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FOR THE UNABRIDGED TEXT
THE
ORIGINAL
—- of
—-
T O
M Q U I C K,
THE
INDIAN SLAYER,
As
Published at
"Hero
of many a wondrous tale,
Full of
his dev'lish cunning!
Tom
never flunked or turned pale,
Following
on the Indian's trail,
Shooting
as he was running."
DEPOSIT,
N. Y. :
THE DEPOSIT JOURNAL.
1894.
CONTENTS.
II. Death of Thomas Quick, Senior
IV. Defence of a Block House
V. Murder of Muskwink
VI. Massacre of an Indian Family
VIII. Killing a Buck with Seven Skins
IX. "The
Biters Bitten"
X. Capture and Escape of Tom
XI. "The Biters Bitten"
again
XII. Murder at
XIII. Tom's Revolutionary Exploits
XIV. Adventure on the Sandburgh
XV. Indian Stratagem
XVI. Capture and Escape of Tom
XVII. Murder of Canope
XVIII. A
XIX. Death of Tom Quick
XX.
XXI. Russ and Van Etten
XXII. The Scouts of Minisink
CHAPTER
I.
BIRTH
NOT far from the year 1733, a
Hollander, named Thomas Quick, emigrated from the Fatherland to the colony of
New York, {NOTE: A man named Thomas Quick, among others, took the "oath of
allegiance in ye county of Vlster, by order of His Excelly: ye Gouernor; ye
ffirst day of September anno qe: domini 1689." From this it may be
inferred that the Quicks came to this country sooner than the family tradition
indicates. See the Documentary History of New York, Vol. 1, page 280.} and not long afterwards located himself in
At this time, except at Peenpack, on the Neversink, the
Indians held undisputed possession of the banks of the
As soon as Quick had erected a
temporary log cabin, he commenced a war of extermination upon the old forests
which covered his domain, and in a short time the air was perfumed with the
smoke of the fallow fire, and nothing remained on many a goodly acre, except
the blackened and charred stumps of the pine, oak, hemlock and their giant
compeers. Luxuriant fields of wheat and maize, and rye succeeded, in due time;
the log barn of the pioneer was filled to its utmost capacity with the fruits
of his industry.
All things seemed to conspire
to render him contented with his lot in the wilderness. His labor and
enterprise were bountifully rewarded, and his new home was made more pleasant
by an occurrence which forms an important event in this narrative. His wife,
who had abandoned the comforts of civilization, and left father and mother,
brother and sister, to accompany him to the wilds of the new world, and share
with him its hardships and its perils, presented him (A. D. 1734,) with a male
child—their first born. If we may be permitted to make a draft upon our imagination,
it will not be too much to say, that nothing more was necessary to make his
happiness complete; that the wilderness appeared to blossom with a thousand
beauties which had never before been observed by him; that his life became one
of tender sympathies and kindly actions; that in his joy he did not forget that
he owed all to the Bountiful Giver of "every good and perfect thing;"
and that his heart was replete with thanksgiving and praise, and gratitude.
The child was named Thomas, the name of its father. Of course, it was the pet of the household, and was tenderly watched by its parents, who, to use a stereotyped phrase, "had the proud satisfaction of seeing it daily develop some new faculty—daily become more beautiful and interesting."
The Indians, who frequented the
house of Quick, and found a shelter under its roof whenever they desired it,
seemed to admire the fine, healthy boy, and often made him presents of plumes
of feathers and other articles.
As young Tom grew up, he became an associate and playfellow of the juvenile natives, and learned to speak the Indian tongue with as much ease and fluency as the aborigines themselves. He was taught by the Indians how to take the otter, the beaver, the muskrat, the mink, etc., and by the time he had become of suitable age, he was a skilful and expert hunter. He imbibed, at an early period of his existence, a liking for savage life, and became attached to the woods and the pleasures of the chase to such a degree that he could never in after life be induced to follow, except temporarily, any calling beside that of the hunter and trapper.
Young Tom had two brothers and
the same number of sisters. The names of the brothers were Cornelius and James.
Of the sisters little beyond the fact that one of them became the wife of a man
named Solomon Decker, and that the other married a Francis Magee is known. One
of the daughters was married previous to the tragedy which will be detailed in
the next chapter.
Thomas Quick, Sr., continued to prosper. In a few years
he had quite a number of white neighbors, and other settlements were formed in
the valley of the
Previous to the French war, Tom
had traced to their sources most of the streams which empty into the Delaware
above Milford, and had become acquainted with nearly all the Indian paths and
hunting grounds in the neighborhood of Minisink, Mamecotink, the Shavungunk,
the Wawasink, the Mahackamack or Neversink, the Mangawping or Mingwing, the
Maskopes, the Cushuentunk, Cashiegtonch, Papotunk, the Astraguntera, the
Tewheack, the Ustayantha, Pakatagkan, Shamokin, etc. This was of essential
service to him afterwards, as it enabled him to waylay and murder the Indians
with great facility.
Cornelius and James were of an
industrious, plodding disposition. They assisted their father in managing and
tilling his farm, and in keeping his mills in operation; and if they
occasionally participated in the sports of Thomas, they managed to do so when
they could not be more profitably employed. While they
assisted in furnishing the family with bread and obtaining clothing and adding
to its wealth, he supplied his father's larder bountifully with venison and
bear's meat. He would occasionally invade the crystal retreats of the
finny tribes, and thus add much to the luxuries of his father's table. The
venerable biographer of Donne, and Hooker, and Herbert (who impaled a worm with
tenderness, and guarded the scaly brood from all save man) was not more
proficient with the angle than Tom.
Many of the Indians almost
lived in the family of the Quicks, by whom they were clothed when naked; and
fed when hungry. The most pacific relations subsisted between them apparently,
and the red man had received so much kindness at the hands of their friends
that the latter imagined that they could rely upon their good will under almost
any circumstances. Subsequent events, however, proved that they were mistaken.
The increasing numbers of the
whites and the encroachments made upon what the natives regarded as their own
territory alarmed the Indians. The
Now the prospect was that the
whites would soon occupy the whole country, if some decisive step was not
taken, and that the bones of the braves who had been in the spirit land for
hundreds of years, would be desecrated by the plow of the pale face. It is not
a matter of surprise, therefore, that during the war between
The Quicks had been kind to
them; but, on the other hand, the fact could not be concealed that they were
the first who had encroached upon them at
CHAPTER
II.
DEATH
OF THOMAS QUICK, SENIOR.
AT the breaking out of the
French war, young Tom was probably as much an Indian in habit and disposition
as any of his old associates. The wild, irregular life he had led, and his
early and constant companionship with the natives, had contributed much more to
the formation of his character than the teaching and example of his father and
mother. Even his affection for his parents resembled that of the American
savage. While he was turbulent and not easily controlled by them, his love for
them was unbounded—a master passion. Anyone who injured them incurred his
undying displeasure, and were in danger of his
insatiable revenge. He was a "good hater," and those whose admiration
is Johnsonian, will find enough to please them in the legends of Tom.
When hostilities
commenced, and it was suspected that the Indians of the
The
The pioneers at first took what
precautions they thought necessary to guard against danger, at the same time
being very careful to do nothing which would tend to bring upon them directly
the vengeance of the savages. Block houses were erected or repaired; arms were
provided, and ammunition procured; and the inhabitants felt confident that,
unless taken by surprise, they could defend themselves successfully.
The whites not being molested
for some time, began to think that, possibly, they had
misjudged in the matter, and that there was little if any danger. Consequently,
they became careless and unguarded, and some of the ardent and gallant spirits
of the
Tom, from the beginning of the
war, had been induced by the urgent and affectionate entreaties of his mother,
and the advice of his father, to forego his excursions in the woods. He no
longer had the congenial company of the Indians, and became almost, if not
altogether, domesticated in the family of his father. He now assisted the old
man in his work and business, with his brothers and a brother‑in‑law.
While he was thus situated, the
event occurred which forms a leading feature in his
life. This event was the death of his father, who was killed in a cruel manner
by the Indians. It rendered Tom an implacable enemy of the red men to the day
of his death. He never forgave them for it, and the principal object of his
existence seemed ever afterwards, in peace or war, to destroy them. The young
and the old, the weak and the strong of the hated race, appeared to be equally
the objects of his vengeance; for he was known to destroy the defenseless women
and children of the Indians. He was literally no respecter of persons, while
waging his personal warfare, as our narrative will prove, and was successful to
an astonishing degree in his efforts to revenge his father's death.
The Quicks, as well as their neighbors, had become almost culpably careless as far as the Indian were concerned. Not infrequently they were in dangerous localities in the woods, and unarmed, thus giving the savages opportunities to surprise and kill them. It is possible that they presumed much upon the supposed friendship of the Indians for Tom, and upon their gratitude for the many acts of kindness the family had done them.
While the Quicks were thus
thrown off their guard, the Indians were plotting their destruction. In the
hope of regaining their lost possessions, and with the desire to plunder and
punish the pale faces, the savages determined to fall upon and destroy the
outpost at
The old man found it necessary
to proceed to the river side to procure hoop poles. Tom and his brother‑in‑law
accompanied him. As they were in the habit of doing at this time, they took
with them no fire‑arms. They proceeded leisurely around a point or ridge
near the river, not dreaming of the tragedy which was impending. The outposts
of the Indians yaw them approach, and watched them with eager eyes. Two of the
men whom they most desired to kill, were unwittingly delivering themselves into
their power. The opportunity to slay them was not to be lust, even if the main
object of the expedition, (the destruction of the settlement) was defeated by a
premature alarm, which would enable the inhabitants to defend themselves
successfully.
When the Quicks had approached
sufficiently near, they were fired upon, and the father fell mortally wounded,
a ball having passed through a vital part of his body. The young men, who were
unhurt, instantly took hold of him, and endeavored to drag him after them as
they fled. From some cause the savages did not immediately pursue the fugitives
to complete their bloody work with the tomahawk. They probably hesitated until
the main body came up. In the mean‑time, the wounded man and his sons had
got beyond the reach of the rifles of the Indians. The savages, however, soon
followed, like hounds upon the track of a deer. The young men were at first
determined to bear their father to a place of safety, or die with him; but,
becoming too weak to go any further, even with their assistance, and finding,
as the Indians gained on them, that all three would fall victims if he was not
abandoned, he exclaimed that he was dying, and told them to leave him, and run
for their lives. After much urging, they finally left him to the mercy of the
Indians. It was well for them that they did so, for the savages were close upon
them; and even without their "sacred burden," they were not equal to
their enemies in speed. To escape they were obliged to cross the
Tom had the honor of being
aimed at by a majority of the Indians.
A dozen rifles gave their echoes to the frosty air, and he fell, his pursuers
shouting with savage exultation, "there lies Tom
Quick!" He was soon on his feet, again, however, and running as rapidly
as ever. A ball had struck the heel of his shoe; and thus tripped his heels
from under him. He and his companion were soon beyond the reach of the
Indians.
The
savages did not attempt to cross the river, and attack the settlement, knowing
that the whites would be prepared to give them a warm reception. They returned,
and after scalping the wounded man and exercising various other cruelties,
dispatched him and held a "pow‑wow" over his dead body.
As
soon as Tom and his brother‑in‑law found that they were no longer
pursued, they cautiously crept back near enough to the Indians to ascertain
what was going on. They heard the scalpwhoop, and the rejoicings of the
Indians, and it is said that Tom, rendered frantic by their fiendish conduct,
aware that he would never be at peace with them, as long as an Indian could be
found upon the banks of the
What
rendered the murder particularly aggravating was the fact that the Indians who
committed it were among those who had been frequently at the house of Quick,
and had always been treated kindly there. According to the ideas of the
whites, he, above all others, should have been spared by them. He was
killed, however, in accordance with the rules of savage, if not civilized
warfare. But, regardless of the bloody codes of both the christian and the
heathen, Tom thought that his father merited other treatment at the hands of
those who had been fed at his table, and who had found an asylum under his roof
whenever they desired it, and he imagined that the blood of the whole race was
not sufficient to atone for the blood of his father.
CHAPTER
FATE OF THE CARTER FAMILY.
The
Indians held undisputed possession of Cochecton when Carter located himself
there, and there was probably no other white settler there, except an
Englishman named Moses Thomas, who had established himself at the mouth of the Cushetunk
as an Indian trader. Carter, being industrious and prudent, was soon enabled to
live comfortably, and add to his worldly possessions. What was not required for
the support of his family was carefully hoarded, and when the war broke out, it
was known that his purse contained not
a few hard‑earned dollars. This did not render his situation more secure;
for the savages, as well as their civilized neighbors, loved plunder quite as
much as they did blood.
Soon after hostilities commenced the Indians, to get
where they could not he easily reached by the whites, retired from Cochecton. This did not alarm the Carters, who supposed their
old neighbors would not injure them. Nothing more was seen of the Indians until
they began to scatter firebrands and death along the frontier. The Carters
were among the first victims of savage barbarity. When their farm was prepared
for it, they resolved to keep two or three cows as well as a yoke of oxen, and
the head of the family went to Minisink to purchase them. While he was absent,
Mrs. Carter had occasion to visit the garden, when she was suddenly confronted
by a number of savages, who bore upon their bodies the pigment which they
considered an appropriate mark of a brave who was bent upon the destruction of
his enemies. It is said she turned pale as she saw them approach, but did not
attempt to avoid them. She knew, probably, that if she attempted to escape,
death was certain; and hoped that, if she quietly submitted, the Indians would
spare her life. She was mistaken, however. The only salutation she received
from her visitors was a blow from a tomahawk, which laid her prostrate and
lifeless at their feet. Her scalp was torn from her head, and her dead body
left on the spot where she was murdered.
They
next entered the cabin, where they found the children, (three in number), whose
lives were spared, because the eldest, a noble boy of some seven or eight
summers, was so fortunate as to excite the admiration of his captors. The house
was first plundered and then burnt, after which the Indians left the
neighborhood, with the captive children.
When
Carter returned, instead of witnessing the joy of his family at the acquisition
he had made, he found a dreary—a heart‑rending scene—a scene which could
not fail to make the fountain of grief overflow, and to fill his soul with an
unconquerable desire for retribution and revenge. His wife, the uncomplaining
sharer of what he had endured in the almost trackless forest, was a bleeding,
mutilated corpse before him; his house, which had been made comfortable and
pleasant by their joint labors, which was endeared to him by a thousand tender recollections,
and where he had hoped Providence would permit him to spend many happy days,
was a mass of smoking ruins; and his children—the children of his murdered
wife—were in the power of her merciless destroyers—perhaps the war path had
already been stained with their blood—perhaps they could yet be rescued—and
perhaps a moment's delay would render an attempt to recover them too late, as
the savages were in the habit of beating out the brains of captive children
when they proved troublesome.
As
soon as possible, the bereaved and grief‑stricken pioneer rallied a few
of his nearest neighbors, with whom he pursued the Indians. The
letter, encumbered as they were with booty, travelled slowly, while Carter and
his friend, with nothing but their rifles and a limited supply of provisions,
threaded the forest with rapidity. After a fatiguing march, during
which Carter was always ahead, and continually urging his followers to greater
speed, the retreating enemy were overtaken and attacked. In the battle which ensued,
Carter fought with the most obstinate and determined bravery. Far in advance
of all others, he sent death and destruction among the sons of the forest.
The
whites soon found that the enemy were too numerous for them, and were compelled
to fall back. Carter, however, refused to retreat. If he could not wrest his
children from the savages, he would die for them, and sell his life as dearly
as possible. When the heroic and desperate father was last seen by his friends,
he was surrounded by the foe. He had just shot one of his assailants, and
prostrated another with the butt of his gun, (the breech of which was broken
off by the blow,) and was standing with his back against a tree, defending
himself with his gun barrel against the blows of some half a dozen Indians.
They seemed to be determined to take him alive, and reserve him for the
torture; but it is probable that he had beat them off
until they became so exasperated that they killed him. He was never heard of
afterwards.
The children
were subsequently recovered by some means to us unknown, and placed under the
guardianship of their relatives in
CHAPTER IV.
DEFENCE OF A BLOCK HOUSE.
In
1762, the Indians had become, apparently, so well disposed towards the English that
a number of pioneers settled on the Susquehanna, in the neighborhood of the
natives, while another company settled in the valley of the
We will now describe the immediate cause of the last
outbreak of the Indians.
The name of the principal chief of the
According
to tradition, the Six Nations, who claimed the
To
reach the settlements between the Lackawaxen and Callicoon, it was necessary,
at that time, to follow the paths made by the Indians, or ascend the river in
boats.
Above
the mouth of the Callicoon was an unbroken wilderness, which had been traversed
by the Indian and the hunter only. On the
There
was a settlement at the mouth of the Ten Mile River which was a promising one.
The brave but imprudent neighborhood was reposing in imaginary security, when
it was laid waste by fire and the tomahawk. Not a human being escaped to tell
the tale of blood; and every vestige of civilization, except the bare fields,
was destroyed. All the settlers below the block house in Cochecton shared the
same fate.
There were but three men left in the neighborhood of
the block house, while the women and children seem to have been quite numerous.
