Читать книгу Daughter of Shiloh - Ilene Shepard Smiddy - Страница 10

CHAPTER II

Early February 1791—The Journey Begins

A January thaw turned the wagon road into mire. Days dragged by while the Allingtons waited for a break in the weather. Near the first of February the sun came out. A south wind dried up the bogs and ruts left by others, too anxious to wait out the winter storms.

The day finally dawned when David was confident winter was past. “It’s time to go Ma,” he said. “The birds are singing. That’s a good sign. We’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

The wagons lined up single file. William took the lead. “With luck we will reach the Cutright camp in two days,” he called back to the others.

When they rolled past the last section of rail fence, Martha turned to look back. Not toward the home she had come to love, but to impress upon her memory the picturesque grove of maples shading the spot where her Jacob lay. Alone and unmarked, his grave would soon be indiscernible, as the family had agreed it should be.

Rebecca’s children were thrilled with this new adventure. They stuck their heads in and out of the wagon flap, making faces at Clarinda and Martha seated on Jonathan’s wagon, second in line. David, who had Nancy and Sarah aboard came next. Jake, John and the hounds, with Old Beauty in tow brought up the rear. The stout calf that Clarinda called Cedric, trotted along beside his mother as if born to the trail.

Rebecca, nursing Ben, rocking and swaying with the motion of the wagon, began to sing:

I’m just a poor wayfaring stranger

A-trav’lin through this world of woe,

But there’s no sickness, toil or danger

In that bright world to which I go.

I’m goin’ there to see my mother;

I’m goin’ there, no more to roam.

I’m just a-goin’ over Jordan.

I’m just a-goin’ over home.

My father lived and died a farmer

A-reapin’ less than he did sow.

And now I follow in his footsteps

A-knowing less than he did know.

Soon the whole group was singing, jaunty and jubilant to be on their way, ready to embrace whatever lay ahead. The miles jounced by. Martha and Clarinda talked about the new country they were going to see, and how they would draw closer to Kentucky each day, as the wagons maintained their westward course.

Clarinda’s excitement was contagious. Spirits were high, and without mishap they reached the rendezvous point where the Cutright party was camped.

William set the pace, so the wagons covered up to ten miles each day. Soon they were surrounded by vast forest. There was an abundance of game. The camp had fresh meat every night, thanks to John and his hounds.

By the second week they were seasoned to the trail, setting up and breaking camp in record time. The higher elevation brought cold temperatures. The men took turns driving while the women and children walked or ran alongside the wagons to keep warm. This also eased the load on the horses so they made good time. Each night the travelers gave thanks for the progress made that day and asked the Creator for guidance and direction.

Nights were dark in the deep woods. Prowling wolves kept up a constant howling. William, an experienced woodsman, recognized the mournful cries. “John you better muzzle your hounds,” he said. “They’ll want to join that chase, but will be torn to bits by the timber wolves. From here on we’ll post a sentry around the camp.”

The wolves moved in so close one night that the horses and Old Beauty became extremely agitated. Stamping and snorting, they threatened to break out of their makeshift pen. David was standing guard. “Wolves,” he yelled. “Hurry, help me build up the fire.”

His brothers sprang to his aid, throwing wood onto the coals. The flames climbed skyward, and the bright firelight drove the darkness away, calming the stock. After that experience a hot fire was kept blazing throughout the long nights.

The Cherokee were a nation of many towns and villages. Their homeland reached from the Ohio and Tennessee Rivers to the west, southward across Alabama and Georgia. The Indian hunters moved with the seasons, following the migrating animals they needed for food.

The Allington men thought it unlikely they would encounter any hunting parties now. This wild region was the Cherokee’s summer hunting grounds. Nevertheless, a sharp lookout was kept for any tell tale sign that Indians recently had passed through.

Clarinda, who loved the outdoors, was overwhelmed by the ongoing panorama of nature. The blue mountains rose layer upon layer into the clouds. Daily they passed by glittering cascades of water rushing down the steep slopes. Rocky cliffs gave way to sweeping valleys. She noticed the flowering forest trees were beginning to show signs of spring.

