Daniel Boone: The Pioneer of Kentucky
door to ascertain the cause, he was instantly fired upon by seven or
eight Indians who had crept near the house secreting themselves behind
stumps and trees. Two bullets struck him, fracturing the bones both of
his leg and of his arm. The savages, with hideous yells, then rushed for
the door.
Mrs. Merrill had but just time to close and bolt it when the savages
plunged against it and hewed it with their tomahawks. Every dwelling was
at that time a fortress whose log walls were bullet proof. But for the
terrible wounds which Mr. Merrill had received, he would with his rifle
shooting through loop-holes, soon have put the savages to flight. They,
emboldened by the supposition that he was killed, cut away at the door
till they had opened a hole sufficiently large to crawl through. One of
the savages attempted to enter. He had got nearly in when Mrs. Merrill
cleft his skull with an ax, and he fell lifeless upon the floor.
Another, supposing that he had safely effected an entrance, followed him
and encountered the same fate. Four more of the savages were in this way
despatched, when the others, suspecting that all was not right, climbed
upon the roof and two of them endeavored to descend through the
chimney. The noise they made directed the attention of the inmates of
the cabin to the new danger.
There was a gentle fire burning upon the hearth. Mr. Merrill, with much
presence of mind, directed his son, while his wife guarded the opening
of the door with her ax, to empty the contents of a feather bed upon the
fire. The dense smothering smoke filled the flue of the chimney. The two
savages, suffocated with the fumes, after a few convulsive efforts to
ascend fell almost insensible down upon the hearth. Mr. Merrill, seizing
with his unbroken arm a billet of wood, despatched them both. But one of
the Indians now remained. Peering in at the opening in the door he
received a blow from the ax of Mrs. Merrill which severely wounded him.
Bleeding and disheartened he fled alone into the wilderness, the only
one of the eight who survived the conflict.
A white man who was at that time a prisoner among the Indians and who
subsequently effected his escape, reported that when the wounded savage
reached his tribe he said to the white captive in broken English:
"I have bad news for the poor Indian. Me lose a son, me lose a broder.
The squaws have taken the breech clout, and fight worse than the long
knives."
But the Indians were not always the aggressors. Indeed it is doubtful
whether they would ever have raised the war-whoop against the white man,
had it not been for the outrages they were so constantly experiencing
from unprincipled and vagabond adventurers, who were ever infesting the
frontiers. The following incident illustrates the character and conduct
of these miscreants:
A party of Indian hunters from the South wandering through their ancient
hunting grounds of Kentucky, accidentally came upon a settlement where
they found several horses grazing in the field. They stole the horses,
and commenced a rapid retreat to their own country. Three young men,
Davis, Caffre and McClure, pursued them. Not being able to overtake the
fugitives, they decided to make reprisals on the first Indians they
should encounter. It so happened that they soon met three Indian
hunters. The parties saluted each other in a friendly manner, and
proceeded on their way in pleasant companionship.
The young men said that they observed the Indians conversing with one
another in low tones of voice, and thus they became convinced that the
savages meditated treachery. Resolving to anticipate the Indians'
attack, they formed the following plan. While walking together in
friendly conversation, the Indians being entirely off their guard,
Caffre, who was a very powerful man, was to spring upon the lightest of
the Indians, crush him to the ground, and thus take him a prisoner. At
the same instant, Davis and McClure were each to shoot one of the other
Indians, who, being thus taken by surprise, could offer no resistance.
The signal was given. Caffre sprang upon his victim and bore him to the
ground. McClure shot his man dead. Davis' gun flashed in the pan. The
Indian thus narrowly escaping death immediately aimed his gun at Caffre,
who was struggling with the one he had grappled, and instantly killed
him. McClure in his turn shot the Indian. There was now one Indian and
two white men. But the Indian had the loaded rifle. McClure's was
discharged and Davis' missed fire. The Indian, springing from the grasp
of his dying antagonist, presented his rifle at Davis, who immediately
fled, hotly pursued by the Indian. McClure, stopping only to reload his
gun, followed after them. Soon he lost sight of both. Davis was never
heard of afterwards. Doubtless he was shot by the avenging Indian, who
returned to his wigwam with the white man's scalp.
McClure, after this bloody fray, being left alone in the wilderness,
commenced a return to his distant home. He had not proceeded far before
he met an Indian on horseback accompanied by a boy on foot. The warrior
dismounted, and in token of peace offered McClure his pipe. As they were
seated together upon a log, conversing, McClure said that the Indian
informed him by signs that there were other Indians in the distance who
would soon come up, and that then they should take him captive, tie his
feet beneath the horse's belly and carry him off to their village.
McClure seized his gun, shot the Indian through the heart, and plunging
into the forest, effected his escape.
About this same time Captain James Ward, with a party of half a dozen
white men, one of whom was his nephew, and a number of horses, was
floating down the Ohio River from Pittsburgh. They were in a flat boat
about forty-five feet long and eight feet wide. The gunwale of the boat
consisted of but a single pine plank. It was beautiful weather, and for
several days they were swept along by the tranquil stream, now borne by
the changing current towards the one shore, and now towards the other.
