a pioneer, moistened by her tears as a captive, or by her blood as a martyr
in the cause of civilization on this western continent.

The sorrows of maidens, wives, and mothers in the border wars of our
colonial times, have furnished themes for the poet, the artist, and the
novelist, but the reality of these scenes as described in the simple words
of the local historians, often exceeds the most vivid dress in which
imagination can clothe it.

One of the most deeply rooted traits of woman's nature is sympathy, and the
outflow of that emotion into action is as natural as the emotion itself.
When a woman witnesses the sufferings of others it is instinctive with her
to try and relieve them, and to be thwarted in the exercise of this faculty
is to her a positive pain.

We may judge from this of what her feelings must have been when she saw, as
she often did, those who were dearest to her put to torture and death
without being permitted to rescue them or even alleviate their agonies.

Such was the position in which Mrs. Waldron was placed, on the northern
border, during the French and Indian war of the last century. She and her
husband occupied a small block-house which they had built a few miles from
Cherry Valley, New York, and here she was doomed to suffer all that a wife
could, in witnessing the terrible fate of her husband and being at the same
time powerless to rescue him.

"One fatal evening," to use the quaint words of our heroine, "I was all
alone in the house, when I was of a sudden surprised with the fearful
war-whoop and a tremendous attack upon the door and the palisades around. I
flew to the upper window and seizing my husband's gun, which I had learned
to use expertly, I leveled the barrel on the window-sill and took aim at
the foremost savage. Knowing their cruelty and merciless disposition, and
wishing to obtain some favor, I desisted from firing; but how vain and
fruitless are the efforts of one woman against the united force of so many,
and of such merciless monsters as I had here to deal with! One of them that
could speak a little English, threatened me in return, 'that if I did not
come out, they would burn me alive in the house.' My terror and distraction
at hearing this is not to be expressed by words nor easily imagined by any
person unless in the same condition. Distracted as I was in such deplorable
circumstances, I chose to rely on the uncertainty of their protection,
rather than meet with certain death in the house; and accordingly went out
with my gun in my hand, scarcely knowing what I did. Immediately on my
approach, they rushed on me like so many tigers, and instantly disarmed me.
Having me thus in their power, the merciless villians bound me to a tree
near the door.

"While our house and barns were burning, sad to relate, my husband just
then came through the woods, and being spied by the barbarians, they gave
chase and soon overtook him. Alas! for what a fate was he reserved! Digging
a deep pit, they tied his arms to his side and put him into it and then
rammed and beat the earth all around his body up to his neck, his head only
appearing above ground. They then scalped him and kindled a slow fire near
his head.

"I broke my bonds, and running to him kissed his poor bleeding face, and
threw myself at the feet of his barbarous tormentors, begging them to spare
his life. Deaf to all my tears and entreaties and to the piercing shrieks
of my unfortunate husband, they dragged me away and bound me more firmly to
the tree, smiting my face with the dripping scalp and laughing at my
agonies.

"Thank God! I then lost all consciousness of the dreadful scene; and when I
regained my senses the monsters had fled after cutting off the head of the
poor victim of their cruel rage."

When the British formed an unholy alliance with the Indians during the
Revolutionary War and turned the tomahawk and scalping knife against their
kinsmen, the beautiful valley of Wyoming became a dark and bloody
battle-ground. The organization and disciplined valor of the white man,
leagued with the cunning and ferocity of the red man, was a combination
which met the patriots at every step in those then remote settlements, and
spread rapine, fire, and murder over that lovely region.

The sufferings of the captive women, the dreadful scenes they witnessed,
and the fortitude and courage they displayed, have been rescued from
tradition and embodied in a permanent record by more than one historian.
The names of Mrs. Bennet, Mrs. Myers, Mrs. Marcy, Mrs. Franklin, and a host
of others, are inseparably associated with the household legends of the
Wyoming Valley.

Miss Cook, after witnessing the barbarous murder and mutilation of a
beautiful girl, whose rosy cheeks were gashed and whose silken tresses were
torn from her head with the scalping knife, was threatened with instant
death unless she would assist in dressing a bundle of fresh, reeking scalps
cut from the heads of her friends and relatives. As she handled the gory
trophies, expecting every moment that her own locks would be added to the
ghastly heap, she saw something in each of those sad mementos that reminded
her of those who were near and dear to her. At last she lifted one which
she thought was her mother's; she gazed at the long tresses sprinkled with
gray and called to mind how often she had combed and caressed them in
happier hours: shuddering through her whole frame, the wretched girl burst
into a passion of tears. The ruthless savage who stood guard over her with
brandished tomahawk immediately forced her to resume and complete her
horrible task.

In estimating the heroism of American women displayed in their conflicts
with the aborigines, we must take into account her natural repugnance to
repulsive and horrid spectacles. The North American savage streaked with
war-paint, a bunch of reeking scalps at his girdle, his snaky eyes gleaming
with malignity, was a direful sight for even a hardened frontiers-man; how
much more, then, to his impressionable and delicate wife and daughter. The
very appearance of the savage suggested thoughts of the tomahawk, the
scalping knife, the butchered relations, the desolated homestead. Nothing
can better illustrate the hardihood of these bold spirited women than the
fact that they showed themselves not seldom superior to these feelings of
dread and abhorrence, daring even in the midst of scenes of blood to
denounce personally and to their face the treachery and cruelty of their
foes.

[Footnote: DeHass.] In the year 1763 a party of Shawnees visited the
Block-House at Big Levels, Virginia, and after being hospitably entertained
by the inhabitants, turned treacherously upon them and massacred every
white man in the house. The women and children were carried away as
captives, including Mrs. Glendenning, the late wife, and now the widow of
one of the leading settlers. Notwithstanding the dreadful scenes through
which she had passed, Mrs. Glendenning was not intimidated. Her husband and
friends had been butchered before her eyes; but though possessed of keen
sensibilities, her spirit was undaunted by the awful spectacle. Filled with
indignation at the treachery and cruelty of the Indians, she loudly
denounced them, and tauntingly told them that they lacked the hearts of
great warriors who met their foes in fair and open conflict. The savages
were astounded at her audacity; they tried to frighten her into silence by
flapping the bloody scalp of her husband in her face and by flourishing
their tomahawks above her head. The intrepid woman still continued to
express her indignation and detestation. The savages, admiring her courage,
refrained from inflicting any injury upon her. She soon after managed to
effect her escape and returned to her desolate home, where she gave decent
interment to the mangled remains of her husband. During all the trying
scenes of the massacre and captivity Mrs. Glendenning proved herself worthy
of being ranked with the bravest women of our Colonial history.

The region watered by the upper Ohio and its tributary streams was for
fifty years the battle-ground where the French and their Indian allies, and
afterwards the Indians alone, strove to drive back the Anglo-Saxon race as
it moved westward. The country there was rich and beautiful, but what made
its possession especially desirable was the fact that it was the strategic
key to the great West. The French, understanding its importance,
established their fortresses and trading-posts as bulwarks against the army
of English settlers advancing from the East, and also instructed their
savage allies in the art of war.

The Indian tribes in that region were warlike and powerful, and for some
years it seemed as if the country would be effectually barred against the
access of the Eastern pioneer. But the same school that reared and trained
the daughters and grand-daughters of the Pilgrims, and of the settlers of
Jamestown, and fitted them to cope with the perils and hardships of the
wilderness, and to battle with hostile aboriginal tribes, also fitted their
descendants for new struggles on a wider field and against more desperate
odds. The courage and fortitude of men and women alike rose to the
occasion, and in those scenes of danger and carnage, the presence of mind
displayed by women especially, have been frequent themes of panegyric by
the border annalists.

[Footnote: DeHass.] The scene wherein Miss Elizabeth Zane, one of these
heroines, played so conspicuous a part, was at Fort Henry, near the present
city of Wheeling, Virginia, in the latter part of November, 1782. Of the
forty-two men who originally composed the garrisons, nearly all had been
drawn into an ambush and slaughtered. The Indians, to the number of several
hundred, surrounded the garrison which numbered no more than twelve men and
boys.

A brisk fire upon the fort was kept up for six hours by the savages, who at
times rushed close up to the palisades and received the reward of their
temerity from the rifles of the frontiersmen. In the afternoon the stock of
powder was nearly exhausted. There was a keg in a house ten or twelve rods
from the gate of the fort, and the question arose, who shall attempt to
seize this prize? Strange to say, every soldier proffered his services, and
there was an ardent contention among them for the honor. In the weak state
of the garrison, Colonel Shepard, the commander, deemed it advisable that
only one person could be spared; and in the midst of the confusion, before
any one could be designated, Elizabeth Zane interrupted the debate, saying
that her life, was not so important at that time as any one of the
soldiers, and claiming the privilege of performing the contested services.
The Colonel would not at first listen to her proposal, but she was so
resolute, so persevering in her plea, and her argument was so powerful,
that he finally suffered the gate to be opened, and she passed out. The
Indians saw her before she reached her brother's house, where the keg was
deposited; but for some cause unknown, they did not molest her until she
reappeared with the article under her arm. Probably, divining the nature of
her burden, they discharged a volley as she was running towards the gate,
but the whizzing balls only gave agility to her feet, and herself and the
prize were quickly safe within the gate.

The successful issue of this perilous enterprise infused new spirit into
the garrison; re-enforcements soon reached them, the assailants were forced
to beat a precipitate retreat, and Fort Henry and the whole frontier was
saved, thanks to the heroism of Elizabeth Zane!

[Footnote: McClung's Sketches of Western Adventure.] The heroines of
Bryant's Station deserve a place on the roll of honor, beside the name of
the preserver of Fort Henry, since like her their courage preserved a
garrison from destruction. We condense the story from the several sources
from which it has come down to us.

The station, consisting of about forty cabins ranged in parallel lines,
stood upon a gentle rise on the southern banks of the Elkhorn, near
Lexington, Kentucky. One morning in August, 1782, an army of six hundred
Indians appeared before it as suddenly as if they had risen out of the
earth. One hundred picked warriors made a feint on one side of the fort,
trying to entice the men out from behind the stockade, while the remainder
were concealed in ambush near the spring with which the garrison was
supplied with water. The most experienced of the defenders understood the
tactics of their wily foes, and shrewdly guessed that an ambuscade had been
prepared in order to cut off the garrison from access to the spring. The
water in the station was already exhausted, and unless a fresh supply could
be obtained the most dreadful sufferings were apprehended. It was thought
probable that the Indians in ambush would not unmask themselves until they
saw indications that the party on the opposite side of the fort had
succeeded in enticing the soldiers to an open engagement.

[Footnote: McClung's Sketches of Western Adventure.] Acting upon this
impression, and yielding to the urgent necessity of the case, they summoned
all the women, without exception, and explaining to them the circumstances
in which they were placed, and the improbability that any injury would be
done them, until the firing had been returned from the opposite side of the
fort, they urged them to go in a body to the spring, and each to bring up a
bucket full of water. Some, as was natural, had no relish for the
undertaking; they observed they were not bulletproof, and asked why the men
could not bring the water as well as themselves; adding that the Indians
made no distinction between male and female scalps.

To this it was answered, that women were in the habit of bringing water
every morning to the fort, and that if the Indians saw them engaged as
usual, it would induce them to believe that their ambuscade was
undiscovered, and that they would not unmask themselves for the sake of
firing at a few women, when they hoped, by remaining concealed a few
moments longer to obtain complete possession of the fort; that if men
should go down to the spring, the Indians would immediately suspect that
something was wrong, would despair of succeeding by ambuscade, and would
instantly rush upon them, follow them into the fort, or shoot them down at
the spring. The decision was soon made.

A few of the boldest declared their readiness to brave the danger, and the
younger and more timid rallying in the rear of these veterans, they all
marched down in a body to the spring, within point blank shot of more than
five hundred Indian warriors! Some of the girls could not help betraying
symptoms of terror, but the married women, in general, moved with a
steadiness and composure which completely deceived the Indians. Not a shot
was fired. The party were permitted to fill their buckets, one after
another, without interruption, and although their steps became quicker and
quicker, on their return, and when near the gate of the fort, degenerated
into a rather un-military celerity, attended with some little crowding in
passing the gate, yet only a small portion of the water was spilled. The
brave water carriers were received with open arms and loud cheers by the
garrison, who hailed them as their preservers, and the Indians shortly
after retired, baffled and cursing themselves for being outwitted by the
"white squaws."

The annals of the border-wars in the region of which we have been speaking
abound in stories where women have been the victors in hand-to-hand fights
with savages. In all these combats we may note the spirit that inspired
those brave women with such wonderful strength and courage, transforming
them, from gentle matrons into brave soldiers. It was love for their
children, their husbands, their kindred, or their homes rather than the
selfish instinct of self-preservation which impelled Mrs. Porter, the two
Mrs. Cooks, Mrs. Merrill, and Mrs. Bozarth to perform those feats of
prowess and daring which will make their names live for ever in the
thrilling story of border-warfare.

