by Allan Eckert
“Now, let’s see what the great Injen hunters k’n do.”
Taylaynee nodded and smiled briefly at his sister-in-law and sister watching with interest from one side. With the weapons of the whites empty, his suspicions evaporated, and he gestured to his men. All stepped up to the line as the whites had done and aimed at the lower target. Taylaynee counted.
“Negote … neshwa … nithese!”
All seven guns fired at once, but this time, before the cloud of smoke could dissipate or the clustered warriors move apart, the whites leaped off to the side and the roar of Jake’s voice filled the air. “Now!”
Even as the somewhat tipsy Indians dropped their rifles and clawed for their tomahawks, the 26 hidden men rose and fired in a great barrage. All seven of the warriors were killed instantly. Off to the side, Mellana was screaming as an attacker ran up to her with flintlock pistol in hand and pointed it at her head. She put up a hand, palm outward, in front of her face, but the ball passed through her hand and into her forehead, and she fell dead.199
Koonay, the child still in the cradleboard on her back, had broken into a run toward the canoes, but one of the shooters lunged out of hiding and tackled her. The infant girl rolled free, crying, and another man ran up, grabbed the baby and covered her mouth. Koonay was struggling hard to get away from the man who had tackled her, but he was too strong and, as she began to scream, he clamped his hand fiercely over her mouth.
By this time the others had emerged from hiding and run up to the fallen warriors and were already getting their weapons and scalping them. A short distance away, closer to the river, one of the ambushers called out.
“Jake! Two more canoes comin’. ’Bout fifteen Injens and some young’uns.”
“Take cover an’ reload,” Greathouse ordered, setting his rifle aside. “We ain’t done yet. An’ keep that goddamn squaw quiet! Joe, Dan’l, put your guns down an’ come with me.”
The men scattered and took cover behind underbrush close to the river’s edge. Koonay, still struggling, was dragged behind a rocky ledge, pulled to the ground and held down. Tomlinson and Daniel Greathouse fell in with Jake and walked toward the beached canoes. The rapidly approaching canoes were well within rifle range now, but the three men continued to saunter casually to the shoreline. Their lack of guns obvious, they waved to the Indians in a friendly manner as the canoes coasted in toward shore near them. The Indians were looking about anxiously for their fellows, and one cupped his mouth and called out, “Taylaynee! Taylaynee!”
Behind the ledge, still pinned to the ground by the man astraddle her, Koonay heard the voices. She brought her knee up savagely into the man’s groin. He grunted with pain and jerked his hand away from her mouth to protect himself. Instantly she shrieked a warning, cut off in midscream as her captor struck her in the face with his fist, stunning her.
The Greathouse brothers and Tomlinson dropped flat to the ground, Jake shouting “Now!” as he went down. Again a ragged barrage of shots broke out from the hidden men. Some Indians in both canoes crumpled. Several men and boys leaped out and tried to surge away in waist-deep water. All but two were cut down by more shots. The remaining two, by alternately diving and surfacing until out of range, managed to escape to the other side of the river.200
Tomlinson came to his feet, a strained expression on his face. The Greathouse brothers grinned at one another as they stood up. Jake looked at Tomlinson and pulled his tomahawk from his belt. “Joe,” he said, “you wanted some o’ them scalps, so he’p yourself. Me, I got a ’pointment with a squaw.”
He strode away and came up to where Koonay lay on the ground at the feet of her captor, who was still groaning from the pain she’d caused him. The woman, on her back, was just beginning to stir, a large ugly bruise already forming on her temple close to her left eye. Greathouse nudged her roughly with the toe of his boot, and she moaned.
“What’cha gonna do, Jake?” the other man asked.
Greathouse looked at him and snorted, then raised one foot and planted it firmly on Koonay’s distended abdomen. The expression on his face was one of pure malevolence. He reached to the sheath on his belt and pulled out his scalping knife.
“I aim,” he said, “t’get the smallest Injen scalp ever been took.”
