Part 8

Not far from this hard place, we met a man of quite a different feeling. Near sunset we were passing his house, when he called to us and asked if we had any money; we told him we had none: "Well, you had better stop here with me and stay all night, for the man who keeps the next house is a tory, and will not permit you to stay without money." I need hardly say that we acceeded to his proposition. We were treated with kindness and hospitality, and for once fared well. This was a set-off to some former cases.

After we had passed through the thickly settled parts of New York, we came to the Gennessee country, which was at that time but thinly inhabited. We were now told that we would find serious difficulties in passing on without money; on the day that we entered what was called the wilderness we were entirely destitute, and had very serious fears of suffering more than we had yet been called to endure; but as our fears were rising to the highest pitch, we unexpectedly met a young officer belonging to the United States service; he inquired into our history carefully, and becoming satisfied with the account which we gave him of our capture and sufferings, he kindly gave us one dollar a piece, which was sufficient, with rigid economy, to carry us through the most dreaded part of the wilderness.

It may appear to the reader that I have given, a very cheerless and rigid account of the people along the road that we traveled through the State of New York; I am certain of the truth of the history, for a man starving knows when he receives any thing to eat, and also when he is refused. I am as certain of this part of the history, as that I was in the battle, and wounded at the river Raisin. Whether we fell upon the only niggardly people that lived in that part of the country, or whether the people were mostly tories there, I have no means of determining. It may be asked why I record these things? It may seem harsh to speak of them; it was much harsher to feel them. If people will sin publicly, and drive starving begging soldiers from their doors with contempt, those soldiers, if they should live to reach home, and should write an account of their trip, will be very likely to refer to such treatment. If those folks are yet living, a sermon upon "be careful to entertain _strangers_," might not be entirely without its good effects upon them.

After passing through this wilderness, we began to draw near to Oleann Point, the place where we had agreed to meet again when we parted at the head of lake Champlain. One company overtook us on the same day that we arrived at Oleann. Here we had intended to take water, but we could hear of no craft going down the river. Our money was gone, and provisions were scarce and dear, so we could not stay long here. Necessity, the mother of invention, drove us to seek out some way of getting on. We numbered eight persons at this time; I remember the names of _Philip Burns, Patrick Ewing, Simon Kenton, Thomas Bronaugh, William McMillan_ and _Thomas Whittington_. At length we concluded to build a raft of slabs that we found lodged against a bridge; so we all went to work; having walked so far, our wind was pretty good, and got our raft completed by sunset--on Sunday too. We then procured some bread, and set sail down the river a little before dark, not knowing what was before us, whether there were dangerous passes, or falls in the river--such was our destitute situation, that we were compelled to go on. Our provisions were nearly out, and Indians chiefly inhabited the country along the river down towards Pittsburg. During the night we had some difficulty in passing the drift at the short bends that are in the Alleghany, but went on tolerably well until next morning about breakfast time. I had laid myself down upon the dry part of the raft and fallen asleep, not having slept any during the night, as there was not room for more than two or three to lie down at once. We now came in contact with a driftwood, and the current was so strong that the raft was taken under almost instantly--we scrambled up on the drift, and after some difficulty got ashore. The raft came out below, and went on; and then we were left on foot again, among the Indians called Corn Planters. Fortunately for us, we had taken a Yankee passenger aboard our raft, who had some money with him, with which we bought a canoe from an Indian in which we came down the river until we reached Pittsburg. Before we reached Pittsburg we met a recruiting party at the mouth of French creek; the officer was very kind--he furnished us with a room to sleep in--gave us flour and whiskey. His object was to enlist some of us; we did not tell him that we would not enlist; we sat up however and baked bread enough whilst the others were asleep to last us to Pittsburg; and before the officer was out of his bed in the morning, we were paddling on towards home.

When we arrived at Pittsburg, we sold the canoe for five dollars, and purchased bread, and almost immediately took passage on a salt boat bound for Kanawha. But whilst we were in Pittsburg we there saw the British soldiers that guarded us at Detroit prison--they had been taken at the battle of the Thames--they were at liberty to go to any part of the town, and to work for themselves. We took this opportunity to remind them of the difference between their treatment of us, and our treatment toward them; they were compelled to acknowledge the truth, and praised our officers very highly.

