That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  Above, Linn, Miller, Clark and McLane, realizing at once what was happening, plunged down the slope to help, yelling loudly as they did so to make the Indians think a reinforcement was arriving. The ruse didn’t work. They were not halfway down when balls began whizzing past them and smacking into trees or buzzing off rocks in vicious ricochets.307 To continue was to be killed for certain, and Linn bawled at his three companions to split up and get away, back to Wheeling. He was turning to do so himself when he heard someone scrambling up the slope toward him and saw Pvt. William Cullen, one of Foreman’s Hampshire County men, weaponless, struggling upward as fast as he could, leaning forward and using his hands as much as his feet.308 He abruptly screamed as a ball tore through his right leg six inches above the ankle, shattering the bone and sending him rolling. He wedged against a tree, moaning and sobbing. An Indian scrambled into view behind him, wielding a tomahawk, and Linn put a bullet through his chest, sending him tumbling back down the slope.

  Linn rushed to Cullen and immediately saw there was no possibility of the man being able to walk, even with help. He propped him up and thrust his own rifle into the private’s hands. “Here, take this. Don’t drop it!” He put his arms under Cullen’s legs and back and lifted him. With great difficulty, he struggled back up the slope, carrying him. He did not pause until they reached the top and by then was so exhausted he could scarcely breathe. Nevertheless he moved along the ridge with him another 40 feet before suddenly moving off to the east. In a few more steps he came to a rocky ledge, beneath which there was a considerable hollow, almost a cave. He lay the groaning Cullen inside against the back wall near where a small spring dribbled out of a crack in the rocks and trickled through a little gully out the entry. Linn took his rifle back and, still gasping for breath, reached into his pouch and extracted three hard biscuits.

  “Take these,” he said. “They’s water there for you to drink. I’m going for help. Keep quiet, and don’t try to crawl off. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Do you understand?”

  Cullen, still groaning but trying to stifle the sound, nodded. Without another glance at him, Linn set off running in a northeast direction, determined to make a wide arc away from the river to try to reach Fort Henry.

  [September 23, 1777—Tuesday]

  Once again a strong sense of panic was gripping Wheeling. It was late yesterday afternoon when the first survivor, a hatless and bramble-torn Pvt. Robert Harkness, plunged into Wheeling Creek and swam across, bearing news of the ambush of Capt. William Foreman’s company.

  The news spread quickly, and once again those in the settlement outside the fort dropped their tools, snatched up their weapons and moved in haste to security within the walls of Fort Henry. Lookouts were quickly posted, and even while Harkness was being questioned, other survivors came straggling in. Everything they said led to the grim conclusion that another dreadful massacre had occurred.

  Throughout the night more survivors arrived until, by early this morning, 18 had come in. One was William Linn, who told of secreting the injured William Cullen under the rock overhang. He wanted to raise a party and return immediately to rescue the man, but Col. Shepherd forbade it.

  “Our first concern,” the commander said, “is to see to our defenses here. We also must get runners off to the Forks and other stations and warn those who are still there, as well as all the outlying settlers we can reach. With a party of Indians like that prowling about, no one is safe. We’ll get around to Mr. Cullen and start looking for other survivors as well, just as soon as possible. Now let’s get busy.”

  [September 24, 1777—Wednesday]

  Because of the responsibility he felt for the injured Pvt. Cullen, Bill Linn finally decided he could not wait any longer to attempt his rescue. Mounting a good strong horse, he left Wheeling before dawn and headed back toward The Narrows. As he passed McMechen’s, however, he angled eastward away from the river and rode his horse slowly up the manageable grade in this area to the top of the ridge. As dawn broke and visibility became better, he paused more frequently to sit quietly in the saddle for several minutes and watch for any movement that might give away the presence of Indians. He saw nothing suspicious.

  A few minutes later he was peering into the cavity where he had left Cullen. The man was still there, half-asleep, faintly moaning with pain. A slight sound by Linn caused him to awaken more fully, at first fearfully and then, recognizing Linn, the joy that came into his expression filled the scout with pity and thankfulness that he had returned. “Tol’ you I’d be back,” he murmured cheerfully. “Now listen. I’m going to have to lift you onto this horse, and you’re going to have to grit your teeth and not cry out. Think you can manage that?”

