Part 8

And all the while he would maintain a perfect appearance of the utmost unconcern with regard to himself and his fate. Never by word, look, or gesture would he display the slightest fear or uneasiness of mind. As a matter of fact, this attitude was in complete consonance with the state of his feelings. From his first capture by Indians, during his expedition to Kentucky in 1769, until the day of his death, Boone always felt, when in their hands, the utmost confidence in his ability to influence them and to make his escape from them. No band ever held him prisoner without coming under the spell of his magnetism and admiring his calm self-possession. If any other man enjoyed the same exemption from fear of the redskins, and possessed the same power of arousing their better natures, it was George Rogers Clark.

As we have intimated, to have given his present captors the slip would have been no great feat on the part of Boone, but he did not entertain the idea. In the first place, he was restrained by the conviction that the loss of their chief prize would arouse the savages to fury and prompt them to wreak vengeance upon the other captives. Furthermore, he considered it his duty to remain with his men, who had no one among them capable of filling his place as leader or counsellor. Had Boone entertained any different ideas, circumstances which arose at the close of the first day’s march would have put them to rout.

In the squad of prisoners that included Boone was a young fellow named Stephen Halliwell, who had been sickening for days previous to the capture. By almost superhuman effort he got through the first march and when camp was reached fell upon the ground in a state of collapse. Boone was seriously concerned about the man, but not so much on account of his fever as because it was the invariable practice of the Indians to tomahawk sick or weak prisoners in order that they should not impede progress. Boone made a comfortable bed for the sufferer beside himself, using most of his own covering in doing so, and he exerted himself more than ever that night to put the Indians round the camp fires in good humor.

The next morning poor Halliwell braced himself for the fearful struggle of another day. Boone had learned from the Indians that they expected to reach their town at the close of the third full day’s march. This prospect alone gave the fever-stricken man the courage to proceed. Boone carried Halliwell’s pack in addition to his own and the sick man’s comrades took turns in supporting his tottering steps. Many a sinister glance was cast by the nearby savages at the evidently exhausted captive, but Boone was ever ready to avert the impending doom. He tramped along carelessly, almost jauntily, under his double load and constantly kept the neighboring redskins entertained--now he joked with them, offering to match himself against any squaw in their tribe at carrying a pack; now he pointed to the faint trace of some game animal that had lately passed that way and started a discussion of the best manner of tracking it. Anon he gave them a description of one of the great coast towns of the “Long Knives,” of which he knew only by hearsay. Again he sang a song or started a contest in mimicry with some brave, each being required to imitate the cries of certain beasts and birds. And so the weary day drew to a close and Halliwell, almost carried by one of his companions, reached the night’s camp.

The sick man was in a sorry plight. He had neither the will nor the power to make the slightest effort for himself. He dropped almost inanimate and so lay until Boone and another made his bed and rolled him in the blankets. A large stone was then heated in the fire and placed at his feet, with the object of producing a sweat. He was with difficulty induced to swallow a little broth, and then lay for hours in a semi-comatose condition, groaning feebly.

Towards midnight Halliwell awoke from a brief and restless slumber and turned to Boone, who was watching him.

“Captain,” said the sick man, in feeble tones--“Captain, you’ve done all you could for me and more than I had a right to expect, but I’m afraid it’s no use. I’ve shot my bolt, Captain.” The last words were uttered with an air of the deepest despair. A moment after, ashamed at the show of weakness, he continued, with a pitiful attempt at bravado: “I’m half minded to ask you to whip my scalp off, Captain, so as to cheat these red devils.”

“You’ve got to make a better stand than that, Steve,” replied Boone. “If I’d had any idea of letting you lose your scalp, I shouldn’t have gone to the trouble of carrying your pack to-day. We haven’t got to to-morrow yet. Now you go to sleep and don’t worry until worrying can do you some good, which’ll be never. If it’ll give you any satisfaction, I’ll say this much. No Indian shall raise your hair whilst I can raise a hand to prevent it.”

This assurance evidently cheered the wretched man. With a sigh of relief, he composed himself to sleep, whilst Boone rearranged his coverings.

The morning of the third and last day’s march opened to find Halliwell quite incapable of going farther. He could hardly stand, and his legs bent under him when he attempted to walk. As his dismayed companions stood around him, at a loss what to do, two warriors approached, tomahawk in hand. They had been ordered to do away with the unfortunate man, who had already occasioned sufficient delay in the start to excite the impatience of the Indians.