We paid our passage upon the salt boat, by working at the oars, all except myself, who was the cook for the company. When we floated down as far as Kanawha we were there set upon the shore, and were once more compelled to look about for the means of continuing our journey. After we had been there a few hours we saw a raft of pine plank floating down the river; we hailed the owner, asked for a passage, and were taken aboard. On this raft I floated down to Maysville, where, thanks to a superintending Providence, I once again set my feet upon Kentucky soil, and breathed the air of my native State. Now I was almost naked; no person, as well as I can remember, had offered me a single article of clothing since I left Quebec. I had exchanged my pantaloons, given to me in prison, for an old pair which I found on the boat, thrown away as useless by some of the boatmen; my shirt had, by slow degrees, entirely disappeared; I had some where picked up an old coat that had been the property of some regular soldier--these two articles constituted my wardrobe, entire--I was barefooted, but had an old hat.

My companions had all left me higher up the river, and gone across the country as a nearer way home. When I left the raft and went into the town my situation excited attention, and soon all my wants were supplied. Some gave the stuff, and a number of tailors joined, and in a few hours I was clothed, and furnished with money to bear my expenses home. I felt the difference here between warm and cold hearted people. My anxiety was great to pursue my journey, so I ascended the steep hill that hangs around Maysville, and made my way through Georgetown and Frankfort, to Shelbyville, at which place I arrived on the 20th day of June, A. D. 1814.

Here, at length, after an absence of nearly two years, during all of which time I had been exposed to sufferings, dangers and privations, not having slept upon a bed until my return to my native land, I found myself among the friends of my childhood and my own beloved kindred. I had left them, when a mere lad, as a volunteer soldier in the company commanded by Captain Simpson, and I came back to them a man in years, though feeble in strength and frail in appearance. The meeting indeed was unexpected to them, and none can tell the fullness of joy that reigned in my own heart.

A kind and merciful Providence had preserved and sustained me through all the perils with which I was surrounded, and unto Him do I give the praise for my safety. Many years have passed since the occurrences detailed in this narrative took place. I may now almost be classed in the number of old men. My avocations have been those of peace. I have, for nearly twenty years, as an ordained Minister of the Methodist Episcopal Church, endeavored to teach the mild doctrines of my blessed master. Yet it may not be without its use to my young countrymen to know what their fathers have suffered. I have told them a plain unvarnished tale, which while it may encourage them to be bold in their country's cause, may also, acquaint them with what they owe to the generation that has just preceded them.

W. ATHERTON.

Note.--On pages 29 and 30 of the foregoing narrative, mention is made of the reception, by the suffering volunteers, of a seasonable supply of clothes that had been made up and sent to the army by the patriotic ladies of Kentucky. I have, since the commencement of this publication, met with an article that appeared in the Frankfort Commonwealth (when that paper was under the editorial direction of Orlando Brown, Esq.) entitled "Kentucky Mothers," in which allusion is made to the same transaction. I have thought it not irrelevant to append it to this, as it shows, in a striking manner, the deep devotion to country felt by the ladies of Kentucky, and the extent of the sacrifices they were prepared to make. Although Mr. Brown did not give the name of this noble mother, I have his permission to state that the lady alluded to is the venerable Mrs. Elizabeth Love, who yet resides in Frankfort, beloved by all for her eminent worth, and characterized by high intellectual endowments associated with fervent piety, unaffected charity, and every trait that dignifies and adorns the female sex.

KENTUCKY MOTHERS.

