by Allan Eckert
“What happened to the Indians who were with this party?” Ebenezer Zane asked.
Cresap stared at him a moment, and then his lips spread in a humorless grin. “Seems they fell overboard and never came up,” he said. A roar of laughter erupted from the crowd, and Zane grimly turned and walked away, followed by his brothers.
[April 22, 1774—Friday noon]
When Blue Jacket arrived at Talgayeeta’s Town on Yellow Creek, he expected to find Talgayeeta still absent with his hunting party but was gratified that he had just returned. The hunt had been very successful, and a number of bison were killed. Talgayeeta had returned merely to get another party of his people to help jerk the meat and bring it back to the village. On seeing the urgency in the young Shawnee, however, he put everything aside, and they went to his lodge to talk. He called for food to be brought to his young guest, but Blue Jacket shook his head, apologized for his rudeness and said there was no time for that. The words then spilled from his mouth in a steady stream as he told Talgayeeta what had happened, concluding with what seemed to be a threat to Talgayeeta himself. He was stunned at the Mingo’s response.
“I am sorry, Wehyehpihehrsehnwah, for what you have gone through and about the death of your companions, but I think you must have misunderstood what those men said. You must realize, my young friend, that the whites have been the friends of Logan for many many years, just as the Shawnees have been. They have often been welcomed in my village and would have no reason to attack me or my people. I am sure you must be mistaken, but I will prepare myself in any event. I am indebted to you for coming to tell me. My home is yours. Food and bed will be prepared for you.”
Blue Jacket’s reply was laced with poorly disguised anger. “I cannot stay,” he said tightly, coming to his feet. “Pucksinwah must be told what has happened, as must the families of Muga and Aquewa Apetotha, so they may begin to mourn their loss and prepare for revenge. My own people,” he added bitterly, “will believe what I have to say.”
[April 23, 1774—Saturday]
The party under Jacob Greathouse and George Rogers Clark arrived at Wheeling just before noon. Once again a crowd gathered, and the men proudly displayed the two scalps they had taken at Pipe Creek. Cresap was more interested in what Greathouse had to say: After having shot the two and taken their scalps, they had searched for a third Indian that was seen, but he had gotten away. Fearful that he was part of a war party and would bring others swooping down upon them, they had taken to their boats a short while later.
Greathouse went on to say that on emerging from the mouth of Pipe Creek, they had spied a lone man in a canoe along the Virginia shore and had intercepted him. The man, a settler who had been downriver to make tomahawk improvements, told them he was quitting the country for now because there were too many Indians about, that only three or four miles below he had passed a hunting party of Mingoes setting up a camp at the mouth of Captina Creek. Immediately the Greathouse party had left the settler behind to come along as best he could and themselves paddled at top speed back here to Wheeling.
Cresap at once, much to the disgust and opposition of the Zanes, gathered together a new party of 30 men and left within minutes to hit the Mingoes.
[April 24, 1774—Sunday]
John Gibson, Alexander Blaine and Matthew Elliott were very relieved that the Shawnee party building canoes here, well up the Hockhocking, knew nothing of any attacks being made against the white surveyors, land-jobbers or settlers. They, in fact, had laughed, just as Elliott had laughed, when the rumors were repeated to them.
“Well,” Gibson said, “it was something we really had to check on, and I’m glad it’s turned out to be wild stories. I’ve seen it happen before; tales get started, and things get all twisted around. Connolly, if he didn’t start all this himself, ought to have his neck wrung for becoming a part of it. Stories like that can sometimes cause big problems.”
Trading their canoe and some goods for three horses to ride and two packhorses to carry the remainder of their merchandise, the three now set off overland, heading due west for the Shawnee villages in the Scioto Valley. It was a beautiful spring morning, and they felt much better now as they left the canoe-making party behind, reasonably sure the current scare along the Ohio River would quickly die away.