The names of the men were Moses Thomas, 1st, —— Witters, and —— Willis. The
block house was situated a short distance from the banks of the river on land
then owned by Mr. Thomas, and now in possession of Moses Thomas, 3d, a
descendant of the former. It was well supplied with arms and ammunition, and if
it had been well garrisoned, the inmates might have bid defiance to an army of
Indians.
On
the morning of the attack, Willis, who had a clearing and a log house at Big
Eddy, and who had taken his family to the neighborhood of the block house for
safety, directed his two sons to go to his farm to winnow some buckwheat, which
had been threshed. They did not wish to go, and made many excuses for staying,
all which seemed insufficient to the father, who finally compelled them to go.
They
had not been gone long, when they returned, and reported that a large party of Indians were coming up the river. The lads,
to the vice of laziness, too often added the sin of lying; and but little if any
confidence was put in their report. It was supposed that they had concocted the
story they told for the purpose of getting permission to stay at home. They
persisted so earnestly, however, in saying that the Indians were coming, and
seemed so anxious, that preparations should be made for the coming onslaught,
that finally Thomas, Witters, and Willis concluded to reconnoiter, the father,
of course, informing his hopeful sons that they would be "flogged
somewhat" in case no Indians were discovered.
While
the men were absent, the women and children proceeded to the block house, or
prepared to flee thither at a moment's warning.
Thomas
and his two companions proceeded somewhat incautiously down the river about
half a mile, when they discovered the Indians. The latter had halted in a field
of turnips, which they were appropriating to their own use so far as their
immediate wants prompted. This field was on a knoll or promontory, and was so
situated that the enemy could not be seen by the white men until the latter
were within gunshot. The moment Thomas and the others appeared, they were fired
upon with deadly certainty. Thomas was killed instantly. Willis was badly
wounded and while running towards the block house, was
overtaken and slain. Witters was so fortunate as to
escape. The women and children who had not entered the block house, fled to it
when they heard the firing. Witters, too, was soon within its walls.
This
man possessed every characteristic of a border warrior. But few of those who
have been immortalized for their daring exploits would not have abandoned the
terror‑stricken women and children to their fate, and fled to the
mountains for safety; or would have yielded to the enemy without striking a
blow in defence. With no one to assist him in defending the helpless and
dependent mortals who expected nothing but death or captivity from the yelling
demons who were approaching, he determined to die with them or repel the
assailants. His mind was equal to the emergency, great and appalling as was the
danger which impended over him. And yet his feats have not been sung by the
poet, or recorded by the historian; and tradition, although it still recounts
his deeds, has failed to retain more than a part of his name. He at once
dispatched a messenger to a neighborhood above to warn the inhabitants of the
approach of the Indians, and to procure aid, if possible. His messenger was a
little lad named Moses Thomas, 2d, who was subsequently killed and scalped by a
tory at the battle of Minisink. The people who lived above the block house,
when the news reached them, and they heard the reports of the guns of the
Indians, after a brief consultation, fled to the woods, and made the best of
their way to Esopus.
Witters also directed two boys to go to Minisink to notify
the inhabitants of his situation. One of the boys was named Elias Thomas—the
other Jacob Denny, and neither was eleven years of age.
The Indians did not at once rush to the block house
in pursuit of the fugitive; but, fearing that it contained several men, they
paused a few moments for the purpose of agreeing upon a plan of attacking it.
This gave Witters an opportunity to prepare for resistance. He soon succeeded
in inspiring the women with courage to such a degree that they were ready to
render him all the assistance in their power. Each one was prepared for battle
when the Indians came up, and a musket or rifle protruded from every port‑hole,
threatening destruction, apparently, to all Indians who had sufficient temerity
to approach within shooting distance.
The savages, seeing the formidable array, at once
concluded that the block house was filled with white men, and that the three
whom they had encountered were scouts from the main body. They consequently
approached cautiously under cover of the bank of the river, which was high
enough to screen them from not only the guns wielded by the women, but from the
more keen and accurate aim of Witters.
In the meantime, Witters, in a loud military tone,
gave orders to his men to shoot every Indian who showed himself above
the bank. He was a capital mimic, and by changing the sound of his voice, he
actually made the savages think that there were plenty of officers and soldiers
in the block house, who were determined to defend it to the last extremity.
The
Indians were so much awed by this show of strength, that they did not deem it
prudent to attack him in his stronghold; but challenged the besieged to come
out and have a fight on the open ground. With a scornful laugh he called them
"foxes and ground hogs, burrowed in the earth to escape danger, not daring
to expose even the tips of their noses to the Yankee rifles," and dared
them to come on, at the same time intimating that they would soon have an
opportunity to fight others who were coming up from Minisink. This reply so
enraged them that Witters fancied for a few moments that he had brought upon
himself and his proteges the calamity he most feared—that is, an assault, by
which the paucity and character of his warriors would be discovered. The Indians,
however, remained behind the natural breastwork afforded by the bank, and
contented themselves with firing occasionally at the port‑holes; but
without effect.
Witters
began to fear that he would be subjected to a regular siege, and he knew that unless
he was reinforced soon, the Indians would detect his ruse and gain an entrance.
Assistance could not possibly reach him from Minisink in less than two
or three days; but the whites who lived
farther up the river might relieve him. He looked for them in vain, however.
They were already far in the wilderness, and, under
A war
of words was kept up by the parties until near night, the Indians, with all
their acuteness of ear, supposing that they were answered from the fort by
large numbers.
As
night approached, a new source of uneasiness presented itself to Witters. A
considerable quantity of hay had been imprudently stacked beside the block
house, and it occurred to him that if the Indians remained until evening, they
would set fire to it, and thus burn his stronghold. Nor was
he mistaken in conjecturing their intention. They were waiting for that
purpose.
Witters
instructed the women to fire their guns [on] a given signal, and anxiously
awaited the coming of night. His determination was to watch the hay closely,
and shoot every Indian who approached it, well knowing that as long as the
enemy supposed that the block house was defended by a respectable force, they
would not detail more than one of their number at a
time to fire the stack.
As
the shades of evening began to thicken, Witters saw an Indian crawling
cautiously towards the hay, and making the signal, a broadside was giving from
the fort, Witters himself firing. With a yell, the Indian sprang upon his feet,
and then fell dead. His companions soon recovered his body.
This event, it seems,
effectually intimidated the Indians. They came to the conclusion that it was
impossible to take the block house as long as it was defended by such a
formidable force. Carrying the body of the dead savage a short distance, they
buried it hastily, fearing, probably, that if the whites were reinforced, as Witters intimated they would be, they might themselves be placed in the
defensive. They then returned toward the Susquehanna by the way of the
Cushetunk or Calkins Creek, which runs through Judge Thomas' farm. Before they
retreated, they set fire to the buildings of the neighborhood, nearly all of
which were consumed.
The
inhabitants who lived above, and who had started for Esopus, endeavored to
strike the Indian path which led from the settlements of the valley of the
Shawangunk through what is now known as Grahamsville, Brown Settlement, etc.;
but they became bewildered in the woods and wandered they knew not whither.
Their situation was a painful one. Lost—fearing they were followed by the
dreadful savages—apprehensive that they would fall into an ambuscade at every
moment, or unconsciously return to the place from whence they had come and be
shot and tomahawked—weary and worn—hunger was soon added to their other
calamities, and they were compelled to feed upon their dogs, upon reptiles or
any other foul thing which would satisfy the cravings of appetite. The men had
not forgotten to take with them their rifles and could have furnished a scanty
supply of food to the panic‑stricken and starving party by shooting a
deer or bear occasionally, but they did not dare to do so, knowing that the
reports of their guns might bring upon them the horrors of an Indian massacre.
At
last they descried in the dim distance the Shandaken mountains,
and knowing that the path they were seeking was not far from the mountains,
they turned their weary feet in that direction and happily found the trail.
They were not long in reaching a settlement, where they were received by kind
and sympathising friends.
The lads who were sent to Minisink, after remaining in the woods
for a night or two, reached their intended destination. They followed no path,
but when sent off by Witters at once proceeded to the mountains back from the
Delaware, which they followed, exhibiting much judgment and discretion in doing
so, as they avoided the possibility of coming in contact with the savages.
When
the whites of Minisink were informed of the situation of the settlers of
Cochecton a party of soldiers were at once sent in canoes to the rescue.
Without any extraordinary incident the detachment reached the block house,
where it was joyfully received. Witters and the women concluded they had gained
glory enough, and that they might not fare so well if again attacked.
Consequently they made preparations for leaving, while the soldiers engaged in
the melancholy duty of interring the bodies of the unfortunate men who had been
surprised and killed.
When
all was ready they proceeded to the canoes and commenced seating themselves;
but it was found that the boats were not of sufficient capacity for the whole
party—that one must be left behind. Amongst those rescued was an idiot girl and
her mother and the soldiers soon decided that the girl must be abandoned. This
of course was a heart‑rending alternative to the poor mother who wished
to remain with her child and share its fate, but she was not permitted this
poor consolation. She was forced into the boat, and was soon gliding over the
rippling waters of the
Many
years after her remains and those of Thomas, 1st, were uncovered by the washing
away of the earth in which they had been buried. Judge Thomas had them gathered
and again committed to the bosom of the common mother.
CHAPTER V.
MURDER OF MUSKWINK.
LITTLE
or nothing more can be learned of Tom's conduct during the French war. He did
not enlist in the army, as has already been intimated; for the tradition of his
relatives clearly indicates that he never could be persuaded to place himself
in a situation in which he would be obliged to submit to military discipline.
He chose rather, when he felt a disposition to engage in the shedding of blood,
to do so, in the language of the present day, "on his own hook." It
is said, however, that he rendered important services to the English in their
excursions against this Indians, by acting as a guide, whenever his services
were required.
Notwithstanding
tradition does not say that he signalized himself by any extraordinary deed,
it is probable that he was not idle from the period of his father's death until
the event occurred which we shall soon describe.
After the war, such of the former inhabitants of the
The
Indians, too, began to revisit their old haunts, probably supposing that, as
the hatchet was now buried, they would be as well received by the whites as
they had been before the war. But their former friends no longer regarded them
with "favor or affection." The fire and the scalping knife yet
retained a vivid place in the recollection of the settlers, who had become
merely nominal friends of the Indians. In the hearts of many of the whites
ranked a deep and undying hatred, which needed but a safe and favorable
opportunity to slake itself in blood. They had suffered so much during the war,
and the Indians were so barbarous and cruel—so unlike soldiers of the old world
in waging hostilities—that the whites could not readily forget the past, and
treat their late enemies as friends.
On coming in contact with the red men again, they
felt very much as a person who has submitted to a painful surgical operation
does when he sees the instruments that had tortured him. They knew that there
was no immediate prospect of suffering again; yet they experienced an
unconquerable aversion and disgust at seeing the dread objects again.
It is said that some of the wives and daughters of
those who had lost relatives by the hands of the Indians, would faint if they
encountered the savages after the war.
Notwithstanding this hatred and aversion, nearly all
the settlers were careful to avoid all cause of offence. The dreaded a renewal
of the bloody strife which had just closed, and if they consented to live as
friends with their old neighbors, it was because their own safety and interest
prompted them to do so.
Among the Indians who came back was a drunken
vagabond named Muskwink or Modeline, who had assisted in murdering Tom's
father. The fact, however, that he had been engaged in this sanguinary
transaction was not known at first. If it had been, probably he would have
disappeared without any one being wiser except Tom.
About two years after the war, Tom had occasion to go
to the house of a man named Decker, who kept a tavern on the Neversink. Decker
was one of the early settlers on that river, and had thus far escaped the
tomahawk and scalping knife.
When
Tom reached the tavern, he found Muskwink there, somewhat intoxicated and very
bold and talkative. He at once claimed Tom as an acquaintance, and wished to
drink with him; but Tom refused to do so, and bestowed a contemptuous epithet
upon the Indian, which caused the snake‑like eyes of the latter to
glitter with rage. A conversation of an irritating character passed between
them, during which the savage, for no apparent purpose except to exasperate
Tom, boasted of his exploits in the warpath, and among other things gave a
detailed account of the killing of Thomas Quick, senior, and the part he
himself had taken in the affair. He asserted that he had scalped the old man
with his own hand—mimicked the grimaces of the dying man—showed how he appeared
while in the agony of death, and to corroborate his assertions, exhibited the
silver sleeve buttons worn by his victim at the time.
This
brutality had a greater effect than the drunken Indian had anticipated. It most
effectually aroused the devil in Tom's heart. He at once determined to kill the
savage. He was unarmed; but there was a French musket in the bar room, in the
place where the early settlers kept such implements, that is to say, on spikes
or pegs driven into a beam directly over the hearth stone, where they were not
apt to rust, and could be got at handily in any sudden emergency which might
arise.
Almost
with the quickness of thought, Tom took down the musket, ascertained that it
was loaded and primed, and cocked it. The Indian saw this movement of Tom, and
a vague notion of what was impending seemed to force itself upon his stupefied
senses; but before he could make an attempt to resist or escape, the muzzle of
the musket was within a few feet of his breast, and Tom ordered him to leave
the house. The Indian at once resigned himself to his fate, or at least to the
guidance of Tom. He arose slowly and sullenly from his seat, and proceeded to
the door, Tom following after him. No one who was present seemed to think that
murder would grow out of the affair; for no one appeared to have curiosity
sufficient to make him attempt to witness its termination, which would not have
been the case, if it had been supposed that Tom intended to do more than compel
the Indian to leave the neighborhood.
Tom
drove the savage into the main road leading from Wurtsboro to Carpenter's
Point. After proceeding about a mile toward the latter place, he exclaimed:
"Indian dog; you'll kill no more white men!" and aiming the musket,
which was loaded with a heavy charge of slugs, shot the savage in the back
between the shoulders.
Muskwink
jumped two or three feet from the ground, and fell upon his face dead. Tom took
from him the buttons which had belonged to his father, drew the dead body to a
tree that the wind had torn up by the roots, and kicking some leaves and dirt
over it, left it there.
Some
say that he cut the head from the body, and hoisted it on a pole at the corner
of the road leading to Decker's, and that it remained there several days.
After
killing the Indian, Tom returned to Decker's, put his musket in its proper
place, drank a glass of rum, and left the neighborhood.
Several
years subsequent, the land upon which Muskwink was killed was cleared and
ploughed by a man named Philip Decker, when the bones of the Indian were
"turned up."
The
murder of Muskwink created considerable excitement in the exposed
neighborhoods. Some thought that such transactions should be properly
investigated, and that Tom should be arrested and sent to prison; while others
contended that he had performed a very meritorious act. It does not appear that
an attempt was made to punish him for what he had done; for he continued to
fish and hunt unmolested, although he was in some danger from the savages.
That Tom was permitted to kill the Indian with
impunity is extraordinary, because the authorities were not always careless as
to what was done by the frontiersmen in their intercourse with the natives, as
will appear by what follows.
On
The Skinners ransacked Cochecton and Minisink for
testimonials in their favor, and the matter became a serious one for them,
although it does not appear that the charge against them was sustained. The
complaint was probably made more for the purpose of getting the accused into
trouble than to promote the peace and welfare of the province.
Why a
matter so trifling should have been considered of so grave a nature, while Tom
was enabled to escape without being questioned, is something which cannot be
explained at this late day.
CHAPTER VI.
MASSACRE OF AN INDIAN FAMILY.
WE
have elsewhere remarked that Tom, from associating with the Indians a greater
part of time when he was young, had become a savage in thought and sentiment.
Yet he considered red men so barbarous, that a white man was justified in making
their destruction his whole business; and although he denounced their cruelty,
he could be equally savage himself. Not only this; but
he would use the Indian argument in favor of destroying the helpless and
defenceless. We do not know that he ever was guilty of killing, on more than
one occasion, the children of his enemies; and his excuse for doing that was, that they would, if their lives were spared, become as
bad as their parents. He then thought it good policy to destroy the serpent
while it was in embryo.
Not
long after Tom shot Muskwink, he was hunting in the vicinity of
One
day he stationed himself at the foot of the Rift; but whether to
watch for savages or wild beasts is not known. However this may be, he found the former. He watched several hours without
seeing anything of importance; but finally was rewarded, with the sight of five
savages coming up the river in a canoe. The party consisted of a man, a squaw
and three children. The Indian seemed to be unarmed, and he and the others were
evidently not apprehensive of danger. They were on the same side of the river
as Tom, and were proceeding leisurely along—the children enjoying the journey
and seeming very happy.
As soon as Tom saw them, he
concealed himself in the long reed grass which grew on the shore, and awaiting
their approach, with the determination to destroy them. As they came near he
recognized the Indian as one of those who had visited his father's house before
the war, and who had been engaged in several outrages on the frontier.
