Part 5

The effect was electric. Horse and foot rushed headlong, each trying to be foremost. No order was given, none observed. In their unreasonable enthusiasm they heeded no command. In vain the officers tried to check them, then finally followed. Reaching the farther bank, by great difficulty a halt was secured and spies sent ahead to examine a ravine where Boone feared an ambush; as they returned and reported no sign of the enemy, the pioneers moved forward in three divisions. By the time they came to this ravine Girty's Indians had so placed themselves that from their murderous fire many fell. Still the pioneers maintained their ground, until at last all hope lay in retreat. On the bank of the river there was soon a seething mass of horsemen, foot soldiers, and Indians. Sixty of Kentucky's bravest fell, and sorrow filled every home.

Colonel Logan and his soldiers came next day and buried their dead, among whom were many of the leaders in both public and private life as well as a son of the aged Boone.

There is a tradition that when the Indians saw four more of their own among the slain than of the whites, they barbarously put to death four of the seven pioneers they had taken and subjected the others many times to the most cruel and inhuman treatment.

Through this rash act of McGary nearly one tenth of all the fighting men in Kentucky fell. Distress and discouragement were general; and the greatest disaster that had yet befallen the country had been brought about.

TWO KENTUCKY HEROES

In the latter part of the year 1779, David Rogers was making his way from New Orleans to Pittsburgh with two boats full of military stores. On nearing the four-mile bar above the present site of Cincinnati, he discovered a great number of Indians emerging from the mouth of the Little Miami. Hastily landing, his men cautiously crept through the underbrush, expecting to take the Indians unawares, when they were suddenly surprised by a large force of savages, who with rifle and tomahawk made such a terrible onslaught that more than half of the whites met an almost instantaneous death.

The crew, in a panic, rushed forward to their boats only to find one in the possession of the enemy and the other too far from shore to reach its friendly shelter. With a courage born of despair they rushed through the enemy's lines, and some escaped in the darkness to Harrodstown, while others were so severely wounded that they barely existed until they were rescued by their friends.

Among these was Robert Benham, who, after being shot through the hips, managed to crawl to a large fallen tree and hide among its foliage. There he quietly lay until the battle was ended, and the Indians had returned and gathered the spoils from the dead whites. Thinking the coast clear once more and suffering pangs of hunger, Benham could not resist shooting a raccoon that came within his range, trusting to providence to reach it after it fell. Scarcely had the sound of his gun died away when he heard some one speak. He instantly reloaded and sat quietly, expecting an Indian every moment.

Finally some one said, "Whoever you are, answer me."

He then, realizing that it was no savage, readily answered; and soon one of his former comrades, John Watson, appeared with both arms broken.

Never was there a happier combination. From that time the arms of Benham and the legs of Watson each did duty for both. Benham could easily load his gun and kill the game, while Watson could readily kick it within reach of his companion, who could dress and cook it. Thus they subsisted until the game in their vicinity grew scarce; then the man with the sound legs would walk around a drove of wild turkeys until he got them within range of Benham's gun, who was such a splendid marksman that he never failed to kill two or three of the number.

Their greatest difficulty was in securing water; but as in all things, "where there is a will there is a way," so even this difficulty was obviated. Benham would place his hat rim between the teeth of Watson, who would wade into the river up to his chin, duck his head, and thus fill the hat with water which he securely delivered to the man without legs, who could use it as needed. Benham was thus enabled to cook, dress his own and his comrade's wounds, and feed the latter also.

For several weeks they lived thus, until they grew stronger and traveled to the Licking River. After a great deal of difficulty in making themselves known to some passing boats, they were rescued, and taken to the Falls of the Ohio, where both recovered. Benham afterwards participated in several expeditions, and, after peace, returned to the scenes of his sufferings, bought land there, and passed his remaining days peacefully where he had so nearly met death.

THE BATTLE OF THE BOARDS

From time immemorial women have been accused of possessing an unusual amount of curiosity, but an incident of the early days, in what is now Mercer County, will prove that some men also belong to the curious class.

In 1783, the same year that saw the treaty of peace between Great Britain and the thirteen colonies go into effect, Kentucky, still a part of Virginia, was a dense forest, infested by roving bands of Indians who plundered and murdered the pioneers; hence caution was still the watchword of the white inhabitants. During this year, three men in the early dawn left Harrod's Station to hunt for some horses that had strayed off while grazing. For some time, over many miles, through dense cane and tangled pea vine, they pursued the trail, until, as a refuge from the darkness and a cold, drenching rain, the pioneers took shelter in an old, deserted log cabin, in the midst of a canebrake.

Having seen signs of Indians during the day and knowing that the red men also knew of the cabin, they decided to endure the cold, rather than light a fire. Finally they concluded a still further precaution would be to take refuge in the "loft" of the cabin for fear the savage foes might also take shelter therein and dispute the right of possession.

