CHAPTER VII
ATTACKED!
With the return of Daniel Boone and his brother to North Carolina the news of the beautiful country beyond the ridge began to spread. People were eager to hear of his adventures and of his discoveries; and from all the region around about the Yadkin they came to listen to him.
A great deal of discontent was abroad in North Carolina. The government was not at all what it should have been. Tryon was a corrupt, overbearing official, detested by the settlers; and the hardy spirits who kept the border were not of the sort to submit to tyranny. So when Boone came back with the beauties of Kentucky upon his tongue, the richness of her soil, the size of her streams and woods and the promise she held out to all who were willing to come to her, he set them all by the ears.
But the settlements were thin and far between; men were few; conditions were such that not all could drop their affairs in the north state and undertake an adventure into the new land. This being so, by the time a party of settlers was organized to go into and take up homesteads in Kentucky, several years passed.
Among the first to enlist in this expedition were Oliver Barclay, Eph Taylor and Sandy Campbell. Eph’s father meant to move his whole family into the new region, and the man for whom Sandy worked was about to do the same. Well grown, broad of shoulder and strong as young oaks, the three made no mean addition to the band.
“A few years make a great difference,” said Boone, as he looked at them. They were gathered before him by the sides of the horses upon which they had ridden over to his place. His head was nodding approvingly. “It’s such lads as you that are needed where there’s forests to be felled and redskins to be fought.”
The boys listened to his account of his capture with Stuart by the Shawnees; also to the long months which he spent alone in the wilderness, enemies ever upon his trail, but persisting in his task in the face of all. And when, at length, they rode away, their faces were grave, their eyes shining.
“That was a fine thing to do,” said Eph, in great admiration. “A very fine thing. I reckon there’s not another in the settlements that would have stayed to finish up with all those dangers crowding around him.”
“I always knew that Mr. Boone was like that,” said Sandy. “I’d watch the way he’d ride his horse, or hold his rifle, or speak to any one who’d meet him. He had a way about him that told you he’d be a hard man to beat.”
“I think to do what you set out to do is one of the best proofs of quality in a man,” spoke Oliver. “Sometimes it’s easy, and sometimes it’s hard to do; but to do it’s the thing, and nothing else will answer if you mean to be worth anything.”
It was late in September in the year 1774 that Boone started, with his family, to take up his home in the country beyond the Laurel Ridge. Squire Boone was with them, and he helped Daniel and his sons to see to the packhorses, the cattle and the hogs which were taken to stock the new farm in the wilderness.
Near Powell’s Valley, not many miles distant, the Boones were met by the Taylors, the family of the farmer for whom Sandy worked, and a number of other prospective homesteaders. As the expedition now stood there were some forty hardy, courageous men in its column, armed and ready for the toil of the march.
Ahead rode Oliver Barclay, Eph Taylor and young Campbell with some of the younger of the men; in a line came the packhorses and those bearing the women and children. Boone and the main body of the settlers rode beside the pack animals, their rifles across their saddle-bows. In the rear came the cattle in the care of another band of youths who had undertaken this part of the work under the watchful eye of Boone’s eldest son.
For a week this formation was kept; at night they camped at sides of streams with guards set out to watch for the Indian prowlers who might have trailed them during the day and who might now be waiting for a murderous opportunity from the underbrush; also the cattle and hogs were to be kept from the attacks of those stealthy beasts which prowl the night.
They headed for that break in the mountain chain afterward known as the Cumberland Gap; never a sight of a redskin was had, never a sign of his trail anywhere. But there he was, nevertheless, for just eleven days after the journey began, while they were passing through a particularly difficult place, there came a sudden murderous volley of bullets and arrows in the rear, a rush of red robbers, and the scattering of most of the cattle into the woods. And six of the rear guard, including Boone’s son, were left dead in the trail.
Instantly, upon the firing of the volley, the column of emigrants came to a halt; a line of defense was formed and the lightest of the horsemen began scurrying upon the trail of the savages who fled through the passes.
But no blows of consequence were struck, and the riders returned. That night a grave council was held. The women were frightened by the murderous attack; some of the men began to see visions of constant fighting ahead with little time for profitable work; and so they lost heart in the enterprise. They thought it best that they return.
But Boone, his brother, and others of the party were for pushing on.
“Attacks by the Indians are to be expected,” said the pioneer; “they will always resist the march of the white man. And if we are to settle the rich country on the other side of the hills, it’s not by weakening under the first blow they strike. We must press forward; we must strike back; we must never for a moment show the varmints that we fear them.”
But the bold counsel of Daniel was not listened to. The shock of the attack, the loss of the cattle, the six youths slain, all in a moment’s time, hung heavily over the spirits of the emigrants, clouding them with gloom. It was agreed among them that they would start at sunrise and head back for the settlements.
On that first spiritless day of the return march, Oliver Barclay found himself by the side of Boone.
“Heading back for Hillsboro?” he asked.
Boone shook his head.
“No; for the Virginia settlements on the Clinch River,” he replied.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Oliver, whose hopes had received a shattering blow by the sudden change of front, “that we need not give the matter up after all.”
Boone looked at him questioningly.
“There are a few who are willing to go on across the mountains. Suppose, after we leave those who feel that they must return at the Clinch settlements, we turn about and go with the few we can hold together.”
Again the backwoodsman shook his head.
“I reckon you don’t quite see just what your uncle, the colonel, wants done,” he said. “We didn’t start only for the purpose of getting into the new country. The idea was to plant a colony. And to do that we must have people.”
“But,” persisted Oliver, with boyish ardor, “there’s your family and the Taylors. And Mr. Miller told Sandy he’d keep to the original agreement if any one else would.”
But Boone was fixed in his determination.
“We must plant a colony of some size if we plant any at all. A few families would always be in danger where enough to supply a couple of score of fighting men, if needed, would be fairly safe. For Injuns, youngster, are a careful lot; they seldom attack when there’s any danger of loss. Another thing, the first lot of emigrants must be numerous enough to attract others. Men go where men are; it’s only a few who have a liking for lonely places.”
And so the saddened column pushed toward the Clinch River, and Boone’s first attempt to settle Kentucky was at an end.