The children moved back and forth between the wagons, riding in first one, then another. Clarinda did her best to help Rebecca keep them in tow, while investigating anything new or different herself. She had always been inquisitive and questioned the reason behind everything she saw or heard.

Climbing into the seat beside William one morning, Clarinda begged, “Tell me about the Cherokee Indians your Pa knew in North Carolina, and then I want to hear more about Kentucky.”

William laughed and slapped his horse’s reins. Clarinda had learned that he enjoyed telling her about his adventures because she was such a good listener, and she always remembered what he taught her.

“Sis, it was a long time ago in North Carolina, before the wars caused such bad blood on both sides. The Cherokee believe, as do most of the tribes, that the universe consists of three worlds. The Upper World, the Lower World and This World. Man lives in This World along with his friends, the animals and plants. The Indians exist in harmony with the earth. They believe all living things have souls and should be shown proper respect and consideration.

“The Cherokee have an advanced culture. They’re known as the Real or Beloved People. They live in permanent towns with long, low houses. The men are hunters and traders. My Pa traded with them. He took the goods that ships brought from England and France to their villages. They exchanged fine furs for firearms, ammunition, knives, beads, paint, clothing and whiskey.”

Clarinda’s eyes widened. “Whiskey, I thought your Pa was a preacher man?”

“He was, but that was much later on in his life.” William continued. “As more immigrants came to the New World, the Indians were forced to move further and further west. There were bloody battles over land, and disputes over the fur trade and slaves.

“About 1760 the Cherokee revolted. The story goes, a group of Cherokee warriors had been helping the English fight the French in a battle near the Ohio River. They stopped on the way back to their village to capture wild horses. A few white settlers pretended the horses belonged to them, and killed the Cherokees. The white men sold the horses, and collected bounties on the Cherokee scalps, claiming they were taken from Indians allied to the French, which was not true.”

William looked at Clarinda to see if his story had moved her.

“I don’t see why so many bad things happen? Tell me more,” she pleaded. “I want to learn all I can before we get to Kentucky.”

“Well, after this incident, the various Cherokee bands made war on the white settlements. Then the King sent British troops by the thousands and that caused more needless bloodshed. Within two years the Cherokee were completely crushed. Their towns were burned and crops destroyed. The Beloved People were starving.

“In the peace pact that followed, the Cherokee were forced to give up a large portion of their eastern homeland and move further west to what they called the Overhill country.”

William paused, before explaining. “During the War for Independence, some Cherokee fought alongside the British, while others fought with the Americans. It was a terrible time for all of us and triggered some strange circumstances.

“There were wrongs done by both sides. That’s why the peace treaty was sealed. The wise chiefs of the Five Civilized Tribes and our new American leaders want peace, but I’m afraid it will be a long time in coming. Some red men, and white, as well, will not move beyond the past.”

Clarinda sighed. “I wish they could make a real peace. I don’t like being fearful of Indians. Do you think they’ll bother us in Kentucky?”

“I don’t know, Sis. When I was there last, the Cherokee and Shawnee both claimed Kentucky and Tennessee as rightfully theirs, and to be honest I guess it should be. Because of the many battles fought over the land there the Cherokee named it The Dark and Bloody Ground.

“At Boonesborough we treated the Indians fair. Boone insisted on it. Trouble is most white settlers and fur traders don’t understand the Indian’s attitude about wildlife or the land. The Indian worships both. The bear can’t be killed without an apology and ceremony to explain to the animal his meat is needed to feed the tribe.

“The white man sees things much differently. One other thing, the Cherokee will not allow the death of a fellow tribesman or kinsman to go unavenged. An Indian raid has wiped out whole forts or settlements, because one white man killed an Indian, just because he was an Indian.”

William patted Clarinda’s dark curls. “That’s enough about Indians for one day. Don’t you trouble your pretty head about such things. Go on in the back of the wagon and help your sister with the baby.”

“I will, but I hope you can tell me more later. It does help me to understand better. I know Pa tried to treat the Indians right.” Clarinda disappeared inside the canvas opening where Rebecca was singing Ben to sleep.

