THE BATTLE OF THE GREAT KANAWHA; AND LOGAN’S SPEECH‚ 1774.

Meanwhile Lord Dunmore, having garrisoned the frontier forts, three of which were put under the orders of Daniel Boon, was making ready a formidable army with which to overwhelm the hostile Indians.  It was to be raised, and to march, in two wings or divisions, each fifteen hundred strong, which were to join at the mouth of the Great Kanawha.  One wing, the right or northernmost, was to be commanded by the earl in person; while the other, composed exclusively of frontiersmen living among the mountains west and southwest of the Blue Ridge, was entrusted to General Andrew Lewis.  Lewis was a stalwart backwoods soldier, belonging to a family of famous frontier fighters, but though a sternly just and fearless man, he does not appear to have had more than average qualifications to act as a commander of border troops when pitted against Indians.

The backwoodsmen of the Alleghanies felt that the quarrel was their own; in their hearts the desire for revenge burned like a sullen flame.  The old men had passed their manhood with nerves tense from the strain of unending watchfulness, and souls embittered by terrible and repeated disasters; the young men had been cradled in stockaded forts, round which there prowled a foe whose comings and goings were unknown, and who was unseen till the moment when the weight of his hand was felt.  They had been helpless to avenge their wrongs, and now that there was at last a chance to do so, they thronged eagerly to Lewis’ standard.  The left wing or army assembled at the Great Levels of Greenbriar, and thither came the heroes of long rifle, tomahawk, and hunting-shirt, gathering from every stockaded hamlet, every lonely clearing and smoky hunter’s camp that lay along the ridges from whose hollows sprang the sources of the Eastern and the Western Waters.  They were not uniformed, save that they all wore the garb of the frontier hunter; but most of them were armed with good rifles, and were skilful woodsmen, and though utterly undisciplined, they were magnificent individual fighters. The officers were clad and armed almost precisely like the rank and file, save that some of them had long swords girded to their waist-belts; they carried rifles, for, where the result of the contest depended mainly on the personal prowess of the individual fighter, the leader was expected literally to stand in the forefront of the battle, and to inspirit his followers by deeds as well as words.

Among these troops was a company of rangers who came from the scattered wooden forts of the Watauga and the Nolichucky.  Both Sevier and Robertson took part in this war, and though the former saw no fighting, the latter, who had the rank of sergeant, was more fortunate.

While the backwoods general was mustering his unruly and turbulent host of skilled riflemen, the English earl led his own levies, some fifteen hundred strong, to Fort Pitt. Here he changed his plans, and decided not to try to join the other division, as he had agreed to do.  This sudden abandonment of a scheme already agreed to and acted on by his colleague was certainly improper, and, indeed, none of the earl’s movements indicated very much military capacity.  However, he descended the Ohio River with a flotilla of a hundred canoes, besides keel-boats and pirogues, to the mouth of the Hockhocking, where he built and garrisoned a small stockade.  Then he went up the Hockhocking to the falls, whence he marched to the Scioto, and there entrenched himself in a fortified camp, with breastworks of fallen trees, on the edge of the Pickaway plains, not far from the Indian town of Old Chillicothe.  Thence he sent out detachments that destroyed certain of the hostile towns.  He had with him as scouts many men famous in frontier story, among them George Rogers Clark, Cresap, and Simon Kenton ­afterwards the bane of every neighboring Indian tribe, and renowned all along the border for his deeds of desperate prowess, his wonderful adventures, and his hairbreadth escapes.  Another, of a very different stamp, was Simon Girty, of evil fame, whom the whole west grew to loathe, with bitter hatred, as “the white renegade.”  He was the son of a vicious Irish trader, who was killed by the Indians; he was adopted by the latter, and grew up among them, and his daring ferocity and unscrupulous cunning early made him one of their leaders. At the moment he was serving Lord Dunmore and the whites; but he was by tastes, habits, and education a red man, who felt ill at ease among those of his own color.  He soon returned to the Indians, and dwelt among them ever afterwards, the most inveterate foe of the whites that was to be found in all the tribes.  He lived to be a very old man, and is said to have died fighting his ancient foes and kinsmen, the Americans, in our second war against the British.

