That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  The journey downriver from Holliday’s Cove had not been ideal. They had paddled vigorously at first and made fairly good time for a while. Then the daylight had dwindled away, and as evening turned into night and a heavy fog formed over the river, visibility had dwindled to no more than a few feet. A dozen times or more, they had bumped harshly into banks or wedged themselves on mud or gravel bars, requiring them to step out of the ungainly craft to free it. At last Col. Van Swearingen came to a reluctant decision: They would have to let the current do their work for them and simply float with the flow where it took them. The great problem, of course, was that without visibility, the current might well carry them past Wheeling without their even knowing it.

  Van Swearingen did some rapid calculations, trying to figure how far they had traveled and at what speed during the time they had been paddling, how much time had been lost in contact with the banks and becoming grounded on bars, and then, how fast the current alone was carrying them as they floated at its whim.

  Now, with the cold gray light of dawn beginning to filter through the fog, they had clearly lost the advantage they had anticipated having by arriving under cover of night: an opportunity to land on the riverbank adjacent to the fort and, in the darkness, gain admission to the fort before the Indians were aware they had arrived.

  Moments ago they had detected a pinkish glow through the fog to the east, and they all knew at once that it was not the sunrise but the reflection of fire on the mist particles. Col. Van Swearingen had immediately ordered the men to paddle to the east shore and beach the canoe. That was where they were now, and Van Swearingen, who had stepped into the shallows, made an irritated sound.

  “Come on, men, I called for volunteers. I need two to go with me to reconnoiter. That way, if we run into something bad, there might be a chance of at least one of us getting back here to warn the others.”

  “I’ll go with you, Colonel.” It was Capt. Charles Bilderback who volunteered. Pvt. William Boshears spoke up to become the second. They, too, stepped over the gunwales and into the shallows, then pulled the bow of the big canoe farther up onshore as the colonel addressed those remaining.

  “You men wait here,” he said. “If you hear a triple whistle, come arunning. Otherwise, stay put till someone comes back.”

  Beckoning to his two volunteers and admonishing them to stay close, he moved up the bank, and the three quickly lost sight of the others in the gray gloom. As they rose cautiously above the river level up the steep bank, the low-hanging fog thinned and visibility improved until they could see perhaps 100 yards ahead. The glow of the fires was close, and in the dim light, as they crept forward, the bulk of Fort Henry became visible, and they began to breathe more easily.

  They moved to the north wall sally port and called out softly. Almost at once there was a response from a port in the nearby blockhouse: “Who’s down there?”

  “Colonel Van Swearingen. We’ve come with relief from Holliday’s Cove.”

  The head of Old John Wetzel appeared at the port, and they heard the click of his gun being uncocked. “God Almighty!” There was relief in his voice. “I damned near shot when I first saw you. Just a minute.”

  He disappeared, and they could hear him calling aloud, and a moment later the beam bar scraped and the portal opened. Other people were gathering and, with the door shut and barred behind them, they were taken by Wetzel to the fort headquarters, where they were heartily welcomed by David Shepherd, Ebenezer Zane, John McCulloch and Dr. McMahan, then quickly briefed on what had transpired here in the past 24 hours.

  “I wouldn’t whistle for the rest of your men to come in yet,” Shepherd warned. “The fact that you men have made it here is no guarantee the Indians are not still there. They may be lying in the cornfield just waiting for us to relax our guard and come out so they can make a drive at us. If they’re still out there, they may not even realize you’ve come in, but they would if they heard your signal. I suggest you send your two men back to lead them in quietly. Then we’ll have to devise some way of determining whether the Indians are gone.”

  [September 2, 1777—Tuesday, noon]

  The Indians were gone.

  It had taken a while to ascertain that fact to everyone’s satisfaction, and it involved some rather frightening examinations of places where they might be hidden, but then it had become clear that they truly were gone.

