Tales, Traditions and Romance of Border and Revolutionary Times

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

Within a day or two, he was on his way to rejoin his family, who, the Captain informed him, had given him up, and were in great grief and distress. When the packet arrived opposite the house, the crew gave three loud, long and hearty cheers, and fired guns from the deck in token of joy, which led the family to anticipate his return.

On landing, he found that his funeral sermon had been preached, and had the rare privilege of seeing his own widow clothed in the habiliments of mourning.

Deer hunting, even down to a recent period, was a chosen amusement in Ohio. At this time the animal is only found in the great forests of the north-west counties of Paulding, Van Wart, Williams, etc., and in the heavy woods of Wyandot and Hardin counties. Sandusky Bay, an estuary of Lake Erie, and one of the most beautiful sheets of water in America, is yet a great sportsman's resort, though now chiefly for wild water-fowl, whose spring and fall season calls thither many a modern Nimrod. The writer of this has spent many a season among the marshes and overflow-lands at the head of the bay in pursuit of game which, with proper care, will continue for years to afford good gunning. Only keep out the murderous blunderbusses of certain Englishmen, which sweep away a whole flock of green-heads and canvas-backs at a shot. We have often been tempted to have arrested, as a common nuisance, these sneaking prowlers after "a shot for twenty birds—not a whit less." But it was not of birds we are to write. Sandusky Bay, in days gone by, used to afford rare sport in deer-hunting in the water. To illustrate:

The bay is bounded on the east by a narrow strip of sand and cedars, which divides it from Lake Erie. On the north is the peninsula, another strip of rich soil, once densely covered with forests, stretching far to the west. The sport practiced in early times was to drive the deer with dogs from Cedar Point and the peninsula into the water, when they would make for the opposite shore, above the town of Sandusky. The heads of the beautiful animals could be seen a great distance, as they glided along the surface of the clear waters. Then boats would put out, in each of which was a dog—no guns being allowed—the men being armed only with a knife. The deer always would scent the danger from afar, and, with extraordinary celerity, move off up the bay, followed by the boats. When a comparatively near approach was at length made, after hard pulling for two or three miles, the dogs were let loose. Being fresh, and the deer somewhat exhausted from their long swim, the dogs would gain on their prey rapidly, and soon the struggle in the water would commence—the noble bucks always receiving their enemy, while the ewes and fawns were kept out of harm's reach. The bucks were, if not too much exhausted, quite a match for the dogs. Not unfrequently their antlers would crimson the water with the blood of their canine foe. The boats, meanwhile, were but spectators of the contest, and only came up when their dogs showed signs of defeat. A good dog, however, generally succeeded in fastening to the throat of his prey, and there clung with such tenacity as to sink and rise with the buck, avoiding the terrific strokes of its hoofs by laying close to the deer's body. One blow of a fore-hoof has been known to smash the skull of a mastiff. The sport, to those in the boats, is exciting in the extreme; but strict honor used to govern the combats. The fawns and most of the ewes were permitted to escape, and the bucks were only slaughtered with the knife when it became evident that the dogs would be overpowered, or when some favorite mastiff brought his game to the boat in a conquered condition.

A startling adventure once occurred in the waters of the bay. A well-known hunter, named Dick Moxon, somewhat addicted to drink, one day saw a fine drove of deer coming in to land from the opposite shore. He at once advanced, knife in hand, into the water to his waist. The bucks, three of them, led the convoy, and made directly for their enemy to cover the retreat of the females. The hunter found himself in a position of imminent danger, and sought to retreat, but this the deer did not permit, as one of them drove him down into the water by a terrible butt with his ugly antlers. Moxon grappled the deer, but the animal trampled the hunter and kept him down. With great presence of mind, Moxon disappeared under water and swam for the shore, coming up a rod nearer the land. This dodge did not save him, however, for the infuriated bucks pursued, and soon the combat became terrible. Moxon cut right and left with his knife, making shocking wounds in the glistening bodies of the noble beasts; but the fight was not stayed, and the hunter's strength, so severely overtaxed in the first encounter in deep water, began to give way entirely. A few minutes more must have seen him down in the water under the hoofs of the frenzied animals. At this moment a woman appeared on the shore. It was Moxon's wife, whose cabin was not far distant in the woods. Sally Moxon was as "coarse as a cow, but brave as a catamount," as her husband always averred; and so she proved in this moment of Dick's peril. Seizing his rifle, which lay on the bank, she advanced to the rescue. One buck quickly fell from the well-aimed shot. Then she "clubbed" her gun, and made at the nearest beast with great caution. The buck made a furious dash at her, leaping at a bound out of the water, almost upon her, but Sally was wide awake, and was not caught by the ugly horns and hoofs. She struck the beast such a blow on its neck as broke both the gunstock and the buck's spinal column. With the rifle-barrel still in her hand, Sally then made for the last buck, a very savage fellow, who still confronted Dick in a threatening manner. The fight which followed was severe. Sally was knocked down into the water, but Moxon's knife saved his spouse from being "trampled into a pudding," as he afterward expressed it. With all his remaining strength, he seized the deer by the horns, while with his left hand he buried his knife to the hilt in the animal's shoulder. The deer fell in the water, and Moxon went down under him; but Sally was, by this time, on her feet again, and dragged Dick's almost inanimate form to the shore. The victory was complete, though Dick was so terribly bruised that the meat of the three bucks was long gone before the hunter could again go forth to kill more. The moral of the story is that he learned not only never to attack three bucks, single-handed, in four feet of water, but to let the whisky bottle alone.

The adventure which we are now about to chronicle is quite as marvelous as those above related, although of another character. It is deeply interesting, as illustrating one of the many phases of danger which constantly lurked on the steps of the pioneers. Startling as were the romantic realities of those early days, needing not the touch of fiction to heighten their interest, it will be confessed that few incidents can equal this for a novel combination of perils.

The family of John Lewis were the first settlers of Augusta, in the State of Virginia, and consisted of himself, his wife, and four sons, Thomas, William, Andrew and Charles. Of these, the first three were born in Ireland, from whence the family came, and the last was a native of Virginia.

Lewis was a man of wealth and station in the old country, and the cause of his present emigration to America was an attempt, on the part of a man of whom he hired some property, to eject him therefrom, which led to an affray, in which the noble landlord lost his life. Fearing, from the high standing of his antagonist, the desperate character of his surviving assailants, and the want of evidence to substantiate his case, that his life would be in danger if he stayed, Lewis fled the country, accompanied by a party of his tenantry, and settled in the then western wilds of Virginia.

The father appears to have been a man of remarkable force and energy, and all four of his sons rendered themselves conspicuous for deeds of daring and determined bravery during the early history of Western Virginia, and that of her infant sisters, Ohio and Kentucky, which would require volumes to relate.

Charles Lewis, the hero of this sketch, was, even in early youth, distinguished for those qualifications which have rendered the class to which he belonged—the Indian fighters—so remarkable among men. He was a young man when the Indians commenced their attacks upon the settlement of Western Virginia, but entered the contest with a zeal and courage which outstripped many of his older and more boastful compeers. His astonishing self-possession and presence of mind carried him safely through many a gallant exploit, which has rendered his name as familiar, and his fame as dear to the memories of the descendants of the early settlers, as household words. Cool, calm and collected in the face of danger, and quick-witted where others would be excited and tremulous, he was able to grasp on the instant the propitious moment for action, and render subservient to his own advantage the most trifling incident.