But Lord Dunmore’s army was not destined to strike the decisive blow in the contest.  The great Shawnee chief, Cornstalk, was as wary and able as he was brave.  He had from the first opposed the war with the whites; but as he had been unable to prevent it, he was now bent on bringing it to a successful issue.  He was greatly outnumbered; but he had at his command over a thousand painted and plumed warriors, the pick of the young men of the western tribes, the most daring braves to be found between the Ohio and the Great Lakes.  His foes were divided, and he determined to strike first at the one who would least suspect a blow, but whose ruin, nevertheless, would involve that of the other.  If Lewis’ army could be surprised and overwhelmed, the fate of Lord Dunmore’s would be merely a question of days.  So without delay, Cornstalk, crafty in council, mighty in battle, and swift to carry out what he had planned, led his long files of warriors, with noiseless speed, through leagues of trackless woodland to the banks of the Ohio.

The backwoodsmen who were to form the army of Lewis had begun to gather at the Levels of Greenbriar before the 1st of September, and by the 7th most of them were assembled.  Altogether the force under Lewis consisted of four commands, as follows:  a body of Augusta troops, under Col.  Charles Lewis, a brother of the general’s; a body of Botetourt troops, under Col.  William Fleming; a small independent company, under Col.  John Field; and finally the Fincastle men, from the Holston, Clinch, Watauga, and New River settlements, under Col.  William Christian. One of Christian’s captains was a stout old Marylander, of Welsh blood, named Evan Shelby; and Shelby’s son Isaac, a stalwart, stern-visaged young man, who afterwards played a very prominent part on the border, was a subaltern in his company, in which Robertson likewise served as a sergeant.  Although without experience of drill, it may be doubted if a braver or physically finer set of men were ever got together on this continent.

Among such undisciplined troops it was inevitable that there should be both delay and insubordination.  Nevertheless they behaved a good deal better than their commander had expected; and he was much pleased with their cheerfulness and their eagerness for action.  The Fincastle men, being from the remote settlements, were unable to get together in time to start with the others; and Col.  Field grew jealous of his commander and decided to march his little company alone.  The Indians were hovering around the camp, and occasionally shot at and wounded stragglers, or attempted to drive off the pack-horses.

The army started in three divisions.  The bulk, consisting of Augusta men, under Col.  Charles Lewis, marched on September 8th, closely followed by the Botetourt troops under Andrew Lewis himself.

Field, with his small company, started off on his own account; but after being out a couple of days, two of his scouts met two Indians, with the result that a man was killed on each side; after which, profiting by the loss, he swallowed his pride and made haste to join the first division.  The Fincastle troops were delayed so long that most of them, with their commander, were still fifteen miles from the main body the day the battle was fought; but Captains Shelby and Russell, with parts of their companies, went on ahead of the others, and, as will be seen, joined Lewis in time to do their full share of the fighting.  Col.  Christian himself only reached the Levels on the afternoon of the day the Augusta men had marched.  He was burning with desire to distinguish himself, and his men were also very eager to have a share in the battle; and he besought Lewis to let him go along with what troops he had.  But he was refused permission, whereat he was greatly put out.

Lewis found he had more men than he expected, and so left some of the worst troops to garrison the small forts.  Just before starting he received a letter from the Earl advising, but not commanding, a change in their plans; to this he refused to accede, and was rather displeased at the proposal, attributing it to the influence of Conolly, whom the backwoods leaders were growing to distrust.  There is not the slightest reason to suppose, however, that he then, or at any time during the campaign, suspected the Earl of treachery; nor did the latter’s conduct give any good ground for such a belief.  Nevertheless, this view gained credit among the Virginians in later years, when they were greatly angered by the folly and ferocity of Lord Dunmore’s conduct during the early part of the Revolutionary war, and looked at all his past acts with jaundiced eyes.

