That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  He paused and there was an expectant hush, every eye locked on him, every ear cocked for what he would say next. He did not disappoint them. “Now is the time,” he thundered, “the only time, to turn out to a man against these intruders. Fall upon them! Do not let them place one foot on your side of the Ohio! Go and strike them wherever you find them! I say this because I know these people and I know in my heart that if you do not strike them without delay, your country will be lost to you forever!”

  There was wild enthusiasm for the speech when he finished. The Delawares themselves quickly went into secret council to discuss whether to break their long neutrality and at last declare themselves at war against the Americans.

  Chief Pimoacan—Captain Pipe—previously an advocate for peace, was now strongly for war because of the attack made on his villages by Gen. Hand in the unconscionable Squaw Campaign, in which Pimoacan’s brother, Bull, had been killed, as well as their mother, and Pimoacan’s wife wounded. It was an affront that called for revenge, and he meant to have it.

  On the other hand, Chief White Eyes, who had been converted by the Moravian missionaries and was even more a friend of the Americans than Pimoacan had been, strongly advocated a continuance of their neutrality. Not until both of these chiefs, along with numerous others, had fully expressed their feelings in council—a process that would take days—would the tribe finally vote on what they would do.

  And now, as the council began, Alexander McKee and the others of his party departed, with Detroit their ultimate destination.322

  [April 16, 1778—Thursday]

  Chief White Eyes had just finished giving the two runners standing before him a belt of white wampum and a crucial message to carry to the Shawnees. Now, slowly and carefully, he repeated the message aloud as the two listened and memorized verbatim what he said. He gave them a moment by themselves to get it firmly established in their minds, after which they would repeat it to him to make certain it was correct. In the interval he considered the events of these past days since the party of McKee, Girty and Elliott had visited with news of their defection and their urgings for war.

  The council held here at Goschachgunk had lasted for four days following the departure of the whites, and almost every Delaware chief of significance had had his say. There had been considerable debate, with Chief Pipe leading the pro-war faction and White Eyes pleading for neutrality. In the end, however, it was Pipe who had prevailed, and the vote, when taken, showed a strong majority for war. In a desperate bid for time, White Eyes had risen then to address them again.

  “Brothers,” he had said, “I see with my eyes and hear with my ears your desire for war, and, though my heart is heavy with it, I accept your wish, and I, too, will fight the Americans, though I fear the outcome will be our own destruction if we do this immediately. It has come to me, however, that if we wait ten suns before we take this step, something will occur that will be of great importance to us and our future. I beg that we wait those ten days, and if nothing should occur in that time, then we may make war with greater hope for our future.”

  Another vote had been taken and though Pipe was opposed to delay, White Eyes was granted the ten days before active hostilities commenced. And then they had waited. Late in the evening on the eighth day, the Rev. John Heckewelder, traveling with a converted Delaware named Shabosh—who had adopted the Christian name of John—had arrived at the Moravian town and mission of Gnadenhütten, 23 miles up the Tuscarawas from Goschachgunk. They bore peace messages to the Delawares and Shawnees from both Gen. Hand and George Morgan, along with newspaper reports of the war and other documents.

  It had not taken long for them to learn of the defectors’ visit to Goschachgunk and how they had incited the Delawares there into a determination for war. Only two days remained before that resolve would become reality. They and their horses needed rest and so remained the remainder of the night at Gnadenhütten and then set out in the dawn light as fast as they could travel. In order to avoid war parties, they swam their horses across the river and traveled on isolated paths. It was late forenoon when they reached Goschachgunk and delivered to White Eyes the messages from Gen. Hand and Morgan.

  White Eyes had felt delight at receiving the messages and the enclosures, especially the newspaper reports. He had immediately sent heralds out to run through the village calling everyone to immediate council. As soon as they had assembled, he addressed them strongly.

