by Allan Eckert
By midmorning, he was only a few miles from Dunkard Creek when he encountered a young man named Frazier Forrest hunting for table game. He had already bagged two rabbits and a turkey and was on the verge of heading for home when the two met. Forrest was newly married and referred to his wife as “the most beautiful Rose in the garden.” Her name was, reasonably enough, Rose. They, too, lived on Dunkard Creek but several miles from the Wolf cabin. Forrest suggested they head that way together, and Lewis, glad for the company, agreed.
The Forrest cabin was burning fiercely when they arrived, and Rose was nowhere to be found. Frazier was wild with rage and concern. Lewis discovered tracks and deduced that four Indians, all afoot, had taken Rose away. Immediately the two young men began trailing them, traveling fast and hoping to intercept them and rescue her.
The trail led them to Cresap’s Bottom, where the Indian party had evidently made a raft and crossed the Ohio. The raft-making had caused the Indians to lose a good bit of time, and the pursuers were encouraged. If they could cross the river themselves quickly, they might yet overtake the party before dark. They quickly made a floating platform of dry branches tied together with grapevines, placed their guns, powderhorns and pouches on it and swam the river, pushing it before them.
On the other side they found the abandoned raft the Indians had used, and they continued following the trail, now leading them up Captina Creek. Soon it was twilight, and they were despairing of overtaking them before it became too dark for further tracking. In another 20 minutes Lewis stopped and shook his head.
“Cain’t see good,” he said. “Reckon we mebbe orta’ stop ’fore we lose the trail entirely.”
Fearing detection themselves, they made a cold camp and huddled together at the base of a large sycamore, one on watch while the other napped. An hour or so after dark, while Lewis was on guard, there was a slight shifting of the night breeze, and he abruptly stiffened and carefully shook Frazier Forrest awake.
“I caught a whiff of smoke comin’ down the crik,” he whispered. “I figger it’s gotta be their camp. C’mon.”
They moved slowly, sliding their feet gently to avoid stepping on a twig that would crack and betray their presence. After some 500 yards they caught a glimpse of campfire coals glowing well ahead of them. They approached even more cautiously until they were within 40 yards. Three of the Indians were stretched out asleep. The fourth was hunched in a sitting position, his back against a tree, his head turning occasionally to look at Rose Forrest, who also sat cuddled up against a tree a few feet away from him. Even at this distance they could hear her occasional sobbing.
Frazier Forrest’s rage returned in a surge, and he was all for firing at them and then instantly rushing up to finish them off with tomahawks. Lewis put a restraining hand on his arm and calmed him, whispering that they had to wait till daylight if they wanted to minimize the risk of getting themselves and Rose killed. They continued to watch, and after a while Rose fell asleep. The Indians changed guard and fed the fire twice during the night. It was during one such occasion when they saw that one of the men was not Indian but a white renegade.
The Indians were still asleep at dawn. Even the guard appeared to be dozing, but Lewis cautioned Frazier to be patient, and they waited for the men to rouse. They planned to shoot the first two who got to their feet, Frazier taking the man on the left, Lewis the one on the right; then they would rush the camp screeching and shouting and, with luck, the two survivors might flee, thinking a large party was coming against them.
It was fairly well daylight when the Indians began to rouse. The renegade came to his feet first, stretching hugely, and then the guard stood.
“At three, Frazier,” Lewis whispered. “One … two … three.”
The two shots exploded almost as one, and both men were slammed off their feet. Frazier and Lewis ran bellowing toward the campfire. The other two, who had been stirring, leaped up and ran, leaving their guns on the ground. Lewis loaded as he ran, and by the time he passed the campfire, his weapon was ready.
