That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  Within the fort no one had been idle since the assault was first initiated. As many women as men were firing from the rifle ports—Mrs. Henry Glum was particularly outstanding in this respect—and those among the women who could not shoot well were kept busy molding bullets or loading empty weapons and carrying the newly charged flintlocks and additional powder and bullets back to the shooters. Some of the women cooked and carried food and water to the defenders, with the heavy-set 42-year-old mulatto slave called Aunt Rachel—Rachel Johnson—leading in this effort.299 Even the youngsters who could handle tasks were put to work. Lewis Wetzel, largely recovered from the bullet wound across his chest, was positioned near the south wall sally port and was cautioned to be alert and ready to open the door to any who escaped the ambush or who might otherwise reach the fort, and he had done just that when Elizabeth Zane had dashed across. Jacob Wetzel had been given the same charge at the river wall sally port.

  Ebenezer Zane seemed to be everywhere at once, moving from rifle port to rifle port and shooting from any from which he saw an Indian. He was usually accompanied by Pvt. Nicholas Rogers, who carried messages or ran errands for him whenever needed. By this time, Zane was credited with downing seven Indians, including an exceptionally good shot when he gave his rifle an extralarge charge of gunpowder and knocked down an Indian who had perched on the top rail of a fence on Wheeling Island—a shot probably in excess of 300 yards.

  Meanwhile, Capt. Ogle and Pvt. Hedges were still lying in the briars and horseweeds at the corner of the fence row, where they had remained hidden all this time. Hedges had slipped in and out of consciousness all morning, and the officer thought his companion would die if he didn’t get assistance. His own wound was very painful, but he didn’t think it was terribly serious so long as infection didn’t set in.

  As if their troubles were not enough already, two hours ago, during one of the periods when Hedges was unconscious, Ogle had detected a movement near his head, then sucked in his breath when he saw what it was. A large timber rattlesnake had poked its wedge-shaped head into view no more than eight inches away. The head lifted and the forked tongue slithered in and out as the snake tested the air. After a moment the head lowered and came toward him another few inches, then turned away. Ogle continued to hold his breath as the four-foot length of the thick, squat body slid past in front of his eyes, the scaly sides blotched with yellowish markings separated by broad black splotches. As the body narrowed toward the tail, it became almost black, and the half-dozen rattles at the tip were equally dark. And then, as if it had never been there, the snake was gone, and a wave of trembling that Ogle could not control shuddered through him for a time.

  About an hour ago Hedges had come more aware, and they had talked in faint whispers. Ogle said nothing about the snake, not wanting to alarm the private even more, but he did say he was going to try to get to the fort and bring back some help. Hedges had nodded and then, with some difficulty, had pulled a silver button off his sleeve and handed it to the captain.

  “Give this,” he whispered, “to my brother, Joe. Tell him I was thinking of him kindly at the end.”

  Capt. Tom Ogle slipped the button into his pocket but shook his head. “You’re not going to die,” he said. “As soon as it looks safe enough, I’ll head out.”

  Hedges lapsed back into unconsciousness, and Ogle was just on the verge of creeping out when he heard Indian voices approaching in the distance. He cocked his gun and remained still and tense. He was prepared, if discovered, to kill at least one of the Indians before losing his own life.

  There were two Indians, one old and one young, the latter suffering from a wound high on his left side and groaning with the pain it was causing him. The pair stopped at the fence no more than a dozen feet from where Ogle lay. He could not understand what they were saying, but the young man perched himself on the top rail, and the older one looked at his wound, then reached into the pouch at his waist and took out a clump of downy feathers and carefully shoved them into the wound, where they checked the bleeding. Then the older man climbed up and sat beside him, and they talked for a long while. At last, after what seemed an eternity to Ogle, who was terrified lest Hedges regain consciousness and make a noise, the pair got down and ambled away in the direction of the fort. Ogle slowly relaxed and un-cocked his gun, deciding it would not be safe to leave this hiding place until dark.

