Shooting Tongues of Smoke from Their Great Black Throats

Historic Adventures
Tales from American History

By
RUPERT S. HOLLAND
Author of "Historic Boyhoods," "Historic Girlhoods," "Historic Inventions," etc.

PHILADELPHIA
GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1913, by
George W. Jacobs & Company
Published October, 1913
All rights reserved
Printed in U.S.A.

To
Robert D. Jenks

[Contents]

[Illustrations]

[I]
THE LOST CHILDREN

The valleys of Pennsylvania were dotted with log cabins in the days of the French and Indian wars. Sometimes a number of the little houses stood close together for protection, but often they were built far apart. Wherever the pioneer saw good farm land he settled. It was a new sensation for men to be able to go into the country and take whatever land attracted them. Gentle rolling fields, with wide views of distant country through the notches of the hills, shining rivers, splendid uncut forests, and rich pasturage were to be found not far from the growing village of Philadelphia, and were free to any who wished to take them. Such a land would have been a paradise, but for one shadow that hung over it. In the background always lurked the Indians, who might at any time, without rhyme or reason, steal down upon the lonely hamlet or cabin, and lay it waste. The pioneer looked across the broad acres of central Pennsylvania and found them beautiful. Only when he had built his home and planted his fields did he fully realize the constant peril that lurked in the wooded mountains.

English, French, and Spanish came to the new world, and the English proved themselves the best colonists. They settled the central part of the Atlantic Coast, but among them and mixed with them were people of other lands. The Dutch took a liking for the Island of Manhattan and the Hudson River, the Swedes for Delaware, and into the colony of William Penn came pilgrims from what was called the Palatinate, Germans, a strong race drawn partly by desire for religious freedom, partly by the reports of the great free lands across the ocean. They brought with them the tongue, the customs, and the names of the German Fatherland, and many a valley of eastern Pennsylvania heard only the German language spoken.

The Indian tribes known as the Six Nations roamed through the country watered by the Susquehanna. They hunted through all the land south of the Great Lakes. Sometimes they fought with the Delawares, sometimes with the Catawbas, and again they would smoke the calumet or pipe of peace with their neighbors, and give up the war-path for months at a time. But the settlers could never be sure of their intentions. Wily French agents might sow seeds of discord in the Indians' minds, and then the chiefs who had lately exchanged gifts with the settlers might suddenly steal upon some quiet village and leave the place in ruins. This constant peril was the price men had to pay in return for the right to take whatever land they liked.

In a little valley of eastern Pennsylvania a German settler named John Hartman had built a cabin in 1754. He had come to this place with his wife and four children because here he might earn a good living from the land. He was a hard worker, and his farm was prospering. He had horses and cattle, and his wife spun and wove the clothing for the family. The four children, George, Barbara, Regina, and Christian, looked upon the valley as their home, forgetting the German village over the sea. Not far away lived neighbors, and sometimes the children went to play with other boys and girls, and sometimes their friends spent a holiday on John Hartman's farm.

The family, like all farmers' families, rose early. Before they began the day's work the father would read to them from his big Bible, which he had brought from his native land as his most valuable possession. On a bright morning in the autumn of 1754 he gathered his family in the living-room of his cabin and read them a Bible lesson. The doors and windows stood open, and the sun flooded the little house, built of rough boards, and scrupulously clean. The farmer's dog, Wasser, lay curled up asleep just outside the front door, and a pair of horses, already harnessed, stood waiting to be driven to the field. Birds singing in the trees called to the children to hurry out-of-doors. They tried to listen to their father's voice as he read, and to pay attention. As they all knelt he prayed for their safety. Then they had breakfast, and the father and mother made plans for the day. Mrs. Hartman was to take the younger boy, Christian, to the flour-mill several miles away, and if they had time was to call at the cabin of a sick friend. The father and George went to the field to finish their sowing before the autumn rains should come, and the two little girls were told to look after the house till their mother should return. Little Christian sat upon an old horse, held on by his mother, and waved his hand to his father and George as he rode by the field on his way to the mill.

The girls, like their mother, were good housekeepers. They set the table for dinner, and at noon Barbara blew the big tin horn to call her father and brother. As they were eating dinner the dog Wasser came running into the house growling, and acting as if he were very much frightened. Mr. Hartman spoke to him, and called him to his side. But the dog stood in the doorway, and then suddenly leaped forward and sprang upon an Indian who came around the wall.

The peril that lurked in the woods had come. John Hartman jumped to the door, but two rifle bullets struck him down. George sprang up, only to fall beside his father. An Indian killed the dog with his tomahawk. Into the peaceful cabin swarmed fifteen yelling savages. Barbara ran up a ladder into the loft, and Regina fell on her knees, murmuring "Herr Jesus! Herr Jesus!" The Indians hesitated, then one of them seized her, and made a motion with his knife across her lips to bid her be silent. Another went after Barbara and brought her down from the loft, and then the Indians ordered the two girls to put on the table all the food there was in the cabin.

When the food was gone the savages plundered the house, making bundles of what they wanted and slinging them over their shoulders. They took the two little girls into the field. There another girl stood tied to the fence. When she saw Barbara and Regina she began to cry, and called in German for her mother. While the three frightened girls stood close together the Indians set fire to the cabin. Very soon the log house that had cost John Hartman so much labor was burned to the ground. When their work of destruction was completed the Indians took the three children into the woods.

At sunset Mrs. Hartman returned from the flour-mill with little Christian riding his horse, but when she came up the road it seemed as if her house had disappeared. Yet the pine trees, the fences, the plowed fields, and the orchard were still there. The little boy cried, "Where is our house, mother?" and the poor woman could not understand.

The story of what had occurred was only too plain to her a few minutes later. What had happened to many other pioneers had happened to her family. Clutching Christian in her arms she ran to the house of her nearest neighbor. There she heard that the Indians had left the same track of blood through other parts of the valley; that farmers had been slain; their crops burned; and their children carried off into the wilderness. The terrified settlers banded together for protection. For weeks new stories came of the Indians' massacres. If ever there were heartless savages these were! They did not carry all the children to their wigwams; some were killed on the way; and among them was little Barbara Hartman. Word came from time to time of some of the stolen children, but there was no word of Regina or Susan Smith, the daughter of the neighboring farmer.

*****

Far in the forests of western New York was the camp of a great Indian tribe. The wigwams stood on the banks of a beautiful mountain stream, broken by great rocks that sent the water leaping in cascades and falls. In one of the wigwams lived the mother of a famous warrior of the tribe, and with her were two girls whom she treated as her daughters. The name of the old squaw was She-lack-la, which meant "the Dark and Rainy Cloud," a name given her because at times she grew very angry and ill-treated every one around her. Fortunately there were two girls in her wigwam, and when the old squaw was in a bad temper they had each other for protection. The older girl had been given the name of Saw-que-han-na, or "the White Lily," and the other was known as Kno-los-ka, "the Short-legged Bear." Like all the Indian girls they had to work hard, grinding corn, cooking and keeping house for the boys and men who were brought up to hunt and fight. Sawquehanna was tall and strong, spoke the language of the tribe, and looked very much like her Indian girl friends.

In the meantime many battles had been fought through the country of the pioneers, and the English colonists were beating the French and Indians, and driving the Frenchmen farther and farther north. In 1765 the long war between the two nations ended. Under a treaty of peace the English Colonel Boquet demanded that all the white children who had been captured by the Indian tribes should be surrendered to the English officers. So one day white soldiers came into the woods of western New York and found the wigwams there. The children were called out, and the soldiers took the two girls from the old squaw Shelackla. Then they went on to the other tribes, and from each they took all the white children. They carried them to Fort Duquesne. The Fort was in western Pennsylvania, and as soon as it was known that the lost white children were there, fathers and mothers all over the country hurried to find their boys and girls. Many of the children had been away so long that they hardly remembered their parents, but most of the parents knew their children, and found them again within the walls of the fortress.

Some of the children, however, were not claimed. Sawquehanna and her friend Knoloska and nearly fifty more found no one looking for them and wondered what would happen to them. After they had waited at Fort Duquesne eight days, Colonel Boquet started to march with his band of children to the town of Carlisle, in hopes that they might find friends farther east, or at least kind-hearted people who would give the children homes. He sent news of their march all through the country, and from day to day as they traveled through the mountains by way of Fort Ligonier, Raystown, and Louden, eager people arrived to search among the band of children for lost sons and daughters. When the children came to Carlisle the town was filled with settlers from the East.

The children stood in the market-place, and the men and women pressed about them, trying to recognize little ones who had been carried away by Indians years before. Some people who lived in the Blue Mountains were in the throng, and they recognized the dark-haired Indian girl Knoloska as Susan, the daughter of Mr. Smith, the farmer who had lived near the Hartmans. Knoloska and Sawquehanna had not been separated for a long time. They had kept together ever since the white soldiers had freed them from the old squaw's wigwam. Sawquehanna could not bear to think of having her comrade leave her, and Susan clung to her adopted sister's arm and kissed her again and again. The white people were much kinder than the old squaw had been, and instead of beating the girls when they cried, and frightening them with threats, the officers told Sawquehanna that she would probably find some friends soon, and if she did not, that perhaps Susan's family would let her live in their home. But as nobody seemed to recognize her Sawquehanna felt more lonely than she had ever felt before.

Meanwhile Mrs. Hartman was living in the valley with her son Christian, who had grown to be a strong boy of fourteen. Neighbors told her that the lost children were being brought across the mountains to Carlisle, but there seemed little chance that her own Regina might be one of them. She decided, however, that she must go to the town and see. Travel was difficult in those days, but the brave woman set out over the mountains and across the rivers to Carlisle, and at last reached the town market-place. She looked anxiously among the girls, remembering her little daughter as she had been on that autumn day eleven years before; but none of the girls had the blue eyes, light yellow hair and red cheeks of Regina. Mrs. Hartman shook her head, and decided that her daughter was not among these children.

As she turned away, disconsolate, Colonel Boquet said to her, "Can't you find your daughter?"

"No," said the disappointed mother, "my daughter is not among those children."

"Are you sure?" asked the colonel. "Are there no marks by which you might know her?"

"None, sir," she answered, shaking her head.

Colonel Boquet considered the matter for a few minutes. "Did you ever sing to her?" he asked presently. "Was there no old hymn that she was fond of?"

The mother looked up quickly. "Yes, there was!" she answered. "I have often sung her to sleep in my arms with an old German hymn we all loved so well."

"Then," said the colonel, "you and I will walk along the line of girls and you shall sing that hymn. It may be that your daughter has changed so much that you wouldn't know her, but she may remember the tune."

Mrs. Hartman looked very doubtful. "There is little use in it, sir," she said, "for certainly I should have known her if she were here; and if I try your plan all these soldiers will laugh at me for a foolish old German woman."

Sawquehanna Seemed to Remember the Voice

The colonel, however, begged her at least to try his plan, and she finally consented. They walked back to the place where the children were standing, and Mrs. Hartman began to sing in a trembling voice the first words of the old hymn:

"Alone, and yet not all alone, am I

In this lone wilderness."

As she went on singing every one stopped talking and turned to look at her. The woman's hands were clasped as if in prayer, and her eyes were closed. The sun shone full upon her white hair and upturned face. There was something very beautiful in the picture she made, and there was silence in the market-place as her gentle voice went on through the words of the hymn.

The mother had begun the second verse when one of the children gave a cry. It was Sawquehanna, who seemed suddenly to have remembered the voice and words. She rushed forward, and flung her arms about the mother's neck, crying, "Mother, mother!" Then, with her arms tight about her, the tall girl joined in singing the words that had lulled her to sleep in their cabin home.

"Alone, and yet not all alone, am I

In this lone wilderness,

I feel my Saviour always nigh;

He comes the weary hours to bless.

I am with Him, and He with me,

E'en here alone I cannot be."

The people in the market-place moved on about their own affairs, and the mother and daughter were left together. Now Mrs. Hartman recognized the blue eyes of Regina, and knew her daughter in spite of her height and dark skin. Regina began to remember the days of her childhood, and the years she had spent among the Indians were forgotten. She was a white girl again, and happier now than she had ever thought to be.

Next day Knoloska, now Susan Smith, and Sawquehanna, or Regina Hartman, went back to their homes in the valley. Many a settler there had found his son or daughter in the crowd of lost children at Carlisle.

[II]
THE GREAT JOURNEY OF LEWIS AND CLARK

French is still spoken in Quebec and New Orleans, reminders that the land of the lilies had much to do with the settlement of North America. Many of the greatest explorers of the continent were Frenchmen. Jacques Cartier sailed up the St. Lawrence River in 1534, and Champlain in 1603 founded New France, and from his small fortress at Quebec planned an empire that should reach to Florida. In 1666 Robert Cavalier, the Sieur de La Salle, came to Canada, and set out from his seigneurie near the rapids of Montreal to find the long-sought road to China. Instead of doing that he discovered the Ohio River, first of white men he voyaged across the Great Lakes and sailed down the Mississippi to its mouth. Great explorer, he mapped the country from the St. Lawrence to the Gulf of Mexico, from the Mississippi to the Atlantic Ocean, and built frontier-posts in the wilderness. He traveled thousands of miles, and in 1682 he raised the lilies of France near the mouth of the Mississippi and named the whole territory he had covered Louisiana, in honor of King Louis XIV of France.

The first colony on the Gulf was established seventeen years later at Biloxi by a Canadian seigneur named Iberville. Soon afterward this seigneur's brother, Bienville, founded New Orleans and attracted many French pioneers there. The French proved to be better explorers than farmers or settlers. In the south they hunted the sources of the Arkansas and Red Rivers, and discovered the little-known Pawnee and Comanche Indians. In the north they pressed westward and came in sight of the Rocky Mountains. At that time it seemed as if France was to own at least two-thirds of the continent. The English general, Braddock, was defeated at Fort Duquesne in 1755, and the French commanded the Ohio as well as the Mississippi; but four years later the English general, Wolfe, won the victory of the Plains of Abraham near Quebec; and France's chance was over. Men in Paris who knew little concerning the new world did not scruple to give away their country's title to vast lands. The French ceded Canada and all of La Salle's old province of Louisiana east of the Mississippi, except New Orleans, to England. Soon afterward France, to outwit England, gave Spain New Orleans and her claim to the half of the Mississippi Valley west of the river to which the name Louisiana now came to be restricted.

The French, however, were great adventurers by nature, and Napoleon, changing the map of Europe, could not keep his fingers from North America. He planned to win back the New France that had been given away. Spain was weak, and Napoleon traded a small province in Italy for the great tract of Louisiana. He meant to colonize and fortify this splendid empire, but before it could be done enemies gathered against his eagles at home, and to save his European throne he had to forsake his western colony.

When Thomas Jefferson became President in 1801, he found the people of the South and West disturbed at France's repossessing herself of so much territory. He sent Robert R. Livingston and James Monroe to Paris to try to buy New Orleans and the country known as the Floridas for $2,000,000. Instead Napoleon offered to sell not only New Orleans, but the whole of Louisiana Territory extending as far west as the Rocky Mountains for $15,000,000. Napoleon insisted on the sale, and the envoys agreed. Jefferson and the people in the eastern United States were dismayed at the price paid for what they considered almost worthless land, but the West was delighted, owning the mouth of the great Mississippi and with the country beyond it free to them to explore. In time this purchase of Louisiana, or the territory stretching to the Rocky Mountains, forming the larger part of what are now thirteen of the states of the Union, was to be considered one of the greatest pieces of good fortune in the country's history.

Scarcely anything was known of Louisiana, except the stories told by a few hunters. Jefferson decided that the region must be explored, and asked his young secretary, Meriwether Lewis, who had shown great interest in the new country, to make a path through the wilderness. Lewis chose his friend William Clark to accompany him, and picked thirty-two experienced men for their party. May 14, 1804, the expedition set out in a barge with sails and two smaller boats from a point on the Missouri River near St. Louis.

The nearer part of this country had already been well explored by hunters and trappers, and especially by that race of adventurous Frenchmen who were rovers by nature. These men could not endure the confining life of towns, and were continually pushing into the wilderness, driving their light canoes over the waters of the great rivers, and often sharing the tents of friendly Indians they met. Many had become almost more Indian than white man,—had married Indian wives and lived the wandering life of the native. Such a man Captain Lewis found at the start of his journey, and took with him to act as interpreter among the Sioux and tribes who spoke a similar language.

The party traveled rapidly at the outset of their journey, meeting small bands of Indians, and passing one or two widely-separated frontier settlements. They had to pass many difficult rapids in the river, but as they were for the most part expert boatmen they met with no mishaps. The last white town on the Missouri was a little hamlet called La Charrette, consisting of seven houses, with as many families located there to hunt and trade for skins and furs. As they went up the river they frequently met canoes loaded with furs coming down. Day by day they took careful observations, and made maps of the country through which they were traveling, and when they met Indians tried to learn the history and customs of the tribe. Captain Lewis wrote down many of their curious traditions. The Osage tribe had given their name to a river that flowed into the Missouri a little more than a hundred miles from its mouth. There were three tribes of this nation: the Great Osages, numbering about five hundred warriors; the Little Osages, who lived some six miles distant from the others, and numbered half as many men; and the Arkansas band, six hundred strong, who had left the others some time before, and settled on the Vermillion River. The Osages lived in villages and were good farmers, usually peaceful, although naturally strong and tireless. Captain Lewis found a curious tradition as to the origin of their tribe. The story was that the founder of the nation was a snail, who lived quietly on the banks of the Osage until a high flood swept him down to the Missouri, and left him exposed on the shore. The heat of the sun at length ripened him into a man, but with the change in his nature he did not forget his native haunts on the Osage, but immediately bent his way in that direction. He was, however, soon overtaken by hunger and fatigue, when happily the Great Spirit appeared, and giving him a bow and arrow showed him how to kill and cook deer, and cover himself with the skins. He then pushed on to his home, but as he neared it he was met by a beaver, who inquired haughtily who he was, and by what authority he came to disturb his possession. The Osage answered that the river was his own, for he had once lived on its borders. As they stood disputing, the daughter of the beaver came, and having by her entreaties made peace between her father and the young stranger, it was proposed that the Osage should marry the young beaver, and share the banks of the river with her family. The Osage readily consented, and from this happy marriage there came the village and the nation of the Wasbasha, or Osages, who kept a reverence for their ancestors, never hunting the beaver, because in killing that animal they would kill a brother of the Osage. The explorers found, however, that since the value of beaver skins had risen in trade with the white men, these Indians were not so particular in their reverence for their relatives.

