That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  Pucksinwah’s reply was level, firm: “We here respect what Talgayeeta has said, and from the injury done him, we cannot find fault in his vow. But we have given our promise to talk with Croghan at Fort Pitt. If accommodation can be reached, we will lend ourselves to it, but not to the detriment of our Mingo friends. And if accommodation cannot be reached, then we, too, will raise our hatchets in war.”

  [May 18, 1774—Wednesday]

  John Gibson was not a particularly large man, but he was tough, smart and well experienced, having made a very good living in the hazardous Indian trade for the past 15 years. He rarely became angry, but when he did, he was a particularly dangerous man because his anger was well controlled.

  Today, on Redstone Creek, the unrelenting fury that had seethed within him for nearly three weeks had finally become focused. Having tied the reins of his horse to the rail nailed to a pair of posts, he stepped up to the cabin door and knocked loudly. It was opened by a man he did not recognize, who gazed at him inquiringly.

  “I’m looking for Michael Cresap,” Gibson said. “I was told I’d find him here.”

  “Who’re you?” the man asked suspiciously. He seemed ready to say more, but another man, shorter, more stockily built and with sandy red hair, appeared at the doorway, and the first man stepped back a little to give him room.

  “I’m Michael Cresap,” he said. “You look familiar, but if we’ve met, I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “You’ll never forget it again, you son of a bitch!” Gibson reached forward before Cresap could react, bunched the front of the Irishman’s blouse in his fist and jerked him out into the clearing before the cabin. Cresap whirled, off balance, and fell heavily but immediately came to his feet in a half crouch, hands clenched.

  The trader stepped closer and scowled at him. “The name’s Gibson,” he said. “John Gibson. And you’re the bastard who killed my wife and baby.” His fist shot out and caught Cresap on the right side of his forehead, sending him tumbling, and once again the stocky man came to his feet, shaking his head to clear his vision, then started to circle as he looked for an opening, realizing now what this was all about.

  “Yeah. I know you—you’re the trader whose squaw got killed,” he said. “Well, dammit, I had nothing to do with that. It was Greathouse and his boys.”

  “They did the killing,” Gibson agreed. “You lighted their fires.” He launched himself at Cresap and for the third time bowled him over, the two of them grappling and rolling in the dirt, punching one another. Cresap had been in brawls before and usually held his own rather well, but this time he was no match for his adversary; if any of his own blows landed, they had little effect. Gibson pummeled him unmercifully, and when at last Cresap could no longer stagger to his feet, the trader squatted beside him, gripped his hair and jerked his head around so they were face to face.

  “I’ll say this only once, Cresap.” Gibson’s voice was deadly with menace. “Get the hell out of this country and don’t come back. If I see you again, I’ll kill you.”

  He shoved the man from him and rose, stared down at him a moment and then walked to his horse. The first man was still at the cabin door but was now holding a rifle. Gibson stared at him, and after a few seconds the man shook his head faintly and set the gun aside. Without another word, the trader mounted his horse and rode away.

  Cresap came slowly to his senses, his face bloodied and one eye already swollen to a mere slit. He realized full well how close he had come to death. Within an hour he was on his own horse, heading southeast on Braddock’s Road toward Fort Cumberland and beyond.

  [May 20, 1774—Friday]

  Jack Ryan’s luck was still holding; he saw the Indians before they saw him. A pair of warriors traveling one behind the other on the faint path along the Cheat River began crossing a forest clearing moments before he would have entered that same clearing from the other direction. He quickly moved his horse behind a screen of brush and tied it, then ran with his rifle to a gnarled old oak beside the path. Peering out cautiously, he had a clear view of the two men approaching. The Indians were walking rapidly, talking as they did so and occasionally laughing. Ryan took careful aim at the center of the first man’s chest, hoping the bullet would pass through him and hit the second man as well. It didn’t happen. The ball smashed into the first man’s chest and tore through his heart, then struck his spine and broke it but lodged there. The second Indian leaped away, raced back into the woods from which they had emerged and disappeared before Ryan could reload. The white man remained in place, even after reloading, until, some five minutes later he saw the fleeing Indian swimming rapidly across the Cheat River far upstream and well out of range. He watched until the man emerged from the river and ran into the woods on the opposite side. Then, congratulating himself as being some fine Injen hunter, he went to the body, took all the dead man had that was worthwhile, scalped him and continued on his way.