Lewis’ troops formed a typical backwoods army, both officers and soldiers.  They wore fringed hunting-shirts, dyed yellow, brown, white, and even red; quaintly carved shot-bags and powder-horns hung from their broad ornamented belts; they had fur caps or soft hats, moccasins, and coarse woollen leggings reaching half-way up the thigh. Each carried his flint-lock, his tomahawk, and scalping-knife.  They marched in long files with scouts or spies thrown out in front and on the flanks, while axe-men went in advance to clear a trail over which they could drive the beef cattle, and the pack-horses, laden with provisions, blankets, and ammunition.  They struck out straight through the trackless wilderness, making their road as they went, until on the 21st of the month they reached the Kanawha, at the mouth of Elk Creek.  Here they halted to build dug-out canoes; and about this time were overtaken by the companies of Russell and Shelby.  On October 1st they started to descend the river in twenty-seven canoes, a portion of the army marching down along the Indian trail, which followed the base of the hills, instead of the river bank, as it was thus easier to cross the heads of the creeks and ravines.

They reached the mouth of the river on the 6th, and camped on Point Pleasant, the cape of land jutting out between the Ohio and the Kanawha.  As a consequence the bloody fight that ensued is sometimes called the battle of Point Pleasant, and sometimes the battle of the Great Kanawha.  Hitherto the Indians had not seriously molested Lewis’ men, though they killed a settler right on their line of march, and managed to drive off some of the bullocks and pack-horses.

The troops, though tired from their journey, were in good spirits, and eager to fight.  But they were impatient of control, and were murmuring angrily that there was favoritism shown in the issue of beef.  Hearing this, Lewis ordered all the poorest beeves to be killed first; but this merely produced an explosion of discontent, and large numbers of the men in mutinous defiance of the orders of their officers began to range the woods, in couples, to kill game.  There was little order in the camp, and small attention was paid to picket and sentinel duty; the army, like a body of Indian warriors, relying for safety mainly upon the sharp-sighted watchfulness of the individual members and the activity of the hunting parties.

On the 9th Simon Girty arrived in camp bringing a message from Lord Dunmore, which bade Lewis meet him at the Indian towns near the Pickaway plains.  Lewis was by no means pleased at the change, but nevertheless prepared to break camp and march next morning.  He had with him at this time about eleven hundred men.

His plans, however, were destined to be rudely forestalled, for Cornstalk, coming rapidly through the forest, had reached the Ohio.  That very night the Indian chief ferried his men across the river on rafts, six or eight miles above the forks, and by dawn was on the point of hurling his whole force, of nearly a thousand warriors on the camp of his slumbering foes.

Before daylight on the 10th small parties of hunters had, as usual, left Lewis’ camp.  Two of these men, from Russell’s company, after having gone somewhat over a mile, came upon a large party of Indians; one was killed, and the survivor ran back at full speed to give the alarm, telling those in camp that he had seen five acres of ground covered with Indians as thick as they could stand. Almost immediately afterwards two men of Shelby’s company, one being no less a person than Robertson himself and the other Valentine, a brother of John Sevier, also stumbled upon the advancing Indians; being very wary and active men, they both escaped, and reached camp almost as soon as the other.

Instantly the drums beat to arms, and the backwoodsmen, ­lying out in the open, rolled in their blankets, ­started from the ground, looked to their flints and priming, and were ready on the moment.  The general, thinking he had only a scouting party to deal with, ordered out Col.  Charles Lewis and Col.  Fleming, each with one hundred and fifty men.  Fleming had the left, and marched up the bank of the Ohio, while Lewis, on the right, kept some little distance inland.  They went about half a mile. Then, just before sunrise, while it was still dusk, the men in camp, eagerly listening, heard the reports of three guns, immediately succeeded by a clash like a peal of thin thunder, as hundreds of rifles rang out together.  It was evident that the attack was serious and Col.  Field was at once despatched to the front with two hundred men.