The mouth of the Platte River was reached on July 21st, and the next day Lewis held a council with the Ottoes and Missouri Indians, and named the site Council Bluffs. At each of these meetings between Lewis and the Indians the white man would explain that this territory was now part of the United States, would urge the tribes to trade with their new neighbors, and then present them with gifts of medals, necklaces, rings, tobacco, ornaments of all sorts, and often powder and arms.

The Indians were friendly and each day taught the white men something new. Both Captain Lewis and Lieutenant Clark had seen much of the red men on the frontier, but now they were in a land where they found them in their own homes. They grew accustomed to the round tepees decorated with bright-colored skins, the necklaces made of claws of grizzly bears, the head-dresses of eagle feathers, the tambourines, or small drums that furnished most of their music, the whip-rattles made of the hoofs of goats and deer, the white-dressed buffalo robes painted with pictures that told the history of the tribe, the moccasins and tobacco pouches embroidered with many colored beads. Each tribe differed in some way from its neighbors. For the first time the explorers found among the Rickarees eight-sided earth-covered lodges, and basket-shaped boats made of interwoven boughs covered with buffalo skins.

Game was plentiful as they went farther up the Missouri River. At first no buffaloes were found, but bands of elk were seen, and large herds of goats crossing from their summer grazing grounds in the hilly region west of the Missouri to their winter quarters. Besides these were antelopes, beavers, bears, badgers, deer, and porcupines, and the river banks supplied them with plover, grouse, geese, turkeys, ducks, and pelicans. There were plenty of wild fruits to be had, and they lived well during the whole of the summer. They traveled rapidly until the approach of cold weather decided them to establish winter quarters on October 27th.

They pitched their camp, which they called Fort Mandan, on the eastern shore of the Missouri, near the present city of Bismarck. They built some wooden huts, which formed two sides of a triangle, and a row of pickets on the third side, to provide them with a stockade in case of attack. They found a trader of the Hudson's Bay Company near by, and during the winter a dozen other traders visited them. Although they appeared to be friendly, Captain Lewis was convinced that the traders had no desire to see this United States expedition push into the country, and would in fact do all they could to prevent its advance. The Indians in the neighborhood belonged to the tribes of the Mandans, Rickarees, and Minnetarees. The first two of these tribes went to war early in the winter, but peace was made through the efforts of Captain Lewis. After that all the Indians visited the encampment, bringing stores of corn and presents of different sorts, in exchange for which they obtained beads, rings, and cloth from the white men. Here Captain Lewis learned a curious legend of the Mandan tribe. They believed that all their nation originally lived in one large village underground near a subterranean lake, and that a grape-vine stretched its roots down to their home and gave them a view of daylight. Some of the more adventurous of the tribe climbed up the vine, and were delighted with the sight of the earth, which they found covered with buffaloes and rich with all kinds of fruits. They gathered some grapes and returned with them to their countrymen, and told them of the charms of the land they had seen. The others were very much pleased with the story and with the grapes, and men, women and children started to climb up the vine. But when only half of them had reached the top a heavy woman broke the vine by her weight, and so closed the road to the rest of the nation. Each member of this tribe was accustomed to select a particular object for his devotion, and call it his "medicine." To this they would offer sacrifices of every kind. One of the Indians said to Captain Lewis, "I was lately the owner of seventeen horses; but I have offered them all up to my 'medicine,' and am now poor." He had actually loosed all his seventeen horses on the plains, thinking that in that way he was doing honor to his god.

Almost every day hunting parties left the camp and brought back buffaloes. The weather grew very cold in December, and several times the thermometer fell to forty degrees below zero. As spring advanced, however, the weather became very mild, and as early as April 7, 1805, they were able to leave their camp at Fort Manden and start on again. The upper Missouri they found was too shallow for the large barge they had used the previous summer, so this was now sent back down the river in charge of a party of ten men who carried letters and specimens, while the others embarked in six canoes and two large open boats that they had built during the winter. So far the country through which they had passed had been explored by a few Hudson's Bay trappers, but as they now turned westward they came into a region entirely unknown, which they soon found was almost uninhabited.

The party had by this time three interpreters, one a Canadian half-breed named Drewyer, who had inherited from his mother the Indian's skill in woodcraft, and who also knew the language of the white explorers. The other two were a man named Chaboneau and his wife, a young squaw called Sacajawea, the "Bird-woman," who had originally belonged to the Snake tribe, but who had been captured in her childhood by Blackfeet Indians. This Indian girl had married Chaboneau, a French wanderer, who like many others of his kind had sunk into an almost savage state. As the squaw had not forgotten the language of her native people the two white leaders thought she would prove a valuable help to them in the wild country westward, and persuaded her and her husband to go on with them.

As the weather was fine the party traveled rapidly, and by April 26th reached the mouth of the Yellowstone. They were now very far north, near the northwest corner of what is the state of North Dakota. Game was still plentiful but the banks of the river were covered with a coating of alkali salts, which made the water of the streams bitter and unpleasant for drinking. Occasionally they came upon a deserted Indian camp, but in this northern territory they found few roving tribes. When there was a favorable wind they sailed along the Missouri, but most of the time they had to use their oars. Early in May they drew up their birch canoes for the night at the mouth of a stream where they found a large number of porcupines feeding on young willow trees. Captain Lewis christened the stream Porcupine River. Here there were quantities of game, and elk and buffalo in abundance, so that it was an easy matter to provide food for all the party.

Now they were continually coming upon new rivers, many of them broad, with swift-flowing currents, and all of them appealing to the love of exploration. The Missouri was their highroad, however, and so they simply stopped to name the different streams they came to. One they passed had a peculiar white color, and Captain Lewis called it the Milk River. The country along this stream was bare for some distance, with gradually rising hills beyond.

The game here was very plentiful and the buffaloes were so tame that the men were obliged to drive them away with sticks and stones. The only dangerous animal was the grizzly bear, a beast that never seemed to know when he had had enough of a fight. One evening the men in the canoes saw a large grizzly lying some three hundred paces from the shore. Six of them landed and hid behind a small hillock within forty paces of the bear; four of the hunters fired, and each lodged a ball in the bear's body. The animal sprang up and roared furiously at them. As he came near them the two hunters who had not yet fired gave him two more wounds, one of which broke a shoulder, but before they had time to reload their guns, the bear was so near them that they had to run for the river. He almost overtook them; two jumped into the canoes; the other four separated, and hiding in the willows fired as fast as they could reload their guns. Again and again they shot him, but each time the shots only seemed to attract his attention toward the hunters, until finally he chased two of them so closely that they threw away their guns, and jumped down a steep bank into the river. The bear sprang after them, and was almost on top of the rear man when one of the others on shore shot him in the head, and finally killed him. They dragged him to shore, and found that eight balls had gone through him in different directions. The hunters took the bear's skin back to camp, and there they learned that another adventure had occurred. One of the other canoes, which contained all the provisions, instruments, and numerous other important articles, had been under sail when it was struck on the side by a sudden squall of wind. The man at the helm, who was one of the worst navigators of the party, made the mistake of luffing the boat into the wind. The wind was so high that it forced the brace of the square-sail out of the hand of the man who was holding it, and instantly upset the canoe. The boat would have turned upside down but for the resistance of the canvas awning. The other boats hastened to the rescue, righted the canoe, and by baling her out kept her from sinking. They rowed the canoe to shore and the cargo was saved. Had it been lost the expedition would have been deprived of most of the things that were necessary for its success, at a distance of between two and three thousand miles from any place where they could get supplies.

On May 20th they reached the yellowish waters of the Musselshell River. A short distance beyond this Captain Lewis caught his first view of the Rocky Mountains, one of the goals toward which they were tending. Along the Musselshell the country was covered with wild roses and small honeysuckle, but soon after they came into a region that was very bare and dry, where both game and timber were scarce, the mosquitoes annoying, the noonday sun uncomfortably hot, and the nights very cold. The Missouri River, along which they were still traveling, was now heading to the southwest. They were near the border of the present state of Idaho when they passed several old Indian camps, most of which seemed to have been deserted for five or six weeks. From this fact they judged that they were following a band of about one hundred lodges, who were traveling up the same river. They knew that the Minnetarees of the Missouri often traveled as far west as the Yellowstone, and presumed that the Indians ahead of them belonged to that tribe. There were other evidences of the Indians. At the foot of a cliff they found the bodies of a great many slaughtered buffaloes, which had been hunted after the fashion of the Blackfeet. Their way of hunting was to select one of the most active braves, and disguise him by tying a buffalo skin around his body, fastening the skin of the head, with ears and horns, over the head of the brave. Thus disguised the Indian would take a position between a herd of buffalo and the precipice overlooking a river. The other hunters would steal back of the herd, and at a given signal chase them. The buffaloes would run in the direction of the disguised brave, who would lead them on at full speed toward the river. As he reached the edge he would quickly hide himself in some crevice or ravine of the cliff, which he had chosen beforehand, and the herd would be left on the brink. The buffaloes in front could not stop being driven on by those behind, who in their turn would be closely pursued by the hunters. The whole herd, therefore, would usually rush over the cliff, and the hunters could take their pick of hides and meat in the river below. This method of hunting was very extravagant, but at that time the Indians had no thought of preserving the buffaloes. One of the rivers Lewis passed in this region he named the Slaughter River, on account of this way of hunting.

When the Missouri turned southward the explorers came to many steep rapids, around which the canoes had to be carried, which made traveling slow. Often the banks were so steep and the mud so thick that the men were obliged to take off their moccasins, and much of the time they were up to their arms in the cold water of the river. But there was a great deal to charm the eye in the opening spring, even in that bare country. Lewis found places near the river filled with choke-cherries, yellow currants, wild roses, and prickly pears in full bloom. In the distance the mountains, rising in long greenish-blue chains, the tops covered with snow, invited the travelers to find what lay on the other side of their ridges.

On June 3d they reached a place where the river divided into two wide streams, and it became very important to decide which of the two was the one that the Indians called the Ahmateahza, or Missouri, which they had said approached very near to the Columbia River. Lewis knew that the success of his expedition depended largely upon choosing the right stream, because if, after they had ascended the Rocky Mountains beyond, they should find that the river they had taken did not bring them near the Columbia, they would have to return, and thereby would lose a large part of the summer, which was the only season when they could travel. For this reason he decided to send out two exploring parties. He himself made a two days' march up the north branch, and deciding that this was not the Missouri, he named it Maria's River. As they came back they had to walk along high cliffs, and at one steep point Captain Lewis slipped, and, if he had not been able to catch himself with his mountain stick, would have been thrown into the river. He had just reached a point of safety when he heard a man behind him call out, "Good God, captain, what shall I do?" Turning instantly he found that his companion had lost his footing on the narrow pass, and had slipped down to the very edge of the precipice, where he lay with his right arm and leg over the cliff, while with the other arm and leg he was trying to keep from slipping over. Lewis saw the danger, but calmly told the other to take his knife from his belt with his right hand, and dig a hole in the side of the bluff in which to stick his foot. With great presence of mind the man did this, and getting a foothold, raised himself on his knees. Lewis then told him to take off his moccasins, and crawl forward on his hands and knees, his knife in one hand and his rifle in the other. In this manner the man regained a secure place on the cliff.

Captain Lewis considered that this method of traveling was too dangerous, and he ordered the rest of the party to wade the river at the foot of the bluff, where the water was only breast-high. This adventure taught them the danger of crossing the slippery heights above the stream, but as the plains were broken by ravines almost as difficult to pass, they kept on down the river, sometimes wading in the mud of the low grounds, sometimes in the water, but when that became too deep, cutting footholds in the river bank with their knives. On that particular day they traveled through rain, mud, and water for eighteen miles, and at night camped in a deserted Indian lodge built of sticks. Here they cooked part of the six deer they had killed in the day's traveling, and slept on willow boughs they piled inside the lodge.

Many of the party thought that the north fork was the Missouri River, but Lewis and Clark were both convinced that the south fork was the real Missouri. They therefore hid their heaviest boat and all the supplies they could spare, and prepared to push on with as little burden as possible. A few days later Lewis was proved to be right in his judgment of the south fork, for on June 13th he came to the Great Falls of the Missouri. The grandeur of the falls made a tremendous impression on them all. The river, three hundred yards wide, was shut in by steep cliffs, and for ninety yards from the left cliff the water fell in a smooth sheet over a precipice of eighty feet. The rest of the river shot forward with greater force, and, being broken by projecting rocks, sent clouds of foam into the air. As the water struck the basin below the falls it beat furiously against the ledge of rocks that extended across the river, and Lewis found that for three miles below the stream was one line of rapids and cascades, overhung by bluffs. Five miles above the first falls the whole river was blocked by one straight shelf of rock, over which the water ran in an even sheet, a majestic sight.

This part of the Missouri, however, offered great difficulties to their travel. The men had now journeyed constantly for several months, and were in a region of steep falls and rapids. It was clear that they could not carry the boats on their shoulders for long distances. Fortunately they found a small creek at the foot of the falls, and by this they were able to reach the highlands. From there Lieutenant Clark and a few men surveyed the trail they were to follow, while others hunted and prepared stores of dried meat, and the carpenter built a carriage to transport the boats. They found a large cottonwood tree, about twenty-two inches in diameter, which provided them with the carriage wheels. They decided to leave one of their boats behind, and use its mast for two axle-trees.

Meantime Clark studied the river and found that a series of rapids made a perilous descent, and that a portage of thirteen miles would be necessary. The country was difficult for traveling, being covered with patches of prickly pears, the needles of which cut through the moccasins of the men who dragged the boat's carriage. To add to the difficulty, when they were about five miles from their goal the axle-trees broke, and then the tongues of green cottonwood gave way. They had to stop and search for a substitute, and finally found willow trees, which provided them with enough wood to patch up the boat-carriage. Half a mile from their new camping place the carriage broke again, and this time they found it easier to carry boat and baggage than to build a new conveyance. Captain Lewis described the state of his party at this portage. "The men," he wrote, "are loaded as heavily as their strength will permit; the crossing is really painful; some are limping with the soreness of their feet, others are scarcely able to stand for more than a few minutes from the heat and fatigue; they are all obliged to halt and rest frequently, and at almost every stopping place they fall, and many of them are asleep in an instant."

As they had to go back to the other side of the rapids for the stores they had left, they were obliged to repair the carriage and cross the portage again and again. After ten days' work all their stores were above the falls.

While they were busy making this portage they had several narrow escapes from attacks by grizzly bears. The bears were so bold that they would walk into the camp at night, attracted by buffalo meat, and the sleeping men were in danger from their claws. A tremendous storm added to their discomfort, and the hailstones were driven so furiously by the high wind that they wounded some of the men. Before the storm Lieutenant Clark, with his colored servant York, the half-breed Chaboneau, and his Indian wife and young child, had taken the road above the falls on their way to camp when they noticed a very dark cloud coming up rapidly in the west. Clark hunted about for shelter, and at length found a ravine protected by shelving rocks under which they could take refuge. Here they were safe from the rain, and they laid down their guns, compass, and the other articles they had with them. Rain and hail beat upon their shelter, and the rain began to fall in such solid sheets that it washed down rocks and mud from higher up the ravine. Then a landslide started, but just before the heaviest part of it struck them Lieutenant Clark seized his gun in one hand, and pushed the Indian woman, her child in her arms, up the bank. Her husband also caught at her and pulled her along, but he was so much frightened at the noise and danger that but for Clark's steadiness he, with his wife and child, would probably have been lost. As it was, Clark could hardly climb as fast as the water rose. Had they waited a minute longer they would have been swept into the Missouri just above the Great Falls. They reached the top in safety, and there found York, who had left them just before the storm to hunt some buffalo. They pushed on to camp where the rest of the party had already taken shelter, and had abandoned all work for that day.

While the men were building a new boat of skins, Captain Lewis spent much time studying the animals, trees, and plants of the region, making records of them to take home. Ever since their arrival at the falls they had heard a strange noise coming from the mountains a little to the north of west. "It is heard at different periods of the day and night," Lewis wrote, "sometimes when the air is perfectly still and without a cloud, and consists of one stroke only, or of five or six discharges in quick succession. It is loud, and resembles precisely the sound of a six-pound piece of ordnance at the distance of three miles. The Minnetarees frequently mentioned this noise like thunder, which they said the mountains made; but we paid no attention to it, believing it to have been some superstition, or perhaps a falsehood. The watermen also of the party say that the Pawnees and Ricaras give the same account of a noise heard in the Black Mountains to the westward of them. The solution of the mystery given by the philosophy of the watermen is, that it is occasioned by the bursting of the rich mines of silver confined within the bosom of the mountain."

Early in July the new boat was finished. It was very strong, and yet could be carried easily by five men. But when it was first launched they found that the tar-like material with which they had covered the skins that made the body of the boat would not withstand water, and so the craft leaked. After trying to repair the boat for several days they finally decided to abandon it. Putting all their luggage into the canoes they resumed their journey up the river.

As the canoes were heavily loaded the men who were not needed to paddle them walked along the shore. The country here was very picturesque. At times they climbed hills that gave them wide views of open country never explored by white men; again they waded through fields of wild rye, reminding them of the farm lands of the East; sometimes their path wound through forests of redwood trees, and always they could see the high mountains, still snow-capped. The glistening light on the mountain tops told the explorers why they were called the Shining Mountains.

Game was now less plentiful, and as they had to save the dried meat for the crossing of the mountains, it became a problem to provide food for the party of thirty-two people, who usually consumed a daily supply equal to an elk and deer, four deer or one buffalo. The wild berries, however, were now ripe, and as there were quantities of these they helped to furnish the larder. There were red, purple, yellow, and black currants, gooseberries, and service-berries. The sunflower grew everywhere. Lewis wrote in his diary: "The Indians of the Missouri, more especially those who do not cultivate maize, make great use of the seed of this plant for bread or in thickening their soup. They first parch and then pound it between two stones until it is reduced to a fine meal. Sometimes they add a portion of water, and drink it thus diluted; at other times they add a sufficient proportion of marrow grease to reduce it to the consistency of common dough and eat it in that manner. This last composition we preferred to all the rest, and thought it at that time a very palatable dish."

