That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  “I believe I can say with assurance, sir,” Ogle concluded, “that no parties have come across the river above here.” He appeared about to say more but then did not.

  “I seem to detect there’s something else, Captain,” Shepherd prompted.

  “Well, nothing really definite, sir, except that while we were between Beech Bottom and here about half an hour ago, we noticed something peculiar.”

  Beech Bottom was 12 miles upstream, and the colonel nodded, a faint edge of impatience in his voice. “All right, let’s have it. What?”

  “The air became hazy, sir. More downstream than anywhere else. We”—he looked at his companions as if for confirmation— “all of us thought it looked sort of like smoke. Couldn’t smell any smoke, but it looked like it.”

  “From where, do you suppose?”

  “Well, I don’t know, Colonel, but if I were to make a guess, I’d say there’s a possibility the blockhouse at Grave Creek has been burned.”

  “That’s it?” Col. Shepherd asked. The little Grave Creek Blockhouse was a dozen miles below Wheeling, and it seemed to him that that was a long distance to detect any smoke in the atmosphere.

  “Yes, sir, that’s it.”

  “All right. Thank you, Captain Ogle. You and your men get some food and rest now.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Saluting, the four men turned and left, and Col. Shepherd walked to the small window and looked out. It was almost dark now, and the temptation was to forget about it until tomorrow morning, but he shook his head. This was not the time to be careless about anything that seemed even remotely suspicious.

  Thirty minutes later, two men slid their canoe away from shore near the Wheeling wharf and headed downstream in the early darkness.279 Their instructions from Col. Shepherd were to reconnoiter as far as the mouth of Grave Creek, ascertain if there were any Indians in the area and return as quickly as possible. He expected to see them back before dawn.

  [August 31, 1777—Sunday night]

  It was well after eleven P.M. when the Indian force began its swift and silent crossing of the Ohio River, in canoes brought along or hastily constructed for this purpose. The little boats, each carrying six to ten warriors on the way over and one or two on the way back, repeatedly crossed the big stream. First, the Indians went across the west channel to Wheeling Island, then quickly moved on foot to the east shore of the near half-mile-wide island, then crossed the east channel just as silently and swiftly to the Virginia shore to a point about a quarter-mile above Fort Henry.280 Within three hours the entire war party of 389 Wyandots, Ottawas, Chippewas and Mingoes had completed the crossing.

  The gates of Fort Henry were closed, and numerous lanterns glowed from within, but most of the houses, cabins, shacks and outbuildings beyond its perimeter were dark. The broad trail running north from the fort toward small, seven-mile-distant Vanmetre’s Fort at the mouth of Short Creek was flanked by fields of tall standing corn, and it was in these fields that half the Indians secreted themselves in two separated lines. The other half spread out in a broad arc beyond the dwellings, stretching their line all the way to Wheeling Creek. A small group of six Indians remained apart from the others, prepared to show themselves when daylight came to any group or party that emerged from the fort and to serve as a decoy to lead an attacking force from the fort into ambush.

  Within an hour of their crossing, there was no visible sign of an Indian in the area. Tense and excited about what lay ahead, they had settled down in hiding to wait for daylight.

  [September 1, 1777—Monday, 3 A.M.]

  The two men in the canoe, returning in the darkness from their mission to Grave Creek, angled their slim little craft into the mouth of Wheeling Creek, paddled upstream about 30 yards and put to shore just below Fort Henry. They quickly pulled the boat well up from the water’s edge and then turned to climb the steep bank to the level where the fort was located. As they passed the bulk of a large log barely visible in the darkness, two figures rose from hiding and stepped quickly up behind them. The men heard a slight sound and began to turn, but never completed the movement. Two tomahawks simultaneously plunged through their skulls, and both men dropped without uttering a sound. They were quickly and silently scalped, their weapons taken and the bodies shoved into a cavity beside the log.

  [September 1, 1777—Monday, 6 A.M.]