Boone stepped between the appointed executioners and their intended victim, and with upraised hand motioned them to stop. There was something in the quiet air of command that constrained the savages to obey the unarmed man. Boone then addressed the five chiefs, who stood together at a short distance. He said that it would serve no good purpose to kill the man and might bring great trouble upon themselves. If their only object was the professed one of avoiding delay, it might be accomplished without recourse to the measure they contemplated. He would carry the sick man through the last stage of the journey and would undertake that they should not impede the march. If he failed to fulfill his promise, they might tomahawk both himself and his charge.

To this proposition the Indians assented without hesitation. They were not, however, moved to this action by any sense of humanity but by the respect they already felt for Boone and, even more, by the desire to see him perform the extraordinary feat of carrying a man weighing something like one hundred and fifty pounds for a distance of thirteen miles. The arrangements were quickly made. Boone’s pack and that of Halliwell were divided among their comrades. With a buffalo skin and thongs of elk’s hide a sling was constructed and so adjusted as to secure the greatest degree of ease to the sick man whilst causing as little unnecessary strain upon Boone as possible. This done, Halliwell was lifted into the contrivance and the march commenced.

Boone knew that he was making no idle boast when he undertook the task that amazed the Indians. He had more than once carried an equal weight of dead matter for as great a distance. It was not, nevertheless, any light undertaking. Before the journey was more than half completed, he began to look forward to its close with eager anticipation, and when at length the party arrived within sight of Chillicothe, on the banks of the Little Miami, Boone was nearing the limit of his endurance. But the savages, who frequently looked at him with curious wonder, had not the satisfaction of learning this. He turned upon them his usual calm, inscrutable countenance, and replied to their jibes with perfect good-nature.

A great concourse awaited their coming on the outskirts of the town. The larger part of the crowd was composed of unkempt squaws, in dirty clothing, many of them with babies strapped to their backs. Young boys and girls, with a sprinkling of aged grandsires, made up the remainder, whilst the mongrel dogs of the Indians yelped an excited welcome to their returning masters. A mile from the town the warriors had begun to chant their song of victory, and as they neared the waiting throng they set to brandishing their weapons and shouting exultantly. The prisoners were conducted to the great square and there subjected to the curious scrutiny of the women and children for the space of an hour or two. The greatest interest was displayed in the white squaw who had come in carrying his sick papoose upon his back.

The Shawnees kept Boone and his companions at old Chillicothe for nearly three weeks, during which time they were well treated and, from the Indian point of view, comfortably lodged. At length ten of the prisoners and Boone were sent, under the escort of forty of the savages, to Detroit. Here they were, as Boone declared, “treated by Governor Hamilton, the British commander at that post, with great humanity.” Boone did not forget this kindness and afterwards, when Hamilton was an execrated prisoner in the hands of the Americans, Boone befriended him to the best of his ability.

The ten men who had been brought to Detroit in company with their captain were readily ransomed by the British, but the Indians declined to dispose of Boone in the same manner. The Governor offered one hundred pounds sterling--an extraordinary sum--for his release, intending to liberate him on parole. The offer must have been an extremely tempting one, but the Shawnees resolutely refused it. Boone had created a deep impression on their chiefs, and it had been determined, although the fact was not then announced, to adopt him into the tribe.

Boone made no effort to influence the issue one way or the other. Perhaps he realized that it would be futile to attempt to turn the Indians from their purpose. Perhaps he thought it advisable to go back to the remainder of his men. Or, which is highly probable, he was anxious for the opportunity of learning more about the tribe which constituted the chief menace to his people in Kentucky. Whatever his motive, he displayed such willingness to accompany the Shawnees back to Chillicothe that they were deluded into the belief that he was really disposed to become one of themselves.

Some of the officers at Detroit pressed gifts of money and various useful articles upon Boone, but he declined them all, saying that so far as he could foresee, the opportunity to repay their proffered kindness would never occur and he could not allow himself to lie under a perpetual obligation to them. Their good wishes he thankfully acknowledged, and left them with feelings of respect and admiration for him.

Early in April the Shawnees turned homeward with the prisoner upon whom they set so high a value. Their satisfaction in the possession of him prompted them to guard him with the utmost care, but he soon discovered that he had risen in their estimation and regard since the visit to Detroit. The march was a long and tedious one of three weeks’ duration, but during its course everything was done to promote the comfort of the captive. Boone was not slow to foster the good feelings evinced by his captors, and by the time they arrived at Chillicothe the most cordial relations existed between them and himself.

XI.

