 CHAPTER VI. HOW THE CHARTER WAS SAVED. Not until James II became King of England was a determined effort made to take away the liberties of the American colonies. All New England up to that time had been virtually free, working under charters of very liberal character and governing itself in its own way and with its own elected rulers. Connecticut with whose history we are now concerned received its charter in 1662 from Charles II and went on happily and prosperously until James ascended the throne. This bigoted tyrant who spent his short reign in seeking to overthrow the liberties of England quickly determined that America needed disciplining and that these much too independent colonists ought to be made to feel the dominant authority of the king. The New England colonies in particular which claimed charter rights and disdain royal governors must be made to yield their patents and privileges and submit to the rule of a governor general appointed by the king with paramount authority over the colonies. Sir Edmund Andros a worthy minion of a tyrant was chosen as the first governor general and arrived at Boston in December 1686 determined to bring these rampant colonists to a sense of their duty as humble subjects of his royal master. He quickly began to display autocratic authority with an offensiveness of manner that disgusted the citizens as much as his acts of tyranny annoyed them. The several colonies were peremptorily ordered to deliver up their charters. With the response to this command we are not here concerned except in the case of Connecticut which absolutely refused. Months passed during which the royal representative aped kingly manners and dignity in Boston and Connecticut went on undisturbed except by his wordy fulminations. But in October of the next year he made his appearance at Hartford attended by a bodyguard of some sixty soldiers and officers. The assembly was in session. Sir Edmund marched with an important air into the chamber and in a peremptory tone demanded that the charter should be immediately placed in his hands. This demand put the members into an awkward dilemma. The charter was in Hartford in a place easy of axis. Sir Edmund was prepared to seize it by force if it were not quickly surrendered. How to save this precious instrument of liberty did not at once appear. The members temporized received their unwelcome visitor with every show of respect and entered upon a long and calm debate with a weary some deliberation which the impatience of the governor general could not hasten or cut short. Governor Treat the presiding officer of the assembly addressed Sir Edmund in tones of remonstrance and in treaty. The people of America, he said, had been at the greatest expense and had suffered the most extreme hardships in planting the country. They had freely spent their blood and treasure in defending it against savage natives and foreign aggressors, and all this had been done for the honor and glory of the motherland. He himself had endured hardships and been environed by perils, and it would be like giving up his life to surrender the patent and privileges so dearly bought and so long enjoyed. Argument of this kind was wasted on Sir Edmund. Remonstrance and appeal were alike in vain. It was the charter he wanted, not long-winded excuses, and he fumed and fretted while the slow-talking members wasted the hours in what he looked upon as a useless argument. Light had been drawing near on his entrance. Darkness settled upon the assembly while the debate went on. Lights were now brought in, the tallow candles of our colonial forefathers, and placed upon the table around which the members sat. By this time Sir Edmund's impatience at their procrastination had deepened into anger, and he demanded the charter in so decided tones that the reluctant governor gave orders that it should be produced. The box containing it was brought into the chamber and laid upon the table. The cover removed, and there before their eyes lay the precious parchment, the charter of colonial liberty. Still the members talked and procrastinated, but it is not easy to restrain the hound when within sight of the game which it has long pursued. Before the eyes of Sir Edmund lay that pastiferous paper which had given him such annoyance. His impatience was no longer to be restrained. In the midst of the long drawn-out oratory of the members he rose and stepped towards the table to seize the object in dispute. At that critical instant there came an unexpected diversion. During the debate a number of the more important citizens had entered the room and stood near the table around which the members sat. Suddenly from the midst of those people a long cloak was deftly flung with such sure aim that it fell upon the circle of blazing candles, extinguishing them all, and in a moment throwing the room into total darkness. Confusion followed. There were quick and excited movements within the room. Outside the crowd which had assembled set up a lusty cheer and a number of them pushed into the chamber. The members stirred uneasily in their seats. Sir Edmund angrily exclaimed, What means this gentleman is some treachery at work? Guard the charter, light those candles instantly. The attendants hastened to obey, but haste in procuring light in those days had a different meaning than now. The Lucifer match had not yet been dreamed of. The flint and steel was a slow conception. Several minutes elapsed before the candles again shed their feeble glow through the room. With the first gleam of light every eye was fixed upon the box which had contained the charter. It was empty. The charter was gone. Just what Sir Edmund said on this occasion, history has not recorded. Those were days in which the most exalted persons dealt freely in oaths, and it is to be presumed that the infuriated Governor-General used words that must have sadly shocked the pious ears of his Puritan auditors. The charter had vanished and could not be sworn back into the box. Where it had gone probably no one knew. Certainly no one was willing to say. The members looked at one another in blank astonishment. The lookers-on manifested as blank in ignorance, though their faces beamed with delight. It had disappeared as utterly as if it had sunk into the earth, and the oaths of Sir Edmund and his efforts to recover it proved alike in vain. But the mystery of that night after history has revealed, and the story can now be told. In truth some of those present in the hall knew far more than they cared to tell. In the darkness a quick-moving person had made a lane through the throng to a neighbouring window whose sash was thrown up. Out of this he leaped to the ground below. Here people were thickly gathered. Make way, he said, or may have said, for his real words have not been preserved. For Connecticut and Liberty I have the charter. The cheers redoubled, the crowd separated and let him through. In a minute he had disappeared in the darkness beyond. Sir Edmund meanwhile was storming like a fury in the hall, threatening the colony with the anger of the king, declaring that every man in the chamber should be searched, fairly raving in his disappointment. Outside the bold fugitive sped swiftly along the dark and quiet streets, ending his course at length in front of a noble and imposing oak tree which stood before the house of the honourable Samuel Willis, one of the colonial magistrates. This tree was hollow, the opening slender without, large within. Deeply into this cavity the fugitive thrust his arm, pushing the precious packet as far as it would go and covering it thickly with fine debris at the bottom of the trunk. So much for Sir Edmund, he said, let him now rob Connecticut of the charter of its liberties if he can. Tradition, for it must be acknowledged that this story is traditional, though probably true in its main elements, tells us that this daring individual was Captain Joseph Wadsworth, a bold and energetic militia leader who was yet to play another prominent part in the drama of colonial life. As for the charter oak, it long remained Hartford's most venerated historical monument. It became in time a huge tree, twenty-five feet in circumference near the roots. The cavity in which the charter was hidden grew larger from year by year, until it was wide enough within to contain a child, though the orifice leading to it gradually closed until it was hardly large enough to admit a hand. This grand monument to liberty survived until 1856, when tempests in its boughs and decay in its trunk brought it in ruin to the earth. What followed may be briefly told. The charter lost, Sir Edmund Andros assumed control, declared the privileges granted by it to be annulled, and issued a proclamation in which the liberties of the colonies were replaced by the tyranny of autocratic rule. The colonists were forced to submit, but their submission was one of discontent and barely concealed revolt. Fortunately, the tyranny of Sir Edmund lasted not long. The next year the royal tyrant of England was driven from his throne, and the chain which he had laid upon the neck of Britannia and her colonies was suddenly removed. The exultation in America knew no bounds. Andros was seized and thrown into prison in Boston to preserve him from a rudor fate from the mob. Early in the next year he was shipped to England. Captain Wadsworth withdrew the charter from the hiding-place which had safely kept its secret until that hour, and placed it in the hands of the delighted governor. Jurists in England had declared that it was still in force, and the former government was at once resumed amid the most earnest manifestations of joy by the populace. Yet the liberties of Connecticut were soon again to be imperiled, and were to be saved once more by the intrepid daring of Captain Wadsworth. It was now the year 1693. William of Orange had been for some years on the English throne. While far more liberal than his predecessor, his acts had somewhat limited the former freedom of the New England colonies. He did not attempt to appoint royal governors over these truculent people, but on Governor Fletcher of New York were conferred privileges which went far to set aside the charter rights of the neighboring colony. In brief, this royal governor was given full power of command over the militia of Connecticut, and act in direct contravention of the