Document:Shadow of the Chilhowee

East Tennessee, cradled in the giant arms of the Alleganies and the Cumberland Mountains, may well share with Kentucky the title of "the dark and bloody ground." Its well-watered uplands and wooded slopes and grassy vales, alive with game, made it a favorite hunting ground of the aborigines—the Cherokees and Creeks to the South, and the Shawness to the North. And when Daniel Boone pointed the first white settlers thither, and the smoke from their rude log cabins curled over the trees of the primeval forest, it was no wonder that the brows of the dark-hued braves grew darker still, and their hearts were filled with jealous hate, and a determination to sweep back the white invasion.

Somewhere in the nineties of the eighteenth century, Major John Cowan, pushing out into the wilderness with the characteristic enterprise of the Scotch-Irish settler, reared his log cabin almost under the shadow of the Chilhowee Mountains. His wife, Mary Walker, of like sturdy lineage, was nobly fitted to stand at his side, even amid the privations and dangers of pioneer life. In their case, the latter were especially emphasized by the proximity of the mountains, already mentioned, and, also, of the Little Tennessee River, whose clear waters rippled in the sunlight a little to the West of them. Both mountain and river furnished facilities for stealthy approach and sudden attack by the Indians. Everything had to be kept in readiness for a quick flight to the blockhouse, which served as a frontier fortress not far away.

The days slipped by. A little clearing was made, which soon grew green with the promise of a harvest. One night the Major was awakened by a peculiar noise, which seemed to come from the stable. Alert with apprehension, he seemed to hear the horses trampling as if in fright and pulling at their halters in an effort to escape.

"Indians!" he muttered, in a suppressed voice.

His startled wife could scarcely repress a scream, as she quickly rose and ran toward the children's cots, while her husband, snatching up his rifle, opened the door, listened, then stealthily slipped out into the darkness. But even as he did so, a shot rang out in the night, and he fell across the doorway, while a war-whoop woke the sleeping echoes of the clearing, and six Indians dashed through the cabin door, pausing only to take the scalp of their victim.

"Run, children, run!" cried the mother, as she hurried to block the way of the savages.

But she was seized and bound. James, a strong boy of fifteen, was roughly dragged from his cot, bound in the same way, and laid helpless beside his mother. The little sister screamed and struggled, but was silenced by a heartless blow which wrung a groan from the agonized mother, and for a moment caused her to faint away. The cabin was ransacked, and one of the Indians caught a firebrand from the hearth, intending to burn it to the ground, but the torch was knocked from his hand by the leader, who called out:

"Ugh! pale face see fire! He come and make fight!"

Then hastily snatching up their booty and packing it on the stolen horses which had been left in charge of the rest of the band, the Indians made off quickly to a retired spot in the depths of the wood, dragging their captives with them. There, the Cherokees and Shawnees, with a good deal of wrangling, finally succeeded in dividing the spoils. While the dispute was in progress, the mother seized the opportunity for a hurried word of encouragement. She whispered, with tears in her eyes:

"We may be separated. If so, be brave, and trust in your father's God. There may come a chance to escape."

While she was speaking, the Shawnee who had captured her came toward her, making signs that she was to go with him toward the North. "Not without my boy! Oh, I can't go without him!" she moaned, and made a motion, as far as her bound wrists would allow, as if to hold him. The Shawnee frowned and pointed to the boy and then to the men of the other tribe.

"He Cherokee!" he said, and motioned to her to come with him.

Obey she must, but it was cruel. As she walked, her look was still backward upon the lad, as if she might never see him again—until waving a tearful good-bye, she was lost to sight in the depths of the forest.

Before her there was a long hard journey toward the great lakes of the North, and she felt that every step she took was placing just as much of the vast wilderness between herself and those she loved. The chief, whose captive she was, shielded her from harsh treatment; but she was compelled to carry a pack, and her feet were bruised and sore, and her limbs full of aches by the time they reached the headwaters of the Kentucky River.

Here, however, she found that her painful hours afoot were over. For the canoes, which the Indians had tied up close to the bank at this point, on their raid southward, were found jrast as they had been left, hidden under the overhanging foliage. They were quickly drawn out and put in order, and soon the whole band was sweeping silently down the smooth current of the river. The tired captive was yielding herself to the restful gliding motion of the boat, and snatching an occasional glance at the changeful panorama on either bank of the stream, when a paddle was thrust into her hands and a gruff voice commanded, "White squaw, work!"

