Those early days and nights of November in the
year eighteen hundred and eleven, were indeed among the most stressful
in the whole stormy history of Kentucky. And through her--since her fate
was to be the fate of the Empire of the West--they were as portentous as
any that the nation has ever known. On that very day in truth, and not
very far off, there had already been enacted one of the mightiest events
that went to the shaping of the national destiny. Over the river on the
banks of its tributary, the Wabash, the battle of Tippecanoe had been
fought and won between the darkness and daylight of that gloomy seventh
of November. The young doctor, like all the people of the country, knew
that the long-dreaded hour had struck, that this last decisive struggle
between the white race and the red must be close at hand; but neither he
nor any one in that region knew that it was already ended. There had not
been a single sign or sound to tell when the conflict was actually going
on. It was said that the roar of the cannon was heard much farther away,
as far even as Monk's Mound, where the Trappists--those most ill-fated
of Kentucky pioneers--had found temporary refuge.
Pages:
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367