charter, which placed the military control in the hands of the colonial authorities. Fletcher pressed his claim. The governor indignantly refused to yield his rights. The people ardently supported him. Filled with blustering indignation, Governor Fletcher left New York and came to Hartford, determined that his authority should be acknowledged. He reached there on October 26, 1693. He called upon the governor and other authorities armed with the royal commission, and sternly demanded that the command of the militia should be handed over to him. You have played with me in this matter, he asserted. Now I demand an answer, immediate, and in two words, yes or no. And I require that the militia of Hartford shall be instantly ordered under arms. As for the latter, it shall be as you wish, answered the governor. As for the former, we deny your authority. Nor will I, as you suggest, consent to hold command as your representative. The train bans were ordered out. The demand had been expected, and no long time elapsed before these citizen soldiers were assembled on the drill ground of Hartford, an awkward squad, probably, if we may judge from the train bans of later days, but doubtless containing much good soldierly material. At their heads stood their senior officer, Captain Wadsworth, the same bold patriot who had so signally defeated a royal governor six years before. He was now to add to his fame by as signally defeating another royal governor. When the New York potentate, accompanied by the governor and a number of the assemblymen, and by the members of his staff, reached the place, they found the valiant captain walking up and down before his men, busily engaged in putting them through their exercises. Governor Fletcher stepped forward importantly, produced his commission and instructions, and ordered them to be read to the assembled troops. The person to whom he handed them unfolded the commission, advanced to the front of the line, and prepared to read. He did not know with whom he had to deal. Beat the drums, cried Captain Wadsworth in a stentorian voice. Instantly there broke out a roar that utterly drowned the voice of the reader. Silence exclaimed Fletcher angrily advancing. The drums ceased their rattling uproar. Silence once more prevailed. The reader began again. Drum, drum, I say, thundered Wadsworth. Again such an uproar filled the air as only drumheads beaten by vigorous arms can make. Silence, silence cried Fletcher furiously. The drums ceased. Drum, drum, I say, roared Wadsworth. Then, turning to the governor and handling his sword significantly, he continued in resolute tones. If I am interrupted again, I will make the sun shine through you in a minute. This fierce threat ended the business. Governor Fletcher had no fancy for being riddled by this intraculant captain of militia. King William's commission doubtless had its weight, but the king was 3,000 miles away across the seas, and Captain Wadsworth and his train-bands were unpleasantly near. Governor Fletcher deemed it unwise to try too strongly the fiery temper of the Hartford militiaman. He and his suite returned hastily to New York, and that was the last that was heard of a royal commander for the militia of Connecticut. End of Chapter 6. Chapter 7 of Historical Tales, Volume 1, American. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kalinda. Historical Tales, Volume 1, American by Charles Morris. Chapter 7, How Franklin Came to Philadelphia. Today we make our way from New York to Philadelphia in a two-hour flyer with palace car accommodations. Tomorrow, perhaps, the journey will be made in 90 minutes. Such, at least, is the nearly realized dream of railroadmen. A century and a half ago, this journey took considerably more time and was made with much less comfort. There is on record an interesting narrative of how the trip was made in 1723, which is worth giving as a contrast to present conditions. The traveler was no less notable a personage than Benjamin Franklin, who, much to the after advantage of the Quaker City, had run away from two severe an apprenticeship in Boston, failed to obtain employment in New York, and learned that work might be had in Philadelphia. The story of how he came thither cannot be told better than in his own homely language, so we will suffer him to speak for himself. Philadelphia was 100 miles farther. I set out, however, in a boat for Amboy, leaving my chest and things to follow me round by sea. In crossing the bay, we met with a squaw that tore our rotten sail to pieces, prevented our getting into the kill, and drove us upon Long Island. In our way, a drunken Dutchman, who was a passenger too, fell overboard. When he was sinking, I reached through the water to his shock-pate and drew him up, so that we got him in again. His ducking sobered him a little, and he went to sleep, taking first out of his pocket a book, which he desired I would dry for him. The book proved to be the pilgrim's progress in Dutch, well-printed and with copper-plate illustrations, a fact which greatly interested the book-loving traveler. On approaching the island, we found it was a place where there could be no landing, there being a great surge on the Stony Beach. So we dropped anchor and swung out our cable towards the shore. Some people came down to the shore and hallowed to us, as we did to them, but the wind was so high and the surge so loud that we could not understand each other. There were some small boats near the shore and we made signs and called to them to fetch us, but they either did not comprehend us or it was impracticable, so they went off. Night approaching, we had no remedy, but to have patience till the wind abated, and in the meantime, the boatman and myself concluded to sleep if we could, and so we crowded into the hatches where we joined the Dutchman who was still wet and the spray breaking over the head of our boat leaked through to us so that we were soon almost as wet as he. In this manner, we lay all night with very little rest, but the wind abating the next day, we made a shift to reach Amboy before night, having been 30 hours on the water, without vitals or any drink but a bottle of filthy rum, the water we sailed on being salt. The story seems hard to credit. The travelers had already spent 15 times the period it now takes to make the complete journey and were but fairly started. While they had experienced almost as much hardship as though they were wrecked mariners, cast upon a desolate coast, the remainder of the journey was no less wearisome. The traveler thus continues his narrative. In the evening, I found myself very feverish and went to bed, but having read somewhere that cold water drunk plentifully was good for a fever, I followed the prescription and sweat plentifully most of the night. My fever left me and in the morning, crossing the ferry, I proceeded on my journey on foot, having 50 miles to go to Burlington, where I was told I should find boats that would carry me the rest of the way to Philadelphia. It rained very hard all the day, I was thoroughly soaked and by noon a good deal tired, so I stopped at a poor inn where I stayed all night, beginning now to wish I had never left home. I made so miserable a figure too that I found by the questions asked me, I was suspected to be some runaway indentured servant and in danger of being taken up on that suspicion. However, I proceeded next day and in the evening got to an inn within eight or 10 miles of Burlington kept by one Dr. Brown. He entered into conversation with me while I took some refreshment and finding I had read a little became very obliging and friendly. Our acquaintance continued all the rest of his life. He had been, I imagine, an ambulatory quack doctor for there was no town in England nor any country in Europe of which he could not give a very particular account. He had some letters and was ingenious, but he was an infidel and wickedly undertook some years after to turn the Bible into doggerel verse as Cotton had formerly done with Virgil. By this means he set many facts in a ridiculous light and might have done mischief with weak minds if his work had been published, but it never was. At his house I lay that night and arrived the next morning at Burlington, but had the mortification to find that the regular boats were gone a little before and no other expected to go before Tuesday, this being Saturday. Wherefore, I returned to an old woman in the town of whom I had bought some gingerbread to eat on the water and asked her advice. She promised to lodge me till a passage by some other boat occurred. I accepted her offer being much fatigued by traveling on foot. Understanding I was a printer, she would have had me remain in that town and follow my business, being ignorant what stock was necessary to begin with. She was very hospitable, gave me a dinner of ox cheek with great goodwill, accepting only a pot of ale in return, and I thought myself fixed till Tuesday should come. However, walking in the evening by the side of the river, a boat came by which I found was going towards Philadelphia with several people in her. They took me in and as there was no wind, we rode all the way. And about midnight, not having yet seen the city, some of the company were confident we must have passed it and would row no farther. The others knew not where we were, so we put towards the shore, got into a creek, landed near an old fence with the rails of which we made a fire, the night being cold in October, and there we remained till daylight. Then one of the company knew the place to be Cooper's Creek, a little above Philadelphia, which we saw as soon as we got out of the creek and arrived there about eight or nine o'clock on the Sunday morning and landed at Market Street Wharf. The closing portion of this naive narrative is as interesting in its way as the opening. The idea that Philadelphia could be passed in the darkness and not discovered seems almost ludicrous when we consider its present many miles of riverfront and the long drawn out glow of illumination which it casts over the stream. Nothing could be more indicative of its village-like condition at the time of Franklin's arrival and its enormous growth sense. Nor are the incidents and conditions of the journey less striking. The traveler, making the best time possible to him, had been nearly five full days on the