The warriors and their prisoners start for the Indian country—Boone lightens the journey and puts the captors in good humor—Stephen Halliwell falls ill of a fever—He is in danger of being tomahawked by the savages—Boone undertakes the care of the feeble man—“No Indian shall raise your hair whilst I can raise a hand to prevent it”—Halliwell is doomed to death but Boone stays the executioners—He carries the exhausted man over the last stage of the march—The party arrives at Chillicothe—Boone and others are taken to the British post at Detroit.

The month of February, 1778, was unusually mild. A few inches of snow fell during the night following the capture of Boone and his men but the next day a thaw set in. The condition of the ground rendered walking tiresome and disagreeable and made it difficult to secure a dry bed at night. It also obliterated ordinary traces and almost precluded the possibility of pursuers finding and following the trail of the band of Indians and their prisoners. Boone noted this circumstance with satisfaction. His chief anxiety now was lest the men of Boonesborough should attempt a rescue, which could only end in disaster and might induce the savages to revert to their original design of attacking the fort. Before starting upon the march he instructed his men not to resort to any of the usual devices for creating a trace, such as leaving scraps of clothing on bushes, breaking off twigs, pieces of bark, and so on.

The Indians divided their captives into three equal squads of nine each, and themselves into four bodies of twenty-five warriors, sandwiching the former between the latter, and this order was maintained upon the daily march. The whites had, of course, been deprived of their weapons and could not have made any concerted attack on their captors with the least chance of success. Any individual attempt at escape during daylight must have been even more hopeless.

A consignment of salt having been sent to Boonesborough a few days before the capture, there was but one pack-horse in the camp at the licks when it fell into the hands of the Indians. This animal was loaded with as much of the plunder as it could carry and the heavy rifles were distributed among the Indian ponies, but the arrangement left a large amount of baggage unprovided with carriage and this was distributed among the prisoners. Each had a burden of fifty or sixty pounds, which consisted largely of the blankets and skins with which he was permitted to cover himself at night. Such a load would tire the ordinary man in an hour, but these hardy backwoodsmen could carry it all day and over fifteen miles of heavy ground, not without great fatigue, of course, but without breaking down. Thus they tramped along under the dripping boughs of the silent forest, their moccasins squelching the spongy earth and their long hair hanging wet and stringy about their necks.

At night the camp was pitched in some place that afforded natural protection from the wind, and this was, perhaps, supplemented by a screen of boughs. Game was plentiful that season and they suffered nothing from lack of food. Whilst the Indians naturally retained for themselves the choicest portions, the prisoners received sufficient to satisfy their appetites. In the centre of the camp a large fire was made and around this the twenty-seven white men stretched themselves to sleep, with their feet towards the blazing logs. This group was encircled by a ring of smaller fires at which the hundred savages lay close together, forming a human belt round the encampment.

The arrangement was a sufficiently comfortable one for the captives, but it presented little prospect of escape. The prisoners lay in the full glare of the girdle of flame and could not stir whilst an Indian remained awake without attracting attention. But even though every one of them was sunk in slumber it would be a task of the utmost difficulty to pass through their prostrate ranks undetected, for the savage has the dog-like habit of sleeping with senses on the alert. The slightest sound, a strange smell, the lightest touch, will arouse him to full intelligence in an instant.

No doubt Boone might have effected his escape had he been so minded. He was one of the few frontiersmen who acquired the peculiarly subtle qualities of the savages, and even excelled the craftiest of them in many respects. No redskin could wriggle over the ground more stealthily than he, nor tread the earth with less disturbance. He knew the character of the Indians thoroughly, and this knowledge he turned to account in the several instances that he fell into their hands. From the first moment of capture, he always turned his attention to arousing a desirable condition of mind in his captors, and this will account for the fact that they invariably treated him well.

He knew how to play upon their feelings, how to tickle their sense of humor, how to excite their self esteem, how to allay their suspicions. He would interest them with stories of the white folks. He would entertain them with feats of strength or dexterity. He would gratify them by imparting some bit of useful knowledge or some practical suggestion. Or, mindful of their love of debate, he would lead them into some discussion, taking care, whilst infusing sufficient zest into his contention, to leave his dusky opponents final masters of the argument.

