That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  Everyone on the frontier seemed to realize that the troubles that had beset them thus far were only a prelude of what was to come. In the upper reaches of the Ohio rumors were again rampant of large war parties of Wyandots and Mingoes preparing to move against them, and there was a flurry of activity as new blockhouses sprang up all over and existing cabins were fortified. These became places where threatened settlers could take refuge and from which parties of men could range outward to intercept the raiding Indians.

  At his settlement near the mouth of Short Creek, John Vanmetre spent weeks fortifying his cabin, and the place soon became known as Fort Vanmetre. Similar cabins were fortified or new little blockhouses erected at Beech Bottom and at the mouths of Cross Creek and Grave Creek. They helped a little, but everyone knew that, apart from Fort Pitt, only Fort Henry at Wheeling had any chance of withstanding a major assault.

  The Kentucky country was gaining the reputation of being a dark and bloody land, but attacks were increasing throughout the entire thousand-mile length of the Ohio Valley. And the Ohio River itself, known by so many different names in the past, was being given a new and menacing designation that was destined to last for decades to come: It was being called that dark and bloody river.

  [June 17, 1777—Tuesday]

  The new Grand Council at Detroit, being held by the lieutenant governor of Canada, Col. Henry Hamilton, had by now attracted somewhat more than 3,000 tribesmen from hundreds of miles distant: Kickapoos from the southern Illinois country, Potawatomies from the lower Lake Michigan country, Winnebagoes and Menominees from the Wisconsin country, Chippewas and Mississaugi from the upper Michigan country and Iroquois delegates from upper New York and adjacent Canada. Hundreds were also on hand from the closer tribes: the Wyandots and Miamis, the Mingoes and Delawares and Shawnees. Speaker after speaker had risen to pledge support to the British, and many more raids were promised by the Wyandots and Delawares.

  Hamilton had issued a proclamation that was now posted not only at Detroit but at every frontier station and fur-trading post where it might be read by any who were still wavering in their loyalties:

  By virtue of the power and authority to me given by his Excellency, Sir Guy Carleton, Knight of the Bath, Governor of the Province of Quebec, General and Commander-in-Chief, &c., &c., &c.

  I do assure all such as are inclined to withdraw themselves from the tyranny and oppression of the rebel committees, and take refuge in this settlement, or any of the posts commanded by His Majesty’s officers, shall be humanely treated, shall be lodged and victualled, and such as come off in arms and use them in defence of His Majesty against rebels and traitors till the extinction of this rebellion, shall receive pay adequate to their former stations in the rebel service, and all common men who shall serve during that period shall receive His Majesty’s bounty of two hundred acres of land.

  Given under my hand and seal.

  God Save the King

  Henry Hamilton

  Lt. Gov. & Superintendent

  Last Sunday, Hamilton, still having received no specific instructions from Quebec in respect to what was expected of the Indians on this frontier, had written to Gov. Carleton about the pending council:

  Detroit 15th June 1777.

  I have the honor to inform your Excellency, that the Ottawas, Chippewas, Pouteowattamis, Hurons, Miamis, are come to this place and are to meet in Council on Tuesday next. There are also some Shawnees, Delawares, Quashtanows, but a few in Number.

  I shall keep them together as long as possible in expectation of your Excellency’s orders. Tho’ the Majority should return home I make no doubt of being able to assemble a Thousand Warriors in three weeks, should your Excellency have occasion for their services.

  I have the honor to be most respectfully Your Excellency’s most devoted & most humble servant.

  Henry Hamilton

  Now council was in progress, and it had begun on an encouraging note. War belts had been ceremonially presented to Col. Hamilton by delegates from the Iroquois in New York, advocating attacks against the whites who had risen up against their father across the great waters. Hamilton, in turn, passed the war belts on to the Great Lakes tribes assembled, and he addressed them in strong terms.

  “Turn your strength and fighting skill against those whites who are the enemies of the King and, therefore, your enemies as well,” he told them. “Do not dip your hands in the blood of their women and children, but concentrate on the men, the warriors who will rise up against you, because it is they who consider all Indians their enemies.” Despite Hamilton’s words, the Indians knew that they would be rewarded for bringing in prisoners as well as for all scalps taken, including those of women and children, even though the word bounty had been studiously avoided.