Chapter 2
[May 1, 1774—Sunday]
Talgayeeta’s expression was frozen in mingled grief and disbelief as he moved slowly from one to another among the bodies of his family and friends at Baker’s Bottom. His warriors had gently gathered them up and placed them side by side. Here lay the scalped and otherwise mutilated bodies of his friends. Here, in similar condition, lay the bodies of his wife Mellana, his brother Taylaynee, and his nephew Molnah.201 But worst of all was the discovery of the body of his sister Koonay, a short distance away.202 His men had tried to take her down before Talgayeeta saw her, but he came upon them too quickly. Her face was battered almost beyond recognition, and then she had been hung by her outstretched wrists from two saplings. Evidently while still alive, she was then scalped and disemboweled, and her nearly full-term unborn son removed from her body. This child had also been scalped and stabbed and then tossed aside.
The piercing, wailing death cry abruptly burst from Talgayeeta and after a moment was picked up by the warriors in his party. Soon the bottom resounded with the eerie chorus. Gradually it died away, and though the grief remained in Talgayeeta’s expression, now his features became contorted with demonic rage as he lifted his tomahawk and spoke, his words frightening with their cold and terrible intensity.
“I, Talgayeeta, give my vow.… For every life taken here, ten of the Shemanese will die under my hand.… And I, Talgayeeta, vow it: By my hand alone, twenty lives for my unborn nephew!”203
[May 2, 1774—Monday]
The Greathouse party largely remained together until they reached Catfish Camp, where no one yet knew of the massacre of Talgayeeta’s family. Most of the residents there were still on hand, though they were packing up their goods preparatory to leaving, fearing the retribution that the Indians would launch against the settlements in response to Cresap’s attacks on the trading party at the mouth of Indian Short Creek and that on the Mingo hunting party in their camp at the mouth of Captina Creek.
Big Tarrener had been brought in by litter from Wheeling, but he was obviously slipping fast, and the consensus was that he could not possibly survive the journey remaining to get him to medical care at Pittsburgh. They were correct. Though they took him to the cabin of William Houston, where James Chambers had come after refusing to participate in the Greathouse plan, and Houston attempted to treat Big Tarrener’s wound, it was to no avail; within two hours of their arrival, Tarrener had died. The two men slightly wounded from that attack had quickly pressed on to the east.
As more of Greathouse’s men showed up and assembled at Houston’s cabin, one of them carrying an infant Indian girl, Houston himself had a difficult time believing the enormity of what had been done by the Cresap and Greathouse parties on the Ohio River.204
Chambers was positively furious about the Baker’s Bottom affair and decidedly more vocal, verbally castigating his friend Edward King for participating.
“I can’t believe,” he said, “that you actually took part in this thing, Ed. I had considered you as my friend, but no longer. I won’t have as a friend a man who could do something like this. What you’ve done”—he turned and let his gaze swing across the entire Greathouse group, and his tone was contemptuous—“what all you men have done is the grossest, most atrocious murder!”
Joseph Smith, a one-armed man who had participated in the massacre, jerked his tomahawk from his belt and advanced on Chambers, his eyes burning dangerously. “You sanctimonious son of a bitch!” he growled. “Make one more remark like that, and I’ll bury this ’hawk in your head.”
Chambers stood his ground a moment, ready to grapple with the man if it came to that, but then he simply shook his head and turned away.205
Almost as
fearful of Greathouse and his men as they were of the Indians, the people at Catfish Camp avoided them when they first showed up, though looking upon the ruffian group with undisguised loathing. Gradually, however, as word spread among the residents of the atrocity that had occurred at Baker’s Bottom, quite suddenly the fears of the settlers turned to panic, and the majority fled precipitately.
The Greathouse party itself soon split into smaller groups or individuals and dispersed, heading eastward. The account of the destruction of Talgayeeta’s people spread even more rapidly.
[May 3, 1774—Tuesday]
The first fearful whispers of the tragedy at Baker’s Bottom reached Pittsburgh as some of the Greathouse party came through and hardly paused long enough to impart the news. There were shock and recriminations from among the listeners, but the Greathouse men did not linger. Within mere minutes of their arrival, they disappeared eastward on foot along the Military Road.