way and had experienced a succession of hardships which would have thrown many men into a sick bed at the end. It took youth, health, and energy to accomplish the difficult passage from New York to Philadelphia in that day, a journey which we now make between breakfast and dinner with considerable time for business in the interval. Verily the world moves. But to return to our traveler's story, I have been the more particular in this description of my journey and shall be so of my first entry into that city that you may in your mind compare such unlikely beginnings with the figure I have since made there. I was in my working dress, my best clothes coming round by a sea. I was dirty from my being so long in the boat. My pockets were stuffed out with shirts and stockings, and I knew no one nor where to look for lodging. Fatigued with walking, rowing, and the want of sleep, I was very hungry, and my whole stock of cash consisted in a single dollar and about a shilling in copper coin which I gave to the boatman for my passage. At first they refused it on account of my having road, but I insisted on there taking it. Man is sometimes more generous when he has little money than when he has plenty, perhaps to prevent his being thought to have but little. I walked towards the top of the street, gazing about till near Market Street, where I met a boy with bread. I had often made a meal of dry bread and inquiring where he had bought it, I went immediately to the bakers he directed me to. I asked for biscuits, meaning such as we had at Boston. That sort it seems was not made in Philadelphia. I then asked for a three-penny loaf and was told they had none. Not knowing the different prices, nor the names of the different sorts of bread, I told him to give me three penny worth of any sort. He gave me accordingly three great puffy rolls. I was surprised at the quantity, but took it and having no room in my pockets walked off with a roll under each arm and eating the other. Thus I went up Market Street as far as 4th Street, passing by the door of Mr. Reed, my future wife's father. When she, standing at the door, saw me and thought I made, as I certainly did, a most awkward, ridiculous appearance. Then I turned and went down Chestnut Street and part of Walnut Street, eating my roll all the way and coming round found myself again at Market Street Wharf near the boat I came in, to which I went for a draft of the river water and being filled with one of my rolls gave the other two to a woman and her child that came down the river in the boat with us and were waiting to go farther. Thus refreshed I walked again up the street which by this time had many cleanly dressed people in it who were all walking the same way. I joined them and was thereby led into the great meeting-house of the Quakers near the market. I sat down among them and after looking round awhile and hearing nothing said, became very drowsy through labor and want of rest the preceding night. I fell fast asleep and continued so till the meeting broke up when someone was kind enough to arouse me. This, therefore, was the first house I was in or slept in in Philadelphia. There is nothing more simple, homely and attractive in literature than Franklin's autobiographical account of the first period of his life of which we have transcribed a portion. Nor nothing more indicative of the great changes which time has produced in the conditions of this country and which it produced in the life of our author. As for his journey from New York to Philadelphia, it presents, for the time involved, as great a series of adventures and hardships as does Stanley's recent journey through Central Africa. And as regards his own history, the contrast between the Franklin of 1723 and 1783 was as great as that which has come upon the city of his adoption. There is something amusingly ludicrous in the picture of the great Franklin soiled with travel, a dollar in his pocket representing his entire wealth, walking up Market Street with two great rolls of bread under his arm and gnawing hungrily at a third while his future wife peers from her door and laughs to herself at this awkward youth who looked as if he had never set foot on City Street before. We can hardly imagine this to be the Franklin who afterwards became the associate of the great and the admired of nations, who argued the cause of America before the assembled notables of England who played a leading part in the formation of the Constitution of the United States and to whom Philadelphia owes several of its most thriving and useful institutions. Millions of people have since poured into the city of brotherly love, but certainly no other journey thither has been nearly so momentous in its consequences as the humble one above described. End of chapter seven. Chapter eight of historical tales, volume one, American. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Colinda. Historical Tales, volume one, American by Charles Morris. Chapter eight, The Perils of the Wilderness. On the 31st day of October in the year 1753, a young man whose name was as yet unknown outside the colony of Virginia, though it was destined to attain worldwide fame, set out from Williamsburg in that colony on a momentous errand. It was the first step taken in a series of events which were to end in driving the French from North America and placing this great realm under English control, the opening movement in the memorable French and Indian War. The name of the young man was George Washington. His age was 21 years. He began thus in his earliest manhood that work in the service of his country which was to continue until the end. The enterprise before the young Virginian was one that needed the energies of youth and the unyielding perseverance of an indefatigable spirit. A wilderness extended far and wide before him, partly broken in Virginia, but farther on untouched by the hand of civilization. Much of his route lay over rugged mountains, pathless, saved by the narrow and difficult Indian trails. The whole distance to be traversed was not less than 560 miles with an equal distance to return. The season was winter. It was a task calculated to try the powers and test the endurance of the strongest and most energetic man. The contest between France and England for American soil was about to begin. Hitherto the columnists of those nations had kept far asunder, the French in Canada and on the Great Lakes, the English on the Atlantic coast. Now the English were feeling their way westward, the French southward, lines of movement which would touch each other on the Ohio. The touch, when made, was sure to be a hostile one. England had established an Ohio company, ostensibly for trade, really for conquest. The French had built forts, one at Presque Isle on Lake Erie, one on French Creek near its headwaters, a third at the junction of the French Creek with the Allegheny. This was a bold push inland. They had done more than this. A party of French and Indians had made their way as far as the point where Pittsburgh now stands. Here they found some English traders, took them prisoners and conveyed them to Presque Isle. In response to this, some French traders were seized by twitwee Indians, a tribe friendly to the English, and sent to Pennsylvania. The touch had taken place and it was a hostile one. Major Washington, he had been a Virginia adjutant general with the rank of Major since the age of 19, was chosen for the next step, that of visiting the French forts and demanding the withdrawal of their garrisons from what was claimed to be English territory. The mission was a delicate one. It demanded courage, discretion, and energy. Washington had them all. No better choice could have been made than of this young officer of militia. The youthful pioneer proceeded alone as far as Fredericksburg. Here he engaged two companions, one as French, the other as Indian interpreter, and proceeded. Civilization had touched the region before him but not subdued it. At the junction of Wills Creek with the Potomac, now Cumberland, Maryland, he reached the extreme outpost of civilization. Before him stretched more than 400 miles of unbroken wilderness. The snow-covered Alleghenies were just in advance. The chill of the coming winter already was making itself felt. Recent rains had swollen the streams. They could be crossed only on log rafts or by the more primitive methods of wading or swimming. Expedients none too agreeable in freezing weather. But youth and the lofty spirit halt not for obstacles. Washington pushed on. At Wills Creek, he added to his party. Here he was joined by Mr. Gist, an experienced frontiersman who knew well the ways of the wilderness and by four other persons, two of them Indian traders. On November 14th, the journey resumed. Hardships now surrounded the little party of adventurers. Miles of rough mountain had to be climbed. Streams swollen to their limits to be crossed. Unbroken and interminable forests to be traversed. Day after day, they pressed onward through difficulties that would have deterred all but the hardiest and most vigorous of men. In 10 days, they had accomplished an important section of their journey and reached those forks of the Ohio, which were afterwards to attain such celebrity, both in war and peace, as the site of Fort Duquesne and of the subsequent city of Pittsburgh. 