Kenton, having assembled the horses and men in full
view of the little settlement, gave a signal, and the air was
rent with cheers. The people on the opposite side of the
river seemed almost wild with joy, and sent over all the
canoes they could command; and our party, following the
winding path down to the water's edge, were met and rapturously
greeted by the FIRST SETTLERS OF Kentucky.
And it may be said that the example of extending a hearty
welcome to a returning friend or a wandering stranger,
practised by those adventurous pioneers, has never since

been forgotten by their noble and generous descendants.

Julia and Charles, and all the weary fugitives, were now
in a place of comparative security. Mr. Jones preached
that night to a congregation of not less than sixty men,
women, and children.

Among the women in the fort, or settlement,— for it
hardly deserved the name of the former,— were Mrs.
McGary, Mrs. Logan, Mrs. Todd, Mrs. Miller, Mrs. Hogan,
Mrs. Harrod, Mrs. Bryant, Mrs. Trigg, Mrs. Bulger, Mrs.
Harland, Mrs. Harrison, Mrs. Calloway, and others, from
whom have descended some of the best specimens of humanity,
whether in the field or in the forum, that have
illustrated our history. Their husbands were absent building
small forts or block-houses—called stations—in other
portions of the country.

Nor was Boone quite correct in his conjecture. His
wife, it was true, with some of the younger children, had
returned to North Carolina. His favourite daughter remained,
and had been prevented from coming forth on
hearing his voice by an attack of the ague,—a disease which
had periodically assailed her before leaving Carolina. But
she was quite well the next day, and succeeded in cheering
the heart of her affectionate father.

Skippie's bundle was now opened, and Julia overwhelmed
him with thanks for the timely addition to her
wardrobe.

The men made but little change in their dress, as all the
hardy pioneers were habited in buckskin hunting-shirts;
and, with the exception of their faces, which they washed
occasionally, their resemblance to the Indians was not very
remote. They wore moccasins, leggins, and, in cold weather,
blankets, and each had his rifle, tomahawk, and knife.
With the latter they carved their meat or scalped an
enemy as occasion required.

After sojourning in the fort some days in perfect repose,
those who had no intention of becoming citizens of the
country began to make preparations for returning to their
distant homes. But these preliminaries were cut short by
the arrival of a prisoner who had escaped from the Indians,
and who stated that the enemy were organizing an army
for the purpose of exterminating the white intruders in

Kentucky, and that their arrival might be looked for in a
few days.

This, according to Paddy's idea, which he strove in vain
to impress upon others, was a conclusive reason why they
should hasten to depart.

The fort was immediately repaired. It consisted merely
of a quadrangular structure of some forty connecting log-cabins,
the doors opening on the square within. The hardy
pioneers relied more upon their own bravery and skill with
the rifle for security than upon the usual artificial or scientific
defences of civilized warfare.

At night, when they supposed the Indians were lurking
in the vicinity, the cattle were driven within the enclosure,
the gates fastened, and one or two sentinels placed on duty.
And such was the reliance on the prowess of their defenders
that some of the aged females, on one or two occasions,
declined rising from their couches during a night attack,
wherein the enemy quadrupled the little garrison in numerical
force.

On the present occasion, when the history of Charles
and Julia became known, and the sanguinary adventures
of Hugh McSwine were related and the horse-stealing
feats of Simon Kenton duly confessed, a belief prevailed
that a more determined and desperate attempt to destroy
the settlements would be made than any hitherto experienced;
and preparations were made accordingly. Every
man had a duty to perform, and Paddy was made to understand
that any proposition to diminish the strength of the
garrison at such a moment would be a pusillanimity deserving
of summary punishment.

And during this period of apprehension and suspense
the Rev. Mr. Jones reaped his harvest of souls. He
preached and prayed with great effect. No less than five
women and three men were plunged by him beneath the
pellucid waters of the Kentucky River.

But still the savages delayed the assault, and, as the
frosts were crisping the leaves, it was hoped the invasion
would be postponed until the ensuing year, when the influx
of emigrants would furnish men enough to meet the enemy
in the field. Under this supposition some of the people
grew incautious; and among them were Boone's daughter
Mary, Miss Calloway, and Julia, who, becoming intimate

associates as soon as they met, were afterward inseparable
companions. They explored every hill and valley in the
neighbourhood. They called the saucy squirrels that gazed
at them from the low boughs their bonnies, and clapped
their hands as the startled buck sprang up before them in
the tangled brake. They gathered the wild plum, the haw,
the persimmon, and the papaw. And at dusky eve, when
the men ceased to garner the corn, and, guided by the sound
of their bells, sought the cows and horses among the cane
and drove them within the enclosure of the fort, the three
girls loved to linger, striving, but in vain, to find the
mysterious whippoorwill that filled the valley with its
wailing.

