Wildcat Mountain

By Stephen C. Challis

 In 1782 the State of Kentucky did not exist. The land we now call a State was a vast largely unexplored wilderness. The City of Lexington was a small settlement with less than 10 houses. Mount Sterling, Clay City, Winchester, and Stanton were still a long way from coming into being. Most of the land was heavily wooded and settlers had only been venturing into the area for around two years, thanks to the efforts of Daniel Boone, who had blazed a trail through the Cumberland Gap. There were no roads and travel was by packhorse or walking. The military (Militia) and some families did possess horses but these were still fairly uncommon.

The events in Wildcat Mountain are based on actual recorded documents and eye witness accounts, a small number of incidents are fictitious. But not all of the characters portrayed. A list of Fictional Characters is included in the appendices as is a biography of the main real life characters, this is to dramatize the story and bring it to life. However the accounts of the Estill Battle of Little Mountain, and the battle of Blue Licks were real events and are accurately depicted, as recorded by those who were there.

William and Elizabeth Chenault, James Estill, and Daniel Boone are real people. The Chenault's direct ancestor William Tandy Chenault still lives in Mount Sterling and assisted with some of the historical details. Although Wildcat Mountain is a work of historical fiction, this novel is a stark, accurate, and uncompromising view of life on the frontier in 1782.

I have reflected in it, the views of society as it was at the time. I make no apology for doing so, and in no way imply approval or otherwise of the practices of racism, slavery or savagery that the novel portrays.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen C. Challis
• Release date: Jan 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224280933

Stephen C. Challis

Steve Challis was born in 1948 in the United Kingdom.  Steve grew up in the rural Cotswold's where he learned shooting and hunting on the farm where his Father worked.  Following 5 years of service in the military (RAF), Steve joined the Hampshire Constabulary in 1969 and served as an officer for 21 years.  In 2006, Steve met his wife Eva via the internet, and then in 2007 they became engaged.  The following year in November, Steve moved to the USA and he and Eva were married in Ketchikan, Alaska. Now a permanent US resident, Steve is the author of several books on gun rights and historical fiction.  

Book preview

Preface

In 1782, the State of Kentucky did not exist.  The land we now call a state was largely unexplored wilderness.  The City of Lexington was a small settlement with less than 10 houses.  Mount Sterling, Clay City, Winchester, and Stanton were still a long way from coming into being.  Most of the land was heavily wooded and settlers had only been venturing into the area for around two years, thanks to the efforts of Daniel Boone, who had blazed a trail through the Cumberland Gap. 

People established sporadic settlements and established frontier forts to offer some protection.  The land was occupied in the most part by Wyandotte (Huron) Indians.

The War of Independence was drawing to a close and most of the hostilities between the Wyandotte and the Settlers were because of British involvement.  The British hired the Indians to attack and take scalps of colonial settlers, for which they paid a bounty. 

The events in Wildcat Mountain are based on actual recorded documents and eye witness accounts with a small number that are fictitious, as are some of the characters portrayed.  However, the accounts of the Estill Battle and Blue Licks raid were actual events and are accurately depicted.

William and Elizabeth Chenault, James Estill and Daniel Boone are real people.  The Chenault’s direct ancestor, William Tandy Chenault, lived in Mount Sterling until his death in 2020 and assisted with some of the historical details.  Although Wildcat Mountain is a work of historical fiction, this novel is a stark, accurate and uncompromising view of life on the frontier in 1782.  I have reflected in it the views of society as it was at the time, and I make no apology for doing so, and in no way imply approval of, or otherwise of the practices of racism, slavery or savagery that the novel portrays.

Stephen Challis

Chapter 1

This was really a rugged country. The heavy pine forest seemed to stretch for miles in all directions, and militiaman Colonial William Tritt had no way of knowing how far he had gone.  All he knew was that somewhere ahead was the small settlement called Little Mountain, little more than one or two cabins.  The map he had was crude at best, drawn by trappers and hunters and marked a trail called Old Harpers’ trace.  As an accurate map, it left a lot to be desired, but did show the terrain.  The trail was steep here and his horse faltered as he made his way up the hill that was marked on his map as Wildcat Mountain. 

William did not look much like a soldier; his blue frock coat was stained and had several tears that had been roughly hand sewn.  One of those tears still flapped loosely on his pocket, a souvenir from a British musket ball at the Battle of Yorktown 4 months ago. 

Snow had cleared from the lower slopes of the mountain but was still evident as he approached the summit.  

When he had left Fort Boonesbourough the day before he had been warned that there may still be redcoats in the area, or more likely their Indian allies the Wyandottes, an unpredictable branch of the Huron that would gleefully take his scalp for no other reason than the bounty the British were offering.  William knew he needed to reach Little Mountain before nightfall.  This was no area to have to spend the night. 

He was carrying a message from his commander, Colonel Logan; it was addressed to Colonel Boone, who was a day’s ride further at a settlement called Boone Station.  This Station was now rapidly being joined by a spreading settlement that boasted a courthouse and several cabins.  The stockade at Boone’s station provided security, and as more and more settlers moved in, the Indians stayed away.  

