That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  The ineptitude of Gen. Edward Hand as an Indian fighter did not go unnoticed in the east. When, shortly after the Squaw Campaign, he formally requested to be relieved of this frontier command and assigned to the fighting occurring between British regulars and the Continental Army—a type of warfare far more appealing to him—the wheels were put into motion to replace him. Gen. Washington named a proven Scots officer, Brig. Gen. Lachlan McIntosh, to take command of the Continental Army’s Western Department, with headquarters at Fort Pitt. One of the principal objectives initially established for McIntosh was to prepare for and execute an expedition against Detroit.

  Before the departure of Gen. McIntosh for that place, however, the Congress decided that all frontier military affairs of the west should be a federal concern. It mildly disapproved of the latitude Gov. Henry had given to George Rogers Clark. That body then reversed itself in respect to the proposed strike against Detroit and decided that Gen. McIntosh should instead lead a punitive mission against the tribes who were harassing the upper Ohio Valley—in particular, the Wyandots operating out of their villages along the Sandusky River. It laid out orders of procedure to be followed in respect to the western frontier:

  In Congress, July 25, 1778

  1. Resolved, that the expedition against the fortress of Detroit for the present be deferred.

  2. That Brigadier General Mackintosh be directed to assemble at Fort Pitt as many Continental troops and militia as will amount to fifteen hundred, and proceed, without delay, to destroy such towns of the hostile tribes of Indians as he in his discretion shall think will most effectually tend to chastise and terrify the savages, and to check their ravages on the frontiers of these states.

  3. That such of the articles as have already been procured for the expedition against Detroit, and which are necessary for the incursion against the Indian towns, be appropriated for that purpose; and that the Board of War be directed to give the necessary orders on this point.

  4. That Governor Henry be informed of the determination of Congress with respect to the intended expedition, and that he be desired to furnish General Mackintosh with such a number of militia as the General shall apply for, to make up the complement of men destined for an incursion into the towns of the hostile Indians.

  Extract from the minutes.

  Charles Thompson, Secretary

  The Congress authorized Gen. McIntosh to call upon the county lieutenants of the specific Virginia counties of Augusta, Berkeley, Botetourt, Frederick, Greenbrier, Hampshire, Monongalia, Montgomery, Ohio, Rockbridge, Rockingham, Shenandoah, Washington, and Youghiogania, “as he may demand to carry on an expedition against the hostile Indians, & chastise them as they deserve.”

  On his arrival at Fort Pitt, Gen. McIntosh relieved Gen. Hand and, on the recommendation of George Washington, appointed militia Maj. William Crawford as his second in command with the brevet rank of colonel. McIntosh had decided that a more advanced post than Fort Pitt had to be built as a launching point for the punitive expedition against the Sandusky towns. To that end he dispatched a substantial force of soldiers, laborers and engineers—men of the Eighth Pennsylvania Regiment commanded by Col. Daniel Brodhead and the Thirteenth Virginia Regiment commanded by Col. John Gibson, plus two regiments of militia—to erect a sturdy fort farther down the Ohio. That fort was now being constructed on the downriver side of the mouth of Beaver River, on the right bank of the Ohio 25 miles below Fort Pitt, and even though unfinished, it was already being called Fort McIntosh.332

  [September 12, 1778—Saturday]

  Capt. Samuel Brady stared at the scalp he was holding. The flesh was still warm, and the blood clinging to hair and skin stained his hands as he inspected it. There was good reason why this particular scalp evoked his interest: It was the first scalp he had ever taken, the first Indian he had ever killed. He was quite certain it was far from his last, on either count.

  At 22, Sam Brady was six feet tall and trimly built, tending toward the slender. A handsome young man, his hair was dark brown over a broad, smooth forehead, and his features were angular, emphasized by high cheekbones and a wide mouth in which strong, white, well-formed teeth were displayed when he grinned or laughed, which was frequently. But his most arresting characteristic was his eyes: Wide set, large and very expressive, they seemed almost to change color with his mood, usually pale, cool blue when he was in a jocular frame of mind but turning hard gray and unnervingly penetrating when he became angry or intent.

