by Allan Eckert
“Guess we were lucky to get away as we did,” said Alexander Blaine as he grunted and pulled the canoe farther up on shore for the others to step out. “They keep on with that kind of foolishness, an’ all hell’s like as not to bust loose.”
John Gibson nodded as he moved past some of the bundles stacked in the canoe and stepped lightly ashore. “Hate to admit it, but you’re probably right, Alex. Sure would like to know who’s feeding all these tall tales to Connolly. He’s mad enough as it is to do something stupid and get the whole country in an uproar.”
Matthew Elliott shook his head and grimaced. “Damn fools, all of them,” he said. “Probably not many on this whole river know more of what’s going on than us three, so you’d think they’d believe us when we tell them the stories have got to be damn lies and nothing’s being planned against them.”
“They believe what they want to believe,” Blaine said.
“They’re scared,” Gibson put in, “and people who are scared are dangerous.”
Blaine nodded and, without needing directions, set off along the river edge to gather up dry driftwood for the fire. They were all looking forward to an hour’s rest and some good hot tea before continuing. Youngest of the three and newest to the Indian trade, Blaine was a friend of Elliott’s from years past. He was apprenticing with him for the second season and learning a great deal, as well he should; he had a good teacher. Matthew Elliott had traded with the Shawnees for over a decade and for half that time had been married to a Shawnee woman. He was highly respected in the tribe as an honest trader and a courageous man. Not having seen his wife for a year, he was glad to be heading back to her village on the Scioto once again.
Elliott stepped from the canoe, and he and Gibson fell silent as they began digging out the pewter cups, pot and tin of tea. Gibson took the pot and moved automatically to the nearby spring for water, his mind elsewhere. He was distinctly concerned for Koonay, not only because of the nervous mood prevailing in the Ohio Valley but because now she was pregnant with their second child. After an absence that had been too prolonged for his liking, he had managed to spend a fortnight with her at the new village on Yellow Creek but had missed seeing her brother; Talgayeeta and a party of his men had gone off to hunt deep in the Ohio country on the Walhonding.
The visit with Koonay was restful and pleasant, but all too soon Gibson had to get back to Pittsburgh on trading business. That was where he had rejoined Elliott and Blaine, who had all the goods ready and were awaiting him. Elliott had quickly filled him in on the rumors that had been circulating and also about the talks Croghan had been having there with the Shawnee delegation for the past three months or more. Those talks were wrapping up, and the Shawnees were very disgruntled over the fact that hardly anything had been accomplished in respect to keeping the whites from coming down the Ohio and spilling onto their lands.
The three men had set off downstream shortly after Gibson’s arrival and were amazed at the number of canoes, piroques and bateaux on the river, the majority of them staying close to the Ohio shore. More often than not the traders, bent on their business and in midstream or closer to the Ohio shore, merely waved at those they passed and continued on their way.
The second day after leaving Pittsburgh they encountered and talked with an old trader friend, John Anderson. He was on his way up to Pittsburgh, his pelt-laden canoe paddled by a Delaware and a disreputable-appearing white man, neither of whom they knew. Anderson had just come from a long stint of trading at the villages up the Muskingum and Tuscarawas and assured them he knew of no mischief afoot where the Delawares or Mingoes were concerned, but he, too, was apprehensive over what he’d heard was occurring on the Ohio. After talking a short while, the two parties set off again on their separate ways.
The three traders had made their big mistake when, against their better judgment, they had put ashore at the hailing of the Wood party. Gibson’s party had been told, of course, about the big rendezvous of claimers and land-jobbers at Briscoe’s Settlement, but they had no desire to put in there. They had, in fact, deliberately passed it by unseen, under cover of darkness, nervous at its proximity across the river and wholly unaware that the men who had rendezvoused there were already well on their way back to Wheeling.
Worry was uncharacteristic for John Gibson, yet today he was experiencing it. He was also not a man given to presentiment, but now he had a bad feeling about what might lie ahead in the weeks and months to come.