Frazier raced to Rose, who was screaming and crying, and gathered her into his arms. Lewis continued running and abruptly saw that the two Indians had stopped and were watching him come. Both had yanked the tomahawks from their belts and seemed ready to charge him, believing his gun to be empty. Lewis stopped, leveled his rifle and shot one of them dead. The other charged instantly, knowing now for certain the white man’s gun was empty. Lewis turned and fled, and now all that practice at reloading while running at full tilt paid off. In 50 yards, with the shrieking, tomahawk-wielding Indian closing rapidly on him, he finished the reloading, stopped, whirled around, took good aim and shot that Indian dead, too.327
They took the four scalps and all the weapons and returned to the river, where they used the abandoned Indian raft to cross. Halfway there, Lewis paused and looked at the young woman, composure regained, sitting calmly in the center.
“Ma’am,” he said, “Frazier tol’ me you was the purtiest rose in the garden. You know what? Far as I k’n see, he ain’t lied yet.”328
[May 7, 1778—Thursday]
Martin Wetzel stared at the fire, now all but reduced to ashes, and shook his head with dismay. The anger and frustration he was experiencing seethed inside him with no outlet, and he groaned at his own helplessness. Over the past ten days since he was captured, he had cherished the hope that somehow during the journey to the Shawnee villages, he would find a chance to escape. Now, even more than previously, he wished he had been given the opportunities for escape that had been afforded to his cousin. His initial feeling that John Wolf was a fool for not taking advantage of them had been confirmed.
Martin had been kept continually bound since his capture, and though Skootekitehi and the other three warriors had not abused him, they had watched him closely. With cousin John it was different; not only was he never tied, not even at night, but time and again he was given ample opportunity to get away.
Their pace as they headed westward through the Ohio country was easy, each day’s travels not beginning until the sun was well up and ending as the night’s camp was made well before sunset. Each evening the horses would be hobbled and turned loose to graze on whatever they could find, and each morning John Wolf was sent alone to fetch them, a job that sometimes took an hour or more.
On the fourth morning, after Wolf had brought the horses in and then hunkered down by the fire near his bound cousin, Martin had spoken to him earnestly in an undertone.
“John,” he said, “why’n hell ain’t you tryin’ t’get away? You got all kinds of chances t’do it.”
Wolf shook his head. “I couldn’t think of getting away and leaving you alone in the hands of these Injens, Martin.”
“That’s what’s keepin’ you from goin’?” Martin was flabbergasted and irked. “Use your head, goddammit! I got no wife an’ babies to think of, so it don’t matter much what happens t’me. You, now, you got a wife an’ two little ones. They need you, an’ that’s where your responsibility is. You got t’get back to ’em.”
“You really think so, Martin?”
“ ’Course I do. Now listen to me. That big black mare of Paw’s—Shine—she k’n outrun and outlast any of them other horses ’thout no trouble. T’morrow when you go out t’get the horses, ketch her first an’ get on her back and get the hell out’a here. You’ll have half an hour, mebbe an hour, t’get clear, an’ they ain’t no way they could ever catch up. So do it!”
“All right, Martin,” Wolf replied, nodding seriously. “I will do it. Tomorrow morning.”
But then the next morning came and John was sent out for the horses, and nearly an hour later Martin was appalled when his cousin returned to camp leading the horses. Wolf wouldn’t meet his glance, and Martin could see he was trembling, and a great contempt rose in him at John’s clearly apparent fear and cowardice. They hardly spoke the remainder of the trip, and though there were more than ample opportunities for John to escape after that, he had not
the courage to take them.
Skootekitehi had taken a shine to Martin, and since he could speak a little English, Martin was able to learn that his name meant Fireheart and that they were heading for the largest of the Shawnee villages, Chalahgawtha, on the Little Miami River. There, he told Martin, he and his cousin would have to run the gauntlet. It could be very bad, but because Skootekitehi had caught Martin and claimed him as his own, he would have the right, if he saw fit, to intervene and make things easier for him.
It was in midafternoon the day before yesterday when they had reached the huge sprawling village of Chalahgawtha. One of the warriors had left them an hour earlier and gone ahead to alert the village of their approach. By the time they arrived, the gauntlet line had been formed—a double line of people armed with clubs and switches and other weapons, stretching perhaps 300 yards to the large council house.