One morning when they had been swept by the stream within about one
hundred and fifty feet of the northern shore, suddenly several hundred
Indians appeared upon the bank, and uttering savage yells opened upon
them a terrible fire.
Captain Ward's nephew, pierced by a ball in the breast, fell dead in the
bottom of the boat. Every horse was struck by a bullet. Some were
instantly killed; others, severely wounded, struggled so violently as to
cause the frail bark to dip water, threatening immediate destruction.
All the crew except Captain Ward were so panic-stricken by this sudden
assault, that they threw themselves flat upon their faces in the bottom
of the boat, and attempted no resistance where even the exposure of a
hand would be the target for a hundred rifles.
Fortunately Captain Ward was protected from this shower of bullets by a
post, which for some purpose had been fastened to the gunwale. He
therefore retained his position at the helm, which was an oar, striving
to guide the boat to the other side of the river. As the assailants had
no canoes, they could not attempt to board, but for more than an hour
they ran along the banks yelling and keeping up an almost constant fire.
At length the boat was swept to the other side of the stream, when the
miscreants abandoned the pursuit, and disappeared.
Quite a large party of emigrants were attacked by the Indians near what
is now called Scagg's Creek, and six were instantly killed. A Mrs.
McClure, delirious with terror, fled she knew not where, followed by her
three little children and carrying a little babe in her arms. The cries
of the babe guided the pursuit of the Indians. They cruelly tomahawked
the three oldest children, and took the mother and the babe as captives.
Fortunately the tidings of this outrage speedily reached one of the
settlements. Captain Whitley immediately started in pursuit of the
gang. He overtook them, killed two, wounded two, and rescued the
captives. Such were the scenes enacted during a period of nominal peace
with the Indians.
There has been transmitted to us a very curious document, giving an
account of a speech made by Mr. Dalton, a Government agent, to a council
of Indian chiefs, upon the announcement of peace with Great Britain, and
their reply. Mr. Dalton said:
"MY CHILDREN,--What I have often told you is now come to pass. This day
I received news from my great chief at the Falls of the Ohio. Peace is
made with the enemies of America. The white flesh, the Americans,
French, and Spanish, this day smoked out of the peace-pipe. The tomahawk
is buried, and they are now friends. I am told the Shawanese, the
Delawares, Chickasaws, Cherokees, and all other red flesh, have taken
the Long Knife by the hand. They have given up to them the prisoners
that were in their hands.
"My children on the Wabash, open your ears and let what I tell you sink
into your hearts. You know me. Near twenty years I have been among you.
The Long Knife is my nation. I know their hearts. Peace they carry in
one hand and war in the other. I leave you to yourselves to judge.
Consider and now accept the one or the other. We never beg peace of our
enemies. If you love your women and children, receive the belt of wampum
I present you. Return me my flesh you have in your villages, and the
horses you stole from my people in Kentucky. Your corn fields were never
disturbed by the Long Knife. Your women and children lived quiet in
their houses, while your warriors were killing and robbing my people.
All this you know is the truth.
"This is the last time I shall speak to you. I have waited six moons to
hear you speak and to get my people from you. In ten nights I shall
leave the Wabash to see my great chief at the Falls of the Ohio, where
he will be glad to hear from your own lips what you have to say. Here is
tobacco I give you. Smoke and consider what I have said."
Mr. Dalton then presented Piankashaw, the chief of the leading tribe
assembled in council, with a belt of blue and white wampum. Piankashaw
received the emblem of peace with much dignity, and replied:
"MY GREAT FATHER THE LONG KNIFE,--You have been many years among us. You
have suffered by us. We still hope you will have pity and compassion
upon us, on our women and children. The sun shines on us, and the good
news of peace appears in our faces. This is the day of joy to the Wabash
Indians. With one tongue we now speak. We accept your peace-belt.
"We received the tomahawk from the English. Poverty forced us to it. We
were followed by other tribes. We are sorry for it. To-day we collect
the scattered bones of our friends and bury them in one grave. We thus
plant the tree of peace, that God may spread its branches so that we can
all be secured from bad weather. Here is the pipe that gives us joy.
Smoke out of it. Our warriors are glad you are the man we present it to.
We have buried the tomahawk, have formed friendship never to be broken,
and now we smoke out of your pipe.
"My father, we know that the Great Spirit was angry with us for stealing
your horses and attacking your people. He has sent us so much snow and
cold weather as to kill your horses with our own. We are a poor people.
We hope God will help us, and that the Long Knife will have compassion
on our women and children. Your people who are with us are well. We
shall collect them when they come in from hunting. All the prisoners
taken in Kentucky are alive. We love them, and so do our young women.
Some of your people mend our guns, and others tell us they can make rum
out of corn. They are now the same as we. In one moon after this we will
take them back to their friends in Kentucky.
"My father, this being the day of joy to the Wabash Indians, we beg a