When the Indian family—for the
squaw was evidently the wife of the man, and the children his own—had got near
enough to be within gun‑shot, Tom raised up from his recumbent posture,
and ordered them in the Indian tongue to come ashore, and threatened to fire if
they did not. As soon as the man saw Tom he turned very pale. He had heard
while below of the murder of Muskwink, and that Tom had threatened to kill
others of his race. He dared not disobey, however, and reluctantly came to the
shore. Tom then inquired where they held been, and where they were going; to
which answers were given. He then told them that they had got to their
journey's end; that the tribe to which they belonged had murdered his father
and several of his relatives during the war, and that he had lifted up his hand
in vengeance against their whole race. The Indian answered that it was
"peace time," that "the hatchet was buried," &c. But
Tom replied that there could be no
peace between the red skins and him, and that he would wage eternal war with
them. He then shot the man, who jumped out of the canoe into the river, where,
after a few convulsive throes, he died. Tom, after killing the Indian,
tomahawked the squaw and her children. As the hatchet sunk into the brain of
the squaw, she sprang instinctively towards her youngest child, and fell on the
bottom of the canoe, and was soon beyond the pale of mortal life. The two
oldest children, as Tom afterwards declared, "squauked
like young crows" as he killed them. He had proceeded thus far without any
compunctions of conscience, or feeling that he was committing a most horrible
massacre, which ranked him with incarnate demons. But when he came to the
youngest, his murderous propensities were for a moment checked. As he raised
the tomahawk to give the fatal blow, the babe—for it was nothing more—looked up
wonderingly into his face and smiled. The innocence and unconsciousness of
danger beaming from its sunny, childish eyes, caused
him to relent. His arm fell to his side. He could not strike it. At the moment,
the idea of taking the life of such an innocent, harmless being,
seemed horrible to him. It held out its tiny hands to him, and in childish
glee, seemed as if it would spring to his arms. Tom's heart was completely
softened. He thought he would convey it to some white family, and have it taken
care of properly, and fancied that it would be very pleasant to have such a
pretty, innocent creature to fondle after he had been hunting, and when he
returned to the settlements. But the fact suddenly thrust itself into his mind, that the child would in a few years become an Indian,
and this so enraged him that he instantly dashed out its brains.
In consequence of the
excitement which grew out of the murder of Muskwink, Tom thought it prudent to
conceal the bodies of his victims. Besides this, he was probably conscious that
his white friends would not think very favorably of him, if they knew he had
murdered helpless women and children.
Having procured some strips of
baswood bark from a neighboring tree, he fastened heavy stones to the bodies,
and one after the other conveyed them to the deep water of the Rift, where he
sank them to the bottom. After all the bodies had been
disposed of, he destroyed the canoe, and nothing remained but his own
conscience, (which must have been a queer one) to tell of the horrible deed.
Tom did not relate the foregoing facts until it was safe
for him to do so. Previous to his death, he repeatedly told them to Jacob
Quick, Esq., of Callicoon. When asked why he killed the children, his
invariable reply was, "Nits make lice!"
On another occasion, Tom was at
Pond Eddy on the
The Indian was soon out of sight. Tom, during the
remainder of the day, was very morose, and seemed to be angry at himself, because he had permitted the Indian to escape. It
is probable that he killed many of the red men in this way.
CHAPTER
ADVENTURES AT
FOR some time, Tom was very
careful to commit no more murders openly. A favorite mode with him was to go
the Indian hunting grounds, and remain concealed as much as possible from the
Indians. Whenever he heard the report of a gun, he would creep cautiously
towards the place where it was fired, and if he succeeded in finding it, he
would generally discover a savage skinning a deer or a bear, and when once
discovered, it was an easy matter to send a bullet through his head or heart.
Tom would then conceal the body of his victim, finish skinning the game, take
the skin of the animal, as much of the flesh as he desired, and the rifle of
the dead Indian, and depart in search of new adventures.
Generally, he deposited the
rifle in a cleft of rocks or hollow tree; but if he took it to the settlements,
and was asked how and where he got it, he would say that he had found it beside
a dead Indian; and when he brought an unusual number of skins, he would quietly
tell them that he had "shot one buck on top of another,"—meaning that
he had killed an Indian in the way we have just indicated. This enigmatical
manner of describing what he had done, was the only kind of witticism that Tom
was known to utter.
When in
the settlements, and an Indian came there, he would pretend to be friendly
toward him, and do everything in his power to allay suspicion. If he
could gain the Indian's confidence he would in the end, invite him to join him
in a hunting excursion, and the Indian would generally be among the missing for
ever thereafter.
Among the rest, two Indians
came to Minisink to sell their skins and procure ammunition, and a few other
articles, which they needed. They lingered about the settlement several days
and became acquainted with Tom, who finally induced them to join him is a hunt
at Hagen Pond, in what is now the town of Lumberland, Tom was thinking of
various plans to kill his companions, when one of them proposed to remain at
the pond and fish, while Tom and the other agreed to spend the day in hunting.
The arrangement was that they should take separate routes, and meet during the
day at Rock Cabin. This afforded too good an opportunity to be lost by Tom, who
was afraid to attack both at once, as they were equal to him in skill and
agility.
According to arrangement, he
took the direction he had agreed to go, and after hunting a short time, he
proceeded to the Cabin, where he selected a good place to watch for the coming
of the Indian he had agreed to meet there. At the time appointed for meeting,
the stealthy tread of the savage was heard in the thicket—in a few moments he
emerged to sight, and with a shriek fell upon the earth a corpse. Tom's sure
rifle had found another victim. Some leaves and mould were soon thrown over the
body, and Tom was on his way back to the pond. Here he waylaid the other
Indian, and killed him.
At another time, Tom
encountered an Indian at Hagen Pond, but did not succeed in killing him. Tom
went to the pond, to hunt, with a man named Cornelius DeWitt, who, during the
Revolutionary war, was captured by the Indians and taken to
DeWitt was of a more humane or
timorous disposition than Tom, and objected to his getting into trouble with the
Indians; but nothing he could say had any affect on the Indian Killer. Tom
seemed more like a wild best raging for blood than a human being. He instantly
prepared for an encounter. He examined the flint of his rifle, and the powder in
the pan—threw aside every cumbersome and useless article, and took to the thick
underbrush which lined the shore of the pond, accompanied by his dog. He crept
through the bushes as noiselessly as a snake would have done, and yet seemed to
get over the ground quite fast. He continued to go on in this manner, until he
got near the outlet, where he had to leave the bushes and cross an open space. While he was doing this, he discovered an
Indian, a considerable distance off, on the big marsh, as it was called. The
Indian had a gun, and was probably hunting for ducks or wild geese. He saw Tom
about as soon as the latter discovered him, and with the instinct of his race,
at once suspected that the white man was bound on no friendly errand. He
instantly fled into the adjoining woods and disappeared, going apparently
toward the
This occurred just before
sunset, and when Tom saw the Indian run away, he returned to the place where he
and DeWitt intended to stay during the night. DeWitt had gathered but little
wood; and it was needless to do so; for prudence taught them that they should
dispense with a fire that night, as a light would serve as a beacon to the
savage, and enable him to turn the tables against them, if he was disposed to
harm them.
The next morning, Tom told
DeWitt that he intended to look the redskin up. DeWitt objected; but found it
was useless to oppose Tom. Search for the savage he would, whether it was
agreeable to the other or not. He soon found the Indian's trail, and followed
it in company with DeWitt.
The most sagacious of the
redmen could not pursue an enemy through the woods more unerringly than Tom.
Through a forest which would be as trackless as the ocean to any of the present
inhabitants of Sullivan) if anything short of an ox or a horse should walk in
it, Tom continued in pursuit, discovering at every step, undoubted indications
of the passage of the hatred red man.
Here a wood plant or weed was
crushed; there the dead leaves upon the ground showed that a moccasined foot
had pressed them. Here the green mould on some fallen tree had been
disturbed—there on the rivulet's margin the foot print was plain. On—on went
Tom through the solitary forest, bent upon his bloody mission of expiation and
revenge.
Every effort of the wily Indian
to baffle Tom was of no avail. The Indian Slayer followed him to the Delaware,
and thence to the Brink Pond, in Pennsylvania, where he again came in sight of
his intended victim—a feat, probably; which none but an Indian had ever before
accomplished.
At the Brink Pond, Tom and the
savage saw each other again, but the latter was beyond the reach of the others
rifle, and Tom had not the satisfaction of bringing him down.
The red man, finding that his
life depended upon his speed, fled like a frightened stag, and Tom, knowing
that his pace would not be soon slackened, and that he would have to follow him
too far into the Indian country for his own safety, gave up the chase.
From the Brink Pond, the two
white men went home, without killing a deer.
CHAPTER VIII.
KILLING A
WE have
now reached a period of Tom's life towards which tradition does not point with certainty. There is a gap which we
cannot fill except with certain legendary accounts of real or supposed
exploits, which our authorities do not assign to any particular time.
Almost innumerable tales are
told of Tom's encounters with the savages, and of the tact and cunning he
resorted to in order to circumvent them. Many of these stories, we think, have
been invented by ambitious tale tellers in their anxiety to outdo their companions
in relations of the wonderful; but, on the other hand, some of them are true,
or founded on facts—a few little additions having been made from time to time,
as they were handed, down from father to son.
As often as we have heard
conflicting versions of the same story we have adopted the one that seemed the
most plausible to us; or we have collected sufficient information to enable us
to determine what was worthy of being recorded. This will explain to those who
have furnished materials for this little work, why we do not always follow the
thread of their narrative very closely.
The story of the "Buck
with Seven Skins," which follows, although it has an air of probability,
we place it at the head of the apocryphal tales of Tom.
Tom usually wintered at the
house of some congenial spirit on the frontier. The family upon which he
quartered himself was always well paid for boarding him, for as long as Tom was
with them, they lived upon the fat of the land. He as previously stated, invariably
supplied them with an abundance of venison and bear meat.
Once he found that winter was
near at hand, and that he had. not the usual supply of
venison for the person whom he intended to stay with. He was about to engage in
a hunt at some distance, where he was quite sure he would find deer enough in a
few days to supply his friend's cabin as long as he desired, when an Indian
came into the neighborhood. Tom made his acquaintance as soon as practicable,
and it was not long before they agreed to go on a hunt together—Tom agreeing to
take the venison for his share, and the Indians the skins. The first day they
were out, they had unusual good luck. Deer was plenty, and indeed the woods
seemed full of them. They killed one after another, skinned them, and hung up
the "hind quarters" where they would be secure from wolves and other
wild beats until Tom could take them away. In the afternoon they found they had
killed seven. The Indian was in fine spirits—and so was his white companion.
They had both done a very fine day's work.
The Indian had as many skins as
he could carry, and consequently did not wish to hunt any more at that time. So
he got them together, and placing them upon his back, started for his cabin.
He never reached it; however; for as he started off, Tom fired his rifle and
down tumbled the Indian, the ball having gone through the seven skins and into
his heart.
When
Tom reached the settlement with the skins and venison, his friends who knew the
bargain he had made with the Indian, asked him how he came by all the hides;
and his reply was, that after they had got through with their hunting, he had
"killed a buck with seven skins on his back!" The next winter was
spent by Tom with Ben Haines, at Handsome Eddy.
CHAPTER IX.
"THE BITERS BITTEN."
The number of Indians who had
disappeared mysteriously, and the fact that some of them were last seen with
Tom, and that he had sworn to kill Indians as long as he had an opportunity,
caused the natives to suspect he could tell what had become of them; and the
whites generally knew that he could, if he pleased, find the rifles of the
missing.
The Indians, therefore, were
anxious to kill him, and many attempts is were made
by them to shoot him. It is said that they had frequent opportunities; but that
they missed their mark so often, that they finally believed he had a charmed
life and could not be touched by an Indian ball.
The following is a fair sample
of the stories told in the neighborhoods where his adventures took place,
concerning the way the Indians attempted to catch or kill Tom:
One spring, Tom was splitting
rails for a man named Westbrook, who lived in the
This story has been told of Tom
for more than half a century. It is almost too wonderful to be true. We give it
as it was related to us by an old man named Page, who died recently, aged more
than one hundred years. He assured us that it was well founded; that he had
been often at the place where the savages were killed; and that he had more
than once seen their bones "on the spot."
An Indian came to the house
where Tom had "put up" for the winter, and asked permission to stay
all night, which was granted. He professed to be very friendly; but Tom's quick
eye soon discovered that all was not right, and that he had an enemy to deal
with. During the evening the savage pretended he had seen a great many deer a
few miles off, and asked Tom if he would not like to go the next day and kill
some of them. Tom pretended that he was pleased with the proposal, and agreed
to go.
During the night Tom managed to
get the Indian's rifle, which he unloaded, and afterwards substituted ashes in
the place of the powder, and put back the ball, and placed the rifle carefully
where he had found it.
The next morning the savage
slyly inserted the ram‑rod in the chamber of the rifle, examined the
priming, &c., and seemed satisfied that all was right. This and some other
circumstances confirmed Tom in the belief that mischief was brewing.
There was considerable snow on
the ground, and the hunter found it quite inconvenient to tread through it, and
apparently to render the walking easier, the Indian proposed that one of them
should go ahead to break the path. To this Tom readily agreed, and the Indian
was greatly pleased when Tom made no objection to be the first to go in
advance.
After
they had proceeded in this way a mile or two, and had
come to a very lonely place, Tom heard the Indian's gun snap, and the powder flash
in the pan. Tom looked back and asked what the Indian had seen.
"A fine buck," was
the reply.
The Indian re‑primed his gun, and they went on. Pretty soon Tom heard another snap
and flash.
"Well, brother
Indian," inquired he, "what did you see this
time?"
"An eagle swept over the
forest," replied the other as he again primed the gun.
"Brother
Indian," said Tom, "the snow is deep. I am tired. You go ahead."
"Brother Yankee speaks
well," said the savage gloomily, and took his station in advance.
Tom levelled his rifle.
"Lying Indian dog!"
exclaimed he; "what do you see now?"
"The spirit land,"
was the reply, as the Indian hung his head and drew over it his blanket.
The savage was soon dispatched,
and Tom returned without any venison—but with two rifles.
Tom was wandering through the
woods, one day, without his rifle, when he encountered a young Indian who was
armed. Tom Spoke to him in a friendly manner, and soon found himself on very
good terms with the stranger.
"Brother Indian,"
said Tom, "would you like to see Tom Quick?"
The savage answered in the
affirmative, and Tom agreed to show him the Indian Killer. After a long walk,
which terminated on a high ledge of rocks, at the foot of which were a few
acres of cleared land, Tom told the Indian to wait a few moments and he would
show him the person they were looking for. Tom went to the brink of the
precipice and peered over it. "I do not see him yet, brother," said
he, "but he will soon come along." He continued to watch for several
minutes, and at last pretended that he saw the person whom the Indian was so
anxious to encounter.
"There he comes,"
said Tom; "here, you take my place, if you want to get a good sight at
him." The Indian cocked his rifle, and hastily and eagerly advanced to
Tom's side.
"Where is he?"
inquired the red man.
"There—there," said
Tom, pointing so that the Indian would lean over the brink, in his desire to
shoot the enemy of his race.
"A little further—a little
further," whispered the Indian Slayer.
The Indian hung over the precipice as far as he could
without losing his equilibration. He peered closely into the shrubbery at the
outskirts of the field, and into the field itself, without making a discovery.
In the meantime, Tom slipped behind him, and suddenly grasping the shoulders of
the savage, and shouting, "Shoot me!—shoot me! would
you!" he hurled the red man over the precipice. The Indian fell upon the
rocks below, and was killed. Tom left the body of the savage to feed the crows
and the foxes, and "went on his way rejoicing."
CHAPTER
X
CAPTURE
THE Indians captured Tom
several times; but they could never manage to keep him until they reached their
villages. They were always anxious, when they had him in their power, to
preserve his life until they reached home, so that they could there apply the
torture to their wily enemy; and this is the reason they did not slay him at
once.
On one occasion they surprised
him while he was asleep; but when or where is not positively known, although it
is probable the occurrence took place not far from Port Jervis. They
immediately bound him securely, and after plundering the cabin in which they
found him, they sat out for their own country by the way of the
Tom, as usual, had a large
number of skins in his possession, all of which the savages appropriated to
themselves. It seems that two Indians were engaged in this adventure, one of
whom, in returning, carried Tom's goods and chattels on his shoulders, and
walked in advance of the prisoner; while the other, had possession of the
rifles of himself and companion, one of which was kept cocked and ready to
shoot Tom with, if he attempted to escape. This Indian "brought up the
rear."
For some time, the Indians
travelled on the beach of the river or on the bank. At last, however, they came
to a high ledge of rocks, where they were under the necessity of taking a very
dangerous path far up on the cliff. They
were obliged to travel, some part of the way, within a few feet, and indeed
almost directly on the brow of the precipice. One would think this afforded a
poor place to escape; but it was just the one that suited the Indian Slayer. He
pretended to be dizzy and afraid of falling off the rocks, and passed along as
far from the brink as possible. He several times hesitated to go on, and the
Indian who followed him frequently applied the butt of his musket to urge him
forward. He was determined not only to escape, but to kill the savage who
followed him. A difficult feat for an unarmed man to accomplish, especially
with his hands bound securely behind him! But it was an easy one for Tom.
When they had readied the
narrowest part of the path, Tom was suddenly seized with a very severe attack
of dizziness, and could hardly be compelled to proceed, although blows fell
thick and fast upon his back and shoulders. Finally he stopped altogether, and
refused to go a step further. He leaned against the bank on the upper side and
shuddered whenever he cast his eyes towards the river. The Indian, after
beating him severely, attempted to take hold of him to push him along. By an
adroit movement, Tom got between the Indian and the precipice, and the next
instant, with a loud "ugh‑whoop!" the savage was making a
rapid airline descent towards the river. After falling forty or fifty feet, he
landed in the crotch of a button‑ball tree. The Indian's back was broken
by the fall, and he hung in the tree powerless, and
roaring for his brother savage to help him. The rifles fell into the river.