And at night, when the weary labourer, his hunger satisfied,
was steeped in profound slumber, the old women, not
requiring recuperative repose, usually sat till a late hour
before the broad hearths, the glowing embers of which
illuminated the recesses of the quiet cabins. Then it was
that Julia listened to the many thrilling narratives of “hairbreadth
escapes” from the savages and fearful encounters
with wild beasts and enormous serpents. Such was the
staple material of the fireside conversation in the new settlements.
And, although many a truthful tale thus narrated
harrowed the feelings of the auditor, yet there was a
fascination in the recital, a romance in the simple loves
and distresses, which caused the most timid maiden still to
linger and listen. And their dreams reproduced the most
terrible scenes, to be followed, too often, alas, by the reality
of suffering and death!

One evening, just at the first glimmer of twilight, when
the owl came flapping down from the hills and the whippoorwill
was uttering its first lamentation, the three girls
were still lingering on the margin of the river.

“Come, Mary,” said Sue Calloway, “don't you hear the
bells? They are driving in the cows and horses, and will
soon be looking for us.”

“Don't fear it, Sue,” said the daughter of Boone; “they
will not miss us — I mean you and I. Julia, though, is
always looked for and watched over by the handsome bird
of prey.”

“Bird of prey?” continued Sue, seeing Julia plunged
in one of her spells of musing abstraction.

“Yes; don't you remember father says they called him
White Eagle?”

“Oh, yes! I forgot. And we poor neglected creatures
may wail with the whippoorwill,” she added, with a
sigh.

“Simon Kenton,” whispered Mary, while the other
blushed and turned aside her face, “says he loves the
song of the dusky bird, and knows where it perches when
singing.”

“Eagle!” said Julia, roused suddenly from her reverie.
“Did you not say something about the eagle?”

“Yes,—a white eagle,” replied Mary.

“You mean Charles. You need not smile. You cannot
annoy me by alluding to him.”

“We would not annoy you if we could,” said Mary.
“We merely desired to rouse you. You seemed unconscious
of the lateness of the hour.”

“But see!” exclaimed Julia; “the hills opposite are
tinged with the silver light of the moon before we can
behold the disk of the orb. You know we cannot see it
rise from the fort. Go in, if you will not stay with me,
and I will follow presently.”

The girls did as she requested, and left her standing under
a hawthorn-tree. They had become accustomed to Julia's
little eccentricities, which they attributed solely to the
delightful influence of love.

Julia awaited the rising of the moon, which seemed to
beam on her pale forehead as a light from her distant
home; and she smiled as she gazed at the joyful messenger
from the East. Then turning into the little path leading
through the clustering vines and bushes toward the gate of
the fort, she was startled by the rustling of dry leaves in
her immediate vicinity, and paused to listen. To her dismay
and horror, a tall Indian, of herculean frame, arose
and stood before her. She did not cry out, but her heart
throbbed audibly.

“Fear not. I am a friend,” said the Indian, in very
good English.

“Who are you? What do you want?” asked the trembling
girl, quickly, and glancing hastily round, as if in quest
of some avenue of escape. But there was none.

“I am one who will do you no ill. I want a few brief

words with you, and then you may go to your friends.
You have heard the White Eagle say his brother Thayendanegea
was incapable of lying. I am Thayendanegea.”

Julia breathed more freely. She was aware that the
savages often professed friendship when they meant harm;
but it was not so with the great sachem of the Six Nations.

“Speak on; I am listening,” said she.

“First,” said the chief, making a stride toward the
shrinking girl, and gently taking her unresisting hand,
“promise that you will not make known my presence in
this vicinity. On that condition you have my word that
you shall return to your friends unharmed by me—if you
desire it.”

“If I desire it? But I promise. Now be quick!” said she.

“Yes, if you desire it. I am now a king. If you will
go with me,—voluntarily, I mean,—you shall be my bride,
my queen, and I will love you during the whole of my life.
My sister loves the young companion of her infancy, and
mourns over his desertion. Let him marry her. We will
seek a retreat where the white man cannot come, and
be happy. The tomahawk shall be buried. We will live
in peace. Thousands of innocent lives will be spared. The
Great Spirit you worship will smile on you—”

“Impossible!” said Julia, in tears.

“It is the last offer!” continued Brandt. “Another
moon, and it will be too late. The tribes of every nation
are rousing, and, when the hatchet is sharpened and the
war-paths are trodden, neither orators nor sachems will be
able to withhold the sinewy arms of the warriors. The
Mohawks love their white brother, and their king loves the
white maiden. Speak! But think of the benefits you may
confer or the sufferings entail on your fellow-creatures.”

