Adventure of the Spies White and M'Clelland—Daring Defence of her Home by Mrs. Merrill—Exploits of Kennan the Ranger.

The block-house garrison at the mouth of Hocking River was thrown into considerable alarm on one occasion by the discovery that an unusual number of Indians were swarming in their town in the valley. Such a state of affairs, as a rule, means that the savages are making, or have made, preparations for a serious movement against the whites.

To ascertain the cause of the presence of so many warriors in that section, two of the most skillful and daring rangers of the West were sent out to spy their movements. These scouts were White and McClelland, and the season on which they ventured upon their dangerous expedition was one of the balmy days in Indian summer.

The scouts made their way leisurely to the top of the well-known prominence near Lancaster, Ohio, from whose rocky summit they looked off over the plain spreading far to the west, and through which the Hocking River winds like a stream of silver.

From this elevation, the keen-eyed scouts gazed down upon a curious picture—one which told them of the certain coming of the greatest danger which can break upon the frontier settlement. What they saw, and the singular adventures that befell them, are told by the Reverend J.B. Finley, the well-known missionary of the West.

Day by day the spies witnessed the horse-racing of the assembled thousands. The old sachems looked on with their Indian indifference, the squaws engaged in their usual drudgery, while the children indulged unrestrainedly in their playful gambols. The arrival of a new war party was greeted with loud shouts, which, striking the stony face of Mount Pleasant, were driven back in the various indentations of the surrounding hills, producing reverberations and echoes as if so many fiends were gathered in universal levee. On several occasions, small parties left the prairie and ascended the mount from its low and grassy eastern slope. At such times, the spies would hide in the deep fissures of the rocks on the west, and again leave their hiding-places when their unwelcome visitors had disappeared. For food, they depended on jerked venison and corn-bread, with which their knapsacks were well stored. They dare not kindle a fire, and the report of one of their rifles would have brought upon them the entire force of Indians. For drink, they resorted to the rain-water which still stood in the hollows of the rocks; but, in a short time, this source was exhausted, and McClelland and White were forced to abandon their enterprise, or find a new supply. To accomplish this, M'Clelland, being the oldest, resolved to make the attempt. With his trusty rifle in hand and two canteens slung over his shoulders, he cautiously descended, by a circuitous route, to the prairie skirting the hills on the north. Under cover of the hazel thicket, he reached the river, and turning the bold point of a hill, found a beautiful spring within a few feet of the stream now known by the name of Cold Spring. Filling his canteens, he returned in safety to his watchful companion. It was now determined to have a fresh supply of water every day, and the duty was performed alternately.

On one of these occasions, after White had filled his canteens, he sat watching the water as it came gurgling out of the earth, when the light sound of footsteps fell on his ear. Upon turning around he saw two squaws within a few feet of him. The eldest gave one of those far-reaching whoops peculiar to Indians.

White at once comprehended his perilous situation. If the alarm should reach the camps or town, he and his companion must inevitably perish. Self-preservation compelled him to inflict a noiseless death on the squaws, and in such a manner as, if possible, to leave no trace behind. Ever rapid in thought and prompt in action, he sprang upon his victims with the rapidity and power of the lion, and grasping the throat of each, sprang into the river. He thrust the head of the eldest under the water, and while making strong efforts to submerge the younger (who, however, powerfully resisted him), to his astonishment, she addressed him in his own language, though in almost inarticulate sounds. Releasing his hold, she informed him she had been a prisoner ten years, and was taken from below Wheeling; that the Indians had killed all the family; that her brother and herself were taken prisoners, but he succeeded, on the second night, in making his escape. During this narrative, White had drowned the elder squaw, and had let the body float off down the current, where it was not likely soon to be found. He now directed the girl to follow him, and, with his usual speed and energy, pushed for the mount.

They had scarcely gone half way, when they heard the alarm-cry, some quarter of a mile down the stream. It was supposed some party of Indians, returning from hunting, struck the river just as the body of the squaw floated past. White and the girl succeeded in reaching the mount, where M'Clelland had been no indifferent spectator to the sudden commotion among the Indians. Parties of warriors were seen immediately to strike off in every direction, and White and the girl had scarcely arrived before a company of some twenty warriors had reached the eastern slope of the mount, and were cautiously and carefully keeping under cover. Soon the spies saw their foes, as they glided from tree to tree and rock to rock, till their position was surrounded, except on the west perpendicular side, and all hope of escape was cut off. In this perilous position, nothing was left but to sell their lives as dearly as possible.

This they resolved to do, and advised the girl to escape to the Indians and tell them she had been taken prisoner. She said, "No! Death in the presence of my own people is a thousand times better than captivity and slavery. Furnish me with a gun, and I will show I know how to die. This place I will not leave. Here my bones shall lie bleaching with yours, and, should either of you escape, you will carry the tidings of my death to my few relatives."

