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THE dawn is breaking, day is
The sun is sending forth
Its million rays of light and
To gladden all the earth;
And with each ray a surge of
Like the rushing of the sea,
Is pouring forth the glorious
"God has made His people free!"
Wild echoes thunder from each
And rumble through each rocky
While lake, and stream, and
Fling back with joy the glad
And from each town and crowded
Wherever man may be,
Again peals forth the glorious
"God has made His people free!"
From each Southern vale and
hamlet Tuneful murmurs gently roll,
Then gushes forth in tender
The sweetest music of the soul;
The hearts that beat 'neath dusky
Thrill as the brightening morn
And sing, like sound of rippling
"De Lord hab made His people
Thus the glad sound shall ever
Reverberate from sea to sea,
And every nation, land, and
Shall join the exultant jubilee,
"Glory to God, for He is mighty,
Peace and good-will to man shall
And evermore, while time endureth,
Our God shall keep His people
free!" LOWELL, April, 1862.
WE publish on
page 225 a
portrait of General D. C.
BUELL, who has been created a Major-General of Volunteers for his
brilliant campaign in Kentucky and Tennessee.
General Buell is a native of
Ohio, in which State he was born about the year 1818. He graduated at the
Military Academy at West Point in 1837, and served as Second Lieutenant in the
Third Infantry. He obtained the rank of First Lieutenant in June, 1846, and
accompanied his regiment to Mexico. In September of the same year he was
breveted Captain for gallant and meritorious conduct at Monterey. He accompanied
General Scott's army, and again distinguished
himself at Cerro Gordo, Contreras, and Churubusco; was severely wounded at the
latter fight, and breveted Major for gallantry there. On his return home he was
appointed Assistant Adjutant-General, and served in that capacity in various
parts of the country. On the outbreak of the war Major Buell was active in
organizing the army at Washington. On
General McClellan's appointment to the chief
command he placed General Buell in command of a division, which soon became so
perfect in discipline and drill as to elicit general remark. Soon afterward it
was deemed best to supersede General Sherman in the command of the army in
Kentucky, and General Buell was appointed in his stead. His subsequent career is
fresh in the memory of the public, and the triumphant success of his plans
without the shedding of blood, the expulsion of the enemy from Kentucky, and the
recovery of Tennessee, proclaim him a General of the first ability.
KIT BUTLER FROM BOONVILLE.
SOME ten years ago, when
travelers in Oregon suffered very severely from attacks of Indians, I was one of
a party passing through that wild and unknown State, in my way to California.
After a month's ride from the Willamette Valley, we diverged westward from the
great emigrant trail, and found ourselves camped one evening on the trail to
Crescent City, at its intersection by Deer Creek, an offshoot of the Illinois
River. Our party consisted, besides myself, of two lethargic Germans, a
feeble-minded young artist lately from London, and a stark taciturn hunter from
Missouri. During our long journey I had tried to be companionable with each of
my fellow-travelers in turn, and at last had fallen back on Kit Butler, the
Missourian, with whom I gradually established terms of a smoking, not a speaking
intimacy. On the evening of our encampment on Deer Creek, supper having been
eaten and the horses picketed before setting the guard, each of us betook
himself to his own private relaxation. This was for the German, sleep; for the
artist, self-examination by help of a small glass on a comb-handle; for Kit and
me, the resolving of ourselves into a vigorous smoking committee. When we had
been smoking for some little time, Kit suddenly addressed me: "Mate," he said,
"this boss don't kinder fancy this har camp, he don't."
To my eyes a better
camping-ground could not have been selected. It was pitched on a flat prairie,
where "wood, water, and grass" were each at hand, while, at the same time, there
was no cover for lurking Indians nearer than the creek-a long rifle-shot
distant. But Kit, I observed, had his eye, miles and miles away, on a thin,
spiral column of smoke.