The Missouri now flowed to the south, and on July 18th the party reached a wide stream, which they named Dearborn River in honor of the Secretary of War. Lewis meant to send back a small party in canoes from this point, but as he had not yet met the Snake Indians, and was uncertain as to their friendliness, he decided he had better not weaken his expedition here. He, however, sent Clark with three men on a scouting trip. Clark found an old Indian road, which he followed, but the prickly pears cut the feet of his men so badly that he could not go far. Along his track he strewed signals, pieces of cloth and paper, to show the Indians, if they should cross that trail, that the party was composed of white men. Before he returned the main party had discovered a great column of smoke up the valley, and suspected that this was an Indian signal to show that their approach had been discovered. Afterward they learned that this was the fact. The Indians had heard one of Clark's men fire a gun, and, taking alarm, had fled into the mountains, giving the smoke signal to warn the rest of the tribe.

The high mountains now began to draw close to the expedition, and they camped one night at a place called the Gates of the Rocky Mountains. Here tremendous rocks rose directly from the river's edge almost twelve hundred feet in the air; at the base they were made of black granite, but the upper part Lewis decided was probably flint of a yellowish brown and cream color. On July 25th the advance guard reached the three forks of the Missouri. Chaboneau was ill, and they had to wait until Lewis and the others caught up. They named the forks of the river Gallatin, Madison, and Jefferson, in honor of the statesmen of those names. It was at this place that the Indian squaw Sacajawea had been in camp with her tribe five years before when the Minnetarees attacked them, killed some, and made a prisoner of her and some others. Lewis hoped that she would be able to help them if they should fall in with bands of her own tribe.

As the main stream ended here, the party now followed the Jefferson River. They soon decided that it would be necessary to secure horses if they were to cross the mountains, and Lewis with three men set out to try to find the Shoshone Indians, from whom they might buy mounts. After several hours' march they saw a man on horseback coming across the plain toward them; examining him through the glass Lewis decided that he belonged to a different tribe of Indians from any that they had yet met, probably the Shoshones. He was armed with a bow and a quiver of arrows, and rode a good horse without a saddle, a small string attached to the lower jaw answering as a bridle. Lewis was anxious to convince him that the white men meant to be friendly, and went toward him at his usual pace. When they were still some distance apart the Indian suddenly stopped. Lewis immediately stopped also, and taking his blanket from his knapsack, and holding it with both hands at the four corners threw it above his head and then unfolded it as he brought it to the ground, as if in the act of spreading it. This signal, which was intended to represent the spreading of a robe as a seat for guests, was the common sign of friendship among the Indian tribes of the Missouri and the Rocky Mountains. Lewis repeated the sign three times, and then taking some beads, a looking-glass, and a few other trinkets from his knapsack, and leaving his gun, walked on toward the Indian. But when he was within two hundred yards of him the Indian turned his horse and began to ride away. Captain Lewis then called to him, using words of the Shoshones. The captain's companions now walked forward, also, and their advance evidently frightened the Indian, for he suddenly whipped his horse and disappeared in a clump of willow bushes. When they returned to the camp Lewis packed some more Indian gifts in his knapsack, and fastened a small United States flag to a pole to be carried by one of the men, which was intended as a friendly signal should the Indians see them advancing.

The next day brought them to the head-waters of the Jefferson River, rising from low mountains. They had now reached the sources of the great Missouri River, a place never before seen by white men. From this distant spot flowed the waters that traversed a third of the continent, finally flowing into the Mississippi near St. Louis.

Leaving the river, they followed an Indian road through the hills, and reached the top of a ridge from which they could see more mountains, partly covered with snow. The ridge on which they stood marked the dividing line between the waters of the Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans. Going down the farther side they came to a creek, which was part of the Columbia River; near this was a spring. They gathered enough dry willow brush for fuel, and halted for the night. Here they ate their last piece of pork, and had only a little flour and parched meal left in the way of provisions. Early next day Lewis went forward on foot, hoping to find some Indians. After several hours he saw three; but they fled away. Later he came upon three Indian women; one of them ran, but the other two, an elderly woman and a little girl, approached, evidently thinking that the strangers were too near for them to escape, and sat down on the ground. Lewis put down his rifle and walking to them, took the woman by the hand, and helped her up. He then rolled up his shirt sleeve to show that he was a white man, since his hands and face were almost as dark as an Indian's. His companions joined him, and they gave the Indians some pewter mirrors, beads, and other presents. He painted the women's cheeks with some vermilion paint, which was the Shoshone custom, meaning peace. He then made them understand by signs that he wished to go to their camp to see their chiefs. The squaw led the white men along a road for some two miles, when they met a band of sixty mounted warriors riding toward them. Again Lewis dropped his rifle, and courageously marched out to deal with these unknown red men. The chief and two others galloped up in advance and spoke to the women, who showed them the presents they had just received. Then the three Indians leaped from their horses, and coming up to Lewis, put their arms about him in friendly greeting, at the same time rubbing their cheeks against his and smearing considerable paint on his face. The other white men advanced and were greeted in the same way. Lewis gave presents to the warriors, and, lighting a pipe, offered it to them for the "smoke of peace." Before they smoked it, however, the Indians took off their moccasins, a custom which meant that they would go barefooted forever, before they broke their treaty of friendship with their friends. The chief then turned and led the white men and his warriors to their camp. Here the white men were invited into a leathern lodge, and seated on green boughs and antelope skins. A small fire was lit in the centre. Again taking off their moccasins, the chief lighted a pipe made of some highly polished green stone; after some words in his own tongue he handed the pipe to Captain Lewis, who then handed it to the other white men. Each took a few whiffs, and then passed it back to the warriors. After this ceremony was finished, Lewis explained that they were in great need of food. The chief presented them with cakes made of sun-dried service-berries and choke-cherries. Later another warrior gave them a piece of boiled antelope, and some fresh roasted salmon, the first salmon Lewis had seen, which convinced him that he was now on the waters of the Columbia River. He learned that the Indians had received word of the advance of his party, whom they at first took to be a hostile tribe, and had therefore set out, prepared for an attack. As a further sign of good-will, the white men were invited to witness an Indian dance, which lasted nearly all night. It was late when the white men, tired by their long day's journey, were allowed to take their rest.

On the next day Captain Lewis tried to persuade the Shoshones to accompany him across the divide in order to assist in bringing his baggage over. It took considerable argument to get the Indians to do this, and he had to promise them more gifts and arouse their curiosity by telling them that there were a black man and a native Indian woman in his camp, before he could induce them to consent. Finally the chief, Cameahwait, and several of his warriors agreed to go with Lewis. When they reached the place where the rest of the party were camped the chief was surprised and delighted to find that the Indian woman, Sacajawea, was his own sister, whom he had not seen since she had been captured by the enemies of his tribe. Clark's negro servant, York, caused much amazement to the Indians, who had never seen a man of his color before. Lewis then had a long talk with the Shoshones, telling them of the great power of the government he represented, and of the advantages they would receive by trading with the white men. Presently he won their good-will, and they agreed to give him four horses in exchange for firearms and other articles. Sacajawea was of the greatest help in the talk between the white men and the Shoshones, and it was she who finally induced her brother to do all he could to assist the explorers.

Lewis now sent Clark ahead to explore the route along the Columbia River, and to build canoes if possible. The Indians had told him that their road would lie over steep, rocky mountains, where there would be little or no game, and then for ten days across a sandy desert. Clark pushed on, and found all the Indians' reports correct. He met a few small parties of Indians, but they had no provisions to spare, and his men were soon exhausted from hunger and the weariness of marching over mountains. His expedition proved that it would be impossible for the main party to follow this river, to which he gave the name of Lewis, and he returned to the camp of the Shoshones, which Lewis and the others had made their headquarters.

In this camp the white men made preparations for the rest of their journey. They finally obtained twenty-nine young horses and saddles for them. They also studied the history and habits of this tribe, who had once been among the most powerful, but had been lately defeated in battle by their neighbors. The Shoshones were also called the Snake Indians, and lived along the rivers of the northwest, fishing for salmon and hunting buffaloes. Their chief wealth lay in their small, wiry horses, which were very sure-footed and fleet, and to which they paid a great deal of attention.

On August 27th the expedition started afresh, with twenty-nine packhorses, heading across the mountains to other Indian encampments on another branch of the Columbia. Travel was slow, as in many places they had to cut a road for the ponies, and often the path was so rough that the heavily-burdened horses would slip and fall. Snow fell at one time, and added to the difficulty of the journey, but by September 6th they had passed the mountain range, and had come into a wide valley, at the head of a stream they called Clark's Fork of the Columbia. Here they met about four hundred Ootlashoot Indians, to whom they gave presents in exchange for fresh horses. Continuing again, they reached Traveler's Rest Creek, and here they stopped to hunt, as the Indians had told them that the country ahead held no game. After refurnishing their larder they pushed on westward, and ran into another snow-storm, which made riding more difficult than ever. Their provisions were soon exhausted, game was lacking, and the situation was discouraging. The march had proved very tiring, and there was no immediate prospect of reaching better country. Lewis, therefore, sent Clark with six hunters ahead, but this light scouting party was able to find very little game, and was nearly exhausted, when on September 20th Clark came upon a village of the Chopunish or Nez Percés Indians, in a beautiful valley. These Indians had fish, roots, and berries, which they gave the white men, who at once sent some back to Lewis and the others. These provisions reached the main party at a time when they had been without food for more than a day. Strengthened by the supplies, and encouraged by news of the Indian village, they hastened forward, and reached the Nez Percés' encampment.

Their stock of firearms and small articles enabled them to buy provisions from these Indians; and they moved on to the forks of the Snake River, where they camped for several days, to enable the party to regain its strength. They built five canoes in the Indian fashion, and launched them on the river, which they hoped would lead them to the ocean. Lewis hid his saddles and extra ammunition, and, having branded the horses, turned them over to three Indians, who agreed to take care of them until the party should return.

The Snake River, flowing through beautiful country, was filled with rapids, and they had many hardships in passing them. At one place a canoe struck a rock, and immediately filled with water and sank. Several of the men could not swim, and were rescued with difficulty. At the same time they had to guard their supplies carefully at night from wandering Indians, who, although they were friendly, could not resist the temptation to steal small articles of all sorts. The rapids passed, the river brought them into the main stream of the Lewis River, and this in turn led them to the junction of the Lewis and Columbia Rivers, which they reached on October 17th. Here they parted from the last of the Nez Percés Indians. The Columbia had as many rapids as the smaller river, and in addition they came to the Great Falls, where they had to lower the canoes by ropes made of elkskin. At one or two places they had to make portages, but as this involved a great deal of extra labor, they tried to keep to the stream wherever they could. At one place a tremendous rock jutted into the river, leaving a channel only forty-five yards wide through which the Columbia passed, its waters tossed into great whirlpools and wild currents. Lewis decided that it would be impossible to carry the boats over this high rock, and determined to rely on skillful steering of them through the narrow passage. He succeeded in doing this, although Indians whom he had met shortly before had told him that it was impossible. At several places they landed most of the men and all the valuable articles, and the two chief explorers took the canoes through the rapids themselves, not daring to trust the navigation to less experienced hands.

In this far-western country they were continually meeting wandering Indians, and they learned from them that the Pacific Ocean was not far distant. On October 28th Lewis found an Indian wearing a round hat and sailor's jacket, which had been brought up the river in trade, and soon after he found other red men wearing white men's clothes. On the thirty-first they came to more falls. Here they followed the example of their Indian friends, and carried the canoes and baggage across the slippery rocks to the foot of the rapids. The large canoes were brought down by slipping them along on poles, which were stretched from one rock to another. They had to stop constantly to make repairs to the boats, which had weathered all sorts of currents, and had been buffeted against innumerable rocks and tree-trunks. Then they discovered tide-water in the river, and pushed on eagerly to a place called Diamond Island. Here, Lewis wrote, "we met fifteen Indians ascending the river in two canoes; but the only information we could procure from them was that they had seen three vessels, which we presumed to be European, at the mouth of the Columbia."

They came to more and more Indian villages, generally belonging to the Skilloot tribe, who were very friendly, but who were too sharp at a bargain to please Captain Lewis. On November 7, 1805, they reached a point from which they could see the ocean. Lewis says: "The fog cleared off, and we enjoyed the delightful prospect of the ocean—that ocean, the object of all our labors, the reward of all our anxieties. This cheering view exhilarated the spirits of all the party, who were still more delighted on hearing the distant roar of the breakers, and went on with great cheerfulness."

It was late in the year, and the captain wished to push on so that he might winter on the coast, but a heavy storm forced them to land and seek refuge under a high cliff. The waves on the river were very high, and the wind was blowing a gale directly from the sea; great waves broke over the place where they camped, and they had to use the utmost care to save their canoes from being smashed by drifting logs. Here they had to stay for six days, in which time their clothes and food were drenched, and their supply of dried fish exhausted; but the men bore these trials lightly now that they were so near the Pacific Ocean. When the gale ended they explored the country for a good place to establish their winter quarters. The captain finally decided to locate on a point of high land above the river Neutel, well beyond the highest tide, and protected by a grove of lofty pines. Here they made their permanent camp, which was called Fort Clatsop. They built seven wooden huts in which to spend the winter. They lived chiefly on elk, to which they added fish and berries in the early spring. A whale stranded on the beach provided them with blubber, and they found salt on the shore. The winter passed without any unusual experiences, and gave the captain an opportunity to make a full record of the country through which he had passed, and of the Indian tribes he had met.

The original plan was to remain at Fort Clatsop until April, when Lewis expected to renew his stock of merchandise from the trading vessels, which visited the mouth of the Columbia every spring; but as the winter passed the constant rain brought sickness among the men, and game grew more and more scarce, so that it was decided to make an earlier return. Before they did this Lewis wrote out an account of his expedition, and arranged to have this delivered to the trading vessels when they should arrive, and in this way the news of his discoveries would not be lost in case anything should happen to his own party. The Indians agreed to deliver the packets, and one of the messages, carried by an American trader, finally reached Boston by way of China in February, 1807, some six months after Lewis himself had returned to the East. On March 24, 1806, they started back on their long route of four thousand one hundred and forty-four miles to St. Louis.

Searching for fish, they found the Multonah or Willamette River, and Lewis wrote that the valley of this stream would furnish the only desirable place of settlement west of the Rocky Mountains. Here he found rich prairies, plenty of fish and game, unusual plants of various sorts, and abundant timber. Soon they reached the village of the Walla Walla Indians, who received them so hospitably that the captain said of all the Indians they had met since leaving the United States this tribe was the most honest and sincere. With twenty-three horses, and Walla Walla Indians as guides, they followed a new road up the valley of the Lewis or Snake River, which saved them eighty miles of their westward route. It was still too early to cross the mountains, and they camped near the place where they had trusted their thirty-eight horses to their Indian friends the autumn before. The Indians returned the horses in exchange for merchandise, and Lewis provided them with food. In all these meetings the squaw wife of the French trader was invaluable. Usually Lewis spoke in English, which was translated by one of his men into French for the benefit of the trapper Chaboneau, who repeated it in the tongue of the Minnetarees to his wife; she would then repeat the words in the Shoshone tongue, and most of the Indians could then understand them, or some could repeat them to the others in their own dialect.

Early in June they tried to cross the mountains, but the snow was ten feet deep on a level, and they had to abandon the attempt until late in the month. They finally crossed, and found their trail of the previous September. At this point the party divided in order to explore different parts of the country. Lewis took a direct road to the Great Falls of the Missouri, where he wished to explore Maria's River. Clark went on to the head of the Jefferson River, where he was to find the canoes that they had hidden, and cross by the shortest route to the Yellowstone; and the two parties were to meet at the mouth of the Yellowstone River. Lack of game prevented Lewis getting far into the country along Maria's River. On this journey he fell in with a band of Minnetarees, and some of them tried to steal his guns and horses. The only real fight of the journey followed, in which two Indians were killed. He then continued eastward, and on August 7th reached the mouth of the Yellowstone, where he found a note telling him that Clark had camped a few miles below.

In the meantime Clark had explored a large part of the valleys of the Jefferson, Gallatin, and Madison Rivers, and had found a boiling-hot spring at the head of the Wisdom River, one of the first signs of the wonders of the Yellowstone. His journey was made safely and comfortably, although at one place he had to stop to build fresh canoes, and during this delay a band of Indians stole twenty-four of his packhorses.

The united party descended the Missouri, and found that other explorers were already following in their track. They met two men from Illinois who had pushed as far west as the Yellowstone on a hunting trip, and back of them they heard of hunters and trappers who were pushing into this unexplored region. Travel homeward was rapid, and on September 23, 1806, the expedition arrived at St. Louis, from which they had started two years and four months before. At the place where they parted with the last of the Minnetarees they said goodbye to Chaboneau, his Indian wife, and child. The squaw had been of the greatest service to them; but for her it is possible that the expedition might never have been able to get through the Shoshone country. Lewis offered to take the three to the United States, but the French trader said that he preferred to remain among the Indians. He was paid five hundred dollars, which included the price of a horse and lodge that had been purchased from him.

The wonderful journey had been a complete success. The explorers had passed through strange tribes of Indians, dangers from hunger and hardship in the high mountains, the desert, and the plains, and had brought back a remarkable record of the scenes and people they had met. From their reports the people of the United States first learned the true value of that great Louisiana Territory, which had been bought for such a small price in money, but which was to furnish homesteads for thousands of pioneers. The work begun by the brave French explorers of earlier centuries was brought to a triumphant close by these two native American discoverers.

[III]
THE CONSPIRACY OF AARON BURR

There is a small island in the Ohio River, two miles below the town of Parkersburg, that is still haunted with the memory of a strange conspiracy. In 1805 the island, then some three hundred acres in size, belonged to an Irish gentleman, Harman Blennerhassett, who had built a beautiful home there and planted fields of hemp. For a time he and his family lived there in great content, Blennerhassett himself being devoted to science and to music, but presently he felt the need of increasing his small fortune and looked about for a suitable enterprise. Then there was introduced to him a gentleman from New York, a very well-known man by the name of Aaron Burr. He also was seeking to make his fortune, and he took Blennerhassett into his confidence. Together they plotted a conspiracy. They started to put their plans into action, and many people called them patriots, and many called them traitors. History does not know all the secrets of that small island, but it tells a curious story of the conspiracy.

