Connecticut Boys in the Western Reserve: A Tale of the Moravian Massacre

by James A. Braden

The young emigrants were now not a great deal more than one day of successful traveling distant from the little log house on the bluff above the Cuyahoga river, which had been, and was again to be, their home.

“We don’t want to get there at dark, but should have plenty of time to look about us and get beds fixed up, and all that, when we do reach the shanty,” John Jerome told his chum. “We better go just as far as we can to-day, and then maybe we can reach our house by noon to-morrow.”

Ree accepted the suggestion as a good one, and, though they did their best for the sick man in the cart, Theodore Hatch, had he been possessed of his senses, would have said he had a pretty rough ride, as Neb was urged to the best possible speed over the hilly, densely wooded country through which the little party was now traveling.

Within a mile or two after leaving camp on this day the boys passed through the valley where their horse had been shot and killed on their previous trip into the wilderness. There stood the cart they had had, practically as they had left it, but presenting a most forlorn appearance with the rank grass and low bushes growing up all about it. On examination, however, the weather-beaten vehicle was found to be in fairly good condition, and the two friends determined that some time soon they would return for it. Though they were already provided with a strong, heavy cart, it would be very convenient to have another in case of accident, and as the abandoned property was their own, there was no reason why they should not reclaim it.

With the coming of another evening camp was made not more than four miles, the boys judged, from their destination. They exercised the same care as before, and one remained up with the wounded stranger and on guard until morning; but save for the unusually loud howling of a pack of wolves, finding it harder to obtain food now that winter was coming on, there was nothing to disturb the lads throughout the night.

John did guard duty from some time after midnight until dawn, and, taking a little walk not far from camp at daybreak, saw and shot a fine young deer.

“We will not want to move into our house with an empty pantry,” he delightedly told Ree, the latter springing up upon hearing the discharge of the rifle.

John’s elation over the killing of the deer was quite unusual. It was not that such an occurrence was uncommon or that he had made an extremely good shot; but this was a very important day to him. To Kingdom it was the same—the day to which they had looked forward for many months, and especially during the weeks since they had left Connecticut; and both were genuinely happy. The weather was cool and bracing. Most of the trees were bare and every stream was covered with floating leaves, save where the current was strong enough to sweep them away. All nature was preparing for winter, and the effect was invigorating. It made the young pioneers anxious to do the same.

Except for the one Redskin who had shown a hostile disposition, no trouble with any Indians had been experienced. There was promise that game would be no less abundant than the previous winter, for the summer had been favorable. There was a prospect, also, of probably two weeks of Indian summer in which to get ready for the colder, stormy weather.

Thus were the hearts of the two friends light, and their hopes buoyant, as they began their last day’s journey. Their progress was excellent, though the road was through the unbroken forest. Every few minutes they recognized some spot that they knew, as they drew nearer and nearer to the home they sought, and so did they come at last, when the sun was still in midsky, to the top of the hill from which, looking across the valley to the high knoll rising beside the river, they could see the cabin they had so hurriedly left six months before.