20 miles farther on, the Indian settlement of Logstown was reached. Here, Washington called the Indian chiefs together in conference. The leading chief was known as Tanna Charison, half-king and Indian patriot, who had been much disturbed by the French and English incursions. He had been to the French forts. What he said to their commanders is curious and worthy of being quoted. Fathers, I am come to tell you your own speeches, what your own mouths have declared. Fathers, you in former days set a silver basin before us, wherein was the leg of a beaver and desired all the nations to come and eat of it, to eat in peace and plenty and not to be churlish to one another. And that if any person should be found to be a disturber, I here lay down by the edge of the dish a rod, which you must scourge them with. And if your father should get foolish in my old days, I desire you may use it upon me as well as others. Now, fathers, it is you who are the disturbers in this land by coming and building your towns and taking it away unknown to us and by force. Fathers, I desire you may hear me in civilness. If not, we must handle that rod which was laid down for the use of the obstreperous. Fathers, both you and the English are white. We live in a country between. Therefore, the land belongs to neither one nor the other. The great being above allowed it to be a place of residence for us. So, fathers, I desire you to withdraw. As I have done our brothers the English, for I will keep you at arm's length. I lay this down as a trial for both to see which will have the greatest reward for it. And that side we will stand by and make equal sharers with. Our brothers the English have heard this and I now come to tell it to you, for I am not afraid to discharge you off this land. The poor half-king was to find out that he had undertaken a task like that of discharging the wolves out of the sheep-coat. The French heard this protest with contempt and went on building their forts. He thereupon turned to the English, whom he, in the simplicity of his heart, imagined had no purpose save that of peaceful trade. His fathers had condemned him to his brothers he turned in amity. Washington told his purposes to his dusky auditors. He had come to warn the French intruders off the Indian lands. He desired a guide to conduct him to the French fort, 120 miles distant. His statement pleased the Indians. Their English brothers were in sympathy with them. They would help them to recover their lands. The generosity of their white brothers must have seemed highly meritorious to the simple savages. They had yet to learn that the French and the English were the two millstones and they and their lands the corn to be ground between. The half-king, with two other chiefs, Jess Kakake and White Thunder by name, volunteered to guide the whites. A hunter of noted skill also joined them. Once more the expedition set out. The journey was a terrible one. Winter had set in. Rain and snow fell almost unceasingly. The forest was next to impassable. Great were their toils, severe their hardships. On December 5th they reached the French outpost at Venango, now Franklin, where French Creek joins the Allegheny. Here they were met by Captain Jean Caire, the French commandant, with a promising show of civility. Secretly, however, the astute Frenchman sought to rob Washington of his Indians. Fortunately, the Aborigines knew the French too well to be cajoled and were ready to accompany Washington when he set out on his remaining journey. Their route now led up French Creek to Fort Le Boeuf on the headwaters of that stream. This they reached on the 12th, after a wearisome experience of frontier travel. 41 days had passed since Washington left Williamsburg. The commandant here was Monsieur de Saint-Pierre, an elderly man of courteous manners, a Knight of the Order of Saint-Louis. He received Washington cordially, treated him with every hospitality while in the fort, did everything except to comply with Governor Dinwitte's orders to leave the works. Washington's instruction were conveyed in the letter from the Governor of Virginia, which asserted that the lands of the Ohio and its tributaries belonged to England, declared that the French movements were encroachments, asked by whose authority an armed force had crossed the lakes and demanded their speedy departure from English territory. Saint-Pierre's reply was given in a sealed letter. It declared that he was a soldier, his duty being to obey orders, not to discuss treaties. He was there under instructions from the Governor of Canada, here he meant to stay. Such was the purport of the communication. The tone was courteous, but in it was no shadow of turning. While the Frenchman was using the pen, Washington was using his eyes. He went away with an accurate mental picture of the fort, its form, size, construction, location, and the details of its armament. His men counted the canoes in the river. The fort lay about 15 miles south of Lake Erie. A plan of it, drawn by Washington, was sent to England. At the time fixed for their return, Washington found the snow falling so fast that he decided to make his journey to Venango by canoe, the horses which they had used in the outward journey being forwarded through the forest with their baggage. Saint-Pierre was civil to the last. He was as hospitable as polite. The canoe was plentifully stocked with provisions and liquors, but secretly, artifices were practiced to lure away the Indians. The half-king was a man whose friendship was worth bidding for. Promises were made, presents were given. The Indians were offered every advantage of friendship and trade. But the half-king was not to be placated by fine words. He knew the French. Delay was occasioned, however, of which Washington complained and hinted at the cause. You are certainly mistaken, Major Washington, declared the polite Frenchman. Nothing of the kind has come to my knowledge. I really cannot tell why the Indians delay. They are naturally inclined to procrastinate, you know. Certainly, everything shall be done on my part to get you off in good time. Finally, the Indians proving immovable in their decision, the party got off. The journey before them was no pleasant one, even with the advantage of a water route and a canoe as a vehicle of travel. Rocks and drifting trees obstructed the channel. Here were shallows, their dangerous currents. The passage was slow and wearisome and not without its barrels. Many times, says Washington, all hands were obliged to get out and remain in the water half an hour or more in getting over the shoals. At one place, the ice had lodged and made it impassable by water and we were obliged to carry our canoe across a neck of land a quarter of a mile over. In six days, they reached Venango, having journeyed 130 miles by the course of the stream. The horses had preceded them, but had reached the fort in so pitiable a condition as to render them hardly fit to carry the baggage and provisions. Washington, Mr. Gist and Mr. Van Bram, the French interpreter, clad in Indian walking costume, proceeded on foot, the horses following with their drivers. After three days' journey, the poor animals had become so feeble, the snow so deep, the cold so severe that Washington and Gist determined to push forward alone, leaving Mr. Van Bram as leader of the remainder of the party. Gone in hand and knapsack containing his food and papers on back, the intrepid explorer pushed forward with his companion, who was similarly equipped. Leaving the path they had been following, they struck into a straight trail through the woods, purposing to reach the Allegheny a few miles above the Ohio. The journey proved an adventurous one. They met an Indian who agreed to go with them and show them the nearest way. 10 or 12 miles were traversed, at the end of which Washington grew very foot sore and weary. The Indian had carried his knapsack and now wished to relieve him of his gun. This Washington refused, whereupon the savage grew surly. He pressed them to keep on, however, saying that there were Ottawa Indians in the forest who might discover them and scalp them if they lay out at night. By going on they would reach his cabin and be safe. They advanced several miles further. Then the Indian, who had fallen behind them, suddenly stopped. On looking back they perceived that he had raised his gun and was aiming at them. The next instant the peace was discharged. Are you shot, cried Washington? No, answered Gist. After this fellow then. The Indian had run to the shelter of a large white oak, behind which he was loading as fast as possible. The others were quickly upon him, Gist with his gun at his shoulder. Do not shoot, said Washington. We had best not kill the man, but we must take care of him. The savage was permitted to finish his loading, even to putting in a ball, but his companions took good heed to give him no further opportunity to play the traitor. At a little run which they soon reached, they bade the Indian to make a fire on pretense that they would sleep there. They had no such intention, however. As you will not have him killed, said Gist, we must get him away and then we must travel all night. Gist turned to the Indian. I suppose you were lost and fired your gun, he said, with a transparent affectation of innocence. I know the way to my cabin, replied the Indian, it is not far away. Well then, do you go home? We are tired, but we'll follow your track in the morning. Here is a cake of bread for you and you must give us meat in the morning. The savage was glad enough to get away. Gist followed and listened that he might not steal back on them. Then they went half a mile farther where they made a fire, set their compass, and after a short period of rest, took to the route again and traveled all night. The next night they reached the Allegheny. Here they were destined to experience a dangerous adventure. They had expected to cross on the ice, but the river proved to be frozen only for a short distance from the shores. That night they slept with the snow for a bed, their blankets for a covering. When dawn appeared, the same dubious prospect confronted them. The current of the river still swept past, loaded with broken ice. There is nothing for it but a raft, said Washington, and we have but one hatchet to aid us in making it. Let us to work. To work they fell, but it was sunset before the raft was completed. Not caring to spend another night where they were, they launched the raft and pushed from shore. It proved a perilous journey. Before the stream was half-crossed, they were so jammed in the floating ice that it seemed every moment as if their frail support would sink and they perish in the swift current. Washington tried with his setting pole to stop the raft and let the ice run by. His effort ended unfortunately. Such was the strength of the current that the ice was driven against the pole with a violence that swept him from his feet and hurled him into water 10 feet deep. Only that chance which seems the work of destiny saved him. He fell near enough to the raft to seize one of its logs and after a sharp scramble was up again, though dripping with icy water. They continued their efforts but failed to reach either shore and in the end they were obliged to spring from their weak support to an island past which the current was sweeping the raft. The