Aaron Burr was a very talented and fascinating man, but he was a born adventurer. At this time he was about fifty years old. He had fought in the Revolution, and practiced law in New York City, where he divided honors with Alexander Hamilton, the most brilliant attorney of the period. He had been elected a senator, and then had become a candidate for President of the United States. In the election of 1800 the Electoral College cast seventy-three votes apiece for Thomas Jefferson and Aaron Burr, and these two candidates led all the others. As there was a tie, the choice of President was thrown into the House of Representatives, and there followed a long and bitter fight. Finally Jefferson was chosen President, and Burr Vice-President. In the long campaign Burr made many enemies, chief among whom were the powerful New York families of Clinton and Livingston. These men charged him with being a political trickster, and won most of his followers away from him. When Burr became a candidate for Governor of New York he was beaten, and his defeat was made more bitter by the stinging attacks of his old rival, Alexander Hamilton.

In that day it was still the custom for gentlemen to settle questions of honor on the dueling field. Burr, stung by Hamilton's criticisms, challenged him, and the two met on the heights of Weehawken, overlooking the Hudson River. Here Burr wounded Hamilton so severely that the latter died a few days later. Hounded by Hamilton's friends, the luckless Burr now found himself cast out by both the Federalists and Republicans, and with no political future. Yet he knew that he had unusual talents for leadership. Still filled with ambition and in great need of money, he saw that there was little opportunity for him at home, and began to turn his eyes outside of the Republic.

The western world was then a wonderful field for daring adventurers. Thirteen small colonies lying close to the Atlantic Ocean had less than twenty years before thrown off the yoke of a great European nation. Men had already pushed west to the Mississippi, and settled the fertile fields beyond the Alleghanies. Across the great "Mother of Rivers" lay a vast tract that men knew little about. To the south lay Spanish colonies and islands. The Gulf of Mexico was the home of freebooters and pirates. In Europe a man of the people named Napoleon Bonaparte was carving out an empire for himself, and stirring the blood of all ambitious men. Soldiers of fortune everywhere were wondering whether they might not follow in Napoleon's footsteps.

It is hard to say in which direction Burr was tempted first. He wanted to hide his real plans not only from his own countrymen, but from the English, French, and Spanish agents as well. He first pretended to Anthony Merry, the British minister at Washington, that he intended to join a conspiracy to start a revolution in the Spanish colonies, in the hope of turning them into a new republic. Mr. Merry told his government that it would be to the advantage of England if Mr. Burr's plans succeeded. But even then Burr was working on a different scheme. He thought that the people of Louisiana, a large territory at the mouth of the Mississippi River, which had only lately become a part of the United States, might be induced to separate into a new nation of their own. He needed money for his plans, and so he kept pointing out to the British minister the many advantages to England if either the Spanish colonies or Louisiana should win freedom. A third plan was also dawning in Burr's mind, the possibility of entering Mexico and carving out a kingdom there for himself. So he began by dealing with the agents of different countries, trying to get money from each for his own secret schemes.

In the spring of 1805 Burr set out for the West. He took coach for the journey over the mountains to Pittsburgh, where he had arranged by letter to meet General James Wilkinson, the governor of the new territory of Louisiana. Wilkinson was delayed, however, and so Burr embarked in an ark that he had ordered built to sail down the Ohio River. After several days on the water he reached Blennerhassett Island early in May. The owner of the island was away from home, but his wife invited Burr to their house, and he learned from her that her husband was looking for a way to mend his fortunes.

Next day Burr continued his journey in the ark. He reached Cincinnati, then a very small town of fifteen hundred people, where he talked over his plans with several friends. From Cincinnati he went to Louisville, and from there rode to Frankfort. At Nashville he was the guest of Andrew Jackson, who was major-general of the Tennessee militia. Word spread about that Aaron Burr was plotting to free Florida and the West Indies from Spanish rule, and the liberty-loving settlers welcomed him with open arms.

Leaving Andrew Jackson, Burr floated in an open boat to the mouth of the Cumberland River, where his ark, which had come down the Ohio, was waiting for him. The ark made its first stop at a frontier post called Fort Massac, and there Burr met General Wilkinson of Louisiana. These two men were real soldiers of fortune. They had fought side by side at the walls of Quebec, and Wilkinson, like many another, had fallen under the spell of Burr's charm. They probably discussed the whole situation: how a small army might seize Florida, how a small navy could drive the Spaniards from Cuba, how a daring band of frontiersmen could march from Vera Cruz to the city of Mexico. Wilkinson seemed delighted with Burr's schemes, and when he left he provided his friend with a large barge manned by ten soldiers and a sergeant.

In this imposing vessel Burr sailed on down the Mississippi to New Orleans, and on June 25, 1805, landed at that quaint old city. It was already a place of much importance; seagoing ships and thousands of river flatboats docked at its levees, for it was the chief port for sending goods to Mexico and the other Spanish colonies. Burr brought letters to many prominent people, and a public dinner was given in his honor. The visitor had been Vice-President of the United States, and was said to be the leader of a band of mysterious patriots. Enthusiasm ran high in New Orleans when their guest said, as he had already announced in Tennessee, that he intended to devote his life to overthrowing all Spanish rule in America.

Day after day the soldier of fortune was busy with his plans. When he started north on horseback he carried with him the fame of a great patriot. Wherever he stopped, at cabins, at villages, or cities, the frontiersmen wanted to shake his hand. He rode four hundred and fifty miles through the wilderness from Natchez to Nashville, where he again visited Andrew Jackson, who promised him Tennessee soldiers for a war on Spain. At St. Louis he learned that General Zebulon Pike was exploring the best route over the plains to Santa Fé, and many letters told him that the time was ripe to settle old grudges with the borderers of Mexico. Everything seemed favorable to his adventure. Burr had only to decide where he would strike first. He was back in the East by the middle of November, 1805, having filled the whole country with rumors of wild plots and insurrections. He was a figure of mystery. People whispered that Aaron Burr was to be the Washington of a new republic in the West, or the king of a country to be carved out of Mexico.

By the summer of 1806 Burr knew that he could not get money from England to further his plans. He would have to depend on his own countrymen in any attack on Mexico or Spain. His journey had showed him that many of them were eager to follow his lead. Troubles were daily increasing along the borders of Florida and Mexico. It looked easy to take an army into Florida, but there would be more profit in the rich country to the southwest. His friend, General Wilkinson, had just been sent to drive the Mexicans across the Sabine River, the western boundary of Louisiana, and Burr thought this was a good chance to go west again, and perhaps call the settlers to arms. Men he trusted started west early in the summer of 1806, and Burr, with his daughter, and a Colonel De Pestre, who had fought in the French Revolution, and a few friends and servants, set out in August for their meeting-place on Blennerhassett Island. When he arrived there he was warmly welcomed by the owner. Burr showed Blennerhassett how he could make his fortune in Mexico, because if the conspiracy were successful they could take a large part of that country for themselves. Fired by Burr's story the men on the island immediately began preparations. They sent to the town of Marietta for one hundred barrels of pork, and contracted to have fifteen boats delivered at the island the following December. A kiln was built near Blennerhassett's house for drying corn, which was then ground into meal, and packed for shipping. All sorts of provisions were purchased, and the Blennerhassett family prepared to send their household goods down the river. Word of the plans spread, and men in various towns near the Ohio made ready to join the expedition. When the leader should send out his messengers recruits would come pouring in.

In the meantime Burr himself had left the little island and covered a wide stretch of country. He wanted to be sure of Andrew Jackson's aid, and he found that fiery warrior as ready as ever to fight Spaniard or Mexican in the cause of liberty. The general still thought that his friend Burr's only object was to free all of North America. Eager in that cause, Jackson sent word to the Tennessee militia, urging them to be ready for instant duty against the Spaniards, who, he said, had already captured several citizens of the United States, had cut down our flag, had driven our explorers away from the Red River, and had taken an insulting position on the east bank of the River Sabine, in the territory of Orleans. He wrote to President Jefferson offering to lead his Tennessee militia against the troops of Spain. A large part of the country expected war at once. Burr, for his own purposes, did all he could to inflame this warlike feeling.

In October the chief conspirator met his daughter, Theodosia Alston, her husband, and Blennerhassett at Lexington, Kentucky. He now arranged to buy a tract, known as the Bastrop lands, which included nearly a million acres in northern Louisiana on the Washita River. This purchase he meant to use as a blind, intending to settle there only in case his other plans failed. If the United States Government should suspect the conspirators of plotting against Mexico, they could pretend to be merely settlers, armed to defend themselves in case the Spaniards should overrun their borders. The tract would be valuable in any case, because of the rich bottom-lands and vast forests, and made a splendid base for a raid into the Spanish provinces.

Recruits were added daily to Burr's forces. He told them as much or as little of his schemes as he thought advisable. To some he said that he was a secret agent of the government, to others that he only meant to start a new pioneer settlement. If there should be war with Spain the men who followed him would share in the spoils, if victorious. If there was no war they would be ready to protect the border against invaders.

There were some people, however, who could not get over their distrust of Burr because of what he had done. The mysterious preparations at Blennerhassett Island caused some uneasiness in the neighborhood, and on October 6th a mass meeting of the people of Wood County, Virginia, was held, and the military preparations on the island were denounced. Blennerhassett was away at the time, but his wife, hearing of the meeting, grew uneasy, and sent her gardener, Peter Taylor, to tell her husband this news. Taylor found the conspirators at Lexington, and gave them Mrs. Blennerhassett's message. The gardener was evidently taken into his master's confidence, because he said later that the plan was "to take Mexico, one of the finest and richest places in the whole world." He added, "Colonel Burr would be the King of Mexico, and Mrs. Alston, daughter of Colonel Burr, was to be Queen of Mexico, whenever Colonel Burr died.... Colonel Burr had made fortunes for many in his time, but none for himself; but now he was going to make something for himself. He said that he had a great many friends in the Spanish territory; no less than two thousand Roman Catholic priests were engaged, and all their friends would join, if once he could get to them; that the Spaniards, like the French, had got dissatisfied with their government, and wanted to swap it."

President Jefferson could no longer overlook the adventures of Burr and his friends. He knew that very little was needed to kindle the flame of war on the Mexican border. But he had his hands full with foreign affairs; England was making trouble for American sailors, and Napoleon was setting the whole world by the ears. So the busy President wrote to his agents in the West and urged them to keep a secret watch over Colonel Burr and Blennerhassett Island.

War with Spain almost came that summer. There were many disputed boundary lines between the United States and the Spanish colonies. The Spanish troops in Florida, Texas, and Mexico were prepared for an attack from the United States, and Spanish agents were urging Indian tribes to rise against the white men. Men protested in Western cities and towns. The people of Orleans Territory were afraid that Spain was going to try to win back their country by force of arms. On the 4th of July, 1806, the people of New Orleans held a great patriotic celebration, and in the evening a play called, "Washington; or the Liberty of the New World," was acted to a huge audience. Even the Creoles, who were more Spanish than Anglo-Saxon, were eager to fight against the old tyranny of Spain.

In the midst of this war excitement word came that a man born in Venezuela, named Francesco Miranda, had sailed from New York to free his native country from Spanish rule. Miranda was looked upon as a hero and patriot by many people in the United States, and this encouraged Burr and his friends.

There were in 1806 about one thousand soldiers in Texas, which was then a province of Mexico. These troops were ordered to cross the Sabine River, which formed a part of the disputed boundary, and as soon as they did cross the governor of Louisiana called for volunteers, and the people of Mississippi Territory prepared to march to the aid of New Orleans. The meeting place of the volunteers was Natchitoches, and there hundreds of countrymen came flocking, armed, and eager to defend Louisiana. Everything seemed ready for Aaron Burr to launch his great adventure. But at this point Burr's former friend, General James Wilkinson, the governor of Louisiana, changed his mind as to the wisdom of Burr's schemes. He would not give the order to the volunteers to march to the Mexican border, but waited, hoping that President Jefferson would prevent the war by diplomacy, or that the Spanish troops would decide to retreat.

On September 27th a great crowd in Nashville hailed Colonel Burr as the deliverer of the Southwest, and Andrew Jackson proclaimed, "Millions for defense; not one cent for tribute;" and at the same time the Mexican General Herrera ordered his troops to retreat from the River Sabine. Danger of war was over, and the moment the flag of Spain left the Louisiana shore, Burr's dream of an empire for himself and his friends vanished.

General Wilkinson knew that the government in Washington was suspicious of Aaron Burr's plans, and he thought that his name was included among those of Burr's friends. Some newspapers had even linked their names together, and the general, knowing perhaps the treachery of his own thoughts, now decided to prove his patriotism by accusing Aaron Burr and the others of treason. All the time that he was making a treaty with the Mexican general on the Texan frontier he was also working up a strong case against Burr. He saw to it that the agents put all suspicion on the shoulders of the others, and made him appear as the one man who had tried his best to protect his country. He intended to show that not only was he not a traitor, but that he was able to unmask traitors, by having pretended to join with them earlier.

In his sudden eagerness to prevent war with the Mexicans, General Wilkinson made terms of peace with them, which proved a great disadvantage to the United States at a later date, but which pleased the peace party of the day. He met the Mexican general at the very time when Burr and his allies were ready to launch their fleet of boats on the Mississippi River. Then Wilkinson made haste to raise the cry of "Treason in the West," which was to echo through the United States for months, and ruin the reputation of many men.

President Jefferson trusted Wilkinson, and when he heard the latter's charges against Burr he sent a special messenger to see what was happening at Blennerhassett Island. Before the messenger reached the Alleghany Mountains, however, another man had accused Burr in the court at Frankfort, Kentucky, of having broken the laws of the country in starting an expedition against Mexico. Burr said that he could easily answer these charges, and sent a message to Blennerhassett, telling him not to be disturbed. He went to the court at Frankfort, and when the man who had accused him could not bring his witnesses the matter was promptly dropped. Burr was more a hero than ever to the people of Frankfort. They agreed with a leading newspaper that said, "Colonel Burr has throughout this business conducted himself with the calmness, moderation, and firmness which have characterized him through life. He evinced an earnest desire for a full and speedy investigation—free from irritation or emotion; he excited the strongest sensation of respect and friendship in the breast of every impartial person present."

Burr then went back to Lexington, and continued raising money to buy a fleet of boats. Andrew Jackson had already received three thousand dollars in Kentucky for this purpose. Blennerhassett went on enrolling volunteers. It looked as if Burr's conduct at Frankfort had put an end to the rumors of treason.

General Wilkinson, however, was still anxious to make a name for himself as a great patriot, and he kept sending alarming messages to Washington. He accused his former friend of all sorts of treason. It was also perfectly clear that a large number of boats were being gathered on the Ohio under orders of Burr and his friends, and so President Jefferson sent word to the officers at Marietta to post one hundred and fifty or two hundred soldiers on the river to prevent Burr's fleet sailing. With the news of this order people in the West began to suspect their former hero, and even some of his old allies grew doubtful of his patriotism.

Wilkinson increased the alarm by orders he gave in New Orleans as governor of Louisiana Territory. He began to make military arrests, locking up all those he distrusted, and all those who were admirers of Aaron Burr. He had gunboats stationed in the river, and they were ordered to fire on Burr's fleet if it ever got that far, and he refused to allow any boats to ascend the Mississippi without his express permission. All this preparation caused great excitement in New Orleans, which spread through the neighboring country. It seemed as if General Wilkinson were trying to force the people to believe there was some great conspiracy on foot.

The colonel and his allies tried to explain that their fleet of boats was simply to carry settlers, arms and provisions into the Bastrop tract of land that they had bought; but by now nobody would believe them. On December 9, 1806, the boats that Blennerhassett had been gathering on the Muskingum River were seized by order of the governor of Ohio. Patrols were placed along the Ohio River, and the militia called out to capture Blennerhassett and the men with him. The next day the Virginia militia declared that they meant to find out the secret of Blennerhassett Island. The owner and his friend, Comfort Tyler, had word of this, and at once prepared for flight. At midnight they left the island and started down the Ohio by boat. The Virginia troops arrived to find the place deserted, and, leaving sentinels there, started in pursuit of Blennerhassett. The next day the sentries captured a flatboat with fourteen boys on board, who were coming from Pittsburgh to join Burr. People along the Ohio began to expect attacks from Burr's recruits. Cincinnati was especially alarmed. One of the newspapers there stated that three of Burr's armed boats were anchored near the city, which they meant to attack. That night some practical joker exploded a bomb, and the people thought that Burr's army was firing on them. The citizens armed, and the militia was called out, but when they came to inspect the boats on the river next day they found that those they thought belonged to Burr were vessels of a Louisville merchant loaded with dry-goods. No story was now too wild to be believed when it was attached to the name of Burr or Blennerhassett.

Burr now only intended to sail down to his own lands. On December 20th he sent word to Blennerhassett that he would be at the mouth of the Cumberland River on the twenty-third. Two days later he put a number of horses on one of his boats, and with a few men to help him, floated down the Cumberland River to its mouth, where Blennerhassett and the rest of their party were waiting for him. They joined their seven boats to his two vessels, and had a fleet of nine ships with about sixty men on board. On December 28th they sailed down the Ohio, and the next night anchored a little below Fort Massac.

Country people along the river saw the flotilla pass, and sent word of it to the nearest military post. The captain there stopped all ships, but found nothing suspicious on any of them. "Colonel Burr, late Vice-President," the officer reported, "passed this way with about ten boats of different descriptions, navigated with about six men each, having nothing on board that would even suffer a conjecture more than that he was a man bound to market. He has descended the river toward Orleans."

On the last day of 1806 the fleet reached the broad waters of the Mississippi River. Four days later they dropped anchor at Chickasaw Bluffs, now the city of Memphis. Again officers boarded the boats, and after examining the cargoes allowed them to go on their voyage. On January 10th they reached Mississippi Territory, and here they found the excitement intense.