[April 25, 1774—Monday]
The Cresap party, on its return to Wheeling, was far more subdued than when it left. They had descended the Ohio swiftly to the mouth of Captina Creek and found the Indian camp, but they lost the element of surprise when one of their party inadvertently shot his rifle before the signal could be given. It gave the Indians a chance to snatch up their own weapons and return the withering fire that was suddenly pouring in on them. There were somewhere around 20 Indians in the party, and the Cresap party managed to kill three and wound a couple of others, but the remainder escaped. In the brief firing the Indians returned, three whites had been shot, two of these only slightly wounded, but a huge bull of a man known only as Big Tarrener had taken a ball through the stomach. He was in bad shape, and a horse litter was rigged to carry him overland to Catfish Camp and from there on the rough wagon trail to Pittsburgh.
The enormity of what they had done began penetrating, along with consideration of what the repercussions would be. Quite a large number of the men at Wheeling, as well as many of the residents, now decided that very soon this whole Ohio Valley was going to become a very dangerous place for whites. Their fear became contagious and a mass exodus began, the people avoiding river travel and heading eastward by land on the main trail to Catfish Camp, the Monongahela, Redstone and beyond. By the end of this day, except for the corps of men still with Cresap, Wheeling was virtually abandoned. Cresap, however, at the urging of Jacob Greathouse, had decided that one final attack was in order before they vacated: Talgayeeta’s Town on Yellow Creek.
[April 27, 1774—Wednesday]
It was just after the 11 canoes passed Upper Twin Island that Michael Cresap, in the leading canoe, raised a hand and pointed to the Virginia shore, where there was a narrow bottom, and angled in that direction. The others followed and beached their boats close to his, wondering what was going on. Wheeling lay five miles downstream, and since Yellow Creek was still some 35 miles upstream, the sudden put-in to shore confused them.
Cresap waited until they had all gathered around him and then held up his hands for silence and spoke. “Boys,” he said, “I’ve been doing some hard thinking ever since we left Wheeling. What’s been done so far this past week can maybe still be smoothed over by some counciling with the tribes and some payments from us. But if we go on with this attack on Logan’s camp, there’s nothing in the world that’ll prevent all-out war. Is that what we really want?”
“Dammit, Cresap,” someone called, “you’re the one who’s been doing all the talking an’ leading. You gettin’ cold feet now?”
Michael Cresap did not even try to see who spoke. He merely shook his head and continued as if there had been no interruption. “I expect most of us here, if we haven’t personally met Logan, have heard about him. He’s a damned fine man, and he’s always been a friend to the whites. Whenever there’s been trouble between the Indians and us, he’s stayed neutral. So I’ve been asking myself, why are we heading up to his village to attack him? It just doesn’t make good sense. He’s up there with a handful of men but a lot more women and children. They haven’t harmed us, and they don’t show any signs of doing so, so I propose we call off this whole thing and follow the others back to the Monongahela for a spell till all this cools down. So what do you think?”
He expected, having brought them this far, that they were going to be irate over his suggestion, but he was pleasantly surprised to find that he was not the only one having second thoughts. By far the great majority of the men had been growing ever less inclined to continue with this ridiculous and dangerous expedition, yet none had had courage enough to bring it up.
They loaded up their pipes and smoked while discussing
it further, and though there were some among them who were all for going on, more by far held the opinion that their best course was to do as Cresap suggested. At last they put it to a vote, and the majority agreed to turn back.
One group, somewhat apart from the rest, was disgruntled. They murmured among themselves for a while and then seemed to come to an agreement. Their spokesman, Jacob Greathouse, came to his feet, tapped out his pipe bowl against the stock of his rifle and then spoke in a scathing voice.
“I see a bunch o’ cowards here,” he said, “an’ I guess it’s a good thing we found out now ’stead of up at Yeller Crik. Us’ns here”—he indicated the 30 men of his clique—“we’re for going on with the whole thing. Well, fact is, we ain’t got enough to do it, so I reckon it’s off. But we ain’t got much good feelin’ ’bout headin’ back t’Wheeling with the likes of you and then goin’ cross-country with our tails ’twixt our legs, so I reckon you’ns can go on ’thout us. We’ll head on upriver for Pittsburgh in our boats, and t’hell with the Injens an’ you an’ ever’thing else!”
They separated then. The Greathouse party remained on shore and watched with disgust as the others returned to their canoes and paddled back toward Wheeling. Then Jake turned to his men.
