WITH WASHINGTON IN THE WEST

OR

A SOLDIER BOY’S BATTLES IN THE WILDERNESS

BY EDWARD STRATEMEYER Author of “On to Pekin,” “Between Boer and Briton,” “Old Glory Series,” “Colonial Series,” “Pan-American Series,” “Great American Industries Series,” “American Boys’ Life of William McKinley,” etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY A. B. SHUTE

BOSTON: LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

Copyright, 1901, by Lee and Shepard All rights reserved With Washington in the West Norwood Press Berwick & Smith Norwood, Mass. U.S.A.

PREFACE

“With Washington in the West” is a complete story in itself, but forms the first of several volumes to be known by the general title of “Colonial Series.”

The main character of the book is David Morris, the son of a hardy pioneer who first settles near Will’s Creek (now the town of Cumberland, Virginia), and later on establishes a trading-post on one of the numerous tributaries of the Ohio River.

As a boy David becomes acquainted with George Washington, then but a young man of seventeen. Washington is at work, surveying tracts of land in the beautiful Shenandoah valley, and David is glad enough to go with him as an assistant. Together they ford the rivers and creeks, and climb the mountains, and they do not separate until the ill health of Lawrence Washington compels his brother to return home.

The coming of the English traders into the valley of the Ohio was viewed with suspicion by the French, and it was not long before these traders were served with notices to quit. A notice reaching Mr. Morris,[iv] he turned it over to his son, who was to take it to the Virginia authorities and learn whether or not it must be respected. On his way eastward David falls in with the Virginia Rangers, who are under the command of Washington, and learns that there is practically a state of war between the English and French in America. Several trading-posts have been attacked and this being so the youth becomes anxious to return to his father, and throws in his fortunes with Washington as a young soldier. Then follows the march to Great Meadows, the defence of Fort Necessity, and the news that Mr. Morris’ post has been captured by the French and the trader taken prisoner.

Chafing to learn what has become of his parent, David remains at the home of his uncle until the next Spring, when General Braddock arrives with his troops from England. Another campaign against the French is now opened and once again the youth becomes a soldier boy, to witness Braddock’s bitter defeat and Washington’s masterly effort to save the remnant of the army from annihilation.

In the preparation of the historical portions of this work numerous authorities have been consulted, including the Writings of Washington, biographies by a great number of more or less well-known authors, and several colonial histories and books of record.[v] For this reason the author trusts that it is free from any error sufficient to hurt its usefulness. As a story the writer hopes it will find equal favor with the many which have preceded it from his pen.

Edward Stratemeyer.

Newark, N. J., May 20, 1901.

[vi]

CHAPTER I THE HOMESTEAD IN THE CLEARING

“Uncle Joe, an Indian is coming this way, down the Creek trail.”

“An Indian, Dave! Can you make out who it is?”

“Not yet. He’s in the shadow of the hemlocks.” The youth pointed along the brushwood bordering the watercourse. “There! do you see him?”

“I do. He is trailing a gun, too, and wears white feathers. It must be White Buffalo.”

“White Buffalo! Oh, Uncle Joe, do you think he’d be able to get back so soon?—over the mountains and rivers, and all?”

“These redskins can travel swift enough when they want to, Dave, and like as not your father told him to bring the word back as quick as he could.” Joseph Morris continued to keep his eyes fixed on the trail, which wound in and out under the low-drooping trees. “Yes, it’s White Buffalo, and he’s coming straight for our cabin.”

“I hope he brings good news,” went on Dave[2] Morris. “Shall I go and tell Aunt Lucy? More than likely he’ll want something to eat—they all do when they come here.”

“Yes, tell her to fix up a good supper for the redskin, and tell her, too, to get that new dress goods I bought at Winchester last week out of the way. If she doesn’t White Buffalo will surely want some of it for himself or his squaw—he can’t hold back on bright colors—although he’s not half so much of a beggar as some of them.”

“I will. But, Uncle Joe, you’ll bring him right up to the cabin, won’t you? I’m so impatient to hear from father.”

“Yes, I’ll bring him right up.”

“It seems an age since father went away,” added Dave Morris.