escape was almost like the proverbial one from the frying pan to the fire. The island was destitute of shelter. As the night advanced the air grew colder and the adventurers suffered severely. Mr. Gist had his hands and feet frozen. A disaster which Washington, despite his wedding, fortunately escaped. The morning dawned at length. Hope returned to their hearts. The cold of the night had done one service. It had frozen the water between the island and the eastern bank of the stream. The ice bore their weight. They crossed in safety and the same day reached a trading post, recently formed, near the ground subsequently to be celebrated as that of Braddock's defeat. Here they rested two or three days. Gist recovering from the effects of his freezing, Washington improving the opportunity to pay a visit to Queen Aliquipa, an Indian princess whose palace, if we may venture to call it so, was nearby. The royal lady had been angry that he had neglected her on his way out. This visit, an apology, and a present, healed her wounded feelings and disposed her to a gracious reception. Nothing could be learned of Van Bram and the remainder of the party. Washington could not wait for them. He hurried forward with Gist, crossed the Alleghenies, to Will's Creek, and leaving his companion there, hastened onward to Williamsburg, anxious to put his dispatches in Governor Dinwitte's hands. He reached there on January 16th, having been absent 11 weeks during which he had traversed a distance of 1,100 miles. What followed is matter of common history. Dinwitte was incensed at St. Pierre's letter. The French had come to stay that was plain. If the English wanted a footing in the land, they must be on the alert. A party was quickly sent to the Ohio Forks to build a fort. Washington having suggested this as a suitable plan. But hardly was this fort begun before it was captured by the French who hastened to erect one for themselves on the spot. Washington, advancing with a supporting foe, met a French detachment in the woods, which he attacked and defeated. It was the opening contest of the French and Indian War. As for Fort Duquesne, which the French had built, it gave rise to the most disastrous event of the war, the defeat of General Braddock and his army on their march to capture it. It continued in French hands till near the end of the war, its final capture by Washington being nearly the closing event in the contest, which rested from the hands of the French all their possessions on the American continent. End of chapter eight. Chapter nine of historical tales, volume one, American. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kalinda. Historical Tales, volume one, American by Charles Morris. Chapter nine, some adventures of Major Putnam. The vicinity of the mountain girdled, island dotted, tourist inviting Lake George has perhaps been the scene of more of the romance of war than any other locality that could be named. Fort Ticonderoga on the ridge between that beautiful sheet of water and Lake Champlain is a point vital with stirring memories, among which the striking exploit of Ethan Allen and his green mountain boys is of imperishable interest. Fort William Henry at the lower end of Lake George is memorable as the locality of one of the most nerve-shaking examples of Indian treachery and barbarity, a scene which Cooper's fruitful pen has brought well within the kingdom of romance. The history of the whole vicinity, in short, is laden with picturesque incident and the details of fact never approached those of romantic fiction more closely than in the annals of this interesting region. Israel Putnam, best known to us as one of the most daring heroes of the revolution, began here his career in the French and Indian War as scout and ranger, and of no American frontiersmen can a more exciting series of adventures be told. Some of these adventures it is our purpose here to give. After the Fort William Henry Massacre, the American forces were concentrated in Fort Edward on the headwaters of the Hudson. Putnam, with his corps of rangers occupying an outpost station on a small island near the fort. Fearing a hostile visit from the victorious French, the commander General Lyman made all haste to strengthen his defenses, sending a party of 150 men into the neighboring forest to cut timber for that purpose. Captain Little, with 50 British regulars, was deputized to protect those men at their labors. This supporting party was posted on a narrow ridge leading to the fort, with a morass on one side, a creek on the other, and the forest in front. One morning at Daybreak, a sentinel who stood on the edge of the morass, overlooking the dense thicket which filled its depths, was surprised at what seemed to him in the hazy light a flight of strange birds coming from the leafy hollow. One after another of these winged objects passed over his head. After he had observed them a moment or two, he saw one of them strike a neighboring tree and cling quivering to its trunk. A glance was enough for the drowsy sentinel. He was suddenly wide awake and his musket and voice rang instant alarm for the bird which he had seen was a winged Indian arrow. He had been made a target for ambushed savages, eager to pick him off without alarming the party which he guarded. A large force of Indians had crept into the morass during the night with the hope of cutting off the laborers and the party of support. The sentinel's alarm shot unmasked them. Whooping like discovered fiends, they flew from their covert upon the unarmed laborers, shot and tomahawked those within reach and sent the others in panic flight to the fort. Captain Liddle and his band flew to the rescue and checked the pursuit of the savages by hasty volleys but soon found themselves so pressed by superior numbers that the whole party was in danger of being surrounded and slain. In this extremity Captain Liddle sent a message to General Lyman imploring instant aid. He failed to obtain it. The overcautious commander, filled with the idea that the whole French and Indian army was at hand, drew in his outposts with nervous haste, shut the gates of the fort and left the little band to its fate. Fortunately the volleys of musketry had reached the ears of Major Putnam on his island outpost. Immediately afterwards his scouts brought him word that Captain Liddle was surrounded by Indians and in imminent danger of destruction. Without an instant hesitation the brave Putnam plunged into the water, shouting to his men to follow him and waded to the shore. This reached they dashed hastily towards the scene of the contest. Their route led them past the walls of the fort on whose parapets stood the alarmed commander. Halt! cried General Lyman. Come into the fort. The enemy is in overwhelming force. We can spare no more men. To these words or similar ones spoken by General Lyman Putnam returned a vague reply intended for an apology but having more the tone of defiance. Discipline and military authority must stand aside when brave men were struggling with ruthless savages. Without waiting to hear the general's response to his apology the gallant partisan dashed on and in a minute or two more had joined the party of regulars who were holding their ground with difficulty. On them cried Putnam, they will shoot us down here. Forward we must route them out from their ambush. His words found a responsive echo in every heart. With loud shouts the whole party charged impetuously into the morass and in a minute were face to face with the concealed savages. This sudden onslaught threw the Indians into a panic. They broke and fled in every direction hotly pursued by their revengeful foes, numbers of them being killed in the flight. The chase was not given up until it had extended miles into the forest. Triumphantly then the victors returned to the fort. Putnam alone among them expecting reprimand. He had never before disobeyed the orders of his superior. He well knew the rigidity of military discipline and its necessity. Possibly general Lyman might not be content with a simple reprimand but might order a court-martial. Putnam entered the fort not fully at ease in his mind. As it proved he had no occasion for anxiety. The general recognized that alarm had led him too far. He welcomed the whole party with hard accommodation and chose quite to forget the fact that Major Putnam was guilty of a flagrant disregard of orders in view of the fact of more immediate importance to himself that his daring subaltern had saved him from public reprobation for exposing a brave party to destruction. It was not long after this scene that Putnam took the leading part in another memorable affair in which his promptitude, energy and decision have become historical. The barracks within the fort took fire. 12 feet from them stood the magazine containing 300 barrels of powder. The fort and its defenders were in imminent danger of being blown to atoms. Putnam, who still occupied his island outpost, saw the smoke and flames rising and hastened with all speed to the fort. When he reached there, the barracks appeared to be doomed and the flames were rapidly approaching the magazine. As for the garrison, it was almost in a state of panic and next to nothing was being done to avert the danger. A glance was sufficient from the prompt and energetic mind of the Daring Ranger. In a minute's time, he had organized a line of soldiers leading through a poster gate to the river and each one bearing a bucket. The energetic major mounted a ladder, received the water as it came and poured it into the flaming building. The heat was intense, the smoke suffocating, so near were the flames that a pair of thick mittens were quickly burned from his hands, calling for another pair he dipped them into the water and continued his work. Come down, cried Colonel Haveland. It is too dangerous there. We must try other means. There are no means but to fight the enemy inch by inch, replied Putnam. A moment's yielding on our part may prove fatal. His cool trepidity gave new courage to the Colonel who exclaimed as he urged the others to renew exertions. If we must be blown up, we will all go together. Despite Putnam's heroic efforts, the flames spread. Soon the whole barracks was enveloped and lurid tongues of fire began to shoot out alarmingly towards the magazine. Putnam now descended, took his station