Etext prepared by Bill Brewer, billbrewer@ttu.edu
BETTY ZANEBYZANE GREY
TO THE BETTY ZANE CHAPTER OFTHE DAUGHTERS OF THE REVOLUTIONTHIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATEDBY THE AUTHOR
NOTE
In a quiet corner of the stately little city of Wheeling, West Va.,stands a monument on which is inscribed:
"By authority of the State of West Virginia to commemorate the siegeof Fort Henry, Sept 11, 1782, the last battle of the AmericanRevolution, this tablet is here placed."
Had it not been for the heroism of a girl the foregoing inscriptionwould never have been written, and the city of Wheeling would neverhave existed. From time to time I have read short stories andmagazine articles which have been published about Elizabeth Zane andher famous exploit; but they are unreliable in some particulars,which is owing, no doubt, to the singularly meagre details availablein histories of our western border.
For a hundred years the stories of Betty and Isaac Zane have beenfamiliar, oft-repeated tales in my family—tales told with thatpardonable ancestral pride which seems inherent in every one. Mygrandmother loved to cluster the children round her and tell themthat when she was a little girl she had knelt at the feet of BettyZane, and listened to the old lady as she told of her brother'scapture by the Indian Princess, of the burning of the Fort, and ofher own race for life. I knew these stories by heart when a child.
Two years ago my mother came to me with an old note book which hadbeen discovered in some rubbish that had been placed in the yard toburn. The book had probably been hidden in an old picture frame formany years. It belonged to my great-grandfather, Col. Ebenezer Zane.From its faded and time-worn pages I have taken the main facts of mystory. My regret is that a worthier pen than mine has not had thiswealth of material.
In this busy progressive age there are no heroes of the kind so dearto all lovers of chivalry and romance. There are heroes, perhaps,but they are the patient sad-faced kind, of whom few take cognizanceas they hurry onward. But cannot we all remember some one whosuffered greatly, who accomplished great deeds, who died on thebattlefield—some one around whose name lingers a halo of glory? Fewof us are so unfortunate that we cannot look backward on kith or kinand thrill with love and reverence as we dream of an act of heroismor martyrdom which rings down the annals of time like the melody ofthe huntsman's horn, as it peals out on a frosty October morn purerand sweeter with each succeeding note.
If to any of those who have such remembrances, as well as those whohave not, my story gives an hour of pleasure I shall be rewarded.
PROLOGUE
On June 16, 1716, Alexander Spotswood, Governor of the Colony ofVirginia, and a gallant soldier who had served under Marlborough inthe English wars, rode, at the head of a dauntless band ofcavaliers, down the quiet street of quaint old Williamsburg.
The adventurous spirits of this party of men urged them toward theland of the setting sun, that unknown west far beyond the bluecrested mountains rising so grandly before them.
Months afterward they stood on the western range of the Great Northmountains towering above the picturesque Shenandoah Valley, and fromthe summit of one of the loftiest peaks, where, until then, the footof a white man had never trod, they viewed the vast expanse of plainand forest with glistening eyes. Returning