The fleet was now in territory that was under the charge of General Wilkinson, and he immediately sent three hundred and seventy-five soldiers from Natchez to prevent Burr's further progress. On January 16th two officers rowed out to the boats, and were received pleasantly by Colonel Burr, who laughed at General Wilkinson's suspicions, and, pointing to his peaceful flotilla, asked if it looked as if it were meant for war? When he was told that the soldiers had orders to stop him, he answered that he was willing to appear in court at any time. This satisfied the two officers, who asked him to ride next day to the town of Washington, which was the capital of Mississippi Territory, and appear before the court there. Burr agreed, and early next morning rode to Washington with the two officers who had called on him. There he was charged with having conspired against the United States government. His friends on the river remained on their boats, waiting for his return. The expedition never went any farther.

Burr promised to stay in the Territory until the charges against him were cleared up. His charm of manner won him many friends, and people would not believe him a traitor. When the grand jury met they decided that Aaron Burr was not guilty of treason. The judge, however, would not set him free, and Burr realized that General Wilkinson was using all his power against him. He thought that his only chance of safety lay in defying the court, and taking the advice of some friends fled to a hiding-place near the home of Colonel Osmun, an old acquaintance. He meant to leave that part of the country, but the severe weather blocked his plans. Heavy rains had swollen all the streams, and he had to change his route. He set out with one companion, but had to ask a farmer the road to the house of Colonel Hinson. The farmer suspected that one of the horsemen was Aaron Burr, and knew that a large reward had been offered for his capture. He carried his news to the sheriff, and then to the officers at Fort Stoddert. A lieutenant from the fort with four soldiers joined the farmer, and, mounting fast horses, they rode after the two men. Early the next morning they came up with them. The lieutenant demanded in the name of the government of the United States whether one of the horsemen was Colonel Burr. Aaron Burr admitted his name, and was put under arrest. He was taken to the fort, and held there as a fugitive from justice.

The cry of "Treason in the West" had been heard all over the country. The great expedition against Mexico had dwindled to a small voyage to settle certain timber-lands. The formidable fleet was only nine ordinary river boats. The army of rebels had shrunk to less than sixty peaceful citizens; and the store of arms and ammunition had been reduced to a few rifles and powder-horns. Moreover Aaron Burr had neither attempted to fight nor to resist arrest. He had merely fled when he thought he stood little chance of a fair trial. Yet the cry of treason had so alarmed the country that the government found it necessary to try the man who had so nearly defeated Jefferson for the Presidency.

Orders were sent to bring Aaron Burr east. After a journey that lasted twenty-one days the prisoner was lodged in the Eagle Tavern in Richmond, Virginia. Here Chief-Justice Marshall examined the charges against Burr, and held him in bail to appear at the next term of court. The bail was secured, and on the afternoon of April 1st Burr was once more set at liberty. From then until the day of the trial interest in the case grew. Everywhere people discussed the question whether Aaron Burr had been a traitor to his country. By the time for the hearing of the case feeling against him ran high. When court met on May 22, 1807, Richmond was crowded with many of the most prominent men of the time, drawn by the charges against a man who had so lately been Vice-President.

It was not until the following August that Colonel Burr was actually put on trial. The question was simply whether he had planned to make war against the United States. There were many witnesses, led by the faithless General Wilkinson, who were ready to declare that the purpose of the meetings at Blennerhassett Island was to organize an army to divide the western country from the rest of the republic. Each side was represented by famous lawyers; and the battle was hard fought. In the end, however, the jury found that Aaron Burr was not guilty of treason. No matter what Burr and Blennerhassett and their friends had planned to do in Mexico, the jury could not believe they had been so mad as to plot a war against the United States.

Burr, although now free, was really a man without a country. He went to England and France, and in both countries engaged in plans for freeing the colonies of Spain. But both in England and in France the people looked upon him with suspicion, remembering his strange history. At the end of four years he returned to the United States. Here he found that some of his early plans were coming to fulfilment. Revolts were breaking out in Florida, in Mexico, and in some of the West Indies. He was allowed no part in any of these uprisings. Florida became a part of the United States, and in time Burr saw the men of Texas begin a struggle for freedom from Mexico. When he read the news of this, he exclaimed, "There! You see! I was right! I was only thirty years too soon. What was treason in me thirty years ago is patriotism now!" Later he was asked whether he had really planned to divide the Union when he started on his voyage from Blennerhassett Island. He answered, "No; I would as soon have thought of taking possession of the moon, and informing my friends that I intended to divide it among them."

Such is the story of Aaron Burr, a real soldier of fortune, who wanted to carve out a new country for himself, and came to be "a man without a country."

[IV]
HOW THE YOUNG REPUBLIC FOUGHT THE BARBARY PIRATES

I

Long after pirates had been swept from the Western Ocean they flourished in the Mediterranean Sea. They hailed from the northern coast of Africa, where between the Mediterranean and the desert of Sahara stretched what were known as the Barbary States. These states were Morocco, Algeria, Tunis, Tripoli, and the tiny state of Barca, which was usually included in Tripoli. Algeria, or, as it was commonly called from the name of its capital, Algiers, was the home of most of the Mediterranean pirates.

There was hardly a port in the whole of that inland sea that had not seen a fleet of the pirates' boats sweep down upon some innocent merchant vessel, board her, overpower the crew, and carry them off to be sold in the African slave-markets. Their ships were usually square-rigged sailing vessels, which were commonly called galleons. The pirates did not trust to cannon, and the peculiar shape of the ships gave them a good chance for hand-to-hand fighting. The dark-skinned crew would climb out on the long lateen yards that hung over their enemies' deck, and drop from the yards and from the rigging, their sabers held between their teeth, their loaded pistols stuck in their belts, so that they might have free use of their hands for climbing and clinging to ropes and gunwales.

Strange as it seems, the great countries of Europe made no real effort to destroy these pirates of the Barbary coast, but instead actually paid them bribes in order to protect their crews. The larger countries thought that, as they could afford to pay the tribute that the pirates demanded, and their smaller rivals could not, the pirates might actually serve them by annoying other countries. So England and France, and the other big nations of Europe, put up with all sorts of insults at the hands of these Moorish buccaneers, and many times their consuls were ill-treated and their sailors made to work in slave-gangs because they had not paid as much tribute as the Moors demanded.

Many an American skipper fell into the hands of these corsairs. The brig Polly of Newburyport, Massachusetts, was heading for the Spanish port of Cadiz in October, 1793, when she was overhauled by a brig flying the English flag. As the brig came near her captain hailed the Polly in English, asking where she was bound. Meanwhile the brig ran close in beside the Polly, and the Americans saw a large number of men, Moors by the look of their beards and dress, spring up from under the rail. This crew launched a big boat, and nearly one hundred men, armed with swords, pistols, spears, and knives, were rowed up to the Polly. The Moors sprang on board. The Yankees were greatly outnumbered, and were driven into the cabin, while the pirates broke open all the trunks and chests, and stripped the brig of everything that could be moved. The prisoners were then rowed to the Moorish ship, which sailed for Algiers. There they were landed and marched to the palace of the Dey, or ruler of Algiers, while the people clapped their hands, shouted, and gave thanks for the capture of so many "Christian dogs." They were put in prison, where they found other Americans, and nearly six hundred Christians of other countries, all of whom were treated as slaves. On the next day each captive was loaded with chains, fastened around his waist and joined to a ring about his ankle. They were then set to work in rigging and fitting out ships, in blasting rocks in the mountains, or carrying stones for the palace the Dey was building. Their lot was but little better than that of the slaves of olden times who worked for the Pharaohs. As more American sailors were captured and made slaves their friends at home grew more and more eager to put an end to these pirates, and when the Revolution was over the young Republic of the United States began to heed the appeals for help that came from the slave-markets along the Barbary coast.

The Republic found, however, that so long as England and France were paying tribute to the pirates it would be easier for her to do the same thing than to fight them. The American Navy was very small, and the Mediterranean was far distant. England seemed actually to be encouraging the pirates, thinking that their attacks on American ships would injure the country that had lately won its independence. So the United States made the best terms it could with the rulers of Algiers, Morocco, Tunis, and Tripoli, and paid heavy ransoms for the release of the captives. There was little self-respect or honor among the Moorish chiefs, however. One Dey succeeded another, each more greedy than the last, and each demanded more tribute money or threatened to seize all the Americans he could lay hands upon. The consuls had to be constantly making presents in order to keep the Moors in a good humor, and whenever the Dey felt the need of more money he would demand it of the United States consul, and threaten to throw him in prison if he refused.

This state of affairs was very unpleasant for free men, but for a number of years it had to be put up with. When Captain Bainbridge dropped anchor off Algiers in command of the United States frigate George Washington, the Dey demanded that he should carry a Moorish envoy to Constantinople with presents for the Sultan of Turkey. Bainbridge did not like to be treated as a messenger boy; but the Dey said, "You pay me tribute, by which you become my slaves. I have, therefore, a right to order you as I may think proper." Bainbridge had no choice but to obey the command, or leave American merchant vessels at the mercy of the Moors, and so he carried the Dey's presents to the Sultan.

As all the Barbary States throve on war, in that way gaining support from the enemies of the country they attacked, one or the other was constantly making war. In May, 1801, the Pasha of Tripoli declared war against the United States, cut down the American flagstaff at his capital, and sent out his pirate ships. In reply the United States ordered a squadron of four vessels under command of Commodore Richard Dale to sail to the Mediterranean. This squadron did good service, capturing a number of the galleys of Tripoli, and exchanging Moorish prisoners for American slaves. But the pirates were like a swarm of hornets; they stung wherever they got a chance, and as soon as the war-ships were out of sight they would steal out from their hiding-places to terrorize the coast. The United States had to keep sending squadrons to act as policemen. When the fleet kept together the Moors had proper respect for them, but once the ships separated they became the target for the hornets.

The frigate Philadelphia, of thirty-six guns, was detailed in October, 1803, to blockade the port of Tripoli. The morning after she reached there she saw a ship inshore preparing to sail westward. The frigate gave chase, and as the other vessel carried the colors of Tripoli, the frigate opened fire. As she chased the Moor the Philadelphia ran on a shelving rock that was part of a long reef. Her crew worked hard to get her off, but she stuck fast. As the Moors on shore saw the plight of the Philadelphia they manned their boats, and soon she was surrounded by a swarm of pirate galleys. The galleys sailed under the fire of the frigate's heavy guns, and came up to close quarters, where the cannon could not reach them. The Americans were helpless, and by sunset Commodore Bainbridge had to strike his flag. As soon as he surrendered the Moors swarmed over the sides of his ship, broke everything they could lay their hands on, stripped officers and men of their uniforms, and tumbled them into the small boats. The prisoners were landed at night, and led to the castle gate. The sailors were treated as slaves, but the officers were received by the Pasha in the great marble-paved hall of his palace, where that ruler, dressed in silks and jewels, and surrounded by a gorgeous court, asked them many questions, and later offered them supper. But the favor of the Pasha was as fickle as the wind; within a day or two he was treating the American officers much as he treated his other Christian captives, and the crew, three hundred and seven in number, were worked as slaves. Meantime the Moors, using anchors and cables, succeeded in pulling the Philadelphia off the reef, and the frigate was pumped out and made seaworthy. She was brought into the harbor, to the delight of the Pasha and his people at owning so fine a war-ship. The loss of the Philadelphia was a severe blow, not only to American pride, but to American fortunes. The squadron was now much too small for service, and Bainbridge and his crew were hostages the United States must redeem.

It fell to the lot of Commodore Preble to take charge of the American ships in the Mediterranean, and he began to discuss terms of peace with Tripoli through an agent of the Pasha at Malta. By these terms the frigate Philadelphia was to be exchanged for a schooner, and the Moorish prisoners in Preble's hands, sixty in number, were to be exchanged for as many of the American prisoners in Tripoli, and the rest of the American captives were to be ransomed at five hundred dollars a man. Before these terms were agreed upon, however, a more daring plan occurred to the American commodore, and on February 3, 1804, he entrusted a delicate task to Stephen Decatur, who commanded the schooner Enterprise. Decatur picked a volunteer crew, put them on board the ships Siren and Intrepid, and sailed for Tripoli. They reached that port on February 7th, and to avoid suspicion the Intrepid drew away from the other ship and anchored after dark about a mile west of the town. A small boat with a pilot and midshipman was sent in to reconnoiter the harbor. They reported that the sea was breaking across the western entrance, and as the weather was threatening advised Decatur not to try to enter that night. The two American ships therefore stood offshore, and were driven far to the east by a gale. The weather was so bad that it was not until February 16th that they returned to Tripoli. This time the Intrepid sailed slowly toward the town, while the Siren, disguised as a merchantman, kept some distance in the rear.

The frigate Philadelphia, now the Pasha's prize ship, lay at anchor in the harbor, and the Intrepid slowly drifted toward her in the light of the new moon. No one on ship or shore realized the real purpose of the slowly-moving Intrepid. Had the men at the forts on shore or the watchman at the Pasha's castle suspected her purpose they could have blown her from the water with their heavy guns.

The Intrepid drifted closer and closer, with her crew hidden, except for six or eight men dressed as Maltese sailors. Decatur stood by the pilot at the helm. When the little ship was about one hundred yards from the Philadelphia she was hailed and ordered to keep away. The pilot answered that his boat had lost her anchor in the storm, and asked permission to make fast to the frigate for the night. This was given, and the Moorish officer on the Philadelphia asked what the ship in the distance was. The pilot said that she was the Transfer, a vessel lately purchased at Malta by the Moors, which was expected at Tripoli about that time. The pilot kept on talking in order to lull the Moors' suspicions, and meantime the little Intrepid came close under the port bow of the Philadelphia. Just then the wind shifted and held the schooner away from the frigate, and directly in range of her guns. Again the Moors had a chance to destroy the American boat and crew if they had known her real object. They did not suspect it, however. Each ship sent out a small boat with a rope, and when the ropes were joined the two ships were drawn close together.

When the vessels were almost touching some one on the Philadelphia suddenly shouted, "Americanos!" At the same moment Decatur gave the order "Board!" and the American crew sprang over the side of the frigate and jumped to her deck. The Moors were huddled on the forecastle. Decatur formed his men in line and charged. The surprised Moors made little resistance, and Decatur quickly cleared the deck of them; some jumped into the sea, and others escaped in a large boat. The Americans saw that they could not get the Philadelphia safely out of the harbor, and so quickly brought combustibles from the Intrepid, and stowing them about the Philadelphia, set her on fire. In a very few minutes she was in flames, and the Americans jumped from her deck to their own ship. It took less than twenty minutes to capture and fire the Philadelphia.

Decatur ordered his men to the oars, and the Intrepid beat a retreat from the harbor. But now the town of Tripoli was fully aroused. The forts opened fire on the little schooner. A ship commanded the channel through which she had to sail, but fortunately for the Intrepid the Moors' aim was poor, and the only shot that struck her was one through the topgallantsail. The harbor was brightly lighted now. The flames had run up the mast and rigging of the Philadelphia, and as they reached the powder loud explosions echoed over the sea. Presently the cables of the frigate burned, and the Philadelphia drifted ashore and blew up. In the meantime the Intrepid reached the entrance safely, and joining the Siren set sail for Syracuse.

The blowing up of the Philadelphia was one of the most daring acts ever attempted by the United States Navy, and won Decatur great credit. It weakened the Pasha's strength, and kept his pirate crews in check. Instead of making terms with the Moorish ruler, the United States decided to attack his capital, and in the summer of 1804, Commodore Preble collected his squadron before Tripoli. On August 3d the fleet approached the land batteries, and in the afternoon began to throw shells into the town. The Moors immediately opened fire, both from the forts and from their fleet of nineteen gunboats and two galleys that lay in the harbor. Preble divided his ships, and ordered them to close in on the enemy's vessels, although the latter outnumbered them three to one. Again Decatur was the hero of the fight. He and his men boarded a Moorish gunboat and fought her crew hand-to-hand across the decks. He captured the first vessel, and then boarded a second. Decatur singled out the captain, a gigantic Moor, and made for him. The Moor thrust at him with a pike, and Decatur's cutlass was broken off at the hilt. Another thrust of the pike cut his arm, but the American seized the weapon, tore it away, and threw himself on the Moor. The crews were fighting all around their leaders, and a Moorish sailor aimed a blow at Decatur's head with a scimitar. An American seaman struck the blow aside, and the scimitar gashed his own scalp. The Moorish captain, stronger than Decatur, got him underneath, and drawing a knife, was about to kill him, when Decatur caught the Moor's arm with one hand, thrust his other hand into his pocket, and fired his revolver. The Moor was killed, and Decatur sprang to his feet. Soon after the enemy's crew surrendered. The other United States ships had been almost as successful, and the battle taught the Americans that the Barbary pirates could be beaten in hand-to-hand fighting as well as at long range.

Decatur Caught the Moor's Arm

The Pasha was not ready to come to terms even after that day's defeat, however, and on August 7th Commodore Preble ordered another attack. Again the harbor shook under the guns of the fleet and the forts, and at sunset Preble had to withdraw. To avoid further bloodshed the commodore sent a flag of truce to the Pasha, and offered to pay eighty thousand dollars for the ransom of the American prisoners, and to make him a present of ten thousand dollars more. The Pasha, however, demanded one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and Preble was not willing to pay that amount. So later in August he attacked Tripoli again. Each of these bombardments did great damage to the city, but the forts were too strong to be captured. The blockading fleet, however, held its position, and on September 3d opened fire again in the last of its assaults. In spite of the heavy firing the Pasha refused to pull down his flag.

On the night of September 4th a volunteer crew took the little Intrepid into the harbor. She was filled with combustibles, and when she was close to the Moorish ships the powder was to be fired by a fuse that would give time for the crew to escape in a small boat. The night was dark, and the fleet soon lost sight of this fire-ship. She took the right course through the channel, but before she was near the Moors she was seen and they opened fire on her. Then came a loud explosion, and the Intrepid, with her crew, was blown into the air. No one knows whether one of the enemy's shots or her own crew fired the powder. This was the greatest disaster that befell the United States Navy during all its warfare with the Barbary pirates. Soon after Commodore Preble sailed for home, though most of his fleet were kept in the Mediterranean to protect American sailing vessels.

The government at Washington, tired with the long warfare in the Mediterranean, soon afterward ordered the consul at Algiers, Tobias Lear, to treat for peace with the Pasha. A bargain was finally struck. One hundred Moors were exchanged for as many of the American captives, and sixty thousand dollars were paid as ransom for the rest. June 4, 1805, the American sailors, who had been slaves for more than nineteen months, were released from their chains and sent on board the war-ship Constitution. The Pasha declared himself a friend of the United States, and saluted its flag with twenty-one guns from his castle and forts.