"An Indian camp-fire!" I
"And Rogue River too near," Kit
I understood him. We were camped
not far from the Rogue River, and it was likely enough the fire had been lit by
an outlying party of the Rogue Tribe, who had earned their sobriquet from being
notoriously the most rascally Indians in all Oregon. The night, however, passed
without an alarm. In the morning, the Germans' cattle, already half foundered,
were found to be so badly galled by careless saddling that it was agreed we
should halt for four-and-twenty hours to give the poor brutes a chance of
Kit, who never descended to
argument, made a wry face at this plan, and, catching up his rifle, prepared, as
was his custom, for a hunt. I went with him, and after some hours we got within
range of a herd, and shot for supper a small elk or wapiti deer. On nearing camp
again we saw that our party had been joined by a young Indian lad. Equipped in a
suit of dressed deerskin, with a good deal of Indian finery about him, he stood
in an easy attitude by the camp fire, while our artist sketched him, and the
Germans were looking on lazily. This admission of the Indian into camp was
against all prairie laws, as it has been found that such visitors are invariably
spies, and "trouble" is pretty sure to come of their visits. Kit, therefore,
throwing down the venison, burst angrily into the group:
"I found him by the creek: I only
wanted to draw him," explained the startled artist, dropping his sketching block
"Draw him!" Kit shouted, " I'll
draw a bead on the young spy's carcass if he don't make tracks in less than no
time. Mate!" said the ireful hunter to me, as the frightened red-skin darted
across the plain, "jest fix your shooting-irons right, for we'll have 'trouble'
afore long. This coon knows nought of Injuns, he don't."
Impatient to get away from our
present camp, I was not sorry when the day drew to a close and we began to
prepare supper. While I chopped some wood for the fire Kit cut up the carcass of
the elk we had shot in the morning, and kneaded the flour for bread in the
"prospecting" tin. When I had made up the fire, there was no water for the
coffee. As usual, our companions had been loafing about, aiding little or
nothing in the indispensable camp duties. Somewhat annoyed, I bade one of the
loafers take our tin sauce-pan down to the creek to fill it. Of course there was
a discussion of the lazy as to who should be at the trouble of performing this
slight service. In the end, one of the Germans took the sauce-pan up, and, with
an ungracious expletive, departed on his errand. My fire blazed away brightly.
Kit's cake, propped up before it with a stone, was baking in the usual primitive
prairie fashion, and the venison steaks, cut up into little chunks, threaded on
to a peeled wand, were twirling over the embers. Still the German had not
returned with the water. As, in spite of our hails, be did not emerge from the
hollow of the creek, which had a steep bank considerably higher than a man, his
fellow-countryman was dispatched to see what he was doing. When he in his turn
had disappeared down the bank, I noticed that Kit, who sat on the ground
twirling the spit, let it fall into the fire, and seemed to listen anxiously to
a sound that reached only an ear quick as his. But shortly an awful shout arose.
It was a heart-rending appeal for help, and I should have certainly responded to
it by rushing down to the creek, but that powerful grasp of Kit, who had now
risen from the ground, withheld me. Again, and this time fearfully prolonged,
the cry of a man in his extremity arose, and we saw the second German struggling
desperately from the creek. Even from the distance at which we stood we could
perceive that during the few moments of his absence he had passed through a
terrible ordeal, for his clothes, where not torn completely away, hung in strips
about his person, and exposed the naked flesh, crimson with many slashes,
telling that the cruel and silent knife had been at work on him. For a moment
this ghastly figure extended its arms piteously toward us and uttered another
cry, but fainter than before. It was his last effort. Apparently seized from
behind by an unseen hand, the unfortunate man tottered for a moment, then threw
up his arms, sank back, and disappeared down the creek. Kit was the first of the
witnesses of this shocking tragedy to break silence. "Injuns!" he cried; but his
explanation was superfluous, for as he uttered it a crowd of red-skins jumped
forth from the creek, and charged down upon us with pealing whoops.