They at once climbed up into the loft, the floor of which was clapboards, lying loose upon some round poles. Here, with their trusty rifles, they lay quietly for a short time, when to their terror six armed savages entered the cabin. Placing their guns and tomahawks in a corner, they built a fire and began a scene of hilarity characteristic of their tribe.

One of the men was anxious to know the number of the Indians. So, though he was lying on his back, and was the middle man, he determined to turn over and peep at the crowd below. The other two white men determined he should keep still; so they held him, but as he quietly struggled, a pole broke and with a terrible crash, clapboards, men, and guns fell upon the frightened savages, who with yells of terror fled into the forest and never returned. Though almost as much terrified as the Indians, the white men quietly enjoyed the fire till morning, when they returned to the station with their trophies of what they laughingly called "The Battle of the Boards."

THE FAITHFUL SLAVE AND HIS REWARD

If we search the annals of both ancient and modern times we can find no record that shows greater fidelity from slave to master than was exhibited by a negro to one of Kentucky's most noted pioneers.

In 1782, March 19, people living in the vicinity of Boonesborough discovered some empty rafts floating down the river. They at once knew that Indians had used them to cross the stream so as to attack the unprotected settlements. News was sent to the various stations warning the settlers. Colonel Logan dispatched fifteen men to Estill's Station, where they were joined by twenty-five from that fort. Under the command of Captain James Estill, they started to pursue and punish the invaders.

Early in the morning of the 20th, Miss Jennie Gass, with a slave, Monk, as protector, went just outside the fort at Estill's Station to milk the cows. Her mother, seeing the savages approaching, called loudly for her to run, but the warning came too late. Ere her daughter could reach the gate, her mother saw her tomahawked and scalped.

Monk was captured and asked about the force of the fort. Like the half-witted boy who was questioned by the Tories, Monk exaggerated the situation, saying there were forty men in the fort then molding bullets in anticipation of an attack. The truth is that aside from the women and children, there were only four men, who were too disabled to march. The savages accordingly thought it best to retreat.

No sooner had they withdrawn from the vicinity of the fort than two boys were dispatched to find Captain Estill's band and tell them of the tragedy. In a few hours the messengers found the men, and so uneasy were some of the party for their families that five returned to help protect the fort, while the other thirty-five began to search for the trail of the Indians. A part of the horses became so jaded that ten more dropped from the ranks, while the remaining twenty-five pushed forward with a grim determination to find the savages.

About an hour before sunset they discovered some Indians preparing a meal from a buffalo. When Captain Estill fired his gun, the Indians fled, and had it not been that their leader was wounded, the retreat would have been permanent and the battle of Little Mountain would never have been fought. With almost superhuman strength the chieftain dragged himself to a place of safety and with a defiance that meant death he commanded his warriors who were too loyal to retreat without their wounded leader. There, in a space not more than two hundred yards in diameter, was fought one of the world's fiercest battles.

On the one hand there were twenty-five Wyandot warriors who defied death. On the other side there were twenty-five pioneers, aroused to vengeance by the cruelties the red men had visited upon them. Well did they obey the command of Estill, "Every man to his man, and every man to his tree." At one time in the fiercest of the fight, the rallying tones of confidence rang out above the crack of the rifles as Monk, who was still held prisoner by the savages, shouted, "Don't give way, Massa Jim, you can whip the redskins."

For nearly two hours the combat lasted, neither side advancing nor retreating. But when Captain Estill sent Lieutenant William Miller with six men to gain the rear of the enemy, that seven ingloriously fled and then the savages began to gain on the whites. Finally Captain Estill and a brawny Indian clutched in mortal combat. For a time their strength seemed equal, but Estill's broken arm giving way, the savage instantly plunged a knife into his breast and a moment later, pierced by a bullet from Joseph Proctor's unerring gun, fell dead across his victim's body.

There the battle ended, the pioneers taking their wounded comrades and leaving the dead upon the field. Proctor carried one, a Mr. Irvine, a great distance of forty miles upon his back, while the faithful Monk carried another. A few days later a party of whites visited the scene and buried their dead. The Indians had carefully removed their slain but left the whites unmolested. Wallace Estill, Monk's young master, gave him his freedom and cared for him the remainder of his life. He lived to a ripe old age and was the father of thirty children.

The little city of Mount Sterling is near the battleground where such heroism was displayed by both savage and civilian.

THE DOUBLE SHOT

Daniel Boone, the famous hunter, fighter, and pioneer, regarded himself as a special agent intended by providence to convert forests into fields and to carry civilization to the wilderness. When we remember his many exciting adventures and marvelous successes, we are inclined almost to believe that he was a child of destiny.