between the two buildings and continued his active service, his energy and audacity, giving new life and activity to officers and men. The outside planks of the magazine caught. They were consumed. Only a thin timber partition remained between the flames and 15 tons of powder. This, too, was charred and smoking. Destruction seemed inevitable. The consternation was extreme. But there, in the scorching heat of the flames, covered with falling cinders, threatened with instant death, stood the undaunted Putnam, still pouring water on the smoking timbers, still calling to the men to keep steadily to their work, and thus he continued till the rafters of the barracks fell in, the heat decreased, and the safety of the magazine was ensured. For an hour and a half he fought the flames. His hands, face, almost his whole body were scorched and blistered. When he pulled off his second pair of mittens, the skin came with them. Several weeks passed before he recovered from the effects of his hard battle with fire, but he had the reward of success and the earnest thanks and kind attentions of officers and men alike who felt that to him alone they owed the safety of the fort and the escape of many, if not all, of the garrison from destruction. Among Putnam's many adventures there are two others which have often been told, but are worthy of repetition. On one occasion he was surprised by a large party of Indians, when with a few men in a boat at the head of the rapids of the Hudson at Fort Miller. It was a frightfully perilous situation. To stay where he was was to be slaughtered. To attempt crossing the stream would bring him under the Indian fire, to go down the falls promised instant death. Which expedient should he adopt? He chose the latter, preferring to risk death from water rather than from tomahawk or bullet. The boat was pushed from the shore and exposed to the full force of the current. In a minute or two it had swept beyond the range of the Indian weapons, but death seemed inevitable. The water rushed on in foaming torrents, whirling round rocks, sweeping over shelves, pouring down in abrupt falls, shooting onward with the wildest fury. It seemed as if only a miracle could save the voyagers. Yet with unyielding coolness Putnam grasped the helm. While his keen eye scanned the peril ahead, his quick hand met every danger as it came. Incessantly the course of the boat was changed to avoid the protruding rocks. Here it was tossed on the billows. There it shot down inclined reaches. Now it seemed plunging into a boiling eddy. Now it whirled round a threatening obstacle like a leaf in the tempest. It was born onward and at length to the amazement of its inmates themselves and the astoundment of the Indians, it floated safely on the smooth waters below after a passage of peril such as had rarely been dared. The savages gave up the chase. A man who could safely run those rapids seemed to them to bear a charmed life. The other story mentioned is one indicative of Putnam's wit and readiness. The army was now encamped in the forest, in a locality to the eastward of Lake George. While here the Indians prowled through the woods around it, committing depredations here and there, picking off sentinels and doing other mischief. They seemed to have impunity in this work and defied the utmost efforts at discovery. One outpost in particular was the seat of a dread mystery. Night after night the sentinel at this post disappeared and was not heard of again. Some of the bravest men of the army were selected to occupy the post with orders if they should hear any noise to call out who goes there three times and if no answer came to fire. Yet the mysterious disappearances continued until the men refused to accept so dangerous a post. The commander was about to draw a sentinel by lot when Major Putnam solved the difficulty by offering to sand guard for the coming night. The puzzled commander promptly accepted his offer, instructing him as he had done the others. If you hear any sound from without the lines you will call who goes there three times and then if no answer be given fire. Putnam promised to obey and march to his post. Here he examined the surrounding locality with the utmost care, fixed in his mind the position of every point in the neighborhood, saw that his musket was in good order and began his monotonous tramp backward and forward. For several hours all remained silent, saved for the ordinary noises of the woodland. At length near midnight a slight rustling sound met his keen ears. He listened intently. Some animal appeared to be stealthily approaching. Then there came a crackling sound as of a hog munching acorns. Putnam's previous observation of the locality enabled him to judge very closely the position of this creature and he was too familiar with Indian artifices and too sensible of the danger of his position to let even a hog pass unchallenged. Raising his musket to his shoulder and taking deliberate aim at the spot indicated, he called out in strict obedience to orders, who goes there three times and instantly pulled the trigger. A loud groaning and struggling noise followed. Putnam quickly reloaded and ran forward to the spot. Here he found what seemed a large bear struggling in the agony of death but a moment's observation showed the wide awake sentinel that the seeming bear was really a gigantic Indian enclosed in a bear skin in which disguised he had been able to approach and shoot the preceding sentinels. Putnam had solved the mystery of the solitary post. The sentinels on that outpost ceased from that moment to be disturbed. Numerous other adventures of Major Putnam and encounters with the Indians and the French Rangers may be recounted but we must content ourselves with the narrative of one which ended in the captivity of our hero and his very narrow escape from death in more than one form. As an illustration of the barbarity of Indian warfare it cannot but prove of interest. It was the month of August 1758. A train of baggage wagons had been cut off from the enemy's Rangers. Majors Putnam and Rogers with 800 men were dispatched to intercept the foe, retake the spoils and punish them for their daring. The effort proved fruitless. The enemy had taken to their canoes and escaped before the pursuers could overtake them. Failing in this expedition they camped out on Wood Creek and South Bay with the hope of cutting off some straggling party of the enemy. Here they were discovered by French scouts and having reason to fear and attack in force it was deemed most prudent to return to headquarters at Fort Edward. The route proved difficult. It lay through dense forest and was completed by fallen trees and thick undergrowth. They were obliged to advance in Indian file, cutting a path as they went. When night came they encamped on the bank of Clear River. The next morning while the others were preparing to resume their march Major Rogers with a foolhardy imprudence that was little less than criminal in their situation amused himself by a trial of skill with a British officer in firing at a mark. The result was almost fatal. Molin, the celebrated French partisan had hastily left Ticonderoga with 500 men on hearing of the presence of this scouting party of provincials and was now near at hand. The sound of the muskets gave him exact information as to the position of their camp. Hastening forward he laid an ambuscade on the line of march of his foes and awaited their approach. Onward through the thicket came the unsuspecting provincials. They had advanced a mile and were on the point of emerging from the dense growth into the more open forest when yells broke from the bushes on both sides of their path and a shower of bullets was poured into the advanced ranks. Putnam, who led the van quickly bade his men to return the fire and passed the word back for the other divisions to hasten up. The fight soon became a hand to hand one. The creek was close by but it could not be crossed in the face of the enemy and Putnam bade his men to hold their ground. A sharp fight ensued now in the open, now from behind trees in Indian fashion. Putnam had discharged his peace several times and once more pulled trigger with the muzzle against the breast of a powerful Indian. His peace missed fire. Instantly the warrior dashed forward, tomahawk in hand and by threat of death compelled his antagonist to surrender. Putnam was immediately disarmed and bound to a tree and his captor returned to the fight. The battle continued one party after the other being forced back. In the end the movements of the struggling foes were such as to bring the tree to which Putnam was bound directly between their lines. He was like a target for both parties. Balls flew past him from either side. Many of them struck the tree while his coat was pierced by more than one bullet. So obstinate was the contest that for an hour the battle raged about him, his peril continuing extreme. Nor was this his only danger. During the heat of the conflict a young Indian hurled a tomahawk several times at his head out of mischief more than malice. But with such a skillful aim that the keen weapon more than once grazed his skin and buried its edge in the tree beside his head. With still greater malice a French officer of low grade leveled his musket at the prisoner's breast and attempted to discharge it. Fortunately for Putnam it missed fire. The prisoner vainly solicited more merciful treatment. The heartless villain thrust the muzzle of the gun violently against the captor's ribs and in the end gave him a painful blow on the jaw with the butt end of his piece. The battle ended at length in the triumph of the provincials. They drove the French from the field but they failed to rescue Putnam. Before retiring the Indian who had made him captive untied him and forced him to accompany the retreating party. When a safe distance had been reached the prisoner was deprived of his coat, vest, shoes and stockings. His shoulders were loaded with the packs of the wounded and his wrists were tied behind him as tightly as they could be drawn. In this painful condition he was forced to walk for miles through the woodland paths until the party halted to rest. By this time his hands were so swollen from the tightness of the cord that the pain was unbearable while his feet bled freely from their many scratches. Exhausted with his