The settlement had a name given to it by its first residents, after the small town in Virginia that saw the opening shots in the war that was now drawing to a close, Lexington.  Colonel Boone was a legend in this rugged country and had led the first settlers here just a few years ago. 

William had never met him personally and was looking forward to seeing the famous frontiersman in the flesh. 

Four years of war had sharpened Williams’s senses, and he immediately noticed the nervousness of his horse.  Wrapping the reins around his left hand, he slowly dropped his right to his large British Dragoon pistol tucked in his belt.  He saw the arrow a split second before it cut through the crisp early March air about 3 inches above his head. Pure reflexes made him drop prone over the saddle. 

From the undergrowth ahead, a painted half naked Wyandotte Indian appeared and rushed forward, yelling an unintelligible war cry.  William aimed the pistol and fired point blank. 

The Indians image was obliterated by the cloud of white smoke, but the Indians’ agonizing scream gave witness to the fact that Williams’ aim had been true. 

The 69 caliber ball had blown a large hole in the Indians chest and he lay twitching in death throes on the snow covered trail. 

Instinctively, William dismounted and grabbed a second pistol from the saddle holster.  Not a moment too soon. 

Two more Indians now emerged from the undergrowth.  Both were carrying tomahawks and advancing on him, no wild war whoops from these two. They held their weapons low and moved towards him.  With one shot left and two Indians fanning out to flank him, things looked ugly. 

William made his move and aimed the pistol at the nearest attacker.  The Indian faltered.  His companion prepared to charge, waiting for William to fire.  A split second later he did but switched targets.  The move took both Indians by surprise. 

The pistol ball struck the second Indian just above his mouth on the left side of his cheek.  The smaller .45 caliber ball tore a large piece from his skull and put him out of the fight.  The surviving Indian hesitated, but then charged.  William had anticipated the hesitation and used it to his advantage by evading the charge, rolling out of the way, and scooping up the discarded tomahawk from his first Indian.  He swung the weapon in a wide arc towards the charging Indian, who tried to change course but was unable to avoid the tomahawk that struck him across his throat.  The startled Indian dropped his weapon and clutched his gaping wound.  He sank to his knees, gurgling blood. 

William scanned the trail ahead, but there was no sign of further hostiles.  He waited for 2 to 3 minutes, listening intently and looking for anything out of place.  He knew that you usually heard danger before seeing it, a skill he had learned while hunting with his father in the Blue Ridge Mountains.  However, there was just silence.  William opened his side pack and removed his powder flask and bullet pouch. 

He quickly filled both pistols with a measure of powder and pressed the ball into each barrel, making sure the powder and balls were right for each pistol, then rammed the balls home with the rod.  Experience had taught him to reload instinctively, without measuring the powder or using a patch. 

In these situations, seconds counted. 

Remounting his horse, he moved on up the mountain without a backward glance at the dead Wyandottes. Whose lifeless bodies were already attracting green bottle flies.

As he reached the top of the rise the trees cleared and for the first time he got a clear view of the terrain ahead.  This land was new and largely unexplored. Col Boone had called it Can-too-kee, which was the Indian name for it.  From the top of Wildcat Mountain, he could see 7 to 10 miles.  He pulled his spyglass from his coat pocket and scanned the woodlands below.  At first he saw nothing but trees, then a small clearing with two cabins; it was about 5 miles away.  It nestled at the foot of a small triangular wooded hill.  

The hill seemed too symmetrical to be a natural feature.  He saw no sign of life, and from this distance it appeared there were only the two cabins with some smaller structures, possibly animal pens.  The map showed this as most likely Little Mountain.  To the south, he could just make out a buffalo trail that was marked on the map.

William spurred his horse forward. The sun was already low in the sky, and this land was not safe after dark.

......................................

A call from the lookout alerted the outpost temporary commander James Estill, who was engaged in conversation with one of the settlement’s female occupants.

Captain Sir, rider approaching

Estill looked up and excused himself with a polite touch to his cocked hat, and turned towards the brushwood barricade that served as a defense wall.  The lookout handed the spyglass to Estill 

Looks like a militiaman

With the settlement now in clear view, William relaxed a little. 

There were few reports of hostile activity close to the settlements, and he was looking forward to having a good night’s rest before continuing his journey in the morning. 

Close up, this small settlement seemed to be pretty flimsy, 2 cabins and some lean-to shelters with two piles of firewood and a hitching rail.  There were also 4 or 5 tents.  The settlement was surrounded by a brushwood barricade that hardly seemed adequate to repel a serious attack.  The small hill that gave the settlement its name was around 125 feet high and its slopes were covered with trees. 

William had judged correctly that this was not a naturally occurring feature, but it did provide a convenient vantage point to look out over the surrounding area.  He dismounted as the Captain approached.

Good Day sir.

Williams’ salute was brisk and businesslike; Estill looked the young soldier over.  He saw a man old beyond his years and returned the salute.

Ensign Tritt, Sir I’m on my way to see Colonel Boone at Boone Station and would be grateful for permission to stay the night here.

