That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  They continued following the river upstream, portaged to the St. Marys River and followed that to its confluence with the St. Joseph River, where they form the Maumee.67 Now the party breathed a little easier because here was located a tiny French installation called Fort Miamis, commanded by Lt. Paul de Raimond.68 They had anticipated a warm reception, good food and rest upon reaching the fort but were hugely disappointed to learn that the entire 22-man garrison was suffering under an epidemic of influenza. Unwilling to expose his men to it, Céloron ordered camp made outside the fort, breathing a sigh of relief that it was not his lot to be assigned to such an isolated post. Lt. Raimond, too miserable from the ravages of the flu to show much interest in Céloron’s visit or hear an account of his journey, was short on rations himself and had no food to give them, but he was glad enough to let the expedition members select what watercraft they needed from the large number of bark canoes and French-style piroques stored at the fort and send them on their way.

  The trip down the Maumee was uneventful, and on October 2 they arrived at the mouth of the river, with Maumee Bay and Lake Erie stretching out before them. Skimming along the western edge of Lake Erie, they ascended the Detroit River and arrived at Fort Pontchartrain on October 6. The French settlement of Detroit beyond its walls was quaint but decidedly rustic, with many Indians—mainly Ottawas and Hurons—walking the streets swathed in trade blankets despite the heat. The fort itself was a huge disappointment—dilapidated, unkempt and much smaller than Céloron anticipated. He pitied the officers and men stationed there and considered their being ordered to serve at such a post little short of a punishment and a certain road to obscurity without likelihood of advancement. With his letters of authorization from Galissonière, he acquired from the fort’s store what further supplies they would need, gathered up dispatches and mail to be delivered at Fort Niagara, Fort Frontenac and Montreal; then his party was on its way once again on October 8.

  Following the northern shoreline of Lake Erie, they once again reached the Niagara River, traversed the portage without problem and barely paused in passing Fort Niagara. They finally reached Fort Frontenac at the mouth of Lake Ontario on the third day of November. Seven days later, on November 10, they arrived back in Montreal, after being absent a total of 148 days and having traveled some 2,400 miles.

  As Céloron had anticipated would be the case, the Marquis de la Galissonière had been recalled to France and the Marquis de la Jonquière was the new governor-general. It was to him that Céloron reported, presenting him with a fully detailed written report of the expedition, which he concluded with the notation:

  All I can say is, that the nations of these countries are very ill disposed towards the French, and devoted entirely to the English.

  “An excellent report, Captain,” the governor-general said, looking up at the officer as he finished, “despite its negative conclusions. I commend you. If I have any questions as I study it further, I will contact you. Excused.”

  Perplexed at his rather cavalier treatment after so arduous an expedition, Céloron saluted smartly, turned and strode toward the door. As he opened it, the governor-general’s voice halted him.

  “Oh, Captain.” Jonquière paused until Céloron turned and faced him. “I almost forgot. You have a new assignment. You will be leaving here a week from today to take command of Fort Pontchartrain at the Detroit.”

  Despite his treatment of Céloron, the Marquis de la Jonquière realized at once the seriousness of the situation and made an instant determination that something had to be done quickly to oust all English from the entire Ohio Valley drainage region—not just the traders but the settlers and land speculators—and make even more concerted efforts to win back the affections of the tribes for the French. He sent an immediate plea to the colonial minister in Paris, requesting that 10,000 French peasants be sent to New France at once, to be relayed as settlers to the Ohio River Valley, where their very presence would help solidify the French claims.

  Some five months later—late in April 1750—at the Forks of the Muskingum, an Indian named Pucksinwah stood in the dimness of the large council house in Wapatomica, the capital village of his tribe, and let his gaze pass across the large assemblage of Shawnee chiefs and warriors before him. A very distinguished-looking man in his thirties, he was second war chief—under Kishkalwa—of the Shawnees and chief of the Kispokotha sept. More than that, he was a highly skilled negotiator who, in past years, had been one of the principals representing the Shawnees at important treaty negotiations. In addition to a number of Indian tongues, he spoke both English and French flawlessly, which was why he had been chosen to head the dual mission from which he had just returned.

  He had not been pleased to learn, on his return, that the English trader George Croghan had only a short time before convinced the Indians at Logstown, after providing them with a large number of gifts, to permit the erection of a British fort at the Forks of the Ohio. While he liked Croghan personally—held the man in considerable esteem, actually—he felt the Indians at Logstown had acted hastily and unwisely.

  Pucksinwah had been speaking to the assembly for nearly two hours, clearly and concisely recounting the occurrences of two separate missions he had just completed. The first had taken him to Philadelphia, the second to both Quebec and Montreal. At these places he had met in council with high governmental figures for penetrating discussions as to the intentions of the French and English in the territory occupied by northwestern tribes. It had been no easy matter to sift through the promises, half-truths and outright lies that had abounded in the talks, but the task was made easier because the whites on both sides underestimated the intelligence of the Indians. As a result, many of their flagrant falsehoods became painfully apparent.