burden and wild with torment he asked the interpreter to beg the Indians either to loose his hands or knock him on the head and end his torture at once. His appeal was heard by a French officer who immediately ordered his hands to be unbound and some of his burden to be removed. Shortly afterwards the Indian who had captured him and who had been absent with the wounded came up and expressed great indignation at his treatment. He gave him a pair of moccasins and seemed kindly disposed towards him. Unfortunately for the captive this kindly savage was obliged to resume his duty with the wounded leaving Putnam with the other Indians some 200 in number who marched in advance of the French contingent of the party towards the selected camping place. On the way their barbarity to their helpless prisoner continued culminating in a blow with a tomahawk which made a deep wound in his left cheek. This cruel treatment was but preliminary to a more fatal purpose. It was their intention to burn their captive alive. No sooner had they reached their camping ground than they led him into the forest depths stripped him of his clothes, found him to a tree and heaped dry fuel in a circle around him. While thus engaged they filled the air with the most fearful sounds to which their throats could give vent, a pandemonium of ear-piercing yells and screams. The pile prepared it was set on fire. The flames spread rapidly through the dry brush but by a chance that seemed providential at that moment a sudden shower sent its raindrops through the foliage extinguished the increasing fire and dampened the fuel. No sooner was the rain over than the yelling savages applied their torches again to the funeral pile of their living victim. The dampness checked their effects for a time but at length the flames caught and the crimson glow slowly made its way round the circle of fuel. The captive soon felt the scorching heat. He was tied in such a way that he could move his body and he involuntarily shifted his position to escape the pain and evidence of nervousness that afforded the highest delight to his tormentors who expressed their exaltation in yells, dances and wild gesticulations. The last hour of the brave soldier seemed at hand. He strove to bring resolution to his aid and to fix his thoughts on a happier state of existence beyond this earth, the contemplation of which might aid him to bear without flinching, a short period of excruciating pain. At this critical moment when death in its most horrid form stared him in the face, relief came. A French officer who had been told of what was in progress suddenly bounded through the savage band kicked the blazing brands to right and left and with a stroke of his knife released the imperiled captive. It was Mola himself, an Indian who retained some instincts of humanity had informed him of what was on foot. The French commander reprimanded his barbarian associates severely and led the prisoner away, keeping him by his side until he was able to transfer him to the care of the gigantic Indian who had captured him. This savage seemed to regard him with the feelings of kindness. He offered him some biscuits, but finding that the wound in his cheek and the blow he had received on the jaw prevented him from chewing, he soaked them in water till they could be swallowed easily. Yet, despite his kindness, he took extraordinary care that his prisoner should not escape. When the camp was made, he forced the captive to lie on the ground, stretched each arm at full length and bound it to a young tree and fastened his legs in the same manner. Then a number of long and slender poles were cut and laid across his body from head to foot on the ends of which lay several of the Indians. Under such circumstances, escape could not even be thought of, nor was a moment's comfort possible. The night seemed infinitely extended, the only relief that came to the prisoner as he himself relates, being the reflection of what a ludicrous subject, the group of which he was the central figure, would have made for a painter. The next day he was given a blanket and moccasins and allowed to march without being loaded with packs. A little bear's meat was furnished him, whose juice he was able to suck. At night the party reached Ticonderoga, where he was placed in charge of a French guard and his sufferings came to an end. The savages manifested their chagrin at his escape by insulting grimaces and threatening gestures but were not allowed to offer him any further indignity or violence. After an examination by the Marquis de Moncane, who was in command at Ticonderoga, he was sent to Montreal under charge of a French officer who treated him in a humane manner. Major Putnam was a frightful object on reaching Montreal. The little clothing allowed him being miserably dirty and ragged, his beard and hair disheveled, his legs torn by thorns and briars, his face gashed, blood-stained and swollen. Colonel Shuler, a prisoner there, beheld his plight with deep commiseration, supplied him with clothing and money and at his utmost to alleviate his condition. When shortly afterwards an exchange of prisoners was being made in which Colonel Shuler was to be included, he, fearing that Putnam would be indefinitely held, should his importance as a partisan leader become known, used a skillful artifice to obtain his release. Speaking to the governor with great politeness and seeming indifference of purpose, he remarked, there is an old man here who was a provincial major. He is very desirous to be at home with his wife and children. He can do no good here nor anywhere else. I believe your excellency had better keep some of the young men who have no wives or children to care for and let this old fellow go home with me. His artifice was effective. Putnam was released and left Montreal in company with his generous friend. He took further part in the war. At the Indian village of Chochuowaga near Montreal, he met again the Indian whose prisoner he had been. The kindly savage was delighted to see him again and entertained him with all the friendship and hospitality at his command. At a later date, when Putnam took part in the Pontiac War, he met again this old chief who was now an ally of the English and who marched side by side with his former prisoner to do battle with the ancient enemies of his tribe. End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 of Historical Tales, Volume 1, American. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Colinda. Historical Tales, Volume 1, American by Charles Morris. Chapter 10, Gallant Defense. The relations between the Indians and the European colonists of America were during nearly the whole colonial and much of the subsequent period, what we now suggestively entitled, strained. There were incessant aggressions of the colonists, incessant reprisals by the Aborigines, while the warring whites of America never hesitated to use these savage auxiliaries in their struggles for territory and power. The history of this country is filled with the details of Indian assaults on forts and settlements, ambushes, massacres, torturings, and acts of duplicity and ferocity innumerable. Yet every instance of Indian hostility has ended in the triumph of the whites, the advance of the army of colonization a step further, and the gradual subjugation of American savagery, animate and inanimate, to the beneficent influences of civilization. These Indians' doings are frequently sickening in their details. The story of America cannot be told without them, yet they are of one family and largely of one species, and an example or two will serve for the whole. In our next tale, the story of an Indian assault on the Daniel Boone stronghold in Kentucky will be told. We purpose now to give the interesting details of an attack on Fort Henry, a small frontier work near where Wheeling now stands. This attack was the work of Simon Gertie, one of the most detestable characters that the drama of American history ever brought upon the stage. He was the offspring of crime, his parents being irredeemably besotted and vicious. Of their four sons, two who were taken prisoner by the Indian at Braddock's defeat developed into monsters of wickedness. James was adopted by the Delaware's and became the fiercest savage of the tribe. Simon grew into a great hunter among the Seneca's, unfortunately a hunter of helpless human beings as much as of game, and for 20 years his name was a terror in every white household of the Ohio country. He is spoken of as honest, it was his one virtue, the soul redeeming leaven in a life of vice, savagery and cruelty. In the summer of 1777, this evil product of frontier life collected a force of 400 Indians for an assault on the white. His place of rendezvous was Sandusky, his ostensible purpose to cross the Ohio and attack the Kentucky frontier settlements. On reaching the river however, he suddenly turned up its course and made all haste towards Fort Henry, then garrisoned by Colonel Shepard with about 40 men. The movements of Gertie were known and alarm as to their purpose was widely felt. Shepard had his scouts out but the shrewd renegade managed to deceive them and to appear before Fort Henry almost unannounced. Happily the coming of this storm of savagery was discovered in time enough to permit the inhabitants of Wheeling then composed of some 25 log huts to fly for refuge to the fort. A reconnoitering party had been sent out under Captain Mason. These were ambushed by the cunning leader of the Indians and more than half of them fell victims to the rifle and the tomahawk. Their perilous position being perceived, a party of 12 more under Captain Ogle salied to their rescue. They found themselves overwhelmingly outnumbered and eight of the 12 fell. These untoward events frightfully reduced the garrison. Of the original 40 only 12 remained, some of them little more than boys. Within the fort were this little garrison and the women and children of the settlement. Outside raged 400 savage warriors under a skillful commander. It seemed absolute madness to attempt a defense yet Colonel Shepard was not one of the men who lightly surrender. Death by the rifle was in his view better than death at the stake. With him were two men, Ebenezer and Silas Zane, of his own caliber, while the whole garrison was made up of hearts of oak. As for the women in the