In the Barbary States rulers followed one another in rapid succession. He who was Dey or Pasha one week might be murdered by an enemy the next, and that enemy on mounting the throne was always eager to get as much plunder as he could. Treaties meant little to any of them, and so other countries kept on paying them tribute for the sake of peace.

The United States fell into the habit of buying peace with Algiers, Tripoli, Morocco, and Tunis by gifts of merchandise or gold or costly vessels. But the more that was given to them the more greedy these Moorish rulers grew, and so it happened that from time to time they sent out their pirates to board American ships in order to frighten the young Republic into paying heavier tribute. Seven years later the second chapter of our history with the Barbary pirates opened.

II

The brig Edwin of Salem, Massachusetts, was sailing under full canvas through the Mediterranean Sea, bound out from Malta to Gibraltar, on August 25, 1812. At her masthead she flew the Stars and Stripes. The weather was favoring, the little brig making good speed, and the Mediterranean offered no dangers to the skipper. Yet Captain George Smith, and his crew of ten Yankee sailors, kept constantly looking toward the south at some distant sails that had been steadily gaining on them since dawn. Every stitch of sail on the Edwin had been set, but she was being overhauled, and at this rate would be caught long before she could reach Gibraltar.

Captain Smith and his men knew who manned those long, low, rakish-looking frigates. But the Edwin carried no cannon, and if they could not out-sail the three ships to the south they must yield peaceably, or be shot down on their deck. Hour after hour they watched, and by sunset they could see the dark, swarthy faces of the leading frigate's crew. Before night the Edwin had been overhauled, boarded, and the Yankee captain and sailors were in irons, prisoners about to be sold into slavery.

They had been captured by one of the pirate crews of the Dey of Algiers, and when they were taken ashore by these buccaneers they were stood up in the slave market and sold to Moors, or put to work in the shipyards. Other Yankee crews had met with the same treatment.

Now the United States had been paying its tribute regularly to the pirates, but in the spring of 1812 the Dey of Algiers suddenly woke up to the fact that the Americans had been measuring time by the sun while the Moors figured it by the moon, and found that in consequence he had been defrauded of almost a half-year's tribute money, or twenty-seven thousand dollars. He sent an indignant message to Tobias Lear, the American consul at Algiers, threatening all sorts of punishments, and Mr. Lear, taking all things into account, decided it was best to pay the sum claimed by the Dey. The United States sent the extra tribute in the shape of merchandise by the sailing vessel Alleghany; but the Dey was now in a very bad temper, and declared that the stores were of poor quality, and ordered the consul to leave at once in the Alleghany, as he would have no further dealings with a country that tried to cheat him. At almost the same time he received a present from England of two large ships filled with stores of war,—powder, shot, anchors, and cables. He immediately sent out word to the buccaneers to capture all the American ships they could, and sell the sailors in the slave-markets. The Dey of Algiers appeared to have no fear of the United States.

The truth of the matter was that his Highness the Dey, and also the Bey of Tunis, had been spoiled by England, who at this time told them confidently that the United States Navy was about to be wiped from the seas. English merchants assured them that they could treat Captain Smith and other Yankee skippers exactly as they pleased, since Great Britain had declared war on the United States, and the latter country would find herself quite busy at home. Algiers and Tripoli and Tunis, remembering their old grudge against the Americans, assured their English friends that nothing would delight them so much as to rid the Mediterranean of the Stars and Stripes.

The pirates swept down on the brig Edwin, and laid hands on every American they could find in the neighborhood. They stopped and boarded a ship flying the Spanish flag, and took prisoner a Mr. Pollard, of Virginia. Tripoli and Tunis permitted English cruisers to enter their harbors, contrary to the rules of war, and recapture four English prizes that had been sent to them by the American privateer Abellino. When the United States offered to pay a ransom of three thousand dollars for every American who was held as a prisoner the Dey replied that he meant to capture a large number of them before he would consider any terms of sale.

Our country was young and poor, and our navy consisted of only seventeen seaworthy ships, carrying less than four hundred and fifty cannon. England was indeed "Mistress of the Seas," with a great war-fleet of a thousand vessels, armed with almost twenty-eight thousand guns. No wonder that the British consul at Algiers had told the Dey "the American flag would be swept from the seas, the contemptible navy of the United States annihilated, and its maritime arsenals reduced to a heap of ruins." No wonder the Dey believed him. But as a matter of fact the little David outfought the giant Goliath; on the Great Lakes and on the high seas the Stars and Stripes waved triumphant after many a long and desperate encounter, and the small navy came out of the War of 1812 with a glorious record of victories, with splendid officers and crews, and with sixty-four ships. The English friends of the Barbary States had been mistaken, and Algiers, Tunis, and Tripoli began to wish they had not been so scornful of the Yankees.

It was time to show the pirates that Americans had as much right to trade in the Mediterranean as other people. On February 23, 1815, a few days after the treaty of peace with England was published, President Madison advised that we should send a fleet to Algiers. Two squadrons were ordered on this service, under command of Commodore William Bainbridge. One collected at Boston, and the other at New York. Commodore Stephen Decatur was in charge of the latter division.

Decatur's squadron was the first to sail, leaving New York on May 20, 1815. He had ten vessels in all, his flag-ship being the forty-four-gun frigate Guerrière, and his officers and crew being all seasoned veterans of the war with England. The fleet of the Dey of Algiers, however, was no mean foe. It consisted of twelve vessels, well armed and manned, six sloops, five frigates, and one schooner. Its admiral was a very remarkable man, one of the fierce tribe of Kabyles from the mountains, Reis Hammida by name, who had made himself the scourge of the Mediterranean. He had plenty of reckless courage; once he had boarded and captured in broad daylight a Portuguese frigate under the very cliffs of Gibraltar, and at another time, being in command of three Algerine frigates, had dared to attack a Portuguese ship of the line and three frigates, in face of the guns leveled at him from the Rock of Lisbon, directly opposite.

The city of Algiers itself was one of the best fortified ports on the Mediterranean. It lay in the form of a triangle, one side extending along the sea, while the other two rose against a hill, meeting at the top at the Casbah, the historic fortress of the Deys. The city was guarded by very thick walls, mounted with many guns, and the harbor, made by a long mole, was commanded by heavy batteries, so that at least five hundred pieces of cannon could be brought to bear on any hostile ships trying to enter.

Decatur's fleet was only a few days out of New York when it ran into a heavy gale, and the wooden ships were badly tossed about. The Firefly, a twelve-gun brig, sprung her masts, and had to put back to port. The other ships rode out the storm, and kept on their course to the Azores, keeping a sharp watch for any suspicious-looking craft. As they neared the coast of Portugal the vigilance was redoubled, for here was a favorite hunting-ground of Reis Hammida, and Decatur knew what the Algerine admiral had done before the Rock of Lisbon. They found no trace of the enemy here, however. At Cadiz Decatur sent a messenger to the American consul, who informed him that three Algerine frigates and some smaller ships had been spoken in the Atlantic Ocean, but were thought to have returned to the Mediterranean.

Decatur wanted to take the enemy by surprise, and so sailed cautiously to Tangier, where he learned that two days earlier Reis Hammida had gone through the Straits of Gibraltar in the forty-six-gun frigate Mashuda. The American captain at once set sail for Gibraltar, and found out there that the wily Algerine was lying off Cape Gata, having demanded that Spain should pay him half a million dollars of tribute money to protect her coast-towns from attack by his fleet.

Lookouts on the Guerrière reported to Decatur that a despatch-boat had left Gibraltar as soon as the American ships appeared, and inquiry led the captain to believe the boat was bearing messages to Reis Hammida. Other boats were sailing for Algiers, and Decatur, realizing the ease with which his wily opponent, thoroughly familiar with the inland sea, would be able to elude him, decided to give chase at once.

The fleet headed up the Mediterranean June 15th, under full sail. The next evening ships were seen near shore, and Decatur ordered the frigate Macedonian and two brigs to overhaul them. Early the following morning, when the fleet was about twenty miles out from Cape Gata, Captain Gordon, of the frigate Constellation, sighted a big vessel flying the flag of Algiers, and signaled "An enemy to the southeast."

Decatur saw that the strange ship had a good start of his fleet, and was within thirty hours' run of Algiers. He suspected that her captain might not have detected the fleet as American, and ordered the Constellation back to her position abeam of his flag-ship, gave directions to try to conceal the identity of his squadron, and stole up on the stranger. The latter was seen to be a frigate, lying to under small sail, as if waiting for some message from the African shore near at hand. One of the commanders asked permission to give chase, but Decatur signaled back "Do nothing to excite suspicion."

The Moorish frigate held her position near shore while the American ships drew closer. When they were about a mile distant a quartermaster on the Constellation, by mistake, hoisted a United States flag. To cover this blunder the other ships were immediately ordered to fly English flags. But the crew of the Moorish frigate had seen the flag on the Constellation, and instantly swarmed out on the yard-arms, and had the sails set for flight. They were splendid seamen, and almost immediately the frigate was leaping under all her canvas for Algiers. The Americans were busy too. The rigging of each ship was filled with sailors, working out on the yards, the decks rang with commands, and messages were signaled from the flag-ship to the captains. Decatur crowded on all sail, fearing that the Algerine frigate might escape him in the night or seek refuge in some friendly harbor, and the American squadron raced along at top speed, just as the Barbary pirates had earlier chased after the little brig Edwin, of Salem.

Soon the Constellation, which was to the south of the fleet and so nearest to the Moorish frigate, opened fire and sent several shots on board the enemy. The latter immediately came about, and headed northeast, as if making for the port of Carthagena. The Americans also tacked, and gained by this manœuvre, the sloop Ontario cutting across the Moor's course, and the Guerrière being brought close enough for musketry fire.

As the flag-ship came to close quarters the Moors opened fire, wounding several men, but Decatur waited until his ship cleared the enemy's yard-arms, when he ordered a broadside. The crew of the Algerine frigate, which was the Mashuda, were mowed down by this heavy fire. Reis Hammida himself had already been wounded by one of the first shots from the Constellation. He had, however, insisted on continuing to give orders from a couch on the quarter-deck, but a shot from the first broadside killed him. The Guerrière's gun crews loaded and fired again before the first smoke had cleared; at this second broadside one of her largest guns exploded, killing three men, wounding seventeen, and splintering the spar-deck.

The Moors made no sign of surrender, but Decatur, seeing that there were too few left to fight, and not wishing to pour another broadside into them, sailed past, and took a position just out of range. The Algerines immediately tried to run before him. In doing this the big Mashuda was brought directly against the little eighteen-gun American brig Epervier, commanded by John Downes. Instead of sailing away Downes placed his brig under the Moor's cabin ports, and by backing and filling escaped colliding with the frigate while he fired his small broadsides at her. This running fire, lasting for twenty-five minutes, finished the Moor's resistance, and the frigate surrendered.

The flag-ship, the Guerrière, now took charge of the Algerine prize, and Decatur sent an officer, two midshipmen, and a crew on board her. The Mashuda was a sorry sight, many of her men killed or wounded, and her decks splintered by the American broadsides. The prisoners were transferred to the other ships, and orders were given to the prize-crew to take the captured frigate to the port of Carthagena, under escort of the Macedonian.

Before this was done, however, Decatur signaled all the officers to meet on his flag-ship. In the cabin they found a table covered with captured Moorish weapons,—daggers, pistols, scimitars, and yataghans. Decatur turned to Commandant Downes, who had handled the small Epervier so skilfully. "As you were fortunate in obtaining a favorable position and maintained it so handsomely, you shall have the first choice of these weapons," he said. Downes chose, and then each of the other officers selected a trophy of the victory. That evening the squadron, leaving the Mashuda in charge of the Macedonian, resumed its hunt for other ships belonging to the navy of the piratical Dey.

The fleet was arriving off Cape Palos on June 19th when a brig was seen, looking suspiciously like an Algerine craft. When the Americans set sail toward her, the stranger ran away. Soon she came to shoal water, and the frigates had to leave the chase to the light-draught Epervier, Spark, Torch, and Spitfire. These followed and opened fire. The strange brig returned several shots, and was then run aground by her crew on the coast between the watch-towers of Estacio and Albufera, which had been built long before for the purpose of protecting fishermen and peasants from the raids of pirates. The strangers took to their small boats. One of these was sunk by a shot. The Americans then boarded the ship, which was the Algerine twenty-two-gun brig Estedio, and captured eighty-three prisoners. The brig was floated off the shoals and sent with a prize-crew into the Spanish port of Carthagena.

Decatur, being unable to sight any more ships that looked like Moorish craft, and supposing that the rest of the pirate fleet would probably be making for Algiers, gave commands to his squadron to sail for that port. He was determined to bring the Dey to terms as quickly as possible, and to destroy his fleet, or bombard the city, if that was necessary. When he arrived off the Moorish town, however, he found none of the fleet there, and no apparent preparation for war in the harbor. The next morning he ran up the Swedish flag at the mainmast, and a white flag at the foremast, a signal asking the Swedish consul to come on board the flag-ship. Mr. Norderling, the consul, came out to the Guerrière, accompanied by the Algerine captain of the port. After some conversation Decatur asked the latter for news of the Dey's fleet. "By this time it is safe in some neutral port," was the assured answer.

"Not all of it," said Decatur, "for we have captured the Mashuda and the Estedio."

The Algerine could not believe this, and told the American so. Then Decatur sent for a wounded lieutenant of the Mashuda, who was on his ship, and bade him confirm the statement. The Moorish officer of the port immediately changed his tactics, dropped his haughty attitude, and gave Decatur to understand that he thought the Dey would be willing to make a new treaty of peace with the United States.

Decatur handed the Moor a letter from the President to the Dey, which stated that the Republic would only agree to peace provided Algiers would give up her claim to tribute and would cease molesting American merchantmen.

The Moor wanted to gain as much time as possible, hoping his fleet would arrive, and said that it was the custom to discuss all treaties in the palace on shore. Decatur understood the slow and crafty methods of these people, and answered that the treaty should be drawn up and signed on board the Guerrière or not at all. Seeing that there was no use in arguing with the American the Moorish officer went ashore to consult with the Dey.

Next day, June 30th, the captain of the port returned, with power to act for his Highness Omar Pasha. Decatur told him that he meant to put an end to these piratical attacks on Americans, and insisted that all his countrymen who were being held as slaves in Algiers should be given up, that the value of goods taken from them should be paid them, that the Dey should give the owners of the brig Edwin of Salem ten thousand dollars, that all Christians who escaped from Algiers to American ships should be free, and that the two nations should act toward each other exactly as other civilized countries did. Then the Moorish officer began to explain and argue. He said that it was not the present ruling Dey, Omar Pasha, called "Omar the Terrible" because of his great courage, who had attacked American ships; it was Hadji Ali, who was called the "Tiger" because of his cruelty, but he had been assassinated in March, and his prime minister, who succeeded him, had been killed the following month, and Omar Pasha was a friend of the United States. Decatur replied that his terms for peace could not be altered.

The Moor then asked for a truce while he should go ashore and confer with the Dey. Decatur said he would grant no truce. The Algerine besought him to make no attack for three hours. "Not a minute!" answered Decatur. "If your squadron appears before the treaty is actually signed by the Dey, and before the American prisoners are sent aboard, I will capture it!"

The Moorish captain said he would hurry at once to the Dey, and added that if the Americans should see his boat heading out to the Guerrière with a white flag in the bow they would know that Omar Pasha had agreed to Decatur's terms.

An hour later the Americans sighted an Algerine war-ship coming from the east. Decatur signaled his fleet to clear for action, and gave orders to his own men on the Guerrière. The fleet had hardly weighed anchor, however, before the small boat of the port captain was seen dashing out from shore, a white flag in the bow. The excited Moor waved to the crew of the flag-ship. As soon as the boat was near enough Decatur asked if the Dey had signed the treaty, and set the American captives free. The captain assured him of this, and a few minutes later his boat was alongside the flag-ship, and the Americans, who had been seized and held by the pirates, were given over to their countrymen. Some of them had been slaves for several years, and their delight knew no bounds.

In so short a time did Decatur succeed in bringing the Dey to better terms than he had made with any other country. When the treaty had been signed the Dey's prime minister said to the English consul, with reproach in his voice, "You told us that the Americans would be swept from the seas in six months by your navy, and now they make war upon us with some of your own vessels which they have taken." As a fact three of the ships in Decatur's squadron had actually been won from the English in the War of 1812.

The Epervier, commanded by Lieutenant John Templer Shubrick, was now ordered to return to the United States, with some of the Americans rescued from Algiers. The fate of the brig is one of the mysteries of the sea. She sailed through the Straits of Gibraltar July 12, 1815, and was never heard of again. She is supposed to have been lost in a heavy storm in which a number of English merchantmen foundered near the West Indies.

Algiers had now been brought to her knees by Decatur, and he was free to turn to Tunis and Tripoli. The rulers of each of these countries had been misled by the English agents exactly as had the Dey of Algiers, and the Bey of Tunis had allowed the British cruiser Lyra to recapture some English prizes that the American privateer Abellino had taken into harbor during the War of 1812. Like Algiers, both Tunis and Tripoli were well protected by fleets and imposing forts. Decatur, however, had now learned that downright and prompt measures were the ones most successful in dealing with the Moors, who were used to long delays and arguments. He anchored off Tunis on July 26th, and immediately sent word to the Bey that the latter must pay the United States forty-six thousand dollars for allowing the English Lyra to seize the American prizes, and that the money must be paid within twelve hours.

The United States consul, Mordecai M. Noah, carried Decatur's message to the Bey. The Moorish ruler was seated on a pile of cushions at a window of his palace, combing his long, flowing black beard with a tortoise-shell comb set with diamonds. Mr. Noah politely stated Decatur's terms.

"Tell your admiral to come and see me," said the Bey.

"He declines coming, your Highness," answered the consul, "until these disputes are settled, which are best done on board the ship."

The Bey frowned. "But this is not treating me with becoming dignity. Hammuda Pasha, of blessed memory, commanded them to land and wait at the palace until he was pleased to receive them."

"Very likely, your Highness," said Mr. Noah, "but that was twenty years ago."