One of the most singular experiences in his warfare on the savages occurred about 1780, when about two miles south of Owingsville. Boone was making one of his solitary journeys from Boonesborough to the Upper Blue Licks. As he came near a deserted station about twelve miles east of the present site of Mount Sterling, he perceived fresh signs of Indians; so he continued his journey cautiously until he came to a clear spring near the bank of Slate Creek. Here, as he was quenching his thirst, a ball whistled by and broke the bark from the beech that shaded the spring. Boone lost no time in reaching the creek, swimming to the opposite bank, and concealing himself in a convenient canebrake. He then cautiously parted the cane until he had gone about one hundred yards, when he observed two Indians coming warily towards the creek. He had slain so many savages that he was not satisfied with the thought of killing one of his adversaries, but determined that one shot should kill both. He therefore took aim at the foremost and as the other came in range he fired; and as one fell dead, the other, dropping his gun, fled with frantic yells of pain, for the ball had passed through the body of one and struck the other's shoulder.

Boone then very calmly crossed the creek, selected one of the guns left by the savages, threw the other in the creek, where it was found afterwards, and proceeded on his way to the Blue Licks.

A MAN OF STRATEGY AND SAGACITY

His father having died when he was only fourteen, Benjamin Logan found himself, according to the laws of Virginia, at the head of a family, and in possession of his father's estate. With his mother's consent he sold the land and divided the proceeds among his brothers and sisters. Since he wished to see his mother comfortably settled, he united funds with that of a brother and bought a small home, which was secured to her during her life.

Bidding his mother farewell, he soon made for himself a home on the Holston River. Here he remained a few years and after having served with both Colonel Bouquet and Colonel Dunmore in the expeditions against the Indians, resolved to try the western wilds of Kentucky. With two or three slaves, he came, traversed a great part of the wilderness with Boone and Henderson, and pitched his camp and built his fort in Lincoln County near the present city of Stanford. Bringing out his family the next year, he deemed it prudent to place them in the more securely fortified Harrodstown. But early in 1777 feeling more assurance of safety, he removed all his household to his new home.

Early in the morning of May 20, while some of the men were guarding the women as they were outside milking, Indians fired on them from a near-by canebrake. All fled toward the fort, but one of the white men fell dead, another was mortally wounded, and a third, Burr Harrison, was severely crippled. There were now only twelve fighting men to defend the fort, while the enemy numbered one hundred. Harrison ran staggering towards the fort, when he fell and lay all day within range of the rifles of the Indians, and in sight of his agonized wife; her pleas for help and cries of distress, as from her own place of safety she saw her husband wounded and helpless, touched the sympathy and tried the heroism of all.

All hesitated until twilight came, and it grew so dark the Indians could not distinguish objects moving around the stockade. As there were a great many large hogs in the vicinity, Logan covered himself with a small feather bed, made from the feathers of the numerous wild pigeons, turkeys, and geese, and leaving the gate crept hither and thither, on all fours, grunting and acting as if in search of something to eat. Finally he reached Harrison, apparently by accident. He suddenly seized him in his arms, sprang to his feet, and darted toward the fort before the surprised Indians sufficiently recovered to take sure aim. Amid a shower of bullets and arrows he and Harrison entered the gate in safety.

Enraged at the deception practiced upon them, the Indians vigorously assaulted the fort, while the inmates as vigorously defended it. Under Logan's lead they resolved to fight to the last, but the powder and ball began to run low. What should be done? These men, made of "sterner stuff," faced another danger. If the siege was continued, they must perish or procure ammunition.

Again the heroism of Logan shone forth. Assuring his wife and friends of a safe and speedy return, he, with two trusty companions, under the cover of the night, left the fort. They crept through the Indian lines, avoided the regular route through Cumberland Gap, rapidly traversed mountains and valleys, crossed rivers, pushed through brush and cane, reached the Holston, procured "powder and ball," and on the tenth night Logan reëntered the fort, having traveled more than three hundred miles. His companions soon arrived with the ammunition, reënforcements were brought, and the Indians retired.

THE KIND-HEARTED INDIAN

About 1784, a party of pioneers left the Falls of the Ohio with the intention of descending the river. Reaching Yellow Banks, the boat stopped for a while. One of the party, a Mr. Rowan, taking a loaded gun, but no ammunition, wandered some distance from the shore and upon his return was astonished to find the boat gone. The crew had cause to believe a party of Indians was near, so hastened away without waiting for their comrade. The nearest settlement was at Vincennes, one hundred miles distant. So thither Mr. Rowan bent his steps until after three weary days of exposure and exhaustion he abandoned all hope and lay down to die. It was not long, however, before, hearing the report of a gun, he again took courage, rose, and made his way in the direction of the sound. When he came in sight, an Indian raised his gun to fire, but, seeing Mr. Rowan turn the butt of his gun, knew he meant to be friendly; so with a politeness that would have done honor to a civilian the savage promptly turned the butt of his also.