Remonstrance proved fruitless. The two spies quickly matured their means of defence, and vigorously commenced the attack from the front, where, from the very narrow backbone of the mount, the savages had to advance in single file, and without any covert. Beyond this neck, the warriors availed themselves of the rocks and trees in advancing, but, in passing from one to the other, they must be exposed for a short time, and a moment's exposure of their swarthy forms was enough for the unerring rifles of the spies. The Indians, being entirely ignorant of how many were in ambuscade, grew very cautious as they advanced.

After bravely maintaining the fight in front, and keeping the enemy in check, the scouts discovered a new danger threatening them. The foe made preparation to attack them on the flank, which could be most successfully done by reaching an isolated rock, lying in one of the projections on the southern hill-side. This rock once gained by the Indians, they could bring the whites under point-blank range without the possibility of escape. The spies saw the hopelessness of their situation, which it appeared nothing could change.

With this impending fate resting over them, they continued calm and calculating, and as unwearied as the strongest desire of life could produce. Soon M'Clelland saw a tall, swarthy figure preparing to spring from a covert, so near to the fatal rock that a bound or two would reach it, and all hope of life would then be gone. He felt that everything depended on one single advantageous shot; and, although but an inch or two of the warrior's body was exposed, and that at the distance of eighty or a hundred yards, he resolved to fire.

Coolly raising his rifle, shading the sight with his hand, he drew a bead so sure that he felt conscious it would do the deed. He touched the trigger with his finger; the hammer came down, but, in place of striking fire, it broke his flint into many pieces! He now felt sure that the Indian must reach the rock before he could adjust another flint, yet he proceeded to the task with the utmost composure. Casting his eye toward the fearful point, suddenly he saw the warrior stretch every muscle for the leap, and with the agility of a panther he made the spring, but, instead of reaching the rock, he uttered a yell and his dark body fell, rolling down the steep to the valley below.

Some unknown hand had slain him, and a hundred voices from the valley below echoed his death cry. The warrior killed, it was evident, was a prominent one of the tribe, and there was great disappointment over the failure of the movement, which, it was considered, would seal the doom of the daring scouts.

Only a few minutes passed, when a second warrior was seen stealthily advancing to the covert, which had cost the other Indian his life in attempting to reach. At the same moment the attack in front was renewed with great fierceness, so as to require the constant loading and firing of the spies to prevent their foes from gaining the eminence. Still the whites kept continually glancing at the warrior, who seemed assured of the coveted position.

Suddenly he gathered his muscles and made the spring. His body was seen to bound outward, but instead of reaching the shelf, for which it started, it gathered itself like a ball and rolled down the hill after his predecessor.

The unknown friend had fired a second shot!

This caused consternation among the Shawanoes, and brave as they unquestionably were, there was no one else who tried to do that which had cost the others their lives. Feeling that they had no ordinary foe to combat on the hill, the savages withdrew a short distance to consult over some new method of attack.

The respite came most opportunely to the spies, who had been fighting and watching for hours and needed the rest.

It suddenly occurred to M'Clelland that the girl was not with them, and they concluded that she had fled through terror and most probably had fallen into the hands of the Indians again, or what was equally probable, she had been killed during the fight.

But the conclusion was scarcely formed, when she was seen to come from behind a rock, with a smoking rifle in her hand. Rejoining the astonished and delighted spies, she quickly explained that she was the unsuspected friend who shot the two warriors when in the very act of leaping to the point from which they expected to command the position of the defenders.

While the fight was at its height, she saw a warrior advance some distance beyond the others, when a rifle-ball from the scouts stretched him lifeless. Without being seen, the girl ran quickly out to where he lay and possessed herself of his gun and ammunition.

Subsequent events showed what good use she made of the weapon. Her life among the Indians taught her to see on the instant the point which the warriors would strive to secure, and, which secured, would place the spies at their mercy. She crawled under some brush, and carefully loading the rifle, held it ready for the critical moment.

It was a singular coincidence, in which the girl must have perceived the hand of Providence, that the second warrior who advanced to the spot was recognized by her as the identical wretch who led the company which killed nearly all her family and who carried her away a prisoner. She made sure, when she pulled trigger upon him, that the bullet should go straight to the mark!

M'Clelland and White appreciated the value of the ally who had joined them, for, without those well-aimed shots of hers, the two must have fallen before the rifles of the Shawanoes. They congratulated her on her nerve and skill, and assured her, that her achievements alone had placed them in a position in which they could feel there was some hope of escape.

As night approached, dark and tumultuous clouds rolled up from the horizon, and overspreading the skies rendered the night like that of Egypt. As the spies felt that their withdrawal from the dangerous spot must be effected, if effected at all, before the rise of the morning's sun, they saw how much the inky blackness of sky and earth was likely to embarrass them.