The scene where Mrs. Porter acted her amazing part was in Huntingdon
county, Pennsylvania, and the time was during the terrible war instigated
by the great Pontiac. While sitting by the window of her cabin, awaiting
the return of her husband, who had gone to the mill, she caught sight of an
Indian approaching the door. Taking her husband's sword from the wall where
it hung, she planted herself behind the door; and when the Indian entered
she struck with all her might, splitting his skull and stretching him a
corpse upon the floor. Another savage entered and met the same fate. A
third seeing the slaughter of his companions prudently retired.

Dropping the bloody weapon, she next seized the loaded gun which stood
beside her and retreated to the upper story looking for an opportunity to
shoot the savage from the port-holes. The Indian pursued her and as he set
foot upon the upper floor received the contents of her gun full in the
chest and fell dead in his tracks. Cautiously reconnoitering in all
directions and seeing the field clear she fled swiftly toward the mill and
meeting her husband, both rode to a neighboring block-house where they
found refuge and aid. The next morning it was discovered that other Indians
had burned their cabin, partly out of revenge and partly to conceal their
discomfiture by a woman. The bones of the three savages found among the
ashes were ghastly trophies of Mrs. Porter's extraordinary achievement.

In Nelson county, Kentucky, on a midsummer night, in 1787, just before the
gray light of morning, John Merrill, attracted by the barking of his dog,
went to the door of his cabin to reconnoiter. Scarcely had he left the
threshold, when he received the fire of six or seven Indians, by which his
arm and thigh were both broken. He managed to crawl inside the cabin and
shouted to his wife to shut the door. Scarcely had she succeeded in doing
so when the tomahawks of the enemy were hewing a breach into the apartment.

[Footnote: McClung's Sketches of Western Adventure.] Mrs. Merrill, with
Amazonian courage and strength, grasped a large axe and killed, or badly
wounded, four of the enemy in succession as they attempted to force their
way into the cabin.

The Indians then ascended the roof and attempted to enter by way of the
chimney, but here, again, they were met by the same determined enemy. Mrs.
Merrill seized the only feather-bed which the cabin afforded, and hastily
ripping it open, poured its contents upon the fire. A furious blaze and
stifling smoke ascended the chimney, and quickly brought down two of the
enemy, who lay for a few moments at the mercy of the lady. Seizing the axe,
she despatched them, and was instantly summoned to the door, where the only
remaining savage appeared, endeavoring to effect an entrance, while Mrs.
Merrill was engaged at the chimney. He soon received a gash in the cheek
which compelled him with a loud yell to relinquish his purpose, and return
hastily to Chillicothe, where, from the report of a prisoner, he gave an
exaggerated account of the fierceness, strength, and courage of the "Long
knife squaw!"

The wives of Jesse and Hosea Cook, the "heroines of Innis station"
(Kentucky), as they have been styled, are shining examples of a firmness of
spirit which sorrow could not blench nor tears dim.

While the brothers Cook were peacefully engaged in the avocations of the
farm beside their cabins, in April, 1792, little dreaming of the proximity
of the savages, a sharp crack of rifles was heard and they both lay
weltering in their blood. The elder fell dead, the younger was barely able
to reach his cabin.

The two Mrs. Cooks with three children were instantly collected in the
house and the door made fast. The thickness of the door resisted the hail
of rifle-balls which fell upon it, and the Indians tried in vain to cut
through it with their tomahawks.

While the assault was being made on the outside of the cabin, within was
heart-rending sorrow mingled with fearless determination and high resolve.
The younger Cook while the door was being barred breathed his last in the
arms of his wife, and the two Mrs. Cooks, thus sadly bereaved of their
partners, were left the sole defenders of the cabin and the three children.

There was a rifle in the house but no balls could be found. In this
extremity one of the women took a musket-ball and placing it between her
teeth bit it into pieces. Her eyes streaming with tears, she loaded the
rifle and took her position at an aperture from which she could watch the
motions of the savages. She dried her tears and thought of vengeance on her
husband's murderers and of saving the innocent babes which she was
guarding.

After the failure of the Indians to break down the door, one of them seated
himself upon a log, apprehending no danger from the "white squaws" who, he
knew, were the only defenders of the cabin. A ball sped from the rifle in
the hands of Mrs. Cook, and with a loud yell the savage bounded into the
air and fell dead.

The Indians, infuriated at the death of their comrade, threatened, in
broken English, the direst vengeance on the inmates of the cabin. A half
dozen of the yelling fiends instantly climbed to the roof of the cabin and
kindled a fire upon the dry boards around the chimney. As the flames began
to take effect the destruction of the cabin and the doom of the unfortunate
inmates seemed certain.

But the self-possession and intrepidity of the brave women were equal to
the occasion. While one stood in the loft the other handed her water with
which she extinguished the fire. Again and again the roof was fired, and as
often extinguished. When the water was exhausted, the dauntless pair held
the flames at bay by breaking eggs upon them. The Indians, at length
fatigued by the obstinacy and valor of the brave defenders, threw the body
of their comrade into the creek and precipitately fled.

The exploits of Mrs. Bozarth in defending her home and family against
superior numbers, has scarcely been paralleled in ancient or modern
history. Relying upon her firmness and courage, two or three families had
gathered themselves for safety at her house, on the Pennsylvania border, in
the spring of 1779. The forest swarmed with savages, who soon made their
appearance near the stockade, severely wounding one of the only two men in
the house. [Footnote: Doddridge's Notes.] The Indian who had shot him,
springing over his prostrate body, engaged with the other white man in a
struggle which ended in his discomfiture. A knife was wanting to dispatch
the savage who lay writhing beneath his antagonist. Mrs. Bozarth seized an
axe and with one blow clove the Indian's skull. Another entered and shot
the white man dead. Mrs. Bozarth, with unflinching boldness, turned to this
new foe and gave him several cuts with the axe, one of which laid bare his
entrails. In response to his cries for help, his comrades, who had been
killing some children out of doors, came rushing to his relief. The head of
one of them was cut in twain by the axe of Mrs. Bozarth, and the others
made a speedy retreat through the door. Rendered furious by the desperate
resistance they had met, the Indians now besieged the house, and for
several days they employed all their arts to enter and slay the weak
garrison. But all their efforts were futile. Mrs. Bozarth and her wounded
companion employed themselves so vigorously and vigilantly that the enemy
were completely baffled. At length a party of white men arrived, put the
Indians to flight, and relieved Mrs. Bozarth from her perilous situation.

CHAPTER V.

THE CAPTIVE SCOUTS--THE GUARDIAN MOTHER OF THE MOHAWK.

The part that woman has taken in so many ways and under so many conditions,
in securing the ultimate results represented by our present status as a
nation, is given too small a place in the general estimate of those who pen
the record of civilization on the North American continent. This is no
doubt partly due to her own distaste for notoriety. While man stands as a
front figure in the temple of fame, and celebrates his own deeds with pen
and voice, she takes her place in the background, content and happy so long
as her father, or husband, or son, is conspicuous in the glory to which she
has largely contributed. Thus it is that in the march of grand events the
historian of the Republic often passes by the woman's niche without
dwelling upon its claims to our attention. But notwithstanding the
self-chosen position of the weaker sex, their names and deeds are not all
buried in oblivion. The filial, proud, and patriotic fondness of sons and
daughters have preserved in their household traditions the memory of brave
and good mothers; the antiquarian and the local historian, with loving zeal
have wiped the dust from woman's urn, and traced anew the names and
inscriptions which time has half effaced.

As we scan the pages of Woman's Record the roll of honor lengthens,
stretching far out like the line of Banquo's phantom-kings. Their names
become impressed on our memory; their acts dilate, and their whole lives
grow brighter the more closely we study them.

Among the many duties which from necessity or choice were assigned to woman
in the remote and isolated settlements, was that of standing guard. She was
_par excellence_ the vigilant member of the household, a sentinel ever
on the alert and ready to give alarm at the first note of danger. The
pioneers were the pickets of the army of civilization: woman was a picket
of pickets, a sentinel of sentinels, watchful of danger and the quickest to
apprehend it. She was always a guardian, and not seldom the preserver of
her home and of the settlement. Such duties as these, faithfully performed,
contribute perhaps to the success of a campaign more even than great
battles. As soon as the front line or picket-force of the pioneers was
fairly established in the enemies' country, the work was more than half
done, and the whole army--center, right, and left wings--could move forward
with little danger, though labor, hard and continuous, was still required.
In successive regions the same sentinel and picket duties were performed;
in New England and on the Atlantic coast first; then in the interior
districts, in the middle States; and already, a hundred years ago, the
flying skirmish-line had crossed the great Appalachian range, and was
fording the rivers of the western basin. On the march, on the halt, in the
camp, that is, in the permanent settlement, woman was a sentinel keeping
perpetual guard over the household treasures.

What materials for romance--for epic and tragic poetry--in the lives of
those pioneer women! The lonely cabin in the depths of the forest; the
father away; the mother rocking her babe to sleep; the howling of the
wolves; the storm beating on the roof; the crafty savage lying in ambush;
the war-whoop in the night; the attack and the repulse; or perchance the
massacre and the cruel captivity; and all the thousand lights and shadows
of border life!

During the French and Indian war, and while the northern border was being
desolated by savage raids, a hardy settler named Mack, with his wife and
two children, occupied a cabin and clearing in the forest a few miles south
of Lake Pleasant, in Hamilton County, New York. For some months after the
breaking out of the war no molestation was offered to Mr. Mack or his
family, either owing to the sequestered situation in which they lived, or
from the richer opportunities for plunder offered in the valleys some
distance below the lonely and rock-encompassed forest where the Mack
homestead lay. Encouraged by this immunity from attack, and placing
unbounded confidence in the vigilance and courage of his wife, Mr. Mack,
when summoned to accompany Sir William Johnson's forces on one of their
military expeditions, obeyed the call and prepared to join his
fellow-borderers. Mrs. Mack cheerfully and patriotically acquiesced in her
husband's resolution, assuring him that during his absence she would
protect their home and children or perish in attempt.

The cabin was a fortress, such as befitted the exposed situation in which
it lay, and was supplied by the provident husband before his departure with
provisions and ammunition sufficient to stand a siege: it was furnished on
each side with, a loop-hole through which a gun could be fixed or a
reconnoisance made in every direction.

Yielding to the dictates of prudence and desirous of redeeming the pledge
which she had made to her husband, Mrs. Mack stayed within doors most of
the time for some days after her husband had bade her farewell, keeping a
vigilant look-out on every side for the prowling foe. No sound but the
voices of nature disturbed the stillness of the forest. Everything around
spoke of peace and repose. Lulled into security by these appearances and
urged by the necessities of her out-door duties, she gradually relaxed her
vigilance until she pursued the labors of the farm with as much regularity
as she would have done if her husband had been at home.

One day while plucking ears of corn for roasting, she caught a glimpse of a
moccasin and a brawny limb fringed with leggins, projecting behind a clump
of bushes not twenty paces from her. Repressing the shriek which rose to
her lips, she quietly and leisurely strolled back to the house with her
basket of ears. Once she thought she heard the stealthy tread of the savage
behind her and was about to break into a run; but a moment's reflection
convinced her that her fears were groundless. She steadily pursued her
course till she reached the cabin. With a vast weight of fear taken from
her mind she now turned and cast a rapid, glance towards the bushes where
the foe lay in ambush; nothing was visible there, and having closed and
barred the door she made a reconnoisance from each of the four loop-holes
of her fortress, but saw nothing to alarm her.

It seemed to her probable that it was only a single prowling savage who was
seeking an opportunity to plunder the cabin. Accordingly with a loaded gun
by her side, she sat down before the loop-hole which commanded the spot
where the savage lay concealed and watched for further developments. For
two hours all was still and she began to imagine that he had left his
hiding place, when she noticed a rustling in the bushes and soon after
descried the savage crawling on his belly and disappearing in the
cornfield. Night found her still watching, and as soon as her children had
been lulled to sleep she returned to her post and straining her eyes into
the darkness, listened for the faintest sound that might give note of the
approach of the enemy. It was near midnight when overcome with fatigue she
leaned against the log wall and fell asleep with her gun in her hand.

She was conscious in her slumbers of some mesmeric power exerting an
influence upon her, and awakening with a start saw for an instant by the
faint light, a pair of snaky eyes looking directly into hers through the
loop-hole. They were gone before she was fairly awake, and she tried to
convince herself that she had been dreaming. Not a sound was audible, and
after taking an observation from each of the loop-holes she became
persuaded that the fierce eyes that seemed to have been watching her was
the figment of a brain disturbed by anxiety and vigils.

Once more sleep overcame her and again she was awakened by a rattling sound
followed by heavy breathing. The noise seemed to proceed from the chimney
to which she had scarcely began to direct her attention, when a large body
fell with a thud into the ashes of the fire-place, and a deep guttural
"ugh" was uttered by an Indian who rose and peered around the room.