“BIG TURTLE”

Boone is formally adopted by the Shawnees--He becomes the son of Blackfish and is given the name of Big Turtle--The Indians treat him well but watch him closely--A description of old Chillicothe and its people--Boone gains the confidence of the tribe so that they allow him to go on short hunting trips--He accumulates a store of ammunition and secretes it--A war-party of various tribes visits the town--Boone learns their purpose to attack the Kentucky settlements--He contrives his escape and makes for Boonesborough--Arrives after a remarkable journey.

Adoption was a common practice among the Indians, and probably had always been so. They readily extended it to include white men, as the history of the earliest settlements proves. There are grounds for believing that, while most of the members of the “lost colony” of Roanoke were doubtless massacred, some of them survived as Indians by adoption and left descendants. John Smith was adopted by the Powhatans as the son of their great Werowance, and the Susquehannas were anxious to make him their chief.

At the time to which our story relates, the practice was prevalent among the Indians of the border and was usually resorted to with a view to filling the places of warriors killed in battle. Once admitted to the tribe, the white Indian was treated with kindness and often with more consideration than would have been the case had he been born among his adoptive relatives. He was, however, closely watched until his captors believed him to be fully reconciled to his new condition.

It was seldom that adult whites, thus forcibly affiliated with the redskins, missed a favorable opportunity to escape, and consequently the Indians became more disposed to the adoption of children. With respect to the latter, their designs were naturally attended by better success. The boy, prepared perhaps by a disposition inherited from backwoods ancestors, readily adapted himself to his new surroundings and soon became enamoured of the free and active life of the village and the camp. In many instances, youths recovered by their natural parents after many years’ residence with the Indians displayed the greatest repugnance to the ways of civilization, and sometimes ran away, returning to the people of their adoption.

Shortly after Boone’s return from Detroit, he was informed that his captors had determined to admit him into the tribe and that he was to become the son of the renowned warrior Blackfish, who was the chief of the band that inhabited Chillicothe. Boone professed to be gratified by the announcement and duly appreciative of the great honor of being adopted by the most powerful Indian of those parts. The tribesmen were delighted by his complacence and entered upon the ceremony with the utmost enthusiasm, for many of them had become sincerely attached to their extraordinary captive.

The ceremony of adoption, which the Indians naturally viewed with a sense of solemn importance, occupied several days and included features that were not altogether pleasant to the central figure in it. Indeed, the first stage of the initiation severely taxed Boone’s patience and fortitude, and more than once he was forced to convert a grimace of pain into a pretended grin of amusement. The operation of forming the scalp-lock was performed in the presence of the warriors, who closely noted the manner in which the victim bore his sufferings.

Boone was required to seat himself and was expected to remain passive while two Indians tore his hair out by the roots. The ordeal was the more severe because the operation was protracted and the hair plucked in small strands. It was customary to allow the subject of this ceremony one or two intervals for rest and the recovery of his nervous system. The usual respite was offered to Boone but he replied that if the operators were not too tired to proceed he should like them to go ahead and finish their work. This they did and at the end of several hours Boone’s long locks had all disappeared with the exception of one thick tuft in the centre of the crown. This was the scalp-lock. When it had been tied up with ribbon and fixed with feathers the operation was pronounced complete and our hero stood forth literally and metaphorically a redskin, so far as his head was concerned.

The next morning Boone was conducted to the river, stripped of his clothing and led into the water. He was then vigorously washed and rubbed “to take all his white blood out.” Following this ablution, he was led to the council-house, where the chief, in this case the adoptive father, made an address. The initiate was informed of the great honors and benefits that would accrue to him by admission to the tribe; he was instructed as to the duties that would devolve upon him and the course of behavior he would be expected to follow. The assembled warriors were also reminded of the rights and future status of their new brother and exhorted to accord to him proper treatment and consideration.

At the completion of the chief’s speech, which was received with grunts of approval, two Indians approached Boone, who stood in the centre of the chamber, and with pigments of various hues proceeded to paint his head and face after the most approved fashion. This was the final step in the ceremony. Boone was now a full-blown Shawnee, and his fellow-tribesmen crowded round to congratulate him. A big feast was now spread. After they had eaten heartily, pipes were lit and the company sat smoking and talking far into the night. Boone’s natural dignity and habitual self-control enabled him to adapt himself to his new rôle with ease, and before the gathering broke up the warriors had begun to look upon him as a kindred spirit and boon companion.

The town of which Boone was now an inhabitant under the name of Sheltowee, or “Big Turtle,” was situated on the banks of the Little Miami River. The buildings were ranged round a great square which, like the market-place of a country town, was the common resort of loungers and the general rendezvous of the community. Here they performed their ceremonial dances, erected the war-post, celebrated victory or bemoaned defeat, indulged in various sports, including the torture of prisoners, divided spoils, held mass-meetings, and in short gathered for any purpose of general interest.