I’m goin’ there to see my father;

I’m goin’ there, no more to roam.

I’m just a-goin’ over Jordan,

I’m just a-goin’ over home.

I know dark clouds will gather ‘round me.

My way is steep and rough, I know,

But fertile fields lie just before me

In that fair land to which I go.

William let his mind wander as he guided the team along the rough trail. He knew the tribes were gradually being forced to yield up more and more of their precious homeland as the settlers grew in number. Already the once powerful Six Nations Confederation had been broken. Tribes who once came to each other’s aid now fought among themselves. Some of the northeastern tribes had been driven to the Western Door, a name given to the Mississippi Valley region.

William understood the Indian’s hostility. He had witnessed the horrible depredations resulting from the Indian wars. He spoke Cherokee, and knew some of the principal chiefs in the nation. He believed they would honor their treaty. It was a sacred trust. They had signed the paper called “words that cannot be taken back.” The scattered uprisings were not of the principal chiefs’ making.

Still, no punishment was meted out to the renegade warriors. They were hailed as heroes upon returning to their villages. They were even granted a higher status in the tribal hierarchy. The men had a fondness for war. But that could be said of the white man as well. Yet, the Cherokee taught their youth to endure hunger and pain, to witness the torture of war captives and to listen to their red war chiefs brag about the deeds in battle they and their forebears had accomplished.

It all was a waste of energy that could be put to better use, William thought. The whole of the Indian problem was complex. It would take generations to solve it. William knew in his heart that one day the war councils would convene, the war dance would begin, and trouble would erupt anew along the frontier borders.

All of these things and more he had discussed at length with Rebecca’s brothers back on the Holston. They had agreed the risks were great, but the possible gains to be realized were greater.

Rebecca’s singing touched William. He glanced over his shoulder at his wife and children. Their lives and the lives of Rebecca’s family depended on him. William was aware that it was his love for adventure and his endless stories about Kentucky that had set them on this journey. He wanted to make their lives better. He prayed he would be equal to the task.

David and Jonathan came running in answer to William’s signal to halt. Peter Cutright climbed off his wagon and came forward. The men stood together, silently surveying the scene before them. Looking back they could see the mountains fading away into the distance behind them. Ahead the Ohio Valley stretched as far as they could see.

“I know this will someday be productive farmland,” William said, noting the look in his brother-in-law’s eyes. “But right now any white man foolish enough to settle north of the Ohio River rarely survives. Many squatters have paid dearly for encroaching on Shawnee and Chickasaw land.”

Both William and David had been promised western lands for their service in Washington’s army. When they mustered out, they received land warrant certificates for the Ohio Territory.

After much discussion, most of the soldiers agreed that Ohio would not be available for settlement in their lifetime. David and William then did as many other troops were doing. They sold the certificates to land companies in order to buy food and other necessities.

“Is this the place where we turn southward?” Peter Cutright asked, turning his back on the expansive Ohio River region.

William agreed. “We stay south of the river. The woodlands of Kentucky are not far off.” William’s anticipation was growing. His love for this beautiful country came flooding back. His heart beat faster. He could forget the war and its hardships. He was returning home.

On the twenty-sixth day of their journey, morning dawned clear and bright. Martha wrote in her journal. “Today the sun rose with a promise to warm the earth.”

Nancy and Sarah were the first to point out the column of smoke in the distance. After a few miles they could see more than one column rising above the horizon. It was clear they were nearing a pioneer settlement.

“We’ve made it. Thank the Lord,” Martha called out.

William wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Waving his hat in the air he yelled, “Hello, Kentucky.” Everyone broke into his or her favorite song.

I’m goin’ there to see my brother;

I’m goin’ there, no more to roam,

I’m just a-goin’ over Jordan,

I’m just a-goin’ over home.

The setting sun’s rays painted the wagon-tops gold, as they approached Morgan’s Station. It was the first week in March, 1791.

Ralph Morgan and Harry Martin, rifles ready, peered from their position of safety behind the stockade’s north gate. When the first wagon was within earshot, the driver waved and called out.

“Hail the fort.”

“Who goes?” Morgan yelled back.

