Lippincott's Magazine, August, 1885

by Various

Those at the fort knew that Oconostota was near by on the Nolachucky, but he had deferred the attack so long that they concluded the wary and cautious old chief was waiting to be reinforced by the body under Dragging-Canoe, which had gone to attack Fort Patrick Henry. News had reached them of Shelby's victory, and, as it would be some time before the broken Cherokees could rally and join Oconostota, they were in no apprehension of immediate danger. Accordingly, they went about their usual vocations, and so it happened that a number of the women ventured outside the fort as usual to milk the cows on the morning of the 21st of July. Among them was one who was destined to occupy for many years the position of the "first lady in Tennessee."

Her name was Catherine Sherrell, and she was the daughter of Samuel Sherrell, one of the first settlers on the Watauga. In age she was verging upon twenty, and she was tall, straight as an arrow, and lithe as a hickory sapling. I know of no portrait of her in existence, but tradition describes her as having dark eyes, flexible nostrils, regular features, a clear, transparent skin, a neck like a swan, and a wealth of wavy brown hair, which was a wonder to look at and was in striking contrast to the whiteness of her complexion. A free life in the open air had made her as supple as an eel and as agile as a deer. It was said that, encumbered by her womanly raiment, she had been known to place one hand upon a six-barred fence and clear it at a single bound. And now her agility was to do her essential service.

While she and the other women, unconscious of danger, were "coaxing the snowy fluid from the yielding udders of the kine," suddenly the war-whoop sounded through the woods, and a band of yelling savages rushed out upon them. Quick as thought the women turned and darted for the gate of the fort; but the savages were close upon them in a neck-and-neck race, and Kate, more remote than the rest, was cut off from the entrance. Seeing her danger, Sevier and a dozen others opened the gate and were about to rush out upon the savages, hundreds of whom were now in front of the fort; but Robertson held them back, saying they could not rescue her, and to go out would insure their own destruction. At a glance Kate took in the situation. She could have no help from her friends, and the tomahawk and scalping-knife were close behind her. Instantly she turned, and, fleeter than a deer, made for a point in the stockade some distance from the entrance. The palisades were eight feet high, but with one bound she reached the top, and with another was over the wall, falling into the arms of Sevier, who for the first time called her his "bonnie Kate," his "brave girl for a foot-race." The other women reached the entrance of the fort in safety.

Then the baffled savages opened fire, and for a full hour it rained bullets upon the little enclosure. But the missiles fell harmless: not a man was wounded. Driven by the light charges the Indians were accustomed to use, the bullets simply bounded off from the thick logs and did no damage. But it was not so with the fire of the besieged. The order was, "Wait till you see the whites of your enemies' eyes, and then make sure of your man." And so every one of those forty rifles did terrible execution.

For twenty days the Indians hung about the fort, returning again and again to the attack; but not a man who kept within the walls was even wounded. It was not so with a man and a boy who, emboldened by a few days' absence of the Indians, ventured outside to go down to the river. The man was scalped on the spot; the boy was taken prisoner, and subjected to a worse fate in one of the Indian villages. His name was Moore, and he was a younger brother of the lieutenant who fought so bravely in the battle near Fort Patrick Henry.

At last, baffled and dispirited, the Indians fell back to the Tellico. They had lost about sixty killed and a larger number wounded, and they had inflicted next to no damage upon the white settlers. They were enraged beyond bounds and thirsting for vengeance. Only two prisoners were in their power; but on them they resolved to wreak their extremest tortures. Young Moore was taken to the village of his captor, high up in the mountains, and there burned at a stake. A like fate was determined upon for good Mrs. Bean, the kindly woman whose hospitable door had ever been open to all, white man or Indian. Oconostota would not have her die; but Dragging-Canoe insisted that she should be offered up as a sacrifice to the manes of his fallen warriors; and the head-king was not powerful enough to prevent it.

She was taken to the summit of one of the burial-mounds,—those relics of a forgotten race which are so numerous along the banks of the Tellico. She was tied to a stake, the fagots were heaped about her, and the fire was about to be lighted, when suddenly Nancy Ward appeared among the crowd of savages and ordered a stay of the execution. Dragging-Canoe was a powerful brave, but not powerful enough to combat the will of this woman. Mrs. Bean was not only liberated, but sent back with an honorable escort to her husband.

The village in which young Moore was executed was soon visited by Sevier with a terrible retribution; and from that day for twenty years his name was a terror among the Cherokees.

Before many months there was a wedding in the fort at Watauga. It was that of John Sevier and the "bonnie Kate," famous to this day for leaping stockades and six-barred fences. He lived to be twelve years governor of Tennessee and the idol of a whole people. She shared all his love and all his honors; but in her highest estate she was never ashamed of her lowly days, and never tired of relating her desperate leap at Watauga; and, even in her old age, she would merrily add, "I would make it again—every day in the week—for such a husband."

EDMUND KIRKE.