  The object of the crucial mission was to determine what stance the Shawnees would take in future events. It was clear to the tribe that in the not-too-distant future the French and English would be involved in a war over possession of the vast interior. Would the wisest course for the Shawnees be to support the French against the English, or the English against the French, or merely to remain neutral?

  Pucksinwah had explained his findings carefully. To take a neutral stance was not advisable because not only would the trade upon which the Shawnees relied so heavily for their very survival be cut off by both sides, but sooner or later they would be drawn into the forthcoming conflict whether they wished it or not; their bargaining advantage would be lost, and they might well find themselves in the unenviable position of fighting both white factions simultaneously and possibly even neighboring tribes who were allied to them, yet without the resources to properly carry on such a conflict.

  The whites themselves were fairly evenly matched in respect to waging war against one another without tribal alliances. Therefore whites on both sides were endeavoring to form balance-tipping alliances with tribes, and the French seemed to be having the greater success. Grudgingly or not, most tribes had to admit that although relationships had become strained in recent years, the French were easier to get along with than the British.

  At the moment, Pucksinwah had gone on, the Shawnees were, as this assemblage knew, more closely tied to the British, largely due to trade; supporting them would be an easier matter than supporting the French. Their coolness toward the French was evident in the less-than-cordial reception given so recently to the expedition that had passed through their country under the man named Céloron. But they could not afford to lose sight of the fact that the British clearly aspired to expand westward beyond the mountains far more than they had already done.

  The decision the Shawnees were ultimately to make had to be the result of close consideration of the consequences, Pucksinwah said. If these British happened to win a war against the French and forced them off the continent, how then could the Shawnees fend off the British bent on acquisition of their lands? From whom could they get the weapons, ammunition, gunpowder, supplies and all the other things necessary to fight and defea
t so powerful an enemy? If, on the other hand, they were to support the French, they would lose the valuable trade of the British, which was far better in quality and much less costly than the French could provide, despite the rampant trade abuses of late. Yet if the French should win the conflict, the possibility of the Shawnees losing their lands was much reduced because, to their favor, the French clearly did not have the colonizing ambitions exhibited by the British and were more interested in continuing and expanding the fur trade among the tribes than in claiming and settling lands.

  Both white factions had made similar offers to Pucksinwah’s delegation in order to secure an alliance with the powerful warrior tribe, but no commitments were made. Now it was up to this body of Shawnees to decide what course would be followed: neutrality, support for the British, or support for the French. When Pucksinwah was asked what his own recommendation would be, since he was most familiar with all aspects of the problem, he considered this for a long moment before replying.

  “What we decide,” he said at length, speaking slowly, “will undoubtedly influence many of our neighboring tribes, and that is good, because in such a struggle the Indian should not be fighting the Indian. I have always believed that it is a mistake for Indians to take sides in any struggle between the whites. Yet in this case I think it best to stray from that position. Our thought must be not only whom we should support but, of perhaps greater importance, whom best could we live with after such a war if the side we support is the victor. Consider: If we join the British, there is but little doubt that they will win. If they do, we will then be faced with forcing them out of our lands—a struggle it is only too possible we could lose. If we join the French, there is a fair chance that they will win, and if so, we will then have them in our lands, but we have been able to live with them in friendship and peace before. Should we then someday have to force them out, the task in that case would be easier than against the British. For myself, I would say our best course—though bearing more risk—would be to support the French.”

  Discussions continued for many hours, and when at last they were finished, a decision had been made: Until such time as war broke out between the French and English, they would continue relations with the British as usual, especially in matters of trade. However, if a war of that nature did break out, the Shawnees would declare themselves allies of the French.

  While all these matters of grave portent were occurring, there were some lighter moments. In late May 1750, well up the Kanawha, where it was known as the New River, what was being touted as the first white wedding west of the Allegheny crest was occurring at Draper’s Meadows. Because there was not room enough in the Draper cabin for all who attended, the ceremony took place in the barn. The groom was the handsome, dark-haired, 21-year-old William Ingles, who had been accompanied to the Draper place by his father, Thomas, and two brothers, 19-year-old George and 15-year-old John.

  Mary Draper was the bride, and at 18, she was said to be the prettiest girl on either side of the Blue Ridge. Her parents, Bettie and John, were there, of course, along with her brother, Johnny, who was now 20. Guests included the neighboring Burke, Lenard and Harmon families, as well as nearly a dozen others who had come from more distant settlements, such as Pattonsburg.

  The ceremony was performed without problem, followed by an abundance of good food for everyone present. The barn soon reverberated with laughter, music and dancing. Without any doubt, the most indefatigable dancer was none other than the bride herself. She was not only an uncommonly beautiful young woman, she was also extremely athletic. Having no sisters, she had been raised with her brother, who was devoted to sports and outdoor activities of all kinds. In order to be included in what he did, she had to be able not only to keep up with him but to excel. At first she had a tough time, but eventually she was able to outrun, outjump and even outshoot him, much to her delight and his chagrin. Her athletic prowess, in fact, made her something of a celebrity. From a standing position beside her horse she could, with a single bound, leap full into the saddle. She could run, without misstep or fall, along the top of a split-rail fence and had no trouble crossing creeks and ravines on tree trunks or heavy branches that had fallen across them. One of her favorite exploits was to stand on the floor and suddenly leap like a gazelle completely over the back of a chair.