"Look to the cattle, or we'll all
be rubbed out, by thunder!" shouted Kit, as we caught up our rifles. His warning
was just in time. No white man's horse can brook the Indian whoop, and all those
of ours that had hitherto been grazing quietly about, with their lareats
dragging, galloped wildly over the prairie in full stampede, and were
irrecoverably lost. Only three horses remained to us. They had luckily a short
time before been hitched up to a tree near at hand. Before these terrified
brutes could break away we had sprung to their heads, and effectually secured
them by doubling their lassos. At first, panic-struck by the appalling sight I
had just witnessed, and the critical position in which we were placed, I
entertained the idea of flinging myself on to the back of one of the horses and
flying for my life, but the hunter restrained me. "Do as I do, mate," he said,
with an admirable coolness that completely reassured me; and in obedience to his
example I took cover behind the horses, and leveled my rifle across their backs
point-blank at the approaching rout of red-skins. These, who were armed chiefly
with bows and arrows, observing our demonstrations, and knowing that we were not
to be taken by surprise, or without a certain loss to themselves—conditions
utterly opposed to all Indian ideas of warfare—gradually faltered in their pace
till they came to a stand-still, and then broke and fled back to the cover of
the creek in great confusion.
There being now breathing-time, I
remembered the artist. Strange to say, he was nowhere to be seen; but Kit, who
seemed to divine the reason of my puzzled looks, pointed up the tree beneath
which we stood. I looked aloft, and dimly amidst the foliage of the cedar I
descried a dangling pair of Bluchers that seemed familiar to me. They were the
artist's. "Come down!" I shouted; "the Indians are gone." But my request met
with no response, unless an irritable movement of the dangling boots was meant
for a negative. Again I hailed them, when, as if to put an end to all further
argument, they ascended higher among the branches, and were lost to sight.
"Guess the scared critter's best up the cedar," said Kit, adding suddenly, as he
glanced over the prairie, "Hurrah!
Now, mate, saddle up right
smart." And while I rapidly equipped the horses, to my astonishment he busied
himself in casting upon the fire all the property lying about the camp, with the
sole exception of our own rifles and revolvers. "If yon varmint git us they'll
only git mean plunder," he said, grimly contemplating his work of destruction.
"The Indians in the creek, you
mean?" I asked. The hunter shook his head, and pointed southward.
Following the direction of his
arm, I made out through the fast fading twilight a band of horsemen galloping
right down upon us. They were mounted Indians. As doubtless they were acting in
concert with those on foot in the creek, it was plain that our position was no
longer tenable. I perceived that Kit was of this opinion, for he was now hastily
examining our three remaining horses. They were young American cattle that I had
bought on the Columbia as a speculation for the Californian market. Two of them
were light, weedy-looking fillies; but the third, a powerfully-made chestnut
stallion, with white feet, was by far the best of the lot.
"You will take the chestnut, he
is the only horse at all up to your weight," I said to Kit, who was a seventeen
stoner at least.
" Thankee, mate," he replied;
"'tis kind of ye —yes, 'tis, to give up the best hose; but I wish 'twar my ole
spotted mustang. Don't kinder consate them white feet, and that eye ain't clar
grit, it ain't!"
A few minutes were now wasted in
endeavoring to persuade the artist to descend the tree and take the third horse;
but either on account of intense fear, or a conviction of the security of his
"cache," he still made no sign. As the horsemen were now fast closing in upon
us, and the footmen in the creek began to show themselves, as if with a design
of cutting off our retreat, we were compelled unwillingly to leave this
impracticable votary of "high art" to his fate. So, mounting our horses, and
driving the third one before us, we put out on the back trail.