“Oh, Brandt, it is impossible!”

“Go, then!”

“Oh, tell me,” she said, pausing in her flight, “where
your sister is, and if she reproaches us.”

“She complains not — reproaches not — but loves on.
She would die, if she were not a Christian and did not
fear to offend her God.”

“Bless her! Oh, Thayendanegea, tell her I love her
dearly! But say her sister fears her, too — or else she
would have her always near—”

“Brandt would slay her first! Say no more! Farewell.
Breathe to no one what has passed this night. And yet,
Julia,” he continued, in faltering and softened tones,
“you may reveal it to Charles, if he will promise not to
seek me during the next twelve hours, in the event of rejecting
my offer.”

And before the girl could reply the chief had vanished;
and, when she turned her face again in the direction of the
fort, she saw Mary and Sue approaching with hurried
steps.

“The moon is half an hour high,” said Mary, “and yet
you tarry.”

“I've heard of people being moonstruck,” said Sue.
And then, seeing Julia pale and distressed, she took her
hand tenderly and asked her forgiveness.

“There is nothing to forgive, Sue,” said Julia, returning
the caress. “You did not mean to offend me. That is
sufficient.”

“But why are you so cold and pale?” asked Mary.

“Am I?” was all the response Julia vouchsafed.

“Yes, truly. And I am sure you have seen something
which has terrified you.”

“Seen something?”

“A ghost, perhaps,” said Sue. “It was not an Indian,
or she would not have remained here alone; nor a lover,
for he is in the fort seeking her.”

A sad smile was all this sally produced. And then they
entered the gate.

“You have been weeping,” said Charles, late in the
evening, observing Julia's abstraction while the rest were
singing merry songs.

“And for what, pray?” replied she, with a faint smile.

“I know not, unless it be to return. But why should
you seek to hide your grief? That is the mystery.”

“It is a mystery and a secret,” said the girl, her face
assuming a deathlike paleness, “which I cannot reveal
until you have first promised not to betray it to others.”

“I cannot conceive the necessity. But I promise.”

Then she related in a low tone what she had seen and
listened to. Charles became very pale, and long remained
silent.

“And you told him it was impossible?”

“Can you doubt it?”

“Certainly not, when you say so.”

“I have said so. What else could I tell him? Why
should he presume to make such an offer?”

“True. And he is ambitious. He could never love
thee as I do. Pardon me. My mind reverted to the instances
in ancient history of persons sacrificing themselves
for their country—suffering death to save the lives of
others. And Brandt has heard of them, and would be
famous. But he is incapable of loving, and could make no
one happy.”

“Would the result be as he promised? Would peace
ensue?”

“No! He is mistaken. He could not restrain them. He
might detach some of the warriors from this section by
leading them against others. But I doubt even that. The
Shawnees of Chillicothe and the Wyandots on the Miami
have sworn to drive the white people out of Kentucky. It
would be a bootless sacrifice. You would be miserable, and
I could never love the Brown Thrush but as a poor, simple,
wild-wood sister.”

“Nay, do not fear I shall become an advocate of the
arrangement,” said she. “The experience of poor Van
Wiggens would alone deter me. But here is Skippie, who
has been invisible for several days.”

“Skippie,” said Charles, gazing at the imperturbable
features of the mysterious messenger, “how did you get
in?”

“Over!” said he, his gestures indicating that he had
entered over the roof without being seen by the sentinels.

“Well?”

“Going,” said he, pointing eastward.

“When?”

“Morning.”

“He will take any letters we may write, Julia,” said
Charles.

Skippie nodded assent.

“Then, like Kate, I will write all night,” said Julia.
“Oh, I will freeze her blood with an account of the interview
I have just had with the terrible Brandt!”

“You may injure your health, or at least your eyes,
Julia, by writing so much. Permit me to work for you.

I will be your secretary. My letters can be despatched in
an hour.”

“Indeed! I will do my own writing. What! permit you
to see my letters? You are very, very kind, sir! Where
is Skippie? Gone! No matter. But in truth, Charles,
I will not injure my eyes. My journal has been copied in
anticipation of some such announcement from the faithful
Skippie. And you know it is to be enveloped and sealed
by Kate, and opened at some distant day when we shall
not be living to blush at our silly confessions. I shall have
plenty of time.”

Charles returned to his room to prepare his letters, and
Julia likewise hastened to perform her task. And it may
be remarked that, as our narrative is partly founded on
these documents, they were faithfully delivered by Skippie.