  Shortly after the remainder of Col. Van Swearingen’s men were brought to the fort, a two-man party consisting of Old John Wetzel and Hugh McConnell was sent out to examine the cornfield at its nearest approach to the fort. The consensus was that it would be here, if anywhere, that the Indians were hidden. As the morning brightened and the fog began to dissipate, Wetzel and McConnell walked from the fort with extreme caution, their weapons at ready, and entered the cornfield. There were plenty of tracks and other indications where Indians had been, but no sign of any lingering in the area. Within half an hour they had returned to the fort and reported.

  Col. Zane was encouraged but not entirely convinced. Assembling a squad of 20 men, he personally led them out and scoured the entire cornfield and the ambush site. They discovered no Indians—not even dead ones—but they did find more than 300 head of cattle and hogs that had been killed, along with many chickens and geese. They also found and brought in the numerous bodies of the militiamen, as well as Matthias Hedges, who was still alive. And just now, as if to emphasize the fact that the Indians were gone and were not lying in ambush somewhere along the road leading east, two forces arrived after marching all night, grimly determined to fight it out with the Indians who were attacking Wheeling—the two companies of men under Capts. Virgin and Boggs from Catfish Camp and a smaller force of 30 men under Col. Joseph Hedges and Capt. Andrew Fouts from Ramsey’s Fort on Buffalo Creek, six miles up from its mouth. Though they had arrived too late, they were of great help in burying the dead and dragging the dead animals to the river and throwing them in to be swept away by the current.

  More than anything else, it was a comfort to all at Wheeling to know that the relief forces had come as swiftly as possible.303

  [September 20, 1777—Saturday]

  “The two men I sent down to Grave Creek on the night before we were attacked here at Wheeling,” said Col. David Shepherd, “were killed just below the fort here on their return, before they were able to report. So we still have no idea whether or not Mr. Tomlinson’s buildings have been burned there or whether or not the blockhouse is still standing. That’s something we need to know, and it’s your assignment to find out.”

  The militia captain standing before him in Fort Henry’s headquarters nodded. “I’m sure we can do that without any real difficulty, sir.”

  Col. Shepherd studied the officer and hoped he was not making a mistake. Capt. William Foreman had come highly recommended as a gallant officer, but the man also exuded a sense of invulnerability that Shepherd had seen too often before and that he always found a little disconcerting. Foreman was a man without previous experience in Indian warfare, and that was decidedly a liability, but with manpower here so limited, Shepherd did not have much choice.

  Capt. Foreman had arrived at Wheeling with his company of 30 men the day before yesterday, having raised the force and marched them all the way from the South Branch Potomac in Hampshire County as soon as word had reached there of Wheeling being under attack. He had exhibited some degree of disappointment at discovering that, even though some Indians had been spotted at a distance, it had been reasonably calm here since that attack three weeks earlier.

  “Since you are not familiar with this area, Captain Foreman,” Col. Shepherd went on, “I am assigning Captain William Linn as scout and guide for your detachment. He’s a good man with considerable Indian fighting experience, and you would be wise to heed whatever counsel he has to offer.”

  “Yes, sir.” Foreman paused and then added, “He’s a captain, you say?”

  Shepherd recognized the symptoms and managed not to smile.
“It’s an honorary title, not official rank. You will be in sole charge of the detachment. Now, you have only thirty men, and I’d prefer it if your company were a little stronger. I’m going to issue a call for volunteers, and we’ll see how many we can spare to go along with you.”

  [September 21, 1777—Sunday]

  The company of 45 riflemen under Capt. William Foreman was ferried in relays by canoe across Wheeling Creek, just up from its mouth a short distance, and was drawn into formation on the path that led southward along the east shore of the Ohio to the Grave Creek Settlement, 12 miles distant.

  Foreman’s force had been augmented by 20 volunteers from among the men at Wheeling—the maximum number Col. Shepherd thought he could spare. The majority of those remaining behind, some 60 in number, would guard the Wheeling Settlement and continue with the work of rebuilding the cabins and outbuildings burned during the attack three weeks ago.