The first flickering light which follows the blackness of midnight, gave
him a glimpse of the heroic matron who stood with her piece cocked and
leveled directly at his breast. Brandishing his tomahawk he rushed towards
her yelling so as to disconcert her aim. The brave woman with unshaken
nerves pulled the trigger, and the savage fell back with a screech, dead
upon the floor. Almost simultaneously with the report of the gun, a
triumphant war-whoop was sounded outside the cabin, and peering through the
aperture in the direction from which it proceeded she saw three savages
rushing toward the door. Rapidly loading her piece she took her position at
the loop-hole that commanded the entrance to the cabin, and taking aim,
shot one savage dead, the ball passing completely through his body and
wounding another who stood in range. The third made a precipitate retreat,
leaving his wounded comrade who crawled into the cornfield and there died.

After the occurrence of these events we may well suppose that the life of
Mrs. Mack was one of constant vigilance. For some days and nights she stood
sentinel over her little ones, and then in her dread lest the Indians
should return and take vengeance upon her and her children for the
slaughter of their companions, she concluded the wisest course would be to
take refuge in the nearest fort thirty miles distant. Accordingly the
following week she made all her preparations and carrying her gun started
for the fort with her children.

Before they had proceeded a mile on their course she had the misfortune to
drop her powder-horn in a stream: this compelled her to return to the cabin
for ammunition. Hiding her children in a dense copse and telling them to
preserve silence during her absence, she hastened back, filled her
powder-horn and returned rapidly upon her trail.

But what was her agony on discovering that her children were missing from
the place where she left them! A brief scrutiny of the ground showed her
the tracks of moccasins, and following them she soon ascertained that her
children had been carried away by two Indians. Like the tigress robbed of
her young, she followed the trail swiftly but cautiously and soon came up
with the savages, whose speed had been retarded by the children. Stealing
behind them she shot one of them and clubbing her gun rushed at the other
with such fierceness that he turned and fled.

Pursuing her way to the fort she met her husband returning home from the
war. The family then retraced their steps and reached their home, the scene
of Mrs. Mack's heroic exploit.

It was during their captivities that women often learned the arts and
practiced the perilous profession of a scout. Their Indian captors were
sometimes the first to suffer from the knowledge which they themselves had
taught their captive pupils. In this rugged school of Indian life was
nurtured a brave girl of New England parentage, who acted a conspicuous
part in protecting an infant settlement in Ohio.

[Footnote: Finley's Autobiography.] In the year 1790, the block-house and
stockade above the mouth, of the Hockhocking river in Ohio, was a refuge
and rallying point for the hardy frontiersmen of that region. The valley of
the Hockhocking was preëminent for the richness and luxuriance of nature's
gifts, and had been from time immemorial the seat of powerful and warlike
tribes of Indians, which still clung with desperate tenacity to a region
which had been for so many years the chosen and beloved abode of the red
man.

The little garrison, always on the alert, received intelligence early in
the autumn that the Indian tribes were gathering in the north for the
purpose of striking a final and fatal blow on this or some other important
out-post. A council was immediately held by the garrison, and two scouts
were dispatched up the Hockhocking, in order to ascertain the strength of
the foe and the probable point of attack.

The scouts set out one balmy day in the Indian summer, and threading the
dense growth of plum and hazel bushes which skirted the prairie, stealthily
climbed the eastern declivity of Mount Pleasant, and cast their eyes over
the extensive prairie-country which stretches from that point far to the
north. Every movement that took place upon their field of vision was
carefully noted day by day. The prairie was the _campus martius_ where
an army of braves had assembled, and were playing their rugged games and
performing their warlike evolutions. Every day new accessions of warriors
were hailed by those already assembled, with terrific war-whoops, which,
striking the face of Mount Pleasant, were echoed and re-echoed till it
seemed as if a myriad of yelling demons were celebrating the orgies of the
infernal pit.

To the hardy scouts these well-known yells, so terrible to softer ears,
were only martial music which woke a keener watchfulness and strung their
iron nerves to a stronger tension. Though well aware of the ferocity of the
savages, they were too well practiced in the crafty and subtle arts of
their profession to allow themselves to be circumvented by their wily foes.

On several occasions small parties of warriors left the prairies and
ascended the mount. At these times the scouts hid themselves in fissures of
the rocks or beneath sere leaves by the side of some prostrate tree,
leaving their hiding places when the unwelcome visitors had taken their
departure. Their food was jerked beef and cold corn-bread, with which their
knapsacks had been well stored. Fire they dared not kindle for the smoke
would have brought a hundred savages on their trail. Their drink was the
rain-water remaining in the excavations in the rocks. In a few days this
water was exhausted, and a new supply had to be obtained, as their
observations were still incomplete. McClelland, the elder of the two,
accordingly set out alone in search of a spring or brook from which they
could replenish their canteens. Cautiously descending the mount to the
prairie, and skirting the hills on the north, keeping as much as possible
within the hazel-thickets, he reached at length a fountain of cool limpid
water near the banks of the Hockhocking river. Filling the canteens he
rejoined his companion.

The daily duty of visiting the spring and obtaining a fresh supply, was
after this performed alternately by the scouts. On one of these diurnal
visits, after White had filled his canteens, he sat watching the limpid
stream that came gurgling out of the bosom of the earth. The light sound of
footsteps caught his practiced ear, and turning round he saw two squaws
within a few feet of him. The elder squaw at the same moment spying White,
started back and gave a far reaching war-whoop. He comprehended at once his
perilous situation. If the alarm should reach the camp, he and his
companion must inevitably perish.

A noiseless death inflicted upon the squaws, and in such a manner as to
leave no trace behind, was the only sure course which the instinct of
self-preservation suggested. With men of his profession action follows
thought as the bolt follows the flash. Springing upon his victims with the
rapidity and power of a tiger, he grasped the throat of each and sprang
into the Hockhocking river. The head of the elder squaw he easily thrust
under the water, and kept it in that position; but the younger woman
powerfully resisted his efforts to submerge her. During the brief struggle
she addressed him to his amazement in the English language, though in
inarticulate sounds. Relaxing his hold she informed him that she had been
made a prisoner ten years before, on Grave Creek Flats, that the Indians in
her presence had butchered her mother and two sisters, and that an only
brother had been captured with her, but had succeeded on the second night
in making his escape, since which time she had never heard of him.

During this narrative, White, unobserved by the girl, had released his grip
on the throat of the squaw, whose corpse floated slowly down stream, and,
directing the girl to follow him, he pushed for the Mount with the greatest
speed and energy. Scarcely had they proceeded two hundred yards from the
spring before an Indian alarm-cry was heard some distance down the river. A
party of warriors returning from a hunt had seen the body of the squaw as
it floated past. White and the girl succeeded in reaching the Mount where
they found McClelland fully awake to the danger they were in. From his
eyrie he had seen parties of warriors strike off in every direction on
hearing the shrill note of alarm first sounded by the squaw, and before
White and the girl had joined him, twenty warriors had already gained the
eastern acclivity of the Mount and were cautiously ascending, keeping their
bodies under cover. The scouts soon caught glimpses of their swarthy faces
as they glided from tree to tree and from rock to rock, until the hiding
place of the luckless two was surrounded and all hope of escape was cut
off.

The scouts calmly prepared to sell their lives as dearly as they could, but
strongly advised the girl to return to the Indians and tell them that she
had been captured by scouts. This she refused to do, saying that death
among her own people was preferable to captivity such as she had been
enduring. "Give me a rifle," she continued, "and I will show you that I can
fight as well as die! On this spot will I remain, and here my bones shall
bleach with yours! Should either of you escape, you will carry the tidings
of my fate to my remaining relatives."

All remonstrances with the brave girl proving useless, the two scouts
prepared for a vigorous defense. The attack by the Indians commenced in
front, where from the nature of the ground they were obliged to advance in
single file, sheltering themselves as they best could, behind rocks and
trees. Availing themselves of the slightest exposure of the warriors
bodies, the scouts made every shot tell upon them, and succeeded for a time
in keeping them in check.

The Indians meanwhile made for an isolated rock on the southern hillside,
and having reached it, opened fire upon the scouts at point blank range.
The situation of the defenders was now almost hopeless; but the brave never
despair. They, calmly watched the movements of the warriors and calculated
the few chances of escape which remained. McClelland saw a tall, swarthy
figure preparing to spring from cover to a point from which their position
would be completely commanded. He felt that much depended upon one lucky
shot, and although but a single inch of the warrior's body was exposed, and
at a distance of one hundred yards, yet he resolved to take the risk of a
shot at this diminutive target. Coolly raising the rifle to his eye, and
shading the sight with his hand, he threw a bead so accurately that he felt
perfectly confident that his bullet would pierce the mark; but when the
hammer fell, instead of striking fire, it crushed his flint into a hundred
fragments. Rapidly, but with the utmost composure, he proceeded to adjust a
new flint, casting meantime many a furtive glance towards the critical
point. Before his task was completed he saw the warrior strain every muscle
for the leap, and, with the agility of a deer, bound towards the rock; but
instead of reaching it, he fell between and rolled fifty feet down hill. He
had received a death-shot from some unseen hand, and the mournful whoops of
the savages gave token that they had lost a favorite warrior.

The advantage thus gained was only momentary. The Indians slowly advanced
in front and on the flank, and only the incessant fire of the scouts
sufficed to keep them in check. A second savage attempted to gain the
eminence which commanded the position where the scouts were posted, but
just as he was about to attain his object, McClelland saw him turn a
summerset, and, with a frightful yell, fall down the hill, a corpse. The
mysterious agent had again interposed in their behalf. The sun was now
disappearing behind the western hills, and the savages, dismayed by their
losses, retired a short distance for the purpose of devising some new mode
of attack. This respite was most welcome to the scouts, whose nerves had
been kept in a state of severe tension for several hours. Now for the first
time they missed the girl and supposed that she had either fled to her old
captors or had been killed in the fight. Their doubts were soon dispelled
by the appearance of the girl herself, advancing toward them from among the
rocks, with a rifle in her hand.

During the heat of the fight she had seen a warrior fall, who had advanced
some fifty yards in front of the main body; she at once resolved to possess
herself of his rifle, and crouching in the undergrowth, she crept to the
spot and succeeded in her enterprise, being all the time exposed to the
cross-fire of the defenders and assailants; her practiced eye had early
noticed the fatal rock, and hers was the mysterious hand by which the two
warriors had fallen--the last being the most wary, untiring, and
bloodthirsty brave of the Shawanese tribe. He it was who ten years before
had scalped the family of the girl, and had led her into captivity. The
clouds which had been gathering now shrouded the whole heavens, and, night
coming on, the darkness was intense. It was feared that in the contemplated
retreat they might lose their way or accidentally fall in with the enemy,
which latter contingency was highly probable, if not almost inevitable.
After consultation it was agreed that the girl, from her intimate knowledge
of the localities, should lead the way, a few paces in advance.

Another advantage might be derived from this arrangement, for in case they
should fall in with an outpost of savages, the girl's knowledge of the
Indian tongue might enable them to deceive and elude the sentinel. The
event proved the wisdom of the plan, for they had scarcely descended an
hundred feet from their eyrie when a low "hush!" from the girl warned them
of the presence of danger. The scouts threw themselves silently upon the
earth, where by previous agreement they were to remain until another signal
was given them by the girl, who glided away in the darkness. Her absence
for more than a quarter of an hour had already begun to excite serious
apprehensions for her safety, when she reappeared and told them that she
had succeeded in removing two sentinels who were directly in their route,
to a point one hundred feet distant.

The descent was noiselessly resumed, the scouts following their brave
guide for half a mile in profound silence, when the barking of a small dog,
almost at their feet, apprised them of a new danger. The click of the
scout's rifle caught the ear of the girl, who quickly approached and warned
them against making the least noise, as they were now in the midst of an
Indian village, and their lives depended upon their implicitly following
her instructions.

A moment afterwards the head of a squaw was seen at an opening in a wigwam,
and she was heard to accost the girl, who replied in the Indian language,
and without stopping pressed forward. At length she paused and assured the
scouts that the village was cleared, and that they were now in safety. She
had been well aware that every pass leading out through the prairies was
guarded, and resolved to push boldly through the midst of the village as
the safest route.

After three days rapid marching and great suffering from hunger, the trio
succeeded in reaching the block-house in safety. The Indians finding that
the scouts had escaped, and that their plan of attack was discovered, soon
after withdrew to their homes; the girl, who by her courage, fortitude, and
skill, thus preserved the little settlement from destruction, proved to be
a sister of Neil Washburn, one of the most renowned scouts upon the
frontier.

The situation of the earlier pioneers who settled on the outskirts of the
Mississippi basin was one of peculiar peril. In their isolation and
weakness, they were able to keep their position rather by incessant
watchfulness, than by actual combat. How to extricate themselves from the
snares and escape from the dangers that beset them, was the constant study
of their lives. The knowledge and the arts of a scout were a part of the
education, therefore, of the women as well as of the men.