Tom was almost instantly cured
of his dizziness. He next relied on his heels for security, and ran with
astonishing celerity towards home. The Indian who had
carried the plunder, ran after him a short distance; but finding it useless to
attempt to catch him, he returned to assist his companion.
Tom and two or three of his
nearest neighbors returned in a short time to recover the plunder and look for
the savages, but could find neither the one or the
other.
Tom's habit of concealing guns
in the woods on one occasion saved his life. The Indians (two in number) had
captured him, and were taking him off by the Grassy Brook route. He seemed
perfectly resigned to the fate which appeared to be unavoidable, and marched
with them unreluctantly. His arms were pinioned with deer skin thongs, and his
captors kept upon him a vigilant eye, and were ready at any moment to shoot him
if he attempted to break away from them.
After a while they were visited
by a shower of rain, and Tom soon found that the thongs which bound his wrists
began to, stretch, and ultimately that they had become
so loose that he could, whenever he thought proper, free his hands. He was very
careful to conceal this fact from the savages, and patiently waited for a
favorable opportunity to run or do something else to escape.
Beside the path they were
passing was a very large chestnut tree, which was hollow, and on the side of
the trunk that was furthest from the path the wood had entirely rotted away,
leaving a large hollow space. In the opening thus made, Tom had not long before
concealed several guns, which he had "found by the side of dead
Indians." He had also deposited with them a flask of powder and a goodly
store of bullets.
When they reached this tree,
Tom expressed an urgent desire to go to it, and gave such a good reason for the
request he made, that his captors consented to let him go. They permitted him
to do so the more readily because he had thus far given them but little trouble.
The Indians cocked their rifles
when Tom stepped from the path, and aimed them at him. Each with a finger on
the trigger watched him eagerly, determined to bring him down if he made the
least movement to escape.
Tom proceeded towards the tree
very leisurely, and on reaching it, went behind it, and was concealed front the
view of the enemies. With most inconceivable rapidity, he charged two or three
of his weapons with powder and lead. The Indians, little suspecting what Tom
was at, stood in the path with hardly a twig to screen them from his murderous
aim. Tom afterward said that he did not stop to return the ramrods to their
places until he had as many of his guns loaded as he thought he should need. He
hesitated a moment after he was ready to shoot, fearing that his guns would
"miss fire," in consequence of their late disuse; but knowing that
this was probably his last chance, he blazed away at one of the savages, who
fell dead in his tracks. The other attempted to get behind the nearest unoccupied
tree; but he never reached it. A bullet sent him to the spirit land, to join
those who had fallen by Tom's hands.
CHAPTER
XI.
"THE
BITERS BITTEN" AGAIN.
AN Indian
who thought he was more shrewd and cunning than his fellows, undertook to kill Tom
without aid from anyone. He lurked in the vicinity of the cabin where Tom was
staying, devising a plan to overreach the wily white man. The savage found that
the owner of the cabin had a hog, which was confined to a pen close by the
hut, and he determined to make this stupid animal the means of producing Tom's
destruction.
One evening, when no one but
the Indian Slayer was in the cabin, the red man got into the pen, which, being
made of logs, afforded a very good breastwork. He then caught the animal, and
holding it between his knees, made it squeal as lustily and shrilly as if a
bear had hold of it. The savage expected that Tom would rush out, without
proper precaution, to rescue the porker; but he was mistaken. Tom was always on
his guard.
The Indian Slayer caught up his
rifle—ascertained that it was all right—looked through a crevice in the door
towards the hog pen; but at first could not see anything which led him to think
that the hog was not attacked by a bear or a panther. He was on the point of
starting for the pen, when he saw something, which made him pause.
The savage endeavored to screen
his body behind the logs of which the pen was constructed,
and at the same time peer over the top to watch for the coming of Tom. But the
hog did not prove a very tractable steed. It was so fractious and unmanageable
that, just as Tom had concluded to open the cabin door, the head of the savage
was thrust above the topmost log. This was enough for the Indian Slayer.
Tom opened the door of the
cabin a few inches, so that he could have a fair chance to shoot when the scalp‑lock
of the savage made its appearance the second time. The hog continued to jump
and frisk, and squeal, and the red man soon exhibited his head again, when the
porker was speedily released from its burden. Tom fired—the hog suddenly ceased
to utter its ear‑splitting notes, and the savage took up the burthen of
his swinish melody. With a piercing yell, he jumped from the enclosure, and
endeavored to flee to the adjoining woods; but he had received a deadly wound,
and Tom easily overtook him. Of course, the fate of the savage was sealed. Tom
had no mercy on him, and killed him with fewer compunctions of conscience than
he would have felt at crushing a reptile.
According to an old legend, Tom
had a very severe battle with a savage who came to him while he was in a field
at work. Tom saw the Indian approach unarmed, and did not feel afraid to
encounter him on equal terns.
The savage told a plausible
tale about something that he pretended he had discovered not far off, and which
he wished his "brother yankee" to see.
Tom, apparently without
suspecting anything was wrong, consented to go with the Indian; his quick eye,
however, saw a gleam of malignant satisfaction on the countenance of his visitor,
which told him plainer than words could have done what
was the errand upon which the red man was bent.
The savage had discovered Tom
from a hill near by, and had concealed his gun in the woods, hoping to entice
Tom to its neighborhood, while he was unarmed, and then, when he could not
defend himself, kill him.
Tom was never caught napping.
He was now wide awake, and concluded that there was a trap set for him. He had
gone but a short distance with the Indian, when he came to a hemlock knot,
which he concluded would be a very good weapon in a rough and tumble fight. He
stopped to pick it up, when the savage, perceiving what he was at, sprang upon
him. Tom got hold of the knot; but, with his antagonist upon him, he could not
use it. A long struggle for life or death ensued between them. Tom finally
succeeded, and was once more a conqueror, but to the day of his death he
averred that this was the hardest and most severe fight he was ever engaged in.
When he had killed the red man,
he was so exhausted that it was with difficulty he got to the house where he
had found a temporary residence.
According to another legend, a
native attempted to kill the Indian Slayer while he was engaged in a saw mill.
Tom, by some means, found that an Indian was close at hand, and arranged his
hat and coat in such a way as to deceive his would‑be destroyer. While
the savage thought he was about to shoot Tom between the shoulders, as the
latter had shot Muskwink, Tom was in a position to send a bullet into the body
of the Indian, and his bullets were generally fatal. The legend says that once
more the "biter" was so badly "bitten" that he never
recovered from his wound. In other words, Tom killed him.
CHAPTER
XII.
MURDER
AT MONGAUP FALLS.
PREVIOUS to the revolutionary war,
a man named John Showers lived in a log house near the falls of the Mongaup.
One evening, some five or six hunters met at his house, which was quite a
resort for such people. As the cabin afforded somewhat better accommodations
than the forest, they concluded to avail themselves of its shelter for the
night. Tom Quick was among the number. During the evening, an Indian came in,
and asked permission to remain all night. He was told that he could stay.
The evening was frosty, and a
rousing fire was kept up. The hunters amused themselves in telling of their
adventures, and many stories like the following were told:
One of the hunters was boasting
of his skill in shooting at a mark, and told in what manner he shot a panther.
"Fudge! old fellow!" said another. "I have two boys at hum
(one of 'em is 10 and 'tother 11) who'll beat that. I tell you what, they were
out shooting t'other day close tu the house, when I heerd both their rifles go
tu once. I felt curious 'bout it, and went to see what both on 'em blazed away
together for. Well, when I got to where they was, I found 'em tryin' tu drag a
painter to hum what they'd killed. They tell'd me they had seen the beast to
once and fired away, and after it had hung to the tree a minit, down it cum
plump. Their balls struck about two inches apart and both on 'em riddled it
heart."
"I had a tussel with a
bear once," said another after a short pause in the conversation,
"and dang me it was curious. I had been travassing the woods pretty much
all day without as much as setting eyes on a chip'n squir'l. I begun to feel
kinder savage, when Ty (patting his dog on the head) began to snuff and balk at
a hole in the ledge. I can allers tell when Ty has got arter sothin' and the
way the critter yelled sot me a thinkin' he'd got sothin' be worth having. So I
jist made up to the ledge to 'connoiter. The hole was gaul
dang'd big: but Ty was shy about gettin' inter it. The critter is as full of
pluck as any dog of his inches I ever see; but dang him, he did't like to go
in, no how. Thinks I, old feller, if you won't go in, I will. So I just laid
down old Poll there (pointing to his gun) and crawled in myself. I got about
ten feet, when the hole got bigger, and I could look around a leetle, and kinder see what I was comin' to. Well, in the
back end of the hole like I see the dangdest bear I ever sot eyes on. The
critter sot beside a big stun about as high as my head. Ty he come in arter me, and as soon as he see the varmit, he
yelled worse than ever. Well, the bear didn't seem to mind me at all, but
kinder watched the dog. So I jist stepped round beside the stun, and got on it.
Thinks I, old feller, you or I must go out of this dang'd quick. So I stepped
down behind him like, and braced my back against the rock, and pushed away with
my feet for sartin'. The critter grunted like and says
I 'grunt away old feller, but you've got to go.'"
Here the narrator turned
himself towards his son, who was in the company, and casting his eyes to the
ground, continued:
"Well, you know, I got him
started, and Ty he pitched into him before, and I pitched into him behind, and
he pitched arter Ty, and we had him out danged quick, and old Poll you know
gave him a pill what settled his hash!"
"That's a fact,
daddy," exclaimed the son, "for I've heard you tell it afore!"
"That yarn may be true," said a young man, in a
doubtful tone, "but I would rather come across ten such bears in the woods
than one mad wolf. They are the animals to try your spunk, old daddy. Perhaps
you never saw one. Well, I have, and blast me if I want to see another.
"The way of it was this.
Dad wanted some whiskey; and I wanted some powder and lead. So I took old roan
and started for the store down in Minisink. I had got almost to Ben Swartz's
clearing, and didn't see nothing, when I saw something
just ahead of me right in the road, which I took for a short eared wolfish kind
of dog. I didn't mind it much till I got pretty close, when I whistled to it,
and it turned round. You see its back had been to me till then. Gracious! wasn't I scared! It was a mad wolf, with its mouth all
covered with slobber, and its eyes—oh how they did look! It come
straight for old roan's smeller; but I hauled up, and the wolf stopped too,
about four feet off. Says I to myself, "I'll just shear
off and give you half of the road." But the wolf headed me, and yop
it went at roan's nose. The old horse threw up his head as the beast tried to
grab him, and I tried the other side of the road; but it was no go. The wolf
headed me all the while, and every time I moved, it made a yop at roan's
smeller. I tried to back out of the scrape; but as fast as old roan went tail
foremost, the wolf followed after.
"I was in a pickle. I
couldn't go back and I couldn't go by, and I expected every minute that it
would leave the horse's nose and grab my feet; and maybe my shanks didn't seem
long about that time!
"At last I out with my
jack knife——"
"Why you didn't stick the
brute with that, did ye?" interrupted one.
"Oh! aint
he a rouser!" exclaimed another.
"Hold
on, will ye? Well, I out with my jack knife, and cut off one of the stirrups,
strap and all, and watch for a good chance and perhaps you think I didn't knock
its brains out with the stirrup—but I did, and got hone with the old man's
whiskey, and he jawed me a week after for spiling the saddle."
Late in the evening, a goodly
number of logs were placed on the fire, and the hunters, wrapping themselves in
their blankets, laid down upon the floor to sleep.
They were soon "in the land of dreams," except Tom, who was watching
quietly for a chance to kill the Indian. One would imagine that he had shed
blood enough already; but the more Indians Tom killed the greater was his
desire to destroy them. When the breathing of the sleepers showed that they
were sound asleep, Tom threw aside his blanket, and cautiously and noiselessly
got his gun. In a few minutes the hunters were awakened by an explosion. They
found themselves bespattered with brains, and the Indian dead in their midst.
Quick, immediately after
firing, left the cabin, and disappeared in the forests. The hunters, after
consulting, concluded that the murder of the Indian should be concealed, in
order to avoid any unpleasant consequences which might follow, if his brethren
knew of it. The Indian was buried in the morning, and his death was unknown to
any except the hunters until concealment was no longer necessary.
CHAPTER XIII.
DURING the Revolutionary war
Tom seems to have been busy in his crusade against the Indians. He would not
enlist in the army, but he would join any expedition that was got up against
the Indians and continue with it as long as he pleased, when he would go off
and fight "on his own hook."
On one occasion he joined a
party from Minisink, who were in pursuit of some marauding Indians. The latter
were several hours in advance of the pursuers. The whites did not see the enemy
until they reached the
A war of words passed between
the parties, and finally one of the savages made an indecent gesture towards
the Yankees, and dared them to shoot. This so enraged Tom
that he raised his rifle and taking careful aim, fired. The Indian with
a yell fell upon his face and was soon dead.
At
another time, Tom was in the woods alone. He was on the lookout for Indians
when he unexpectedly came upon one of them. They saw each other at the same
moment, and both fired at once. The Indian's ball struck one of Tom's thumbs,
the end of which was cut off. The ball glanced along the barrel of the rifle,
and passed so close to one of Tom's ears that it tingled some time. Tom was
more fortunate. His aim was unerring. The Indian was shot through the head, and
Tom went on his way, cursing the savage for wounding him.
This was the only time Tom was
hit by an Indian. Persons who knew Tom remember very well that one of his
thumbs had lost its tip.
During the war Tom met another
savage under similar circumstances. He and the Indian both took to trees within
gunshot of each other, where they remained for some time; each one hoping to
get a shot. After various manœvers and strategems, Tom resorted to the old one
of thrusting his cap cautiously from behind the tree. Crack went the Indian's
rifle, and Tom fell upon the ground, pretending to be wounded, when the Indian
came running towards him, to take his scalp; but which he did not get, for as
soon as the red warrior had got fairly under way, Tom sprung up, and treated
him to an ounce of cold lead. The Indian exclaimed, as he saw Tom aim, "Me cheated."
According to tradition, Tom was
taken prisoner by the savages during the Revolution; but in what manner and in
what locality is not now known. This time he was caught by a numerous band who had probably been marauding and murdering in one of the frontier
settlements. They stripped him of everything except his shirt and trowsers, as
they supposed; but as Tom's good genius would have it, he had under his
shirt a powder flask, which he had converted into a "pocket pistol."
It was filled with rum, which has slain a greater number of Indians than the
more dreaded rifle.
When the Indians found what
kind of a prize they had made, they set off by forced marches for their own
country. Tom of course was bound, and this time they not only bound him, but
fastened a long piece of raw‑hide to his wrists, one end of which was
held by an Indian. He was kept, too, in the midst of the party, and it really
seemed as if the case was desperate. During the first day the savages kept up a
running fire of words at him, and maltreated him in various ways, all of which
he bore with as much apparent stoicism as the bravest and best of his captors
would have done under the same circumstances.
At night they encamped in the
usual mode, tied Tom securely within their circle, and appointed one of their number to watch over him until the next morning.
In the first part of the night
Tom pretended to sleep, and after a while feigned to wake up. He soon commenced
a conversation with the Indian who acted as the sentinel of the band, and was
not long in discovering that the savage was an enemy of "fire
water"—a thing quite unusual at that time. Tom's intention was to get the
Indian drunk, and then escape; but finding that he had the wrong person to deal
with, he concluded to wait until the following night, when he hoped to meet
with better success. He therefore determined to sleep until morning, and hope
for "better luck next time."
The second day's march was but
a repetition of the first; and Tom was heartily glad when the party encamped
once more. This time an Indian was chosen who loved "fire water."
When all the others of the party were asleep, Tom ascertained this, and telling
the native that he had been kind to him; that he had not struck him as often as
the others, etc., and that he expected to die in a day or two and would need no
more of the "good stuff," he directed the savage where to find the
rum.
The Indian thrust his hands
beneath Tom's shirt and drew out the flask with much satisfaction, and Tom saw
him drink from it several times, much to his joy. It was not long before the
rum began to exhibit its usual effects. The savage became drowsy, and finally,
in familiar language, took an involuntary "journey to the land of
nod" or dreams.
Tom then managed to get the
Indian's knife, with which he in some way contrived to cut the thongs which
bound his wrists. He wounded himself severely in doing so. He was soon free,
and with steps almost as noiseless as the descending dew, he vanished among the
giant tree trunks upon which the dying fire occasionally threw a fitful
glimmer. Tom was once more rejoicing on the path leading towards Peenpack. The
next morning when the Indians woke up, they found one of their number drunk—an
empty powder flask by his side—and Tom "among the missing."
He was at least fifteen miles
off, on his way to his white friends. He ran nearly all the next day, and got
home without engaging in any other adventure. The Indians followed him almost
to the settlements, but he was several miles in advance of them, and in speed
was equal to the most fleet of his pursuers.
