by Allan Eckert
With the birth of little Ben, William’s old yearning had returned and grown, and though he had pushed it down, it kept coming back ever stronger. Now, viewing the remains, he suddenly spoke aloud: “By damn! This is my land, claimed by my toil, meant for me, for my son, for my son’s children. I will not, cannot, give it up. This place was built by me and rebuilt by me, and now, please God, I will rebuild it again, and I vow I’ll never again leave it. And when at last I die, this is where I will be buried, and my son, Benjamin, will continue in my place. I swear it!”384
[October 20, 1779—Wednesday]
Hezekiah Bukey—called ’Ki by his friends—considered himself very lucky. As short and slight as he was, he never really thought he’d have a chance to be accepted as one of Capt. Sam Brady’s Rangers. His brother, John, had been accepted, but that was no surprise to anyone, since John was six feet tall—fully eight inches taller than Hezekiah—and very sturdily built. But for some reason Brady had taken a shine to Hezekiah and made him a Ranger, and now the two of them had become friends. On those rare occasions when they were not actively patrolling, they would go out hunting or fishing together or sometimes just simply walk together in the woods or along the Ohio River shore.
Now here he was, hunting again with Brady and very much hoping to prove his prowess with his rifle. Hezekiah knew he was a good shot, but he felt it important that Brady knew it as well. He had impressed Brady in target shooting, but stationary targets were not animals that could run and dodge, nor were they Indians who could fight back.
Half an hour ago, or perhaps a little more, he and Brady had separated to go around opposite sides of this hill, hoping that one or the other might flush a deer. If the one who flushed it missed his shot, the fleeing animal might run within range of the other. When he heard a crackling sound from behind some bushes ahead, he became quite alert and eased his way through them to where he could see into the clearing beyond. As he glimpsed the source of the sound, his heart raced. Twenty feet up a gnarled beech tree, crouched on a huge lower limb and beginning to tear at an oval-shaped hollow, was a medium-size she-bear. Honey bees were pouring out of the hole and buzzing madly about her, many of them alighting on her dense black fur. Except for occasionally brushing at her face with a paw, she paid no attention to them and only tore at the hole with greater vigor.
Grinning, Bukey stepped into the clearing and took a stance about 30 feet from the tree. As the black bear turned her head to look at him, the great mouth opened, exposing powerful teeth, and issued a sort of whining woof. Bukey brought up his flintlock and took careful aim at the center of her throat. He was just beginning to squeeze the trigger when a much deeper, gruffer growl filled the clearing. It took an instant for Bukey to realize the last sound had not come from her and, sensing danger, he whirled around.
Less than ten yards away, an enormous male black bear was facing him, a steady menacing growl rumbling from his chest. Bukey knew this was the breeding season for bears, and this one was evidently the mate of the much smaller female in the tree. The bear took a step toward him, and Bukey swung his rifle up, aimed quickly at the large animal’s eye and squeezed the trigger. The big curved hammer snapped forward, and the flint struck the pan with a little burst of sparks. The powder in the gun’s pan flashed with a puff of blue-white smoke, but there was no explosion.
The snap and plume of smoke angered the bear, and he quickly stood upright, his powerful forepaws spread and the great curved claws clearly visible. The rumbling in his chest turned into a roar as he turned his huge head to one side and snarled, then began to walk toward Bukey. On his hind legs like this, he towered over the little man and weighed about three times as much.
To his credit, Bukey didn’t panic, knowing that if he turned and tried to run, the bear would be on him in an instant and he would have no chance. Keeping his eyes on the bear and prepared to leap to one side if he charged, the little frontiersman let the flintlock slide through his hands until the butt was on the ground. With his right hand he felt to his belt and touched the head of his tomahawk. Slowly he pulled it up so more of the shaft was exposed and accessible to his grip.