However, as the girl was intimately acquainted with the topography of the country immediately surrounding them, it was decided that she should take the lead, the others following close after her.

The great advantage likely to accrue from such an arrangement was that, if they encountered any Indians, as they were more than likely to do, her knowledge of their tongue would enable her to deceive them. They had not gone a hundred yards when the wisdom of this course was demonstrated.

A low "whist" from the guide admonished the spies of danger, and, as agreed beforehand, they sank flat upon their faces and waited for the signal that all was right, before going further. Peering cautiously through the dense gloom, they became aware that the girl was missing, and she was gone so long that they were filled with serious misgivings.

Finally her shadowy figure came out of the gloom, and she told them she had succeeded in having two sentinels removed whose position was such that it would have been impossible for them to get by undiscovered.

In the same noiseless manner the flight was resumed, and the three phantoms, moved along through the gloom for a half hour, when they were startled by the barking of a dog close to them. Instantly White and M'Clelland cocked their guns, but their guide whispered that they were now in the very middle of the village, and their lives depended on the utmost silence and secrecy. They needed hardly to be assured of that, and they signified that her directions would be followed implicitly.

A minute later they were accosted by a squaw from an opening in her wigwam; the guide made appropriate reply, in the Indian tongue, and without pause, moved on. Her voice and manner disarmed suspicion, and the three were not disturbed.

Only a short distance further was passed, when the girl assured them they were beyond the limits of the village, and the great danger was ended. She had shown extraordinary wisdom and shrewdness in leading the spies out of their great peril. She knew the Shawanoes had their sentinels stationed at every avenue of escape, and instead of taking those which it would seem most natural to follow under the circumstances, she adopted the bold plan of disarming all these precautions by passing directly through the center of the village. The very boldness of the plan proved its success.

The fugitives now made for the Ohio River, and, at the end of three days' hard travel, they safely reached the block-house. Their escape prevented the contemplated attack by the Indians, and the adventure itself is certainly one of the most remarkable of the many told of the early days of Ohio and Kentucky.

Among the members of Mr. Finley's church was a quiet, plain-looking woman who was mild, gentle, and consistent in her talk and conversation. And yet this Mrs. Merril was the heroine of the following wonderful exploit:

In 1791, the house of Mr. Merril, in Nelson county, was assaulted by Indians. He was fired upon and fell wounded into the room. The savages attempted to rush in after him, but Mrs. Merril and her daughter succeeded in closing the door. The assailants began to hew a passage through it with their tomahawks; and, having made a hole large enough, one of them attempted to squeeze into the room. Undismayed, the courageous woman seized an axe, gave the ruffian a fatal blow as he sprang through, and he sunk quietly to the floor. Another, and still another, followed till four of their number met the same fate. The silence within induced one of them to pause and look through the crevice in the door. Discovering the fate of those who had entered, the savages resolved upon another mode of attack. Two of their number clambered to the top of the house, and prepared to descend the broad wooden chimney. This new danger was promptly met. Mrs. Merril did not desert her post; but directed her little son to cut open the feather bed, and pour the feathers upon the fire. This the little fellow did with excellent effect. The two savages, scorched and suffocated, fell down into the fire, and were soon dispatched by the children and the wounded husband. At that moment a fifth savage attempted to enter the door; but he received a salute upon the head from the axe held by Mrs. Merril, that sent him howling away. Thus seven of the savages were destroyed by the courage and energy of this heroic woman. When the sole survivor reached the town, and was asked, "What news?" a prisoner heard his reply: "Bad news! The squaws fight worse than long knives."

William Kennan, a noted scout and ranger, was the hero of many extraordinary incidents.

He had long been remarkable for strength and activity. In the course of the march from Fort Washington, he had repeated opportunities of testing his astonishing powers in those respects, and was admitted to be the swiftest runner of the light corps. On the evening preceding the action, his corps had been advanced in front of the first line of infantry, to give seasonable notice of the enemy's approach.

As day was dawning, he observed about thirty Indians within one hundred yards of the guard-fire, approaching cautiously toward the spot where he stood, in company with twenty other rangers, the rest being considerably in the rear. Supposing it to be a mere scouting party, and not superior in number to the rangers, he sprang forward a few paces in order to shelter himself in a spot of peculiarly rank grass, and, after firing with a quick aim at the foremost Indian, fell flat upon his face, and proceeded with all possible rapidity to reload his gun, not doubting for a moment that his companions would maintain their position and support him.

The Indians, however, rushed forward in such overwhelming masses, that the rangers were compelled to flee with precipitation, leaving young Kennan in total ignorance of his danger. Fortunately, the captain of his company had observed him, when he threw himself in the grass, and suddenly shouted aloud: "Run, Kennan, or you are a dead man!" He instantly sprang to his feet, and beheld the Indians within ten feet of him, while his company were more than one hundred yards in front.