“Good riddance, I say. Aw’right now, let’s talk more ’bout what I mentioned afore. We ain’t got too many left, but they’s enough for the plan I got in mind. I still aim to get us a passel of scalps off them red niggers up at Yeller Crik. Anybody wants to back out, now’s the time.”
No one left.198
[April 30, 1774—Saturday]
Jacob Greathouse had been crouched behind the big rock on Baker’s Bottom for about an hour when his vigil finally paid off. Four Indian canoes came into view from upstream on Yellow Creek and pulled ashore at the point formed where the stream empties into the Ohio. The river was about 500 yards wide at this point, and they were a few hundred yards above where Greathouse was hidden, so he couldn’t make out much detail, but at least a couple dozen individuals came ashore at the point.
Jake remained hidden, watching intently as the Indian party evidently discussed something. Then nine of them reentered two of the canoes, shoved off and began heading across. A crooked grin spread the big man’s lips as he backed away, then strode to where his men were gathered about the small campfire in a broad clearing well up from the shore and mostly hidden from the river. They were a disreputable-looking crew, dirty, unkempt, half with scruffy beards, and all 31 of them had rifles in hand and tomahawks and knives in their belts.
“Okay, boys,” Jake said, “it’s workin’, jus’ like planned. They’re comin’ acrost. ’bout eight or ten of ’em in two boats. More stayin’ over on the point, waitin’.”
He looked over the group, and his gaze settled on his brother, Daniel, squatted beside Joe Tomlinson. He nodded and pointed at them. “Dan’l, Joe, you two get your guns ready an’ stay with me.” He indicated some men close to them. “Same with you four. All the rest, get your guns ready, too, and get hid where I tol’ you. An’ don’t make no noise! Damn Injens got ears like wolves. Ever’body watch me. When I yell ‘Now!’ that’s when you give it to ’em. Now get hid. Joe, Dan’l, come with me. You four stay by the fire here. Act normal, frien’ly.”
He strode back toward the shore, his brother and Tomlinson following. They passed the rock where Greathouse had hidden before and moved down to the edge of the beach area and waited. Greathouse’s grin returned when he saw that the two canoes were nearly halfway across and still coming steadily, being watched by the group of Indians still on the point.
Greathouse mentally congratulated himself on how well everything was working and thought about how he’d set it up. Yesterday morning, still coming upstream after Cresap’s group had returned to Wheeling, they had stopped at the cabin of Charles Polk, located on the bottom near the mouth of Cross Creek, some 18 miles downstream from here. They tried to get Polk to join them but, on hearing what they had in mind, the settler refused to take part.
The party had then, early in the afternoon, reached Baker’s Bottom about a mile below here and stopped off at a cabin that had been erected earlier this year by James Chambers and Edward King. Greathouse had solicited this pair to join them and, though Chambers refused, King agreed and came along. Next, at Tomlinson’s insistence, they had stopped at Joshua Baker’s little cabin store a half-mile below here. Tomlinson’s sister, Sarah, was Baker’s wife and, after making sure she was all right, they had talked with her husband. When they finished explaining what was planned, Baker gave them two kegs of whiskey and a gallon jug of rum to aid in the deception and, leaving Sarah to watch over the store, joined them.
They had then come to this spot and set up the little camp. Later in the afternoon, taking along the jug, the Greathouse brothers had crossed the river alone and ascended Yellow Creek to Talgayeeta’s Town. Chief Logan, they soon discovered, was absent with a large party, bringing in meat from a hunting trip, but his brother, Taylaynee, greeted them cordially enough and gratefully accepted the jug Jake presented to him. Greathouse told him that he and his brother and four others were camped on the bottom across the river and that they had a couple of kegs of whiskey they’d gladly share with the Mingoes if they came across tomorrow. Knowing well their predilection not only for liquor but for gambling, he suggested they bring some of their beaver skins along, and he’d figure out some kind of a sporting contest. The Indians would get a fresh keg of whiskey all their own to take away with them if they won, but Greathouse’s party would get the beaver skins if the Indians lost. The idea appealed to Taylaynee, and he agreed in his broken English to come over with some of his people in the morning soon after the sun had cleared the hills to the east.