He came only just in time.  At the first fire both of the scouts in front of the white line had been killed.  The attack fell first, and with especial fury, on the division of Charles Lewis, who himself was mortally wounded at the very outset; he had not taken a tree, but was in an open piece of ground, cheering on his men, when he was shot.  He stayed with them until the line was formed, and then walked back to camp unassisted, giving his gun to a man who was near him.  His men, who were drawn up on the high ground skirting Crooked Run, began to waver, but were rallied by Fleming, whose division had been attacked almost simultaneously, until he too was struck down by a bullet.  The line then gave way, except that some of Fleming’s men still held their own on the left in a patch of rugged ground near the Ohio.  At this moment, however, Colonel Field came up and restored the battle, while the backwoodsmen who had been left in camp also began to hurry up to take part in the fight.  General Lewis at last, fully awake to the danger, began to fortify the camp by felling timber so as to form a breastwork running across the point from the Ohio to the Kanawha.  This work should have been done before; and through attending to it Lewis was unable to take any personal part in the battle.

Meanwhile the frontiersmen began to push back their foes, led by Col.  Field.  The latter himself, however, was soon slain; he was at the time behind a great tree, and was shot by two Indians on his right, while he was trying to get a shot at another on his left, who was distracting his attention by mocking and jeering at him. The command then fell on Captain Evan Shelby, who turned his company over to the charge of his son, Isaac.  The troops fought on steadily, undaunted by the fall of their leaders, while the Indians attacked with the utmost skill, caution, and bravery.  The fight was a succession of single combats, each man sheltering himself behind a stump, or rock, or tree-trunk, the superiority of the backwoodsmen in the use of the rifle being offset by the superiority of their foes in the art of hiding and of shielding themselves from harm.  The hostile lines, though about a mile and a quarter in length, were so close together, being never more than twenty yards apart, that many of the combatants grappled in hand-to-hand fighting, and tomahawked or stabbed each other to death.  The clatter of the rifles was incessant, while above the din could be heard the cries and groans of the wounded, and the shouts of the combatants, as each encouraged his own side, or jeered savagely at his adversaries.  The cheers of the whites mingled with the appalling war-whoops and yells of their foes.  The Indians also called out to the Americans in broken English, taunting them, and asking them why their fifes were no longer whistling ­for the fight was far too close to permit of any such music.  Their headmen walked up and down behind their warriors, exhorting them to go in close, to shoot straight, and to bear themselves well in the fight; while throughout the action the whites opposite Cornstalk could hear his deep, sonorous voice as he cheered on his braves, and bade them “be strong, be strong."

About noon the Indians tried to get round the flank of the whites, into their camp; but this movement was repulsed, and a party of the Americans followed up their advantage, and running along the banks of the Kanawha out-flanked the enemy in turn.  The Indians being pushed very hard now began to fall back, the best fighters covering the retreat, while the wounded were being carried off; although, ­a rare thing in Indian battles ­they were pressed so close that they were able to bear away but a portion of their dead.  The whites were forced to pursue with the greatest caution; for those of them who advanced heedlessly were certain to be ambushed and receive a smart check.  Finally, about one o’clock, the Indians, in their retreat, reached a very strong position, where the underbrush was very close and there were many fallen logs and steep banks.  Here they stood resolutely at bay, and the whites did not dare attack them in such a stronghold.  So the action came almost to an end; though skirmishing went on until about an hour before sunset, the Indians still at times taunting their foes and calling out to them that they had eleven hundred men as well as the whites, and that to-morrow they were going to be two thousand strong This was only bravado, however; they had suffered too heavily to renew the attack, and under cover of darkness they slipped away, and made a most skilful retreat, carrying all their wounded in safety across the Ohio.  The exhausted Americans, having taken a number of scalps, as well as forty guns, and many tomahawks and some other plunder, returned to their camp.