Behind him he heard the female stirring in the tree, and she made a low, whining sound. Bukey had the feeling she was descending the tree to strike him from behind, and he had a terrible urge to swivel around to see, but restrained himself from doing so. The male was the greater danger at this moment. He was now only 20 feet away and had paused, but the snarling continued and a strand of slobber drooled from one side of his mouth. The lips curled up and back, exposing the largest, most powerful-looking canines Bukey had ever seen. He felt his thigh muscles begin to shiver, and then abruptly he was trembling all over so badly, he thought he might collapse and inwardly he cursed himself for being a coward.
The bear began moving toward him again, tilting his head. Bukey left his tomahawk half-exposed in his belt, ready to grasp, and then slowly brought his right hand forward, gripped the end of the gun barrel with both hands and, just as slowly, raised the weapon upward and back until it was poised over his right shoulder. Then he suddenly spoke, the words coming softly, as if from someone else, surprising him.
“Back off, ol’ bear. Back off, now. You come much closer, and you’re gonna make me whomp you one over the snout, you hear?”
With unnerving unexpectedness, the female in the tree behind him squalled a horrendous sound, and everything seemed to happen at once, yet in a peculiarly slowed sense, as if time were ticking to a standstill. Bukey half turned and looked behind in time to see the female, still squalling, smack at her eye and muzzle with both front paws, lose her balance and fall with a heavy thump to the matted leaf litter at the tree’s base. In that same slowness of time, she bounded to her feet and ran bawling into the woods and out of sight.
As Bukey turned back, the male roared again and lunged at him, mouth widely agape. The little man swung the gun a tremendous blow, catching the bear across the muzzle just in front of the eyes, striking so hard that the stock snapped in half at the grip. The momentum of the bear caused the animal to smash into him, bowling him over, but he was not clawed, the bear momentarily too stunned to grasp him.
For an instant the bear dropped to all fours, then came to his hind legs again, bellowing with pain as blood flowed from the nostrils. Time reverted to normal once more, and the furious animal charged. Bukey jerked his tomahawk free from his belt and raised it to strike, but just then there came the sharp crack of a rifle. A lead ball the size of an acorn smashed into the roof of the bear’s open mouth and blasted into his brain. He toppled forward and fell so close to Bukey that he quickly had to pivot out of the way.
Tomahawk still clenched in hand and ready to defend himself, Bukey whirled to face the shooter, then suddenly relaxed and expelled a great gust of breath. It was Sam Brady, grinning broadly.
“You’ve got the strangest way of bear hunting I’ve ever seen, ’Ki,” he said.
“How long were you there?” Bukey asked, uncomfortably remembering how severely he was trembling earlier.
“Long enough to see most of it,” Brady replied, still grinning.
Bukey was suddenly ashamed of himself. “Then you seen how scared I was,” he said bitterly.
Brady’s grin faded and he stepped forward and put his hand on the little man’s shoulder. “What I saw,” he said seriously, “was one of the most courageous things I’ve ever seen. And I saw a man that I’d be proud to have at my side anytime in any kind of situation.”
[November 2, 1779—Tuesday]
The large delegation of Shawnees who came to attend the major congress of tribes being hosted by the Wyandots of Upper Sandusky were very morose. Just over two weeks ago, on October 15, their beloved principal chief, Chiungalla—Black Fish—had died. After lingering for 64 days in extreme, constantly increasing pain from the bullet wound that had shattered his thigh, he had at last slipped away, and a great state funeral had been held for him at the Shawnee burial ground two miles s
outh of Chalahgawtha along a small stream.385 The new principal chief of the Shawnees was the humorless man who had been second chief under Chiungalla over these past years, Catahecassa—known to the whites as Black Hoof. He was leader of the Shawnee delegation that had come here to Upper Sandusky and this delegation’s pervasive anger at the suffering and death of Chiungalla was only a reflection of that felt throughout the tribe. They had sworn vengeance on the Shemanese, and this present council promised to help implement that vow.