We can learn nothing more of
Tom's exploits during the war. We would gladly add several other pages to this
chapter, and give a more complete account of his doings previous to the
declaration of peace, but, alas and alackaday! we have
no more material.
CHAPTER XIV.
ADVENTURE
OF THE SANDBURGH.
None liked to have them about.
Women were always scared at the sight of them, and worried and fretted all the
time they were in the neighborhood. The young ones, too, were uneasy, and when
a red skin came along, they would run into the house or the bushes, holding on
to their scalps, as if they expected to have their top‑knots cut off.
The Indians were not encouraged
to come back, and very few would have anything to say to them, and those who
did talk to them advised them to clear out.
A man had to go to
While
my horse was eating his oats, three red skins came in. They had been wandering
about on the Shawangunk, and seemed to be on their way back to their own
country. As soon as they got into the bar room, the strange looking man spoken
of began to talk to them. He spoke in an outlandish gibberish, which the
Indians seemed to understand. They answered him with a few words, and seemed
quite uneasy, eyeing him suspiciously, and edging off whenever he came near
them.
After talking to them some
time, he offered them some rum; but they shook their heads, saying:
"Bad—bad." He then drank about a gill of rum himself, and sat down
the tumbler as if he meant to smash it. The landlord seemed to be frightened
all the time, and did not really seem to know what he was at. At last he told
the red skins they had better go, and they took their guns and went off up the
Sandburgh. As soon as they had got out of sight, the white man took another
large horn, and went after them. His gun, I remember, was an uncommon long one,
and the stock seemed to be nearly worn out. As soon as he had got out of the
tavern, the landlord groaned and said, "Lord have mercy on them poor
Indians!—that's Tom Quick!" He seemed to feel in great distress on their
account.
The tavern keeper went to the
door and listened to find out whether anything happened in the direction the
Indians had gone. After a while, guns were heard fired a great ways off; and
then he returned into the bar room.
Two or three hours later Tom
came back with the three guns the Indians had taken away. How he got them, you
may imagine. Tom himself never threw any light on the subject, and the Indians
were never seen afterwards. The landlord charged all to say nothing of what had
occurred, as it might bring the settlers into trouble with the Indians.
CHAPTER
XV.
INDIAN
STRATAGEM.
WHEN we first heard the
following story, we somewhat hastily pronounced it altogether apocryphal. We
have since found reason to believe that the main part of the story is true.
On the green banks of a western
river a number of Indians hail convened in council. Several of the choicest
braves of the tribe had disappeared, and none of their brethren knew their
fate. They had gone from time to time to hunt on the banks of the
A medicine man or prophet, who
was regarded as an extraordinary specimen of his kind, had been consulted; and,
having called into requisition all the skill of his art, he declared that the
missing braves had fallen victims to the rifle of Tom Quick, who yet haunted
the forests of the
They knew that he was an
unrelenting foe. They knew that he had sworn by the God of the pale face never
to share any of their people as long as his Deity gave breath to his nostrils.
They knew that he had murdered some of their friends after the calamut of peace
had passed between the two races; and that he regarded no obligation save that
which he had voluntarily taken to revenge the death of his father. And they
believed that no red man, unless he possessed some powerful charm or medicine,
could harm him, so often had they shot at him and failed to take his scalp.
The assembled braves gave ready
evidence to the words of the prophet. They firmly believed that the missing men
had fallen by the hand of Quick.
At the mention of his name, the
usual stoical demeanor of the warriors changed. Revenge and hatred gleamed from
their eyes. Each man grasped his tomahawk, his scalping knife or his rifle.
A brave
whose only brother had disappeared with the others, sprang to his feet.
"Brothers!" he
exclaimed, "Tom Quick must die! One by one, in the silent forest, he has
blasted the noblest of our tribe as the mighty oak is rent by the forked
lightning. Their squaws and their little ones mourn for them, and hunger for
the venison which is no longer seen in their lodges.
"Brothers! Their
path to the spirit land is choked with thorns and briars, because their blood
is unavenged.
"Brothers! Shall we seek our foe as we
seek the panther which has tasted the life‑blood of our little ones, or
shall we flee to the shelter of our wigwams, and tremble like squaws?
"Brothers! ere
another moon, I shall go toward the rising sun, and never return until the
scalp of our enemy is taken. Must I, the last of my father's sons, seek the war
path alone? I have spoken." Two other braves, whose kindred had also
disappeared in the same mysterious manner, immediately volunteered to go with
him, and the council broke up.
The three warriors who thus
voluntarily devoted themselves to the welfare of their race, departed for the
They had not been long in ambush during the second "season of flowers," before they encountered a white man who was bound up the river. They recognized in him a friend—a tory—who had often accompanied them in their expeditions during the recent war. At the cessation of hostilities, he had professed to give in his adhesion to the government; but he was yet in heart and soul a royalist, and hated the whigs so vehemently that at times his prudence was hardly sufficient to prevent an open "expression of his sentiments" in regard to the "rebels," who refused to associate with a man who had assisted the savages in murdering the wives and children of his neighbors. His hatred of Tom Quick was intense; for Tom had repeatedly pronounced him worse than an Indian, and had even threatened to include him among the number of his natural enemies.
When the warriors ascertained
that they had met a friend, they soon elicited from him information which
induced them to change their plan of operations. Tom, they found was living
with one of his friends, who had a cabin near Handsome Eddy. They resolved to
seek him there, and act as circumstances should dictate.
Soon afterwards, they proceeded
to a height in Tom's neighborhood, from which they learned that he was in the habit
of going to the woods every evening after a cow, and that a bell was on the
cow. The next afternoon they went to the place where the cow was usually found.
Towards evening they took the bell from her, and drove her back into the woods.
They then returned toward the house, and getting on a log behind some bushes,
where they could see some distance in the direction of Tom's residence without
being seen themselves, they commenced ringing the tell, supposing that the
stratagem would bring Quick into their clutches, and that they could easily
shoot him as he approached their place of concealment.
Just before sundown, Tom
started after the cow, rifle in hand as usual. As soon as he heard the bell, he
thought its "ding dong" was unusual. "Mully" had never been
in the habit of ringing with as much violence, or as continuously. He stopped
and listened attentively. All was evidently not right. His quick ear detected
something in the sound which led him to believe that the bell was not "in
its accustomed place." But who or what put its clapper in motion, he was
at a loss to conjecture. Caution seemed necessary and Tom was determined to
exercise his ordinary prudence. As near as he could judge the bell was rung
about half way up the hill, from the top of which he concluded he would
reconnoitre. He took a wide circuit, (in doing which he encountered the cow,)
and soon found himself on the brow of the ascent, from which he saw the
Indians, one of whom had possession of the bell, while his rife was at his
side. The others, with their arms ready for a conflict, were peering through
the bushes in front.
They were so sure of
circumventing Tom, and that he would approach from the house, that they did not
deem the usual precautions necessary, and little dreamed that Quick was cooly
inspecting their operations from the hill. How frequently are the most cunning
taken in the very trap which they have prepared for others.
Tom thought a moment,
and only a moment, what course to pursue. He resolved to attack all three, and
was sure that he could do so without greatly endangering his own life. He knew
that his rifle would send a ball through two of them, provided he could get in
the right position, and hit them in the right place; and he thought his chance
of killing the third would be good, provided he did not take to his heels and
escape. He therefore endeavored to get them in range, and passed noiselessly
from tree to tree until he had nearly reached the place from which he intended
to shoot, when he unfortunately stepped on a twig which snapped under his foot.
The bell stopped its "ding dong" instantly, and the Indians turned,
with rifles cocked, towards him. But he had disappeared before they could see
him, and a large hemlock completely screened his form from their eyes. They saw
nothing except the cow, which was quietly grazing and walking towards them, and
supposing the cause of alarm originated with her, they gave the usual Indian
exclamation of satisfaction, and recommenced the ringing and watched as before.
After waiting a sufficient time
behind the hemlock, Tom glided noiselessly to the point from which he intended
to fire—took deliberate aim—and one of his fatal balls sped on its mission of
death. Two of the savages were at once put in a situation where physic was
powerless. The third (the bell ringer) was wounded slightly. He was so much
surprised at what had occurred, that he sprang upon his feet without his rifle,
and then took to his heels with such expedition and earnestness that he was
soon beyond the reach of harm. Tom gave the finishing stroke to the two who had
fallen, and left their bodies to feed the wild beasts of the forest.
Many of the circumstances
connected with the killing of these men soon became known to the whites, and
the savage who escaped bore the intelligence to his brethren that two more
braves had become victims of Tom's rifle. This enraged the Indians so much,
that they resolved to kill or capture Tom at all hazards, and during the same
year they almost succeeded in their design, as will appear in the next chapter.
CHAPTER
XVI.
CAPTURE
As has
been stated in a previous chapter, some of the Indians were never heard of
after they had visited Minisink. The whites as
well as their red neighbors, generally thought that Tom could throw some light
upon their fate, or at least produce their rifles, if he thought proper. But he
maintained a prudent silence in regard to them.
Notwithstanding Tom had become
somewhat infirm, he could not resist the inclination he felt to dwell again in
the solitary forests during the warm season. His stay among his friends of the
settlements, however, was more protracted than usual, and he did not depart
until about the first of June.
He made his headquarters at a
cabin near the Lechawchsin—known at present as the Lackawaxen—on the farm once
occupied by Benjamin Halbert. In this cabin he deposited his furs, and
generally remained in it himself while the weather was unpleasant.
The Indians were so rarely seen
in that part of the country that he felt little apprehension in regard to them,
notwithstanding their recent abortive attempt to kill him near the settlements.
The Indians, however, were
determined to make another attempt to capture or slay him. With this object in
view, they, organized a band of fifteen or twenty braves, who resolved to reconnoitre every neighborhood in the vicinity of the
After searching some time they
found his retreat. Fortunately for them, a storm of rain, accompanied by a
dense mist or fog, occurred opportunely, and greatly aided them in their
enterprise. Disposing of their number properly, they surrounded the cabin of
which he was the solitary occupant, and before he knew that an Indian was in
the neighborhood, he was in their power.
The cabin formed a focus
towards which the cordon of savages gradually and surely converged. Tom soon
found himself encircled by his enemies, with a dozen rifles pointed at his
breast. Surprised and unarmed as he was, escape was impossible and, resistance
useless. Like many men not half so shrewd as himself,
Tom made a virtue of necessity. He submitted, and was speedily stripped of his
clothing and bound hand and foot.
Great was the joy of the red
men when they had secured him. Their yells of triumph echoed and re‑echoed
through the forest, and it seemed as if Pandemonium, by some strange influence,
had acquired an earthly locality. They insulted him in every possible way. They
compared him with the most timid of animals, and spurned him with their feet.
Tom made no reply to their
insults. His demeanor was fearless. Not a muscle quivered, and even his eye,
that "mirror of the soul," exhibited no shade of apprehension. On the
contrary, it would occasionally darken with the most deadly hatred, or resemble
the tiger's, when that ferocious beast rushes upon his victim.
It was near night when Tom was
taken, and the Indians, after a consultation, concluded that, as it rained,
they would not turn their steps homeward until morning. A number of them
watched him closely, prepared at any moment to shoot him if necessary to
prevent his escape, while the others rummaged his effects. His skins and some
other articles were prepared for transportation. One thing, however, they did
not find, and that was Tom's rifle, which accidentally was in a dark corner of
the garret.
Among other things which
pleased them, they found a small keg of "fire water"—a liquid which
Tom seldom used, but which he generally had in his possession, and drank of it
freely. Its effects soon became visible. Some were highly exhilarated and
joyous; others grew morose, sullen and bloodthirsty; while another portion
seemed more shrewd and intelligent than usual. The latter saw that, unless Tom
was placed beyond the reach of their ill‑natured brethren, he would
probably fall a victim to their increasing moroseness ere morning; and next to
taking his life, they desired the whole tribe to participate in the torturing of
him. They were not disposed however, to take the exclusive charge of him; for
they desired to have "a night of it" too. So they suggested that it
would be well to confine their prisoner in the garret of the cabin until
morning, and that he should be bound with additional thongs so as to render
escape impossible. As none of there wished to have the approaching carousel
checked in any manner, the proposition was readily assented
to by the whole party. Extra ties were accordingly placed upon his limbs, and a
long piece of deer skin attached to his thongs and then to a rafter.
Never was mortal in a more
disagreeable predicament. He was in gloom and darkness, with no hope of
escape—his enemies drunk and rejoicing like fiends over a fallen spirit, and
his prospect of death before morning was among the uncertainties; for he heard
some of the Indians declare occasionally that it would be best to take his
scalp at once, and others contended that he should be disposed of in the manner
usual with the Indians, when they captured a great warrior.
He remained in suspense as to
the result of the debate until near
For the first time in his life,
our hero—if we may term him a hero—began to feel dispirited. Was escape
possible? There appeared to be no means within his power to extricate himself, and if he could not do so when the Indians were
intoxicated, how could he at another time when they would probably be sober?
Having slipped through their fingers so often, he felt quite sure that they
would be extremely careful to secure him for the torture. The torture! would not their ingenuity be exhausted in devising ways to
render his death as painful as possible?
The thought flashed through his
brain that it would be better to kill himself at once
than permit them to blister, and sear, and roast him until he died. But he was
so effectually tied that he could not even commit self‑murder. The dark
thought was abandoned, and he began to speculate upon the possibility of
exasperating the Indians in some manner the next day, so that they would tomahawk him,
when his attention was drawn to a slight noise below. He listened, and ere long
was convinced that something was stirring there. Soon he imagined he heard a
moccasined foot upon the floor, and presently some one seemed to be ascending
the ladder which led to the garret. A moment afterwards, the head of a drunken
savage appeared above the floor of the apartment in which Tom was confined.
In one hand the red man held a
brand of fire, and in the other a formidable looking knife. The fire east a
ruddy reflection upon the Indian's face, and upon the glittering steel, giving
a very sanguinary appearance to the former, and imparting to the latter a bright,
bloody hue.
The Indian approached with
unsteady feet, and stood before his intended victim with features distorted and
brutal from the effects of rum, and with eyes gleaming, glittering, snakish. His body swaying to and fro, he regarded Tom a
moment, and then murmuring, "Revenge is sweet! my
knife shall drink the blood of the panther which has slain my kindred!" he
prepared to strike Tom.
It was an awful moment. Tom had
often taken life wantonly, but never thought before what a dreadful thing it
was to be launched into the unseen world, without an opportunity to address a
single petition to the Divine Author and Judge of all things. In an instant, a
thousand memories of the past flitted through his brain, and his mind rested
upon the great problem of the future. What would be his fate there?
Tom hadn't time to reflect much
on this point; for when he reached it, the savage attempted to thrust his knife
into Tom's heart. Instinctively—and instinct is a better guide in such
emergencies than reason—Tom dodged—fell flat upon his face. The knife, which
was intended for his heart, passed harmlessly over him, and the drunken savage,
having missed his mark, was unable to preserve his balance, and fell headlong
over the prostrate body of Tom. His head struck heavily against the log wall of
the garret, and he fell stupid, stunned and senseless upon the floor. In his
fall he dropped the brand, which fortunately did not set fire to the hut.
Tom soon had the satisfaction
of knowing that his intended murderer no longer had the power to harm him. He
then listened to ascertain whether the noise of the encounter had aroused the
Indians below, and found that all was still.
He got upon his feet again and
stood as before. Suddenly the idea occurred to him that if he could reach the
Indian he might possibly get the knife, and cut himself loose. He threw himself
upon the floor again and moved over it like a legless worm in the direction of
the Indian. Poor Tom was doomed to disappointment in his attempt to reach the
savage. The thong which was tied to his neck was not long enough! Without any
object in view, he turned back, and endeavored to reach the place he had left,
when he made a discovery which rewarded him for his trouble.
While crawling back his foot came
it contact with something which felt colder than the rubbish on the floor. It
was the knife which he was in search of, and which the drunken Indian had
dropped as he tumbled over Tom. But how was he to use it? His hands and feet
were useless, bound as they were. What good could a knife do him? We will see.
Tom managed to get the handle
of the knife between his teeth, and soon freed his ankles and cut the strip of
hide which had bound him to the rafter. He then searched for a crevice in the
side of the cabin, in which he could thrust the handle of the Indian's knife,
so that the blade would point outward and be firm. Then, by turning his back,
he contrived to cut the remaining fastenings, and was again almost free.
His first impulse was to
descend and pass over the prostrate forms of his captors. Fearing, however,
that some of them had become so far sobered that they might be disturbed, he
concluded to jump out of the garret, after removing some of the bark with which
the hut was covered. Going to the corner of the garret he got his favorite
rifle, and soon after was threading the mazes of the forest, naked and hungry.
Entirely destitute, he reached
the settlement of Minisink, where he was kindly received, and a suit of clothes
furnished him.
The Indians when they looked
for Tom in the morning, found nothing but the thongs with which he had been
tied. Their disappointment was great; but it was modified somewhat, by the
remains of the "fire water."
In a few hours they commenced
their homeward march, taking with them everything belonging to Tom.
A week or so afterwards the
Indian Slayer returned to the cabin to look after his property. There is
nothing which will enrage a trapper more than to rob him of his furs. He
regards such an act as the 'ultima thule' of baseness—the lowest point of meanness.