[April 17, 1774—Sunday]
The party of Shawnees under Pucksinwah had swum their horses across the Ohio River to the mouth of Yellow Creek and again, as they had done two months earlier, stopped by Talgayeeta’s Town to tell him, as a matter of courtesy, about the disappointing results culminating the long period of counciling with George Croghan at Pittsburgh. They discovered that Talgayeeta had been gone for some time on a hunting trip with a large number of his young men from the village. A few men had remained behind, including Talgayeeta’s older brother, Taylaynee, and they spoke to him briefly.
“Our friend, George Croghan, is very sympathetic to our problem,” Pucksinwah told him, “and would like to help us, but his hands are tied. He can only pass along our complaints, as he has done numerous times before, to those who rank over him. What will come of it will no doubt be as before—nothing. You have heard that we were shot at in our camp at Pittsburgh three moons ago for no good reason. No one was hurt, but it is only one example of how little regard the whites have for us. Croghan gave us presents to take to our people, which they can use, but presents are not our great need. We must protect our lands and everything on them from those who are coming into them.”
Taylaynee nodded gravely. “We, too,” he said, “are aware of how whites move into Indian lands and take them as their own. More than once we have moved away, that we may be beyond their reach. Perhaps the Shawnees should do the same.”
“No!” The vehemence of Pucksinwah’s reply startled even his own men. “No,” he repeated, “we will not move away. You yourself say that more than once you have moved away from them to where you think you are beyond their reach. Has that stopped them? Are they not again at your doorstep? Will you again meekly move away? No, Taylaynee, the Shawnees will not do this. We are where we are, and we will protect with our life’s blood these lands that are ours.”
Taylaynee lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “I will give your words to my brother when he returns. It is all I can do.”
Pucksinwah nodded curtly, features grim and mouth set in a thin line, and led his party away on the trail heading westward into Ohio’s interior. For more than a mile he said nothing but then abruptly reined his horse to a stop and turned to face the men who made up his deputation.
“The Shemanese are very active on the Spaylaywitheepi this spring. We must be aware at all times of what they are doing. We must especially be aware of any who come across the river to hunt or take the lands.”
His eyes passed across the men and settled on a heavily built individual who bore a large scar at his right temple where, as an infant some 25 years before, he had been mauled by a bear. As a result, he had been named after the animal.
“Muga,” Pucksinwah said, “you will lead a small party. Two others. Aquewa Apetotha will be one.” His eyes flicked briefly to a thin, horsey-featured 17-year-old who was the youngest member of the party, his name meaning Child in a Blanket. “My son, Wehyehpihehrsehnwah, will be the other.” Not his son by birth, Wehyehpihehrsehnwah—Blue Jacket—was a 20-year-old white who had been captured in Virginia three years before and adopted into Pucksinwah’s family. So well had he adapted to the new way of life that he had become as much an Indian as any about him, and Pucksinwah was as proud of him as he was of his two eldest children, Chiksika and Tecumapese.
“You three,” the war chief went on, “will not return directly to the Scioto with us. It is Hokolesqua’s wish that you follow the shoreline of the Spaylaywitheepi, hunting as you go, if you like, but keeping ever
watchful for any whites on our shores. You will do this all the way to the Scioto. Should you encounter any whites on our shores, you will, if circumstances are appropriate, advance to them in peace and speak with them, but not in anger. You will address them politely and inform them that they are on our lands and must leave. Avoid conflict. If any threatens, withdraw. We will then see to it in a manner to our advantage. Be careful. Be brave. Moneto go with you.”
Pucksinwah reined away and set off on the trail, the remainder of the party following. The three young men watched them, and then Muga, pleased that he had been named to lead, grinned in his usual happy-go-lucky manner.
“Well, we’ve been given our task. Let’s do it.”
[April 20, 1774—Wednesday]
Muga, Aquewa Apetotha and Blue Jacket had painstakingly followed the shoreline of the Spaylaywitheepi according to the orders given them by Pucksinwah. At times it was difficult in the extreme, due to the craggy nature of the terrain, but they were determined to obey completely. When they came to streams entering the Ohio, they made a point of following each upstream a fair distance to make sure no one had ascended a little way before camping.
