On the sixth day southward they were right at the heels of the Shawnees, and circuited their camp at the Blue Licks itself, only forty miles from the fort. Indeed there had been no time to lose.
But the next afternoon they trooped, breathless, into Boonesborough, with word that the Shawnees--in full force--were close at hand.
At ten o"clock the following morning, September 7, the enemy appeared.
They had crossed the Kentucky at a ford a mile and a half above the fort, had marched around by the rear, and now filed down for it from a timbered ridge on the south.
They made an imposing sight. They had flags, both French and British.
They had horses with baggage. They mustered some four hundred warriors, a dozen Canadian white men, and a negro named Pompey who was an adopted Shawnee. Their red chiefs were Black Fish himself, Moluntha, Black Wolf and Black Beard; their captain was a French-Canadian named Isidore Chene, of the British Indian department at Detroit.
Under a white flag, Captain Chene demanded the surrender of Fort Boonesborough. Counting the old men and boys, and several slaves, Daniel Boone had sixty persons who could handle a rifle; only forty of them were really shooters. He asked for two days in which to consider surrendering, but his mind was already made up.
The Shawnees had not donned their war paint for nothing; old Black Fish had come, looking for his "son"--and the rest had come, looking for whatever they might get.
Captain Chene, a pleasant enough man, consented. He posted his hideous array in the forest, to cut off any escape; Captain Boone spent the two days in gathering loose cattle into the stockade and putting last touches upon the defences. He looked in vain for the militia from Virginia.
Of course, while he knew what he himself would rather do, he had no right yet to speak for the rest. He held a council with them. If they surrendered, he said, likely enough their lives would be spared, but they would be prisoners in far-away Detroit, they would lose all their property, their fort and homes would be burned. If they fought, they might hold out, but the Indians were led by white soldiers and it would be a desperate siege, much worse than the other sieges. If they were overcome, they could expect no mercy, for the few whites would be unable to keep the tomahawks and scalping-knives from them.
Every voice declared:
"Let us fight."
Therefore on the morning of the third day Captain Boone made reply to Captain Chene.
"Sir, we have consulted together and are resolved to defend our fort whilst a single one of us is living. But we thank you for giving us notice, and time in which to provide for our wants. As for your preparations, we laugh at them. We do not fear painted faces. You shall never enter our gates."
"We know that you are brave men," Captain Chene the soldier courteously answered, and the daubed countenances of the Shawnees, peering from the thickets behind him, tried to leer. "Governor Hamilton appreciates your situation. The force against you is over-whelming, but he has charged me not to destroy you. He does not wish even to treat you with harshness. If you will send out nine of your men for a talk, we will come to some agreement by which you will evade further trouble, and I will then withdraw my forces and return whence we came."
Governor Hamilton certainly had acted kindly toward Daniel Boone, in Detroit. The "hair-buying general," he was dubbed by the American colonists because he gave out rewards for scalps and prisoners taken by the Indians. But he had a good side, and Captain Boone felt moved to experiment again. His men agreed with him. There was a slim chance of favorable terms.
He took his brother Squire Boone, Stephen and William Hanc.o.c.k, Colonel Richard Callaway, Settler Flanders, and three others. They carried no arms, for Captain Chene was unarmed.
"We will halt within fair rifle-shot," said Captain Boone, to the remaining men. "Do you cover us well and watch every movement."
The nine sallied out and met Captain Chene about forty yards in front of the gates. Captain Chene proposed the terms. He was all politeness and smiles. So were the Shawnee chiefs--although Black Fish eyed the Big Turtle rather darkly. He thought him a very ungrateful son.
The terms were these, said Captain Chene: only these. If the Boonesborough men would but sign a paper, promising not to fight against His Britannic Majesty King George, and submitting to the rule of Governor Hamilton, the whole garrison might march away unharmed, with all their goods.
The nine looked upon each other questioningly. "That"s ag"in all reason," thought Daniel Boone; and so thought his comrades. Those four hundred Indians would never permit it. They had been fooled by him twice; they had come a long distance for plunder; they had been led to expect rich prizes as their reward. Merely to see the garrison move out, leaving a bare fort, would not satisfy them. Indians go to war for scalps, horses, guns, powder, iron, captives.
"We will sign," remarked Daniel Boone. It was the quickest way to learn what would happen next. Something was due to happen, whether they signed or not.
Now Chief Black Fish had his turn. He stood forward and made a speech.
An oily old rascal, he. This was a treaty between two great white nations, and with a red nation, too, he said. It must be sealed in Indian fashion. Each Long Knife chief should shake hands with two Indians. Such was the Shawnee custom. Then they would be as brothers.
That struck the Daniel Boone men as something new. However, they had got in too deep to stick at trifles, but they smelled a mouse.