  Along with Bill Linn as guide, the Wheeling volunteers going with Foreman included Robert Harkness who, after his harrowing run to Shepherd’s Fort, had returned a couple of days later. Jacob Greathouse was another of those who volunteered, along with Jim Tomlinson, much against the wishes of his older brother, Joe. Fifteen-year-old John Miller went along, despite mutterings that he was too young, and Lewis Wetzel wanted to go but was rejected, not only because of his age but because his chest wound was not entirely healed. Moses Shepherd, ten-year-old son of the colonel, was allowed to accompany them and beat the marching drum, but only for the first half-mile, after which he would return to the fort. Included in the volunteers Foreman had brought from Hampshire County were his son and two of his nephews.304

  The majority of the Wheeling settlers had assembled on the north bank of the creek to see them off, and the eyes of many of the women were wet as they watched the proud little band march southward to the tapping of Moses Shepherd’s drum. True to his promise, the drummer boy turned back in half a mile.

  Bill Linn marched in the lead beside Capt. Foreman, watching for fresh Indian sign. In five miles they forded McMechen’s Creek and came to the burned-out ruins of William McMechen’s settlement. There were some tracks of Indians there that Linn figured had been made four or five days earlier. Nothing else of significance was noted until they began passing through The Narrows. Here, beginning about six miles south of Wheeling and extending for some two and a half miles, the trail became squeezed between the riverbank on their right, sharply inclined to the water, and a very steep hill rising more than 100 feet immediately on their left, a trail so narrow it could accommodate no more than two abreast. Linn was particularly alert here, especially in view of the fact that he found a sizable number of Indian tracks that didn’t look to be more than a day old. His concern grew when, as they neared the end of The Narrows and were still about four miles above the mouth of Grave Creek, they spied a number of Indians passing through a clearing on the opposite side of the Ohio.

  At Linn’s suggestion, Capt. Foreman called a halt, and the whole company hunkered down to avoid detection. The Indians on the other side continued moving without pause and soon disappeared from sight in the trees. Foreman was quite sure his company had not been seen and ordered the march resumed.

  A few hundred yards later, they had left The Narrows behind and were moving more easily across the large bottom called Grave Creek Flats. Some 40 minutes later they arrived at the mouth of Grave Creek. The families of Joseph Tomlinson and Isaac Williams had moved to the Monongahela above Redstone for greater safety some time ago, but Foreman’s company found the abandoned cabins still standing, as well as the little blockhouse. Pleased that he would be returning to Col. Shepherd with a favorable report, Foreman ordered the company to make camp for the night, and they would start their return in the morning. At Linn’s urging, however, he did double the number of sentries he would normally have posted.

  [September 22, 1777—Monday]

  “Captain,” said Bill Linn as they prepared to leave Grave Creek Flats and enter The Narrows, “I got me a bad feelin’ somethin’ ain’t right. I don’t think we oughta be marchin’ up The Narrows. Ain’t no place I know better for an ambush than here.”

  Capt. Foreman raised a hand and halted the line behind him. “Have you seen some fresh Indian sign I may have missed, Mr. Linn?”

  Linn shook his head. “Nope. But we did see them Injens on t’other side yesterday, and I ’spect they seen us, too.”

  “There was no indication that they saw us, Mr. Linn,” Foreman said. “But even if they did, what’s your point?”

  “My point is,” Linn said, trying to keep his temper, “if they seen us, they’ve had plenty of time to cross over an’ set up an ambush. Seems to me, we’d be a whole lot smarter and safer to climb up there and follow the ridge.” He indicated the steep hill now rising to their right.

  “I think not,” Foreman responded, drawing himself up somewhat. “I see no justification for doing so. It would be a difficult climb at best and would add considerably to the time it will take us to get back to Wheeling.” He shook his head. “No, we’ll follow the trail.”

  “Mebbe you will. I sure as hell won’t.”

  “I would remind you, Mr. Linn, I’m in command here.”

  “An’ I’ll remind you, Captain, sir,” Linn shot back, “you got orders from Colonel Shepherd to take my advice.”