  There had been little distinctive about Sam when he was born to John and Mary Brady in 1756 at Shippensburg, Pennsylvania, 20 miles southwest of the frontier town of Carlisle.333 He was firstborn of ten children and named after his uncle, who was a husky, large-framed man topping two inches over six feet, a captain who had served under Gen. Braddock.334 Pleased at having a namesake, he had come to see this new offspring of his younger brother, and after staring down into the cradle for several minutes, he had straightened and shaken his head at the proud parents.

  “John, Mary,” he said half-seriously, “I think you ought to knock so ordinary-looking a child in the head.”

  Refusing to take offense, both parents had laughed and then Mary shook her finger at him. “Never mind, Samuel Brady,” she retorted. “He may yet become a great warrior.”

  Young Sam had indeed become a warrior, though thus far greatness had eluded him. In 1775, shortly after the Revolution broke out, his father had joined the Continental Army as a private and was sent to Boston. Only a few weeks later, on August 5, Sam, then 19, working in a field with his brother James, who was a year younger, abruptly threw down his mattock and said he was done grubbing in the dirt and was going to war. That very day he joined a volunteer company, and they, too, were marched to Boston.

  So highly patriotic and conscientious was Sam as a soldier that he had quickly caught the eye of his commanding officer, who offered him a commission. Sam was on the verge of taking it when his father heard about it, intervened and forbade it. “First,” said the elder Brady, “let him learn the duties of a soldier, and then he will better know how to act as an officer.”

  Sam served the full year as an enlisted man that his father had insisted upon, fighting in the battles around Boston. Then in August 1776 during the Battle of Long Island, he so distinguished himself that he was commissioned first lieutenant. The following October he participated in the Battle of White Plains, New York, where the 20,000 American troops were forced into retreat by 34,000 Redcoats. He was with George Washington in New Jersey during the dreadful winter of 1776 and crossed the Delaware with him on December 26 to capture 1,000 Hessian troops. Eight days later, on January 3, 1777, he was nearly captured in the Battle of Princeton and was hailed for what his commander called “impetuous gallantry.” That gallantry continued in the Battle of Brandywine a year ago yesterday; in that same battle his father, now a captain, was badly wounded and sent home. Col. William Crawford, still commanding the Virginia Thirteenth Regiment, had fought at Brandywine as well.

  Less than a month later, last October 4, Brady—and Col. Crawford, too—fought in the Battle of Germantown, six miles from Philadelphia. Even though the Americans lost and had 1,000 men killed, Sam Brady was again conspicuous for his bravery and received a brevet promotion to captain. For the first time he came to an impressed Col. William Crawford’s attention. The courageous young man seemed to be leading a charmed life and was obviously approaching that status of “great warrior” that his mother had predicted.

  Brady’s good luck continued at the massacre at the Battle of Paoli, Pennsylvania, when he and some others had been cut off by the Redcoats and surrounded. So close was the fighting that at one point he was pursued by British soldiers who thrust bayonets at him as he leaped a fence. They missed him but impaled his greatcoat to the fence. He slipped out of the coat and raced away, only to be overtaken by a British cavalryman who ordered him to surrender. Instead, he killed the horseman and escaped into a nearby swamp. Other American soldiers had al
so taken refuge there, and he gathered together 55 of them and led them to safety in the American lines. For one who was then only 21, it was quite a list of achievements.

  By now, his character had been well established. In warfare he was a fierce, intelligent fighter who never gave way to panic, irrespective of the circumstances. His temperament at other times was mild and his personality captivating. He was pleasant company and would have an occasional drink with friends, but he never indulged to excess and had never been observed drunk.

  He was in Col. Daniel Brodhead’s Eighth Pennsylvania Regiment when Brodhead was ordered to take his command to Pittsburgh to serve under Gen. McIntosh. On the march west he asked and received permission to take a slight detour and visit his parents during a brief furlough, with instructions to rejoin his unit at Fort Pitt.

