That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  They had built a half-face shelter a dozen feet or so from the fire, and the girls usually slept under it. This evening of March 14 was particularly mild and pleasant, and when dinner and frolicking were finished, they turned in for the night. The girls and younger boys elected to roll up in their blankets between the fire and the shelter and let their older brothers have the shelter tonight, since they had been sitting watch in relays each night and sleeping in their bedrolls beside the fire. Everyone, the young men included, thought it would be nice if they had a good night’s rest for a change.

  This particular evening 12-year-old George Fulkes could not seem to get to sleep, and that was very unusual for him, since normally he fell asleep within a few brief minutes of turning in. Last night, however, he’d had a nightmare about Indians attacking them and, though the others had laughed it off, the ominous dream continued to plague him. So now, after all the others were asleep, he rose and took his blanket and crawled beneath a sugar trough that had been overturned to keep it clean and prevent water from collecting inside when it rained. Beneath its shelter he soon fell asleep.

  An hour or so later he was awakened by screams and peered out from under the trough at a terrible scene: A party of about 20 painted Wyandots—a large Negro man in Indian garb with them—were tomahawking the young men in the shelter and capturing the others. George’s older brother, John—one of those in the half-face shelter—had been struck a glancing blow from a tomahawk and was bleeding badly, but managed to scramble to his feet and start racing away. He might have escaped had he not been followed by Ginger, his little white dog. She was like a beacon for the pursuing Indians, and they quickly overtook John. This time when a tomahawk descended, he was killed.

  The bodies of all five of the young men were scalped, and the camp plundered of its firearms and goods.393 While this was occurring, George Fulkes slipped out from under the sugar trough and tried to run off, but he was spotted and quickly overtaken and brought back. Then he and the other two boys and three weeping young women were forced to carry the plunder and return with the war party to where they had hidden their canoes. By dawn, they had crossed the Ohio and were well on their way toward the upper Sandusky.394

  [May 24, 1780—Wednesday]

  Capt. Samuel Brady was on by far the most dangerous scouting expedition of his career and, from the very beginning, he expected he might have difficulty getting back with his scalp intact.

  It had begun earlier this month when Col. Brodhead, having received a suggestion from Gen. Washington to send out a good spy to learn more about the Indians attacking the frontier, had called him in and asked if he wanted to volunteer for the perilous undertaking. Brady had not hesitated a moment and said he would go. Pleased, Brodhead told him he wanted explicit information about the Wyandots and other Indians gathered in the valley of the upper Sandusky River. That seemed to be the place of origin of many of the sorties against the upper Ohio settlements, and what Brodhead needed was more accurate information than he yet possessed on their numbers, the exact location of their villages, the best routes for getting there, how well they were supplied, the extent of their involvement with the British and how much support—both in supplies and manpower—they were getting from the Redcoats, plus anything else of interest he could discover. He had a few roughly sketched maps that he gave Brady but warned that they were probably not very good.

  From the beginning Brady knew it would be foolish to undertake such a hazardous spying expedition with a large party of his Rangers. The more who went along, the greater their likelihood of detection. Actually, he thought he could probably do better all alone than with anyone else along, but Brodhead had prevailed upon him to take at least a few men and, though he hadn’t put it into words, the implication was clear: If Brady were captured or killed, he wanted someone else along who might be able to get back with whatever intelligence the mission had gleaned.

  Several of the men Brady wanted to take along—’Ki Bukey, Vach and Kinzie Dickerson, Tom Edgington—were not available at the time, so he selected four of his newer men who seemed to be competent and dependable. James Amberson was one, and Philip Cudger another. David Sprout, a tall, hawk-eyed individual who had done some spying on the Iroquois, seemed like a good choice, too. The final member was former Philadelphian John Williamson, a husky young man with great stamina and a good sense of humor.

  They were going to travel light and fast, so they carried no large packs. Each man had a pouch with a 20-day supply of jerky and parched corn that would be their only source of food for the journey. No hunting would be permitted for fear of drawing attention to themselves. The men dressed as Indians, each with his flintlock, powderhorn, bullet pouch, tomahawk and a couple of knives.