  William Cullen nodded. He sucked in his breath, and a long-drawn-out, barely audible moan came from his throat as Linn lifted him and, with difficulty, raised him to the saddle. The foot on Cullen’s injured leg dangled loosely, and it looked bad. When he was in place and holding on tightly, Linn mounted the horse behind him, put his arms under Cullen’s to brace him, took the reins and chirped the horse into a walk. In less than an hour, with some early frost still clinging to the grasses, they arrived at Fort Henry. William Cullen was now officially a survivor.309

  It was not until this afternoon that a strong party of mounted men left Fort Henry under Col. Silas Hedges and headed for The Narrows ambush site. Linn, again, was a member of that party, as were Martin Wetzel, Andrew Fouts and a dozen other well-mounted men. They rode carefully and with great watchfulness, prepared to wheel and thunder back to Fort Henry at the first sign of trouble. There was none, but they were heartily sickened by what they found.

  The 22 bodies littering the road had been stripped of all their clothing and weapons, and each man had been scalped as well as horribly mutilated, most to the point where identification was impossible. A large hole was dug as a common grave, and all were buried in it at once. Six men were still missing.310

  [September 25, 1777—Thursday]

  The messengers sent out yesterday from Fort Henry by Col. Shepherd had ridden as swiftly as possible to all the nearby forts—Vanmetre’s, Shepherd’s, Holliday’s Cove—as well as to all the isolated settlements where anyone might still be in residence. As a result, all the smaller forts and most of the settlements or isolated cabins were abandoned: Some residents went to Fort Henry and some to Catfish Camp, but the majority took refuge at Pittsburgh or Redstone or even returned far to the east.

  Reluctantly, Maj. Sam McCulloch at Fort Vanmetre gave the order for the settlement to be temporarily abandoned and the residents to go either to Wheeling or Catfish Camp for greater safety. Four miles up Short Creek, at the Forks, was the claim where John Bendure and his wife and three young daughters lived. Fearing for their safety and for that of the Edward Morgan family a little farther upstream, McCulloch dispatched 16-year-old John Bukey to go there and warn them to leave immediately. It was a bit too late.

  Even as Bukey set off upstream, a party of five Wyandot warriors struck at the cabin. John Bendure happened to be working in a field a short distance from the cabin at the time and was shot first. The bullet broke his arm but, because his dog managed to hold the Indians at bay for a short time, he was able to escape. His family was not so fortunate. The Indians rushed into the cabin and took Mrs. Bendure and her children captive. Two of the Indians took Mrs. Bendure, carrying her year-old daughter, in one direction, while the other three tied the older girls—Mary, 7, and Jane, 6—with rawhide tethers and were leading them away by a different route. Young Bukey saw them coming and, hoping he could make the Indians flee, shouted from his hiding place for an imaginary party of men to attack. It did indeed startle the Indians, and they fled, but they dragged the screaming little girls with them. Bukey returned to Vanmetre’s at once, and a party went out under Maj. John McCulloch, now sheriff of Ohio County, and picked up their trail. All too soon they found the badly mangled remains of the two little girls. Mrs. Bukey and her infant daughter were never seen again.


  Col. Shepherd, whose houses at Wheeling had been burned, even though his mill had come through unscathed, decided to move his family permanently to the greater safety of Catfish Camp.311 When it was announced today at Shepherd’s Fort that the danger was now deemed too great for anyone to remain there and that all should move on to Catfish Camp, the John Grist family was among those affected. They had taken refuge at Shepherd’s when the Indian attacks first began, and now that they were going to have to move even farther away, they decided to stop at their cabin on the way to pick up some things they would need.