  When he got to Shippensburg, there was good news and bad. The good news was that his father was recovering well from his wound. The bad news was that his family was just then preparing to bury his younger brother, James, to whom he was deeply devoted, who had been killed by Indians. It had happened on August 9 while James and a few other men were harvesting oats. Because there had been a few Indian attacks in the area in recent weeks, they had posted one of their number as a sentinel, stacked their own guns against a lone tree in the center of the field and set to work.

  The sentinel’s attention was distracted by the men who were harvesting, and he had watched them for a while. When he looked back, a group of Indians was already crossing the nearby fence and racing toward them with guns and tomahawks. James Brady had seen them at about the same time as the sentinel, and he dropped his scythe, sprinted toward the tree and shouted, “Every man to his gun!”

  Instead of following him, the others had dropped their implements and fled precipitately in the opposite direction. Brady had nearly reached the tree when one of the advancing warriors stopped, aimed and shot at him. The ball went through both of Brady’s arms, but despite this, he was able to snatch up his rifle and kill the Indian who had shot him.335 By then, the rest of the war party were upon him. Even wounded as he was, he managed to grapple with one and throw him down, but then he was himself struck down with a tomahawk blow to the temple. A young warrior on his first raid was called forward and given the opportunity of taking his first scalp, but he botched the job and wound up not only cutting off more of the scalp than was necessary but taking one of James’s ears along with it. The Indians considered this a huge joke and laughed uproariously. Then they gathered up the weapons and their fallen comrade and departed the way they had come.

  Sometime later James had recovered consciousness. With no one left to aid him, he crawled inch by torturous inch to the nearby river, where he was able to drink. He passed in and out of consciousness but eventually saw a canoe passing and hailed it. He had then been taken to the fort, where he lingered for nine days before finally dying a day and a half before Sam’s arrival home.336

  Samuel Brady had blamed those who abandoned his brother almost as much as he blamed the Indians who had attacked. Only with great difficulty was he restrained from taking them to account for their cowardice. But it was for the Indians that an even greater rage had been ignited within him.

  “I swear,” he told his parents grimly, “I will hunt and kill these damned hostile Indians until either I’m dead or they’re all dead or we finally bring them to their knees. I swear it!”337

  Brady saw an opportunity for living up to that oath when he reported for duty at Fort Pitt. Most of the regiment had already gone down to Beaver River, where they were helping build the new Fort McIntosh, but Col. Brodhead asked Brady if he would like to lead a small mission against a party of Indians reportedly terrorizing settlers some 30 miles up the Allegheny, near the mouth of the Kiskeminetas. He would be given a trustworthy guide and could pick his own squad of five men from among any of the soldiers left here.

  Accepting the assignment with alacrity, Brady selected five experienced Indian fighters. As his second in command he chose Capt. Samuel Murphy, a tough little red-headed Irishman who had been fighting Indians for years. At first, however, Brady was not overly pleased when he discovered that the trustworthy guide Col. Brodhead mentioned turned out to be a 50-year-old Delaware Indian who went by the name of John Thompson. Brady quickly ascertained that the man had proven his abilities and loyalty to the Americans on numerous missions in the past as spy, guide and warrior, and though he had been prepared to detest him, instead he found himself liking the man considerably.

  It was John Thompson who suggested that instead of wearing uniforms or the garb of frontier people, he dress his men as Indians, even to the use of war paint, saying that if they encountered the raiders, it might give them a slight edge that could become all-important. Brady thought it a good idea and cleared it with the colonel, who suggested that the Indian-clad rangers tie strips of bright cloth around their left upper arms to distinguish them from the real Indians, lest on their return they be mistaken for the latter and shot.

  Today, as they neared the mouth of the Kiskeminetas, John Thompson spied an Indian in a canoe coming toward them far upstream. Since none of the men in the squad could speak the Indian tongue fluently, he suggested that Brady and his rangers go into hiding, and he would endeavor to lure the man ashore. Brady thought it a good idea, and the squad quickly hid themselves in the underbrush.

