Man and wife had been, however, on guard, watching from their rude
bed in a dark corner. The settler was about to fire when he noted the Redskin’s real purpose. With stealthy eagerness, the Indian tiptoed to an uncooked haunch of venison, slashed off a generous chunk, balanced it over the
still hot embers and presently devoured his tasty unsalted meal with audible
evidences of satisfaction.
When, as often happened, the family or community cornfield was burned or otherwise destroyed by hostile Indians, and if they lurked near by so the settlers could not hunt game, the food problem became acute. Famine stared the family in the face. Soon there was literally nothing left to eat. But no—there was still something. The bear-grass which edged many clearings had fleshy roots. The men kept guard, rifle in hand, while the women and children dug out these roots. They dried them, grated them, made scanty, queer tasting johnny cakes—but it was food.
Put yourself for a moment in the place of SARAH THORPE, wife of Joel Thorpe, who in May, 1799, moved in their ox-team from North Haven, Conn., to Millsford, Ashtabula County, Ohio, the first settlers in that region.
There were three children. By June they were terribly short of provisions and it was necessary for Thorpe to find his way, with no guide but a pocket compass, to the nearest settlement, twenty miles away, in Pennsylvania.
Before his return the mother and children were almost reduced to extremities—but not quite. Sarah dug for roots. They yielded but little nourishment. She emptied the straw from the rough mattress —there might be a few grains of wheat, here and there. Then, watching grimly at the cabin door, she saw a wild turkey fly close. Sarah took down her husband’s rifle, cleaned the barrel carefully, primed and loaded it—and waited. Twice the fowl approached—it must not be frightened. Presently, creeping on her hands and knees from log to sheltering log, Sarah aims and fires. The turkey falls. It keeps the family alive until the father returns.
“MAD ANN” BAILEY may have been partly crazed by the death, at the hands of Indian warriors, at Point Pleasant, on October 10, 1774, of her first husband, Richard Trotter, a volunteer in the expedition of Lord Dunmore, then governor of Virginia. She discarded feminine ways and, to an extent, woman’s wear. She donned hunting shirt and moccasins, armed herself with tomahawk, scalping knife and gun, set forth to get her man. Ann’s complex was that a redskin must fall by her hand in revenge for her husband’s death.
One did and probably more than one. For when a fort on the Great Kanawha, near what is now Charleston, W. Va., was badly threatened, its supply of ammunition exhausted, it was Ann who set out, alone, for help from Camp Union, now Lewisburg. She swam rivers, fought off wolves, found her way through the dense forests and got back with powder and bullets