  Quite some time ago, a body of the more daring warriors had rushed to the outer walls of the fort and begun firing through any small gap that could be found. It was extremely dangerous to those inside, and so from the overhangs of the blockhouses at each corner of the fort, the men and women returned fire so briskly and with such effect that within the space of a few minutes the Indians had retreated from the walls, some hobbling away or being half-carried, but only four known to have been killed. After that the firing became more scattered and erratic.

  Now even that firing was dying away somewhat, and the majority of the Indians gradually began drawing away to the base of the high, steep hills to the east and north of Wheeling. A number scaled the slopes, some to the tops, where they posted themselves advantageously, others taking position on the slopes themselves.

  It looked as if the Indians were digging in for a very long siege indeed.

  [September 1, 1777—Monday, 3:45 P.M.]

  At Holliday’s Cove near the mouth of Harmon’s Creek, Col. Andrew Van Swearingen gave an order, and his 14 men began getting into a large, bulky canoe of the type called a continental.300 It was the only means of transportation on hand that would accommodate them all, but he wished again that they had had enough horses to go by land, since they would be able to reach Wheeling faster and undoubtedly safer than by water, but there had not been that option. He wished, as well, that the messenger had not almost killed his horse by pushing it so hard and, in the end, delaying his arrival by far more than if he’d traveled at a more reasonable pace.

  The express, having galloped all the way from Shepherd’s Fort to Fort Vanmetre with word of the attack at Wheeling, immediately continued northward at the same punishing gallop, heading for Holliday’s Cove, still 17 miles distant. The horse simply couldn’t take it, especially over such terrain, and played out before half the distance was covered. As a result, the rider had been forced to dismount and lead the animal on foot for a long while. Even when he finally mounted again, the animal refused to be coaxed into more than a walk. Thus instead of arriving here at Holliday’s Cove by noon or shortly after, he had not arrived until about an hour ago.

  Col. Van Swearingen had 18 men on hand, but he left four, along with the messenger, to remain at the little blockhouse and protect the women and children. There were half a dozen horses at the settlement, but that was not enough to carry his party, and so he had reluctantly settled on going downstream the 24 miles to Wheeling in the big unwieldy continental canoe.

  Now the time had come to set off on the hazardous mission. Col. Van Swearingen was last to enter the canoe, and, as he thrust it out from shore into the current and took his position in the stern, he wondered uneasily if they would see the Indians first or vice versa.

  [September 1, 1777—Monday, 5:30 P.M.]

  The private who escaped the ambush and headed eastward through the forested hills toward Catfish Camp finally reached his destination. As he staggered into view, faint with exhaustion, several men rushed out to help him, and within minutes he had told them all he could.

  As luck would have it, this was muster day at Catfish Camp, and two companies of militia were on hand, under Capts. Reasin Virgin and John Boggs. In another half-hour they would have been dispersing to their homes, but they had not yet been dismissed. A hurried council was held, and they decided to prepare their gear and move out as quickly as possible toward Wheeling. Night marches were difficult at best, but with luck, they felt, they should be able to reach Wheeling by dawn or shortly after.

  Twilight was gathering when, their shot pouches and powderhorns full, rations in the
ir packs and rifles on their shoulders, the companies of Capt. Virgin and Capt. Boggs marched westward out of Catfish Camp on the road leading to Wheeling.

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

  After more or less withdrawing for an hour and a half, the Indians had renewed their assault on Fort Henry at about half past two in the afternoon, with even more fury than before. They had poured a sustained fire at the walls, gates, portholes and every conceivable aperture. Some had returned to their previous protected positions in the nearest cabins eastward of the fort; others had congregated in and behind the blacksmith shop and stable just to the north. The greater number, however, had taken new positions south of the fort under cover of a split-rail worm fence and behind several large trees that had recently been felled. Under cover of the fire from their comrades, a number of the Indians had moved closer, taking cover as they advanced behind the stumps of trees in this previously cleared area. So hot was the firing here that most of the defenders inside the fort had moved to the two lower blockhouses at the south end. It was exactly what the Indians had planned, and while the bulk of the fighting was going on here, a group of others dashed out of Zane’s yard with long heavy logs and began battering the east gate in an attempt to smash it open.