  “My Brothers,” he had said, “it is well that we waited. In doing so, we may have averted our own destruction. I have here letters that have come from Pittsburgh—from Morgan and General Hand—and I will read them to you.” He did so, translating the written English into the native tongue, then went on. “I can see by your expressions that you do not believe the proposals of peace because you are saying to yourselves, ‘See, this is what McKee said they would do to deceive us.’ But this I say to you: The Americans have not asked us to fight our battles for them against the British, as the British have asked us to fight their battles for them against the Americans. The Americans have not done this because they know that wars are destructive to nations, and their fight is a fight between father and son, a family matter that should not involve others. From the beginning of the war these Americans advised us only to remain quiet and not take up the hatchet against either side. That is good advice.

  “Now,” he went on, showing them the newspaper pages, “you will see that what McKee and the others said to us has been lies. They told us the British were winning the war and that it was only a matter of a short time before the Americans would be completely defeated, but this says differently.” He unfolded the newspaper so all could see and turned back and forth with it. The newspaper was explosive with notices of Gen. John Burgoyne’s surrender to Gen. Horatio Gates at the second Battle of Saratoga the past October seventh, and he read to them what was printed. Then he folded the paper and put it aside.

  “See, my friends and relatives,” he said, “this contains great events—not the song of a bad bird, but the truth!”

  The Delawares had been greatly swayed and changed their position: They would continue to maintain the neutrality they had previously held.

  So now, his message-carriers ready, White Eyes listened as they spoke aloud, in unison, the words he had given them:

  “Grandchildren! You Shawnees! Hear! Some days ago a flock of bad birds that had come from the east landed at Goschachgunk and sang their song to us and, upon leaving us, turned their faces toward you in order to sing to you the same song. Shawnees, do not listen to them, for they lie!”

  [April 23, 1778—Thursday]

  In his quarters at Detroit, Lt. Gov. Henry Hamilton had just learned from his own messenger, Edward Hazel, and Simon Girty of the defection of Alexander McKee and his party from the Americans, and he was very pleased. Now he dipped his pen and wrote swiftly, composing a letter to be carried to McKee, who was still among the Shawnees, establishing his own village, called McKee’s Town, on a little creek to which he had given his name, only a few miles north of Mackachack and a lesser distance northwest of Wapatomica:323

  Lieut. Gov. Hamilton to Capt. McKee

  Detroit, April 23, 1778

  Sir,

  I heartily congratulate you on your escape, and shall be happy to see you here, where you may be sure of finding friends and sincere ones.

  The sooner your convenience can admit of your coming to this place, the better, as I wish to confer with you on several points t’is impossible to touch upon in a letter. The newspapers you sent were very acceptable. They shall be forwarded to Sir Guy Carleton whom I have made acquainted with your happy release. The Council to be held at this place, and which I expect to be very full, will meet on or about the 15th of May, till when matters will remain as they are—nothing can exceed the good temper and tractable behavior of all the Indians. The bearer is a very spirited young fellow, is trusty and I hope by good behavior will deserve to be put on a good footing.

  The Si
x Nations are more than ever attached to the government and zealous in the cause against the rebels—considerable reinforcements expected to Canada this year.

  I am, Sir, your very humble servant,

  Henry Hamilton

  [April 27, 1778—Monday]

  The sun had not been up for quite an hour this morning when Old John Wetzel, still doggedly refusing to leave his claim seven miles above the Forks of Wheeling Creek, sent his eldest son, Martin, now 21, out to get the four horses that were hobbled in the meadow a few hundred yards distant. John Wolf, Martin’s 22-year-old cousin, was visiting at the time and volunteered to help bring them in. A very nervous young man without much self-confidence, Wolf had gotten married three years ago at Brownsville and had settled with his bride some 20 miles from there on Dunkard Creek. Now they had a two-year-old son and a four-month-old daughter.

  “Shouldn’t we have guns with us?” John asked nervously as they left the cabin.