The two captives were positioned at the head of the line and stripped of all their clothing. Martin’s blouse was cut away without his wrists being untied. If they reached the council house, they would then be safe. John Wolf was directed to go first. To the disgust of the Indians, he broke down and wept, pleading with them not to do this to him, but he was swatted heavily across the bare back with a stick and sent stumbling on his way. The switches, brambles and sticks that were swung at him as he passed bruised and cut him, and he was soon bleeding from the back of his head to his calves. Before covering 50 yards, he fell and was beaten repeatedly until he managed to stagger back to his feet and continue running, all the while screaming in terror and pain. Upward of a dozen times, he fell or was knocked down, and he did the last few yards to the council house on his hands and knees, but he finally did reach the big building, crossed the threshold and collapsed inside.
Then it was Martin’s turn. They freed his wrists and ordered him to run. At first he refused, determined to stand and fight and, if necessary, die. Skootekitehi spoke to him earnestly, and though Martin could not understand all he said, he gathered that if he refused to run, he would indeed be killed on this spot. If, however, he ran, Skootekitehi would follow a little distance behind, and once a heavy blow had been delivered, the warrior would then have the right to step forward and protect him for the remainder of the run.
Martin nodded and, at the signal to start, began his run, Skootekitehi a few yards behind. Switches lashed across his back and buttocks, the thorns on many of the branches tearing his flesh. An older warrior in the line struck him a heavy blow across the nape that momentarily stunned him and drove him to his knees. At that, Skootekitehi ran up and, shielding Martin’s back with his own body, shook his head and barked a string of words at the Indians in the line, and the blows ceased. Maintaining his position close behind Martin, Skootekitehi trotted behind him the rest of the way to the council house. John was still on the floor inside, sobbing and moaning. The cousins were taken to a wegiwa, where they were given a little to eat and their wounds soothed with a salve; there they spent the night. Chalahgawtha, Skootekitehi told Martin, aided by another warrior who spoke English somewhat better, was the village of Chiungalla—Black Fish—who was principal chief of the tribe. He was away with a war party now, turning the people at the place where Hokolesqua was killed into food for the death birds—vultures.
Yesterday, early in the morning, several warriors came to the wegiwa and took John Wolf away, motioning for Martin to remain where he was. A short while later John started to scream—first in terror and then, a little later, in agony. Throughout the day and most of the night the screaming continued, sometimes dwindling away for a time, sometimes rising to a horrifying pitch of anguish. Toward morning there were still low, choked moanings, and then these ended when a single shot was fired.
Only a few minutes ago, Martin was led outside and taken to where a ring of ashes and hot coals still encircled a post to which John Wolf had obviously been attached. He had been tied with a leather thong long enough for him to move in a circle around the post, and then a ring of wood heaped all around had been ignited. The fire was far enough away that he had not been touched by living flame, but close enough that the unbearable heat gradually blistered and then baked his skin. Evidently when only the barest vestige of life remained, after many hours of this torment, someone had finally, mercifully, sent a bullet into the brain of John Wolf.329
For a time Martin, sickened at the sight, was convinced that this was to be his lot as well, but now Skootekitehi came and led him to his own wegiwa and told him he was soon to be adopted into the tribe and would become Skootekitehi’s younger brother. Martin was thankful he was not to be killed, but a deep hatred burned within him. Sooner or later, he knew, an opportunity would come for him to escape, and he would grasp it. If he had to kill some of these Indians in the process, so much the better.
[May 17, 1778—Sunday]
A week ago today, Chiungalla, leading more than 400 Shawnees, had placed Fort Randolph under siege. Capt. Matthew Arbuckle and his company had been relieved of duty there a few weeks earlier, and Capt. William McKee was now in command of a much smaller garrison of about 20 soldiers. The Point Pleasant Settlement outside the fort was all but deserted, as it had been since the attacks at Wheeling and Grave Creek last fall.