The Bey considered. "I know this admiral," he remarked at length; "he is the same one who, in the war with Sidi Yusuf, burned the frigate." He referred to Decatur's burning the Philadelphia in the earlier warfare.

The consul nodded. "The same."

"Hum!" said the Bey. "Why do they send wild young men to treat for peace with old powers? Then, you Americans do not speak the truth. You went to war with England, a nation with a great fleet, and said you took her frigates in equal fight. Honest people always speak the truth."

"Well, sir, and that was true. Do you see that tall ship in the bay flying a blue flag?" The consul pointed through the window. "It is the Guerrière, taken from the British. That one near the small island, the Macedonian, was also captured by Decatur on equal terms. The sloop near Cape Carthage, the Peacock, was also taken in battle."

The Bey, looking through his telescope, saw a small vessel leave the American fleet and approach the forts. A man appeared to be taking soundings. The Bey laid down the telescope. "I will accept the admiral's terms," said he, and resumed the combing of his beard.

Later he received Decatur with a great show of respect. The American consul was also honored, but the British was not treated so well. When a brother of the prime minister paid the money over to Decatur the Moor turned to the Englishman, and said, "You see, sir, what Tunis is obliged to pay for your insolence. You should feel ashamed of the disgrace you have brought upon us. I ask you if you think it just, first to violate our neutrality and then to leave us to be destroyed or pay for your aggressions?"

Having settled matters with Tunis, Decatur sailed for Tripoli, and there sent his demands to the Pasha. He asked thirty thousand dollars in payment for two American prizes of war that had been recaptured by the British cruiser Paulina, a salute of thirty-one guns to be fired from the Pasha's palace in honor of the United States flag, and that the treaty of peace be signed on board the Guerrière.

The Pasha pretended to be offended, summoned his twenty thousand Arab soldiers and manned his cannon; but when he heard how Algiers and Tunis had already made peace with Decatur, and saw that the Americans were all prepared for battle, he changed his tactics and sent the governor of Tripoli to the flag-ship to treat for peace. The American consul told Decatur that twenty-five thousand dollars would make good the lost prize-ships, but that the Pasha was holding ten Christians as slaves in Tripoli. Decatur thereupon reduced the amount of his claim on condition that the slaves should be released. This was agreed to. The prisoners, two of whom were Danes, and the others Sicilians, were sent to the flag-ship, and by way of compliment the band of the Guerrière went ashore and played American airs to the delight of the people.

The American captain now ordered the rest of his squadron to sail to Gibraltar, while the Guerrière landed the prisoners at Sicily. As the flag-ship came down the coast from Carthagena she met that part of the Algerine fleet that had put into Malta when the Americans first arrived in the Mediterranean. The Guerrière was alone, and Decatur thought that the Moors, finding him at such a disadvantage, might break their treaty of peace, and attack him. He called his men to the quarter-deck. "My lads," said he, "those fellows are approaching us in a threatening manner. We have whipped them into a treaty, and if the treaty is to be broken let them break it. Be careful of yourselves. Let any man fire without orders at the peril of his life. But let them fire first if they will, and we'll take the whole of them!"

The decks were cleared, and every man stood ready for action. The fleet of seven Algerine ships sailed close to the single American frigate in line of battle. The crews looked across the bulwarks at each other, but not a word was said until the last Algerine ship was opposite. "Where are you going?" demanded the Moorish admiral.

"Wherever it pleases me," answered Decatur; and the Guerrière sailed on her course.

Early in October there was a great gathering of American ships at Gibraltar. Captain Bainbridge's fleet, which included the seventy-four-gun ship of the line Independence, was there when Decatur arrived. The war between the United States and England was only recently ended, and the presence of so many ships of the young Republic at the English Rock of Gibraltar caused much talk among the Spaniards and other foreigners. The sight of ships which had been English, but which were now American, added to the awkward situation, and more than one duel was fought on the Rock as the result of disputes over the War of 1812.

The Dey of Algiers, left to his own advisers and to the whispers of men who were jealous of the United States' success, began to wish he had not agreed to the treaty he had made with Decatur. His own people told him that a true son of the Prophet should never have humbled himself before the Christian dogs. In addition the English government agreed to pay him nearly four hundred thousand dollars to ransom twelve thousand prisoners of Naples and Sardinia that he was holding. Before everything else the Dey was greedy. Therefore when Captain Oliver Hazard Perry, the hero of the battle of Lake Erie, brought out in the Java a copy of the treaty after it had been ratified by the United States Senate, and it was presented to the Dey by the American consul, William Shaler, the ruler of Algiers pretended that the United States had changed the treaty, and complained of the way in which Decatur had dealt with the Algerine ships. Next day he refused to meet Mr. Shaler again, and sent the treaty back to him, saying that the Americans were unworthy of his confidence. Mr. Shaler hauled down the flag at his consulate, and boarded the Java.

Fortunately there were five American ships near Algiers; and these were made ready to open fire on the Moorish vessels in the harbor. Plans were also made for a night attack. The small boats of the fleet were divided into two squadrons, to be filled by twelve hundred volunteer sailors. One division was to make for the water battery and try to spike its guns, while the other was to attack the batteries on shore. Scaling-ladders were ready, and the men were provided with boarding-spikes; but shortly before they were to embark the captain of a French ship in the harbor got word of the plan and carried the information to the Dey. The latter was well frightened, and immediately sent word that he would do whatever his good friends from America wanted. The next day Mr. Shaler landed again, and the Dey signed the treaty.

The fleet then called a second time on the Bey of Tunis, who had been grumbling about his dissatisfaction with Decatur's treatment. He too, however, was most friendly when American war-ships poked their noses toward his palace. After that the Barbary pirates let American merchantmen trade in peace, although an American squadron of four ships was kept in the Mediterranean to see that the Dey, and the Bey, and the Pasha did not forget, and go back to their old tricks.

So it was that Decatur put an end to the African pirates, so far as the United States was concerned, and taught them that sailors of the young Republic, far away though it was, were not to be made slaves by greedy Moorish rulers.

[V]
THE FATE OF LOVEJOY'S PRINTING-PRESS

Ever since the thirteen colonies that lay along the Atlantic coast had become a nation ambitious men had heard the call, "Go West, young man, go West!" There was plenty of fertile land in the country beyond the Alleghany Mountains, and it was free to any who would settle on it. Adventure beckoned men to come and help in founding new states, and many, who thought the villages of New England already overcrowded, betook themselves to the inviting West. One such youth was Elijah Parrish Lovejoy, who came from the little town of Albion, in Maine, and who, after graduating at Waterville College, had become a school-teacher. This did not satisfy him; he wanted to see more of the world than lay in the village of his birth, and when he was twenty-five years old, in May, 1827, he set out westward.

The young man was a true son of the Puritans, brought up to believe in many ideas that were already often in conflict with the views of men of the South and West. He reached the small city of St. Louis, in the pioneer country of Missouri, and there he found a chance to teach school. He wrote for several newspapers that were being started, and in the course of the next year edited a political paper that was urging the election of Henry Clay as President. His interest in politics grew, and he might have sought some public office himself had he not suddenly become convinced that he was meant to be a minister, and determined to prepare for that work at Princeton Seminary. When he returned to St. Louis in 1833 his friends helped him to found a weekly religious paper called the St. Louis Observer.

The editor found time from his newspaper work to ride into the country and preach at the small churches that were springing up at every crossroads. Missouri was more southern than northern, and he saw much of slave-owning people. It was not long before he decided that negro slavery was wrong, and that the only way to right the wrong was to do away with it altogether. He began to attack slavery in his newspaper and in his sermons, and soon slavery men in that part of Missouri came to consider him as one of their most bitter foes.

Lovejoy had married, and expected to make St. Louis his permanent home. But neither all the men who were interested in the Observer, nor all the members of his church, approved of his arguments against slaveholding, and when he was away at a religious meeting the proprietors of his paper issued a statement promising that the editor would deal more gently with the question of slavery in the future. When Lovejoy returned and read this statement he was indignant; he was not a man to fear public opinion, and he attacked his enemies more ardently than ever.

The law of the land permitted slavery, and many of the chief citizens in the frontier country approved of it. They hated the Abolitionists, as those who wanted to do away with slavery were called. When men were suspected of having helped to free slaves, or of sheltering runaway negroes, they were taken into the country and given two hundred lashes with a whip as a lesson. Sometimes Abolitionists were tarred and feathered and ridden out of town; often their houses were burned and their property destroyed. Lovejoy knew that he might have to face all this, but the spirit of the Puritan stock from which he sprang would not let him turn from his course.

He went on printing articles against the evils of slavery, he denounced the right of a white man to separate colored husbands and wives, parents and children, brothers and sisters, or to send his slaves to the market to be sold to the highest bidder, or to whip or ill-use them as if they had no feelings.

There was danger that the young editor would be mobbed, and the owners of the Observer took the paper out of his charge. Friends, however, who believed in a free press, bought it, and gave it back to him. Waves of public opinion, now for Lovejoy, now against him, swept through St. Louis. By the end of 1835 mobs had attacked Abolitionists in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia, and the news fanned the flames of resentment against them in Missouri.

Lovejoy had good reason to know the danger of his position. One September day he went out to a camp-meeting at the little town of Potosi. He learned that two men had waited half a day in the village, planning to tar and feather him when he arrived, but he was late, and they had left. When he returned to St. Louis he found that handbills had been distributed through the city, calling on the people to tear down the office of the Observer. A newspaper named the Missouri Argus urged patriotic men to mob the New England editor. Crowds, gathered on street corners, turned dark, lowering looks upon him as he passed, and every mail brought him threatening letters. He would not, however, stop either writing or preaching against slavery.

His work constantly called him on journeys to small towns, sometimes several days' ride from his home. Late in 1835 he was at a meeting in Marion when reports came that St. Louis was in an uproar, that men who opposed slavery were being whipped in the streets, and that no one suspected of being an Abolitionist would be allowed to stay there. Lovejoy had left his wife ill in bed. He started to ride back, a friend going some seventy miles with him, half of the journey. The friend urged him not to stay in St. Louis, pointing out that his young and delicate wife would have to suffer as well as he. Travelers they met all warned him that he would not be safe in the city. He rode on to St. Charles, where he had left his wife. He talked with her, and she told him to go on to his newspaper office if he thought duty called him there.

St. Louis was all excitement and alarm. The newspapers had attacked the Observer so bitterly that the owners had stopped printing it. A mob had planned to wreck the office, but had postponed the task for a few days. Men went to Lovejoy and told him he would not be safe in the streets by day or night. Even the men of his church would not stand by him, and a religious paper declared "that they would soon free the church of the rotten sheep in it," by which they meant Elijah Lovejoy and others who opposed slavery.

This Yankee, however, like many others who had gone to that border country in the days when bitterness ran high, had a heroic sense of duty. He wrote and printed a letter to the people, stating that men had no right to own their brothers, no matter what the law might say. The letter caused more excitement than ever.

The owners of the Observer went to Lovejoy and requested him to retire as its editor. For two days it was a question what the angry mobs would do to him. Then a little better feeling set in. Men came to him, and told him that he must go on printing his paper or there would be no voice of freedom in all that part of the country. A friend bought the newspaper from its owners, and urged Lovejoy to write as boldly as before. This friend, however, suggested that he should move the newspaper across the state line to Alton, Illinois, where feeling was not so intense. Lovejoy agreed, and set out for Alton; but while he was preparing to issue the paper there the same friend and others wrote him that his pen was so much needed in St. Louis that he must come back. He did so, and the Observer continued its existence in St. Louis until June, 1836.

There was so much strife and ill feeling, however, in Missouri that the editor decided his newspaper would be better supported, and would exert more influence, in Illinois. Accordingly he arranged to move his printing-press to the town of Alton in July. Just before he left St. Louis he published severe criticisms of a judge of that city who had sided with slave-owners, and these articles roused even greater resentment among the rabble who hated Lovejoy's freedom of speech.

If some of the people of Alton were glad to have this fearless editor come to their town, many were not. Slavery was too sore a subject for them to wish it talked about publicly. Many people all through that part of the country looked upon an Abolitionist as a man who delighted in stirring up ill feeling. Lovejoy sent his printing-press to Alton by steamboat, and it was delivered at the wharf on a Sunday morning, about daybreak. The steamboat company had agreed to land the press on Monday, and Lovejoy refused to move it from the dock on the Sabbath. Early Monday morning five or six men went down to the river bank and destroyed the printing-press.

This was the young editor's welcome by the lawless element, but next day the better class of citizens, thoroughly ashamed of the outrage, met and pledged themselves to repay Lovejoy for the loss of his press. These people denounced the act of the mob, but at the same time they expressed their disapproval of Abolitionists. They wanted order and quiet, and hoped that Lovejoy would not stir up more trouble.

The editor bought a new press and issued his first paper in Alton on September 8, 1836. Many people subscribed to it, and it appeared regularly until the following August. Lovejoy, however, would speak his mind, and again and again declared that he was absolutely opposed to slavery, and that the evil custom must come to an end. This led to murmurs from the slavery party, and slanders were spread concerning the editor's character. All freedom-loving men had to weather such storms in those days, and Lovejoy, like a great many others, stuck to his principles at a heavy cost.

The murmurs and slanders grew. On July 8, 1837, posters announced that a meeting would be held at the Market House to protest against the articles in the Alton Observer. The meeting condemned Lovejoy's writings and speeches, and voted that Abolitionism must be suppressed in the town. This was the early thunder that heralded the approach of a gathering storm.

The Yankee editor showed no intention of giving up his stand against slavery, but preached and wrote against it at every opportunity. As a result threats of destroying the press of the Observer were heard on the streets of Alton, and newspapers in neighboring cities encouraged ill feeling against the editor. The Missouri Republic, a paper printed in St. Louis, tried to convince the people of Alton that it was a public danger to have such men as Lovejoy in their midst, and condemned the Anti-Slavery Societies that were being formed in that part of the country. Two attempts were made to break into his printing-office during the early part of the summer, but each time the attackers were driven off by Lovejoy's friends.

The editor went to a friend's house to perform a marriage ceremony on the evening of August 21, 1837. His wife and little boy were ill at home, and on his return he stopped at an apothecary's to get some medicine for them. His house was about a half mile out of town. As he left the main street he met a crowd of men and boys. They did not recognize him at once, and he hurried past them; but soon some began to suspect who he was, and shouted his name to the rest. Those in the rear urged the leaders to attack him, but those in front held back; some began to throw sticks and stones at him, and one, armed with a club, pushed up to him, denouncing him for being an Abolitionist. At last a number linked arms and pushed past him, and then turning about in the road stopped him. There were cries of "Tar and feather him," "Ride him on a rail," and other threats. Lovejoy told them they might do as they pleased with him, but he had a request to make; his wife was ill, and he wanted some one to take the medicine to her without alarming her. One of the men volunteered to do this. Then the editor, standing at bay, argued with them. "You had better let me go home," he said; "you have no right to detain me; I have never injured you." There was more denouncing, jostling and shoving, but the leaders, after a short talk, allowed Lovejoy to go on toward his house.

Meantime, however, another band had gone to the newspaper office between ten and eleven o'clock, and, seeing by the lights in the building that men were still at work there, had begun to throw stones at the windows. A crowd gathered to watch the attack. The mayor and some of the leading citizens hurried to the building, and argued with the ringleaders. A prominent merchant told them that if they would wait until the next morning he would break into the newspaper office with them, and help them take out the press and the other articles, stow them on a boat, put the editor on top, and send them all down the Mississippi River together. But the crowd did not want to wait. The stones began to strike some of Lovejoy's assistants inside the building, and they ran out by a rear door. As soon as the office was empty the leaders rushed in and broke the printing-press, type, and everything else in the building. Next morning the slavery men in Alton said that the Abolitionist had been silenced for the time, at least. They looked upon Lovejoy, and men of his kind, as a thorn in the flesh of their peaceful community.

There were still a small number of "freedom-loving" people in Alton, however, and these stood back of Elijah Lovejoy. Although two printing-presses had now been destroyed, these men called a meeting and decided that the Observer must continue to be printed. Money was promised, and the editor prepared to set up his press for the third time. He issued a short note to the public, in which he said: "I now appeal to you, and all the friends of law and order, to come to the rescue. If you will sustain me, by the help of God, the press shall be again established at this place, and shall be sustained, come what will. Let the experiment be fairly tried, whether the liberty of speech and of the press is to be enjoyed in Illinois or not." The money was raised, and the dauntless spokesman for freedom sent to Cincinnati for supplies for his new office.

That autumn enemies scattered pamphlets accusing Lovejoy and other Abolitionists of various crimes against the country. Although few people believed them, the circulars increased the hostile feelings, and disturbed many of the editor's friends. Some of the latter began to doubt whether the Observer ought to continue its stirring articles. Some thought it should be only a religious paper. But Lovejoy answered that he felt it was his duty to speak out in protest against the great evil of slavery. He finally offered to resign, if the supporters of the paper thought it best for him to do so. They could not come to any decision, and so let him continue his course.

The third printing-press arrived at Alton on September 21st, while Lovejoy was away attending a church meeting. The press was landed from the steamboat a little after sunset, and was protected by a number of friends of the Observer. It was carted to a large warehouse to be stored. As it passed through the street some men cried, "There goes the Abolition press; stop it, stop it!" but no one tried to injure it. The mayor of Alton declared that the press should be protected, and placed a constable at the door of the warehouse, with orders to remain till a certain hour. As soon as this man left, ten or twelve others, with handkerchiefs tied over their faces as disguise, broke into the warehouse, rolled the press across the street to the river, broke it into pieces, and threw it into the Mississippi. The mayor arrived and protested, but the men paid no attention to him.

Lovejoy's business had called him to the town of St. Charles, near St. Louis, and he preached there while his third press was being attacked. After his sermon in the evening he was sitting chatting with a clergyman and another friend when a young man came in, and slipped a note into his hand. The note read:

"Mr. Lovejoy:

"Be watchful as you come from church to-night.

A Friend."