Alexander McKee, deputy Indian agent under George Croghan, was on hand to hear what had been said, and nearly beside himself with rage, he ran to the fort immediately and confronted Maj. Connolly without any trace of tact.
“This is all your doing, Connolly! You, with your stories about attacks that never occurred, danger that never existed, robberies that were never committed. You spread those lies and then promoted white retaliation with those damned circular letters of yours. You ought to be—”
John Connolly cut him off with a savage jerk of his hand. “How dare you come in here talking like that, McKee? You Pennsylvanians are all the same—loudmouthed and stupid. Get the hell out of here or, by God, I will damned well have you shot!”
Still seething, McKee left, sought out the half-breed Andrew Montour and told him to get ready to carry an express to the tribes. Then he returned to his quarters, wishing George Croghan were here now to do what he was going to do, even though it was probably already too late. He knew what he had in mind might cost him his job, but somebody had to try to do something to stop an all-out war.
Swiftly he wrote out the brief message:
from Alexr McKee, Pittsburgh
Brothers—We are under the necessity, from some disagreeable intelligence we have just received, of calling upon your immediate attendance at this place, where we shall have some things of importance to communicate to you, which intimately concerns the welfare of us both: This will be sufficient, we expect, to induce your speedy appearance here, as delays upon those occasions may be attended with the most dangerous consequences.
He folded the letter and thrust it into a flat leather pouch. Then, snatching a string of white wampum from where it hung on a nail near the fireplace, he strode to the door and threw it open. Montour was waiting, and he handed him the wampum and pouch. “Take this to Hokolesqua,” he directed, “then to White Eyes, Monakaduto and Pimoacan. And to Talgayeeta.”
[April 4, 1774—Monday]
Incredibly, in the midst of all this havoc he was creating with his deliberate instigation of an Indian war, Maj. John Connolly was also waging a war of sorts for Lord Dunmore on behalf of Virginia against the Pennsylvanians at Pittsburgh. Connolly meant to make certain this whole portion of the frontier was locked up solidly as part of Virginia’s domain, and he didn’t care one iota what steps he had to take to do so.
Already having embodied close to 100 men in his militia at Fort Pitt, Connolly now gave them orders to go out in squads and gather all the provisions they could from the inhabitants, especially Pennsylvanians. Acting on these orders, the squads went out and confiscated any horses they found, to be used by the military. They also shot cattle and hogs belonging to the inhabitants and transported the carcasses to the fort to be butchered for meat for the military. When residents strenuously objected, he had them arrested and thrown in the Fort Pitt guardhouse and then also, in their absence, conscripted their property.
One of Maj. Connolly’s particular Pennsylvania enemies in Pittsburgh was Devereaux Smith, formerly of Philadelphia, who was prominent in politics as well as in other areas. Smith was just as adamant that Pittsburgh and the Monongahela and Allegheny valleys belonged to Pennsylvania. Yesterday, Smith was arrested by Connolly’s militia for disobedience of government orders in wartime and was put in irons to be taken away for incarceration in the blockhouse at Wheeling. Before he could be led off, he gave instructions to trader William Butler, who was residing with him, to protect his wife and property in his absence.
Now Connolly, wasting no time, sent an armed guard of six men to Smith’s house to confiscate all the blankets stored there for the Indian trade and all the parcels of goods that had been set aside to be distributed at Indian councils. Butler, himself armed, barred their access to the house, and a certain amount of pushing and shoving, with threats of greater violence, were exchanged before the guards returned to the fort to tell the commander of their being balked. Furious, Connolly immediately led a larger armed squad—12 men—to the Smith house. A fierce argument broke out between himself on the one side and Butler and Mrs. Smith on the other.
“Butler,” Connolly warned, “stand clear, or I will, by God, have you shackled and marched to Williamsburg and take every particle of your trading goods from you.”