“William Rice and the Allington band from Virginia.”

“Swing the gate wide, Harry,” Morgan shouted. He laughed aloud waving the wagons forward.

The massive gate swung open. William drove his horses in, followed closely by the other four teams.

Clarinda jumped down from her perch beside Jonathan. Scurrying around behind Jake’s wagon, she untied the cow. She had seen a cow pen just outside the gate. The stockade fence formed the backside of the small enclosure.

Leading Old Beauty and her calf around and into the pen, Clarinda left them in the company of two young calves. She checked the gate, making sure it was fastened, then ran back to join Nancy and Sarah who were taking in the fort.

Clarinda spun around, arms outstretched. “Are we really home?”

Morgan threw his burly arms around William, pounding him on the back. “Son, I’m more than glad to see you. Come and meet everybody.” Morgan led the newcomers to the center of the square where a crowd had started to gather.

“Folks, William Rice here is an old friend of mine since we traveled with Boone,” Morgan shouted. “He and his wife’s family, the Allingtons from Virginia, are going to settle at our station.”

The group moved forward, shaking hands, eager to ask questions. News from the east was months old by the time it reached the Kentucky frontier. They were glad to see new faces and hear about the trip over the mountains.

“Indians give you any trouble?” Harry Martin asked David.

“No, didn’t see any. We crossed without incident, in record time too, I think.”

“We’re all getting tired of these quarters, though,” Jake said grinning, motioning toward the wagons.

William broke in, “Cutright here has a brother, Captain Samuel Cutright, who owns a station on the head of Green Creek. Do you know him?”

Peter Cutright shook hands with Morgan. “Met the captain once,” Morgan said. “Fine man.” We’re hoping you will all stay on here. We have four empty cabins and one blockhouse ready, built in ‘89. Take your pick.” He pointed out the available buildings.

What few women there were living inside the station were delighted to meet Martha, her four daughters, and Mrs. Cutright. Each woman ran to her own home to bring the food and drink she could spare. Everyone gathered in Morgan’s place to get acquainted and hear Clarinda’s brothers tell about their crossing, and pass along what little they knew of the state of the new union.

Night fell quickly. It became pitch black inside the fort. Thick clouds rolled in, obscuring the moon. Little could be accomplished until morning. The horses were fed and bedded. John helped Clarinda feed the cow and calf. This done, the new arrivals thanked their hosts for the warm friendship offered and the generous meal.

Clarinda helped Martha pick out the blockhouse on the southwest corner for their own. It faced the north gate diagonally across the square. Jonathan said it was a good choice. Pulling the bedding from inside the wagons, the weary travelers retired to their chosen cabins, ready to sleep for the first time in their new Kentucky homes.

“Clarinda, climb up in the wagon and hand the crates down,” Martha ordered.

She had roused them all up at first light. Their long trek over, the families were anxious to get settled. Nancy and Sarah busied themselves carrying load upon load into the eighteen-foot square blockhouse.

In daylight the station resembled a small fort, rectangular in shape. The longest sides ran east to west. It had been built on a ridge overlooking Slate Creek, where the rushing current formed a sharp bend in the streambed.

Morgan had settled on this strategic location, because the creek afforded a measure of protection, flowing as it did across the back or south end of the fort. The horseshoe-like bend in the creek made a curve around the fort on both the south and east sides.

Their blockhouse faced the big gate across the one-fourth acre square that formed the courtyard. Next door were the cabins of the Arthur families.

A new stockade fence encircled the compound. The cabins, sixteen feet square, were built in twos, flush with the fence. There were six cabins, two on each of three sides of the fort. A stable and corncrib belonging to James Wade, the station’s guard, occupied the north part of the station, from corner to corner. The stable was next to the big gate they had driven through last night. The second blockhouse was on the other side of the gate in the northeast corner.

James Wade, walking his rounds, stopped by to offer assistance. “Morgan took your menfolk out to look over the land, so I thought maybe I could give you ladies a hand.”

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Wade. We do have a few heavy things to unload,” Sarah replied, brushing back her long brown hair and smiling up at the scout.