With these words the boy turned away from the bank of the creek and, axe in hand—for he had been helping his uncle cut down some scrub timber on the edge of a small clearing—moved quickly through a patch of corn and then into a belt of timberland composed of beautiful walnut, hickory, and mountain ash. Beyond the belt was a second clearing, long and narrow, spread out upon both banks of a brook flowing into the creek previously mentioned. In the midst of this was a rude but comfortable log cabin, long, low, and narrow, the eaves at one end[3] coming down in a porch-like roof to shelter the kitchen door. There were four rooms in this home in the wilderness and all upon the ground floor, the upper floor under the roof tree being little more than a loft in which to store certain winter supplies.

David Morris was a youth of fourteen, tall, strong, and by no means ill looking. His manner was open and frank, and this disposition made for him ready friends wherever he went. Since earliest childhood he had been used to a life in the open, and this made him appear somewhat older than his years. He could plow a field or cut down a tree almost as well as a man, and he was far from being ignorant of the use of firearms. Indeed, the winter before, he had gone out hunting with old Sam Barringford, one of the best of the hunters and trappers in the Virginia valley, and had acquitted himself in a manner to earn the ardent praise of that individual. As a matter of fact, Dave would rather have gone hunting and fishing any time than stick to the work on the farm, but he knew his duty to his uncle and his aunt and did not seek to evade it.

Dave’s taste for woods and waters—for hunting, trapping and fishing—came to the lad naturally. His grandfather had been of New Jersey stock, and had drifted into Pennsylvania with the thrifty German pioneers who afterward did so much to make that[4] great state what it is to-day. But old Ezra Morris could not remain in sight of the farms and plantations and had gone on south-westward, into what was then termed the great Virginia valley, between the Shenandoah and the upper Potomac Rivers. Here he had built himself a cabin, and it was here that James Morris, the father of Dave, was born and raised. The surroundings were wild, and the majority of neighbors—if those living half a mile or more away could be called such—were Indians.

Although Ezra Morris always sought to be fair with the red men, others in that district cheated the Indians in numerous ways, and as a result the Indians arose one wintry night and slew nearly all the settlers for miles around. Among the victims were Ezra Morris and his wife; and the son James, then a boy of twelve, barely escaped by hiding in a snow-bank behind the cabin. He was found in the woods two days later, nearly frozen to death, and was taken to Winchester by parties living there. At Winchester was his brother Joseph, several years older, who was visiting at the time, and thus escaped the horrors of the massacre.

For several years after this Joseph and James Morris remained in and around Winchester, then a frontier post of considerable importance, and during that time the elder brother married Lucy Smiley, who[5] had just come over from England with her brother, who was in the employ of William Fairfax of Belvoir. Several years later James Morris also married, and both families settled near what was called Will’s Creek, not a great distance from the present city of Cumberland. It was here that Dave was born and also his cousins, Rodney, Henry, and little Nell.

At first all went well with both families, but one day Rodney Morris had a bad fall from a tree which injured his leg and rendered him lame. This was a great misfortune, for the young man had been a much needed help to his father and his uncle, but a greater trial followed in the sudden and unexpected death of James Morris’ wife, who was taken with a chill one Saturday noon and expired on the following Sunday morning.

This blow almost stunned both the husband and the son, and it may truly be said that the former never got over it. As soon after the funeral as possible the father placed his son in his brother’s care and took to the woods, and none of his folks saw him for nearly a year. When he returned his pale and haggard face showed plainly that even in the depths of the wilderness beyond the Blue Ridge he had not been able to get away from his great grief.

[6]During his wanderings James Morris had gone West as far as a stream of water called by the Indians Kinotah. He described the river as very lovely and one upon which a trader with a little means might set up a trading-post to great advantage. One particular spot, which he named Ella Dell, in memory of his wife, continually haunted him, and he told his brother and his son that some day he intended to go back to it. He reported that the Indians were now very friendly and that many of those who had conducted the massacre of years gone by were dead.

