So they parted--never to meet again on earth.
Algernon was now conducted, by his guards, to a small building on the outskirts of the village; where, after receiving food and water, and having his clothes restored to him, he was informed by one of the Indians--who could speak a smattering of English--that he might be bound and remain, or accompany them to see the Big Knife tortured. He chose the former without hesitation; and was immediately secured in a manner similar to what he had been the night previously, and then left alone to the anguish of his own thoughts. What the feelings of our hero were, as thus he lay, suffering from his bruises and wound--his mind recurring to the dire events taking place in another part of the village, and his own awful doom--we shall leave to the imagination of the reader: suffice it to say, however, that when his guards returned, some two hours later, he was found in a swooning state, with large cold drops of perspiration standing thickly on his features.
Meantime, Younker was brought forth from the council-house--amid the hootings, revilings, and personal abuse of the savage mob--and then painted black,[17] preparatory to undergoing the awful death-sentence. He was then offered food--probably with the kind intention of strengthening him, and thus prolonging his life and tortures--but this he absolutely refused, and was immediately conducted to the place of execution, which was on the brow of the slope before described as reaching to the river. Here his wrists were immediately bound behind him; and then a rope, fastened to the ligature, was secured to a stake--driven into the earth for the purpose and left sufficiently long for him sit down, stand up, or walk around a circle of some six or eight feet in diameter.
During this proceeding, the Indians failed not to abuse him in various ways--some by pinching, and others by pounding him with their fists, with stones, and with clubs,--all of which he seemed to bear with great patience and resignation.
As soon as all was ready for the more diabolical tortures, Girty made the announcement, in a brief speech to the Indians; and then taking up a rifle, loaded with powder only, discharged it upon the prisoner's naked body. A loud yell of satisfaction, from the excited mob, followed this inhuman act; while several savages, rushing forward with rifles loaded in the same manner, now strove who should be first to imitate the renegade's example; by which means, no less than fifty discharges were made, in quick succession, until the flesh of the old man, from the neck downwards, was completely filled with burnt powder. Younker uttered a few groans, but bore all with manly fortitude, and made no complaints.
This part of the hellish ceremony over, a fire was kindled of hickory poles, placed in a circle round the stake, outside of that which his rope allowed Younker to make, in order that he might feel all the torments of roasting alive, without being sufficiently near to the flame to get a speedy relief by death. To add even more torture, if possible, to this infernal proceeding, the Indians would take up brands, and place the burning parts against the old man's body; and then, as they saw him cringe and writhe under the pain thus inflicted, would burst into horrid laughs, in which they were ever joined by the renegade. The old squaws too, and even the children, not wishing to be outdone in this refinement of cruelty, would take slabs, and having loaded them with live coals and ashes, would throw them upon his head and body, until not only both became covered, but the ground around him, so that there was no cool place for his feet; while at every new infliction of pain, the crowd would break forth in strains of wild, discordant laughter.
Thus passed some three-quarters of an hour of tortures the most horrible, during which the old man bore up under his sufferings with a strength and manliness that not only astonished his tormentors, but excited for himself, even in savage breasts, a feeling of respect. Girty, it may be, was moved to a similar feeling; for at length, advancing to his victim, he said, in a tone of more deference than he had hitherto used:
"You bear up well, old man--well. I have seen many a one die, in a similar way, who was thought to be courageous--yet none with that firmness you have thus far displayed."
Younker, who was slowly walking around the stake, with his face bent toward the earth, suddenly paused, as Girty addressed him, and turning his eyes mildly upon the renegade, in a feeble voice, replied:
"My firmness is given me from above. I can bear my torments, Simon Girty, for they're arthly, and will soon be over; but yourn--who'll say what yourn'll be, when you come to answer afore Almighty God for this and other crimes! But that arn't for the like o' me to speak of now. I'm a dying man, and trust soon to be in a better world. Ef I ever did you wrong, Simon Girty, I don't remember it now; and I'm very sartin I never did nothing to merit this. You came to my house, and war treated to the best I had, and here am I in return for't. Howsomever, the reckoning's got to come yit atween you and your God; and so I leave you--farewell."