When Tom found that his cabin was stripped, and that his skins (which were
worth about $30.) were gone, his anger knew no bounds. In the language of one
of our informants, "he was tearing mad;" and it is supposed that the
robbery, more than anything else, led him to engage in the affair which
resulted in the murder of Canope, who was the last Indian killed by Tom.
CHAPTER XVII.
MURDER
OF CANOPE.
NOT
long after Tom was taken prisoner on the Lackawaxen, two Indians came to what
is now the town of
Previous to the war, they had
been frequently at Minisink, particularly Canope, who was a fine specimen of
his race, and had been highly esteemed by his white neighbors.
Ben Shanks, it is said, was the
tallest Indian ever seen on the
During hostilities, they had
taken an active part in favor of King George, and had accompanied several of
the ruthless expeditions of the tories and savages against the whigs of Wawarsink and Minisink.
Huycon was bold, crafty and
cunning; and on one occasion had penetrated Wawarsink, and nearly succeeded in
taking prisoner Colonel Jansen, a noted patriot. Shanks was distinguished for
his barbarous murders, and was very obnoxious to the whigs on account of the
part he had taken in the murder of John Mack and the two young ladies who were
killed on the Shawangunk.
At the time the circumstances
detailed in this chapter occurred, a majority of the white families who had
located themselves in Cochecton previous to the war, had returned, and again
lived on their farms. Some of them were old acquaintances of Canope and Huycon.
The Indians stopped on their way down to renew the friendly relations which had
existed previous to the late troubles. One of the men they called to see was
Joseph Ross, who lived near the mouth of the Callicoon, and some of whose
descendants still reside in Cochecton. Ross appears to have been a humane man.
He advised Canope and Shanks to go no further, and told them their lives would
be in danger if they went below, as there were some desperate characters
there—Tom Quick among the number—who would rejoice at an opportunity to kill
them. A man named Josiah Parks gave them the same advice.
The two savages were
experienced and brave warriors, however, and knew not what fear was. They had
lurked about the houses of the whigs when war existed,
and they imagined it would now be cowardly to turn back from fear. Saying that
it was "peace time," and that they did not think the whites would
hurt them, they went to the ponds in the vicinity of Handsome Eddy, where they
fished and hunted; but carefully avoided the settlers and others. While they
were thus engaged, they were discovered by a man named Ben, or Benjamin Haines,
who lived at the Eddy. He professed to be friendly, and told them that if they
would go with him to the river, they might make his house their home. They
declined at first; but he promised to protect them, and finally induced them to
accompany him.
This Haines, as the result will
prove, was a dastardly wretch. He was as barbarous as a savage; but did not
possess a single trait which partially redeems the Indian character. The
murders of Quick may shock us; but the mean treachery of Haines can elicit no
other feeling than that of abhorrence and contempt.
While the Indians were at his
house, Haines pretended that it was necessary for him to go to Minisink after
rum and ammunition. The real object of his journey was to see Tom, and induce
him to go to the Eddy and murder his guests. It is said that he wished to get
possession of the furs which the Indians had brought with them. He found the
old Indian Slayer, who was yet wild with rage, on account of having been robbed
of his skins at the cabin on the Lackawaxen. Tom readily listened to Haines,
and agreed to kill the savages, provided he could get some one to assist; for
he thought it advisable not to attempt to cope with Huycon and Canope alone, as
it was well known they were each nearly equal to him in cunning and bravery.
Among
Tom's friends was a man named Cobe Chambers, or Shimer, who had formerly lived
in
After conferring with Tom,
Haines went home, with the understanding that the Indian Slayer should follow
in a day or two and bring Shinier with him. Haines found Canope and his
companion still at his cabin when he returned.
Quick and Shimer reached the
Eddy a day or two after Haines, got there. They found the latter and the
Indians in the cabin waiting for their morning meal, which "the woman of
the house" was preparing for them. Ben professed to be surprised at their
coming, and greeted Tom as an old acquaintance; but gave him a fictitious name,
so that the Indians, who had never seen him before, would not know who he was.
After inquiring where they were going, etc., he invited them to eat breakfast
with him which, after a little urging, they agreed to do.
While Ben's wife was putting
the dishes on the table, he filled a bowl with water, and taking it out doors,
put it on a stump a rod or two from the house. He then returned, and told the
Indians to wash themselves. They went out of doors for
that purpose, and Haines had a brief opportunity to confer with Tom and Shimer.
He told them that he would get the savages to go with him unarmed to the
"fish rocks," to catch fish, and that the opportunity to shoot them
at that place would be good, as there was a convenient clump of bushes close
by, from which to fire. Tom expressed his satisfaction with what Haines had
said—the Indians came back into the house, and all sat down and ate a hearty
breakfast. Tom and Ben seemed to be perfectly at ease all the time, as if
nothing more than usual was on their minds, while Cobe appeared to be
disconcerted.
After breakfast, the new comers
apparently resumed their journey up the river. They were soon in ambush,
however, near the place where Ben said he would entice the Indians. Not long
after this, Huycon, Canope and Haines, and a little son of the latter, came to
the rocks and began to fish. Before Tom and his companion fired, it occurred to
Haines that his son might be injured in the affray, and he ordered him to go
home. Something in the manner of Haines caused the Indians to suspect his
fidelity; but he quickly quieted their suspicions, and the three continued to
angle as before. Canope having broken his hook, and none of the party being in
possession of one to give him, laid down on the rocks
near Shanks, with his head resting upon his hand and elbow. This was considered
a favorable opportunity by Tom and Shimer, and they took aim. Cobe, who was not
accustomed to such business, was greatly excited, and Tom declared afterwards
that his (Cobe's) hand trembled so that he heard the barrel of his gun rattle
against the log on which it rested.
They fired. Tom's ball passed
through the hand and the lower part of the head of Canope, wounding him
severely. Shimer, as might have been safely predicted, did not hit Shanks.
The wounded man ran to Haines
and claimed the protection which had been promised; but instead of granting it,
the wretch seized a pine knot, shouting: "Tink! tink
how you ust to kill white folks. 'Pant! 'pant! I'll send yor soul to hall'n a moment!" and then
dispatched him by beating out his brains.
Even Tom, familiar as he was
with scenes of blood was shocked at the perfidy of Haines. He came up as the
latter was dealing out his blows and exclaimed, "D—n a man who will
promise an Indian protection, and then knock him on the head!"
Shanks, when he heard the
report of the guns, jumped into the river and pretended to be wounded and drowning,
until the current had carried him down the stream a short distance, to a place
where the bank was covered with bushes. Here he scrambled on shore and ran off
limping, hallooing and groaning as if in great agony. The ruse did not deceive
Tom, however, who, finding that Shanks was traveling pretty fast for a man who
was apparently so badly wounded, started in pursuit, loading his rifle as he
ran, and soon got sufficiently near to fire. At the moment he snapped his gun
Shanks looked back, and as Tom shot, fell. The Indian afterwards said that he
dodged at the flash of the gun. Be that as it may, Tom did not hit him. A ball
hole was afterward found through his blanket, but whether it was made by Tom or
Cobe could not be ascertained.
After the last discharge of the
gun Huycon took to his heels in earnest, and Tom found that his shanks were
neither active nor long enough to overtake him. He returned to the
"rocks," saying, "If ever legs did service, it was them."
Another
narrator of this affair says: "Some time in 1784, three Indians came to
the house of Joseph Ross. Their names were Nicholas, Ben Shanks and Canope.
While they staid there they amused themselves by
shooting across the river at a large chestnut tree, which is still standing.
They several times went from the house of Ross to David Young's. In doing this
they passed my father's place, which gave me frequent opportunities to see
them. How long they remained in the
neighborhood I am unable to say. After they left we heard nothing more about them
until the report came that Canope had been killed at Handsome Eddy. The report was that Ben Haines and Shimer, in a
hunting expedition, discovered these Indians on the waters of the Shehola,
where they had encamped, and were just commencing to trap for beaver. Haines having been well acquainted with them
before the war,
accosted them in the most friendly manner, calling them brothers, and assuring
them that he was overjoyed to find in them
his old associates. The Indians having just killed a deer, the whole party heartily and amicably partook
of a meal of venison. After this the Indians invited their brother pale faces
to visit them again, and Haines invited his brother red men to visit him. They
thus parted on apparent friendly terms. The
white men had gone but a short distance before Shimer proposed to return, kill
the Indians, and take their traps and rifles. To this Haines replied that it
would be too dangerous; that they could not expect to kill more than two at the
first shot; that there would be one left with three loaded rifles, while theirs
would be empty, and that he would shoot both of them before they could reload.
"Let them catch the beaver and other game," said he, "and then
we can get cousin Tom to help us. He will be delighted
to have a chance to kill them." So when they supposed the Indians had
caught the game, and prepared the skins, they applied to cousin
Tom. To their surprise, he refused to go into the woods where there were
Indians. He consented, however, to assist them if Haines would entice the
savages to the river. Accordingly Haines prevailed on two of them to come out,
by agreeing to protect them and take their furs to Minisink and exchange them
for such articles as they needed. After he had got them to his house he induced
them to go with him to fish on a certain rock, where, by a preconcerted plan,
Shinier and Quick were in ambush. As soon as the Indians were in a convenient
position, the two white men fired. Shimer's bullet took effect and wounded
Canope, but Quick missed his Indian, who escaped. Canope ran to brother Ben for protection, when the latter said,
"Pant, d—n you! for you have not a minute to
live!" and then knocked him on the head with a pine knot. Shimer was taken
and put in jail, where he remained some time, but was finally liberated. Haines
and Tom sculked about from one place to another to keep out of the reach of
sheriffs and constables until Shimer was set at liberty, when they again came
out boldly among the people. Shimer, while in prison, complained much of the
unfairness of keeping him confined, while Ben and Tom, who were equally
culpable, were permitted to be at large."
Two weeks had elapsed since the
Indians passed through Cochecton, when Shanks returned alone, "damning the
Yankees for killing Canope," and swearing that they should suffer for what
they had done. He was first seen at a house a short distance from Cochecton bridge, where he stopped to rest and get something to exit.
While he was there Mrs. Drake, whose father‑inlaw, and first and second
husband were killed by savages and tories, came into the house. Almost
immediately after seeing Shanks she fainted, so great was her dread of those
who had slain so many of her near and dear friends. He was next seen by Mr.
Joseph Ross, who invited him to tarry a while at his house, but he refused to
come near Ross at first, the bad faith of Haines having caused him to suspect
every pale face. He finally consented, however, to stay with him a short time.
He was treated kindly by Mr. Ross and his neighbors.
While here his conduct afforded
much amusement to the juvenile members of the family. Mr. Ross and his
"hands" were hoeing corn, and every time they went to their work
Shanks accompanied them. As soon as he got to the field he selected the highest
ground in it, and after glancing rapidly and suspiciously aver the surrounding
country he seated himself a la Turque among the waving and rustling
corn, where he remained out of sight fifteen or twenty minutes. He would then
jump upon his feet, get upon the tips of his toes, "stretch his neck"
upward as far as possible, look around as if expecting to see Tom, and then
squat upon his haunches again. As long as he remained in the field he acted in
this way. The boys could compare him to nothing but a rather vigilant and
somewhat alarmed turkey cock. After remaining a day or two he continued his
journey homeward to relate another great wrong committed by the white men. He
left Ross breathing threats of vengeance, and was ferried across the
The death of Canope was
regretted by most of the frontier settlers for many reasons. His murder was
brought about by the blackest treachery, and was in violation of a solemn
treaty of peace, the strict observance of which was necessary to their safety.
Nothing could justify the murder. It was known that others beside Tom were
engaged in the transaction, and there was good ground to fear that the Indians
would avenge his death, and in doing so, not discriminate between the bloody
perpetrators of the outrage and those who would have sheltered him from harm.
Gradually, after this event,
the fears of the pioneers wore away, and finally they continued to fish and
hunt and cultivate their lands without apprehension.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A
AFTER the killing of Canope, Tom was not again annoyed by
the Indians, who no longer visited the region in which he hunted, which was
literally to them a "dark and bloody ground." They avoided it as a
good christian avoids perdition. None of them had
sufficient hardihood to attempt to harm him, and he had the satisfaction of
knowing that the soil which had been wet with his father's blood would no more
be pressed with the red man's moccasin. Practically, he was "monarch of
all he surveyed" beyond the settlements, for the trappers—the only persons
he met in the woods—regarded him with an awe akin to superstition, and paid him
as much deference—‑nay more than they would have paid to a "lord of
the manor."
If he
had been younger, he would have followed the Indians to their new homes, but
the infirmities of age began to press very heavily upon him, and the comforts
of civilized life afforded him more satisfaction than they did in the
"lusty prime of manhood." The warm corner of a fire‑place—a mug
of "medicated apple juice," and a bed of feathers he now thought
contrasted favorably with his former mode of living in the woods, where he was
compelled to subsist upon the game he could kill, and to sleep upon no other
couch than what was afforded by the green boughs of the hemlock.
Occasionally however his
old habits would regain the mastery, when he would wander off into the woods,
with his rifle and dogs and be gone days, and weeks and months, after which he
would return with a few beaver and
other skins, and a good supply of venison and bear meat. The meat was
invariably given to the family with whom he intended to spend the succeeding
winter, and fortunate was that family, for want never intruded his gaunt form
across the threshold while Tom remained, so sure was he to bring an abundant
store of animal food.
During one of these excursions he met with a most extraordinary
adventure.
Tom
had been hunting several days on the banks of the Callicoon, to which region
he was very partial. Deer and bears were plenty in its fine, park‑like
forests, and the wild turkey, from which Callicoon derives its name, {NOTE:
Callicoon is a Dutch word, signifying turkey} had not yet fled, like the aborigine,
to a more solitary and secure retreat. Trout of an excellent quality swarmed
within its crystal waters, the ice, temperature of which, even when Sirius is
in the ascendant, will cause a convulsive shudder to run through the person who
rashly ventures within their influence. He could wander there too, in almost
all directions without being compelled to force his way through almost
impassable jungles of the rhododendron, or to encounter the slough of almost
equally impenetrable swamps. It was truly a charming region, and it is not
surprising that Tom preferred it above all others.
The
morning was exhilarating and bright. An October frost had rendered the
atmosphere pure and bracing, and Tom felt full ten
years younger than usual. He had visited his traps the day previous, and had
nothing particular on his hand except to provide a dinner suitable to his
palate; and the air was so conducive to digestion that he concluded he could
dine somewhat extravagantly. He had finished his breakfast of trout and bear
steak, and taken a short stroll through the woods, when it occurred to him that
a fat young turkey would be just what would suit him for his noon‑tide
meal. So he concluded he would find one, and roast it, after the rude fashion
of hunters, for dinner.
With
this object in view, he leisurely proceeded, accompanied by his dogs, to a
beech ridge not far off, where he thought he would be apt to find the desired
game. When he reached the highest point of the ridge, he could not but pause to
view the grand panorama exhibited by nature. The sunny maple slopes
particularly caught his attention, where nature seemed to flash in all the
gorgeousness of gold and crimson, intermingled with every beautiful tint the
mind of man can imagine, but which he cannot rival in any of the productions of
his fancy. The deep emerald of the northern declivities, and the sober attire
of the beech, and birch, and cherry, which surrounded the maple forests, seemed
to add new glory, by contrast, to their gaudily dressed neighbors, while a
mellow October sun threw over all
———
"That delicious charm,
Peculiar to our land,
That comes, ere Winter's
frosty arm
Knits nature's icy
band."
The
scene spread out before him by the Almighty Hand was one of such surpassing
beauty, that the most rude and uncultivated mind must have been affected by it
with sensations alike pleasing and profitable. Its influence was not lost on
him, little used as he was to "the gentle mood," for his aspect was
more calm and thoughtful than usual, and he seemed pleased with himself and
everything around him.
Some
two or three hours were spent by Tom in quietly contemplating the unsullied
face of nature. He had met with no game, and began to fancy that he might be
compelled to dine otherwise than he imagined he would in the morning, unless he
bestirred himself with greater diligence. He then concluded to go to a ridge on
the opposite side of the valley. While walking thither, he passed near it ledge
of rocks, where his dogs suddenly left him and in a few minutes began to bark
furiously in the vicinity of the rocks. An old hunter can easily tell from the
tone of his dogs whether they leave anything at bay worth looking after. Tom
was convinced by the barking of his [dogs], that they were in the neighborhood
of game worthy his attention, and he accordingly went to where they were,
expecting to find them engaged with a bear or something of the kind.
When
he came to the ledge he found them at the mouth of what appeared to be a cavern
in the rocks, which was large enough to admit them, but which they hesitated to
enter until he urged them in. After they had gone a few feet within the cave,
Tom found, by the noise they made, that they had serious work before them, for
amid their snarling, and growling, and yelling, he imagined he recognized the
cry of a panther. It was in fact a young panther about half grown. After an engagement in the lair of some minutes, the combatants
carne struggling towards the opening. One of the dogs, having outflanked
the adversary, attacked him in the rear, while the other engaged the attention
of the enemy in front. Both carefully avoided the formidable claws of the
panther, and watched every opportunity to close in when they could do so with
advantage.