  Martin shook his head. “No real need,” he said. “Horses ain’t but a little way out, an’ we ain’t seen no Injen sign around here since we moved back from Wheeling last fall. They been hittin’ more down in Kaintuck than anywhere else lately.”

  Martin went on to tell what he had heard of the attacks occurring in Kentucky, including the Indians having captured, a couple of months ago, a party of 25 or 30 saltmakers from Boonesboro under Daniel Boone. The party had been making salt at the Lower Blue Licks for a couple of weeks when about 100 Shawnees under Black Fish had surprised them. Whether any of them were still alive, including Boone, no one seemed to know.324

  When Martin and John got to where the horses were supposed to be, there was no sign of them, and Martin, studying the ground with a practiced eye, pointed to the adjacent woodland. “Looks like they decided to take a stroll in the woods,” he said. “Damn knotheads sure as hell ain’t gonna find no good graze in there. Well, with them hobbles on, they cain’t have got too far. C’mon.”

  Following the trail made by the four horses, they walked another 100 yards or so when Martin suddenly stopped and put up a hand, simultaneously stopping and stilling his cousin. “Listen,” he said.

  From far ahead came the barely audible tinkling of bells, and Martin grinned. “That’s them,” he chuckled. “Tol’ you they wouldn’t’ve got too far.” He struck out toward the sound, and John fell in behind him.

  The bells around the necks of the horses continued tinkling, and though the young men gradually closed the gap, it seemed to be taking rather longer than expected to overtake them. Following the horses by sound rather than watching their trail, Martin failed to see that there were now, here and there, imprints of moccasin-clad feet.

  With the horse bells still sounding ahead, seven or eight Shawnees armed with flintlocks abruptly stepped into sight from behind trees on both sides of them. Two of the Indians had rifles. As the startled boys looked around, one of the warriors put a shot into a large beech tree near them, evidently as a warning for them to stop. John did so, instantly holding his hands high to show that he was unarmed. Martin, however, remembering his father’s admonition to grasp the advantage by doing something unexpected, leaped away, successfully ducked a gun barrel swung at him by the nearest warrior and then ran and dodged around trees as fast as he could with five of the Shawnees in close pursuit.

  Martin, very agile and swift, maintained his distance from them for a short while and then gradually increased it. He had run some 250 yards and was just about to pass across the crest of a small hill when the Indians opened fire. A ball grazed his hip, causing the sensation of a red-hot iron laid against him. Another grazed his left shoulder, cutting a shallow furrow in the skin. Then he was over the crest and descending to the small bottom on the other side. He raced down, leaped over the little run flowing through it and began surging up the other side when two Indians appeared in front of him, no more than 20 paces distant. Both shot at him, and remarkably, both shots missed. Ridiculously, at a time of such crisis, the thought crossed Martin’s mind of what his grandfather had said at Martin’s birth. Superstitious old man that he was, he had come to their cabin and performed some strange rites over the newborn infant and had then pronounced him bulletproof; that he could never be killed with powder and lead. It seemed to be holding true. So far.

  Martin changed direction and redoubled his efforts. Three of the Indians stopped, but the other two dropped their rifles and continued the pursuit, some 30 yards behind. They maintained this gap over the next few hundred yards until Martin suddenly encountered a steeply sloped narrow ravine, with a small stream at the bottom. He leaped and hit the opposite slope a quarter of the distance down from the top. The surface there was thickly coated with the wet and decayed remains of last autumn’s leaves and, as if he had stepped on grease, he slid and slithered all the way to the bottom.

  Before he could regain his feet, the closest Shawnee plunged down the near side of the slope and landed on his back. They grappled furiously, rolling in and out of the little brook. The warrior was tall, slender and muscular; Martin was not as tall but was muscular and strongly built, outweighing his adversary by ten pounds or more, an advantage that soon had him on top of the Indian. But before he could capitalize on that advantage, the second pursuing Shawnee slid down the bank and, gripping Martin by the hair, yanked him off, throwing him on his back.