  Occasionally she would be mildly chided for such unladylike acts, but she would simply toss her head and laugh, and her eyes would glint as she replied, “Well, one never can tell when it might come in handy to be able to do things like this.”

  The wedding festivities lasted well into the night, and when virtually everyone else—including her new husband—had petered out from exhaustion, Mary Draper Ingles was still ready and willing to dance.

  Draper’s Meadows, long the most isolated settlement on the frontier, could no longer boast that dubious honor. Settlers had filtered through in growing numbers, and by midsummer 1750 they had moved farther down the New River onto some of its tributaries. One such stream, called Onepakesipi by the Delawares, was surveyed by Col. John Lewis and his son Andrew.69 Father and son were both badly scratched by the long, fierce green briers through which they had to push their way in order to make the survey. When Andrew, who was doing the survey notations, asked what name he should put down for the river, his father grimaced, held up a hand made bloody by the thorns and said, “Just call it the Greenbrier.”

  The Greenbrier Valley, despite its thorny vegetation in some places, was very beautiful and quickly became an area especially favored by settlers. Two of the newcomers, who decided to be partners, Stephen Sewell and Jacob Marlin, together built a little cabin near the mouth of Stony Creek.70 This pair had formed a close friendship that lasted until the day they began to discuss religion. Marlin was Catholic, Sewell a Protestant, and the discussion degenerated into a dispute, then a heated argument and finally into a fistfight, which Marlin won. The upshot was that Sewell moved out, crossed to the other side of Stony Creek within sight and hearing of the cabin and set up housekeeping inside an enormous hollow sycamore tree. They never resolved their dispute, but for their mutual protection, each morning whoever was first to rise would call out to the other to see if he was all right and continue calling at intervals until he got a response. Once it was heard, that was their last vocal contact for the day.

  Others were more inclined to roam than to settle. Far to the north on the western Pennsylvania frontier, one such individual was a hunter who would often spend long periods away from his family in their cabin on the Juniata River, his only companion being a large, yellow dog. They were on just such an outing in late October 1750, moving along at a steady mile-eating pace through the dense woodlands not far from the Allegheny—the hunter with his Pennsylvania rifle held ready for instant use and the dog with tail held at a jaunty angle, close at his heels. Once they paused briefly when a large turkey gobbler burst from cover before them, rocketed upward in a steep climb over the treetops and in an instant disappeared from view beyond bright fall foliage. The dog looked at his master and gave the faintest little whine, and the hunter grinned, reached out and patted his head.

  “No birds for us today, Kicker. We’re heading for home, and we want some more substantial meat than that to take along.”

  Kicker tilted his head as he listened, and his tail waved back and forth twice. The hunter chuckled and resumed his pace, and the dog fell in beside him. They had walked for nearly an hour more when suddenly the hunter stopped in a half-crouch, holding out a hand palm down. Kicker immediately dropped to his belly and remained still, though keenly alert. No more than 40 yards ahead, a fine fat doe stood beside a fallen tree. It was a tribute to the hunter’s abilities that he had seen her at all, so well was she camouflaged. Without undue movement he checked and readied his gun and slowly brought it to bear. The sharp crack of the rifle was followed instantly by the deer flopping to the ground, where she lay motionless. The well-aimed ball had broken her spine high on her neck.

  K
icker issued a small whimper of eagerness but remained in place, as did the hunter. He rapidly reloaded and then for fully a quarter-hour remained crouched where he was, watching and listening for anyone who might have been attracted by the shot.

  At length he straightened and held out a hand again. “Kicker, you stay put for now, hear?” He moved away, cautiously approaching his prey, the dog watching him intently. At the fallen deer the hunter took one last careful look around and, satisfied there was no one about, leaned his gun against the fallen tree, unsheathed his knife and began skinning his kill. He worked swiftly and was nearly finished when a tremendous blow on his back sent him sprawling, his knife spinning out of his hand. At the same moment a terrifying squalling filled the air.

  It was a mountain lion, undoubtedly attracted by the scent of the deer’s blood and willing to risk making this unusual attack to steal the carcass. The hunter yelled and grappled with the big cat, intuitively wrapping his arms tightly around the large head and his legs around the animal’s middle, frantically endeavoring to avoid the powerful teeth and slashing claws. Locked together, they rolled over and over in the leaf litter on the forest floor. An instant later Kicker plunged onto the scene and flung himself upon the cat, clamping his powerful jaws on the most vital spot he could reach—the big animal’s testicles.

  The cat screamed in pain and fury and turned upon its new attacker. Hit by a blow from a muscular paw, Kicker released his grip and leaped away a dozen feet, then circled, growling savagely. The cat crouched and turned with the movements as the big dog looked for an opening. By this time the hunter had recovered his gun, and a single quick shot to the brain solved the problem. Kicker dashed in and worried the carcass a moment, then moved off a short distance and lay down. His left rear haunch had been laid open by two of the animal’s claws, and he began licking the wounds.