The battle had been bloody as well as stubborn.  The whites, though the victors, had suffered more than their foes, and indeed had won only because it was against the entire policy of Indian warfare to suffer a severe loss, even if a victory could be gained thereby.  Of the whites, some seventy-five men had been killed or mortally wounded, and one hundred and forty severely or slightly wounded, so that they lost a fifth of their whole number.  The Indians had not lost much more than half as many; about forty warriors were killed outright or died of their wounds. Among the Indians no chief of importance was slain; whereas the Americans had seventeen officers killed or wounded, and lost in succession their second, third, and fourth in command.  The victors buried their own dead and left the bodies of the vanquished to the wolves and ravens.  At midnight, after the battle, Col.  Christian and his Fincastle men reached the ground.  The battle of the Great Kanawha was a purely American victory, for it was fought solely by the backwoodsmen themselves.  Their immense superiority over regular troops in such contests can be readily seen when their triumph on this occasion is compared with the defeats previously suffered by Braddock’s grenadiers and Grant’s highlanders, at the hands of the same foes.  It was purely a soldiers’ battle, won by hard individual fighting; there was no display of generalship, except on Cornstalk’s part. It was the most closely contested of any battle ever fought with the northwestern Indians; and it was the only victory gained over a large body of them by a force but slightly superior in numbers. Both because of the character of the fight itself, and because of the results that flowed from it, it is worthy of being held in especial remembrance.

Lewis left his sick and wounded in the camp at the Point, protected by a rude breastwork, and with an adequate guard.  With the remainder of his forces, over a thousand strong, he crossed the Ohio, and pushed on to the Pickaway plains.  When but a few miles from the earl’s encampment he was met by a messenger informing him that a treaty of peace was being negotiated with the Indians. The backwoodsmen, flushed with success, and angry at their losses, were eager for more bloodshed; and it was only with difficulty that they were restrained, and were finally induced to march homewards, the earl riding down to them and giving his orders in person.  They grumbled angrily against the earl for sending them back, and in later days accused him of treachery for having done so; but his course was undoubtedly proper, for it would have been very difficult to conclude peace in the presence of such fierce and unruly auxiliaries.

The spirit of the Indians had been broken by their defeat.  Their stern old chief, Cornstalk, alone remained with unshaken heart, resolute to bid defiance to his foes and to fight the war out to the bitter end.  But when the council of the headmen and war-chiefs was called it became evident that his tribesmen would not fight, and even his burning eloquence could not goad the warriors into again trying the hazard of battle.  They listened unmoved and in sullen silence to the thrilling and impassioned words with which he urged them to once more march against the Long Knives, and if necessary to kill their women and children, and then themselves die fighting to the last man.  At last, when he saw he could not stir the hearts of his hearers he struck his tomahawk into the warpost and announced that he himself would go and make peace.  At that the warriors broke silence, and all grunted out approvingly, ough! ough! ough! and then they instantly sent runners to the earl’s army to demand a truce.

Accordingly, with all his fellow-chiefs, he went to Lord Dunmore’s camp, and there entered into a treaty.  The crestfallen Indians assented to all the terms the conquerors proposed.  They agreed to give up all the white prisoners and stolen horses in their possession, and to surrender all claim to the lands south of the Ohio, and they gave hostages as an earnest of their good-faith. But their chief spokesman, Cornstalk, while obliged to assent to these conditions, yet preserved through all the proceedings a bearing of proud defiance that showed how little the fear of personal consequences influenced his own actions.  At the talks he addressed the white leader with vehement denunciation and reproach, in a tone that seemed rather that of a conqueror than of one of the conquered.  Indeed, he himself was not conquered; he felt that his tribesmen were craven, but he knew that his own soul feared nothing.  The Virginians, who, like their Indian antagonists, prized skill in oratory only less than skill in warfare, were greatly impressed by the chieftain’s eloquence, by his command of words, his clear, distinct voice, his peculiar emphasis, and his singularly grand and majestic, and yet graceful, bearing; they afterwards said that his oratory fully equalled that of Patrick Henry himself.