Lovejoy showed the note to the two other men, and the clergyman invited him to stay at his house. The editor declined, however, and walked to his mother-in-law's residence with his two friends. No one stopped them, and when they came to the house Lovejoy and the clergyman went in, and sat down to chat in a room on the second floor. About ten o'clock they heard a knock on the door at the foot of the stairs. Mrs. Lovejoy's mother went to the door, and asked what was wanted. Voices answered, "We want to see Mr. Lovejoy; is he in?" The editor called down, "Yes, I am here." As soon as the door was opened, two men rushed up-stairs, and into the sitting-room. They ordered Lovejoy to go down-stairs, and when he resisted, struck him with their fists. Mrs. Lovejoy heard the noise, and came running from her room. A crowd now filled the hall, and she had to fight her way through them. Several men tried to drag the editor out of the house, but his wife clung to him, and aided by her mother and sister finally persuaded the assailants to leave.

Exhausted by the struggle, Mrs. Lovejoy fainted. While her husband was trying to help her, the mob came back, and, paying no attention to the sick woman, insisted that they were going to ride Lovejoy out of town. By this time a few respectable citizens had heard the noise, and came to his aid. A second time the rabble was driven away; but they stayed in the yard, and made the night hideous with their threats to the Abolitionist. Presently some of the men went up to Lovejoy's room the third time, and one of them gave him a note, which demanded that he leave St. Charles by ten o'clock the next morning. Lovejoy's friends begged him to send out an answer promising that he would leave. Although he at first declined to do this, he finally yielded to their urging. He wrote, "I have already taken my passage in the stage, to leave to-morrow morning, at least by nine o'clock." This note was carried out to the crowd on the lawn, and read to them. His friends thought the mob would scatter after that, and they did for a time; but after listening to violent speeches returned again. The noise was now so threatening that Lovejoy's friends begged him to fly from the house. His wife added her pleadings to theirs, and at last he stole out unnoticed by a door at the rear. He hated to leave his wife in such a dangerous situation, however, and so, after waiting a short time, he went back. His friends reproached him for returning, and their reproaches were justified, for, like hounds scenting the fox, the mob menaced the house more noisily than ever. Lovejoy saw that he must leave again in order to protect his wife and friends. This he succeeded in doing, and walked about a mile to the residence of a Major Sibley. This friend lent him a horse, and he rode out of town to the house of another friend four miles away. Next day Mrs. Lovejoy joined him, and they went on together to Alton.

One of the very first people they met in Alton was a man from St Charles who had been among those who had broken into their house the night before. Mrs. Lovejoy was alarmed at seeing him in Illinois, because the mob in St. Charles had declared that they were going to drive Lovejoy out of that part of the country. In order to quiet her fears her husband asked some friends to come to his house, and ten men, well armed, spent the next night guarding it, while he himself kept a loaded musket at his side. The storm-clouds were gathering about his devoted head.

Even the leading citizens of this Illinois town now felt that it was Lovejoy's own fault if his newspaper was attacked. They hated mobs, but most of them hated Abolitionists even more. If he would stop attacking slavery, the crowds would stop attacking him. It was evident that the lawless element did not intend to let him continue to print his newspaper, and it was almost as clear that the mayor and authorities were not going to protect him. Three times now his press had been destroyed.

This son of the Puritans was not to be driven from his purpose by threats or blows, but he was forced to see that it was a great waste of money to have one press after another thrown into the Mississippi River. His friends in the town of Quincy urged him to set up his press there, and he felt much inclined to do so. He decided to wait, however, until the next meeting of the Presbyterian Synod, when he would learn whether the men of his church sided with him or not. This meeting ended in discussion, breaking up along the old lines of those who were friends and those who were enemies of slavery. Some of the members had already joined Anti-Slavery Societies, while others, although they were opposed to mob-violence, did not approve of the newspaper's attack on slaveholding citizens. In a stirring speech Lovejoy said that they were to decide whether the press should be free in that part of the United States. He ended with an appeal for justice. "I have no personal fears," he declared. "Not that I feel able to contest the matter with the whole community. I know perfectly well I am not. I know, sir, that you can tar and feather me, hang me up, or put me into the Mississippi, without the least difficulty. But what then? Where shall I go? I have been made to feel that if I am not safe at Alton, I shall not be safe anywhere. I recently visited St. Charles to bring home my family, and was torn from their frantic embrace by a mob. I have been beset night and day at Alton. And now if I leave here and go elsewhere, violence may overtake me in my retreat, and I have no more claim upon the protection of any other community than I have upon this; and I have concluded, after consultation with my friends, and earnestly seeking counsel of God, to remain at Alton, and here to insist on protection in the exercise of my rights."

This speech made a great impression upon its hearers. The words were those of a man who had thought long upon his subject, and had made up his mind as to what he should do. He expressed no enmity toward the men who had treated him so ill, and he did not complain of the members of his own church who were lukewarm in their support. A man who was present said that Lovejoy's speech reminded him of the words of St. Paul when brought before Festus, or of Martin Luther speaking to the council at Worms.

Having decided to stay, Lovejoy ordered his fourth printing-press. This was due to arrive early in November, and as the time drew near there was no little excitement and anxiety among the friends of peace in the town. Whenever the puff of a steamboat was heard men hurried to the banks of the Mississippi. Some meant to defend the press from attack; others meant to hurl it into the river as they had already done with its predecessors. The press had an eventful journey. The first plan was to land it at a place called Chippewa, about five miles down the river, and then carry it secretly into Alton. But the roads grew bad, and this plan was abandoned. The press reached St. Louis on Sunday night, November 5th, and it was arranged that the steamer should land it at Alton about three o'clock Tuesday morning. As soon as this was known, Lovejoy and his friend Gilman went to the mayor and told him of the threat that had been made to destroy the press, asking him to appoint special constables to protect it. The town council voted that Lovejoy and his friends be requested not to persist in setting up an Abolition press in Alton, but the mayor refused to sign this request.

Monday night forty or fifty citizens, intent on seeing that the press was protected, gathered at the warehouse of Godfrey, Gilman and Company where the press was to be stored. Some thirty of them formed a volunteer company, with one of the city constables in command. They were armed with rifles and muskets loaded with buckshot or small balls. The editor of the Observer was not there. Only a night or two before his house had been attacked, and his sister had narrowly escaped serious injury. So he arranged with a brother, who was staying with him, to take turns standing guard at his house and at the office.

At three o'clock the steamboat arrived at the dock. Lovejoy's enemies had stationed sentinels along the river, and as the boat passed they gave the alarm by blowing horns, so that when the dock was reached a large crowd had gathered. Some one called the mayor, and he came down to the warehouse. He begged the volunteer company to keep quiet, and said he himself would see to the safe storing of the press. No serious trouble followed. The crowd watched the stevedores carry the press to the warehouse, but did not attack it, except to throw a few stones. It was stood in the garret of the stone warehouse, safe from the enemy.

On Tuesday every one knew that the "Abolition press" had arrived, and Tuesday night the same volunteers went down to the warehouse again. Everything was quiet, and by nine o'clock all but about a dozen left the place. Lovejoy stayed by the press, it being his brother's turn to guard his house. The warehouse stood high above the river, apart from other buildings, with considerable open space on the sides to the river and to the north.

About ten o'clock that night loafers and stragglers began to come from saloons and restaurants, and gather in the streets that led to the warehouse. Some thirty, armed with muskets, pistols, and stones, marched to the door, and demanded admittance. Mr. Gilman, one of the owners of the warehouse, standing at the garret door, asked what they wanted. The leader answered, "The press." Mr. Gilman said that he would not give up the press. "We have no ill feelings toward any of you," he added, "and should regret to harm you; but we are authorized by the mayor to defend our property, and shall do so with our lives." The mob leader answered that they meant to have the press at any cost, and leveled a pistol at Mr. Gilman, who drew back from the door. The crowd began to throw stones, and broke a number of windows. Then they fired through the windows. The men inside returned the shots. One or two of the mob were wounded; and this checked them for a time. Soon, however, others came with ladders, and materials for setting fire to the roof of the building. They kept on the side of the warehouse where there were no windows, and where they could not be driven away by the defenders. It was a moonlight night, and the small company inside the building did not dare go out into the open space in front. At this point the mayor appeared and carried a flag of truce through the mob to Lovejoy's friends, asking that the press be given up, and the men in the warehouse depart peacefully without other property being destroyed. He told them that unless they surrendered the mob would set fire to the warehouse. They answered that they had gathered to defend their property, and intended to do it. He admitted that they had a perfect right to do this, and went back to report the result of his mission to the leaders. Outside a shout went up, "Fire the building, drive out the Abolitionists, burn them out!" A great crowd had gathered, but there were no officers of the law ready to defend the press.

Ladders were placed against the building, and the roof was set on fire. Five men volunteered to go out and try to prevent the firing. They left the building by the riverside, fired at the men on the ladder, and drove them away. The crowd drew back, while the five returned to the store. The mob did not venture to put up their ladder again, and presently Lovejoy and two or three others opened a door and looked out. There appeared to be no one on this side, and Lovejoy stepped forward to reconnoiter. Some of his enemies, however, were hidden behind a pile of lumber, and one of them fired a double-barreled gun. The editor was hit by five balls. He turned around, ran up a flight of stairs in the warehouse, and into the counting-room. There he fell, dying a few minutes later.

With their leader killed some of the company wanted to give up the battle, while others insisted on fighting it out. They finally resolved to yield. A clergyman went to one of the upper windows and called out that Elijah Lovejoy had been killed and that they would give up the press if they might be allowed to go unmolested. The crowd answered that they would shoot them all where they were. One of the defenders determined to go out at any risk and make terms. As soon as he opened the door, he was fired upon and wounded. The roof was now blazing, and one of their friends reached a door and begged them to escape by the rear. All but two or three laid down their arms, running out at the southern door, and fled down the bank of the river. The mob fired at them, but only one was wounded. The crowd rushed into the warehouse, threw the press out the window, breaking it into pieces, and scattered the pieces in the Mississippi. At two o'clock they had disappeared, having accomplished their evil purpose of preventing a "free press" in Alton.

Elijah Lovejoy was only thirty-five years old when he met his martyr's death. His life in Missouri and Illinois had been one constant fight against slavery, and for liberty of speech. His Puritan ancestry made it impossible for him to give up the battle he knew to be right. The story of his heroic struggle and death aroused lovers of liberty all over the country, and newspapers everywhere denounced the acts of the mob at Alton. Such acts meant that men could not speak their minds on public questions, and a "free press" had been one of the dearest rights of American citizens. Men in the North at that time had by no means agreed that slavery must be abolished, but they did all believe in the freedom of the press. For that cause Lovejoy had been a martyr.

More than two decades were to pass before the question of slavery was to be settled forever, and in the years between 1837 and 1860 many men of the same stock and stripe as Elijah Lovejoy were to give up their lives in heroic defense of their belief in freedom. He was one of the first of a long line of heroes. His voice sounded a call that was to echo through the border states for years to come, inspiring others to take up his cause. A freedom-loving country should place among its noblest sons this dauntless editor and preacher.

[VI]
HOW MARCUS WHITMAN SAVED OREGON

The Hudson's Bay Company, whose business was to buy skins and furs from the American Indians, had located a trading-post at Fort Walla Walla, in the country of the Cayuse and Nez Percés Indians. This was in what was known as Oregon Territory in 1842, although it is now near the southeast corner of the state of Washington. Here was a very primitive settlement, the frame houses of a few white men and the tents of Indians. Very little effort had been made to grow grain or fruit or to raise sheep or cattle, since the Hudson's Bay Company wanted the Indians to be continually on the hunt for furs, and discouraged them from turning into farmers. Besides the traders and the Indians there was a small missionary camp near at hand, located on a beautiful peninsula made by two branches of the Walla Walla River. This place was called by the Indians Wai-i-lat-pui, meaning the region of rye grass. Beyond the fertile ground on the river's banks were borders of timber-land, and beyond them plains stretching to the foot-hills of the great Blue Mountains. In 1842 this wonderful country was free to any who cared to come and settle there, but as yet very few had ventured so far into the wilderness.

The chief man at the missionary camp, Dr. Marcus Whitman, was called to Fort Walla Walla on the first day of October, 1842, to see a sick man. He found a score or so of traders and Hudson's Bay clerks, almost all Englishmen, gathered there, and accepted their invitation to stay to dinner. The men were a genial company, and had already taken a liking to Whitman, who was frank and amiable, and an interesting story-teller. Gradually the conversation at the dinner table came round to a subject that was vastly important to the men present, although the outside world seemed to be paying little attention to it—to which country was this great territory of Oregon to belong, to the United States or to England? The general opinion appeared to be that under the old treaties it would belong to the country that settled it first.

In the midst of the discussion there was the sound of hoof-beats outside, the door of the company's office was flung open, and an express messenger ran into the dining-room. "I'm just from Fort Colville!" he cried. "A hundred and forty Englishmen and Canadians are on the march to settle here!"

There was instant excitement. A young priest threw his cap in the air, shouting, "Hurrah for Oregon—America's too late; we've got the country!" The traders clapped each other on the shoulder, and made a place for the messenger at the head of the table. As he ate he told them how he had ridden from the post three hundred and fifty miles up the Columbia River to let all the fur-traders know that the English were on the way to colonize the country.

Marcus Whitman smiled, and pretended to enjoy the celebration; but in reality he was already considering whether he could not do something to save this vast and fruitful region for his own nation. It was an enormous tract of land, of untold wealth, and stretching over a long reach of the Pacific coast. As he considered, Whitman heard the Hudson's Bay Company's men grow more and more excited, until they declared that they intended to take possession of all the country west to the Pacific slope the following spring.

The missionary had been expecting this struggle between the English and the Americans for the ownership of Oregon, but had not thought it would come to a head quite so soon. He left the men at Fort Walla Walla as early as he could, and rode back to the little settlement at Wai-i-lat-pui. There he told his wife and friends the news he had learned at the trading-post. "If our country is to have Oregon," he said, "there is not a day to lose."

"But what can we do?" the others asked him.

"I must get to Washington as quick as I can, and let them know the danger."

His friends understood what that meant, a journey on horseback across almost an entire continent, through hostile Indians, over great rivers and mountain ranges, and in the depths of winter. Some one pointed out that under the rules of the American Mission Board that had sent them into the far west none of their number could leave his post without consent from the headquarters in Boston. "Well," said Whitman, "if the Board dismisses me, I will do what I can to save Oregon to the country. My life is of but little worth if I can save this country to the American people."

His wife, a brave, patriotic woman who had shared his hard travels westward without a murmur, agreed with him that he must go. They all insisted, however, that he should have a companion. "Who will go with me?" asked Whitman. In answer a man who had only lately joined the small encampment, Amos L. Lovejoy, immediately volunteered.

Urging upon their friends the need of keeping the plan a secret from the Hudson's Bay Company fur-traders, the two men quickly prepared, and left the camp on October 3d. They had a guide, three pack-mules, and for the start of their journey an escort of a number of Cayuse braves, men of an Indian tribe that was not large, but was wealthy, and that seemed to have taken a liking to Whitman and his friends at the mission settlement.

The leader himself had one fixed idea in his mind, to reach Washington before Congress adjourned. He was convinced that only through his account of the riches of Oregon could the government learn what the country stood in danger of losing.

The little company got a good start, and with fresh horses, riding southeast toward the border of what is now the state of Idaho, they reached Fort Hall in eleven days. Here was stationed Captain Grant, who had always done his best to hinder immigration into Oregon, and had induced many an American settler to go no farther westward. He knew Whitman of old, and six years before had tried to stop his expedition to the Walla Walla River, but Whitman had overcome his arguments, and had taken the first wagon that ever crossed the Rocky Mountains into Oregon. As he had tried to prevent Whitman from going west before, so now he tried to prevent him from going east. He told him that the Blackfeet Indians had suddenly grown hostile to all white men, that the Sioux and Pawnees were at war with each other, and would let no one through their country, and finally that the snow was already twenty feet deep in the passes of the Rockies, and travel through them was altogether out of the question.

This information was far from reassuring, and, backed as it was by Captain Grant's entreaties and almost by his commands, would have deterred many a man from plunging into that winter wilderness. Whitman, however, was a man who could neither be turned aside nor discouraged. His answer to all protests at Fort Hall was to point to the official permit he had carried west with him, ordering all officers to protect and aid him in his travels, and signed by Lewis Cass, Secretary of War, and to declare that he intended to push on east, hostile Indians, mountains, and blizzards notwithstanding. Captain Grant saw that he could not stop Whitman, and, much to his chagrin, had to let him pass the fort.

The route Whitman had plotted out lay first east and then south, in the general direction of the present site of Salt Lake City. His objective points were two small military posts, Fort Uintah and Fort Uncompahgra. As soon as the two men left Fort Hall they ran into terribly cold weather. The deep snow kept them back, and they had to pick any shelter they could find, and crawl slowly on, sometimes taking a day to cover a few miles. At Fort Uintah they procured a guide to the second post, which was on the Grand River, and at the latter point a Mexican agreed to show them the way to Taos, a settlement in what is now the state of New Mexico. So far their southeasterly course had allowed them to skirt the high mountains, but here they had to cross a range, and in the pass ran full into a terrific snow-storm.

It was impossible to go forward in the teeth of that gale, so Whitman, Lovejoy, and their guide looked about for shelter. They found a rocky defile with a mountain shoulder to protect it, and led their horses and pack-mules into this pocket. In this dark, cold place they stayed for ten days, trying each morning to push on through the pass, and being blown back each time. On the eleventh day the wind had abated somewhat, and they tried again. They went a short distance when, coming around a corner, a fresh storm broke full upon them, blinding and freezing the men, and pelting the animals with frozen snow so that they were almost uncontrollable.

The native guide now admitted that he was no longer sure of the way, and refused to go any farther. Clearly the only thing to be done was to return for the eleventh time to the sheltered ravine. But now the snow had drifted across their trail, and none of the three men was at all certain of the road back. Whitman dismounted, and kneeling in the snow, prayed that they might be saved for the work that they had to do.

Meantime the guide resolved to try an old hunting expedient, and turned one of the lead mules loose. The mule was confused at first, and stumbled about, heading one way and then another, but finally started to plunge back through the drifts as if to a certain goal. "There," shouted the guide, "that mule will find the camp if he can live long enough in this storm to reach it." The men urged their horses after the plunging beast, and slipping and sliding and beating their half-frozen mounts, at last came around the mountain shoulder and got in the lee of the ravine. That bit of hunter's knowledge and that mule had much to do with saving the great northwest to the United States.

Once safe in this comparative shelter the guide turned to Dr. Whitman. "I will go no farther," said he; "the way is impassable."