  With a lavish hand Hamilton provided great feasts, distributed weapons and bestowed gifts on the assembled Indians, and all of these were gratefully accepted. He especially commended the Iroquois delegates for the attacks being made in the Mohawk Valley and other places against the American settlers on that frontier. Though the Iroquois maintained little affection for the western splinter group of Cayugas and Senecas who had long called themselves Mingoes, the Six Nations delegates now publicly applauded those very Mingoes, as well as the Wyandots, for the vigor with which they were opposing the whites in the upper Ohio Valley and urged more of the same.

  “In what has already passed,” responded Pimoacan—Captain Pipe—of the Delawares, “they have felt but the tips of our spears and arrows and have smelled only the first faint whiffs of our gunpowder. Now they will come to know the full thrust of the blades of our knives and tomahawks, and the smell of our gunsmoke will choke them.”

  [July 26, 1777—Saturday]

  The appeals for help made to Virginia by the Kentuckians in the three remaining fortified settlements—St. Asaph’s, Harrodsburg and Boonesboro—had finally had an effect: Col. John Bowman arrived with a mounted company of 100 men. A young officer highly impressed with his own importance, Bowman was disgruntled at having been sent to this remote frontier instead of to the British-American battlefront, where great recognition and subsequent advancement could be gained by enterprising officers, such as was presently occurring with Anthony Wayne and Arthur St. Clair. He disdained the rude living conditions here and the scraggly militia drawn up in his honor by Maj. George Rogers Clark and became incensed over the fact that no barracks were available for his men, nor stables for the horses.

  Most galling was the fact that, so far as Bowman could see, there was little problem here requiring military attention. A few marauding Indians were still out causing some annoyances, but they hardly constituted the invasion that had been reported. Ignoring Clark’s friendly greeting, Bowman informed him that he was taking over his militia command.

  Clark, presently in the midst of planning an attempt to capture the British posts at Kaskaskia and Cahokia in the Illinois country, had only a few weeks ago sent out two men—Benjamin Moore and Samuel Linn—to spy there. He had hoped the reinforcement under Bowman would help in this endeavor. Instead, he was coldly rebuffed. Stung by such treatment, he refused to serve under Bowman. Instead, he began at once to recruit new men for his endeavor. He did not have a wide selection; even though Boone’s friend, Bailey Smith, had recently arrived with 40 men from North Carolina, there were only 102 men left at the three stations—65 at Harrodsburg, 22 at Boonesboro and 15 at St. Asaph’s.

  Bowman had been in Kentucky but a few weeks when, without orders to do so, he returned with his men to eastern Virginia, leaving Kentucky once again virtually defenseless.

  [July 31, 1777—Thursday]

  The new Ohio County in Virginia, which included Wheeling, had established its militia almost two months ago during its first court session. Col. David Shepherd, now living in a cabin he had fortified on Wheeling Creek, was named its commander. Samuel McCulloch, who had been active in Dunmore’s War and was then promoted to major, was named second-in-command of Fort Henry, with that rank. Jo
hn Mitchell, Samuel Peters, Joseph Ogle, Jacob Lefler, John Vanmetre and Sam Meason were all named captains, while the lieutenants appointed were Sam Tomlinson, Thomas Gilleland, John Biggs and Derick Hoaglin. William Sparks was commissioned as ensign. All of the captains had at once begun recruiting men for their companies, most of which were by now up to full strength. It was none too soon, as the Indian raids had increased considerably almost everywhere on this upper Ohio River frontier, usually involving bands of Indian raiders of ten or fewer warriors who moved with great speed, struck with terrible ferocity and then quickly vanished, only to strike again soon somewhere else.

  Today one such band of Chippewas, unleashed by Henry Hamilton and led by a renegade white named Thomas McCarty, who had been with the tribe for many years, struck at the cabin of George Baker, situated at the mouth of Raccoon Creek, just 30 miles downstream from Fort Pitt.264 Baker, his wife and five sons—the eldest of whom was 11 years old, and the youngest, only four—had settled at this site in mid-May and erected a small but secure cabin.