At sunset, they watched for a good place to land, where they could hide their canoes for the night. When this was accomplished, most of the Indians threw themselves lazily upon the ground to rest. Not so with the captive. Her day's work was not yet over. "Make fire!" was the next order; and she had to gather the leaves and dry sticks, while one of the Indians cautiously selected a spot behind a fallen tree, hidden by the bushes on either side, so that the fire would make the least show toward the river. Then he struck a spark from his gun-flint into the dry grass and leaves which she had prepared, and a sign was made to her to cook their evening meal. She obeyed, for she reasoned that her chance for escaping would be improved if she could keep the good will of the chief, and appear to be contented with her tot. And she continued to obey and to smile, though each day she was borne farther from liberty and friends—down the Kentucky, and up the Ohio a little way—till at last, they arrived at a Shawnee village, on the banks of a stream flowing from the direction of the Great Lakes.

As, here, she looked out upon the rude huts and unsightly litter of the small hamlet, she groaned inwardly, "Oh! must I live here! Can I ever endure it?" But to the Indians it was home, and they were all animation. As soon as they could secure the canoes, a little below the village, they sounded the great war-whoop, which announces the return of warriors from an expedition with victory and spoils. At once, there was an answering shout, and from the wigwams and huts the whole population bubbled over, and were soon dancing about the little band with every demonstration of welcome and congratulation.

Proudly the Shawnee chief led forward his captive and presented her to his squaw to be her slave. The captive's eyes flashed, and she drew herself up, saying, "I'm a free white woman. I'll not be a slave to any one!" But the squaw only answered her with a blow, while the chief looked on and laughed. It was evidently vain to resist. It would only make her lot worse, and still further lessen the chance for a successful flight. So, from that time, Mary Cowan bent her back to her burdens, with all the patience she could summon, and bore up under the daily drudgery with a brave heart under the inspiration of hope, even though it were the most menial work which was given her to do— whether cooking and scrubbing indoors, or digging and planting and hoeing under the eye of the squaw in the little clearing outside. Her mistress was not always rough with her, and at times, would show by some little kindness, that even an Indian's heart is not all of stone. And gradually, as the days went by, the close watch which had been kept upon her began to be relaxed.

Thus, the days passed into months, and the seasons into years. One day, she noticed that there was a great excitement in the village. A half-breed trader and his wife had come with a canoe well stocked with trinkets and bright cloths such as Indians love, to barter for fur-skins and Indian work, to take back to the settlements. Quietly sauntering down the path, a little way, she saw the women and the boys and girls swarming about the landing. And she thought she could detect even in the usually stolid faces of the men a gleam of eagerness, in the presence of this opportunity to renew their stock of powder and lead. But for her! what might it mean for her! With a flash her withered hopes started into life. Here was a possible connection with the outer world! She must see this trader. But she must be wary. Would he help? If so, how? Assuming an appearance of mere idle curiosity, she ventured on to the group about the canoe, and soon seemed to be absorbed, like the rest, in the examination of some trinket in the trader's stock. Watching her chance, as he stood nearby, she managed to whisper, in a low voice, the words, "Save me!" The trader was startled, but betrayed it by no outward sign. Now, he noticed that the woman before him was different from the rest, though the sun and wind had bronzed her face and she wore the Indian dress. Evidently she was a captive, and his deep interest was enlisted at once. Making an excuse of showing her something different in his stock, he drew her slightly away from the crowd, while he whispered,

"Where from?"

She scarcely more than motioned with her lips, "Tennessee."

"How long?"

"Seven years!"

"Name?"

"Mary Cowan. Can you save me?"

Already others were approaching. Keen eyes were turning in their direction. He could only murmur, "I'll see."

There was no chance for further conversation, but she felt that he would do what he could, and waited hopefully.

That same afternoon, she was rewarded by seeing the trader's wife standing before her door, under pretense of seeking instruction how to do a piece of beadwork. And soon, both were seated on the floor of the hut, with their heads together over the beads. Of course, it was an easy matter, in the talk about the beads, to catch the whisper, "Canoe— midnight! Be prompt!" The glad answer was only a look into the eyes and a nod. But there was a gleam in the captive's eye, and a new firmness in her tread.