Neither of the brothers was blessed with much money, and the opportunities for making any were small, so the idea of opening a trading-post had, for the time being, to be abandoned. All the Morrises, with the exception of Rodney the cripple, worked hard on the farm, and even Rodney did what he could to keep himself employed. During this time Henry Morris made a trip as far East as Annapolis, and on returning told of a stop-off at Lawrence Washington’s magnificent estate at Mount Vernon, so called in honor of Admiral Vernon, under whom Lawrence Washington had served in West Indian waters.

“They are a fine people, those Washingtons,” Henry Morris had declared. “Mr. Lawrence[7] Washington is a thorough gentleman, and his brother George is as nice a boy as any in these parts. And, oh, what a plantation they’ve got! Nearly a thousand slaves, and so many horses I couldn’t count them. I can tell you a place like that is something worth while.”

“The Washingtons have always been rich,” had been Joseph Morris’ answer. “And Lawrence Washington lost nothing by marrying William Fairfax’s daughter. Those families own more land than they know what to do with.”

“Old Lord Fairfax was there,” Henry had continued. “He takes a great interest in George Washington. George is learning surveying at school, and Lord Fairfax said he might give him the work of surveying his estate some day.” And so the talk had run on, for in those days Lord Fairfax was a personage of great importance in that neighborhood, and the Washingtons were also well known.

One day there came a sudden and unexpected windfall to the Morrises. A distant relative who lived in New Jersey died and left to each brother the sum of twelve hundred pounds—about six thousand dollars—and also a quantity of household goods, cattle and horses. At once James Morris journeyed to New Jersey after the fortune, going both for himself and as his brother’s legally appointed[8] agent. This trip in those days was a long one, and had to be made on horseback for the greater part of the distance. The mission took four months, and when Dave’s father returned he brought with him a train of sixteen pack-saddle horses, some carrying furniture which had originally come from England and which could not be duplicated in the colonies.

As soon as the furniture and other effects had been left at the cabin near Will’s Creek, James Morris had announced his intention of using his part of the inheritance in establishing a trading business with the Indians on the Kinotah. “I know there is money to be made in it,” was the way he reasoned to his brother. “A good deal more money than is to be made here at farming.”

The idea pleased Joseph Morris, but he was loath to go further into the wilderness with his wife and his little daughter, and with a son who was a cripple, and after a long conference it was decided that James Morris should start out alone, using a thousand pounds belonging to both, and also the pack horses, and leaving Dave with his uncle.

It grieved Dave to be left behind, yet, as his father thought it best, he did not complain, only begging that he might be permitted to join his parent at the trading-post at some time not too far in the future.[9] To this the father had promised that the lad might make the trip during the year following, if all went well.

The hopeful pioneer had fitted out his trading expedition at Winchester, with goods brought from Annapolis, and with his pack horses loaded with trinkets, bright colored blankets and cloths, and other things dear to the heart and eye of the red men, had set off for the great “Western Country” as some people of that time called the western portion of Pennsylvania. Here the virgin forests were almost trackless, the only trails being those of the Indians and the deer and other wild animals. Bridges there were none, and every river had to be either forded or swum, and the journey through the vast mountain gaps was perilous in the extreme. The party consisted of James Morris, two old hunters known as Tony and Putty, and half a dozen Indians under the leadership of White Buffalo. It was agreed that as soon as the Kinotah was reached and the trading-post established White Buffalo should be sent back with the news.

CHAPTER II WHITE BUFFALO BRINGS NEWS

When Dave entered the cabin homestead he found his Aunt Lucy and his cousin Rodney, the cripple, hard at work making tallow candles, the only kind of light used about the place after sundown. Over a fire in the dooryard hung a kettle full of soft tallow and on the kitchen floor rested the metal moulds for forming the candles after the wicks had been placed in from end to end. The best of the candles were made in this manner, but Rodney was making a commoner sort by simply dipping wicks into the fat and hanging them up to harden, repeating this process until the prospective lights were of the desired thickness.

“Why, Dave, what brings you back so soon?” cried Mrs. Morris, somewhat startled at his unexpected appearance. “I didn’t blow the horn for supper.”

“White Buffalo is coming, and Uncle Joe told me to tell you that he would probably be hungry, and for you to get those new dress goods out of the way before the redskin saw ’em. If you don’t he’ll[11] most likely tell you he dreamed you gave them to him for his squaw, or something like that.”