  [May 21, 1774—Saturday]

  The delegation of eight Shawnees led into Pittsburgh by Hokolesqua and Pucksinwah were an impressive sight as they boldly rode their horses through the frontier town.

  In addition to the Shawnee principal chief and its war chief, the party included Silverheels, younger brother of Hokolesqua. He could speak English quite as well as Pucksinwah and had long been employed as guide by the trading firm of Baynton, Wharton and Morgan, but he was also frequently named to attend councils such as the one they were heading for now. With them as well was Nonhelema, the sister of Hokolesqua and Silverheels. Well over six feet tall and quite well proportioned, she was an impressive woman who had often accompanied war parties in the past and fought with the strength and ability of the most seasoned warrior. Because of her great size and skill in battle, she had long ago been dubbed by the whites as The Grenadier Squaw. Silverheels and Nonhelema were flanking Pucksinwah as they rode.

  The remaining four members of the Shawnee party included Outhowwa Shokka—Yellow Hawk—who was chief of the village of Chalahgawtha, where Paint Creek empties into the Scioto River, and his wife, a sturdy woman named Sheshepukwawala—Duck Eggs—rode beside him.213 The final two members of the delegation were young men. One was Elinipsico, son of Hokolesqua and nephew of Silverheels and Nonhelema; the other was Blue Jacket, adopted son of Pucksinwah.214

  An aura of hatred emanated from the scores of men who lined the wide dirt road leading to Fort Pitt, all of them armed and made all the more dangerous by the fear resident in their minds, but the delegation paid little attention to them. The Indians were preceded by five traders and followed by five others. Pucksinwah found it ironic that his delegation, having rescued William Butler and these other traders on the Muskingum, should here be finding the situation reversed and their safety in the hands of those they had helped.

  They knew William Butler well and respected him as a trader who had always dealt fairly with the Shawnees. When word had reached them at Wapatomica from Delaware Chief White Eyes that this trader and a number of his friends were in jeopardy and he was hiding them from the Mingoes, they at once detoured the short distance to White Eyes’ Town, hardly a mile from the Forks of the Muskingum, and met with the chief. White Eyes told them several traders had already been killed and others were presently hiding in the Moravian missions that had been established on the Tuscarawas River.215

  The situation was very tense, White Eyes had told them, adding that even he had been threatened if he interfered further—a warning that stemmed from the most recent incident. It had begun several days ago when the trader Richard Jones and two of his men, unaware of what had occurred at Baker’s Bottom, were trading among the smaller Muskingum villages near Goschachgunk. Those three had been warned by a Delaware woman that the Mingoes had gone on the warpath and were killing every trader they encountered and they would die as well if they ran into those Mingoes. She had then pointed out a little-used path that, if followed, would perhaps allow them to reach Fort Pitt safely.

  The Jones party, White Eyes went on, had s
tarted out on that path, but it was difficult traveling, and as they passed a trail in much better condition, one of his men decided to go that way. He had traveled only a short distance before he walked into a party of 15 ranging Mingoes, who instantly killed and scalped him and then chopped his body into pieces. White Eyes said that shortly afterward he had come by and found the gruesome scene and had gathered up the body pieces and buried them. The next day, however, the Mingoes had returned that way and, finding the body buried, dug it up and again scattered the pieces. White Eyes had watched this from hiding, and when they left, he gathered up the pieces a second time and reburied them. He, in turn, was observed, and later the Mingo party came to his town and threatened him, saying they would treat in like manner every trader they encountered, and if White Eyes interfered again in any way, his lot would be the same.

  It was then, White Eyes told them, that he had quickly sent out parties to locate whatever traders they could and bring them in safety to his town, where he would hide them until they could be escorted to Pittsburgh. Though they did not find Jones and his remaining man, they did locate traders William Butler, William Wood and eight of their men and brought them to White Eyes’ Town. Now an opportunity was at hand, if Hokolesqua’s delegation would act as escort, to get them away safely.