Tom's
first impulse, when they came out of the cave, was to shoot the panther; but
thinking that an old one was probably is the vicinity, he prudently desisted,
and, tomahawk in hand, urged on his dogs, which, when they found their master
would participate in the struggle, fought with redoubled fury, and soon succeeded
in getting the advantage, Tom in the meantime giving it one or two
well-directed blows which caused it to shriek with pain. He well knew that its
cries would bring something more formidable to his neighborhood which caused
him to assail the animal with redoubled energy, and soon he had the
satisfaction of seeing it stretched dead at his feet. It was well for him that
it was so.
The
dogs re‑entered the cave immediately, and to his surprise were soon
engaged with a second young one. As they went in again, Tom sprang for his
rifle. He had just taken it up as a fullgrown panther leaped from the brink of
the precipice into an elm directly over his head. Before it could give the
fatal spring, however, a bullet from his rifle went crashing through its brain.
With a wild cry of agony, it relinquished its hold of the tree, and fell
struggling with death at his feet.
His
surprise and horror may be imagined, when, as he stepped back from the dying
beast, he discovered that he had another to contend with—the mate of the one,
he had just killed—and that he was utterly defenceless. This, like the other,
leaped from the precipice into a tree near by, and prepared to spring upon him.
Before it could do so, however, Tom was behind a hemlock, which
"movement" baffled the panther a moment—and but for a moment—for by
the time he could charge the rifle with powder, the beast had leaped from tree
to tree, and was on the one which shielded him. But the dogs very opportunely
dragged the second young one, shrieking, from the cave. This diverted the
attention of the monster, and as Tom rammed down a ball, it leaped upon the
dogs, screaming with rage.
Almost
instantly, one of the poor faithful creatures was crushed and mangled beneath the
panther, while the other had its scalp nearly torn from its head by a blow from
the ferocious animal, when Tom sent a leaden ball, together with his ramrod,
through the heart of the beast which made such sad havoc amongst his dogs.
The young panther, released from the hold of the
dogs, returned into the cavern, where Tom, as soon as he could manufacture a
temporary ramrod and reload, followed it, and it shared the fate of the other
three.
Tom
forgot all about having a turkey for dinner that day, and indeed about having
dinner at all. His danger had been so great, and his escape so miraculous, that
everything else was driven from his mind, until the excitement caused by the
adventure had passed away, when he skinned his game, and afterwards exhibited to
admiring friends the trophies of his prowess.
He related the fact of having killed the four
panthers to a favorite nephew, (who stated it to us) and described the locality
of the transaction so accurately that our informant, some forty years
afterwards, readily found the cave, and recognized it as the one described by
the old Indian Slayer.
CHAPTER XIX.
DEATH OF
FROM
the time Tom killed the panther until the day of his death, but few noteworthy
incidents of his life occurred. He generally lived at the house of a man named
James Rosencrantz about three miles below Carpenter's Point, where he was
kindly treated and every comfort he could desire furnished him. Now that his
conduct no longer endangered the safety of the settlements, he was regarded by
all who knew him with a deferential awe, which must have been very gratifying
to his self‑respect, as it showed him that if the government had regarded
him as an outlaw, he still had friends who approved what he had done, and who
respected him for his fearless and crafty subtlety.
We
have seen and conversed with several aged men who were acquainted with him, and
they speak of the old Indian Slayer with as much enthusiasm as the soldiers of
the French empire exhibit when they mention the name of Bonaparte. They
describe him as having been six feet in height; and taken altogether, rather a
raw‑boned man; his cheek bones were high; his eyes gray and restless; his
hair, before it had been silvered by age, was of a dark brown. He was not in
the habit of talking very much—in fact, was taciturn and very quiet in his
demeanor. His features were grave and dignified, and seldom relaxed into a
smile. He was quite temperate, and seldom drank alcoholic liquors, except
cider, of which, like all of
In
summer, until his last sickness, he was in the habit of making occasional
visits to the scene of his adventures. When solicited to do so, he would
generally relate, in a modest and unassuming way, the particulars in regard to
the murders he had committed openly; but could seldom be induced to talk of
those which he had committed when no witnesses were present.
As
his infirmities increased upon him, he found a roof necessary, even in summer,
to protect him from the night air during his hunting expeditions. Consequently
he resorted to some house or cabin in the vicinity of his traps, and where deer
and bears were plenty. His headquarters in the summer were generally at the
house of Showers, near
It is
said that, sometime during his life he was setting a trap in a certain swamp in
Lumberland, and found it necessary to remove some earth from a spring so that
he could "sink his trap." While making the excavation he came upon a
fine vein of lead ore.
Upon
making the experiment he ascertained that it would "melt" readily and
easily, and he found it quite as convenient to make his bullets from the ore as
from the manufactured article. It is said that he never afterwards bought much
lead, but obtained what he used from the vein he had discovered.
This is
rendered somewhat more probable from the fact that a similar tradition existed
in regard to the Wurtsboro mine previous to its re‑discovery.
When
Tom found that his days were coming to an end, he imparted the fact of the
discovery of the mine to a favorite nephew, (our informant,) and promised to go
with him on a certain day to show him the locality of the ore. Before the
appointed time, however, Tom was taken sick, and was never afterwards able to
go from the house of Rosenkrantz, where he died of old age in the year 1795 or
1796. He was buried on the farm of Rosenkrantz.
[We
have heard the following related of Tom's last sickness, etc., in neighborhoods
more than fifty miles from each other:
The
Indian Killer caught the smallpox when he was quite old, and it was soon
ascertained that he could not live more than a few hours. He was told that
death would soon seize him, when he expressed sorrow because he had not been
able to kill Indians enough to make an even hundred. "And," runs the
legend, "he was the means of destroying a much greater number than he
wished to kill, for as soon as the redskins learned that he was dead they dug
up his body, cut it into small pieces, and sent the pieces to all the Indian
villages far and near. They had not an opportunity to burn him while he was
alive, so they sent his remains to their friends to be burned after he was
dead. By this means the smallpox was spread all over the Indian country, and incredible numbers died with it!"
That
Tom died of old age, we have the testimony of a gentleman who was with him at
the time, and who attended his funeral.]
During
his last illness he never expressed a regret that he
had killed so many Indians, but was sorry that he had not murdered a greater
number! The shooting of a savage he evidently thought was an act which should
not render his death‑bed a bed of penitence!
Tom
was in the habit of concealing in the woods some of the guns he took from the
Indians. As the country has been cleared up the settlers have occasionally
found fragments of fire‑arms in clefts of rocks, hollow trees; etc. These
fragments are generally highly prized, and preserved as relics of the old
Indian Killer.
An
old man named Homans used to say that Tom once invited him "to take a
hunt." Homans had no gun, but Tom said he would find one for him in the
woods. So they started off together. After they had gone some distance, Tom
stepped up to a hollow tree, and drew out seven rifles, and gave Homans his
choice, telling him that he had found them beside dead Indians. The one Homans
took proved to be a good one, and he and Tom had a fine hunt together.
Those
who knew Tom in his latter days, say that he had carried his favorite rifle
until the stock where it rested on his shoulder was worn through, so that the
ramrod was visible at the place. What a picture the Indian Slayer must have
presented in his old age! The ancient Hunter and Indian Killer, weather beaten
and venerable from age—his rifle and accoutrements all equally timeworn—his
dogs in keeping with himself, would have formed no bad subject for the pencil.
Notwithstanding
the assertion that Tom had a beautiful daughter who bore the pretty name of
"Omoa," the Indian Slayer was never blessed with wife or child. It is
not known that he ever contemplated marriage as something with which he had
anything to do. Yet he seems to have been no misogamist. He loved, after
returning from his solitary life in the woods, to enjoy the society of the fair
portion of humanity, particularly if they were bound to him by ties of blood.
If he ever felt the influence of Venus, the flame of affection expired almost
as soon as lighted.
That
his nature was not originally altogether incapable of the finer feelings of the
human heart, is palpable from the strong and endearing
love he bore his father. His affection for the old man was so deeply implanted
in his mind that nothing could cause it to wither until the chilling hand of
death was laid upon him. No other sentiment influenced his conduct to a greater
degree than the love of kindred, unless it was hatred of those who injured the
objects of his regard.
It
would be extremely difficult to find a parallel to the life of Tom. Nearly his
whole life was spent in a warfare upon a race not altogether despicable in
numbers—a race equally crafty and cruel. He was outlawed by his own government,
and received comparatively but little aid and comfort from any source; yet he
maintained the unequal contest during his whole life, and finally succeeded in
rendering the safety of the Indians who came within his district so doubtful
that they avoided it altogether, and left him in undisputed possession of their
former hunting grounds. That he succeeded in foiling his enemy at every
point—including each artifice to ensnare him; and that he continued to imbrue
his hands in blood, with entire impunity until his own age, and the removal and
diminished numbers of his enemies put an end to his outrages, forms one of the
most extraordinary chapters in the history of border life.
We
presume that ere we close our "eventful history," it will be
unnecessary to make an effort to prove that the Indians, if they had historians
of their own, could have rendered the conduct of the whites with whom they came
in contact quite as worthy of execration as the white historians have made that
of the red man; nor is it necessary to attempt to show that the murders
committed by Tom were unjustifiable, and that no system of ethics, whether of
savage or civilized origin, will afford an excuse for his bloody outrages.
It is
true that the elder Quick was killed by the Indians; but he was killed in a
time of war. It is true, the old man treated his slayers kindly in happier
times; nevertheless, they were justifiable by the "bloody code" in
destroying their enemies during hostilities. According to the theology of the
unsanctified, Tom would have been right in pursuing the guilty if they had shed
his father's blood contrary to treaties of peace. But as it is, the writer
cannot attempt to palliate or excuse his conduct, nor can he account for the
admiration which his doings excited among the hardy pioneers, in any other way
than by supposing that in the struggle for mastery between the aborigines and
those who supplanted them, the refined and humane sentiments which are promoted
by civilization and Christianity, were obliterated by the dark and unfeeling
dogmas which obtain a lodgment in the human mind during perilous and bloody
times.
CHAPTER
XX.
THERE were a number of transactions in the vicinity of
the
Brant's invasion
of Minisink, and the battle which ensued in what is now the town of
Count Pulaski had been
stationed in Minisink with a battalion of cavalry; but in February previous to
the battle, he was ordered to
On
James Swartwout, whose father
and brothers were killed the preceding year, again escaped narrowly. He was in
the blacksmith shop with a negro, when he discovered the Indians close at hand. He at once
crept up the chimney of the shop, while the negro
remained below, not fearing the savages, knowing probably, that they would not
harm him. When the Indians entered, they commenced throwing things about the
premises, and selecting such as they fancied. Finally one of them went to the
bellows, and began to blow the fire at a rate which proved very uncomfortable
to Swartwout, who was nearly strangled with the smoke and the fumes of the
burning charcoal, and had great difficulty in retaining his place in the
chimney. The Indian became weary of the sport after a little, or was induced by
the negro to go at something else. After they had gone
off, Swartwout came down from his uncomfortable quarters and escaped.
A man named Rolif Cuddeback was
pursued some distance into the woods by an Indian, and found it impossible to
outstrip his pursuer. When nearly overtaken, he stopped
suddenly and the Indian hurled a tomahawk at him, which, hitting a bush, missed
its mark. Cuddeback at once grappled with the supple savage, and they
had a furious battle with the weapons of nature. Both struggled for a knife
which was in the Indian's belt; but which finally fell to the ground. Neither
could safely stoop to pick it up, and so they continued to struggle for life or
death in the natural way. Cuddeback was the most
athletic of the two; but the savage had besmeared his limbs and body with
grease, so that he could slip from Cuddeback's hands whenever the letter laid
hold of him. Cuddeback, however, gave the red skin such a buffeting that, after
a while, he was glad to beat a retreat. It is said that he never recovered from
the rough handling he received from the white man; but died subsequently from
the injuries inflicted by Cuddeback. The latter escaped.
Eager, in [his] History of
Orange County, says that the savages visited the school house, and threatened
to exterminate one generation of the settlement at a blow. Jeremiah Van Auken
was the teacher, and they took him from the house, conveyed him about half a
mile off and then killed him. Some of the boys in the school were cleft with
the tomahawk; others fled to the woods for concealment from their bloody
assailants; while the little girls stood by the slain body of their teacher
bewildered and horror struck, not knowing their own fate, whether death or
captivity. While they were standing in this pitiful condition, a strong
muscular Indian came along, and with a brush dashed some black paint across
their aprons, bidding them to "hold up the mark when they saw an Indian
coming, and it would save them," and with the yell of a savage plunged
into the woods and disappeared. This was Brant, and the little daughters of the
settlers were safe. The Indians, as they passed along and ran from place to
place, saw the black mark, and left the children undisturbed. The happy
thought, like a flash of lightning, entered the minds of these little sisters,
and suggested that they could use the mark to save their brothers. The
scattered boys were quickly assembled, and the girls threw their aprons over
the clothes of the boys, and stamped the black impression upon their outer
garments. They in turn held up the Palladium of safety as the Indians passed
and repassed, and these children were thus saved from injury and death to the
unexpected joy of their parents.
Col. Stone in his life of Brant
says that no sooner had the fugitives from Minisink arrived at
It was the opinion of some of
the officers that the best way to attack the enemy was to fall upon them at
night while they were encamped and asleep. This project was discussed at the
council, but was finally abandoned because it was feared that in the confusion
and uncertainty of a night attack, the Americans would be as apt to destroy
each other as to kill the Indians.
Captain Tyler, who had some
knowledge of the woods, was sent forward at the head of a small scouting party
to follow the trail of the Indians, and to ascertain, if possible, their
movements, as it was evident that they could not be far in advance. The captain
had proceeded but a short distance before he fell from the fire of the unseen
enemy. This circumstance occasioned considerable alarm, but the volunteers
nevertheless pressed eagerly forward, sand it was not long before they emerged
upon the hills of the Delaware, in full view of that river, upon the eastern
bank of which, at a distance of three‑fourths of a mile, the Indians were
seen deliberately marching in the direction of a fording‑place at the
mouth of the Lackawaxen. This discovery was made at about
The determination was
immediately formed by Colonel Hathorn to intercept the, enemy at the fording
place, for which purpose instant dispositions were made. But, owing to
intervening woods and hills, the opposing bodies soon lost sight of each other
and an adroit movement on the part of Brant gave him an advantage which it was
impossible for the Americans to regain. Anticipating the design of Hathorn, the
moment the Americans were out of sight, Brant wheeled to the right, and by
threading a ravine across which Hathorn had passed, threw himself into his
rear, by which means he was enabled deliberately to select his ground for
battle, and form an ambuscade. Disappointed at not finding the enemy, the Americans
were brought to a stand, when the enemy disclosed himself partially, in a
quarter altogether unexpected.
The first shot was fired upon
an Indian, who, as the Americans came to the bank of the river, was crossing
the
The belligerents soon engaged
in deadly conflict; when, above the whooping and yelling of the savages, the
hurrahs of the whites, and the reports of the fire arms, Brant was heard, in a voice
which was never forgotten by those who were present, commanding all who were
on the opposite side of the river with the plunder, to return. They at once
dashed into the river, and soon fell upon the rear of the Americans, who were
thus completely surrounded and hemmed in, except about one‑third of their
number, whom Brant in the early part of the engagement had managed to cut off
from the main body. The enemy were several tines greater in number than the
militia, who were ultimately driven in and confined to about an acre of ground.
Being short of ammunition,
Hathorn's orders, in imitation of those of Putnam at
The battle commenced about
The militia were completely cut
off from water, and suffered greatly during the day from thirst. About sunset
their ammunition gave out, and the survivors endeavored to escape, breaking
through the circle of blood‑thirsty savages. Many of them were cut down
while making the attempt.
Dr. Tusten was engaged behind a
cliff of rocks in dressing the wounded when the retreat commenced. There were
seventeen disabled men under his care at the moment, whose cries for protection
and mercy were of the most moving description. The Indians fell upon them,
however, and they all, together with the doctor, perished under the tomahawk.
Among the slain were many of the first citizens of
One of the militia who escaped
was so exhausted he could not run far. He followed in the direction his friends
had taken, until he could go no further. He then got out of the path, near
which he remained some time. In a little while he saw the Indians one after
another running in the direction the whites had gone. None of them looked
towards the place where he was, until finally a very powerful savage discovered
him. The Indian's eye no sooner rested on him than the white man fired his last
shot and fled. The Indian did not follow, and it was supposed he was killed or
badly wounded. The name of the white man, we believe, was Cuddeback.
There was one, (Major Wood)
who, during the battle, saved himself by means which
Brant said were dishonorable. By some process or other, though not a freemason,
he had acquired a knowledge of the master mason's
grand hailing signal of distress; and having been informed that Brant was a member
of the brotherhood, he gave the mystic sign. Faithful to his pledge, the
chieftain interposed and saved his life. Discovering the imposture afterwards,
he was very indignant. Still, he spared his life, and the prisoner ultimately
returned to his friends after a long captivity.