  Using Fort McIntosh as their jumping-off place, Brady set out with his party straight west along the trail to the site of the old abandoned Fort Laurens. The installation was still there, partially destroyed by fire and with most of the palings knocked down, but in better condition than he had anticipated, and there was even some indication the Indians themselves were using it for shelter and as a staging area.

  Brady remembered that during the terrible winter and early spring when he was hunting for the garrison at Fort Laurens, he had encountered a well-used east-west Indian trail about a mile north of the fort, and he suspected that this was a main trail to the Sandusky towns. They headed for it and discovered that it was large and moderately well used, though Brady thought that for a principal war trail, it should have been bigger.

  The first night after leaving the Fort Laurens area, they camped in a clearing a short distance from the trail. They built their small campfire, and Brady took first watch while the others prepared to roll up in their blankets for sleep. Abruptly Brady silenced them, and they stopped their activity and stood poised, listening. Again he heard what had first alerted him—a faint distant sound that wasn’t quite right. Swiftly, he had his men arrange their blankets near the fire to appear as if they were asleep in them, and then they all took position some 30 yards away behind a fallen tree.

  Within ten minutes they detected a motion, and Brady signaled for them to wait for his shot. Six Indians, tomahawks in hand, crept into the firelight, stealthily approaching the blankets. Just as they realized something was not correct, Brady fired, and one of the Indians fell. The other scouts fired, then burst out with a tremendous yelling. Two more Indians had fallen at the second firing, and the other three scattered and raced off into the woods, the sounds of their passage gradually dying away with distance. Brady and his party reloaded, scalped the dead Indians, gathered up their things and left. Thereafter, by Brady’s order, they made cold camps at night, with no fire or scent of smoke to give them away.

  As they continued traveling, Brady became convinced that there was another trail, one more direct than the route they had taken, and they would watch for it and take it on the way back—assuming they made it back. It would have been foolish in the extreme to march along openly on the trail and so, though it was more difficult to do so, Brady and his men stuck to the woods flanking it, keeping the westward-leading trail in sight but themselves hidden.

  Their nighttime cold camps continued, with the men rotating in sitting guard near the sleepers. On the second night after the attack at their campfire, John Williamson was on guard while the others slept. Brady began to snore, and the sounds increased in volume until Williamson was convinced any Indian within a mile would be able to hear them.395 He finally got up and awakened Brady and made him turn over, and the snoring ceased. Only a short time later Williamson heard the stealthy footfalls of someone approaching and instantly held his rifle at ready. In the dim light of the half-moon he caught sight of an Indian approaching, peering back and forth suspiciously. Williamson waited until the warrior was hardly 30 feet away, then raised his rifle, aimed and fired. The Indian leaped and then fell with a deep groan and died. The other scouts jumped up and, fearing this Indian was only one of a party, swiftly gathered up their th
ings and, without even bothering to scalp the fallen foe, slipped away in the darkness. They did not stop again until about two miles away; then they listened intently for pursuit, but there was none.

  Late on the fifth day out, both Phil Cudger and John Williamson came down with a sickness that rendered them feverish, weak and unable to continue. Regretfully, Brady put them in the care of Jim Amberson and sent them back, then continued west with Dave Sprout.

  It hadn’t taken Brady very long to discover that the maps were, in fact, practically worthless, and he discarded them early on, making notes of his own as they traveled so that more detailed maps could be drawn for Col. Brodhead after their return. Before long, the hills and forests were left behind, and they entered a high, level plain area where there were vast stretches of lush new buffalo grass and the trees were located in large isolated clusters like islands.396 On their ninth day out, Brady and Sprout spied many more Indians than heretofore, and they had to take special care in order to avoid being seen, a matter made more difficult now that the extensive forests were behind them. Sighting so many warriors—and so many Indian women—made Brady fairly sure they must be close to the Sandusky towns, and that turned out to be correct. By that evening, they were lying in heavy cover along the upper Sandusky River and spying on a large Indian town. It turned out to be Half King’s Town, the village of the Wyandot principal chief Monakaduto.397 From their hiding place beneath a shelving rock on the side of a small hill, they watched the activities of the Indians, including several stirring horse races involving close to 30 warriors. In one of those races, each horse carried two riders, and there was great gaiety and excitement among the Indian spectators.