  Hokolesqua had readily agreed, and they had reached Pittsburgh, only to find that the men they had rescued had now themselves become the protectors and were escorting the Shawnees toward Fort Pitt, where the council was to be held. Butler sent a rider ahead to seek out George Croghan or Alexander McKee and get their assistance, and McKee, as soon as the situation was explained, hastened to Maj. Connolly and requested a body of militia be sent out to protect the delegation. Connolly refused to do so, called McKee an Indian lover, threatened him and his family and ordered him away.216

  Now, as the delegation approached the main gate of the fort, the body of horsemen paused. Butler shook hands with Hokolesqua and Pucksinwah and, on behalf of the traders, thanked the Shawnees for their help. Then he led his traders away toward the Baynton, Wharton and Morgan post on the other side of town. Their departure was a bit premature. The delegation continued its short ride to the gate, keeping a close eye on the large cluster of ugly-tempered men who were gathered near the portal. No sooner had the riders stopped and dismounted at Hokolesqua’s command than someone among the whites yelled an order, and the mob rushed upon them. A wild melee broke out that ceased only when George Croghan rushed up, brandishing a pistol in each hand and firing one into the air.

  “Dammit, stop!” he shouted, white with anger. “Get away from these people. I’ll shoot the next man who makes any move to harm them.”

  No one doubted the seriousness of his threat, and the whites fell back, muttering, but the damage had been done. Silverheels lay on the ground gasping past frothy red bubbles. Blood was flowing profusely from two knife wounds, one in his right shoulder, the other in his chest. Sheshepukwawala was on her knees beside him, already stuffing the chest wound with buzzard down from her pouch to staunch the bleeding. Nonhelema, Elinipsico and Blue Jacket, tomahawks in hand, crouched beside them, ready to fend off further attack. Pucksinwah and Outhowwa Shokka, also with drawn tomahawks, stood ready to protect Hokolesqua.

  Now, too late, a squad of militia ran up and dispersed the crowd. Croghan ordered that Silverheels be carried to the post surgeon for treatment and apologized profusely to Hokolesqua as this was done. The surgeon dug out the blood-saturated buzzard down from the chest wound, cleansed and bandaged both wounds and announced that though the chest injury was serious, it would not likely be fatal provided the man was well cared for. McKee offered to take the delegation to the quarters that had been prepared for them, but Hokolesqua refused. His expression set in grim lines, he said they would not stay and that now there could be no further talk of peace.

  Croghan and McKee immediately confronted Connolly and demanded that he order a company of militia to escort the delegation back to the mouth of Cross Creek, where they would cross the Ohio to Mingo Bottom on their way home. The canny Connolly readily agreed, knowing others would see it as a humanitarian gesture that would help absolve him of any complicity in what had occurred. It mollified Croghan but did not in the least reduce his apprehension for what now lay ahead: The final hope of averting a general war had just been lost.

  [May 23, 1774—Monday]

  The express messengers to the Virginia governor from Maj. John Connolly and Capt. William Crawford reached Williamsburg within hours of each other and informed Lord Dunmore what had occurred on the Ohio—the attacks by Cresap’s party, the massacre perpetrated by the Greathouse party and the ensuing mass exodus of the majority of the settlers.

  Other messengers dispatched from the frontier eastward to Philadelphia, Baltimore and New York were also arriving at their destinations about this same time. When the word spread, both in Virginia and elsewhere, a mantle of shock settled over the populace at the enormity of the barbaric acts perpetrated by the whites against the Indians on the basis of unfounded rumors. A wave of revulsion grew in particular over the brutal massacre that had occurred at Baker’s Bottom, and recriminations were immediately raised. Thomas Jefferson labeled the deed inhuman and indecent; Benjamin Franklin portrayed it as uncivilized butchery without precedent, even among the savage tribes. Charles Lee called it a black, impious piece of work, and even Lord Dunmore admitted that the affair at Baker’s Bottom was marked with an extraordinary degree of cruelty and inhumanity.217

  Within hours after the arrival of the messengers in Williamsburg, all of the Virginia capital was abuzz with the news, and by day’s end, an emergency session of the Virginia Assembly called by Dunmore had approved a war plan that he placed before them. There were those who remarked that Dunmore had not seemed surprised by the news from the frontier and, in fact, had seemed almost to be holding himself in readiness for it; yet no one thought to question how the governor could have so swiftly devised such a detailed war plan against the Indians.