Close to 3,000 Indians were assembled. In addition to the Wyandots themselves and the Shawnees, there were Hurons and Chippewas, Ottawas and Tawas, Tuscaroras, Delawares, Potawatomies and Miamis; representatives of the tribes whose chiefs had now gathered in the great council house in Half King’s Town—the village of the aged but still powerful Wyandot chief, Monakaduto. There was a sense of the surreal in the dimness of this large structure as the blanket-wrapped chiefs, murmuring softly among themselves, sat upon woven mats on the hard-packed earthen floor, enshrouded in the haze of smoke from the council fire and the aromatic kinnikinnick smoldering in the bowls of their pipes.386
Among those closest to the council fire sat five white men. British Capt. Henry Bird, resplendent in his full dress uniform of scarlet, white and gold, sat in the center, flanked by Alexander McKee to his right and the three Girty brothers—Simon, James and George—to his left.387
Everyone present had heard, of course, of the spectacularly successful ambush that had been pulled off only 11 days ago on the Spaylaywitheepi against a convoy of five large supply-filled keelboats coming upriver on its way to Pittsburgh.388 Many on hand here, in fact, including Simon Girty, had participated in that ambush. The boats had been attacked at the mouth of the Licking River by 130 warriors, 80 of whom had been Shawnees.389 One of the keelboats carrying 17 men had managed to escape, but four were captured and 45 whites were killed, plus five taken prisoner. Just two warriors had been killed, and three slightly wounded.
The loot that had been taken was very impressive: a ton of gunpowder in kegs, two tons of lead in bars, two crates of new flintlock rifles, 40 bales of new clothing, numerous kegs of rum and boxes and bales of other goods, plus thousands of dollars in Spanish silver. The division of those supplies and gunpowder had provided the participants with a bounty they had not known for a considerable while. Now all the Indians, even those factions of the Delawares and Wyandots that had for so long been advocating peace, were eager for the war to be stepped up and carried out with vigor against the Kentuckians. It was what they had believed Capt. Bird was here for—to promise British support for just such endeavors. They were not disappointed.
“Brothers,” Capt. Bird said, “I come bearing news of great moment to you. Our father across the eastern sea, King George, has become deeply concerned over how you have been treated by the Americans. He has wept over the burning of Chalahgawtha this past summer and the death of the great Shawnee chief, Black Fish, and he fears for the sanctity of your lands unless steps are taken to wipe out this threat.
“Brothers, my heart is glad that I am able to tell you now that Lieutenant General Frederick Haldimand, Governor of Canada, upon instructions from the King, has authorized an invasion not only to crush the Kentucky forts but also to force the Virginia frontier back east of the Allegheny Mountains.”
There were great cries of pleasure and war whoops as the three Girty brothers, each in a different tongue, interpreted the British officer’s words. After a few moments Bird, smiling broadly, raised a hand and as the hubbub faded, he continued:
“Such invasion, brothers, will not only regain for you your traditional hunting grounds south of the river but will prevent the western growth of American colonies — states, as they choose to rebelliously call themselves—now threatening your lands.” Another favorable murmuring arose at this, but he went on without pause, and it quickly faded. “My brothers, listen! My chief, Captain de Peyster, has empowered me to lead this invasion of the Kentucky lands, and it will be an invasion the like of which this country has not heretofore witnessed. My chief will provide an army made up of British regular soldiers and Tories, as well as officers from Detroit and green-coated rangers from Canada. The Kentucky forts are strong and have withstood attack before, but they will not be able to withstand this attack!”
The assembled Indians tensed, listening eagerly for the words they had so long waited to hear, and again Bird did not disappoint them. “We will march against them not only with tomahawk and knife and flintlock, but with cannons as well—the great brass thunder guns that can knock down the wall of a fort with a single shot. For this, brothers, they have no defense!”
Again a wave of cheers and war whoops swelled, now punctuated by cries of “When? When?”
“Brothers,” Capt. Bird concluded, “the winter season is upon us now, and in the spring there is planting you must do so that your grain may grow for next winter’s use. Therefore the invasion will not start until the corn and melons and vegetables have been planted. Until that time, my chief will continue to buy scalps and prisoners from you at Detroit. And when the time comes to go, your friends beside me, Agent McKee and Simon Girty and his brothers, will come to you with the news. We wish for every warrior who can, to come along. The day of reckoning will be at hand for the Shemanese!”