Massy Herbeson and her husband were of those bold pioneers who crossed the
Alleghany Mountains and joined the picket-line, whose lives were spent in
reconnoitering and watching the motions of the savage tribes which roamed
over Western Pennsylvania.

[Footnote: Massey Herbeson's Deposition.] They lived near Reed's
block-house, about twenty-five miles from Pittsburgh. Mr. Herbeson, being
one of the spies, was from home; two of the scouts had lodged with her that
night, but had left her house about sunrise, in order to go to the
block-house, and had left the door standing wide open. Shortly after the
two scouts went away, a number of Indians came into the house, and drew her
out of bed, by the feet.

The Indians then scrambled to secure the articles in the house. Whilst they
were at this work, Mrs. Herbeson went out of the house, and hallooed to the
people in the block-house. One of the Indians then ran up and stopped her
mouth, another threatened her with his tomahawk, and a third seized the
tomahawk as it was about to fall upon her head, and called her his squaw.

Hurried rapidly away by her captor, she remembered the lessons taught by
her husband, the scout, and marked the trail as she went on. Now breaking a
bush, now dropping a piece of her dress, and when she crossed a stream,
slyly turning over a stone, she hoped thus to guide her husband in pursuit
or enable herself to find her way back to the block-house. The vigilance of
the Indians was relaxed by the nonchalance with which she bore her
captivity, and in a few days she succeeded in effecting her escape and
pursuing the trail which she had marked, reached home after a weary march
of two days and nights, during which it rained incessantly.

These and countless other instances illustrate the watchfulness and courage
of woman when exposed to dangers of such a description. In the west
especially, the distances to be traversed, the sparseness of the
population, and the perils to which settlers are exposed, render the
profession of a scout a useful and necessary one, and woman's versatility
of character enables her, when necessary, to practice the art.

The traveler of to-day, passing up the Mohawk Valley will be struck by its
fertility, beauty, and above all by the air of quiet repose that broods
over it. One hundred years ago how different the scene! It was then the
battle-ground where the fierce Indian waged an incessant warfare with the
frontier settlers. Every rood of that fair valley was trodden by the wily
and sanguinary foe. The people who then inhabited that region were a
mixture of adventurous New Englanders and of Dutch, with a preponderance of
the latter, who were a brave, steadfast, hardy race; the women vieing with
the men in deeds of heroism and devotion.

Womanly tact and presence of mind was often as serviceable amid those
scenes of danger and carnage, as valor in combat; and when woman combined
these traits of her sex with courage and firmness she became the "guardian
angel" of the settlement.

Such preeminently was the title deserved by Mrs. Van Alstine, the "Patriot
mother of the Mohawk Valley."

All the early part of her long life, (for she counted nearly a century of
years before she died,) was passed on the New York frontier, during the
most trying period of our colonial history. Here, dwelling in the midst of
alarms, she reared her fifteen children; here more than once she saved the
lives of her husband and family, and by her ready wit, her daring courage,
and her open handed generosity shielded the settlement from harm.

Born near Canajoharie, about the year 1733, and married to Martin J. Van
Alstine, at the age of eighteen, she settled with her husband in the valley
of the Mohawk, where the newly wedded pair occupied the Van Alstine family
mansion.

In the month of August, 1780, an army of Indians and Tories, led on by
Brant, rushed into the Mohawk Valley, devastated several settlements, and
killed many of the inhabitants; during the two following months, Sir John
Johnson made a descent and finished the work which Brant had begun. The two
almost completely destroyed the settlements throughout the valley. It was
during those trying times that Mrs. Van Alstine performed a portion of her
exploits.

During these three months, and while the hostile forces were making their
headquarters at Johnstown, the neighborhood in which Mrs. Van Alstine lived
enjoyed a remarkable immunity from attack, although in a state of continual
alarm. Intelligence at length came that the enemy, having ravaged the
surrounding country, was about to fall upon the little settlement, and the
inhabitants, for the most part women and children, were almost beside
themselves with terror.

Mrs. Van Alstine's coolness and intrepidity, in this critical hour, were
quickly displayed. Calling her neighbors together, she tried to relieve
their fears and urged them to remove with their effects to an island
belonging to her husband, near the opposite side of the river, believing
that the savages would either not discover their place of refuge or would
be in too great haste to cross the river and attack them.

Her suggestion was speedily adopted, and in a few hours the seven families
in the neighborhood were removed to their asylum, together with a store of
provisions and other articles essential to their comfort. Mrs. Van Alstine
was the last to cross and assisted to place out of reach of the enemy, the
boat in which the passage had been made. An hour after they had been all
snugly bestowed in their bushy retreat, the war-whoop was heard and the
Indians made their appearance. Gazing from their hiding place the
unfortunate women and children soon saw their loved homes in flames, Van
Alstine's house alone being spared, owing to the friendship borne the owner
by Sir John Johnson.

The voices and even the words of the Indian raiders could be distinctly
heard on the island, and as Mrs. Van Alstine gazed at the mansion untouched
by the flames she rejoiced that she would now be able to give shelter to
the homeless families by whom she was surrounded. In the following year the
Van Alstine mansion was pillaged by the Indians, and although the house was
completely stripped of furniture and provisions and clothing, none of the
family were killed or carried away as prisoners.

The Indians came upon them by surprise, entered the house without ceremony,
and plundered and destroyed everything in their way. "Mrs. Van Alstine saw
her most valued articles, brought from Holland, broken one after another,
till the house was strewed with fragments. As they passed a large mirror
without demolishing it, she hoped it might be saved; but presently two of
the savages led in a colt from the stables and the glass being laid in the
hall, compelled the animal to walk over it. The beds which they could not
carry away they ripped open, shaking out the feathers and taking the ticks
with them. They also took all the clothing. One young Indian, attracted by
the brilliancy of a pair of inlaid buckles on the shoes of the aged
grandmother seated in the corner, rudely snatched them from her feet, tore
off the buckles, and flung the shoes in her face. Another took her shawl
from her neck, threatening to kill her if resistance was offered."

The eldest daughter, seeing a young savage carrying off a basket containing
a hat and cap her father had brought her from Philadelphia, and which she
highly prized, followed him, snatched her basket, and after a struggle
succeeded in pushing him down. She then fled to a pile of hemp and hid
herself, throwing the basket into it as far as she could. The other Indians
gathered round, and as the young girl rose clapped their hands, shouting
"Brave girl," while he skulked away to escape their derision. During the
struggle Mrs. Van Alstine had called to her daughter to give up the
contest; but she insisted that her basket should not be taken.

[Illustration: DARING EXPLOIT OF MISS VAN ALSTINE]

Winter coming on, the family suffered severely from the want of bedding,
woolen clothes, cooking utensils, and numerous other articles which had
been taken from them. Mrs. Van Alstine's arduous and constant labors could
do but little toward providing for so many destitute persons. Their
neighbors were in no condition to help them; the roads were almost
impassable besides being infested with the Indians, and all their best
horses had been driven away.

This situation appealing continually to Mrs. Van Alstine as a wife and a
mother, so wrought upon her as to induce her to propose to her husband to
organize an expedition, and attempt to recover their property from the
Indian forts eighteen or twenty miles distant, where it had been carried.
But the plan seemed scarcely feasible at the time, and was therefore
abandoned.

The cold soon became intense and their necessities more desperate than
ever. Mrs. Van Alstine, incapable longer of witnessing the sufferings of
those dependent upon her, boldly determined to go herself to the Indian
country and bring back the property. Firm against all the entreaties of her
husband and children who sought to move her from her purpose, she left home
with a horse and sleigh accompanied by her son, a youth of sixteen.

Pushing on over wretched roads and through the deep snow she arrived at her
destination at a time when the Indians were all absent on a hunting
excursion, the women and children only being left at home. On entering the
principal house where she supposed the most valuable articles were, she was
met by an old squaw in charge of the place and asked what she wanted.
"Food," she replied; the squaw sullenly commenced preparing a meal and in
doing so brought out a number of utensils that Mrs. Van Alstine recognized
as her own. While the squaw's back was turned she took possession of the
articles and removed them to her sleigh. When the custodian of the plunder
discovered that it was being reclaimed, she was about to interfere forcibly
with the bold intruders and take the property into her possession. But Mrs.
Van Alstine showed her a paper which she averred was an order signed by
"Yankee Peter," a man of great influence among the savages, and succeeded
in convincing the squaw that the property was removed by his authority.

She next proceeded to the stables and cut the halters of the horses
belonging to her husband: the animals recognized their mistress with loud
neighs and bounded homeward at full speed. The mother and son then drove
rapidly back to their house. Reaching home late in the evening they passed
a sleepless night, dreading an instant pursuit and a night attack from the
infuriated savages.

The Indians came soon after daylight in full war-costume armed with rifles
and tomahawks. Mrs. Van Alstine begged her husband not to show himself but
to leave the matter in her hands. The Indians took their course to the
stables when they were met by the daring woman alone and asked what they
wanted. "Our horses," replied the marauder. "They are ours," she said
boldly, "and we mean to keep them."

The chief approached in a threatening manner, and drawing her away pulled
out the plug that fastened the door of the stable, but she immediately
snatched it from his hand, and pushing him away resumed her position in
front of the door. Presenting his rifle, he threatened her with instant
death if she did not immediately move. Opening her neck-handkerchief she
told him to shoot if he dared.

The Indians, cowed by her daring, or fearing punishment from their allies
in case they killed her, after some hesitation retired from the premises.
They afterwards related their adventure to one of the settlers, and said
that were fifty such women as she in the settlement, the Indians never
would have molested the inhabitants of the Mohawk Valley.

On many subsequent occasions Mrs. Van Alstine exhibited the heroic
qualities of her nature. Twice by her prudence, courage, and address, she
saved the lives of her husband and family. Her influence in settling
difficulties with the savages was acknowledged throughout the region, and
but for her it may well be doubted whether the little settlement in which
she lived would have been able to sustain itself, surrounded as it was by
deadly foes.

Her influence was felt in another and higher way. She was a Christian
woman, and her husband's house was opened for religious worship every
Sunday when the weather would permit. She was able to persuade many of the
Indians to attend, and as she had acquired their language she was wont to
interpret to them the word of God and what was said by the minister. Many
times their rude hearts were touched, and the tears rolled down their
swarthy faces, while she dwelt on the wondrous story of our Redeemer's life
and death, and explained how the white man and the red man alike could be
saved by the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ. In after years the savages
blessed her as their benefactress.

Nearly a hundred summers have passed since the occurrence of the events we
have been describing. The war-whoop of the cruel Mohawk sounds no more from
the forest-ambush, nor in the clearing; the dews and rains have washed away
the red stains on the soft sward, and green and peaceful in the sunshine
lies the turf by the beautiful river and on the grave where the patriot
mother is sleeping; but still in the memory of the sons and daughters of
the region she once blessed, lives the courage, the firmness, and the
goodness of Nancy Van Alstine, the guardian of the Mohawk Valley.

CHAPTER VI.

PATRIOT WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION.

During the dangers and trials of early colonial life, the daughters learned
from the example of their mothers the lesson and the power of self-trust;
they learned to endure what their parents endured, to face the perils which
environed the settlement or the household, and grew up to woman's estate
versed in that knowledge and experience of border-life which well fitted
them to repeat, in wilder and more perilous scenes, the heroism of their
forefathers and foremothers.

The daughters again taught these, and added other lessons, to their
children. The grand-daughters of the first emigrants seemed to
possess--with the traits and virtues of woman--the wisdom, courage, and
strength of their fathers and brothers. Each succeeding generation seemed
to acquire new features of character, added force, and stronger virtues,
and thus woman became a heroine endowed with manly vigor and capable of
performing deeds of masculine courage and resolution.

The generation of daughters, fourth in descent from the first settlers,
lived during the stormy days of the Revolution; and right worthily did they
perform their part on that stage of action, and prove by their deeds that
they were lineal descendants of the first mothers of the Republic.

If we were to analyze the characters and motives of the women who lived and
acted in that great crisis of our history, we should better understand and
appreciate, in its nature, height, and breadth, their singular patriotism.
Untainted by selfish ambition, undefiled by greed of gain, and purged of
the earthy dross that too often alloys the lofty impulses of soldiers and
statesmen in the path of fame, hers was a love of country that looked not
for gain or glory, imperiled much, and was locked fast in a bitter
companionship with anxiety, fear, and grief. Her heroism was not sordid or
secular. Dearly did she prize the blessings of peace--household calm, the
security of her loved ones, and the comforts and amenities of an unbroken
social status. But she cheerfully surrendered them all at the call of her
country in its hour of peril. For one hundred and fifty years she had
toiled and suffered. She had won the right to repose, but this was not yet
to be hers. A new ordeal awaited her which would test her courage and
fortitude still more keenly, especially if her lot was cast in the frontier
settlements.