That night, she lay down in her dark corner of the hut, but not to sleep. It seemed as though the hours would never pass. As the night wore on, and the deep breathing of the chief and his squaw showed that they were sound asleep, she quietly arose and rolled up the bedcovering, to keep up the appearance of some one still lying there. Then, in her moccasined feet, she tiptoed out of the cabin. The dog uttered a low growl, but she quieted him with a gentle pat, and soft "Sh!" and stole on to the water's edge, where everything was ready. The trader and his wife were waiting. The darkness of the night was friendly. Lifting some of the fur? in the bottom of the canoe, the trader said in a low voice, "Lie down here till we get a safe distance away." When the furs had been replaced, the trader seemed to have only an ordinary load of pelts. He then noiselessly pushed out into the stream. His wife took a second paddle, and with strong swift strokes, they soon had the canoe flying over the water. Speed! Speed! is the word. Everything now depends on their putting a good distance between themselves and the Shawnee village before morning. The trader toils as though it were his own life which was in danger, and the anxious fugitive is filled with a new strength born of hope and joy. When morning dawned over the little village that they had left, there was no surprise that the trader had gone. He had casually dropped an intimation that he might proceed to one or two other points, higher up on the river. But what had become of the white captive? The chief who claimed her declared, "She here so long, she keep so still, she not fly away. She come back." And when it was suggested that the trader might have helped her off. he answered, "Naw! she not go! We put our eyes on her. She come again soon." But when the day passed without any news of her, the chief and his squaw grew uneasy. "Go tip river. See trader there," he directed. Several Indians quickly started upon a run of several miles to test this clue. In this way time was consumed, greatly to the advantage of the fugitives. When, after several hours' delay, the runners returned and reported no news of the captive, and, furthermore, that even the trader's canoe had not been seen up the river, the truth was plain—the captive had fled! and the men fairly tumbled over one another in their preparations for a quick pursuit. Several canoes were hastily manned. Guns, ammunition, and a few provisions were thrown in, and away they went. The race was on. But the fugitives were far ahead. The Indian blood of the half-breed trader stood him in good stead; the course was well known to him; and but little time had been given to rest or sleep, while a sharp lookout was kept both in front and rear, and when other canoes were seen, the white woman was hidden away under the furs, while the trader's well-known character saved him from annoying inquiries.

Thus a few days passed by. Down the Ohio a little way to the mouth of the Kentucky River—then up that stream to the South and East, with an unbroken forest on either side—on they sped—until at last, as they turned a point, the eager captive's eyes first discerned, far ahead, a little clearing, with a few log cabins upon it.

"The trading post!" she cried. "We are almost there! Oh, if my people could only meet me!"

Here were friends and a frontier fortress, but she knew that safety from her pursuers would require a much larger force. Her deliverer, the fur trader, was evidently of the same opinion, for he scarcely waited to greet the men who came down to meet the canoe, but called out from the boat.

"I have brought out Mary Cowan from the Shawnees. She has been in captivity seven years. The redskins are in hot pursuit. Start a man at once to the settlements in Blount County, Tennessee, and hurry her friends to the rescue!"

Almost before they could land, a hardy rifleman, with quick sympathy, was galloping away in all haste, and the interest of the rest was earnestly aroused in her behalf. They quickly found a place of concealment for her among the rubbish in a cellar, and closing the gate of the stockade, stood ready to defend her with their lives, if need should arise.

As the eager courier urges his horse along the way, he learns that an old-fashioned camp meeting, such as he has often attended, is being held near the point for which he is pushing. It is most fortunate. He will need the men of the section already gathered together. And he pictures the scene to himself as he hurries along—the families, that have come in large numbers from the surrounding country—the wagons which brought them arranged in orderly rows about the great square space reserved for the preaching services. "And then," it occurs to him, "it will be Sunday morning—and I will be dashing in just about the middle of the meeting. So everybody will be there, and no time will be lost." And so it proved. He galloped up to the camp—his horse covered with foam—just as the congregation were settling down to the sermon. Of course, all eyes were at once turned upon him, while wonder grew as to what message such a courier might have to bring. Skirting the open space to a point in front of the preacher's stand, he faces the amazed congregation, and cries out:

"Is there a man here named Russell—Major Russell? Or Colonel Walker, or any man named Cowan?"

Quickly Major Russell rises, a leading yeoman of the district, and looking the courier straight in the eye, demands:

"What do you want?"

"There is a woman at the French Trading Post making her escape from the Indians. Her name is Mary Cowan. The Indians are in hot pursuit to recapture her. I am sent to tell her friends to come as quickly as possible to her rescue."