"But say," returned Girty, who now seemed greatly moved by the manner and tone of Younker: "But say, old man, that you forgive me, and I will own that I did you wrong."
"I don't know's I've any enemies, except these round here," replied the other, feebly, "and I'd like to die at peace with all the world; but what you ax, Simon Girty, I can't grant; it's agin my nater and conscience; I can't say I forgive ye, for what you've done, for I don't. I may be wrong--it may not be Christian like--but ef it's a sin, it's one I've got to answer for myself. No, Girty, I can't forgive--pre'aps God will--you must look to him: I can't. Girty, I can't; and so, farewell forever! God be merciful to me a sinner," he added, looking upward devoutly; "and ef I've done wrong, oh! pardon me, for Christ's sake!"
With these words, the lips of Younker were sealed forever.
Girty stood and gazed upon him in silence, for a few minutes, as one whose mind is ill at ease, and then walked slowly away, in a mood of deep abstraction. Younker continued alive some three-quarters of an hour longer--bearing his tortures with great fortitude--and then sunk down with a groan and expired. The Indians then proceeded to scalp him; after which they gradually dispersed, with the apparent satisfaction of wolves that have gorged their fill on some sheep-fold.
When Algernon's guards returned, they found him in a swooning state, as previously recorded; and fearful that his life might be lost, and another day's sport thus spoiled, they immediately called in their great medicine man, who at once set about bandaging his wound, and applying to it such healing remedies as were known by him to be speedily efficacious, and for which the Indians are proverbially remarkable. His bruises were also rubbed with a soothing liquid; and by noon of the day following, he had gained sufficient strength to start upon his journey, accompanied by his guards.
On that journey we shall now leave him, and turn to other, and more important events; merely remarking, by the way, lest the reader should consider the neglect an oversight, that, on entering the Piqua village, Oshasqua had taken care to render the life of little Rosetta Millbanks safe, and had secured to her as much comfort as circumstances would permit.
[Footnote 14: In the action at Piqua here referred to, Simon Girty commanded three hundred Mingoes, whom he withdrew on account of the desperation with which the whites fought.]
[Footnote 15: This was a peculiar characteristic of this great chief, as drawn from the pages of history; and the more peculiar, that he was a fierce, determined warrior, and the very last to hold out against a peace with his white enemy. But there were some noble traits in the man; and when, at last, he was wrought upon to sign the treaty of Greenville, in 1795--twenty-four years after the date of the foregoing events--so keen was his sense of honor, that no entreaty nor persuasion could thenceforth induce him to break his bond; and he remained a firm friend of the Americans to the day of his death. He was opposed to burning prisoners, and to polygamy, and is said to have lived forty years with one wife, rearing a numerous family of children.--_See Drake's Life of Tecumseh_.]
[Footnote 16: The reader will bear in mind, that these events transpired during the American Revolution; that the Indians were, at this time, allies of the British; who paid them,
in consequence, regular annuities, at Upper Sandusky.]
[Footnote 17: This was a customary proceeding of the savages at that day, with all prisoners doomed to death.]
CHAPTER XIV.
HISTORICAL EVENTS.
From the first inroads of the whites upon what the Indians considered their lawful possessions, although by them unoccupied--namely, the territory known as Kan-tuck-kee--up to the year which opens our story, there had been scarcely any cessation of hostilities between the two races so antagonistical in their habits and principles. Whenever an opportunity presented itself favorable to their purpose, the savages would steal down from their settlements--generally situated on the Bottom Lands of the principal rivers in the present State of Ohio--cross over _La Belle Riviere_ into Kentucky, and, having committed as many murders and other horrible acts as were thought prudent for their safety, would return in triumph, if successful, to their homes, taking along with them scalps of both sexes and all ages, from the infant to the gray-beard, and not unfrequently a few prisoners for the amusement of burning at the stake.