"Hold hard, friend!" said my
comrade, as the fresh young filly I rode stretched out in a slashing gallop. "If
'twur only twenty mile of good pariera from this to Van Noy Ferry thut we've got
to make to save our skins, we'd throw out you varmints right smart; but
reck'lect this pariera gives out in six mile more, and we've as many mile over
bad mountain range afore we git down to the open agin, that'll give these fine
With horses well in hand we had
ridden some little distance, when a loud whoop in our rear proclaimed that the
Indians had reached our camp, but whether the demonstration proceeded from
disappointment at the destruction of their anticipated prize, or rejoicing at
the capture of our companion, the failing light did not permit us to judge. Soon
we heard them again in pursuit. Darkness now set rapidly in, but riding as usual
in Indian file, our horses accustomed for several weeks to follow the trail,
picked it out with the greatest ease. As we came to the end of the prairie I was
delighted to see a full moon rising over the mountains, so that we should now
have light to guide us in our flight—a great chance in our favor. Kit had
relapsed into his accustomed taciturnity, and beyond paying great attention to
the sounds in the rear, by which he seemed to regulate our pace, be betrayed no
interest in any thing. Knowing that all depended on our horses holding out, as
we clattered up the first long mountain slope, I ranged alongside of him and
examined their conditions. My own filly, though pretty heavily weighted, was as
yet perfectly fresh, her stride was easy and elastic, and I felt she was warming
well to her work. But an unpleasant sensation came over me as I noticed that
Kit's chestnut was already bathed in a profuse sweat.
Now that we were fairly in the
mountains our real troubles began. Three days since we had crossed this range,
and having shortly before made the passage of the great Canon Creek, a terrific
pass, the trail had not appeared more dangerous than usual. But then we had
leisure and daylight to aid us; now, the white metallic light of the moon, which
brought out in startling distinctness each crag and rocky point it fell upon,
left many dangerous bits of our path in deep obscurity; yet we were compelled to
pass over them in full career, for our pursuers now began to push us to their
utmost. At intervals, above the clatter of our horses' iron-shod hoofs, the
mountains behind us echoed with their whoops, and were replied to from the
heights around by the peculiar cry of the white owl, proceeding, as we were
aware, from red sentinels, who were able to observe each turn of the chase, and
thus urged their comrades still to follow. Urged by their wild riders to the top
of their speed, the hardy, unshod little mustangs of our enemies scrambled after
us over the dangerous trail with a cat-like facility of foothold not possessed
by our own cattle. To add to our embarrassments, our third horse now began to
show a desire to stray from the trail, and forced us often to lose ground by
swerving to head him back again. In fact, it was all we could do to hold our
own, and, desperately as our desperate need required it, we pushed on. The steep
mountain-side, the other day painfully ascended, was now dashed furiously down;
the edge of the precipice, usually traversed so gingerly, was spurred fiercely
over, unheeding the appeals of our terrified horses, who quivered and snorted in
very fear. Without drawing bridle we spattered through the mountain torrent that
ran down the deep gulches, and took flying the smaller streams. When the last
weary mountain-crest was topped, and we descended again to the wooded plain
beneath, I should have felt myself comparatively safe had it not been for the
deplorable condition of our horses. As Kit had foreseen, the mountain-range had
fearfully tried them. Though my mare, with the instinct of good blood, still
answered when I made a call on her, I felt she was getting fast used up; but the
chestnut was in a still worse plight; his drooping crest and laboring stride
the extremity of his distress. We
had just arrived at the ford of State Creek, a small arm of Rogue River, when
Kit's chestnut suddenly staggered, and then plunged headlong to the ground.
"Four white legs and a white nose, cut his throat and throw him to the crows!"
exclaimed his rider, bitterly repeating the old saw as he vainly endeavored to
raise him. Meanwhile I had ridden forward and caught the loose horse. Kit
mounted him in silence, and together we entered the ford; but just before we
reached the opposite bank he dismounted, and standing knee-deep in the water,
put his rein into my hand.
"Mate," he said, "we're bound to
part comp'ny, if we don't want to go under. Take both animals and make tracks
for Van Noy; this coon 'll look out for hisself, somehow. Good-by t'ye!" And he
set off wading down the creek.
I brought my horses to his side
in a moment. "No, no, Kit," I said, deeply touched by his generous proposition;"
fight or fly, whichever it is, we'll keep together."
"Don't rile me, young feller," he
replied, in a voice that he vainly endeavored to render harsh, and abandoned for
a tone of earnest entreaty. "I tell 'ee we must part now; it can't be fixed
noways different. That thur light animal 'ud burst up under my weight long afore
we made Rogue River, and yourn ain't got two mile run left in him—he ain't. Now,
look h'yar, if yew want to save our skins, take both them animals—it 'll throw
the Injuns off my trail—and ride hard for Van Noy. Rouse up the boys thar, and
tell 'em Kit Butler from Boonville's cached in the timber by State Crick, and
the red-skins are out. Guess they'll be round with their shooting-irons, and
bring me in right away. Hurrah now, boy!"
