The panther had landed with full weight on his upper arm, had probably jumped down from a tree. She wrapped the first sheet tightly, several layers, and continued clamping down on his arm, holding firm pressure. Daniel smiled at his daughter. I promise. Just a few little scratches. It would probably give Israel nightmares.
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This cat is a man killer. I'll track him down and kill him, but in the meantime, you all be careful.
He had lost enough blood that he was going to be weak. She let up pressure and tentatively unwrapped his arm. It was only seeping now. She rewrapped it. And some water. She didn't want to risk having the bleeding start up again. Jemima brought water in a bowl as well as the medical supplies, and Becky unwrapped the sheet again and carefully washed and treated the gashes. Jemima threaded a needle for her mother, and Daniel sat stoically, only biting his lip a time or two as she stitched up his arm.
Satisfied that the bleeding was fully stopped, Becky then tore the second sheet up into strips and neatly bandaged his arm. Dan pulled her down into the seat next to him and gave her a hug. Daniel still looked a little pale, Becky thought, but the bandages on his arm remained reassuringly white. Once the tea was finished, she stood and picked up the bloody apron and the first sheet, throwing them into the fire. She next studied his jacket. It's all right. But still, don't go outside at dark for the moment, any of you.
In spite of his front, he did seem to feel a bit wobbly, and he didn't put up too much protest to going to bed when Becky ordered him to. Coming back from the bedroom through the hanging sheets, she found Jemima carefully cutting away the tattered, bloody sleeve of his jacket, then throwing it into the fire. Jemima nodded, then suddenly seized her mother in a hug.
Becky held her, feeling her daughter trembling slightly, just as she herself was.
They held each other for a long minute, and then Becky straightened up. I'll deal with the jacket in the morning first thing early.
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She was up early but tried to stay quiet and let Daniel sleep in as much as he ever could while she worked on his jacket. Jemima woke up early also and crept first thing through the sheets to look at her father. Israel woke up halfway through meal preparation, and that was the end of quietness in the cabin. Becky was still trying to hush him, with him asking why and then protesting that nobody had woken him up last night for all the excitement, when Dan appeared from the bedroom. She said you got hurt. I'm fine, Israel. She had already felt the arm herself that morning in bed, but she went over for a second inspection and also to make certain it wasn't bleeding through the bandages again with the effort of him getting up and dressed.
No sign of bleeding, and the arm wasn't hot. Still, she knew from her husband's eyes just how much it was hurting him. Jemima came over for her own morning hug from her father, a little longer than usual, and then she said, "Israel, set the table. Breakfast is almost ready. She's been working this morning; you ought to be, too. Israel, grumbling a little under his breath, went to fetch the plates. Daniel headed over to look out the window, gauging the day. His right hand crept to his left upper arm, and he rubbed it as he thought none of them were watching. It continued that way through breakfast.
Israel got a very edited version of events but still, with his father trying his best to appear hale and hearty, didn't realize just how badly Dan had been cut. Instead, their son stayed focused on feeling shut out last night. Jemima was quiet but watching her father, as was Becky. Any time he had a chance, his right arm crept toward that left, and he would catch himself at it and draw back.
They were just finishing breakfast when a knock came at the cabin door. It was Mingo, who looked at Daniel's bandages in surprise and concern as his friend opened the door. I need to tell you what happened last night. Looking around, he grabbed a blanket and simply tossed it over his shoulders, going on outside. Becky sighed.
She'd better finish his jacket as soon as possible; he'd catch his death out there without it as cold as the weather had been lately. She returned to her sewing project, and Jemima started clearing the table. Israel moved over by the fire, occupied with something, but Becky was too focused on Dan's jacket at first to pay much attention.
She finished sewing on the new buckskin sleeve, imagining the panther landing with raking claws on her husband last night. She shuddered. She had just finished repairs and was joining Jemima in clearing the table when Daniel came back in.parcelcheck.co.za/norton-of-everest-the-biography-of-ef-norton.php
He shed the blanket. If the Boy Scouts would know a man who in his attitude toward the life to which he was called most nearly embodied the precepts of their laws let them look on Daniel Boone. Gentle, kind, modest, peace-loving, absolutely fearless, a master of Indian warfare, a mighty hunter, strong as a bear and active as a panther, his life was lived in daily danger, almost perpetual hardship and exposure; yet he died in his bed at nearly ninety years of age. So intent were these writers on creating a hero that they failed in most instances to do justice to the depth and contradictions of human personality.