These flying visits of the savages were generally repaid by similar acts of kindness on the part of the whites; who, on several occasions, marched with large armies into their very midst, destroyed their crops and stores, and burnt their towns. An expedition of this kind was prosecuted by General Clark, in August of the year preceding the events we have detailed, of which mention has been previously made. He had under his command one thousand men, mostly from Kentucky, and marched direct upon old Chillicothe, which the Indians deserted and burnt on his approach. He next moved upon the Piqua towns, on Mad river, where a desperate engagement ensued between the whites and Indians, in which the former proved victorious. Having secured what plunder they could, together with the horses, the Kentuckians destroyed the town, and cut down some two hundred acres of standing corn. They then returned to Chillicothe on their homeward route, where they destroyed other large fields of produce, supposed in all to amount to something like five hundred acres.
We have mentioned this expedition for the purpose of showing why the year which opens our story, 1781, was less disastrous to the frontier settlers than the preceding ones--the Indians being too busily occupied in repairing the damage done them, and in hunting to support their families, to have much thought for the war-path, or time to follow it; consequently the year in question, as regards Kentucky, may be said to have passed away in a comparatively quiet manner, with no events more worthy of note than those we have laid before the reader.
But if the vengeance of the savage slumbered for the time being, it was only like some pent up fire, burning in secret, until opportunity should present for it to burst forth in a manner most appalling, carrying destruction and terror throughout its course; and in consequence of this, the year 1782 was destined to be one most signally marked by bloody deeds in the annals of Kentucky. The winter of '81 and '82 passed quietly away; but early in the ensuing spring hostilities were again renewed, with a zeal which showed that neither faction had forgotten old grudges during the intervening quietude. Girty did all that lay in his power to stir up the vindictive feelings of the Indians, and was aided in his laudable endeavors by one or two others[18] who wore the uniform of British officers. It was the design of the renegade to raise a grand army from the union of the Six Nations, lead them quietly into the heart of Kentucky, and, by a bold move, seize some prominent station, murder the garrison, and thus secure at once a stronghold, from which to sally forth, spread death and desolation in every quarter, and, if possible, depopulate the entire country. Long and ardently did he labor in stirring up the Indians by inflammatory speeches; till at last he succeeded in uniting a grand body for his hellish purpose; which, on the very eve of success, as one may say, was at last frustrated by what seemed a direct Providence, of which more anon, and its proper place.
Previously, however, to the event just referred to, parties of Indians, numbering from five to fifty, prowled about the frontiers, committing at every opportunity all manner of horrid deeds, and thus rousing the whites to defence and retaliation. One of these skirmishes has been more particularly dwelt on, by the historians of Kentucky, than any of the others; on account, probably, of the desperate and sanguinary struggle for mastery between the two contending parties, and the cruel desertion, at a time of need, of a portion of the whites; by which means the Indians had advantage of numbers, that otherwise would have been equally opposed. We allude to what is generally known as Estill's Defeat.
It is not our province in the present work to detail any thing not directly connected with our story; and therefore we shall pass on, after a cursory glance at the main facts in question. Sometime in March, a party of Wyandots made a descent upon Estill's station, which stood near the present site of Richmond; and having killed and scalped a young lady, and captured a Negro slave, were induced, by the exaggerated account which the latter gave of the force within, to an immediate retreat; whereby, probably, the lives of the women and children, almost the only occupants, were saved--Captain Estill himself, with his garrison, and several new recruits, being at the time away, on a search for these very savages, who were known by some unmistakable signs to be in the vicinity. Word being despatched to Estill, of what had transpired in his absence, he immediately sought out the trail of the retreating foes, which he followed with his men, and toward night of the second day overtook them at Hinston's Fork of Licking, where a desperate engagement immediately ensued. At the onset, there were twenty-five Indians, and exactly the same number of whites; but the immediate desertion, in a cowardly manner, of a certain Lieutenant Miller, with six men under his command, left the odds greatly in favor of the Wyandots, who were all picked warriors. Notwithstanding the cowardice of their companions, our little Spartan band fought most heroically for an hour and three-quarters; when the few survivors, on both sides, being almost worn out, ceased hostilities as by mutual consent. In this ever memorable action, Captain Estill, a brave and popular man, together with nine of his gallant companions, fell to rise no more. Four others were badly wounded, leaving only the same number of unharmed survivors. The Indians, it was afterwards ascertai ned, had seventeen warriors killed on the field, among whom was one of their bravest chiefs, and two others severely wounded; and there has been a tradition since among the Wyandots, that only one survivor ever returned to tell the tale.