Every prominent chief but one came to the council.  The exception was Logan, who remained apart in the Mingo village, brooding over his wrongs, and the vengeance he had taken.  His fellows, when questioned about his absence, answered that he was like a mad dog, whose bristles were still up, but that they were gradually falling; and when he was entreated to be present at the meeting he responded that he was a warrior, not a councillor, and would not come.  The Mingos, because they failed to appear at the treaty, had their camp destroyed and were forced to give hostages, as the Delawares and Shawnees had done, and Logan himself finally sullenly acquiesced in, or at least ceased openly to oppose, the peace.

But he would not come in person to Lord Dunmore; so the earl was obliged to communicate with him through a messenger, a frontier veteran named John Gibson, who had long lived among the Indians and knew thoroughly both their speech and their manners. To this messenger Logan was willing to talk.  Taking him aside, he suddenly addressed him in a speech that will always retain its place as perhaps the finest outburst of savage eloquence of which we have any authentic record.  The messenger took it down in writing, translating it literally, and, returning to camp, gave it to Lord Dunmore.  The earl then read it, in open council, to the whole backwoods army, including Cresap, Clark, and the other scouts.  The speech, when read, proved to be no message of peace, nor an acknowledgment of defeat, but instead, a strangely pathetic recital of his wrongs, and a fierce and exulting justification of the vengeance he had taken.  It ran as follows: 

“I appeal to any white man to say if ever he entered Logan’s cabin hungry and he gave him not meat; if ever he came cold and naked and he clothed him not?  During the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his camp, an advocate for peace.  Such was my love for the whites that my countrymen pointed as I passed and said, ’Logan is the friend of the white man.’  I had even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one man.  Colonel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan, not even sparing my women and children.  There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature.  This called on me for revenge.  I have sought it.  I have killed many.  I have fully glutted my vengeance.  For my country I rejoice at the beams of peace; but do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy of fear.  Logan never felt fear.  He will not turn on his heel to save his life.  Who is there to mourn for Logan?  Not one.”

The tall frontiersmen, lounging in a circle round about, listened to the reading of the speech with eager interest; rough Indian haters though they were, they were so much impressed by it that in the evening it was a common topic of conversation over their camp fires, and they continually attempted to rehearse it to one another. But they knew that Greathouse, not Cresap, had been the chief offender in the murder of Logan’s family; and when the speech was read, Clark, turning round, jeered at and rallied Cresap as being so great a man that the Indians put every thing on his shoulders; whereat, Cresap, much angered, swore that he had a good mind to tomahawk Greathouse for the murder.

The speech could not have been very satisfactory to the earl; but at least it made it evident that Logan did not intend to remain on the war-path; and so Lord Dunmore marched home with his hostages.  On the homeward march, near the mouth of the River Hockhocking, the officers of the army held a notable meeting.  They had followed the British earl to battle; but they were Americans, in warm sympathy with the Continental Congress, which was then in session.  Fearful lest their countrymen might not know that they were at one with them in the struggle of which the shadow was looming up with ever increasing blackness, they passed resolutions which were afterwards published.  Their speakers told how they had lived in the woods for three months, without hearing from the Congress at Philadelphia, nor yet from Boston, where the disturbances seemed most likely to come to a head.  They spoke of their fear lest their countrymen might be misled into the belief that this numerous body of armed men was hostile or indifferent to the cause of America; and proudly alluded to the fact that they had lived so long without bread or salt, or shelter at night, and that the troops they led could march and fight as well as any in the world.  In their resolutions they professed their devotion to their king, to the honor of his crown, and to the dignity of the British empire; but they added that this devotion would only last while the king deigned to rule over a free people, for their love for the liberty of America outweighed all other considerations, and they would exert every power for its defence, not riotously, but when regularly called forth by the voice of their countrymen.

They ended by tendering their thanks to Lord Dunmore for his conduct.  He was also warmly thanked by the Virginia Legislature, as well as by the frontiersmen of Fincastle, and he fully deserved their gratitude.