“Mercy on us, White Buffalo! Yes, I will get them out of sight, every one! He is a good-enough Indian, but, oh, every one of ’em is such a beggar! What did he say of your father, Dave?”

“I didn’t see him to talk to, Aunt Lucy—I came away before he came up. But Uncle Joe said he would bring him right up to the cabin. Shall I help clear the kitchen floor?”

“Yes, we are about done for to-day, and Rodney is more than tired, I can see that plainly. Rodney, you just go and rest yourself on the bed, Dave and I can get this mess out of the way in a jiffy.”

“I’m willing enough,” answered Rodney, with a deep drawn sigh, and rising from his rush-seated chair he hobbled out of the kitchen to the next room.

“Do you want me to kill anything for supper—a couple of chickens or ducks?” queried Dave, as he began gathering up the still warm candle moulds.

“No; Henry shot a deer right after dinner—down by the old salt lick—dropped him, so he said, without the least bit of trouble. He’s down at the shed now dressing it. We can have that,—and I’ll make some corn cakes—the kind those Indians like. You had better bring me in some more wood. I’ll take care of the rest of the candles. And tell Henry[12] to fetch along a nice piece of that deer meat, and a jug of that yellow apple cider.” And so speaking Mrs. Morris bustled around at a lively rate, that she might have the kitchen in order when her husband appeared with their Indian guest.

At the cattle shed, a rude affair of rough logs and tree branches, Dave found his cousin Henry tacking up the deer-skin to dry and tan in the sun. Henry was a short, stout youth and a good deal of the same turn of mind as his mother.

“I’ll bring up a good-enough piece of meat for any redskin,” he said, after listening to Dave. “I’m glad White Buffalo has come, although I didn’t expect to see him for a fortnight, or until the next new moon. Everything must have gone along swimmingly with your father.”

“I hope so, Henry.”

In a few minutes Henry brought up the venison, and Dave followed with the extra wood, and soon Mrs. Morris had a roaring fire with which to prepare the evening repast. There was, of course, no stove, only a rude brick oven, and the meat was placed on a spit to broil, the oven being used for the corn cakes and for other things the lady of the cabin wished to bake. From chains overhead hung a pot and an iron kettle with water, and also a smaller kettle in which Mrs. Morris brewed herself some[13] tea. As the cooking progressed most of the smoke went up the broad chimney but some came into the kitchen, and the ceiling, where hung numerous things to dry, was covered with soot in consequence.

The table was bare of linen or oilcloth, but scrubbed to a snowy whiteness. Plates were laid for all, but at the place to be occupied by White Buffalo a short bench was drawn up, that the Indian chief might eat from the level of his lap should he prefer to do so. The knives and forks, the latter quite new, were of iron, and Joseph Morris, like many other old pioneers, preferred to use his pocket-knife when cutting food. Napkins there were none, but a bucket of water stood in a corner and above it was a towel hung on a cow-horn, for the use of anyone who wished to keep his fingers or mouth clean. And yet this cabin was furnished as well as those of thousands of other pioneers.

The supper was well under way when Joseph Morris appeared at the edge of the homestead clearing side by side with White Buffalo, who slackened his pace to a dignified walk when approaching the cabin. The Indian was of the tribe of Delawares, tall, thin, and as straight as an arrow. His eyes were black and bright, and his mouth showed a set of teeth as clean and polished as those of a wolf. His headgear consisted principally of white feathers,[14] tipped with yellow to imitate gold, and over his shoulder he carried a small blanket of buffalo hide, dyed white with yellow spots, the spots being somewhat in the shape of wolves’ heads. This signified, in the Indian language, that he was White Buffalo, son of Yellow Wolf, a former powerful chief of the Delawares.

As the Indian came up Dave ran out to meet him and shake his hand. “I am very glad to see White Buffalo,” he said. “I hope you bring good news of my father,” and he pressed the red man’s hand warmly.

“How-how!” answered the Indian in return, meaning, “how do you do?” Then he looked at Dave steadily for a few seconds. “The white boy’s father was well when I left him, eight sleeps ago. He must still be well,” he went on.

“I am glad to hear that, White Buffalo. Did he find the spot he visited before?”