And all the while he would maintain a perfect appearance of the utmost unconcern with regard to himself and his fate. Never by word, look, or gesture would he display the slightest fear or uneasiness of mind. As a matter of fact, this attitude was in complete consonance with the state of his feelings. From his first capture by Indians, during his expedition to Kentucky in 1769, until the day of his death, Boone always felt, when in their hands, the utmost confidence in his ability to influence them and to make his escape from them. No band ever held him prisoner without coming under the spell of his magnetism and admiring his calm self-possession. If any other man enjoyed the same exemption from fear of the redskins, and possessed the same power of arousing their better natures, it was George Rogers Clark.

As we have intimated, to have given his present captors the slip would have been no great feat on the part of Boone, but he did not entertain the idea. In the first place, he was restrained by the conviction that the loss of their chief prize would arouse the savages to fury and prompt them to wreak vengeance upon the other captives. Furthermore, he considered it his duty to remain with his men, who had no one among them capable of filling his place as leader or counsellor. Had Boone entertained any different ideas, circumstances which arose at the close of the first day’s march would have put them to rout.

In the squad of prisoners that included Boone was a young fellow named Stephen Halliwell, who had been sickening for days previous to the capture. By almost superhuman effort he got through the first march and when camp was reached fell upon the ground in a state of collapse. Boone was seriously concerned about the man, but not so much on account of his fever as because it was the invariable practice of the Indians to tomahawk sick or weak prisoners in order that they should not impede progress. Boone made a comfortable bed for the sufferer beside himself, using most of his own covering in doing so, and he exerted himself more than ever that night to put the Indians round the camp fires in good humor.

The next morning poor Halliwell braced himself for the fearful struggle of another day. Boone had learned from the Indians that they expected to reach their town at the close of the third full day’s march. This prospect alone gave the fever-stricken man the courage to proceed. Boone carried Halliwell’s pack in addition to his own and the sick man’s comrades took turns in supporting his tottering steps. Many a sinister glance was cast by the nearby savages at the evidently exhausted captive, but Boone was ever ready to avert the impending doom. He tramped along carelessly, almost jauntily, under his double load and constantly kept the neighboring redskins entertained—now he joked with them, offering to match himself against any squaw in their tribe at carrying a pack; now he pointed to the faint trace of some game animal that had lately passed that way and started a discussion of the best manner of tracking it. Anon he gave them a description of one of the great coast towns of the “Long Knives,” of which he knew only by hearsay. Again he sang a song or started a contest in mimicry with some brave, each being required to imitate the cries of certain beasts and birds. And so the weary day drew to a close and Halliwell, almost carried by one of his companions, reached the night’s camp.

The sick man was in a sorry plight. He had neither the will nor the power to make the slightest effort for himself. He dropped almost inanimate and so lay until Boone and another made his bed and rolled him in the blankets. A large stone was then heated in the fire and placed at his feet, with the object of producing a sweat. He was with difficulty induced to swallow a little broth, and then lay for hours in a semi-comatose condition, groaning feebly.

Towards midnight Halliwell awoke from a brief and restless slumber and turned to Boone, who was watching him.

“Captain,” said the sick man, in feeble tones—“Captain, you’ve done all you could for me and more than I had a right to expect, but I’m afraid it’s no use. I’ve shot my bolt, Captain.” The last words were uttered with an air of the deepest despair. A moment after, ashamed at the show of weakness, he continued, with a pitiful attempt at bravado: “I’m half minded to ask you to whip my scalp off, Captain, so as to cheat these red devils.”

“You’ve got to make a better stand than that, Steve,” replied Boone. “If I’d had any idea of letting you lose your scalp, I shouldn’t have gone to the trouble of carrying your pack to-day. We haven’t got to to-morrow yet. Now you go to sleep and don’t worry until worrying can do you some good, which’ll be never. If it’ll give you any satisfaction, I’ll say this much. No Indian shall raise your hair whilst I can raise a hand to prevent it.”

This assurance evidently cheered the wretched man. With a sigh of relief, he composed himself to sleep, whilst Boone rearranged his coverings.

The morning of the third and last day’s march opened to find Halliwell quite incapable of going farther. He could hardly stand, and his legs bent under him when he attempted to walk. As his dismayed companions stood around him, at a loss what to do, two warriors approached, tomahawk in hand. They had been ordered to do away with the unfortunate man, who had already occasioned sufficient delay in the start to excite the impatience of the Indians.