It was as they were following a game trail along Pipe Creek today that Blue Jacket, who happened to be 100 yards or so ahead of his companions, smelled smoke and then heard the faint clink of metal from far ahead. He turned and held up a hand, stopping his companions where they were. Then, tying his horse to a sapling, he crept forward and at length found himself peering through a screen of bushes at a group of some two dozen rather rough-looking men, their canoes drawn up on the shore of Pipe Creek and most of them gathered around a campfire.193
Unseen, Blue Jacket quickly backed away and silently returned to his companions. He told them what he had seen and suggested they avoid the men and simply report their presence to Pucksinwah when they reached their home village of Kispokotha.
Muga shook his head. “I think we should advance on the camp as Pucksinwah told us Hokolesqua has advised, showing we intend them no harm. Who knows what good might come of just such a simple meeting as this?”
Aquewa Apetotha agreed and despite his better judgment, Blue Jacket nodded. They tied their horses out of sight in a wooded copse and crept forward carefully until they came to where Blue Jacket had observed the camp. Blue Jacket again slipped into hiding behind the bushes and motioned the others to follow, but Muga and Aquewa Apetotha continued walking openly toward the whites, smiling, their right hands raised in the sign of peace. They walked another dozen yards or more before anyone in the camp saw them, and then abruptly there were hoarse yells and the whites scrambled for their guns.
Muga and Aquewa Apetotha stopped, still with hands upraised, and Muga opened his mouth to speak but never had the chance. Several rifles fired, and both Shawnees flopped to the ground, dead as they fell. At the same instant, Blue Jacket plunged back toward the heavier cover as more shots came and the lead balls buzzed about him, ripping through bushes and smacking into trees. Remembering Pucksinwah’s advice to do the unexpected when surprised, he raced in a half-circle around the camp, slipped into hiding in heavy brush and watched what was occurring, his heart hammering. One man already held Aquewa Apetotha’s scalp in his hand and was shaking it free of blood. Another man—big, heavily bearded and rough in appearance—was at that moment scalping Muga. He straightened and held the scalp high with a triumphant cry, then broke into a wild, prancing series of steps, accompanied by hootings—evidently his interpretation of a war dance.
Two other men, whom Blue Jacket had not previously seen, raced into the camp, and an argument ensued. Blue Jacket listened intently but could only make out scattered words. Someone mentioned the names Cresap and Clark and Greathouse and then “Logan … Yeller Creek … kill ’em all!”194
It was enough for Blue Jacket. He slipped away, made another wide circle keeping to cover and returned to the horses. In moments, riding his own mount and leading the other two, his heart heavy with grief for his companions, he was heading back toward Talgayeeta’s Town to warn them that they were in great danger.
[April 21, 1774—Thursday]
It was late in the day, and the large gathering of people at Wheeling were in an ugly mood. Settlers had come in from everywhere in the region, and upward of 400 people were now on hand. The Wheeling residents were alarmed at so many people arriving to congregate at their settlement. Busily engaged in turning one of the cabins into a makeshift fort, they had halted their labors to listen to what was being said. Michael Cresap was making it clear that he was for falling upon any body of Indians they could find and wiping them out, but he was being strongly opposed by Ebenezer Zane.
“By God,” Zane thundered, momentarily stilling the general rumble of voices, “what you men are contemplating is insane! Don’t you see that if you do this, you’ll bring on an all-out war? Our women and children are here, and a lot of innocent people are going to wind up getting killed. You just can’t do this!”