The news of the foregoing disastrous skirmish flew like wild fire, to use a common phrase, throughout the borders, and, together with others of less note, served to kindle the fire of vengeance in the bosoms of the settlers, and excite a deeper hostility than ever against the savage foe. Nor was the subsequent conduct of the Indians themselves calculated to soften this bitter feeling against them; for, to use the words of a modern writer, "The woods again teemed with savages, and no one was safe from attack beyond the walls of a station. The influence of the British, and the constant pressure of the Long Knives, upon the red-men, had produced a union of the various tribes of the northwest, who seemed to be gathering again to strike a fatal blow at the frontier settlements; and had they been led by a Phillip, a Pontiac, or a Tecumseh, it is impossible to estimate the injury they might have inflicted."
Whether the foregoing remarks may be deemed by the reader a digression, or otherwise, we have certainly felt ourself justified in making them; from the fact, that our story is designed to be historical in all its bearings; and because many months being supposed to elapse, ere our characters are again brought upon the stage of action, it seemed expedient to give a general view of what was taking place in the interval. Having done so, we will now forthwith resume our narrative.
About five miles from Lexington, a little to the left of the present road leading thence to Maysville, and on a gentle rise of the southern bank of the Elkhorn, at the time of which we write, stood Bryan's Station, to which we must now call the reader's attention. This station was founded in the year 1779, by William Bryan, (a brother-in-law of Daniel Boone,) who had, prior to
the events we are now about to describe, been surprised and killed by the Indians in the vicinity of a stream called Cane Run.
This fort, at the period in question, was one of great importance to the early settlers--standing as it did on what was considered at the time of its erection, the extreme frontier, and, by this means, extending their area of security. The station consisted of forty cabins, placed in parallel lines, connected by strong pallisades, forming a parallelogram of thirty rods by twenty, and enclosing something like four acres of ground. Outside of the cabins and pallisades, to render the fort still more secure, were planted heavy pickets, a foot in diameter, and some twelve feet in height above the ground; so that it was impossible for an enemy to scale them, or affect them in the least, with any thing short of fire and cannon ball. To guard against the former, and prevent the besiegers making a lodgment under the walls, at each of the four corners or angles, was erected what was called a block-house--a building which projected beyond the pickets, a few feet above the ground, and enabled the besieged to pour a raking fire across the advanced party of the assailants. Large folding gates, on huge, wooden hinges, in front and rear, opened into the enclosure, through which men, wagons, horses, and domestic cattle, had admittance and exit. In the center, as the reader has doubtless already divined, was a broad space, into which the doors of the cabins opened, and which served the purpose of a regular common, where teams and cattle were oftentimes secured, where wrestling and other athletic sports took place. The cabins were all well constructed, with puncheon floors, the roofs of which sloped inward, to avoid as much as possible their being set on fire by burning arrows, shot by the Indians for the purpose, a practice by no means uncommon during a siege. This fort, at the period referred to, was garrisoned by from forty to fifty men; and though somewhat out of repair, in respect to a few of its pallisades, was still in a condition to resist an overwhelming force, unless taken wholly by surprise. There was one great error, however, connected with its design--and one that seems to have been common to most of the stations of that period--which was, that the spring, supplying the inmates with water, had not been enclosed within the pickets. The reader can at once imagine the misery that must have ensued from this cause, in case of their being suddenly assaulted by a superior enemy, and the siege protracted to any considerable length of time.
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