The council-house was the principal building in the town. It stood on somewhat elevated ground at the northern end of the square and was constructed of logs in part painted and carved. The roof was finished with slabs of bark and the interior furnished with mats and the skins of various animals. A platform, raised to the height of about two feet, ran round three sides of the wall, leaving a sort of pit in the centre. Upon this platform the warriors squatted on the occasions of councils, the receptions of delegations from other tribes, or deliberations on the fate of prisoners; the visitors, or captives, occupying the central and less elevated space.

The cabins of the population, which numbered about six hundred, were of a permanent character and not unlike those of the poorer class of settlers in form. Scattered about amongst them were corn-cribs, poultry-houses and dug-outs. The last were by the Indians called “hot-houses,” and consisted of holes in the ground to which the people resorted in particularly severe weather.

Boone, or “Sheltowee,” as the Indians now always called him, was assigned to lodgings in a small hut with two young braves for companions. The accommodations were far from what he could have desired, but they were as good as those enjoyed by the chief, his adoptive father, and he accepted them with his usual philosophy. Accustomed to fresh air in abundance, Boone found the close and foul atmosphere of the wigwam almost intolerable. The place was often filled with acrid smoke and always infested by insects. How filthy it was he could only guess, for the light of day never penetrated to its interior.

Even the strong stomach of Boone rebelled against the food that was presented to him. It was plentiful and of materials that in another form would have been appetizing, but the Indian methods of cooking spoilt it. Meat, corn, hominy, beans, and other vegetables were stewed in bear’s oil, with little care for cleanliness, and served in one repellent mess. But Boone forced himself to swallow his meals with feigned enjoyment and, indeed, made a point of affecting satisfaction and contentment with all the conditions of his new life.

Boone soon discovered that he was watched during every moment of the day, but he did not allow the Indians to know that he was aware of the fact. The surveillance was often cleverly contrived to evade his detection but never succeeded in that respect. The copper-colored urchin who with precocious cunning pretended to casually encounter him on the outskirts of the town was instantly recognized as a spy, but treated as a welcome friend, and after a joyous romp carried home on the shoulder of the man he had been set to watch. At night no guard was placed, nor was any necessary, for although Boone might with little difficulty have eluded his sleeping companions, he could not have walked twenty paces outside the hut without arousing the dogs which fairly swarmed about the town. These gaunt mongrels were particularly exuberant when they smelt a white man and snarled and snapped at any that came near them.

But it was not in Boone’s mind to make any attempt to escape for the present. It was his purpose to turn his captivity to good account by improving his knowledge of the Indians and gaining information as to their contemplated movements against the settlers. His efforts were now bent towards increasing the feeling of friendliness that they entertained towards him and exciting their confidence in him. He took part in the sports and contests of the young braves, but shrewdly regulated his conduct so as to arouse their admiration without exciting their envy. In the shooting matches he might easily have outdone the best of them, but he contented himself with making a good showing without equalling the performances of their best marksmen.

Boone’s judicious behavior soon created in the Indians the state of mind that he had desired. Blackfish grew quite fond of his adopted son, and in the course of a few weeks began to entertain the belief that he had made up his mind to remain with the Indians and continue the life that appeared to be so congenial to him. Boone was now permitted to go on occasional hunting trips alone, but the chief was not yet entirely devoid of suspicion. The hunter’s hours were limited and he was given to understand that if his absence exceeded the stipulated period of liberty, a party would be sent in search of him. The number of bullets and the charges of powder issued to him were carefully counted, and he was held to a strict accountability for the supply. But Boone was even more shrewd and cunning than Blackfish. By cutting his bullets in two and using reduced charges of powder, the backwoodsman contrived to accumulate a considerable store of ammunition, which he secreted for use in emergency.

Early in June Boone was sent with a party of braves to the salt springs of the Scioto, where they remained ten days engaged in the manufacture of salt. On his return to Chillicothe, he was greatly concerned to find in the town something like five hundred strange warriors, fully armed and bedecked in war-paint and feathers. Boone’s knowledge of the Shawnee language was more thorough than he had allowed the Indians to imagine, and mingling with the crowd in the square he had no difficulty in picking up all the information that he needed. He learned that the war party was organized for an immediate attack upon Boonesborough, to which they had been instigated by the British commandant at Detroit. He ascertained the proposed route and other details of the expedition.