A thrill of sympathy runs through the entire assembly. All know the horror of savage cruelty and treachery. There is only one thought— Mary Cowan must be rescued. Russells, indeed are here—family connections of the captive woman; Walkers, too, whose name she bore in her maidenhood. And Cowans are here—overjoyed at news of a kinswoman whom they have mourned as lost.

"Why, it's my mother! She's alive! She's alive!"

It is no wonder that James Cowan, whose own captivity was very short, and who has now grown to be a strong man of twenty-two, leaps to his feet, and hurries to saddle his horse for the rescue.

At once, the service was set aside, and all was stir and bustle. Volunteers by the score were on their feet, and in less than an hour, a hundred men were in the saddle, starting on their mission of deliverance. Their rifles they had brought with them, even to the camp meeting, in view of the constant danger of an Indian surprise, their powder-horns and bullet-pouches were always kept well filled, so that, upon this sudden call, they had little to do but to saddle their horses, roll up an extra blanket, receive from their wives or mothers a small haversack of the provisions which had already been cooked for the meeting, grasp their rifles and mount, ready for a hundred mile trip if necessary. They were the Minute Men of the frontier, and a wholesome fear of them lay upon all the Indian towns.

There was brief leave taking. A few tears were brushed away, as wives and children kissed the bronzed cheek of husband or father, then the long line of hardy riflemen touched the spur to their horses and passed quickly out of sight, along the forest trail. And none too quickly. For a scout sent out to reconnoiter from the trading post reported the band of pursuing Indians to be close at hand And the fuigtive. in her make-shift hiding place was crying out impatiently for her friends: "Will they never come! Will they never come!" So nearly free, and yet so fiercely pursued!

Trembling, she would peer through the chinks between the logs— shaken with dread lest she should discern the creeping shadow of a stealthy foe, or should hear a horrifying war-whoop split the air.

At one time, as she was thus engaged, she almost screamed, as an Indian did, indeed, appear, hastily stepping out of the thicket into the open. But immediately she saw that something unusual had occurred. For this Indian had laid aside the ordinary precaution of his race to keep within the shadow of the wood, and was evidently taking the shortest cut to reach his companions. "What is driving him to such haste ? What has he seen ? What can be coming on that trail ?"

The fears of the captive were rapidly giving way to hope. And all the more as she plainly caught the shout of rage and alarm, with which the arrival of the runner at the camp of the Indians was greeted.

The men of the post also had heard it, and hurriedly sent out the old scout again to learn the true state of affairs. He slipped away through the bushes, under favor of the gathering twilight, and cautiously parting the leaves peered through at the lurking place of the Indians. But there was no Indian to be seen; though the campfire was still smoking, and remnants of the evening meal, which had been preparing, were scattered about. Evidently they had taken a hasty flight. But why? Question and answer were simultaneous. Looking back, he saw a horseman, with a rifle swung over his saddle bow, coming out of the Tennessee trail. Following him, rode another, and another; and speedily a great troop were marshalled in front of the stockade. Major Russell's squadron of riflemen had come! And they had come in time!

As the scout went forward to meet them, their leader hallooed:

"Is Mary Cowan here?"

Almost before the answer could be given, she herself appeared in the gate, for, listening and watching, she had caught the trampling of the horses hoofs, and knew at once that deliverance had come. At first, she could scarcely move for joy. Then, with a glad cry, she darted from her hiding place and ran to meet her rescuers.

Some she recognized, as she grasped their hands, half laughing, half crying. But here is one pressing toward her through the throng, whose face is strangely familiar. As she looks, her heart begins to beat wildly. He is smiling and beckoning her with his hands. At once, all doubt vanishes. She leaps forward, crying, "Jim! Jim! My boy the Cherokees tore from me seven years ago! Is it possible? God has not forgotten me!" As she bowed her head on the shoulder of the stalwart young man, and wept for very joy, strong men turned their heads away to hide their sympathetic tears. The sufferings of seven long years had found expression. They had, also, found an end. The captive of the Shawnees was free.

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Notes

"Shadow of the Chilhowee" is a fictionalized account of real events, based at least in part by a series of letters from JB Cowan, of Tullahoma, TN, written in March and April of 1895. (See: Bibliography:JB Cowan Letters.) The version given here is from Source:Houston, et al. 1916 (Maxwell History and Genealogy). Later, PD Cowan would publish this story as a pamphlet. There may also have been a version predating the presentation given in Maxwell History and Genealogy.

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