Now, as the two canoes coasted to shore and the Indians began getting out, Greathouse stepped forward and extended his hand to Taylaynee, welcoming him. He and the six warriors with him all had flintlock rifles. There were also two women—one middle-aged, the other a younger woman whose stomach was well swollen with her advanced pregnancy and who carried a little girl, about a year old, on her back in a cradleboard attached to her by a harness affair called a hoppase. The older woman helped her to shore.
Greathouse smiled at the younger woman in a friendly manner. “Reckon I know you, don’t I? Ain’t you Chief Logan’s sister?”
She nodded. “Yes, Talgayeeta is my brother.” She indicated the other woman. “This is Mellana, who is his wife. You know my other brother”—she indicated Taylaynee, then turned to a young warrior, about 20—“and this is his son, Molnah. The others are our friends.”
Greathouse dipped his head to them and indicated the two who were with him. “Well, this here’s my brother, Dan’l, an’ our frien’, Joe Tomlinson. C’mon up t’the camp an’ have a drink.” He turned and strode away, his two men following, and in a moment the Indians also followed.
Taylaynee’s gaze flicked across the campsite as they came in view of it. The four men squatted near the fire smiled and nodded to them, and Taylaynee saw that their rifles were carelessly leaning against a rock, clearly out of arm’s reach. He also saw the two kegs of whiskey, one open with battered pewter cups hanging on the rim.
“Well,” Greathouse said jovially, “there’s the whiskey, just like I promised. He’p yourselves.”
Suspicions allayed by the normalcy of the camp and the evident friendliness of the whites, Taylaynee nodded. He rattled off a string of words in his own tongue, and the seven warriors converged on the keg, dipped the cups and drank greedily. The women stayed to one side.
Greathouse continued speaking in a pleasant, conversational tone. “Reckon your Chief Logan ain’t got back yet, eh?”
Taylaynee swallowed his mouthful of rum and shook his head. “Logan back soon. Two suns. Maybe three.” He eyed Greathouse with a flicker of suspicion and said, “Other braves, ’cross river there”—he pointed—“come here soon.”
Jake pretended surprise. “That right? Well, they’s sure �
��nuff whiskey for them fellers, too.” He paused and then added as an aside, “Heered tell you boys’re damn good hunters. Ain’t likely, though, you k’n shoot a mark nowhere near as good as us’ns.”
Swallowing more rum, Taylaynee replied boastfully. “Cayuga shoot straight. Shoot good.”
Greathouse chuckled. “Reckon my boys’re better, though. We k’n sure ’nuff find out. Tol’ you we’d have a sportin’ match. Look over yonder, an’ you k’n see a couple targets we hung on that big ol’ beech tree.” The tree he indicated was some 40 yards distant, where two squares of a torn white kerchief had been pegged to the smooth bark one above the other, about four inches apart. Jake continued without pause, “You fellers shoot at that bottom one all at the same time. Then me an’ my boys’ll shoot at the top one all at onct. Then we’ll go see how many hits in each. Iffen you win, we give you that whole keg of whiskey. Iffen we win, we get seven beaver skins. How’s that sound? You bring along them skins?”
Taylaynee nodded. “Skins in canoe.” He looked at Greathouse directly, his suspicions not entirely allayed. “Cayugas not shoot first. White men shoot first.”
“Reckon that’s fair ’nuff,” Greathouse replied. “Boys, get your guns. We’re gonna show ’em how it’s done.”
Greathouse gouged a long line in the dirt with his heel, and all seven of the whites took their places side by side and primed their weapons. The Indians, separating from one another somewhat and gripping their rifles, watched closely.
“Aw’right, boys,” Greathouse ordered, “top target when I count three. Ready? One … two … three!”
All seven guns barked almost simultaneously, and a large cloud of blue-white smoke rose. As it cleared, it could be seen that the top target had been hit by at least three or four of the balls. Greathouse and his men, grinning, stepped away from the line with their empty rifles, and Jake spoke jeeringly but good-naturedly.