A moment's reflection convinced
me that Kit's plan was the only one that could possibly save us; but it was with
a bitterness of heart such as I had never felt before that I shook his loyal
hand—I could not speak—in token that I bade him farewell. If I acted wrongly in
abandoning him, God knows that my own reflections, as I put out on my lonely
trail, were almost punishment enough.
But, in reality, Kit's chances of
escape were not far from being as good as my own. The plain, especially by the
creek, was well wooded, so that our separation took place entirely without the
knowledge of the Indians, who, though they would certainly find the foundered
chestnut, would naturally conclude that its rider was away on the fresh horse.
Neither would they gain any information from the hunter's tracks, for, of
course, he had taken the precaution to wade some distance down the creek before
he cached in the timber, and water leaves no trail. But I could not reason on
all this then. I could only remember that I had left the last and best of all my
comrades behind me, and that if evil came to him I should be held accountable.
Deeply plunged in such maddening reflections, I had not ridden far when the
report of a rifle in my rear almost caused my heart to stand still.
The Indians, then, had discovered
Kit's cache. I pulled up my horses and turned round with the desperate
determination of rejoining him at any hazard, when all at once I remembered, in
impotent despair, that, with the exception of my bowie-knife, I was unarmed. On
parting, Kit had taken possession of my rifle and revolver, remarking that,
while they might be of use to him, I should ride lighter without then. All a
pretext! I saw it now when too late. The noble-minded fellow had guessed that if
I heard him engaged with the Indians I should return, and had thus taken
measures effectually to prevent me. Utterly distraught on making this discovery,
I remember little more of my ride to Van Noy Ferry. Though I rode like a madman,
I must yet have acted with the soundest discretion. My horse was afterward found
dead about two miles up Applegate Creek, by which the trail ran after leaving
State Creek. At that point I must have mounted the second horse, and swam the
creek, instead of following it up to Rogue River. Then I crossed the country in
a northeasterly direction, and thus, by cutting off an angle, considerably
shortened the distance. But of all this I only distinctly remember pricking
along my failing horse with my bowie-knife, as the lights of the ferry came into
view, till he also gave in and fell, throwing me over his head and inflicting on
me no trifling injuries; and that wet, bruised, and bleeding, but still with the
one fixed, irrevocable idea pervading my weakened senses, that Kit was in deadly
peril for my sake, and that he must be saved, I burst into the midst of the
ferry-men as they sat round their fire in their log-hut.
"Kit Butler, from Boonville!"
shouted one of the rough backwoodsmen, the captain of the ferry, in reply to my
wild appeal for help. "By thunder! he's jest my fust cousin; how kim yew to
quit, mister, when he war in sich a tarnation fix, eh?"
"Talking won't get him out of it,
man," I replied, impatiently; "either come along with me at once to help him, or
give me a rifle and fresh horses and let me do what I can myself."
"We'll go—don't you fear,
mister," he said, more graciously ; "you darned red-skins ain't goin' to wipe
out the smartest mountain boy in all Oregon. And no 'muss' round! H'yar
yew—Pete—Dave—Zack—lay hold of your shootin'-irons, boys, and git this animals
out of the corral."
"Ay, ay, Cap!" was the ready
response; and with astonishing quickness we were all armed and mounted on sturdy
mustangs, riding hard to the rescue.
As we splashed through Applegate
Creek Ford we heard a shot to the front, followed shortly by another. "hurrah,
boys!" shouted our leader; "thar goes old Kit! He ain't wiped out jest yet,
nohow. Guess it'll take a caution o' red-skins to whip him. He'll make 'em see
snakes and black ones at that."
In a few minutes more we
debouched on to the north bank of State Creek, but not an Indian was visible.
The noise of our approach had effectually scared them; they had not cared to
stand the brunt of a charge of half a dozen white men. As we