  The warrior he had been grappling with sprang to his feet and pounced on Martin, his tomahawk raised menacingly. Wisely, Martin relaxed, shook his head and said, “I give up!”

  The warrior abruptly grinned and looked at his companion, who also stood with tomahawk in hand, and nodded, then stretched his hand out to Martin. The young man looked at it and then at the warrior’s face. Seeing no treachery there, he accepted the hand and was pulled to his feet. Still gripping his hand, the warrior spoke to his companion without looking away.

  “Ahpe.”

  The second warrior nodded, dug in his pouch, pulled out a coiled length of rawhide cord and handed it to him. Within moments the first warrior had tied Martin’s wrists, leaving a length of the cord to lead him by. They then climbed back up the bank and returned to where the other Indians were still waiting with their captive. The two Shawnees who had led the horses on to decoy the two boys were standing close by with the four horses, including Old John’s fine black mare, Shine, and ten horses of their own.325

  John Wolf was terrified, as evidenced in part by the stain down his trousers leg where he had wet himself. He was trembling badly, and his eyes were wide and frightened in a chalk-white face. Though he was not tied, the Indians seemed to be paying little attention to him.

  There were ten Shawnees in the party, and they held a guttural conversation, none of which either of the boys could understand. Then six of the warriors mounted their horses and rode off toward the east without a backward glance. As soon as they were gone, the warrior who had first pounced on Martin approached him.

  “Skootekitehi,” he said, tapping his own chest.326 Then he tapped Martin’s chest, at the same time giving him a quizzical look.

  The young man nodded. “Martin,” he said.

  “Mah-ten,” Skootekitehi repeated. Then he tapped first Martin’s chest and then his own again and said, “Mah-ten b’long Skootekitehi.”

  Young Wetzel began breathing a little easier. If he was going to belong to this warrior, then it was reasonable to assume he wasn’t to be killed—at least not right away. He nodded and smiled wryly. “I belong to you.”

  Martin, still with his wrists bound, and John, still untied, were placed by the Indians on two of his father’s horses, and the four remaining warriors mounted their own. With one warrior leading each of the remaining two horses—including Shine—on tethers, they all headed toward the southwest. An hour later they were swimming their horses across the Ohio River from near the mouth of Grave Creek and, for John Wolf and Martin Wetzel, into a distinctly uncertain future.

  [May 3, 1778—Sunday]

  Lewis Wetzel had alwa
ys been big for his age, but in the past year he had grown exceptionally. Though only 14, he was as tall as most grown men, huskily built and good looking, with long black hair woven and clubbed at the nape. He was a superb hunter whose keen eyes seemed to miss nothing, and he bore himself with the assurance of someone considerably older. The wound he had received last August when captured was now completely healed, leaving behind only a broad, slightly raised scar as a permanent memento of that incident.

  The Wetzel household was greatly upset over the disappearance of Martin and his cousin six days ago. Old John, George and Lewis had searched for them, of course, and found where they had been captured. The trail spoke volumes to Old John Wetzel; the two young men had at least not been immediately killed, and that was encouraging. Taken into captivity, there remained the possibility they might eventually escape. No one voiced what they all feared—that the pair would be forced to run a gauntlet, with a likelihood of being killed in the process. Or if they survived that, it might only be to face an infinitely worse death at the stake. More to the moment, however, the trail also told them that six mounted Shawnees had ridden toward the settlements, meaning the Wetzel household was in imminent danger and that their first priority must be to return and protect Old John’s wife, 12-year-old Jacob, nine-year-old Susan and Little John, now seven.

  Once again the family was taken to safety—this time to Catfish Camp, now ranking second in population after Wheeling, with a fort and several good fortified cabins. Leaving the family in charge of George, Old John then rode off to alert Col. Shepherd at Fort Henry. Early yesterday, Lewis volunteered to go tell John Wolf’s family on Dunkard Creek about his and Martin’s capture.