It is easy to see that border-life in--"the times that tried men's
souls"--was surrounded by double dangers and hardships. Indeed it is
difficult to conceive of a more trying situation than that of woman in the
outlying settlements in the days of the Revolution. Left alone by her
natural protector, who had gone far away to fight the battles of his
country; exposed to attacks from the red men who lurked in the forest, or
from the British soldiers marching up from the coast; wearied by the labors
of the farm and the household; harassed by the cares of motherhood; for
long years in the midst of dangers, privations, and trials; with serene
patience, and with dauntless courage, she went on nobly doing her part in
the great work which resulted in the glorious achievement of American
Independence.

The wonder is that the American wives and mothers of that day did not sink
under their burdens. Their patient endurance of accumulated hardships did
not arise from a slavish servility or from insensibility to their rights
and comforts. They justly appreciated the situation and nobly encountered
the difficulties which could not be avoided.

Possessing all the affections of the wife, the tenderness of the mother,
and the sympathies of the woman, their tears flowed freely for others'
griefs, while they bore their own with a fortitude that none but a woman
could display. In the absence of the father the entire education devolved
upon the mother, who, in the midst of the labors and sorrows of her
isolated existence, taught them to read, and instructed them in the
principles of Christianity.

The countless roll of these unnamed heroines is inscribed in the Book of
the Most Just. Their record is on high. But the names and deeds of not a
few are preserved as a bright example to the men and women of to-day.

While the husbands and fathers of Wyoming were on public duty the wives and
daughters cheerfully assumed a large portion of the labor which women could
perform. They assisted to plant, to make hay, to husk, and to garner the
corn. The settlement was mainly dependent on its own resources for powder.
To meet the necessary demand, the women boiled together a lye of
wood-ashes, to which they added the earth scraped from beneath the floors
of their house, and thus manufactured saltpeter, one of the most essential
ingredients. Charcoal and sulphur were then mingled with it, and powder was
produced "for the public defense."

One of the married sisters of Silas Deane, that eminent Revolutionary
patriot, while her husband, Captain Ebenezer Smith, was with the army, was
left alone with six small children in a hamlet among the hills of
Berkshire, Massachusetts. Finding it difficult to eke out a subsistence
from the sterile soil of their farm, and being quick and ingenious with her
needle, she turned tailoress and made garments for her little ones, and for
all the families in that region. She wrote her husband, telling him to be
of good cheer, and not to give himself anxiety on his wife's or his
children's account, adding that as long as her fingers could hold a needle,
food should be provided for them. "Fight on for your country," she said;
"God will give us deliverance."

Each section of the country had its special burdens, trials, and dangers.
The populous districts bore the first brunt of the enemy's attack; the
thinly settled regions were drained of men, and the women were left in a
pitiable condition of weakness and isolation. This was largely the
condition of Massachusetts and Connecticut, where nearly every family sent
some, if not all, of its men to the war. In the South the patriots were
forced to practice continual vigilance in consequence of the divided
feeling upon the question of the propriety of separation from the
mother-country. New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania were battle grounds,
and here, perhaps more fully than elsewhere, were experienced war's woes
and desolation. But in every State throughout the thirteen colonies, and in
every town, hamlet, or household, where there were patriot wives, mothers,
or daughters, woman's claims to moral greatness in that crisis were
gloriously vindicated.

If we were to search for traits and incidents to illustrate the whole
circle of both the stronger and the gentler virtues, we might find them in
woman's record during the American Revolution.

In scenes of carnage and death women not seldom displayed a cool courage
which made them peers of the bravest soldiers who bore flint-locks at
Bunker Hill or Trenton. Of such bravery, the following quartette of
heroines will serve as examples.

During the attack on Fort Washington, Mrs. Margaret Corbin, seeing her
husband, who was an artillery man, fall, unhesitatingly took his place and
heroically performed his duties. Her services were appreciated by the
officers of the army, and honorably noticed by Congress. This body passed
the following resolution in July, 1779:

_Resolved_, That Margaret Corbin, wounded and disabled at the battle
of Fort Washington while she heroically filled the post of her husband, who
was killed by her side, serving a piece of artillery, do receive during her
natural life, or continuance of said disability, one half the monthly pay
drawn by a soldier in the service of these States; and that she now receive
out of public store one suit of clothes, or value thereof in money.

Soon after the commencement of the Revolutionary War, the family of a Dr.
Channing, being in England, removed to France, and shortly afterwards
sailed for the United States. The vessel, said to be stout and well armed,
was attacked on the voyage by a privateer, and a fierce engagement ensued.
During its continuance, Mrs. Channing stood on the deck, exhorting the crew
not to give up, encouraging them with words of cheer, handing them
cartridges and aiding such of them as were disabled by wounds. When at
length the colors of the vessel were struck, she seized her husband's
pistol and side arms and flung them into the sea, declaring that she would
prefer death to the spectacle of their surrender into the hands of the foe.

At the siege of one of the forts of the Mohawk Valley, it is related by the
author of the "Border Wars of the American Revolution," that an interesting
young woman, whose name yet lives in story among her own mountains,
perceiving, as she thought, symptoms of fear in a soldier who had been
ordered to fetch water from a well, without the ranks and within range of
the enemy's fire, snatched the bucket from his hands and ran to the well
herself. Without changing color or giving the slightest evidence of fear,
she drew and brought back bucket after bucket to the thirsty soldiers, and
providentially escaped without injury.

Four or five miles north of the village of Herkimer, N. Y., stood the
block-house of John Christian Shell, whose wife acted a heroic part when
attacked by the Tories, in 1781. From two o'clock in the afternoon until
twilight, the besieged kept up an almost incessant firing, Mrs. Shell
loading the guns for her husband and older sons to discharge. During the
siege, McDonald, the leader of the Tories, attempted to force the door
with, a crow-bar, and was shot in the leg, seized by Shell, and drawn
within doors. Exasperated by this bold feat, the enemy soon attempted to
carry the fortress by assault; five of them leaping upon the walls and
thrusting their guns through the loop-holes. At that moment the cool
courageous woman, Mrs. Shell, seized an axe, smote the barrels, bent and
spoiled them. The enemy soon after shouldered their guns, crooked barrels
and all, and quickly buried themselves in the dense forest.

Heroism in those days was confined to no section of our country. Moll
Pitcher, at Monmouth, battle-stained, avenged her husband by the
death-dealing cannon which she loaded and aimed. Cornelia Beekman, at
Croton, faced down the armed Tories with the fire of her eye; Angelica
Vrooman, at Schoharie, moulded bullets amid the war and carnage of battle,
while Mary Hagidorn defended the fort with a pike; Mrs. Fitzhugh, of
Maryland, accompanied her blind and decrepit husband when taken prisoner at
midnight and carried into the enemy's lines.

Dicey Langston, of South Carolina, also showed a "soul of love and
bravery." Living in a frontier settlement, and in the midst of Tories, and
being patriotically inquisitive, she often learned by accident, or
discovered by strategy, the plottings so common in those days against the
Whigs. Such intelligence she was accustomed to communicate to the friends
of freedom on the opposite side of the Ennosee river.

Learning one time that a band of loyalists--known in those days as
the--"Bloody Scouts"--were about to fall upon the "Elder Settlement," a
place where a brother of hers and other friends were residing, she resolved
to warn them of their danger. To do this she must hazard her own life.
Regardless of danger she started off alone, in the darkness of the night;
traveled several miles through the woods, over marshes, across creeks,
through a country where foot-logs and bridges were then unknown; came to
the Tyger, a rapid and deep stream, into which she plunged and waded till
the water was up to her neck. She then became bewildered, and zigzagged the
channel for some time, finally reaching the opposite shore, for a helping
hand was beneath, a kind Providence guided her. She then hastened on,
reached the settlement, and her brother and the whole community were saved.

She was returning one day from another settlement of Whigs, in the
Spartanburg district, when a company of Tories met her and questioned her
in regard to the neighborhood she had just left; but she refused to
communicate the desired information. The leader of the band then put a
pistol to her breast, and threatened to shoot her if she did not make the
wished-for disclosure.

"Shoot me if you dare! I will not tell you!" was her dauntless reply, as
she opened a long handkerchief that covered her neck and bosom, thus
manifesting a willingness to receive the contents of the pistol, if the
officer insisted on disclosure or life.

The dastard, enraged at her defying movement, was in the act of firing, but
one of the soldiers threw up the hand holding the weapon, and the uncovered
heart of the girl was permitted to beat on.

The brothers of Dicey were no less patriotic than she; and they having, by
their active services on the side of freedom, greatly displeased the
loyalists, these latter were determined to be revenged. A desperate band
accordingly went to the house of their father, and finding the sons absent,
were about to wreak vengeance on the old man, whom they hated for the sons'
sake. With this intent one of the party drew a pistol; but just as it was
aimed at the breast of the aged and infirm old man, Dicey rushed between
the two, and though the ruffian bade her get out of the way or receive in
her own breast the contents of the pistol, she regarded not his threats,
but flung her arms round her father's neck and declared she would receive
the ball first, if the weapon must be discharged. Such fearlessness and
willingness to offer her own life for the sake of her parent, softened the
heart of the "Bloody Scout," and Mr. Langston lived to see his noble
daughter perform other heroic deeds.

At one time her brother James, while absent, sent to the house for a gun
which he had left in Dicey's care, with orders to deliver it to no one,
except by his direction. On reaching the house one of the party who were
directed to call for it, made known their errand. Whereupon she brought and
was about to deliver the weapon. At this moment it occurred to her that she
had not demanded the countersign agreed on between herself and brother.
With the gun still in her hand, she looked the company sternly in the face,
and remarking that they wore a suspicious look, called for the countersign.
Thereupon one of them, in jest, told her she was too tardy in her
requirements; that both the gun and its holder were in their possession.
"Do you think so," she boldly asked, as she cocked the disputed weapon and
aimed it at the speaker. "If the gun is in your possession," she added,
"take charge of it!" Her appearance indicated that she was in earnest, and
the countersign was given without further delay.

In these women of the Revolution were blended at once the heroine and the
"Ministering Angel." To defend their homes they were men in courage and
resolution, and when the battle was over they showed all a woman's
tenderness and devotion. Love was the inspiring principle which nerved
their arm in the fight, and poured balm into the wounds of those who had
fallen. Should we have ever established our Independence but for the
countless brave, kind, and self-sacrificing acts of woman?

After the massacre of Fort Griswold, when it was found that several of the
prisoners were still alive, the British soldiers piled their mangled bodies
in an old cart and started it down the steep and rugged hill, towards the
river, in order that they might be there drowned. Stumps and stones however
obstructed the passage of the cart, and when the enemy had retreated--for
the aroused inhabitants of that region soon compelled them to that
course--the friends of the wounded came to their aid, and thus several
lives were saved.

One of those heroic women who came the next morning to the aid of the
thirty-five wounded men, who lay all night freezing in their own blood, was
Mrs. Mary Ledyard, a near relative of the Colonel. "She brought warm
chocolate, wine, and other refreshments, and while Dr. Downer, of Preston,
was dressing the wounds of the soldiers, she went from one to another,
administering her cordials, and breathing gentle words of sympathy and
encouragement into their ears. In these labors of kindness she was assisted
by another relative of the lamented Colonel Ledyard--Mrs. John Ledyard--who
had also brought her household stores to refresh the sufferers, and
lavished on them the most soothing personal attentions. The soldiers who
recovered from their wounds, were accustomed, to the day of their death, to
speak of these ladies in terms of fervent gratitude and praise."

Another "heroine and ministering angel" at the same massacre was Anna
Warner, wife of Captain Bailey. She received from the soldiers the
affectionate _sobriquet_ of "Mother Bailey." Had "Mother Bailey" lived
in the palmy days of ancient Roman glory no matron in that mighty empire
would have been more highly honored. Hearing the British guns, at the
attack on Fort Griswold, she hurried to the scene of carnage, where she
found her uncle, one of the brave defenders, mortally wounded. With his
dying lips he prayed to see his wife and child--once more; hastening home,
she caught and saddled a horse for the feeble mother, and taking the child
in her arms ran three miles and held it to receive the kisses and blessing
of its dying father. At a later period flannel being needed to use for
cartridges, she gave her own undergarment for that purpose. This patriotic
surrender showed the noble spirit which always actuated "Mother Bailey" and
was an appropriation to her country of which she might justly be proud.

The combination of manly daring and womanly kindness was admirably
displayed in the deeds of a maiden, Miss Esther Gaston, and of a married
lady, Mrs. Slocum, whose presence upon battlefields gave aid and comfort,
in several ways, to the patriot cause.

On the morning of July 30th, 1780, the former, hearing the firing, rode to
the scene of conflict in company with her sister-in-law. Meeting three
skulkers retreating from the fight, Esther rebuked them sharply, and,
seizing the gun from the hands of one of them, exclaimed, "Give us your
guns, and we will stand in your places!" The cowards, abashed and filled
with shame, thereupon turned about, and, in company with the females,
hurried back to face the enemy.