The first those in the fort knew anything of the coming attack was when a small party of Indians appeared some distance away and tried to lure the garrison out in pursuit, but the whites had learned their lesson in this respect last October 22, when Lt. Robert Moore’s squad had been decoyed into ambush. They stayed put in the fort and were more than thankful they had. A short while later a line of Indians appeared, stretching across the entire point, from the Ohio River to the Kanawha. A messenger was sent to the fort under a white flag bearing a demand for surrender. Capt. McKee asked to have until the next morning to consider, which was granted.
In the morning Capt. McKee summoned Nonhelema—The Grenadier Squaw — who had been serving there supposedly in the capacity of an interpreter but actually as a spy—and had her carry his reply to Chiungalla that he would not comply. He also declared that neither he nor any other man in the fort had participated in any way in the murder of Cornstalk here the previous October, that it had been an act of impulsive lawlessness that was not condoned by the government and that, in fact, efforts were being made by the government to punish those who had committed the crime.
Nonhelema did not return. She delivered Capt. McKee’s message, then told Chiungalla that she doubted the fort could be taken without one of the great thunder guns to blast open the gates. She was correct. The attack began at once and was maintained by about half the force while the rest ranged up the Kanawha in raiding parties, causing great havoc at many of the stations, including a harsh attack against Donnelly’s Fort in the Greenbrier Valley, where four whites were killed.330 That attack ended only when a relief detachment of 66 men under Capt. John Stewart arrived from Fort Union.
Now, ten days later, it was apparent that the Shawnees could not breach the defenses of Fort Randolph, and in a short time they withdrew, the promise lingering behind that when next they came, they would have cannons and no one in the fort would survive.
[May 31, 1778—Sunday]
The situation farther down the Ohio was serious in the extreme. Since the murder of their principal chief, the Shawnees had struck in Kentucky repeatedly, and no white person there was safe. Some settlers were shot dead while in the act of merely peeking out of their cabin door to see if it was safe to emerge. Even some of the more notable frontiersmen lost their lives, including Simon Kenton’s good friend, Jake Drennon, who had been shot out of his canoe on the Kentucky River. The capture of Daniel Boone and his saltmakers at the Blue Licks in February had been a serious blow to Kentucky generally and Boonesboro in particular.
George Rogers Clark had presented himself to Gov. Patrick Henry and convinced him that, provided with sufficient gunpowder, lead and other supplies, he would raise enough men to strike and defeat the British in their southern Illinois posts a
t Kaskaskia and Cahokia, from which so many strikes against Kentucky settlers—especially by the Kickapoos—were originating. When that was accomplished, Clark added, he could then move on Detroit itself. Gov. Henry liked the idea and convinced the Virginia Executive Council to go along with it. With George Washington’s approval, Clark was appointed lieutenant colonel and directed to pick up the requisite supplies at Fort Pitt and proceed downriver to execute his plan. Should he succeed in the Illinois country, further supplies accumulated at Fort Pitt would be forwarded for the Detroit venture.331
Clark had immediately sent word ahead to Kentucky for volunteers to hold themselves in readiness to participate in the expedition and to rendezvous on Corn Island at the Falls of the Ohio with their own rifles and provisions. At Fort Pitt he got the requisitioned supplies and a few men and hurried down to Wheeling, where a few more men joined him, bringing his total force there to 100 men. He drilled them, firmly establishing himself as their commander, then set off downriver in a squadron of flatboats.
Upon reaching Corn Island, he was more than disappointed at the turnout. Kaskaskia alone, according to his spies, had a population of more than 1,000 and Clark had set the minimum number of men he needed for this enterprise at 350. All the whites in Kentucky were in sympathy with Clark’s proposed expedition, but there were simply too few men to allow many to go; the Kentucky settlements would be left too vulnerable. Thus, setting off now to penetrate enemy territory and beard the British lion in his own den, Maj. George Rogers Clark had a pitiable little force of 175 men.
[August 17, 1778—Monday]