  Dr. David McMahan was thoroughly disillusioned about living on the frontier.281

  Last spring, when he was back in Baltimore, the idea of coming to the western wilderness and claiming fine tracts of land as his own had seemed like a glamorous adventure. So had serving in the army under Gen. Washington. A permanently shriveled left hand from a bullet wound received at Braddock’s defeat 22 years earlier had made him unacceptable for further military service, but he could not be disqualified from a western adventure, and the idea, once conceived, consumed him. An impulsive man at times, within a week he had turned his medical practice over to a colleague and set off on horseback with his two Negro slaves, Sam and Ezra, on their own horses, each leading two packhorses laden with baggage and tools. They had made their way to Fort Cumberland and followed the Braddock Road to Brownsville, then crossed the Monongahela and followed the trail that led to Catfish Camp and, finally, Wheeling.

  He was disappointed when he found worthwhile land in that vicinity all taken up, and he didn’t much like the idea of striking out into the wilderness on his own to find land still available. A bit late, he discovered, as well, that he very much missed the medical life and the comforts of a more civilized existence. And though he did not care to admit it, he was morbidly fearful of being attacked by Indians, even to the point of having nightmares where he saw his own scalp hanging from the belt of a half-naked savage.

  Here at Wheeling he had treated some of the most fearsome wounds and mutilations he had ever seen, not only among the men, where they might be expected as an occupational hazard of being an Indian fighter, but among women and children as well. Less than a month ago he had treated that nasty, infected chest wound the Wetzel boy had suffered from the Indians, and he had not been entirely convinced the lad would recover, though he had; there were too many others who had not.

  Last night he had lain awake most of the night thinking about the situation here and at last he had come to a conclusion: This was not the way he wanted to spend the rest of his days. He would leave Wheeling and return to Baltimore, where he belonged. With Dr. David McMahan, a decision made was a decision acted upon. He dressed himself and then roused his slaves in the first gray light of dawn.

  “Sam, Ezra,” he said, “I want you to get two or three other men—tell them I’ll pay them a dollar each—and go out to where the horses are grazing and bring them in. We’re leaving for Baltimore this morning.”

  The expression on the faces of the two black men brightened. Sam, who had been taken into slavery in Guinea when a boy, grinned broadly. “For sure, Massa?” he asked. “For good?”

  Dr. McMahan nodded. “For sure and for good. Now get to it. If possible, I want to be on our way by sunrise.”

  [September 1, 1777—Monday, 6:30 A.M.]

  The two men hired by Sam and Ezra to help round up and bring in Dr. McMahan’s seven horses were a young Irishman named John Boyd and the huge down-on-his-luck German named Jacob Greathouse. Both were militiamen but off duty at the moment.282

  The horses had been put to pasture along Wheeling Creek in a small bottom a bit more than a mile above Fort Henry. The four men had little difficulty in rounding them up and getting them haltered. They had no sooner started leading them back toward the settlement, however, than Sam drew up sharply and pointed. “Who’s that?” he asked.

  Four men were emerging from the nearby brush along the riverbank, and as Sam’s companions turned to see, a single shot was fired. The ball struck John Boyd in the throat, severing his spine, and he fell dead. Instantly, Sam, Ezra and Greathouse dropped the ropes and scattered at top speed. Ezra had not gone m
ore than a dozen yards, trying to reach cover in some trees, when two more Indians lunged out and grabbed him, pulling him shrieking with fear into the brush. Both Greathouse and Sam got away and were not pursued.283

  [September 1, 1777—6:45 A.M.]

  The alarm raised in Wheeling spread quickly throughout the settlement. Most of those not already within the walls of Fort Henry fled there at once, all with nothing more than the clothing they wore and perhaps a hastily snatched gun. Silas and Jonathan Zane, along with some other men and their wives and a few children, decided to remain in the Zane blockhouse some 60 yards from the fort, but they quickly closed the shutters and manned the rifle ports.284 Elizabeth Zane immediately set about checking the loads on every gun not in hand and, when finished, took post at one of the portholes herself.

  Betsy Wheat, one of the women who had just taken refuge there from a nearby cabin, was settling the children securely in the loft with orders to remain there and keep quiet, when she abruptly realized that her baby was still asleep in her cradle back at the cabin. Quickly climbing down, she strode to the door, unbarred it and ran out, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t lock it. I’ll be back in a minute.” It didn’t take quite that long. She returned with the blanket-wrapped baby, still sound asleep, cuddled in her arms.285

  Inside Fort Henry, Col. Shepherd calmed the settlers, gave orders for defenses and quickly learned the details of the attack from Greathouse. Before the big frontiersman had finished spilling out his words, Sam came in, gasping for breath and repeating over and over again, “I thought I was dead! I really did. I thought I was dead!”