"It is good," said Daniel Boone. His muscles tense, his eyes bright, he stretched out his hand; he was strong and active, the Hanc.o.c.ks, Colonel Callaway, Squire Boone, Flanders, and all--they were as stout as buffalo and as quick as panthers; rifle muzzles that rarely missed were resting upon the port-holes only forty yards to rear, and the gates were open, waiting.
He stretched out his hand; two Indians at once grasped it--clutched his arm--
"Go!" shouted Chief Black Fish, exultant.
Instantly Captain Big Turtle was being dragged forward; other Indians had sprung at him--his eight comrades were wrestling and reeling--with a twist and a jerk he had flung his captors sprawling--his comrades had done likewise with theirs and while muskets bellowed and rifles spat they ran headlong for the gates; got safely in, too, with only Squire Boone wounded; the gates creaked shut, the bar fell into place, the peace treaty had been broken almost as soon as made, and Fort Boonesborough was in for a fight.
A deluge of hot lead swept against the walls. The bullets drummed upon the logs and the palisade, whined through the port-holes, tore slivers from the roofs. Urged on by the white men, the Indians charged under cover of the muskets. They were bent backward, and broke and fled, leaving bodies. With flaming arrows they set fire to a roof; their sharpshooters, in trees, would keep water from it. A stripling young man scrambled on top, stood there, seized the buckets pa.s.sed up to him, doused the blaze and amidst cheers leaped down again.
Some of the brave women, Jemima Boone and other girls, donned men"s clothes and showed themselves here and there, to deceive the enemy.
Jemima was wounded; two of the men were killed. Somebody, in the timber, was doing good shooting, with a rifle.
It was the black Indian, Pompey. He was known to be a crack marksman.
They watched for him. Daniel Boone glimpsed him, high up in a tree; waited for a chance, took quick aim--and down from the tree crashed Pompey, dead before he struck the turf. After the siege they found him, shot through the head by Daniel Boone"s long-barreled "Betsy," at a distance of one hundred and seventy-five yards.
Directed by Captain Chene, the Black Fish Shawnees started a tunnel, from the river bank, to under-mine the walls. The clay that they threw out behind them made the river current muddy, and the keen eyes in the fort saw and read.
The defense started a counter tunnel, which should meet the other and cut a trench across its course. The Indians" tunnel became rain-soaked and caved in; they knew that the fort was digging also, and after having bored for forty yards, they quit. Fighting was more to their taste than burrowing like moles.
More than a week pa.s.sed, without a let-up day or night. The powder smoke hung, veiling the clearing and the edge of the forest, and the surface of the river. Inside the fort there was not an idle hand, among the living. The losses had been very small indeed, in spite of the hubbub; no one had any notion of surrender, yet.
Then, on the morning of September 20, the sun rose in silence. After a parting volley the enemy had gone. The siege was lifted.
Daniel Boone sent out scouts. They reported the coast clear. The gates were opened. The corpses of thirty-six Indians and the negro Pompey were awaiting. How many other bodies and how many wounded had been carried away was never learned.
One hundred and twenty-five pounds of lead were gathered, inside the fort and outside; nearly as much more had entered the logs. That proved the fierceness of the ten days" attack, but did not pay for the cattle killed or stolen, astray in the timber.
However, this was the last siege of Boonesborough. The Shawnees gave up hopes of ever getting their Big Turtle, but they admired him none the less.
[1] See "Boys" Book of Indian Warriors."
CHAPTER V
SCOUT KENTON HAS A HARD TIME (1778-1779)
HOW HE PAID FOR HIS HORSE-STEALING
When Boonesborough was besieged this last time, Daniel Boone"s most trusted man (excepting his own brother) did not take part in the defence. Young Simon Kenton--or at present Simon Butler--was absent, with his friend Montgomery also.
After the gleeful Simon had shot the two Indians at once, near Paint Creek town, and had spied upon the town itself, he and scout Montgomery had stayed while the others hastened back to Boonesborough. They were not at all satisfied to have come so far and to have taken only one scalp.
Now this Simon Butler or Simon Kenton was a dare-devil pure and simple: a youth of roguish but extremely obstinate spirit. He had started upon the adventure trail at sixteen, and here at twenty-three he already had many hair-breadth escapes in his memory and many notches in his rifle-stock.
First, when he was sixteen he had fallen in love, at his home in Virginia, and had fought a rough-and-tumble with his man rival, by name William Veach or else Leitchman. He seemed to be holding Leitchman pretty even, too--until his rival"s friends jumped in and pummeled Simon well.
Lad Simon limped away, bruised and bleeding, scarcely able to walk--for such fights were wild-cat fights with claws and teeth. He bided his time; he grew rapidly, and by April, 1771, being six feet tall at last (the true border height) and strongly muscled, he challenged Leitchman again.