  Against the advice of Lewis Bonnett, who was going to lead the exodus of the main party toward Catfish Camp, John Grist decided to leave in advance of the others, taking along his four children—a married daughter named Nancy, 14-year-old John Jr., 11-year-old Rachel, 10-year-old James—and their aunt, John Sr.’s married sister. He said they would go directly to their abandoned cabin on the Peters’ Run tributary of Little Wheeling Creek, pick up their things and then intercept the Bonnett party and continue with them to Catfish Camp.

  As Bonnett had pointed out, it was a foolish thing to do. They got to the cabin all right and picked up the things they needed, but as they moved along to join Bonnett’s party, they were struck by a small war party of Mingoes. John Grist and his sister were simultaneously shot dead. John Jr. attempted to flee but was caught and held. Little James, also trying to run away, was killed by a savage blow from a war club.

  The piercing scream of 11-year-old Rachel ripped through the woodland like a siren but was cut off sharply when she was struck with a war club and fell, her skull fractured. She was scalped, and the Mingoes, hearing the Bonnett party approaching, fled before they had an opportunity to scalp the others.

  Bonnett’s party had heard the shots and Rachel’s scream and galloped to the scene. They checked each of the six bodies and discovered that Rachel, though badly injured, was still alive. Having no idea of the size of the war party that had done this and fearing for their own lives, they left the dead where they lay and carried Rachel with them to Catfish Camp. Here Dr. Jonathan More performed a trepanning operation to relieve the pressure of hemorrhaging and, as best he could, treated her mangled scalp. Amazingly, through it all, she remained conscious.312

  Several miles to the south, the Stephen Spicer family living on Meadow Run, a tributary of Dunkard Creek, was warned of the troubles and told to leave if they valued their lives. They were advised to go to the new Whitaker’s Blockhouse that had been built on the point of land where the Youghiogheny emptied into the Monongahela. The elder Spicer scoffed at the idea that any Indians were even aware of the existence of his isolated cabin and refused to leave. Less than three hours after they were warned, Indians struck and killed Spicer and his wife and took prisoner their 12-year-old son, William, and his friend, Francis McClure.

  Once again raw fear spread throughout this frontier, and there was little doubt that within the next few days, virtually all of the isolated settlements would be abandoned. Only a very small number of the settlers adamantly refused to leave their claims, determined to protect them come what may. Among this number was Old John Wetzel, who had returned with his family to his place 16 miles above Fort Henry on Wheeling Creek.

  [October 10, 1777—Friday]

  Hokolesqua now knew that his wish for an equitable peace between the Shawnees and the Shemanese could never be. Over the past year matters had so degenerated that a virtual state of war existed. Settlers had swarmed down the Spaylaywitheepi all this year. The unauthorized attack by Chief Plukkemehnotee at McClelland’s Station in Kentucky that had resulted in his own death and the equally unauthorized follow-up attack against the Kentucky settlements by Chief Chiungalla had made Hokolesqua realize that his people would no longer peacefully accept the abuses to which they had been subjected.

  It was for that reason that today, accompanied by his son, Elinipsico, and subchief Red Hawk, that Hokolesqua crossed the big river and presented himself to the commander of Fort Randolph at the mouth of the Kanawha.313 This was the first time he had been here since the Battle of Point Pleasant, three years ago today, and it brought back many sad memories, not the least of which was the death of his dear friend, Pucksinwah.

  Capt. Matthew Arbuckle looked with suspicion at the three Indians who presented themselves to him, his fear subsiding somewhat when he saw they were unarmed and that a squad of his own armed soldiers stood ready to act if necessary. He recognized Hokolesqua and vaguely dipped his head in greeting but made no attempt to shake hands.

  “Why have you come here, Cornstalk?” he asked bluntly.

  “I come,” replied Hokolesqua in English, “with grave news. At the camp of Charlotte three years ago, I gave my word as principal chief of the Shawnees that our tribe would keep the peace, would remain on our own side of the Spaylaywitheepi and refrain from retaliation if grievances arose between my people and yours, but instead take those grievances to the white commanders and they would be smoothed. This was a talk-treaty, and papers were to be marked later at the Fort of Pitt, where the Spaylaywitheepi begins. But because of the troubles that have risen, including the war between your own people, this did not come about. We have been injured by the whites in many ways since then, and though we have brought our grievances to the Fort of Pitt and discussed them at length, they have not been smoothed and have only become worse.”