Not a moment was to be lost. He darted off, with every muscle strained to the utmost, and was pursued by a dozen of the enemy with loud yells. He at first pressed straight forward to the usual fording-place in the creek, which ran between the rangers and the main army; but several Indians, who had passed him before he arose from the grass, threw themselves in his way and completely cut him off from the rest.

By the most powerful exertions, he had thrown the whole body of pursuers behind him, with the exception of one young chief, probably Meeshawa, who displayed a swiftness and perseverance equal to his own. In the circuit which Kennan was obliged to make, the race continued for more than four hundred yards. The distance between them was about eighteen feet, which Kennan could not increase, nor his adversary diminish. Each for the time put his whole soul in the race.

Kennan, as far as he was able, kept his eye upon the motions of his pursuer, lest he should throw the tomahawk, which he held aloft in a menacing attitude, and, at length, finding that no other Indian was at hand, he determined to try the mettle of his pursuer in a different manner, and felt for his knife in order to turn at bay. It had escaped from its sheath, however, while he lay in the grass, and his hair almost lifted the cap from his head when he found himself wholly unarmed.

As he had slackened his space for a moment, the Indian was almost within reach of him when he started ahead again; but the idea of being without arms lent wings to his flight, and for the first time he saw himself gaining ground. He had watched the motions of his pursuer too closely to pay proper attention to the nature of the ground before him, and suddenly found himself in front of a large tree, which had been blown down, and upon which had been heaped brush and other impediments to the height of eight or nine feet.

The Indian, heretofore silent, now gave utterance to an exultant shout, for he must have felt sure of his victim. Not a second was given to Kennan to deliberate. He must clear the obstacle in front or it was all over with him. Putting his whole soul into the effort, he bounded into the air with a power which astonished himself, and, clearing limbs, brush, and everything else, alighted in perfect safety on the other side. An exclamation of amazement burst from the band of pursuers bringing up the rear, not one of whom had the hardihood to attempt the same feat. Kennan, however, had no leisure to enjoy his triumph. Dashing into the creek, where the high banks would protect him from the fire of the enemy, he ran up the edge of the stream until he found a convenient crossing place, and rejoined the rangers in the rear of the encampment, panting from the fatigue of exertions which had seldom been surpassed. But little breathing time was allowed him. The attack instantly commenced, and was maintained for three hours with unabated fury.

When the retreat took place, Kennan was attached to Major Clark's battalion, which had the dangerous service of protecting the rear. The corps quickly lost its commander, and was completely disorganized. Kennan was among the hindmost when the flight commenced, but exerting those same powers which had saved him in the morning, he quickly gained the front, passing several horsemen in his flight.

Here he beheld a private in his own company, lying upon the ground with his thigh broken, who, in tones of distress, implored each horseman as he hurried by to take him up behind. As soon as he beheld Kennan coming up on foot, he stretched out his hands and entreated him to save him. Notwithstanding the imminent peril of the moment, his friend could not reject such an appeal, but, seizing him in his arms, placed him upon his back, and ran in this manner several hundred yards.

At length the enemy was gaining upon them so fast, that Kennan saw their death was certain unless he relinquished his burden. He accordingly told his friend that he had used every exertion possible to save his life, but in vain; that he must relax his hold about his neck, or they would both perish. The unhappy man, heedless of every remonstrance, still clung convulsively to Kennan's back, until the foremost of the enemy, armed with tomahawks alone, were within twenty yards of them. Kennan then drew his knife from its sheath, and cut the fingers of his companion, thus compelling him to relinquish his hold. The wounded man fell upon the ground in utter helplessness, and Kennan beheld him tomahawked before he had gone thirty yards. Kennan, relieved from his burden, darted forward with the activity which once more brought him to the van. Here again he was compelled to neglect his own safety to attend to that of others.

The late Governor Madison, of Kentucky, who afterward commanded the corps which defended themselves so honorably at the River Raisin, was at that time a subaltern in St. Clair's army. Being a man of feeble constitution, he was totally exhausted by the exertions of the morning, and was found by Kennan sitting calmly upon a log, awaiting the approach of his enemies. Kennan hastily accosted him, and inquired the cause of his delay. Madison, pointing to a wound which had bled profusely, replied he was unable to walk further, and had no horse. Kennan instantly ran back to the spot where he had seen an exhausted horse grazing, caught him without difficulty, and having assisted Madison to mount, walked by his side till they were out of danger. Fortunately, the pursuit ceased soon after, as the plunder of the camp presented irresistible attractions to the Indians. The friendship thus formed between these two young men continued through life. Kennan never entirely recovered from the immense exertions he was constrained to make during this unfortunate expedition.