While the battle was raging, Esther and her companion busied themselves in
dressing and binding up the wounds of the fallen, and in quenching their
thirst, not even forgetting their helpless enemies, whose bodies strewed
the ground.

During another battle, which occurred the following week, she converted a
church into a hospital, and administered to the wants of the wounded.

Our other heroine, Mrs. Slocum, of Pleasant Green, North Carolina, having a
presentiment that her husband was dead or wounded in battle, rose in the
night, saddled her horse, and rode to the scene of conflict. We continue
the narrative in the words of our heroine.

"The cool night seemed after a gallop of a mile or two, to bring reflection
with it, and I asked myself where I was going, and for what purpose. Again
and again I was tempted to turn back; but I was soon ten miles from home,
and my mind became stronger every mile I rode that I should find my husband
dead or dying--this was as firmly my presentiment and conviction as any
fact of my life. When day broke I was some thirty miles from home. I knew
the general route our army expected to take, and had followed them without
hesitation. About sunrise I came upon a group of women and children,
standing and sitting by the road-side, each one of them showing the same
anxiety of mind which I felt.

"Stopping a few minutes I enquired if the battle had been fought. They knew
nothing, but were assembled on the road-side to catch intelligence. They
thought Caswell had taken the right of the Wilmington road, and gone toward
the northwest (Cape Fear). Again was I skimming over the ground through a
country thinly settled, and very poor and swampy; but neither my own spirit
nor my beautiful nag's failed in the least. We followed the well-marked
trail of the troops.

"The sun must have been well up, say eight or nine o'clock, when I heard a
sound like thunder, which I knew must be a cannon. It was the first time I
ever heard a cannon. I stopped still; when presently the cannon thundered
again. The battle was then fighting. What a fool! my husband could not be
dead last night, and the battle only fighting now! Still, as I am so near,
I will go on and see how they come out. So away we went again, faster than
ever; and I soon found, by the noise of the guns, that I was near the
fight. Again I stopped. I could hear muskets, rifles, and shouting. I spoke
to my horse and dashed on in the direction of the firing and the shouts,
which were louder than ever.

"The blind path I had been following, brought me into the Wilmington road
leading to Moore's creek bridge, a few hundred yards below the bridge. A
few yards from the road, under a cluster of trees, were lying perhaps
twenty men. They were wounded. I knew the spot; the very tree; and the
position of the men I knew as if I had seen it a thousand times. I had seen
it all night! I saw _all_ at once; but in an instant my whole soul
centered in one spot; for there wrapped in a bloody guard cloak, was my
husband's body! How I passed the few yards from my saddle to the place I
never knew. I remember uncovering his head and seeing a face crusted with
gore from a dreadful wound across the temple. I put my hand on the bloody
face; 'twas warm; and an _unknown voice_ begged for water; a small
camp-kettle was lying near, and a stream of water was close by. I brought
it; poured some in his mouth, washed his face; and behold--it was not my
husband but Frank Cogdell. He soon revived and could speak. I was washing
the wound in his head. Said he, 'It is not that; it is the hole in my leg
that is killing me.' A puddle of blood was standing on the ground about his
feet I took the knife, and cut away his trousers and stockings, and found
the blood came from a shot hole through and through the fleshy part of his
leg. I looked about and could see nothing that looked as if it would do for
dressing wounds, but some heart-leaves. I gathered a handful and bound them
tight to the holes; and the bleeding stopped. I then went to others; I
dressed the wounds of many a brave fellow who did good service long after
that day! I had not enquired for my husband; but while I was busy Caswell
came up. He appeared very much surprised to see me; and was with his hat in
hand about to pay some compliment; but I interrupted him by asking--'Where
is my husband?'

"'Where he ought to be, madam; in pursuit of the enemy. But pray,' said he,
'how came you here?'

"'O, I thought,' replied I, 'you would need nurses as well as soldiers.
See! I have already dressed many of these good fellows; and here is
one'--and going up to Frank and lifting him up with my arm under his head
so that he could drink some more water--'would have died before any of you
men could have helped him.'

"Just then I looked up, and my husband, as bloody as a butcher, and as
muddy as a ditcher, stood before me.

"'Why, Mary!' he exclaimed, 'what are you doing there? Hugging Frank
Cogdell, the greatest reprobate in the army?'

"'I don't care,' I said. 'Frank is a brave fellow, a good soldier, and a
true friend of Congress.'

"'True, true! every word of it!' said Caswell. 'You are right, madam,' with
the lowest possible bow.

"I would not tell my husband what brought me there I was so happy; and so
were all! It was a glorious victory; I came just at the height of the
enjoyment. I knew my husband was surprised, but I could see he was not
displeased with me. It was night again before our excitement had at all
subsided.

"Many prisoners were brought in, and among them some very obnoxious; but
the worst of the Tories were not taken prisoners. They were, for the most
part, left in the woods and swamps wherever they were overtaken. I begged
for some of the poor prisoners, and Caswell told me none should be hurt but
such as had been guilty of murder and house-burning.

"In the middle of the night I again mounted my horse and started for home.
Caswell and my husband wanted me to stay till next morning, and they would
send a party with me; but no! I wanted to see my child, and I told them
they could send no party who could keep up with me. What a happy ride I had
back! and with what joy did I embrace my child as he ran to meet me!"

The winter at Valley Forge was the darkest season in the Revolutionary
struggle. The American army were sheltered by miserable huts, through which
the rain and sleet found their way upon the wretched cots where the
patriots slept. By day the half-famished soldiers in tattered regimentals
wandered through their camp, and the snow showed the bloody tracks of their
shoeless feet. Mutinous mutterings disturbed the sleep of Washington, and
one dark, cold day, the soldiers at dusk were on the point of open revolt.
Nature could endure no more, and not from want of patriotism, but from want
of food and clothes, the patriotic cause seemed likely to fail. Pinched
with cold and wasted with hunger, the soldiers pined beside their dying
camp-fires. Suddenly a shout was heard from the sentinels who paced the
outer lines, and at the same time a cavalcade came slowly through the snow
up the valley. Ten women in carts, each cart drawn by ten pairs of oxen,
and bearing tons of meal and other supplies, passed through the lines amid
cheers that rent the air. Those devoted women had preserved the army, and
Independence from that day was assured.

[Illustration: FOOD AND CLOTHING SUPPLIED TO THE REVOLUTIONARY ARMY BY
PATRIOTIC WOMEN]

Fortitude and patience were exemplified in a thousand homes from which
members of the family had gone to battle for Independence. Straitened for
means wherewith to keep their strong souls in their feeble bodies, worn
with toil, tortured with anxiety for the safety of the soldier-father or
son, or husband or brother, and fighting the conflict of life alone, woman
proved in that great ordeal her claim to those virtues which are by common
consent assigned to her as her peculiar characteristics.

We may well suppose, too, that ready wit and address had ample scope for
their exercise in those perilous times. And who but woman could best
display those qualities?

While Ann Elliott, styled by her British admirers, "the beautiful rebel,"
was affianced to Col. Lewis Morris, of New York, the house where he was
visiting her was suddenly surrounded by a detachment of "Black Dragoons."
They were in pursuit of the Colonel, and it was impossible for him to
escape by flight. What to do he knew not, but, quick as thought, she ran to
the window, opened it, and, fearlessly putting her head out, in a composed
manner demanded what was wanted. The reply was, "We want the rebel." "Then
go," said she, "and look for him in the American army;" adding, "how dare
you disturb a family under the protection of both armies?" She was so cool,
self-possessed, firm, and resolute, as to triumph over the dragoons, who
left without entering the house.

While the conflict was at its height in South Carolina, Captain Richardson,
of Sumter district, was obliged to conceal himself for a while in the
thickets of the Santee swamp. One day he ventured to visit his family--a
perilous movement, for the British had offered a reward for his
apprehension, and patrolling parties were almost constantly in search of
him. Before his visit was ended a small party of soldiers presented
themselves in front of the house. Just as they were entering, with a great
deal of composure and presence of mind, Mrs. Richardson appeared at the
door, and found so much to do there at the moment, as to make it
inconvenient to leave room for the uninvited guests to enter. She was so
calm, and appeared so unconcerned, that they did not mistrust the cause of
her wonderful diligence, till her husband had rushed out of the back door,
and safely reached the neighboring swamp.

The bearing of important dispatches through an enemy's country is an
enterprise that always requires both courage and address. Such a feat was
performed by Miss Geiger, under circumstances of peculiar difficulty.

At the time General Greene retreated before Lord Rawdon from Ninety-Six,
when he passed Broad river, he was desirous to send an order to General
Sumter, who was on the Wateree, to join him, that they might attack Rawdon,
who had divided his force. But the General could find no man in that part
of the state who was bold enough to undertake so dangerous mission. The
country to be passed through for many miles was full of blood-thirsty
Tories, who, on every occasion that offered, imbrued their hands in the
blood of the Whigs. At length Emily Geiger presented herself to General
Greene, and proposed to act as his messenger: and the general, both
surprised and delighted, closed with her proposal. He accordingly wrote a
letter and delivered it, and at the same time communicated the contents of
it verbally, to be told to Sumter in case of accidents.

She pursued her journey on horseback, and on the second day was intercepted
by Lord Rawdon's scouts. Coming from the direction of Greene's army and not
being able to tell an untruth without blushing, Emily was suspected and
confined to a room; and the officer sent for an old Tory matron to search
for papers upon her person. Emily was not wanting in expedients, and as
soon as the door was closed and the bustle a little subsided, she _ate up
the letter_, piece by piece. After a while the matron arrived, and upon
searching carefully, nothing was found of a suspicious nature about the
prisoner, and she would disclose nothing. Suspicion being then allayed, the
officer commanding the scouts suffered Emily to depart. She then took a
route somewhat circuitous to avoid further detentions and soon after struck
into the road leading to Sumter's camp, where she arrived in safety. Emily
told her adventure, and delivered Greene's verbal message to Sumter, who in
consequence, soon after joined the main army at Orangeburgh.

The salvation of the army was due more than once to the watchfulness and
tact of woman.

When the British army held possession of Philadelphia, a superior officer
supposed to have been the Adjutant General, selected a back chamber in the
house of Mrs. Lydia Darrah, for private conference. Suspecting that some
important movement was on foot, she took off her shoes, and putting her ear
to the key-hole of the door, overheard an order read for all the British
troops to march out, late in the evening of the fourth, and attack General
Washington's army, then encamped at White Marsh. On hearing this, she
returned to her chamber and laid herself down. Soon after, the officers
knocked at her door, but she rose only at the third summons, having feigned
to be asleep. Her mind was so much agitated that, from this moment, she
could neither eat nor sleep, supposing it to be in her power to save the
lives of thousands of her countrymen, but not knowing how she was to carry
the necessary information to General Washington, nor daring to confide it
even to her husband. The time left was short, and she quickly determined to
make her way as soon as possible, to the American outposts. She informed
her family, that, as they were in want of flour, she would go to Frankfort
for some; her husband insisted that she should take with her the servant
maid; but, to his surprise, she positively refused. Gaining access to
General Howe, she solicited what he readily granted--a pass through the
British troops on the lines. Leaving her bag at the mill, she hastened
towards the American lines, and encountered on her way an American,
Lieutenant Colonel Craig, of the light horse, who, with some of his men,
was on the lookout for information. He knew her, and inquired whither she
was going. She answered, in quest of her son, an officer in the American
army; and prayed the Colonel to alight and walk with her. He did so,
ordering his troops to keep in sight. To him she disclosed her momentous
secret, after having obtained from him the most solemn promise never to
betray her individually, since her life might be at stake. He conducted her
to a house near at hand, directed a female in it to give her something to
eat, and hastened to head-quarters, where he made General Washington
acquainted with what he had heard. Washington made, of course, all
preparation for baffling the meditated surprise, and the contemplated
expedition was a failure.

Mrs. Murray of New York, the mother of Lindley Murray, the grammarian, by
her ceremonious hospitality detained Lord Howe and his officers, while the
British forces were in pursuit of General Putnam, and thus prevented the
capture of the American army. In fine, not merely the lives of many
individuals, but the safety of the whole patriot army, and even the cause
of independence was more than once due to feminine address and strategy.

Patriotic generosity and devotion were displayed without stint, and women
were ready to submit to any sacrifice in behalf of their country.

These qualities are well illustrated by the three following instances.

Mrs. William Smith, when informed that in order to dislodge the enemy then
in possession of Fort St. George, Long Island, it would be necessary to
burn or batter down her dwelling-house, promptly told Major Tallmadge to
proceed without hesitation in the work of destruction, if the good of the
country demanded the sacrifice.

While General Greene was retreating, disheartened and penniless, from the
enemy, after the disastrous defeat at Camden, he was met at Catawba ford by
Mrs. Elizabeth Steele, who, in her generous ardor in the cause of freedom,
drew him aside, and, taking two bags of specie from under her apron,
presented them to him, saying, "Take these, for you will want them, and I
can do without them."