The piercing shrieks and war cries that filled the council house were testimony enough that when the time came for the British to call upon them, they would be very ready to participate in the invasion of Kentucky.
[December 14, 1779—Tuesday]
Henry Applegate, Jr., arrived in Pittsburgh just in time to hear some interesting and, to him, very pleasing news.390 Capt. Samuel Brady’s Rangers had the other day brought in two hostile Delawares they had captured on a short foray up the Allegheny. One of them was Mamatchtaga, who had been particularly troublesome in leading war parties. Because of his enormous beaklike nose, he had long been known to the frontier people as Big Nose. The other was a younger warrior known only by the name of Copper. Both had been tried and found guilty by a tribunal of officers at Fort Pitt and sentenced to death by Col. Brodhead. The execution was to be held within the hour, along the bank of the Allegheny adjacent to the fort.
Applegate went to the fort at once and saw that a crowd had gathered on the high bank, well above the river level. Hardly 50 yards to the left, the Allegheny and Monongahela merged to form the Ohio. A few feet from the edge of the high bank were four men—the two condemned Indians and their two executioners. Those executioners, appointed by the court, turned out to be the Seneca half-breed Andrew Montour and the so-called “pet” Delaware, Captain Wilson. These two had been instructed by the court to simultaneously strike the condemned men a killing blow to the head with tomahawks. At an order from Montour, both of the condemned men kneeled to receive their death blow.
Both executioners raised their tomahawks. Montour counted aloud, the blows to be struck on the count of three. As he called out, “Three!” he swung his tomahawk a hefty blow and buried it to the shaft in the top of Copper’s head, then jerked the blade free with an effort as the Indian fell.
Captain Wilson’s eyes, however, locked with those of Mamatchtaga, and he was mesmerized by the condemned man’s unflinching stare. This man, at one time, had been a close friend of Captain Wilson’s uncle, Scare the World—John Thompson. A faint smile touched Mamatchtaga’s lips, and even as Montour, only an arm’s length away, was disengaging his tomahawk from his victim and preparing to roll his body into the river, Mamatchtaga sprang to his feet, roughly shoved Captain Wilson away from him and leaped down the steep bank to the river’s edge and dove far out into the frigid current. There were shouts of dismay from the onlookers, and when Big Nose did not surface for a considerable while, some thought he had drowned himself in preference to being executed by one of his own tribesmen.
After about two minutes, however, Mamatchtaga surfaced well downstream and far out from shore. He gasped loudly and remained on the surface lo
ng enough to take a deep breath. As bullets began to strike the water near him, he dove again and remained under nearly as long as the first time. When he came up again he was beyond the point of the Forks of the Ohio and more than 100 feet from shore. The third dive carried him beyond accurate range of the gunfire, and this time he stayed on the surface and swam with great vigor toward the northern shoreline. A quarter-mile below the Forks, showing little effect from his exertions and the cold water, Mamatchtaga came ashore, made a wide, sweeping bow toward the distant crowd and then raced up the bank and disappeared from view.391
[March 14, 1780—Tuesday]
As always, the frontier people looked forward to maple sugar time. Late in the winter when the sap began to flow in the big stately maples, sugar camps sprouted up in many of the major groves, and it was a festive time, sort of a precursor to spring. This year 11 young people joined forces to turn the sugar-making into a wonderful outing; five of them young men in their late teens or early twenties, three young ladies of similar age and three younger boys who were there to learn how to tap the trees, boil the sap and render the sugar. Three of the party were of the Whittaker family, three of the Fulkes family, two of the Deavers family and three others named Lewis Tucker, Tom Dillow and John Sprott.
The sugar camp they set up was located on the southeast side of Rusdan’s Run, a tributary of Raccoon Creek about a dozen miles upstream from the mouth of the latter.392 For a week now the party had been busy at work rendering the valuable brown sugar and, in the evenings, singing songs, dancing about the fire and holding races, jumping contests or other games.