There is another reason given
why Wood's life was spared by Brant. Eager says the sign was accidentally made
by him, and further that on the evening after the battle, when Brant was about
to tie him, lest he should escape, Wood remonstrated, and said he was a
gentleman and promised not to escape. They did not tie him, but directed him to
lay between two Indians, who informed him that if he
attempted to escape they would tomahawk him. The blanket on which he slept
caught fire during the night, and he dare not move from his position to
extinguish it, lest he should experience the reality of the threat, and be
tomahawked. At last the fire reached his feet, and he kicked it out. The
blanket belonged to Brant. Wood was harshly treated by Brant ever after, and
when asked the reason of his conduct, he said: "D—n you, you burnt my
blanket." Wood resided in the county many years and was a very respectable
citizen.
But we are of opinion, from all
the circumstances of the case, that Wood was not a free mason, and from the
reason of the enmity of Brant, as expressed in the above anecdote, that Wood
was innocent of any fraud upon Brant, and that the suggestion was a slander.
Among the killed was Moses
Thomas, 2d, a son of the gentleman of that name who was murdered by the savages
near the block house in Cochecton. He was slain by a tory named Case Cole.
For forty three years the bones
of these victims of savage warfare were permitted to bleach upon the bleak
hill side where the battle took place. But one attempt had been made to gather
and bury them, and that was made by the widows of the slain, of whom there were
thirty‑three in the Presbyterian congregation of
NORTH
Benj. Tusten—
Bazaliel
Tyler—Capt. Stephen
Mead,
Ephraim Masten—Ens. Benjamin
Vail—Capt.
Nathaniel Fitch—Adj. John
Wood—Lieut.
John
Duncan—Capt. Nathaniel
Terwilliger,
Samuel
Jones—Capt. Joshua
Lockwood,
John Little—Capt. Ephraim
Ferguson.
Ephraim
Middaugh—Ens.
WEST
Rober
Townsend, Joseph
Norris,
Samuel
Knapp, Gilbert
S. Vail,
James
Knapp, Joel
Decker,
Benjamin
Bennett, Abram
Shepherd,
William
Baker, ——
Shepherd,
Jacob
Dunning, Nathan
Wade,
Jonathan
Pierce, Simon
Wait,
James
Little, ——
Talmage.
SOUTH
John
Carpenter, Gamaliel
Bailey,
David
Barney, Moses
Thomas,
Jonathan
Haskell, Eleazer
Owens,
Abram
Williams, Adam
Embler,
James
Mosher, Samuel
Little,
Isaac
Ward, Benjamin
Dunning,
Baltus
Niepos, Daniel
Reed.
EAST
Erected
by the Inhabitants of
Sacred
to the Memory of Forty‑four of Their
THE
CHAPTER XXI.
RUSS
FOR
several years after the restoration of peace, Cochecton presented a curious
scene. The settlers, old and new, were struggling under many disadvantages to
make comfortable livings for themselves and those who were dependent upon them.
Fishing, hunting, farming, rafting,—anything of the kind which promised to yield
a good return in food, clothing, or what was considered of more importance,
money, was freely resorted to. Yet, notwithstanding they had so many strings to
their bow, meagre Want sometimes strode into their dwellings, and laid his
withering hand upon them. This occurred generally when there was a
"freshet" of long continuance, which rendered it impossible to get to
Minisink, where they had to get their corn, and rye, and buckwheat manufactured
into meal and flour. During such a calamity the people were very kind to each
other. Without hesitation, they divided their last crust, and trusted in
Even while the people of
Cochecton were thus laboring under all the inconveniences and deprivations of a
new and secluded locality, they were seized with a mania to push still further
into the wilderness. Strange tales were told of the extraordinary fertility
and beauty of the Great West. The Sciota, the Muskingum, and other regions
where their old neighbors, the Indians, had gone, became words synonymous with
Eden and Eldorado. Great as were the natural advantages of the country
bordering on the Ohio river, speculators and others whose interest it was to
induce emigrants to go there, made the uninitiated believe that that region was
a hundred times better than it really was, and thousands of eager and
enthusiastic adventurers were soon thronging the military roads, Indian paths
and navigable rivers, determined to brave the malaria of the climate, the
scalping knife of the savage, starvation—anything, everything which was a
barrier to the onward progress of the dominion of the white race.
Among
those who emigrated from Cochecton to the country
bordering on the
Van
Etten went off into the woods one morning, probably for the purpose of shooting a deer. At
Perhaps this idea had suggested
itself to Mr. Russ, who was sitting with an axe in his hands on the edge of the
bed, upon which was his sick mother‑in‑law, and the infant, which
was Mrs. Van Etten's. He pretended to be doing something to the handle. While
he was thus occupied, the savages, to the surprise of all, began to inquire
about the people of Cochecton, and particularly concerning Captain Bezaliel
Tyler and Moses Thomas, 2nd, both of whom were killed at the battle of Minisink,
and one of whom had been much hated by the tories and Indians, so much so that
they had bestowed upon him an opprobrious Indian name. It was notorious to all
who knew anything about Cochecton, that these men were dead, and when the
savages began to make inquiries concerning them, and that too in tones of half
concealed exultation, Mrs. Russ and Mrs. Van Etten were still more alarmed
than when they saw the red men put their knives where they could get them in a melee
with the least difficulty. While the Indians were thus asking questions, the
eldest daughter of Russ noticed with alarm that one of them was getting nearer tend nearer her father, and that he was evidently watching
for a favorable opportunity to tomahawk him. She immediately seated herself on
the bed beside him, and attempted to tell him in a whisper to be on his guard.
He imprudently turned his head towards her to hear what she had to say, when he
was laid dead at her side. The savage who had been watching for a chance to
strike him dashed his tomahawk into the brain of the unfortunate man the moment
his eye was directed towards his daughter.
The
instant this was done, one of the Indians rushed to the door to prevent the
escape of any of the inmates. Before he had time to raise his tomahawk,
however, to menace those who came that way, Mrs. Russ and her sister sprang
against him, pushed him from the door and got out. The moment Mrs. Van Etten
had escaped from the cabin, she remembered her sleeping babe, and that she had
abandoned it to the brutal and cruel savages. The thought maddened her. Without
thinking of the consequences which would result to herself—acting
from the strong affectionate instinct of the mother, she attempted to force her
way into the cabin and bring away her infant. As she attempted to cross the
threshold, the Indian who guarded the door mimed a blow at her head which would
have ended her earthly career if she had not fortunately turned the aim of her
assailant aside with her hands. As it was, the blade of the tomahawk was buried
in one of her cheeks, causing her to carry a hideous scar us long as she lived
upon that part of her person which so many vain fair ones bedeck and bedaub
with paints and cosmetics. Rendered almost blind by her own
blood, the unhappy and half distracted mother staggered beyond the reach of
the swarthy barbarian, and ultimately crawled into the woods close by, where
she indulged all the heartrendering emotions of grief.
The moment Cyrus Russ saw his
father fall under the blow of the Indian who killed him, almost with the speed
of thought, he caught the axe from the hands of his
dying parent, and with it split open the head of the murderer. He then turned
to the nearest savage and before he had received a single wound himself, he
slew him also. It is supposed he wounded the third one before he was killed.
While the heroic son was thus avenging the death of his father, the nameless
young man of whom we have spoken, seemed paralyzed with fear. He stood, bolt upright, near the fire‑place; without
attempting to escape or resist, exhibiting a picture of astonishment, and
despair. After Cyrus was killed, it does not appear that this young man even
raised his hand to ward off the blow which was directed at his own head. He was
knocked down, and fell senseless and lifeless within the fire‑place,
after which ferocious murderers stamped his dead body into the ashes. They then
went to the bed, where the poor old decrepit woman was lying, a helpless and
horrified spectator of the awful scene, and tomahawked her. After doing this,
they took the infant of Mrs. Van Etten, and dashed its brains out against the
jamb of the fire‑place.
The children who were younger
than Cyrus providentially escaped. At the commencement of the melee, and while
the Indians were engaged with young Russ, they ran up a ladder into the
garret. The savages did not attempt to stop them, probably having as much work
on hand as they cared for, or perhaps supposing that, after they had
slaughtered the men, they could take the young people from their retreat, and
kill them at their leisure. If they expected to accomplish the destruction of
the children, however, they were mistaken. There was an opening in the walls of
the garret, from which the girls leaped to the ground, and then fled, first bidding
their brothers to follow, and telling them that they would be killed, if they
did not. The boys, however, did not at once leave the garret. Their curiosity
was greater than their fear. They watched the proceedings below, through cracks
in the garret floor, until the infant was killed, when thinking the savages
would next be after them, they followed their sisters, and escaped to the
woods, where all the members of the family who succeeded in getting from the
hut concealed themselves. It was from the boys that the particulars of what
took place during the latter part of the massacre were derived.
When the savages had killed all
they could put their hands upon, and after setting fire to the cabin, they left
the premises without attempting to search the woods where the frightened
fugitives were cowering behind tree trunks and in the thick underbrush. Just
as the savages were going off, Mr. Van Etten returned. He discovered that they
were hostile from the fact that they had set fire to his dwelling. He prudently
concealed himself until the "coast was clear," when he ventured
forth to save as much of his property as he could, and to do what was possible
and necessary for the living and the dead. One after another of the survivors
collected around him during the afternoon and evening, and he provided for and
guarded them as well as he could.
The
widow and her surviving children were subsequently brought back to Shehawken by
Benjamin Jones, who had married a daughter of Mr. Russ before the latter left
the valley of the
A daughter of Mr. Hawk, it is
said, was the mother of Bishop Bascom, of the Methodist Episcopal Church.
It is told that the murder of
Canope, and the negligence of the whites in bringing Quick, Haines and Shimer
to punishment, led the Indians to commit this outrage. Many outrages were committed
on the frontiers by both races at that time, and a war followed, which
"Mad Antony Wayne" closed by a brilliant victory on the banks of the
CHAPTER XXII.
THE SCOUTS OF MINISINK.
AT the breaking out of the war
of the Revolution, many of the inhabitants of Cochecton who were friendly to
the revolted colonies, removed to Minisink, with their families. Others remained a while behind their compatriots, in the
hope that they would not be molested, if they maintained a semblance of neutrality.
A third and fourth class was composed of "fence men," and open and
avowed adherents of
Cochecton was from forty to
fifty miles from any thickly settled portion of the country, and was
consequently altogether exposed to the malice of the tories, and the cupidity
and bloodthirstiness of the savages. It was a perilous abiding place for all
who expressed sympathy for the cause of the revolutionists; and those removed
their families to less dangerous localities acted wisely.
The exodus of the whigs was so sudden, that their crops were abandoned ere
they had matured, and many a rapacious tory had the pleasure of reaping what he
had not sown. It was not uncommon for the fugitives to return, after leaving
their families in a place of security, for the purpose of gathering hastily the
fruits of what they had cultivated with anxious forebodings of evil. All such
were driven from the neighborhood by their former associates and friends, who
confidently believed that the arms of His Most Gracious Majesty would soon
cause his rebellious subjects to sue for mercy at his feet; when, if he
designed to spare their lives, he would confiscate their property, and bestow
it upon those whose hearts of oak had remained staunch and loyal. They were disposed
to anticipate his favors; but they did not profit much by their ill‑gotten
acquisitions; for the whigs endeavored to "square
accounts" with them, as will presently appear.
The
patriots of Minisink, for "their own and their country's weal,"
appointed a committee of good and reliable whigs,
which was known as the Committee of Safety. According to the recollection of
our informant, this committee consisted of Jarardus Van Inwegen, Benjamin
Depuy, —— Coit, and —— Swartwout, names which will be made famous by the Annals
of Peenpack, provided they are ever written. The Committee of Safety, to
chastise and "regulate" the obnoxious and auspicious characters of
Cochecton, and to promote the cause of the whigs
generally, organized a company of scouts, under the command of Captain Bezaliel
Tyler, who occasionally paid the tories and others a visit, to catch those
whose conduct was considered iniquitous, and to make reprisals. They did not
generally return empty handed. The tories took possession of what property the whigs had left behind them; while the scouts took away the
cattle and sometimes the bodies of the liege subjects of the crown. It is
difficult to decide which party lost or gained most by this system of exchange;
but no one will doubt that many poor people were made to suffer much for their devotion to their country or
their King; and that the excesses of each continually added intensity to the
furnace of hatred which glowed in the breasts of both. Mercy and Truth seldom
kiss each other while the bloody conflicts of mortals are raging. They may lead forth their cohorts, and feel
irresistible in their conscious strength; but, alas! when
Truth is wounded, she bids her clement‑eyed sister, begone; and when the
two fall out by the way, Mercy is but a
silly jade, and Truth becomes transformed, and bears the semblance of Error.
When the scouts visited
Cochecton, they conducted themselves is a very free and easy manner, and as
they generally were in haste to get back, they had but little time to hear
testimony for or against the obnoxious and suspected; yet we cannot learn that
their incursions were marked with any summary proceeding on amore than two
occasions, the particulars of which we will now give:
A half‑witted young
fellow named —— Handy had lived in Cochecton several years. Having emasculated
himself, because he had been disappointed in a love affair, he was generally
despised by all the men and women of the neighborhood, and was, in fact, a poor
outcast from the sympathy and society of his fellow mortals. During the war,
he joined a band of Indians who were under a chief named Minotto, and he spent
the greater part of his time in riding from place to place, on a horse which
some say he had stolen from a whig of Minisink. While
thus occupied, and probably fancying that he was a man of some consequence, he
encountered a company of scouts, whom he mistook for friends. As he came up to
them, he exclaimed, "I'm Minotto's man!" or "I'm Brant's
man!" The words were just out of his mouth, when the scouts levelled their
pieces and fired. Some of them had recognized the horse, and as soon as he
declared what he was, his fate was sealed. He was buried on the spot where he
fell, and near the Indian burying ground of that region.
A few years since, the bones of
Handy were uncovered by the washing away of the bank of the river. A physician,
it is said, procured them, and they have since "graced" the doctor's
studio.
During the same expedition, a whig named Nathan Mitchell escaped with his life very
narrowly. He had remained in Cochecton because his wife would not go to
Minisink with him, unless her father accompanied them. Mitchell, to prevent the
savages from firing upon him while they were lurking about, wore an Indian head
dress. He too, encountered the scouts, who, when they saw the Indian gear upon
his head, mistook him for a tory, and putting spurs to their horses, advanced
towards him furiously, with their rifles unslung, and in readiness to fire.
Mitchell saw at once that ere
time enough would elapse for him to explain, his body would be perforated with
a dozen bullets. His only way to escape was to run for his life, and reach
broken ground or the woods, where his pursuers could not follow him on
horseback. Run he did, but the scouts were soon upon him, with their fingers on
the triggers of their pieces. Poor Mitchell's case was desperate. In an instant
more he would have been a dead man, if one of the scouts, who knew why he staid
in Cochecton, had not recognized him at the critical moment, and very
opportunely knocked aside the muzzle of the foremost horsemen. As soon as the
true sentiments of Mitchell became known to the party, all rejoiced that they
had not shed the blood of a friend.
The scouts proceeded up the
river a short distance further, and stopped at the house of a Scotch tory named
David Young. Young's wife was an English woman of considerable intelligence,
who claimed, according to tradition, that she had been employed about the
person of the Queen of England. Her husband was absent, and she told the
"rampant rebels," as she was pleased to consider them, that Colonel
Brant was at the mouth of the Callicoon, with 500 warriors, and entreated them
to save their lives by returning at once to Minisink. She said this with such
an honest and truthful air that they believed her, and so great was their
terror of the far‑famed Mohawk chief, that they retreated to Minisink
with great celerity, and thanked their stars when they got there.
While the scouts were in the
habit of making frequent visits to Cochecton; a stranger came up the river, who was apparently weary and worn with travel. He
represented, at the houses where he stopped to rest or obtain refreshments, that his name was Payne, although it was
subsequently ascertained that his real name was Cooley. It did not appear that
he had any ostensible business, or an apparent motive for visiting this
exposed and emote region. As he ascended the
This decision, however, was not
unanimous; for some of the company thought that it was wrong on their part to
kill him without a formal conviction, and that the right course for them was to
take him to Minisink, and hand him over to those who, although they might
condemn him to suffer the awful penalty of death, had a conceded right to do
so.
Cooley himself made the most
moving appeals to those who had resolved to put an end to his existence. With
that extraordinary eloquence which some men can use when life depends upon the
tongue, he begged them to have mercy upon him. With pathetic and heart‑broken
cries, he humbled himself in the dust, and implored them to spare him as they
themselves hoped for pardon when the last great agony sundered soul and body.
But those who had resolved to destroy him were inexorable. There was an
overpowering motive for his immediate destruction. They considered him unfit to
burthen the earth longer with his guilt or obnoxious person, and even while he
was sueing at their feet for life, the silver chord was snapped assunder, and
Cooley's blood was mingled with the dust. He was shot and died instantly.
Who can contemplate the fate of this friendless man without a shudder? There was undoubtedly a good and sufficient reason why it was necessary to slay him; but it is difficult to conjecture what it was.
Some of
those present were so shocked at the horrid scene, that they declared openly,
if such work was necessary, they would no longer
be known as scouts. To kill him while he was pleading for mercy, seemed like
murder to them; and, rough, rude men of war as they were, they wept like
children when the terrible deed was consummated.
—— THE END. ——
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