"The deep interest which passing events are giving to the history of the campaigns of the North-Western Army, naturally sets the memory to work in recalling the incidents that gave them their peculiar character. The achievments of the volunteers under the gallant Harrison, are written in the brightest pages of the records of their country, and must live so long as the human heart thrills at the contemplation of deeds of lofty heroism. But Kentucky does not point solely to her brave soldiers, and challenge admiration for them. Far, far from it; for to the noble mothers and daughters of our State belongs a chaplet of unfading laurels. _They_ espoused the cause of their country with an ardour never surpassed in any land under the sun. Company after company, batallion after batallion, left the State for the scene of war, and although the bloodiest battles were fought, and men came home with thinned ranks and wearied frames, and the wail of the widow and the orphan was loud in the lament for the slain, the fire of patriotism burnt the brighter, and the women of Kentucky, never faltering, still urged on the men to battle. Although we were at that time but a very small boy, well do we remember all that passed under our observation at that stirring period. We remember the letters that were received from the volunteers describing their sufferings from cold and hunger and nakedness, and we remember, too, how the ladies united together for the purpose of sending clothing to the suffering soldiery. They formed themselves into sewing societies, made hunting shirts, knit socks, purchased blankets and fitted up all kinds of garments that could add to the comfort of the troops. The ladies of the town of Frankfort, alone, sent two wagon loads of clothing to the frontier, which arrived most timely, and warmed alike the hearts and bodies of the volunteers, for they reminded them that such wives and mothers and sisters deserved to be defended at every possible hazard.

A Spartan mother is said, on presenting a shield to her son, to have told him "to return, _with it or upon it_." It is recorded of another, that when her son complained of the shortness of his sword, she bade him "take one step nearer his enemy and he would find it long enough." And for such sayings as these, the Spartan women have ever since been renowned in history. We remember an incident that occurred in our own presence during the last war, that proves that a Kentucky mother was fully equal in courage and love of country to any of those whose fame has survived for so many ages. We beg leave to relate it, and will do so in as few words as possible.

Soon after the battle of the river Raisin, where the Captain of the Frankfort company (Pascal Hickman,) had been barbarously massacred in the officers' house after the surrender, Lieutenant Peter Dudley returned to Frankfort for the purpose of raising another company. The preceding and recent events of the campaigns had demonstrated to all that war was, in reality, a trade of blood, and the badges of mourning, worn by male and female, evidenced that _here_ its most dire calamity had been felt. He who would _volunteer_ now, knew that he embarked in a hazardous enterprise. On the occasion alluded to, there was a public gathering of the people. The young Lieutenant, with a drummer and fifer, commenced his march through the crowd, proclaiming his purpose of raising another company, and requesting all who were willing to go with him, to fall in the ranks. In a few moments he was at the head of a respectable number of young men; and, as he marched around, others were continually dropping in. There was, in the crowd of spectators, a lad of fifteen years of age; a pale stripling of a boy, the son of a widow, whose dwelling was hard by the parade ground. He had looked on with a burning heart, and filled with the passion of patriotism, until he could refrain no longer, and, as the volunteers passed again, he leaped into the ranks with the resolve to be a soldier. "You are a brave boy," exclaimed the Captain, "and I will take care of you;" and a feeling of admiration ran through the crowd.

In a little time, the news was borne to the widow, that her son was marching with the volunteers. It struck a chill into her heart, for he was her oldest son. In a few moments she came in breathless haste, and with streaming eyes, to the father of the editor of this paper, who was her nearest neighbor, and long tried friend. "Mr. Brown," said she, "James has joined the volunteers! the foolish boy does not know what he is about. I want you to make haste and get him out of the ranks. He is too young--he is weak and sickly. Mr. Brown, he will die on the march. If he does not die on the march he will be killed by the enemy, for he is too small to take care of himself. If he escapes the enemy he will die of the fever. Oh, my friend, go and take him away." After a few moments, she commenced again--"I do not know what has got into the boy--I cannot conceive why he wants to go to the army--he could do nothing, he is able to do nothing." Again she paused; and at last rising from her seat, with her eyes flashing fire, she exclaimed--"BUT I WOULD DESPISE HIM, IF HE DID NOT WANT TO GO!" That noble thought changed the current of her reflections, and of her grief--she went home, prepared with her own hands the plain uniform of that day for her son, and sent him forth with a mother's blessing. The lad went on with the troops, bore all the toils of the march, was in the battle at Fort Meigs, and fought as bravely and efficiently as the boldest man in the company. The widow's son again came home in safety. Her patriotism has not been unrewarded. On yesterday I saw that son bending over the sick bed of the aged mother. He is the only surviving child of a numerous family, and has been spared as the stay and prop of her declining years.

Is it any wonder that the Kentuckians are brave and chivalric? Were they otherwise, they would be recreant to the land of their birth, and a reproach to their mothers' milk."

_Erratum_.--For _Captain Watson_, read _Captain Matson_, wherever it occurs.