  Fifteen minutes ago, when the approaching Indian was still some 40 or 50 yards upstream from them, John Thompson showed himself and hailed him. The Indian—a Mingo—was suspicious, but John Thompson convinced him that he was a member of a party that had captured some whites and were taking them to their villages when they were attacked by a party of whites who had followed on horseback and overtaken them. The rest of his party had tomahawked the prisoners and then scattered, so now he was on his own but nonetheless determined to continue attacking the whites by himself until his ammunition gave out. The Mingo seemed pleased to hear this and said that he, too, was out hunting whites, and it might be a good idea if the two of them joined forces. He put in toward shore, approaching with some lingering traces of wariness.

  As the little craft glided to shore, John Thompson abruptly jerked up his gun and shot. The ball caught the Mingo high on the inside of his right arm and knocked him off his feet and into the bottom of the canoe. As he struggled to regain his feet and take aim at his attacker, John Thompson called for Brady to come help. Sam rushed out of hiding and placed a well-aimed ball at the base of the Mingo’s throat, killing him.

  Now Samuel Brady stood with this Indian’s scalp in his hands. He felt no remorse or anything else for this first Indian he had killed—only a sense of satisfaction that he was gone and an unwavering determination that this was far from the last Indian scalp he would lift.

  They took the dead man’s gear, set his canoe adrift and left his body lying on the shore as a warning to others. Then they continued their patrol and less than three hours later spied a war party of 15 garishly painted Mingoes moving in single file along the Allegheny shoreline. At Brady’s signal his men slipped into hiding and readied themselves.

  Brady had previously given orders that no firing was to be done until he gave the signal, and so though all guns were aimed at the approaching Indians, they held off. Not until the party was less than 50 yards distant did Brady shout “Now!” and the rifles crashed. Four of the Indians were killed instantly. Brady and his men burst from cover with terrifying yells. The remaining Indians dropped their packs and other gear and fled.

  For Sam Brady, it was an auspicious beginning for his personal war against the Indians.

  [December 10, 1778—Thursday]

  The force under Gen. Lachlan McIntosh had arrived back at Fort McIntosh yesterday. They were hungry and exhausted men, but their commander was well pleased with the results of the expedition into the Ohio country. For the first time the Americans had built a permanent fort to the north and west of the Ohio River, and now, well garrisoned, it stood on its o
wn some 80 miles from here on the banks of the Tuscarawas River—an installation that had been named Fort Laurens.

  The construction was part of the frontier war plan outlined by George Washington, who said, “The only certain way of preventing Indian ravages is to carry the war vigorously into their own country.” To this end he had already named Maj. Gen. John Sullivan to lead an invasion of “destruction and punishment” against the Iroquois as soon as the weather permitted; an expedition designed to penetrate into the very heart of their territory in upper New York State, engage them wherever possible and destroy every village encountered.

  The McIntosh expedition, on the other hand, which was originally intended to march against Detroit, had been altered. Direct attack against Detroit was deferred, and instead, an advanced fort deep in Indian territory was to be built as a haven and a launching point for attacks against the Wyandot towns on the Sandusky River—the stream originally named Sahunduskee by the Wyandots, meaning Clear Water.

  The force of 2,000 men—1,500 of them militia—rendezvoused at Fort Pitt and then, guided by Col. William Crawford, who had followed the same Indian trail with Col. Bouquet, moved downriver to Fort McIntosh, which was now finished and boasted four strong blockhouses and a six-pounder cannon.338 McIntosh sent emissaries to the Delaware chiefs, asking permission to pass through their country, and considering the affronts the Delawares had recently suffered at the hands of the Americans, no one felt that any good would come of it. The Delawares, however, still thought it possible for whites and Indians to live in peace, and permission was granted. Delighted, McIntosh left Col. Brodhead in command of Fort McIntosh and led his force out on September 11, taking a northwestward course. They arrived at the Tuscarawas 14 days later. The more hostile tribes were aware of the movement, of course, and believing this to be the long-feared attack against their stronghold, they had fallen back to meet the assault in their villages. As a result, during the nearly four months of its absence, the McIntosh expedition never had any engagement with the Indians.