“Major Connolly!” The words, like rifle shots, burst from Mrs. Smith. “Mr. Butler is protecting this house and home and everything in it at the orders of Mr. Smith and myself. What you are doing is illegal, and if you do not desist and leave here at once, I promise you, I will have Mr. Butler shoot you. And should you manage to get past him, then I, sir,”—and here she drew out a large flintlock pistol from beneath her apron—“will shoot you dead in your tracks. Do not,” she warned, “think I will hesitate an instant to do so.”
“You goddamned bitch!” Connolly stormed. “I’m in command here, and my orders are to be followed!”
“Not at my house, you’re not in command.” She cocked the flintlock with a loud click, and it was echoed by the heavier click of Butler’s rifle. “Now,” she added coldly, “you get the hell off my property before I count three, or I swear to God, sir, you will die where you now stand. One … two …”
Connolly wheeled, cursing bitterly, and started away, his squad following. While stalking off, the major called bitterly over his shoulder, “Goddamn you, Mrs. Smith, you’ve not heard the end of this!”
“Nor have you, Major Connolly,” she replied, “I assure you of that.”
[May 5, 1774—Thursday]
On the Jacob’s Creek tributary of the Youghiogheny, Valentine Crawford was very nearly finished with the letter he had been writing to Col. George Washington, advising him of the peril now afoot in the frontier districts.
The letter was already long and detailed and largely contained information that had been brought to him yesterday. He wrote that his brother, Capt. William Crawford, traveling with a friend, Edgar Neville, had left his Youghiogheny settlement in the forenoon yesterday, heading on horseback for Neville’s home in Pittsburgh. They had left William Crawford’s place under the watchful eye of his friend and indentured servant, John Knight, who for the past year had been working off the cost of his passage from his native Scotland by tutoring William Crawford’s children. Less than an hour after the two men started, they encountered a group of men who were obviously very nervous. These men had admitted to being part of the Greathouse party until reaching Catfish Camp, where they had broken away on their own. They had with them some fresh Indian scalps and, in a cradleboard basket, an infant almost continuously crying. On being questioned rather sternly by Crawford, they soon admitted everything that had occurred at Baker’s Bottom.
Crawford and Neville were horrified at the news. The baby, since being taken four days earlier, had been fed only a few mouthfuls of gruel and had been given a chunk of jerky to suck upon and was obviously crying from hunger. Neville questioned the man who had her and learned that she was the daughter of trader John Gibson and an Indian squaw and that her mother had been butchered in the attack. The man who w
as carrying the baby said he had taken no part in that, although he admitted to giving thought to knocking the infant’s brains out, but he said that he had been prevented from doing so by a welling of pity at her helplessness. He added that “all hell was bustin’ loose” and reckoned that all the settlers in the whole upper Ohio Valley were on the move to the east and probably reaching Redstone about now.
Crawford had demanded the child, and the man gave her to him, obviously thankful at being relieved of the unwanted responsibility. Chiding the men for their part in the incident—though they themselves heaped all the blame on Cresap, Greathouse, Tomlinson, Baker and a few others—Crawford had sent them on their way, and then he and Neville immediately retraced their own steps to his settlement on the Youghiogheny.206 There he had placed the infant in the care of a wet-nurse—one of his slaves who was nursing her own baby—and in moments the baby girl was sucking greedily at her breast.
Aware that what the Cresap and Greathouse parties had perpetrated would certainly result in a general Indian war, Crawford and Neville separated and set out to warn all the settlers they could of the impending danger and advise them to get east of the mountains as soon as possible.207 Crawford’s route took him as far distant as Brownsville and the other Redstone area settlements, after which he had finally stopped by briefly to see Valentine and tell him the bad news.
Valentine went on to explain to Washington that by the time his brother arrived, he was already aware of the amazing exodus in progress but had no certain knowledge of the cause. William’s visit had filled in the gaps, and while the information being relayed to Washington was thirdhand, it was being related as received. Now, wanting to get the letter off by express as quickly as possible, Valentine Crawford bent to finish what he was writing, penning the words swiftly: