But, gradually, all this changed; and with his circumstances, his character was also modified. He lost a little of his sturdy independence, his jealousy of neighborhood was softened—his solitary habits became more social—he acknowledged the necessity for concert of action—he merged a part of his individuality into the community, and—became a ranger.
In this capacity, his character was but little different to what it had been before the change; and, though that change was a great improvement, considered with reference to society, it may safely be doubted whether it made the individual more respectable. He was a better citizen, because he now contributed to the common defence: but he was not a better man, because new associations brought novel temptations, and mingling with other men wore away the simplicity, which was the foundation of his manliness. Before assuming his new character, moreover, he never wielded a weapon except in his own defence—or, at most, in avenging his own wrongs. The idea of justice—claiming reparation for an injury, which he alone could estimate, because by him alone it was sustained—protected his moral sense. But, when he assumed the vindication of his neighbor's rights, and the reparation of his wrongs—however kind it may have been to do so—he was sustained only by the spirit of hatred to the savage, could feel no such justification as the consciousness of injury.
Here was the first introduction of the mercenary character, which actuates the hireling soldier; and, though civilization was not then far enough advanced, to make it very conspicuous, there were other elements mingled, which could not but depreciate the simple nobility of the pioneer's nature. Many of the qualities which, in him, had been merely passive, in the ranger became fierce and active. We have alluded, for example, to his hatred of the Indian; and this, habit soon strengthened and exaggerated. Nothing marks that change so plainly as his adoption of the barbarous practice of scalping enemies.
For this there might be some little palliation in the fact, that the savage never considered a warrior overcome, though he were killed, unless he lost his scalp; and so long as he could bring off the dead bodies of his comrades, not mutilated by the process, he was but partially intimidated. Defeat was, in that case, converted to a sort of triumph; and having gone within one step of victory—for so this half-success was estimated—was the strongest incentive to a renewal of the effort. It might be, therefore, that the ranger's adoption of the custom was a measure of self-defence. But it is to be feared that this consideration—weak as it is, when stated as an excuse for cruelty so barbarous—had but little influence in determining the ranger. Adopting the code of the savage, the practice soon became a part of his warfare; and the taking of the scalp was a ceremony necessary to the completion of his victory. It was a bloody and inhuman triumph—a custom, which tended, more forcibly than any other, to degrade true courage to mere cruelty; and which, while it only mortified the savage, at the same time, by rendering his hatred of the white men more implacable, aggravated the horrors of Indian warfare. But the only measure of justice in those days, was the lex talionis—“An eye for an eye,” a scalp for a scalp; and, even now, you may hear frontiermen justify, though they do not practise it, by quoting the venerable maxim, “Fight the devil with fire.”
But, though the warfare of the ranger was sometimes distinguished by cruelty, it was also ennobled by features upon which it is far more pleasant to dwell.
No paladin, or knight, of the olden times, ever exhibited more wild, romantic daring, than that which formed a part of the ranger's daily action. Danger, in a thousand forms, beset him at every step—he defied mutilation, death by fire and lingering torture. The number of his enemies, he never counted, until after he had conquered them—the power of the tribe, or the prowess of the warrior, was no element in his calculations. Where he could strike first and most effectually, was his only inquiry. Securing an avenue for retreat was no part of his strategy—for he had never an intention or thought of returning, except as a victor. “Keeping open his communications,” either with the rear or the flanks, had no place in his system; “combined movements” he seldom attempted, for he depended for victory, upon the force he chanced to have directly at hand. The distance from his “base of operations” he never measured; for he carried all his supplies about his person, and he never looked for reinforcements. Bridges and wagon-roads he did not require, for he could swim all the rivers, and he never lost his way in the forest. He carried his artillery upon his shoulder, his tactics were the maxims of Indian warfare, and his only drill was the “ball-practice” of the woods. He was his own commissary, for he carried his “rations” on his back, and replenished his havresack with his rifle. He needed no quartermaster; for he furnished his own “transportation,” and selected his own encampment—his bed was the bosom of mother-earth, and his tent was the foliage of an oak or the canopy of heaven. In most cases—especially in battle—he was his own commander, too; for he was impatient of restraint, and in savage warfare knew his duty as well as any man could instruct him. Obedience was no part of his nature—subordination was irksome and oppressive. In a word, he was an excellent soldier, without drill, discipline or organization.
He was as active as he was brave—as untiring as he was fearless.
A corps of rangers moved so rapidly, as apparently to double its numbers—dispersing on the Illinois or Missouri, and reassembling on the Mississippi, on the following day—traversing the Okan timber to-day, and fording the Ohio to-morrow. One of them, noted among the Indians for desperate fighting, and personally known for many a bloody meeting, would appear so nearly simultaneously in different places, as to acquire the title of a “Great Medicine;” and instances have been known, where as many as three distinct war-parties have told of obstinate encounters with the same men in one day! Their apparent ubiquity awed the Indians more than their prowess.
General Benjamin Howard, who, in eighteen hundred and thirteen resigned the office of governor of Missouri, and accepted the appointment of brigadier-general, in command of the militia and rangers of Missouri and Illinois, at no time, except for a few weeks in eighteen hundred and fourteen, had more than one thousand men under his orders: And yet, with this inconsiderable force, he protected a frontier extending from the waters of the Wabash, westward to the advanced settlements of Missouri—driving the savages northward beyond Peoria, and intimidating them by the promptitude and rapidity of his movements.
Our government contributed nothing to the defence of its frontiers, except an act of Congress, which authorized them to defend themselves! The Indians, amounting to at least twenty tribes, had been stirred up to hostility by the British, and, before the establishment of rangers, were murdering and plundering almost with impunity. But soon after the organization of these companies, the tide began to turn. The ranger was at least a match for the savage in his own mode of warfare; and he had, moreover, the advantages of civilized weapons, and a steadiness and constancy, unknown to the disorderly war-parties of the red men.