  Col. Shepherd, deciding it was a small hit-and-run raiding party, ordered Capts. Meason and Ogle to take a couple dozen men to investigate the scene and bring in the bodies of Boyd and Ezra, if they could be found. They left at once.286 Col. Shepherd put every remaining man in the fort on active alert. Old John Wetzel was assigned to post as lookout in one of the four blockhouses; his eldest son, Martin, had marched off with Capt. Meason’s company.

  Ten minutes after the departure of the party, three of Capt. Ogle’s men in the fort decided they wanted to join their company commander. They were Pvts. Joseph Biggs, Robert Lemon and Abraham Rogers.287 They asked permission of Col. Shepherd to do so, and he let them go. The trio, rifles in hand and grinning at the prospect of an Indian hunt, trotted out after the company.

  There were now, left within the fort, a total of only 33 able men.288

  [September 1, 1777—Monday, 7:30 A.M.]

  “By God, Sam, they’re still there!”

  The company led by Capt. Meason was not yet to the spot where the attack had occurred, but Sgt. Jacob Ogle—brother of Capt. Tom Ogle, who was bringing up the rear—pointed to where, several hundred yards ahead of them, six Indians had leaped up from hiding and started loping away toward the dense paw-paw growth rimming the Wheeling Creek bottoms.

  Capt. Meason immediately ordered double time, putting his 24 men into a hard run after them. He was gratified to see that they were quickly closing the gap. The pursuit led them into an area where the thicker cover was close on both sides, the Indians just managing to keep ahead of them by about 100 yards.

  Then, horrifyingly, there were scores of Indians all around Capt. Meason’s company, leaping out from where they had been hidden, their decoy ambush having worked perfectly. The air was rent by the crashing of guns, and in that first burst of gunfire practically all of the whites were hit, many of them fatally.289 Among them, marching beside Capt. Meason, was Lt. Samuel Tomlinson, who took a bullet through the head. And just behind Tomlinson, at the edge of the column, Pvt. Martin Wetzel had his hat brim neatly clipped off by another ball that then smashed into the temple of the man beside him and killed him—Pvt. Jacob Eindstaff.

  The 17-year-old Wetzel instinctively dropped as if he, too, had been shot and rolled into the heavier cover beside the road. There, with the multitude of shots still crashing behind him and the shrieking of the Indians a horrible accompaniment, he scrambled through the tall weeds, slithered down into an erosion ravine and, with the cover it provided him, raced as fast as he could in the direction it ran, which was toward the extensive cornfield to the north. The ravine diminished rapidly in size and all but disappeared before reaching the corn, but he slipped among the tall stalks without having been noticed, the cries of the Indians far behind now very faint.

  Three privates toward the rear of the column managed to escape the first burst of fire and broke away, running back toward the fort. One was 19-year-old William Shepherd, eldest son of Col. Shepherd; the other two were his brother-in-law, Hugh McConnell, and the third was Thomas Glenn. These three were pursued by seven or eight howling warriors brandishing tomahawks, who gradually closed the gap separating them.

  “Split up!” Glenn shouted, and angled toward the creek. McConnell and Shepherd separated somewhat from one another, both still heading for the fort. Young Shepherd got his foot caught in a grapevine and tumbled. As he tried to scramble back to his feet, the Indians overtook him and a tomahawk smashed into his head, killing him. Others continued to pursue Glenn and McConnell. The former was overtaken just before reaching the creek, and he fell when a thrown tomahawk buried itself in his back. Before he could rise, another tomahawk blow killed him. McConnell alone, of the three, reached the fort and sped inside as the gates were opened slightly for him.

  Two privates near the head of the line—John Caldwell and Robert Harkness—somehow missed being hurt, and both plunged into the underbrush, but not together. Caldwell managed to get across Wheeling Creek, though several shots struck the water near him as he swam, and a couple more smacked into the bank as he emerged on the other side. It was densely brushy there, and he was able to disappear from sight quickly, but not before he saw one of the warriors plunge into the stream in pursuit of him. It lent speed to his flight, and he continued to run as fast as he could, heading upstream toward the Forks where Shepherd’s Fort was located.