  Yesterday afternoon one of the younger boys reported that he thought he had glimpsed some Indians lurking about and, since the dogs had been barking more than usual, George Baker checked around a little. Finding nothing, he discounted it as a too-vivid imagination on the part of his son. Then at dawn today, the door was abruptly broken open, and in instants the entire family of seven was taken prisoner and the cabin burned.265

  The news of the capture of the entire Baker family spread quickly, and Col. Edward Hand, commanding at Fort Pitt, immediately increased patrols and strengthened security. Outlying settlers were warned to move to the nearest secure fort at once. Among those who took this advice was the Tomlinson family at Grave Creek. Rebecca Tomlinson Martin, sister of the Tomlinson boys and their housekeeper since the death of her husband, trader John Martin, in 1770, was now living in her own cabin nearby on the Grave Creek Flats and had a new name. Not quite two years ago—in October 1775—she had married a new settler to the area, Isaac Williams.266 They had fallen in love soon after his arrival there, and when a traveling preacher happened to pass through, they were married without much ceremony, he in his hunting garb and she in her everyday homespun dress.

  Now, however, with Indian raids increasing so alarmingly, the men at Grave Creek Flats were ordered upriver to Wheeling to help protect it against a large force of Indians rumored to be preparing to launch a massive attack against that settlement. Joseph and James Tomlinson, along with Isaac and Rebecca Williams, abandoned the Grave Creek Settlement and moved back to the Monongahela, but Samuel, now fully recovered from his lameness, elected to go to Wheeling and aid in its defense.267

  [August 8, 1777—Friday]

  Old John Wetzel, as the other settlers on Wheeling Creek called him, looked considerably older than his 46 years. His face was deeply lined and craggy and his hair prematurely gray, which gave rise to the sobriquet, but he was a strong and very active man. He loved farming and already had well over 100 acres in crops in the fertile land he had claimed 14 miles above the creek’s mouth and seven miles above the Forks of Wheeling Creek. Seven years ago when he had claimed here, he was not terribly pleased at being so far upstream on the creek. Now, however, with the Indian troubles having increased so, this very remoteness was an added measure of protection. If the Indians did take a notion to raid this way, there were plenty of other settlers farther downstream between here and Wheeling they could hit first. Maybe not a charitable view, he admitted to himself, but that was the fact of it.

  Family protection was his primary concern. His wife was a good woman, and he was inordinately proud of the six children she had borne him during those years they had lived at the Moorefield Settlement on South Branch Potomac and the seventh while they were living on Dunkard Creek, near the Monongahela. The two girls were learning all the skills of homemaking and self-defense from their mother and would make good frontier wives; Christina, now 21, was the eldest of the seven, while Susan, who was next to youngest, had just turned nine.

  Where his five sons were concerned, John Wetzel was determined that they would learn wilderness skills that would stand them in good stead on the frontier. Martin, eldest of the boys, had been born in 1757, followed by George in 1760. Lewis was presently 13; Jacob, 11. John Jr., whom the family called Johnny and who had been born on Dunkard Creek, had celebrated his seventh birthday just a few weeks ago.

  With painstaking care, Old John had taught the boys well; most of all, how to stay calm and use their heads in the most trying of circumstances. He also taught them important physical skills: how to run at full tilt through woodland without running into a low-hanging branch or a tree trunk; how to fight with knives and tomahawks, or even a club; how to make and use a bow effectively; how to shoot a gun accurately; and how to load a flintlock rifle while at full run. It was a skill some of the best of the frontiersmen had not mastered, yet Martin and George could do it almost as well as their father, Lewis was getting pretty good at it and even Jacob had begun to learn. Soon it would be Johnny’s turn to begin practicing.

  Their father also taught them the all-important elements of survival in the woods in any season, with or without weapons: tracking and outthinking the animal, or man, they were trailing; fire-building without flint and steel; building snares, traps and deadfalls. All these and more were part of the routine every time they went anywhere. Only a few weeks ago, in fact, Old John had taken Lewis and Jacob out into the woods along Fish Creek many miles from home, set up a camp and proceeded to prepare his own dinner but none for them.