The war had been ended in less than six months’ time; and its results were of the utmost importance.  It had been very successful.  In Braddock’s war, the borderers are estimated to have suffered a loss of fifty souls for every Indian slain; in Pontiac’s war, they had learned to defend themselves better, and yet the ratio was probably as ten to one; whereas in this war, if we consider only males of fighting age, it is probable that a good deal more than half as many Indians as whites were killed, and even including women and children, the ratio would not rise to more than three to one.  Certainly, in all the contests waged against the northwestern Indians during the last half of the eighteenth century there was no other where the whites inflicted so great a relative loss on their foes.  Its results were most important.  It kept the northwestern tribes quiet for the first two years of the Revolutionary struggle; and above all it rendered possible the settlement of Kentucky, and therefore the winning of the West.  Had it not been for Lord Dunmore’s war, it is more than likely that when the colonies achieved their freedom they would have found their western boundary fixed at the Alleghany Mountains.

Nor must we permit our sympathy for the foul wrongs of the two great Indian heroes of the contest to blind us to the fact that the struggle was precipitated, in the first place, by the outrages of the red men, not the whites; and that the war was not only inevitable, but was also in its essence just and righteous on the part of the borderers.  Even the unpardonable and hideous atrocity of the murder of Logan’s family, was surpassed in horror by many of the massacres committed by the Indians about the same time.  The annals of the border are dark and terrible.

Among the characters who played the leaders’ parts in this short and tragic drama of the backwoods few came to much afterwards.  Cresap died a brave Revolutionary soldier.  Of Greathouse we know nothing; we can only hope that eventually the Indians scalped him.  Conolly became a virulent tory, who yet lacked the power to do the evil that he wished.  Lewis served creditably in the Revolution; while at its outbreak Lord Dunmore was driven from Virginia and disappears from our ken.  Proud, gloomy Logan never recovered from the blow that had been dealt him; he drank deeper and deeper, and became more and more an implacable, moody, and bloodthirsty savage, yet with noble qualities that came to the surface now and then.  Again and again he wrought havoc among the frontier settlers; yet we several times hear of his saving the lives of prisoners.  Once he saved Simon Kenton from torture and death, when Girty, moved by a rare spark of compassion for his former comrade, had already tried to do so and failed.  At last he perished in a drunken brawl by the hand of another Indian.

Cornstalk died a grand death, but by an act of cowardly treachery on the part of his American foes; it is one of the darkest stains on the checkered pages of frontier history.  Early in 1777 he came into the garrison at Point Pleasant to explain that, while he was anxious to keep at peace, his tribe were bent on going to war; and he frankly added that of course if they did so he should have to join them.  He and three other Indians, among them his son and the chief Redhawk, who had also been at the Kanawha battle, were detained as hostages.  While they were thus confined in the fort a member of a company of rangers was killed by the Indians near by; whereupon his comrades, headed by their captain, rushed in furious anger into the fort to slay the hostages.  Cornstalk heard them rushing in, and knew that his hour had come; with unmoved countenance he exhorted his son not to fear, for it was the will of the Great Spirit that they should die there together; then, as the murderers burst into the room, he quietly rose up to meet them, and fell dead pierced by seven or eight bullets.  His son and his comrades were likewise butchered, and we have no record of any more infamous deed.

Though among the whites, the men who took prominent parts in the struggle never afterwards made any mark, yet it is worth noting that all the aftertime leaders of the west were engaged in some way in Lord Dunmore’s war.  Their fates were various.  Boon led the vanguard of the white advance across the mountains, wandered his life long through the wilderness, and ended his days, in extreme old age, beyond the Mississippi, a backwoods hunter to the last.  Shelby won laurels at King’s Mountain, became the first governor of Kentucky, and when an old man revived the memories of his youth by again leading the western men in battle against the British and Indians.  Sevier and Robertson were for a generation the honored chiefs of the southwestern people.  Clark, the ablest of all, led a short but brilliant career, during which he made the whole nation his debtor.  Then, like Logan, he sank under the curse of drunkenness, ­often hardly less dangerous to the white borderer than to his red enemy, ­and passed the remainder of his days in ignoble and slothful retirement.