  Harkness had tumbled into deep grasses bordered by trees and evidently was thought to have been hit, since no one came after him. He squirmed through the grasses until reaching the trees and then regained his feet and raced away, heading for the only haven he thought he could find, Catfish Camp, some 24 miles to the east.

  Capt. Meason, his gun having been shot out of his hands, and his sergeant, Jacob Ogle, raced through a gap in the Indian lines and plunged up the overgrown hill in front of them, Ogle about ten yards ahead of his captain and still gripping his rifle. Both men were slowed by wounds they had taken and were running erratically to avoid the shots kicking up tufts of ground about them. One of the balls took Ogle low in the back, and he fell with a cry, struggled back to his knees but was unable to regain his feet. As Meason passed, Ogle tossed him his weapon and shook his head.

  “Go on, Cap’n,” he gasped. “I’m done for. They’ll stop when they get to me. Go on!”290

  Meason ran on, angling now toward the mile-distant fort, but his speed was considerably diminished by the uphill run and his wounds. A ball had passed through the fleshy part of his left shoulder, and another had lodged in his right buttock, causing him to already feel light-headed from loss of blood and his exertions.291 Behind him he could hear a pursuing Indian drawing closer, and he expected any moment to feel a tomahawk blow. Abruptly, he whirled and began raising the rifle to fire, but the warrior was already too close, rushing at him with tomahawk upraised, and he could do no more than thrust out a hand. The higher ground he was on gave him a slight advantage, and the heel of his hand caught the Indian in the forehead and caused him to stumble backward. As the warrior scrambled to regain his balance, Meason managed to bring the rifle to bear and snapped off a shot. The ball caught the Indian in the left side of his forehead and killed him.

  Meason pressed on, but he knew now he would never make it to the fort. His flight had carried him quite a distance north when he came to a split-rail fence, well grown up with weeds about it and a pile of poles lying parallel t
o it. With the last of his strength he staggered into the space between fence and poles and collapsed, rolling into the weeds and partially under the pole pile.

  Capt. Thomas Ogle and Pvt. Matthias Hedges had leaped into dense cover together, both wounded, Hedges the more seriously. Ogle, still gripping his rifle, had taken a ball through his right side; Hedges had been shot high in the right chest, and blood was running down the corner of his mouth. His rifle was gone, and he was holding his right hand over the chest wound. The two, keeping to heavy cover, gradually worked their way back to the fence line where there was a heavy growth of tall horseweed and tangled briars. Despite the savage thorns that tore at them, they thrust their way deep into the tangle at the fence corner and hid themselves in the densest portion.

  Far to the other side of Wheeling, almost two miles distant, a rider had appeared on the road from Vanmetre’s Fort several minutes before the ambush. He was Francis Duke, son-in-law of Col. Shepherd and a deputy commissioner at Wheeling, who was returning from the little Beech Bottom Settlement, three miles above Vanmetre’s, where he had spent the night in an abandoned cabin. Now, approaching Wheeling, he began passing between the flanking cornfields when, far in the distance to the southeast, he heard the firing of many guns. He hesitated, looked back and saw Indians emerging from the corn well behind him. He spurred his horse into a gallop toward Fort Henry, but he was still some 75 yards from the walls when he was killed by a barrage of gunfire and fell from his horse onto the road. The horse itself was captured.292

  The initial outbreak of gunfire stopped Pvts. Biggs, Lemon and Rogers, who had been trying to overtake and join the detachment. Ahead, there was more gunfire accompanied by shrill shrieks, and the three didn’t have to discuss what was happening. Instantly they took to their heels, heading back to the fort. As they came into the clear, they heard a smaller burst of gunfire to the north and west, and within moments they saw numbers of Indians spilling out of the cornfields and running to cut them off. They sprinted even harder, and as they neared the fort, several shots were fired at them. At this a whoop was raised at one end of the line of Indians and was picked up all the way down the line in a tremendous cry. Immediately, a ragged volley came from the lower blockhouses of the fort. The Indians stopped whooping and fell back a little to keep out of range.