While Fort Motte, on the Congaree River, was in the hands of the British,
in order to effect its surrender, it became necessary to burn a large
mansion standing near the center of the trench. The house was the property
of Mrs. Motte. Lieut. Colonel Lee communicated to her the contemplated work
of destruction with painful reluctance, but her smiles, half anticipating
his proposal, showed at once that she was willing to sacrifice her property
if she could thereby aid in the least degree towards the expulsion of the
enemy and the salvation of the land.

Pennsylvania had the honor of being the native State of Mrs. McCalla, whose
affectionate and devoted efforts to liberate her invalid husband,
languishing in a British dungeon, have justly given her a high rank among
the patriot women of the Revolution.

Weeks elapsed after the capture of Mr. McCalla, before she was able, with
the most assiduous inquiries, to ascertain the place of his confinement. In
the midst of her torturing anxiety and suspense her children fell sick of
small-pox. She nursed them alone and unaided, and as soon as they were out
of danger, resumed her search for her husband.

Mounting her horse, she succeeded in forcing her way to the head-quarters
of Lord Rawdon, at Camden, and obtained reluctant permission to visit her
husband for ten minutes only in his wretched prison-pen. Though almost
overcome by the interview, she hastened home, having altogether ridden
through the wilderness one hundred miles in twenty four hours.

She proceeded immediately to prepare clothing and provisions for her
husband and the other prisoners. Her preparations having been completed,
she set out on her return to Camden, in company with one of her neighbors,
Mrs. Mary Nixon. Each of the brave women drove before her a pack-horse,
laden with clothes and provisions for the prisoners. These errands of mercy
were repeated every month, often in company with other women who were
engaged in similar missions, and sometimes alone.

Meanwhile she did not relax her efforts to effect the release of her
husband. After many months she succeeded in procuring an order for the
discharge of her husband with ten other prisoners, whose handcuffs and
ankle chains were knocked off, and who left the prison in company with
their heroic liberator.

Examples are not wanting, in our Revolutionary annals, of a stern and lofty
spirit of self-sacrifice in behalf of country, that will vie with that
displayed by the first Brutus.

We are told by the orator of the Society of the Cincinnati that when the
British officers presented to Mrs. Rebecca Edwards the mandate which
arrested her sons as "objects of retaliation," less sensitive of private
affection than attached to her honor and the interest of her country, she
stifled the tender feelings of the mother and heroically bade them despise
the threats of their enemies, and steadfastly persist to support the
glorious cause in which they had engaged--that if the threatened sacrifice
should follow they would carry a parent's blessing, and the good opinion of
every virtuous citizen with them, to the grave; but if from the frailty of
human nature--of the possibility of which she would not suffer an idea to
enter her mind--they were disposed to temporize and exchange this liberty
for safety, they must forget her as a mother, nor subject her to the misery
of ever beholding them again.

As among the early Puritan settlers, so among the women of the Revolution,
nothing was more remarkable than their belief in the efficacy of prayer.

In the solitude of their homes, in the cool and silence of the forest, and
in the presence of the foe, Christian women knelt down and prayed for
peace, for victory, for rescue from danger, and for deliverance from the
enemies which beset them. Can we doubt that the prayers of these noble
patriot women were answered?

Early in the Revolutionary War, the historian of the border relates that
the inhabitants of the frontier of Burke County, North Carolina, being
apprehensive of an attack by the Indians, it was determined to seek
protection in a fort in a more densely populated neighborhood, in an
interior settlement. A party of soldiers was sent to protect them on their
retreat. The families assembled; the line of march was taken towards their
place of destination, and they proceeded some miles unmolested--the
soldiers forming a hollow square with the refugee families in the center.
The Indians had watched these movements, and had laid a plan for the
destruction of the migrating party. The road to be traveled lay through a
dense forest in the fork of a river, where the Indians concealed themselves
and waited till the travelers were in the desired spot.

Suddenly the war-whoop sounded in front and on either side; a large body of
painted warriors rushed in, filling the gap by which the whites had
entered, and an appalling crash of fire-arms followed. The soldiers,
however, were prepared. Such as chanced to be near the trees darted behind
them, and began to ply the deadly rifle; the others prostrated themselves
upon the earth, among the tall grass, and crawled to trees. The families
screened themselves as best they could. The onset was long and fiercely
urged; ever and anon, amid the din and smoke, the braves would rush out,
tomahawk in hand, towards the center; but they were repulsed by the cool
intrepidity of the backwoods riflemen. Still they fought on, determined on
the destruction of the destined victims who offered such desperate
resistance. All at once an appalling sound greeted the ears of the women
and children in the center; it was a cry from their defenders--a cry for
powder! "Our powder is giving out!" they exclaimed. "Have you any? Bring us
some, or we can fight no longer."

A woman of the party had a good supply. She spread her apron on the ground,
poured her powder into it, and going round from soldier to soldier, as they
stood behind the trees, bade each who needed powder put down his hat, and
poured a quantity upon it. Thus she went round the line of defense till her
whole stock, and all she could obtain from others, was distributed. At last
the savages gave way, and, pressed by their foes, were driven off the
ground. The victorious whites returned to those for whose safety they had
ventured into the wilderness. Inquiries were made as to who had been
killed, and one, running up, cried, "Where is the woman that gave us the
powder? I want to see her!" "Yes! yes!--let us see her!" responded another
and another; "without her we should have been all lost!" The soldiers ran
about among the women and children, looking for her and making inquiries.
Others came in from the pursuit, one of whom, observing the commotion,
asked the cause, and was told.

"You are looking in the wrong place," he replied.

"Is she killed? Ah, we were afraid of that!" exclaimed many voices.

"Not when I saw her," answered the soldier. "When the Indians ran off; she
was _on her knees in prayer_ at the root of yonder tree, and there I
left her."

There was a simultaneous rush to the tree--and there, to their great joy,
they found the woman safe and still on her knees in prayer. Thinking not of
herself, she received their applause without manifesting any other feeling
than gratitude to Heaven for their great deliverance.

An eminent divine whose childhood was passed upon our New England frontier,
during the period of the Revolution, narrated to the writer many years
since, the story of his mother's life while her husband was absent in the
patriot army. Their small farm was on the sterile hill-side, and with the
utmost pains, barely yielded sufficient for the wants of the lone wife and
her three little ones. There was no house within five miles, and the whole
region around was stripped of its male inhabitants, such was the patriotic
ardor of the people. All the labors in providing for the household fell
upon the mother. She planted and hoed the corn, milked the cow and tended
the farm, at the same time not neglecting the inside duties of the
household, feeding and clothing the children, nursing them when sick and
instructing them in the rudiments of education.

"I call to mind, though after the lapse of eighty years," said the
venerable man, "the image of my mother as distinctly as of yesterday, and
she moves before me as she did in my childhood's home among those bleak
hills--cheerful and serene through all, though even with my young eyes I
could see that a brooding sorrow rested upon her spirit. I remember the day
when my father kissed my brothers and me, and told us to be good boys, and
help mother while he was gone: I remember too, that look upon my mother's
face as she watched him go down the road with his musket and knapsack.

"When evening came, that day, and she had placed us in our little beds, I
saw her kneeling and praying in a low tone, long and fervently, and heard
her after she had pleaded that victory might crown our arms, intercede at
the throne of grace for her absent husband and the father of her children.

"Then she rose and kissed us good-night, and as she bent above us I shall
never forget till my latest hour the angelic expression upon her face.
Sorrow, love, resignation, and holy trust were blended and beamed forth in
that look which seemed to transfigure her countenance and her whole
bearing.

"During all those trying years while she was so patiently toiling to feed
and clothe us, and bearing the burdens and privations of her lonely lot,
never did she omit the morning and evening prayer for her country and for
the father of her children.

"One day we saw her holding an open letter in her hand and looking pale and
as if she were about to faint. We gathered about her knees and gazed with
wondering eyes, silently into her sad and care-worn face, for even then we
had been schooled to recognize and respect the sorrows of a mother. Two
weeks before that time, a battle had been fought in which father had been
severely wounded. The slow mail of those days had only just brought this
sad intelligence. As we stood beside her she bent and clasped us to her
heart, striving to hide the great tears that coursed down her wasted
cheeks.

"We begged her not to cry and tried to comfort her with our infantile
caresses. At length we saw her close her eyes and utter a low prayer. Ere
her lips had ceased to intercede with the Father of mercies, a knock was
heard at the door and one of the neighboring settlers entered. He had just
returned from the army and had come several miles on foot from his home,
expressly to tell us that father was rapidly recovering from his wounds. It
seemed as if he were a messenger sent from heaven in direct answer to the
silent prayers of a mother, and all was joy and brightness in the house."

The patriot father returned to his family at the close of the war with the
rank of Captain, which he had nobly won by his bravery in the battle's van.
The sons grew up and became useful and honored citizens of a Republic which
their father had helped to make free; and ever during their lives they
fondly cherished the memory of the mother who had taught them so many
examples of brave self-denial and pious devotion.

And still as we scan the pages of Revolutionary history, or revive the oral
evidence of family tradition, the names and deeds of these brave and good
women fill the eye and multiply in the memory. Through the fires, the
frosts, the rains, the suns of one hundred years, they come back to us
_now_, in the midst of our great national jubilee, vivid as with the
life of yesterday. That era, which they helped to make glorious, is "with
the years that are beyond the flood."

  "Another race shall be, and other palms are won,"

but never, while our nation or our language endures, shall the memory of
those names and deeds pass away. In every succeeding year that registers
the history of the Republic which they contributed to build, brighter and
brighter shall grow the record of the Patriot Women of the Revolution.

CHAPTER VII.

MOVING WEST--PERILS OF THE JOURNEY

In regarding or in enjoying an end already accomplished by others, we are
too apt to pass by the means through which that end was reached. America of
to-day represents a grand result. We see that our land is great, rich, and
powerful; we see that the flag waves from ocean to ocean, over a people
furnished with all the appliances of civilization, and happy in their
enjoyment; we are conscious that all this has come from the toils and the
sufferings of many men and of many women who have lived and loved before
us, and passed away, leaving behind them their country growing greater and
richer, happier and more powerful, for what they have borne and done. But
our views of the means by which that mighty end was reached are apt to be
altogether too vague and general. While we are enjoying what others have
worked to attain, let us not selfishly and forgetfully pass by the toils,
the struggles, the firm endurance of those who went before us and
accomplished this vast aggregate of results.

Each stage in the process by which these results were wrought out, had its
peculiar trials, its special service. Looking back to that far-off past,
and in the light of our own knowledge and conceptions, we find it almost
impossible to decide which stage was encompassed with the deadliest
dangers, the severest labors, the keenest sorrows, the largest list of
discomforts. But certainly to woman, the breaking up of her eastern home,
and the removal to the far west, was not the least burdensome and trying.

No characteristic of woman is more remarkable than the strength of her
local associations and attachments. In making the home she learns to love
it, and this feeling seems to be often strongest when the surroundings are
the bleakest, the rudest, and the most comfortless. The Highlander and the
Switzer pine amid the luxuriant scenes of tropical life, when their
thoughts revert to the smoky shieling or to the rock-encompassed
_chalet_ of their far-off mountains. Such, too, doubtless, was the
clinging fondness with which, the women regarded their rude cabins on the
frontier of the Atlantic States. They had toiled and fought to make these
rude abodes the homes for those dearest to them; here children, the
first-born of the Republic, had been nurtured; here, too, were the graves
of the first fathers and mothers of America. Humble and comfortless as
those dwelling-places would have seemed to the men and women of to-day,
they were dear to the wives and mothers of colonial times.

Comprehending, as we may, this feeling, and knowing the peculiar
difficulties of long journeys in those days, into a wild and hostile
country, we can understand why the westward march of emigration and
settlement was so slow during the first one hundred and fifty or sixty
years of our history. New England had, it is true, been largely subjugated
and reclaimed; a considerable body of emigrants, wedge-like, were driving
slowly up through the Mohawk Valley towards Niagara; a weak, thin line, was
straggling with difficulty across the Alleghanies in Pennsylvania, towards
the Ohio, and a more compact and confident battalion in Virginia, was
pushing into Kentucky. But how scattered and feeble that picket-line
compared to the army which was soon to follow it.

For a season, and while the British were trying to force their yoke on the
reluctant colonists, the westward movement had a check. The danger was in
the rear. His old home in the east was threatened, and the pioneer turned
about and faced the rising sun, until the danger was past and he could
pursue his journey.

The close of the Revolutionary struggle gave a new impulse to the westward
march of the American people, which had been arrested for the time being by
the War of Independence.