The debate went on for a long while, and Zane seemed to be making headway when an express arrived by canoe from Fort Pitt. He bore another circular letter from Maj. Connolly, this one much stronger than the first. Cresap read it aloud to the assembled crowd. Connolly had written that messengers sent to the Indians had returned to Fort Pitt bearing news that the tribes considered war inevitable and that as soon as they were fully prepared, they would strike. The Fort Pitt commander urged that those settlers who were not already doing so fortify themselves at once or leave the country. He also urged that parties of scouts be formed to patrol the frontier and intercept any approaching bodies of Indians.195
It was all Cresap needed. Climbing upon a barrel and standing high for all to see and hear, he formally declared war on the Indians, asked for a response and received a roar of approbation. Moments later the enthusiasm became more focused, when the messenger who had brought the missive from Connolly reported that some nine or ten miles above Wheeling he had passed two traders and two Indians camped onshore at the mouth of Indian Short Creek.196 At once Cresap proposed that they move against the party first thing in the morning. Once again Zane objected strenuously, warning that if they did so, it would be plain and simple murder, and they would disgrace their own names forever. This time few listened.
[April 22, 1774—Friday morning]
John Anderson nudged his helper with his elbow and grinned. “C’mon, Stevens, finish off your coffee, and let’s go. Sun’ll be up pretty quick, and our pals are waiting.” He inclined his head toward the two Delawares, Compass and Shemadota, crouched on their heels near the beached canoe.
Stevens, a lanky young man, nodded, gulped the remaining swallow in his cup and dumped what remained in the pot over the dying coals of their campfire. He and Anderson gathered up the remaining gear and stowed it in the canoe, shoved the craft out until it was afloat and then took their places. The younger of the two Delawares, Shemadota, took his place in the bow. Three separate stackings of goods were in the boat, and Stevens took his place between the first two, behind Shemadota. Anderson got between the two behind him, and Compass, a well-built middle-aged man, shoved the canoe out into the current and skillfully hopped into the stern. Both Indians began paddling at once, fairly close to the Ohio shore.
Well ahead, near midstream, three canoes loaded with men were angling toward them. Up to now on the trip down from Pittsburgh, the boats they had seen were hugging the Virginia shore, and they had talked to no one. As the three boats drew nearer, they could see that all the men who were not paddling were holding rifles, and Compass said something to Shemadota in the Delaware tongue. Shemadota ceased paddling and held the dripping paddle athwart the bow. Compass angled his own trailing paddle and turned the canoe more directly toward those approaching.
“You figure there’s been some kind’a trouble downriver, John?” Stevens asked.
Anderson did not reply. He suddenly did not like the looks of things here at all. His own rifle was leaning against the bundles dir
ectly ahead of him, and he thought about picking it up, then decided that wouldn’t be too wise.
They were within about 30 yards of the approaching boats when there was a sudden harsh command, followed by a burst of gunfire. Shemadota was slammed backward against the bundles behind him, blood spurting from several wounds in his chest and head. In the rear Compass had been struck and had risen high on his knees, clutching his bleeding stomach with one hand, the other arm hanging limply from a shattered shoulder. More shots came, and he was struck in the face and chest, knocked backward and sprawled across the thwarts.
Stevens had been grazed by a ball on the right side of his neck and had clamped his hand to it to staunch the bleeding. He was crying and trembling so terribly that his whole body shook. Anderson was unharmed but stunned and speechless at the devastation.
The leading canoe of the three held seven men, including Michael Cresap, and it drew up beside the drifting trader’s canoe. Compass and Shemadota were scalped and their bodies shoved overboard, where they disappeared beneath the surface. At that point Anderson finally found his voice.
“Why have you done this?” he asked hoarsely.
Cresap eyed him with distaste. He didn’t know Anderson, but he had never much liked any of the traders he had been associated with. “We’re at war with the tribes again,” he said, adding bluntly, “and any Indian we see is a dead one.”197
About an hour later, the canoe bearing the two traders in tow, the Cresap party returned to Wheeling and beached their boats. An immediate division of all the confiscated trading goods was made among those who had participated in the attack, while those who had remained at Wheeling gathered around and looked on. The Zane brothers were among them. They saw two fresh scalps and the canoe with bullet holes in it fore and aft, along with a great deal of blood.