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.