White unquestioningly accepted the paradox of the peace lover who excelled in violence, the gentle man hardened by necessity, the refined man whose physical agility and prowess were comparable to those of beasts. There are two central archetypes that these depictions of Boone seem to reinforce. The world from which he is redeemed is not only the established civilization of the Eastern colonies but the Old World itself. A new man supplants the guilt and moral jadedness of eighteenth-century Europe, what R. Revisionist historians and the rise of the Native American movement of the s have done much to reexamine these views and temper their extremism and racial bias.
Boone was, in fact, by profession a surveyor, a good one who platted thousands of acres for those that would become the yeoman farmers that Jefferson envisioned populating the West.
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He was also a legislator and would-be government contractor. For a time he also kept a tavern and trading post at Limestone Maysville, Kentucky , one of the primary points of debarkation on the Ohio. Behind this romanticized leader is the provider, a man with a family who increasingly felt the economic press of mouths to feed. The settlements they founded, Harrodsburg and Maysville, survive as modern-day communities, unlike Boonesborough, which is now a state park with a replica of the original fort. General George Rogers Clark, founder of Louisville and conqueror of the Northwest Territory during the Revolution, has cut a much wider notch in American history.
Though I heard stories about the frontier hero from a time beyond memory, my first printed encounter with Daniel Boone was in my fourth-grade reader, Adventures in Pioneering, by Mary Browning. In such books, Boone was perceived as a peaceable man forced to defend himself and his neighbors to make Kentucky safe for settlement. If he is not the bringer of culture to the wilderness in the popular depiction, he is the safe-keeper of settlement, both the point man and bodyguard, so to speak, of civilization. To a great degree, Boone is presented as a kind of wilderness saint, a St.
Francis with flintlock, his virtues highlighted in a series of parables and homilies, all sweetness and light, as he carved a pathway to Paradise. In this scene of home Boone, as was so often the case, is absent. Any deep probing reveals that Boone was more ambiguous and complex than textbooks or popular imagination portrays. For example, Boone the Quaker pacifist was also touted as a great Indian fighter. During his long life, Boone was in fact certain of killing only two Indians. One was at Blue Licks shortly before his son Israel was killed. The other killing he acknowledged was less justifiable, less often mentioned, bordering on gratuitous homicide.
Boone charitably killed a deer, took only a small portion of it for himself, and presented the remainder to the old Indian. To Boone the Indian was his greatest master. Not for himself surely to be an Indian, though they eagerly sought to adopt him into their tribes, but the reverse: to be himself in a new world Indianlike. So what image of Boone should we nurture? Most of us interpret Boone according to our own predilections. Some remember him as Boone the Rescuer, referring to his pursuit of the band of Shawnee that kidnapped his daughter Jemima and two other girls as they dangled their feet from a canoe on the Kentucky River near Boonesborough one Sunday afternoon in When the alarm was sounded, Boone was in such haste to begin the pursuit that he left without moccasins on his feet.
Others cite his deliverance of Boonesborough with his timely warning and heroic defense during the siege of Still others are taken by his stoical acceptance of conditions over which he had no control, as in his capture while boiling salt at Blue Licks in February of , giving in when resistance was senseless and then persuading the party of men that accompanied him to surrender without a fight when it was clear that the odds were against them. Skeptics cite inconsistencies in the stereotype of Boone as an unlettered son of the wilderness.
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My own favorite is the story told by a party of long hunters in the years before settlement. Trekking in the woods, they were mystified by an unidentified caterwauling. Stealthily, they crept up to a meadow where they found Boone on his back singing as if there were not another person within a hundred miles, within all of Kentucky. This image of Boone as heedless, happy, self-sufficient and perfectly at one with nature is endearing and indelible.
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Equally affecting is his admission when asked by Chester Harding, the portraitist who painted the only full-figured image of him from life, if he had ever been lost in the vast spaces of Kentucky. As students of Boone have pointed out, Boone was far from being a happy harbinger of settlement. Tragically, he lost his eldest son James during his first attempt to bring his and other families to Kentucky.