  The war plan called for Dunmore’s surveyor friend, Angus McDonald, who had been a major during the French and Indian War, to be immediately given a brevet commission as colonel and empowered to repair at once to Fort Pitt, there expeditiously to raise a force of 400 militia and immediately lead them into Ohio against the Delaware and Wyandot towns at the Forks of the Muskingum River and particularly against the adjacent Shawnee capital, Wapatomica.

  In the meanwhile, the plan continued, throughout the remainder of the summer, a much larger army of 3,000 men would be formed in two wings of 1,500 each. The southern wing, to be led by Gen. Andrew Lewis, would assemble by late August at Camp Union in the Greenbrier Valley and descend that river, the New River and the Kanawha to the rendezvous site at the point where the Kanawha empties into the Ohio, arriving there about October 1. The northern wing would be raised by Dunmore himself in the tidewater and piedmont areas of Virginia and be marched to Fort Pitt. There, Maj. Connolly—who was now being elevated to the temporary rank of colonel—would turn over to Dunmore the men he had raised on the frontier. From that place they would descend the Ohio in boats to Wheeling and, subsequently, to the mouth of the Kanawha, to rendezvous there with the Lewis force about the first of October. At that point Gov. Dunmore, now as general and commander-in-chief, would lead the combined force across the Ohio in the boats he had brought down. They would then march overland to the Shawnee villages on the Scioto, the object being to destroy them all and engage in combat any and all forces of Indians directed against them.

  Proclamations and announcements were issued immediately and posted in every public place throughout Pennsylvania and Virginia, ordering all able-bodied men to assemble as soon as possible at Fort Pitt or Camp Union to become part of the armies being formed. There was little doubt that the multitude of frontiersmen, settlers, surveyors, farmers and ordinary citizens who had longed for the opportunity to finally drive the Indians back and open those lands for settlement and development in safety
would flock by the hundreds in response to this call.

  Dunmore also put other projects into motion. The large teams of surveyors he had sent to Kentucky very early in the year—those under James Harrod, Hancock Taylor, John Floyd and others—were presently surveying and claiming lands at the Falls of the Ohio and in the Kentucky interior from there. These parties had to be warned to clear out before the armies started their march. Two men of proven woodland ability were asked to undertake the dangerous assignment of carrying the warning to them, and they accepted without hesitation. One was a large German man from Richmond named Michael Stoner, who had a reputation for successfully accomplishing any task assigned to him. He would descend the Ohio on his mission. The other was the man who probably knew Kentucky better than any other white man at this time and who would head for the same area overland from southern Virginia, through the Cumberland Gap—Daniel Boone.218

  [July 11, 1774—Monday]

  Sir William Johnson, undoubtedly the white man most influential with the Indians in America, gazed at the nearly 3,000 tribesmen who had assembled here at his home in the Mohawk Valley of New York. These delegates represented some 130,000 Indians, and what went on here would affect them all. Soon the Grand Council would begin, and he was discouraged, expecting it would not go well.

  For the past 37 of his 59 years, Johnson had been closely associated with the Indians—especially with the Iroquois League—and had worked hard against tremendous odds to try to protect their rights. Yet even now, with revolutionary talk rampant among the colonies, he still had no sure idea what would happen to them if war broke out between England and her colonies. He was gloomily convinced that whichever side might win such a contest, it boded no good for the native inhabitants. He was unalterably opposed to the rebellious fever rising in this country, and his job—and the reason why all these tribal representatives were here today—was to convince the Indians that it would be in their own best interests to support the King if war became reality.