James Wade was around twenty years old. Tall and muscular, his frontier garb of buckskin pants and open-necked muslin shirt caused an unfamiliar catch in Sarah’s breath.

While Wade worked, Nancy noticed the sidelong, admiring glances Sarah bestowed on him. “In which cabin do you live, Mr. Wade?” Nancy asked.

“Right now I’m living with two other men. Morgan hired me to act as a guard and hunter. He felt it might help to strengthen the place against an Indian attack.”

“Indians, are they troublesome?” Clarinda asked, feeling a slight shiver of fear. She stopped working to hear what he had to say.

“Don’t mind Clarinda, Mr. Wade. She is obsessed with talk about Indians.” Sarah said, giving her youngest sister a playful shove.

The girls noticed the grievous look of sadness change the man’s face. James Wade’s gaze rested on each of the Allington sister’s comely features. He dreaded to think what would happen if any one of them fell into the hands of a Shawnee or Wyandot warrior. His job was to protect the fort and see that it did not happen.

“I’m afraid so, Miss Allington. My parents live over at Peeled Oak, about three miles from here. We just buried my older brother, John. He was ambushed as he rode from the station to the beaver pond to set out his traps.” There was a tremor in Wade’s voice.

“Mercy me, we’re so sorry to hear tell. You poor boy,” exclaimed Martha, who had heard the conversation from her doorway. “In Virginia the Indians have been quiet since the treaty, excepting a few renegade raids. We hoped that would be true in Kentucky as well.”

“For the most part it is, ma’am. We’re close to the Ohio Territory though. The Wyandot, Shawnee and Chickasaw don’t abide by any treaties. Small war parties make forays into Kentucky sometimes. They’ll kill a white man, not so much out of hate for him, as for his possessions. They covet guns, hatchets, anything of value. We couldn’t determine which tribe this culprit came from. In the old days it was easy to tell by the type of arrow used. Now they all have rifles. No way to tell unless you see them use it.” Wade looked off into the distance, trying to hide his hurt.

“That’s too bad, son. Convey our sympathy to your folks.” Martha felt genuine sorrow that such a tragedy had befallen his family.

“Thanks, ma’am. I appreciate your kind words.” James Wade thought he was going to like this Allington family.

Standing there, talking with Wade, Martha came to the realization that she had held a false sense of security coming west. She recalled Jacob’s commenting on the fact that the ink was hardly dry on the treaty papers before land-hungry pioneers were illegally settling on Cherokee land.

Would the treaty not hold up here? The Indians might try to reclaim the land they had ceded over to the American government. She felt tired and alone in an alien place, and wished with all her heart that Jacob was here to help keep their family safe.

Retreating to the security of the house, Martha sank down on a bench, holding her bent head in the palms of her hands. Clarinda found her there a few moments later.

“Ma, are you sick? Ma, what is it?” Clarinda asked.

“Don’t fret, child. I’m just resting. Come, let’s get fresh water from the spring. The men will need to wash up when they come in.” Reaching for the buckets, Martha handed one over to Clarinda, forcing herself to smile.

While the other two girls and Wade finished the unloading, Martha and Clarinda found their way to the spring. Leaving the station by the back gate next to their blockhouse, they followed the well-worn path into the woods.

“How green and fresh it is here,” Clarinda skipped ahead. The crystal clear, cold water bubbled up from the bowels of the earth. It was a lovely spot, with moss-covered rocks piled high to form a deep pool. Watercress grew profusely along the spring branch. They gathered some of the tangy greens for a salad. The bright green leaves and mint-like taste would add a welcome variety to their meals.

By the time Clarinda set the brimming buckets on the table and handed her a refreshing drink from the dipper, Martha felt better. Her whole life had been lived near the forest. She was familiar with the various activities of Indians. What reason did she have now to be so afraid? Maybe it was because Kentucky seemed different, wilder and more uncivilized.

Their first Sunday at Morgan’s the Allingtons took a much needed rest. The fort’s womenfolk confided to Martha there were no church services ever held at the station.

Martha decided to do in Kentucky as her family had always done. “We can’t abide not having church” she told them earnestly. “When the sun goes down and all the chores finished, bring out the fiddles and banjos. Tell everyone to come over to our place for prayer and singing.”

She sent Clarinda to visit the cabins, and spread the word that all were welcome. At sunset William, Rebecca and the other family members converged on the blockhouse.

Sowing in the morning, sowing seeds of kindness,

Sowing in the noontide and the dewy eve;

Waiting for the harvest and the time of reaping,

We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.

Hearing the sweet sound of young voices singing the familiar hymns started the neighbors drifting toward the gathering. First the Martins and Cutrights, then the Arthurs, their children in tow. The Becraft’s large brood arrived. Robert Craig and his wife strolled over. The grass in front of the blockhouse soon filled with people who had all but forgotten what life before Kentucky was like.

Jonathan, as his Pa had done, read from the worn Bible in which Martha recorded their family history. William, standing beside Rebecca, a toddler clinging to each hand, asked everyone to bow their heads in prayer.

The sharp crack of a rifle broke the reverent stillness.

James Wade, who Sarah had noticed was not at the service, came running from his cabin, gun in hand. His dog bounded toward the sound of the shot. Grabbing their weapons, the men followed Wade to the north gate.

Martha hustled the women and children inside the blockhouse to safety. Clarinda rushed to one of the lower portholes. She watched Wade’s shepherd dog race across the cane field, and wondered what was causing the dog’s ferocious barking.

“Indians,” Wade shouted, while slamming down the bar on the gate. “I know that bark.”

Ralph Morgan, David and William reverted to their past military training and ordered defense positions set up.

Peering over the stockade Wade explained “I didn’t attend the prayer service because I’ve been watching all day for Mr. Reynolds, the manager of the Furnace, to ride in.”

The smelting furnace was about five miles away. A number of soldiers were stationed there to protect the ore being processed.

“At my brother’s funeral, Reynolds inquired about buying some beaver skins from me,” Wade said. “He fancied to make himself a fine hat. I was anxious to sell the skins and waited in case he did show up.”

The men patrolled the inside perimeter of the fort, keeping a lookout for any sign of trouble. The evening wore on. No more sounds were heard until the shepherd returned, scratching on the gate and whining. Wade opened it wide enough to let the dog squeeze through.

Throughout the night the dog kept up a pitiful moaning wail. “That’s a sure sign of Indians,” Wade said.

Early the next morning, Abraham Becraft discovered his big gray mare was missing. He figured the Indians had stolen her.

Stealing horses and women was one of the ways an Indian brave proved himself a warrior. David, and Wade joined the others to help look for the mare.

The field had not yet been laid by for planting. Dried cane stalks covered it; leaning in thick bunches, which made it difficult to see the ground. The road leading to the Furnace wound across the field and through a thick forest for several miles.

They found the mare grazing on tender blades of grass in a stand of oak and pine at the edge of the field. The men spread out, herding the mare back to the fort. They nearly stumbled over the body of a man sprawled on the ground.

David, remembering a similar experience in battle, knew seconds wasted looking at a dead body could get you killed, shouted “Run for cover.”

All the men except Wade took off through the dried cane, running for the big gate. He stopped long enough to identify the body as being that of Reynolds. “Looks like the shot entered his left shoulder and came out his right breast. Never knew what hit him.” Wade muttered, sweeping the field and timberline with his gaze, checking for any sign of movement.

He heard the racket the others were making in the dried cane. Leaving the body lay for now, he followed them back to the fort.

Back inside the station they learned a soldier from the Furnace had arrived. He was looking for Reynolds, who had taken a musket and started out for Morgan’s on Sunday morning. When he did not return, Indian trouble was suspected, as some Indians had been seen lurking near the Furnace Road. The soldier thought he may have seen one on his ride over. The men decided to stay armed and on guard.

John Pleak, Wade’s brother-in-law, announced he was going to move his family back to Clark. He just could not abide any more episodes with Indians.

All was quiet, however, until early August. Robert Craig and Bill Arthur were on a hunt when a party of braves suddenly rose up out of some underbrush and fired on them. No one was hurt, and there were no more incidents involving Indians at Morgan’s Station until April 1, 1793.