  Defenders on that side of the fort, quickly joined by others from the south end, opened fire from the blockhouse overhangs. The women who were not actively shooting aided by bringing scalding water and hot stones from the fires and tossing them down from the parapets at the attackers. Unwilling to give up at first, the Indians continued the battering until five of their number had been killed and a few others wounded. Then, screaming in anger and frustration, they had withdrawn to the cabins again. From there they continued their general firing, most hotly on the fort’s north and east sides, having decided the ground to the south side, because of the slope, favored the garrison more than themselves.

  At one point the Indians had worked in relays and with exceptional speed, using their tomahawks to split a six-foot section of maple log and then hollow out a smooth half-round groove three inches across and to a depth of three inches for the whole length of the log except for the final foot at one end. When these two log sections were finished and a wick hole made in one end, they were fitted together and formed a cannon barrel with a bore in the center six inches in diameter. The two halves were tightly lashed together with soaked and stretched rawhide straps that, as they dried, contracted and tightly sealed the sections. When finished, they carried their makeshift artillery to the cabin nearest to the main gate and carefully positioned it to be aimed at the closed portal. A thin piece of rope into which gunpowder had been pounded was put into the wick hole, and then a large amount of gunpowder was poured into the barrel and forced to the closed end by wadding made of clothing found in the cabins. Then a similar large quantity of lead balls, nails, bits of metal and other items were inserted; they, too, were rammed solidly with cloth wadding. Then the wick was lighted, and a large number of Indians gathered around with childlike anticipation, tomahawks in hand and ready to rush the gate as soon as it was blown apart.

  The explosion, when it came, was horrendous. The maple log burst into thousands of pieces, with very little of the charge ever reaching the gate. Upward of 20 Indians suffered injuries ranging from superficial to serious from the flying splinters and debris. Three were killed.

  The cheer that erupted from those in the fort who were watching was an explosion in and of itself.

  Thwarted by this setback, some of the Indians moved about among the buildings, plundering them of anything worthwhile and setting several afire. Others moved to where livestock were corralled or pastured and began shooting them down, killing scores of cows and hogs as well as numerous geese and chickens. All horses they found were taken.

  By late afternoon, most of the rifles in the fort had been rendered useless because their barrels were so hot from continuous firing. Fortunately, a stock of muskets was on hand in a storehouse, allowing many of the defenders to switch to those weapons for a while. And now, with evening coming on, the firing of the Indians was beginning to dwindle, bringing hope to many inside the fort that they were going to give up and leave, but making the more experienced fighters wonder what the Indians would do next.

  Col. Shepherd estimated that thus far somewhere around 20 Indians had been killed and perhaps twice that many or more were wounded. In the fort not a single person had yet suffered a scratch, but Shepherd knew the score could quickly change. It all depended on what the Indians had in mind for after nightfall.

  [September 1, 1777—Monday, 9 P.M.]

  Capt. Thomas Ogle, wincing with pain from the wound in his right side, had begun inching his way out of the horseweed and briars at the fence corner as soon as darkness had fallen. Pvt. Hedges, again conscious when he left, wished him luck and reminded him to give the button to his brother.301

  Ogle was thankful for the fog that had come in at nightfall, as it would help mask and muffle his movements. In a half crouch and still gripping his rifle, he slowly followed the fence row to its closest approach to the fort, some 400 yards from the bastion’s southeast corner. At that point he knew the only cover remaining now between himself and the fort was a single half-face cabin and a number of stumps and logs. He crept toward where the cabin should be but almost ran into it before its bulk loomed before him. He froze when he heard the murmur of voices and caught the scent of smoke and food cooking. The voices were definitely Indian, and so he quietly backed off and made a wide detour past the cabin, the movement carrying him to the creek bank.