  Hokolesqua shook his head sadly and his voice became harder. “Now I have come here to say to you that these grievances have become too great to be borne. I can no longer restrain my young men from joining the raiding parties encouraged by our friends, the British. I no longer wish to restrain them. We have suffered much at the hands of the Shemanese who have repeatedly broken the talk-treaty. Now there is a treaty no longer. It is a matter of honor that I have come here to tell you this.”

  Capt. Arbuckle did not even have the courtesy to respond to Hokolesqua’s comments. Instead, he ordered the guard squad to take the three Indians into custody and lock them in the isolated cabin on the drill ground that was sometimes used as a guardhouse. “Apparently,” he said, “we’re at war with the Shawnees again. We’ll hold these three hostage.”

  Hokolesqua, Red Hawk and Elinipsico, dismayed at such treatment of a delegation that had come in peace, were led to the one-room cabin and put inside. Here there was a table, two chairs, a large fireplace and a ladder leading up to a partial loft. Three narrow slits in the walls served as the only windows. The door was closed behind them and bolted from without.

  Only a short time later came the sounds of a disturbance outside, and through the window slits, they could see Capt. Arbuckle arguing with a large group of armed, rough-looking men, telling them the Indians were official government hostages and not to be molested. After a moment he was pushed aside, and the men surged toward the cabin. At once Elinipsico climbed up the ladder to the loft, but Hokolesqua bade him come back down, which he did.

  “My son,” Hokolesqua said gently, placing his arm around his son’s shoulders, “the Great Spirit has seen fit that we should die together and has sent you to that end. It is Her will and She will gather us up, so let us submit.”

  Red Hawk was not inclined to meek submission, and he ran to the fireplace and quickly began climbing up the chimney. He had just disappeared from sight when the bolt was thrown and the door yanked open. The armed mob of soldiers and frontiersmen, led by Capt. John Hall, filled the opening.

  “By God,” Hall exclaimed, “it is Cornstalk!”

  The officer brought his rifle to bear, as did Adam Barnes, Hugh Gailbreath, Malcolm McCoun, William Roan and several others, and a thunderous barrage of shooting broke out. Even after Hokolesqua and Elinipsico had fallen, others continued to crowd in the doorway to shoot at the bodies.

  A search was made for Red Hawk, and when he was not found in the loft, they discovered him clinging up in the chimney. They dragged him down and shot and tomahawked him and then bludgeoned the body with rifle butts un
til it was battered beyond recognition.

  Nothing could have more certainly ignited the fire for war in the breasts of the Shawnee people.314

  [October 22, 1777—Wednesday]

  The Shawnees did not take long to retaliate for the murder of Hokolesqua. Chiungalla—Black Fish—was named as the new Shawnee principal chief, and his first act was to send out a war party to do just that.

  The ploy that the Indians had so successfully used against the whites so many times in the past worked very well once again on this occasion. Two warriors from this party made their appearance near Fort Randolph, and Capt. Matthew Arbuckle immediately sent out a squad of a dozen soldiers under Lt. Robert Moore to drive them off.

  As the squad drew near, the two warriors seemed to see them for the first time and fled in apparent fear, slowed because one was limping badly and the other was helping him along. Seeing them as easy prey, Lt. Moore put his men into pursuit and followed them into a ravine a quarter-mile from the fort.

  Abruptly, the two decoy Indians leaped away and into hiding with considerable speed and agility, and realizing he’d been duped, Moore ordered his men to retreat, but it was too late. In the midst of turning around, they were fired upon, and Lt. Moore and three of his men were killed. The remainder managed to flee back to the safety of the fort.

  It was only the beginning.

  [March 4, 1778—Wednesday]

  It was from Simon Girty, one of his principal spies, that Gen. Edward Hand at Fort Pitt had learned of the large supply and staging depot recently established on Lake Erie at the mouth of the Cuyahoga River.315