fort, though they were of little use in the fight, they could lend their aid in casting bullets, making cartridges and loading rifles. Among them was one, Elizabeth Zane, sister of the two men named, who was to perform a far more important service. She had just returned from school in Philadelphia, knew little of the horrors of border warfare, but had in her the same indomitable spirit that distinguished her brothers. A woman she was of heroic mold as the events will prove. It was in the early morning of September 26th that Gertie appeared before the fort. A brief period sufficed in the manner related to reduce the garrison to a mere handful. Sure now of success, Gertie advanced towards the palisades of the white flag and demanded an unconditional surrender. Colonel Shepard was ready with his answer. He had already felt the pulse of his men and found that it beat with the same high spirit as his own. He mounted upon the ramparts, stern and inflexible and hurled back his reply. This fort shall never be surrendered to you, nor to any other man while there is an American left to defend it. Are you madman, cried Gertie? Do you know our force? Do you know your own? Resistance is folly. I know you, Simon Gertie. That is enough to know. You have my answer. In a rage, Gertie hurled back a volley of dark threats, then turned away and ordered an instant attack. Unluckily for the garrison, some of the deserted log huts were sufficiently near to shelter the Indians and enable them to assault the fort under cover. They swarmed into these houses and for six hours kept up an incessant fire on the works, wasting their bullets as it proved. For none of them did harm to fort or man. As for the defenders, they had no ammunition to waste, but most of them were sharpshooters and they took good care that every bullet should tell. Nearly every report from behind the walls told a story of wound or death. As good fortune willed, the savages had no artillery and were little disposed to hazard their dusky skins in an assault in force on the well-defended walls. At midday the attack temporarily ceased. The Indians withdrew to the base of Wheeling Hill and the uproar of yells and musketry was replaced by a short season of quiet. It was a fortunate reprieve for the whites. Their powder was almost exhausted. Had the assault continued for an hour longer, their rifles must have ceased to reply. What was to be done? The Indians had withdrawn only for rest and food. They would soon be at their threatening work again. Answer to them could not long be continued. When the fire from the fort ceased, all would be over. The exultant savages would swarm over the undefended walls and torture and outrage be the lot of all who were not fortunate enough to die in the assault. Ebenezer Zane looked wistfully at his house sixty yards away. There is a keg of powder within those walls, he said. If we only had it here, it might mean the difference between safety and death. A keg of powder cried Colonel Shepard, we must have it whatever the danger. He looked out. The Indians were within easy gunshot. Whoever went for the powder ran the most imminent risk of death. The appearance of a man outside the gates would be the signal for a fierce fuselage. But we must have it, he repeated. And we can spare but one man for the task. Who shall it be? I cannot order anyone to such a duty. What man is ready to volunteer? Every man apparently, they all thronged forward each eager for the perilous effort. They struggled indeed so long for the honour that there was danger of the Indians returning to the assault before the powder was obtained. At this interval a woman stepped forward. It was Elizabeth Zane. The fire of a noble purpose shone on her earnest face. But one man can be spared to go, you say, Colonel Shepard, she remarked. In my opinion, no man can be spared to go. Let me go for the powder. My life is of much less importance to the garrison than that of a man. Colonel Shepard looked at her with eyes of admiration and then peremptorily refused her request. This was work for men, he said, not for women. She should not sacrifice herself. It was everyone's duty to do their share, she replied. All were alike in danger. The walls were not half manned. If she fell, the gap would be small. If a man fell, it would be large. So earnest were her solicitations and so potent her arguments that Colonel Shepard finally yielded a reluctant consent. It was given none too soon. There was little time to spare. The gate was opened and the brave woman walked fearlessly out. She had not gone a step beyond the shelter of the fort before the Indians perceived her. Yet the suddenness of her appearance seemed to paralyze them. They stood and watched her movements as she walked swiftly but steadily over the space leading to her brother's house. But not a gun was lifted, nor a voice was raised. So far the expedient of sending a woman had proved unexpectedly successful. The savages gazed at her in blank amazement, wondering at her purpose. She entered the house. An anxious minute or two passed. The Indians still had not stirred. The eyes of the garrison were fixed with feverish anxiety on the door of that small hut. Then they were relieved by the reappearance of the devoted girl, now clasping the precious keg of powder in her arms. It was no time now to walk. As rapidly as she could run with the weight in her arms, she sped over the open space. Speed was needed. The Indians had suddenly come to a realizing sense of the woman's purpose and a volley of bullets swept the space over which she fled. Not one touched her. In a minute she had reached the fort. A shout of enthusiastic welcome went up. As the gate closed behind her and she let fall the valuable prize from her unnerved arms, every hand was stretched to grasp hers and a chorus of praise and congratulation filled the air. We have a heroine among us. We all will be heroes and conquer or die was the universal thought. It was a true one. Elizabeth Zanes was one of those rare souls which seemed sent on earth to make man proud of his race. At half past two, the assailants returned to the attack, availing themselves as before of the cover of the huts. After a period spent in musketry, they made an assault in force on the gate of the fort. They were met by the concentrated fire of the garrison. Six of them fell. The others fled back to their shelter. Until dark the fuselage continued. After darkness had fallen, the assailants tried a new device. Lacking artillery, they attempt to convert a hollow maple log into a cannon. They bound this as firmly as possible with chains. Then, with a ludicrous ignorance of what they were about, they loaded it to its muzzle with stones, pieces of iron, and other missiles. This done, they can fade the impromptu cannon to a point within 60 yards of the fort and attempted to discharge it against the gates. The result was what might have been anticipated. The log burst into a thousand pieces and sent splinters and projectiles hurtling among the curious crowd of dusky warriors. Several of them were killed. Others were wounded. But the gates remained unharmed. This was more than the savages had counted on and they ceased the assault for the night. No little discouraged by their lack of success. Meanwhile, tidings of what Gertie and his horde were about had spread through the settlements and relief parties were hastily formed. At four o'clock in the morning, 14 men arrived under command of Colonel Swearingen and fought their way into the fort without losing a man. At dawn a party of 40 mounted men made their appearance, Major McCullough at their head. The men managed to enter the fort in safety, but the gallant major, being unluckily separated from his band, was left alone outside. His was a terribly critical situation. Fortunately, the Indians knew him for one of their most daring and skillful enemies and hated him intensely. Fortunately, we say, for to that he owed his life. They could easily have killed him, but not a man of them would fire. Such a foeman must not die so easily. He must end his life in flame and torture. Such was their unspoken argument, and they dashed after him with yells of exultation, satisfied that they had one of their chief foes safely in their hands. It seemed so indeed. The major was well-mounted, but the swift Indian runners managed to surround him on three sides and force him towards the river Bluffs, from which escape seemed impossible. With redoubled shouts, they closed in upon him. The major, somewhat ignorant of the situation, pushed onward till he suddenly found himself on the brow of a precipice, which descended at an almost vertical inclination for 150 feet. Here was a frightful dilemma. To right and left, the Indian runners could be seen, their lines extending to the verge of the cliff. What was to be done? Surrender to the Indians, attempt to dash through their line, or leap the cliff. Each way promised death. But death by fall was preferable to death by torture, and a forlorn hope of life remained. The horse was a powerful one and might make the descent in safety. Gathering his reins tightly in his right hand, while his left grasped his rifle, McCullough spurred the noble animal forward, and in an instant was over the brow of the cliff, and falling rather than dashing down its steep declivity. By unlooked for good fortune, the foot of the bluff was reached in safety. Into the creek dashed horse and man, and in a minute or two, the daring fugitive was across and safe from his savage pursuers. The Indians returned disappointed to the vicinity of the fort. Here they found that their leader had decided on abandoning the assault. The reinforcements received and the probability that others were on their way discouraged the renegade, and Gertie led his horde of savages away, first doing all the harm in his power by burning the houses of the settlement and killing about 300 cattle belonging to the settlers. The defense of Fort Henry was one of the most striking for the courage displayed and the success of the defenders, of the many gallant contests with the Indian foe of that age of stirring deeds. Aside from those killed in ambush, not a man of the garrison had lost his life. Of the assailants, from 60 to 100 fell. Simon, Gertie and his Indians had received a lesson they would not soon forget. End of chapter 10.