Estill extended his hand in welcome. 

You are most welcome Ensign.  You’ve come from Fort Boonesborough?

William nodded.  Estill continued

Have you seen any British redcoats?

William smiled and shook his head.

Not since Yorktown Sir.

You were at Yorktown?

The question came from a young woman wearing a rough buckskin coat and serge pants who had walked within earshot.  At first glance, she could easily be mistaken for a trapper or scout.  Both men turned to face her. 

Becky Reid was a 26-year-old pioneer who looked every part of a Frontiersman and nothing like a fragile lady. 

A broad bladed knife hung from a makeshift belt and a powder horn was slung across her shoulder.  She wore a black tricorn hat that bore the unmistakable white trim, marking it as a British military issue. 

Yes, Ma’am.

Becky did not reply at first and seemed to be studying the young militiaman.  Finally, she looked up.

Kill any Redcoats?

The question had taken William aback, and he thought for a moment.  His mind went back 4 years to the battle, the smoke, and screams of the dying, the shouting, and volleys of musket fire that whistled out of the smoke, to the sight of his friend Billy lying on his back coughing blood.  In such conditions, it was not clear how many of the enemy he had dispatched.

The memory faded as he looked again at Becky. 

Probably Ma’am.  Most of the time, I was firing and reloading as fast as I could.  A lot of Redcoats fell, but I was not the only one firing.

Estill cut in. 

See any sign of Indians?

William replied carefully, not wishing to alarm the settlers.

Yes Sir, Three of them ambushed me near the top of Wildcat Mountain.

And you drove them off single-handedly, I suppose. 

There was more than a hint of sarcasm in Becky’s voice.  William did not look at her when he replied quietly.

No, Ma’am, I killed them.

Still ignoring Becky, William recounted the incident to Estill and when he had finished, the Captain was a worried man.  The Wyandottes had not attacked anyone recently and had kept mostly out of sight.  Contrary to public folklore, they did most of their raiding at night. 

They did not have many firearms, but fought with tomahawks and short hunting bows.  To have been so brazen this close to the settlement meant that they must be planning something; and pretty soon. 

It was going on 7 pm when William finally sat down to dinner.  Estill had invited him to spend the night in the safety of one of the cabins and he had readily accepted.  Over the meal, the two men discussed the war’s progress. 

With General Cornwallis’s surrender at Yorktown, it seemed the war would soon be at an end.  As a newcomer to the area, William was intrigued by the name given to the region Cantookee.  Estill smiled.

Actually, the name is Kah-ten-tah-tee in the Wyandotte language, but most of us cannot pronounce it correctly.  An old trapper told me that it can roughly be translated as The Land of Tomorrow.  From what I have seen, it certainly has potential.

The news of the Wyandotte encounter worried Estill more than he let on. 

He was acutely aware of the vulnerability of the settlement.  But they had not been really bothered by the Wyandottes, who seemed reluctant to attack them here. 

Still, that was no concern of the settlers who felt that the Indians were reluctant to go up against modern firearms.  In fact, it was not the settler’s guns they were anxious to avoid, but the round hill overlooking it. 

The reason was unclear, but that they held off suited both Estill and his charges. 

Chapter 2

The Wyandotte search party came across the 3 bodies lying on the trail where Tritt had left them.  The vultures were already feeding on the bodies when the party of 6 approached the summit.  The bullet wounds told the warriors all they needed to know.  One of the search party, identifiable by his vivid red pants, was a young brave called Split Log who was just 17.  Split Log was particularly upset at the discovery.  One of the slain men was his older brother, Growling Bear.  From that moment, the youthful Indian vowed that he would ensure that the white butchers would pay, not only for his brother’s death but for all the indignities heaped on his people. 

It was late afternoon when Split Log and the rest of the party returned to Chief Sourehoowah’s camp on the west side of Wildcat Mountain.  The warriors rose to their feet as the litters bearing the bodies entered the camp. 

Sourehoowah walked over to the litters and was aware of the mounting anger from his men.  The younger men like Split Log were urging an attack immediately on the settlers’ camp, but the wiser Sourehoowah knew that an attack in anger was unlikely to succeed.  Angry warriors do not think straight. They act on impulse and rage, and were unlikely to follow orders.  He knew his men were brave, but bravery was no defense against the settlers’ long smoke poles.  He raised his hand.

For many moons, the white intruders have stolen our deer and killed our people.  Even now, they desecrate our sacred burial hill.  Our ancestors are calling out for their destruction.

He turned to the assembled band of warriors. 

Eagle Wing, go to the Shawnee camp at the great river.  Tell them of the White Devil’s evil.  Tell them that Sourehoowah of the Wyandotte will sweep the Whites from our land.  And they should come and share in the victory.  May the Great Spirit speed your journey.

The young brave raised his hand in salute, mounted a pony, and rode quickly from the camp.

That night, Split Log and two of his companions stood in the dense forest less than 50 yards from the settlement barricade.  The desire for vengeance had overcome the warnings of the Wyandotte Chief,