  “You boys want to eat,” he told them, handing Lewis his flintlock, powderhorn and bullet pouch, “it’s up to you to find it, kill it, clean it and bring it in.”

  The boys looked long and hard for deer or turkey, grouse or squirrels or rabbits, but game was uncommonly scarce at this time, and for two days their gun went unfired. In camp at the end of the second day’s hunt, they watched, ravenously hungry, as their father ate his evening meal and then lit up his pipe and chuckled.

  “Reckon you young’uns ain’t hungry enough yet to realize they’s plenty out there can be et iffen ye k’n git over bein’ too dang picky.”

  The third day’s hunt was no more successful than the previous two, but still their father gave them nothing to eat. On the fourth morning they left camp at dawn and hardly ten minutes had passed before Old John heard a distant shot and set about rebuilding the fire they would need to cook whatever game had been killed. Half an hour later they came in, grinning, with two haunches of a fairly large animal. They cut the meat into chunks, spitted it on sharpened saplings, cooked it and ate it with gusto.

  “I ain’t never seen no bird with meat like that,” observed their father when they were finished, “an’ it surely didn’t look like deer meat to me, nor bear nor elk, neither. So what’d you boys eat that you liked so much?”

  Lewis and Jacob looked at each other and burst out laughing. It was Lewis who replied: “Wolf, Paw. A big ol’ wolf, an’ I reckon we never ate nothin’ that tasted so blamed good!”

  The rigorous training Old John Wetzel put his boys through was soon put to the test. Despite the fact that he felt they were reasonably safe so far up Wheeling, the recent Indian attacks and the call for men to come to help defend Wheeling had convinced him to take the family there. After a week, however, with no further threat materializing, Old John and three of his sons—George, Lewis and Jacob—returned to their place to do some work with the crops. They were almost there when Old John shot a fine buck, and they brought it to their cabin with them. The three plow horses were still grazing in the fenced pasture, and the bitch who had borne four pups a couple of months ago was still caring for them by herself and everything seemed fine. The weather was warm, so to preserve the meat they cut it into strips for jerking and hung the pieces over the chimney fire to cure.268

  In the morning, anticipating no problems, Old John and 17-year-old George left their guns in the cabin, and the four of them t
ook their hoes and headed out to the turnip patch to do some cultivating.269 They worked hard together, and about midmorning Old John paused and leaned on his hoe. The boys paused as well and looked at him. He nodded as if he had reached some decision in his own mind.

  “Lew, you an’ Jake take a walk down to the cabin an’ put some more wood on the fire an’ check on how that meat’s curin’. Make sure that dawg ain’t stealin’ none of it. Also, it might not have been a good idea, me an’ George leavin’ our guns at the house. Bring ’em along when you come back.”

  Lewis and Jacob left immediately, glad to be relieved of the hoeing for a while. When they got to the cabin, they found the venison strips curing well but the fire considerably burned down. There were a few pieces of wood in the cabin and, while Jacob put them on the coals, Lewis went outside to get some more wood. He was just stooping to pick up a piece when he heard a sound that caused him to straighten and begin turning around. As he did so, there was the crash of a gun, and he felt a searing pain as a ball slammed into the right side of his chest and scored a deep gash before exiting on the left side. He was knocked off his feet and rolled over on the ground but almost instantly rose again to run. He had no chance. Two Indians close by shrieked wildly and grabbed him by the arms. Jacob came running out of the cabin to see what was happening and, taking it in at a glance, turned and tried to run off, but he, too, was caught by more Indians who dashed out of the nearby woods.

  They were a party of seven Wyandots who gathered around the boys, and from what Lewis and Jacob could understand of what they said, the Indians had decided to take them along and make good Wyandot warriors out of them. Four of the warriors went into the cabin and brought out the two rifles and some other goods that were there and used the blankets they found inside to tie the goods into bundles.270 Even in his pain, Lewis thought it strange that they didn’t take the meat that was curing. Three of the Wyandots, however, caught the three plow horses in the pasture, brought them to the cabin and tied the bundles on them.271