  “Actually, Mr. Linn,” Foreman said archly, “I received no such orders. Colonel Shepherd merely suggested I consider your recommendations. I, for one, am not afraid of your Indians. However,” he added, smiling faintly and unbending a little, “if you’re insistent on going through with this added difficulty without any just reason apart from a ‘feeling’ you’re having, I won’t prevent you from doing so. And I’ll put it to the men; any who wish to go with you are welcome to do so. I doubt you’ll have many takers.”

  Foreman was right. Of the 44 other men in the column, only three elected to go with Linn—one of Foreman’s original volunteers named James Clark, a cousin of Linn’s, Daniel McLane, and 15-year-old John Miller, who knew Linn well and trusted his judgment. Robert Harkness, one of the few who escaped the ambush three weeks earlier and who had sat on a log nearby and listened to Foreman and Linn argue their points, was tempted to go with Linn but, in the end, he stayed with Foreman because of his sore eyes.

  As these three began scaling the steep, rather treacherous slope, Foreman started his men on the move again. They marched casually, ambling along in pairs, with a lot of talking, horseplay, and laughter. Partway up the slope, Linn paused and looked down. Through a gap in the trees he saw one of the soldiers swat off the hat of another and, in the midst of the faint whoops of laughter that followed, the two men had a brief pretend-sparring match. When they took up the march again, the rich baritone voice of Pvt. Tom Brazier, a noted singer of Foreman’s company, broke into song, just as he had sung yesterday on the march. Several other voices joined in, but his carried the best and most melodiously.

  “Nothin’ like advertisin’ they’re acomin’,” Linn said sourly, spitting a stream of tobacco juice to one side. “C’mon, boys, let’s go.”

  They continued the climb and soon reached the summit, along which they moved parallel to the company somewhat over 100 feet below. Very faintly, the sound of the singing, laughter, and talking continued drifting up to them.305

  It was close to ten A.M., as the ragged column of men on the trail was approaching the upper end of The Narrows, when those in the lead saw some items glinting on the trail ahead. They were scattered pieces of jewelry—trinkets, silver armbands, small beaded bags, strings of beads. They rushed forward and snatched them up, and others came up and crowded around to see what they had found.

  That was when the ambush was sprung.

  Twoscore or more Indians rose from their hiding places before and behind the company and fired their guns. The multitude of blasts reverberated in the river valley. A large number of the militia fell where they had been standing, and the rest scrambled for co
ver like frightened quail.306

  Thomas Brazier, the singer, died instantly with a ball through his heart. Capt. Foreman was killed in the first fire, as were his son and two nephews. John Cullen took a ball in the brain and was dead as he fell. William Engle, an uncommonly athletic young man near the rear of the line, dropped his rifle and scurried monkeylike up the slope and was swiftly out of sight. The man who had been beside him, James Tomlinson, lay dead on the trail. Not far from where Engle was making his escape, Robert Harkness and Jacob Greathouse scrambled away close together. Harkness, with every step, kept berating himself for not having gone with Linn, as he’d had a notion to do, sore eyes or not. He scaled the slope swiftly, pulling himself up by gripping saplings. A ball narrowly missed his head, struck one of these saplings, and painfully sprayed splinters into his face, yet he managed to get out of sight of the attackers. Beside him, Jake Greathouse, glancing back down the slope to see if he was being pursued, ran the back of his neck into a low-hanging limb and fell, momentarily stunned. In a few seconds he recovered his senses, thought for a short time that he had been shot, then realized what had occurred and pressed on and quickly reached the summit. Pvt. John Wilson had almost gotten out of sight up the slope when a ball plowed through the fleshy part of his left forearm, but he still managed to get away. Several others were not so lucky and were killed by shots or thrown tomahawks before ascending more than a dozen feet, among them Bill Sheno, the half-breed. Kinzie Dickerson, the initial shots having missed him, shot his rifle point-blank into the stomach of an Indian rushing him with upraised tomahawk, then whirled and broke the gun in half by slamming it over the head of another. Tossing aside the stock section he was still holding, he vaulted up the slope and in several huge jumps had disappeared from sight. Jonathan Pugh, on the trail, was trying to take aim at one of the many Wyandots that had burst out of hiding when another warrior knocked his gun away with a tomahawk blow and captured him.