  The fog lay even heavier near the water, and he followed the stream’s edge until he estimated he was directly below the south end of the fort, where there was a sally port. When he almost stumbled over a canoe pulled well up onshore, he considered launching it and floating downstream but, fearful that there would be Indians at the mouth of the creek some 30 yards below, he decided against it.

  Still moving silently and with the utmost care, Ogle ascended the bank and saw, looming in the darkness before him, the shape of a large log. He moved to it to take momentary advantage of the cover. Abruptly he slid down into the cavity beside it and had a tremendous scare when he landed on someone. The person was stiff and cold, and he realized at once it was a body. At first he thought it was an Indian who had been killed by fire from the fort, but then his outstretched hand encountered a second one, and they were both clad in white man’s clothing. As he moved his hands across them, he touched their heads and found both had been scalped. He realized suddenly that these had to be the two men that Col. Shepherd had sent downriver the previous night to check on the suspected burning of the Grave Creek Blockhouse, and the canoe beached on the shore behind and below was evidently theirs.

  Moving stealthily out of the cavity, he continued up the slope to the fort’s south wall and felt his way along it until he encountered the sally port. Fearful of the slight noise he had to make now, he tapped on the door. There was no immediate response, and he tapped again, slightly harder. This time a whispery, boyish-sounding voice came from above him, over the pickets.

  “Who’s out there?”

  “Ogle,” he whispered.

  “What’s your first name?”

  “Tom. Thomas. Open the port, I’m wounded.”

  The door remained closed. “What’s your rank?”

  “Captain. Dammit, open the door!”

  “What’s your brother’s name?”

  “Jacob. And he’s a sergeant. Now, for God’s sake, open the damned door!”

  There was no reply, but in a moment Ogle heard the bar sliding, and then the portal opened and he moved inside. Immediately the door was closed, and in the dim light of a lantern turned low, a boy slid the heavy beam bar back into place. The youth turned and grinned.

  “Sorry, Captain Ogle,” Lewis Wetzel said. “I had to make sure it was you.”

  [September 1, 1777—Monday, 9:15 P.M.]

  Capt. Samuel Meason had
remained hidden, partially under the pile of fence poles, throughout the day. He was in great pain but had managed to nap off and on and regain some of the strength that he had lost during his ordeal.

  The noise that had come to him during the day—plus the fact that several groups of Indians had walked past within mere yards of his hiding place—had convinced him that Wheeling had been attacked by a very large force of Indians. Besides, looking in that direction, even though now it was fully dark, he could see a ruddy glow, indicating that structures were on fire, perhaps even Fort Henry itself. It would clearly be suicidal for him to try to make it back to the fort.

  Stiff and aching, he eased himself out of his hiding place. The air was calm and somewhat foggy here, though not so densely misted as down closer to the river. Earlier in the day, when the noise of the attack on McCulloch’s party had reached him, he realized the unlikelihood of finding any sanctuary at Vanmetre’s, even if he could get there. Shepherd’s Fort was closest, but that would mean heading back in the direction where his company had been ambushed, and he rejected that idea. The only reasonable alternative seemed to be to get to the road and head for Catfish Camp.302

  [September 2, 1777—Tuesday, dawn]

  “I want two volunteers to go with me,” said Col. Andrew Van Swearingen. “We have got to determine whether they’re gone or if it’s a ruse.”

  In the large continental canoe, the 14 men whom he addressed did not immediately respond. In the gray first light of dawn, they looked at one another, and each man knew that the sense of mortality he was witnessing on the other faces was reflected on his own. It was a disconcerting possibility, but a very real one, that this was the last dawn any of them would experience.