The patriot soldiers found themselves, upon the advent of peace,
impoverished in fortune; but with high hopes and stout hearts they
immediately set about repairing the ravages of the long war. Nurtured in
the rugged school of danger and hardship, they had ceased to regard the
West with dread. Curiosity, blended with the hope of bettering their
condition, turned their faces to that "fresh, unbounded, magnificent
wilderness." Accustomed to camp life and scenes of exciting interest, the
humdrum days at the old homestead became distasteful. The West was the
hunter's paradise. The toil held beneath it the potency of harvests of
extraordinary richness, and the soldier who had faced the disciplined
battalions of Great Britain recked little of the prowling red man.

During the Revolution, the women, left alone by their husbands and fathers,
who were with the army, were more than ever thrown on their own resources.
They tilled the farm, reared their swarthy and nimble broods of children,
and sent the boys in blue and buff all they could spare from their slender
store. During all this trying period they were fitting themselves for that
new life in the western wilds which had been marked out for them by the
hand of an overruling Providence.

And yet, hard and lonely as the lives of these devoted women must have been
in their eastern homes, and bright as their imaginations may have pictured
the richness of the West, it must have given them many a pang when the
husband and father told them that the whole family must be removed at once
from their beloved homestead, which they or their fathers had redeemed from
the wilderness after so many years of toil. We may imagine the resolution
that was required to break up the old attachments which bind women to their
homes and firesides.

It must have required a heroic courage to do this for the purpose of
seeking a new home, not only among strangers, but among wild beasts and
savages. But the fathers and mothers a hundred years ago possessed a spirit
which rose above the perils of their times. They went forward,
unhesitatingly, in their long and toilsome journeys westward, driving their
slow-footed oxen and lumbering-wagons hundreds of miles, over ground where
no road was; through woods infested with bears and wolves, panthers and
warlike tribes of Indians; settling in the midst of those dangerous
enemies, and conquering them all.

The army of pioneers, like the skirmishers who had preceded them, moved
forward in three columns; the northernmost passed through New York State;
the middle column moved westward through Pennsylvania; the southernmost
marched through Virginia. Within ten years after the treaty of Versailles,
the three columns had met in Ohio and Kentucky, and spreading out over that
beautiful region, were fighting with nature and savage men to subjugate
both and bring them within the bounds of civilization. No more sublime
spectacle has ever greeted the eye of the historian than the march of that
army. Twenty or thirty thousand men and women, bearing, like the Israelites
of old, their ark across the desert and waste places--that ark which bore
the blessings of civilization and religion within its holy shrine! Aged
matrons, nursing mothers, prattling infants, hoary patriarchs, and strong
veterans fresh from the fields of their country's glory, marching to form a
mighty empire in the wilderness!

In this present age of rapid and easy transition from place to place, it is
difficult to form a just conception of the tediousness, hardships, and
duration of those early emigrations to the West. The difference in
conveyance is that between a train of cars drawn by a forty-ton locomotive
and a two-horse wagon, without springs, and of the most lumbering and
primitive construction. This latter was the best conveyance that the
emigrant could command. A few were so fortunately situated on the banks of
rivers that they could float down with the current in flat-boats, while
their cattle were being driven along the shore; or, if it was necessary to
ascend toward the head-waters of a river, they could work their way
up-stream with setting-poles. But most of the emigrants traveled with
teams. Some of those who went part of the way in boats had to begin or end
their journey in wagons. The vehicles which they provided on such occasions
for land carriage were curiosities of wheel-craft--I speak of the Jersey
wagons.

The old-fashioned Jersey wagon has, years ago, given place to more showy
and flexible vehicles; but long before such were invented the Jersey wagon
was an established institution, and was handed down, with the family name,
from father to son. It was the great original of the modern emigrant wagon
of the West; but as I have elsewhere pictured its appearance upon the
arrival of a band of pioneers at their final destination, it is unnecessary
to enter here upon any further description.

The spring of the year was the season usually selected for moving, and
during many weeks previous to the appointed time, the emigrants had been
actively providing against the accidents and discomforts of the road. When
all was ready, the wagon was loaded, the oxen yoked and hooked to the neap;
the women and children took their places on the summit of the huge load,
the baby in its mother's lap, the youngest boy at his grandmother's feet,
and off they started. The largest boy walked beside and drove the team, the
other boys drove the cows, the men trudged behind or ahead, and the whole
cavalcade passed out of the great gate, the grandmother peering through her
spectacles, and the mother smiling through her tears and looking back more
than once at the home which she had made but was now to leave for ever.

In this manner the earlier emigrants went forward, driving their heavily
laden wagon by day and sleeping at night by the camp. After they had passed
the region of roads and bridges they had to literally hew their way;
cutting down bushes, prying their wagon out of bog-holes, building bridges
or poling themselves across streams on rafts. But, in defiance of every
obstacle, they pressed forward.

Neither rivers nor mountains stayed the course of the emigrant. Guiding his
course by the sun, and ever facing the West, he went slowly on. When that
luminary set, his parting rays lit the faces of the pioneer family, and
when it rose it threw their long shadows before them on the soft, spongy
turf of the forest glades. Sweating through the undergrowth; climbing over
fallen trees; sinking knee-deep in marshes; at noon they halted to take a
rest in the shade of the primeval forest, beside a brook, and there eat
their mid-day meal of fried pork and corn cakes, which the women prepared;
then on again, till the shadows stretched far back toward their old homes.

Sometimes a storm burst upon them, and the women and children huddled
beneath the cart as the thunderbolts fell, shivering the huge trunks of the
forest monarchs; and the lightning crimsoned the faces of the forlorn party
with its glare. Then the heavens cleared; the sun came out; and the ox-cart
went rumbling and creaking onward. No doubt the first days of that weary
tramp had in them something of pleasurable excitement; the breezes of
spring fanned the brows of the wayfarers, and told of the health and
freedom of woodland life; the magnificence of the forest, the summits of
the mountains, tinged with blue, the sparkling waters of lake and stream,
must have given joy to even the most stolid of those households. But
emotions of this description soon became strangers to their souls.

But the emigrants ere long found that the wilderness had lost the charms of
novelty. Sights and sounds that were at first pleasing, and had lessened
the sense of discomfort, soon ceased to attract attention. Their minds,
solely occupied with obstacles, inconveniences, and obstructions, at every
step of the way, became sullen, or, at least, indifferent.

To the toils and discomforts incident to their journey were often added
casualties and great personal risks. An unlucky step might wrench an ankle;
the axe might glance from a twig and split a foot open; and a broken leg,
or a severed artery, is a frightful thing where no surgeon can be had.
Exposure to all the changes of the weather--sleeping upon the damp ground,
frequently brought on fevers; and sickness, at all times a great calamity,
was infinitely more so to the pioneer. It must have been appalling in the
woods. Many a mother has carried her wailing, languishing child in her
arms, to lessen the jolting of the wagon, without being able to render it
the necessary assistance. Many a family has paused on the way to gather a
leafy couch for a dying brother or sister. Many a parent has laid in the
grave, in the lonely wilderness, the child they should meet no more till
the morning of the resurrection. Many a heart at the West has yearned at
the thought of the treasured one resting beneath the spreading tree.
After-comers have stopped over the little mound, and pondered upon the rude
memorial carved in the bark above it; and those who had sustained a similar
loss have wrung their hands and wept over it, for their own wounds were
opened afresh.

Among the chapters of accident and casualty which make up the respective
diaries of the families who left their eastern homes after the Revolution
and joined the ranks of the Western immigrants there is none more
interesting than that of Mrs. Jameson. She was the child of wealthy
parents, and had been reared in luxury in the city of New York. Soon after
peace was declared she was married to Edward Jameson, a brave soldier in
the war, who had nothing but his stout arms and intrepid heart to battle
with the difficulties of life. Her father, dying soon after, his estate was
discovered to have been greatly lessened by the depreciation in value which
the war had produced. Gathering together the remains of what was once a
large fortune, the couple purchased the usual outfit of the emigrants of
that period and set out to seek their fortunes in the West.

All went well with them until they reached the Alleghany River, which they
undertook to cross on a raft. It was the month of May; the river had been
swollen by rains, and when they reached the middle of the stream, the part
of the raft on which Mr. Jameson sat became detached, the logs separated,
and he sank to rise no more. The other section of the raft, containing Mrs.
Jameson, her babe of eight months, and a chest of clothing and household
gear, floated down-stream at the mercy of the rapid current.

[Illustration: PERILOUS CROSSING OF THE ALLEGHANY RIVER]

Bracing herself against the shock, Mrs. Jameson managed to paddle to the
side of the river from which she had just before started. She was landed
nearly a mile below the point where had been left the cattle, and also the
ox-cart in which their journey had been hitherto performed, and which her
husband expected to carry over the river on the raft, returning for them as
soon as his wife and babe had been safely landed on the western bank. The
desolate mother succeeded in mooring the remains of the raft to the shore;
then clasping her babe to her bosom, followed the bank of the river till
she reached the oxen and cart, which she drove down to the place where she
landed, and by great exertions succeeded in hauling the chest upon the
bank. Her strength was now exhausted, and, lying down in the bottom of the
cart, she gave way to grief and despair.

Her situation may be easily imagined: alone in the forest, thirty miles
from the nearest settlement, her husband torn from her in a moment, and her
babe smiling as though he would console his mother for her terrible loss.
In her sad condition self-preservation would have been too feeble a motive
to impel her to make any further effort to save herself; but maternal
love--the strongest instinct in a woman's heart--buoyed her up and
stimulated her to unwonted exertions.

The spot where she found herself was a dense forest, stretching back to a
rocky ledge on the east, and terminated on the north by an alluvial meadow
nearly bare of trees. Along the banks of the river was a thick line of high
bushes and saplings, which served as a screen against the observations of
savages passing up and down the river in their canoes. The woods were just
bursting into leaf; the spring-flowers filled the air with odor, and
chequered the green foliage and grass; the whole scene was full of vernal
freshness, life, and beauty. The track which the Jamesons had followed was
about midway between the northern and southern routes generally pursued by
emigrants, and it was quite unlikely that others would cross the river at
that point. The dense jungle that skirted the river bank was an impediment
in the way of reaching the settlements lower down, and there was danger of
being lost in the woods if the unfortunate woman should start alone.

"On this spot," she said, "I must remain till some one comes to my help."

The first two years of her married life had been spent on a farm in
Westchester County, New York, where she had acquired some knowledge of
farming and woodcraft, by assisting her husband in his labors, or by
accompanying him while hunting and fishing. She was strong and healthy; and
quite, unlike her delicate sisters of modern days, her lithe frame was
hardened by exercise in the open air, and her face was tinged by the kisses
of the sun.

Slowly recovering from the terrible anguish of her loss, she cast about for
shelter and sustenance. The woods were swarming with game, both large and
small, from the deer to the rabbit, and from the wild turkey to the quail.
The brooks were alive with trout. The meadow was well suited for Indian
corn, wheat, rye, or potatoes. The forest was full of trees of every
description. To utilize all these raw materials was her study.

A rude hut, built of boughs interlaced, and covered thickly with leaves and
dry swamp grass, was her first work. This was her kitchen. The cart, which
was covered with canvas, was her sleeping-room. A shotgun, which she had
learned the use of, enabled her to keep herself supplied with game. She
examined her store of provisions, consisting of pork, flour, and Indian
meal, and made an estimate that they would last eight months, with prudent
use. The oxen she tethered at first, but afterwards tied the horns to one
of their fore feet, and let them roam. The two cows having calved soon
after, she kept them near at hand by making a pen for the calves, who by
their bleating called their mothers from the pastures on the banks of the
river. In the meadow she planted half an acre of corn and potatoes, which
soon promised an amazing crop.

Thus two months passed away. In her solitary and sad condition she was
cheered by the daily hope that white settlers would cross her track or see
her as they passed up and down the river. She often thought of trying to
reach a settlement, but dreaded the dangers and difficulties of the way.
Like the doe which hides her fawn in the secret covert, this young mother
deemed herself and her babe safer in this solitude than in trying unknown
perils, even with the chance of falling in with friends. She therefore
contented herself with her lot, and when the toils of the day were over,
she would sit on the bank and watch for voyagers on the river. Once she
heard voices in the night on the river, and going to the bank she strained
her eyes to gaze through the darkness and catch sight of the voyagers; she
dared not hail them for fear they might be Indians, and soon the voices
grew fainter in the distance, and she heard them no more. Again, while
sitting in a clump of bushes on the bank one day, she saw with horror six
canoes with Indians, apparently directing their course to the spot where
she sat. They were hideously streaked with war-paint, and came so near that
she could see the scalping knives in their girdles. Turning their course as
they approached the eastern shore they silently paddled down stream,
scanning the hanks sharply as they floated past. Fortunately they saw
nothing to attract their attention; the cart and hut being concealed by the
dense bushes, and there being no fire burning.

Fearing molestation from the Indians, she now moved her camp a hundred rods
back, near a rocky ledge, from the base of which flowed a spring of pure
water. Here, by rolling stones in a circle, she made an enclosure for her
cattle at night, and within in it built a log cabin of rather frail