Learning the destitute condition of Rowan, the Indian hospitably took him to his wigwam, cared for him until his strength was restored, and then conducted him to Vincennes. Anxious to reward such unusual kindness, Rowan tried to prevail on the savage to accept a gift of $300; of this the Indian nobly refused every penny, but in order to please his recent guest finally accepted a new blanket, saying, "When I wrap myself in it, I will think of you."

SAVED BY THE HUG OF A BEAR

Though the records of pioneer life teem with startling encounters with wild animals, there really occurred a very unusual incident, when the life of a young man, named Downing, was saved by the hug of a bear.

In those early days, the people of that part of the country that is now Kentucky had to content themselves with very rough cabins and forts for their families, and with no outbuildings or inclosures whatever for their stock.

Instead of well-kept stables and excellent pastures, the stockade protected the cows, sheep, and horses at night, and the near-by forest was their home and grazing ground during the day. Although as close watch as possible was kept over these animals, they sometimes strayed so far away that it was necessary to bring them back or the Indians would take them for their own.

In the year 1786, in what is now Bath County, a horse had strayed off, and a young man named Yates requested another occupant of the fort, a mere lad named Downing, to go with him in search of the animal.

They traversed the woods in every direction all day, but in vain. About sundown, when nearly seven miles from the fort, in a wild valley, Downing became very anxious concerning sounds that seemed to follow his footsteps regardless of the direction he took. He repeatedly said that he heard sticks breaking and that he believed Indians were following them.

Yates, who was older, more experienced, and more inured to the perils of frontier life, laughed heartily at the fears of his companion, often inquired at what price he rated his scalp, and jokingly offered to insure it at a sixpence.

Oblivious to all danger, enjoying the discomfort of his companion, and wishing to display his daring, Yates began a rollicking tune as he boldly passed along; but young Downing, feeling "the better part of valor is discretion," and being sure from the ominous sounds that they were being followed, decided to discover if possible the hidden foe. He gradually slackened his pace, until his companion was about twenty or thirty yards in advance; then just after descending a small hill, Downing quickly stepped from the path and secreted himself behind some bushes. He was horrified a few moments later to see two Indians cautiously put aside the canebrake and peer in the direction taken by his companion.

Downing, fearful lest the savages knew his own hiding place, decided to fire upon them at once; but his hand was so unsteady from the excitement, that his gun went off before he took aim. Terror-stricken he fled in the direction taken by his friend, whom he soon met, returning to learn the cause of the firing. There was no need to inquire, for in full view the two savages were rapidly pursuing them.

True Kentucky chivalry was soon evident, for though he could easily have saved himself, Yates would not outrun his young companion, but kept by his side.

It so happened that a path diverged from the one taken by the whites, but rejoined it at a distant point. Knowing the country well, the Indians took this divergent path, expecting to intercept the pioneers at the point of reunion. Passing this point in safety, the white men soon came to a deep gully. Mr. Yates easily cleared it, but his companion, being very much exhausted, fell against the farther bank and rolled at full length to the bottom. He gave himself up for lost. Over went the two Indians like deer, so intent upon catching the foremost man they apparently did not notice Downing.

For a while fear kept him still, but finally thinking the Indians were far away, the young man walked to the shallow part of the ditch. Just as he reached a place so shallow that he was no longer concealed, to his astonishment and dismay he beheld one of the savages returning, apparently in search of him.

Having neglected to reload his gun, and seeing the Indian advancing upon him, he threw it away and again trusted to flight. The white man ran and the Indian ran. It was a race for life, but as they ascended the long ridge, so steadily did the Indian gain upon him that when Downing ran along one side of a big fallen poplar, the Indian passed along the other, evidently expecting to seize him at the upturned root. However, just there lay a huge mother bear and her cubs. So rapidly was the Indian running that by the time he had discovered Mrs. Bruin, she had discovered him; and though his salutation was an exclamation of horror and a plunge of his great knife, the bear only growled and hugged him close.

So happy was Downing over this timely meeting of his two enemies, that he joyfully fled to the fort, where he found his companion resting from his exciting race. Those in the fort soon received a vivid account of how Downing's life, providentially, had been saved by the hug of a bear.

A KENTUCKIAN DEFEATED THE BRITISH

There was born in Virginia, on November 19, 1752, a light-haired, blue-eyed baby boy who was destined to become the founder of our commonwealth, the father of Kentucky, and the captor of England's important outposts.

Leaving his home one spring morning in 1775, and stopping at the bend of the road to wave farewell to his mother, sister, and brother, George Rogers Clark, a young soldier-surveyor of twenty-two who had seen active service in Dunmore's war, started out for the wilds of Kentucky.