Boone stepped between the appointed executioners and their intended victim, and with upraised hand motioned them to stop. There was something in the quiet air of command that constrained the savages to obey the unarmed man. Boone then addressed the five chiefs, who stood together at a short distance. He said that it would serve no good purpose to kill the man and might bring great trouble upon themselves. If their only object was the professed one of avoiding delay, it might be accomplished without recourse to the measure they contemplated. He would carry the sick man through the last stage of the journey and would undertake that they should not impede the march. If he failed to fulfill his promise, they might tomahawk both himself and his charge.

To this proposition the Indians assented without hesitation. They were not, however, moved to this action by any sense of humanity but by the respect they already felt for Boone and, even more, by the desire to see him perform the extraordinary feat of carrying a man weighing something like one hundred and fifty pounds for a distance of thirteen miles. The arrangements were quickly made. Boone’s pack and that of Halliwell were divided among their comrades. With a buffalo skin and thongs of elk’s hide a sling was constructed and so adjusted as to secure the greatest degree of ease to the sick man whilst causing as little unnecessary strain upon Boone as possible. This done, Halliwell was lifted into the contrivance and the march commenced.

Boone knew that he was making no idle boast when he undertook the task that amazed the Indians. He had more than once carried an equal weight of dead matter for as great a distance. It was not, nevertheless, any light undertaking. Before the journey was more than half completed, he began to look forward to its close with eager anticipation, and when at length the party arrived within sight of Chillicothe, on the banks of the Little Miami, Boone was nearing the limit of his endurance. But the savages, who frequently looked at him with curious wonder, had not the satisfaction of learning this. He turned upon them his usual calm, inscrutable countenance, and replied to their jibes with perfect good-nature.

A great concourse awaited their coming on the outskirts of the town. The larger part of the crowd was composed of unkempt squaws, in dirty clothing, many of them with babies strapped to their backs. Young boys and girls, with a sprinkling of aged grandsires, made up the remainder, whilst the mongrel dogs of the Indians yelped an excited welcome to their returning masters. A mile from the town the warriors had begun to chant their song of victory, and as they neared the waiting throng they set to brandishing their weapons and shouting exultantly. The prisoners were conducted to the great square and there subjected to the curious scrutiny of the women and children for the space of an hour or two. The greatest interest was displayed in the white squaw who had come in carrying his sick papoose upon his back.

The Shawnees kept Boone and his companions at old Chillicothe for nearly three weeks, during which time they were well treated and, from the Indian point of view, comfortably lodged. At length ten of the prisoners and Boone were sent, under the escort of forty of the savages, to Detroit. Here they were, as Boone declared, “treated by Governor Hamilton, the British commander at that post, with great humanity.” Boone did not forget this kindness and afterwards, when Hamilton was an execrated prisoner in the hands of the Americans, Boone befriended him to the best of his ability.

The ten men who had been brought to Detroit in company with their captain were readily ransomed by the British, but the Indians declined to dispose of Boone in the same manner. The Governor offered one hundred pounds sterling—an extraordinary sum—for his release, intending to liberate him on parole. The offer must have been an extremely tempting one, but the Shawnees resolutely refused it. Boone had created a deep impression on their chiefs, and it had been determined, although the fact was not then announced, to adopt him into the tribe.

Boone made no effort to influence the issue one way or the other. Perhaps he realized that it would be futile to attempt to turn the Indians from their purpose. Perhaps he thought it advisable to go back to the remainder of his men. Or, which is highly probable, he was anxious for the opportunity of learning more about the tribe which constituted the chief menace to his people in Kentucky. Whatever his motive, he displayed such willingness to accompany the Shawnees back to Chillicothe that they were deluded into the belief that he was really disposed to become one of themselves.

Some of the officers at Detroit pressed gifts of money and various useful articles upon Boone, but he declined them all, saying that so far as he could foresee, the opportunity to repay their proffered kindness would never occur and he could not allow himself to lie under a perpetual obligation to them. Their good wishes he thankfully acknowledged, and left them with feelings of respect and admiration for him.

Early in April the Shawnees turned homeward with the prisoner upon whom they set so high a value. Their satisfaction in the possession of him prompted them to guard him with the utmost care, but he soon discovered that he had risen in their estimation and regard since the visit to Detroit. The march was a long and tedious one of three weeks’ duration, but during its course everything was done to promote the comfort of the captive. Boone was not slow to foster the good feelings evinced by his captors, and by the time they arrived at Chillicothe the most cordial relations existed between them and himself.