  As night fell, Brady gave his maps and notes to Sprout and told him to stay put and continue to observe. Brady himself, clad much as the Indians were, was going to enter the town and walk about to see what he could discover. Should he not be back by dawn, Brady instructed, Sprout was to leave at once and get the intelligence and maps back to Col. Brodhead.

  Well before dawn Brady returned, bubbling over with tales of what he had seen. Acting quite normally, he had strolled about the town, inspecting its defenses—practically nonexistent—and the number of people on hand. Able to understand scattered words of the Indian tongue, he deduced that there were several other villages downstream from here, including the large Delaware village of Captain Pipe—Pimoacan—close to where Tymochtee Creek enters the Sandusky River.398

  Over the next three days, the two spies observed closely from their hiding place. At one point they had a scare when a warrior suddenly approached. They froze, huddling back into the deepest shadows beneath the ledge, ready with their weapons to burst into action if discovered. The warrior, however, veered to one side and then climbed atop the very ledge beneath which they were hiding and stood there for several minutes before going away.

  During the succeeding nights, as before, Brady entered the town and moved about casually. He investigated every bit of the town and even eavesdropped on the conversation of some British traders who were there. He discovered that four miles down the Sandusky, about halfway between here and the mouth of the Tymochtee, were scattered Indian dwellings and two British trading stations about a mile apart, one known as John Leith’s Store, the other Alexander McCormick’s Trading Post. Several other Wyandot and Delaware villages were also along the Tymochtee upstream from Pimoacan’s Town. During this last penetration into the town, however, Brady noticed that some of the Indians eyed him with suspicion and, before they could investigate further, he slipped out of town and headed for the hiding place beneath the ledge. For a time he thought he was being followed but, though he stopped and listened, he heard nothing and continued back to join Sprout.

  As soon as he got there, Brady and Sprout started their return; Brady deliberately followed the trail for the first two miles, then directed Sprout to follow his lead and left the trail to go into hiding in a nearby island of trees. There they paused and waited. In the first light of morning, a party of eight warriors showed up on the trail coming their way. The Indians were studying the ground and pointing at the tracks, evidently identifying the marks Brady and Sprout had left.

  “Damn!” Sprout muttered. “We are being followed, Sam. How the hell did you know?” Brady simply shook his head and motioned Sprout to silence, then they moved off surreptitiously, walking along logs, avoiding bare ground and doing all they could to mask their trail. After three miles more they settled down to wait again, but no one showed up, and they breathed easier, knowing they had eluded the pursuit.

  They continued to travel eastward, paralleling the trail they had followed coming here. But then, where a more traveled trail branched off to the southeast, they followed it and were amazed when it took them back directly and quite quickly to Goschachgunk and then to the Ohio River at the mouth of Indian Cross Creek, the place called Mingo Bottom.399 Surprisingly, though the trip going out via old Fort Laurens had taken them nine days, the return trip took only five, even though they walked rougher terrain than if they had been on the trail. Little wonder the Indians could come from the Sandusky Towns and make their hit-and-run raids with such facility.400

  Now Sam Brady was back at Fort Pitt and turning over his maps and notes to Col. Brodhead. The commander studied them with mounting excitement and congratulated Brady on his accomplishment. His confidence in Brady had been well founded: What this remarkable spy and scout had brought back was, he felt, the key to destroying the Wyandots and hostile Delawares and their allies. Now all Brodhead had to do was put together—and properly supply—the army that would undertake this operation.

  [June 22, 1780—Thursday]

  Capt. Sam Meason, having fully recovered from the severe wound he had received during the assault against Wheeling in September 1777, had been among the many who left the upper Ohio River to relocate much farther downstream. He was intent on making his fortune, though not in the acquisition of land, which was the draw for so many others. Instead, old horse thief that he was, he reverted to his former life of crime, this time deciding to set himself up as a river pirate and prey on other Ohio River travelers.

  Assembling a gang of about a dozen rough characters, all of whom were as criminally inclined as he—including his own son, John, and two of his sons-in-law—Meason set up his hideout in an expansive cavern called Cave in Rock fronting on the Ohio River 100 miles up from its mouth.401 For a while they were very successful, preying indiscriminately on whatever river travelers passed. From their lookout stations they could see boats approaching from either direction long before they reached this point. They would then get into their canoes and paddle along as if they, too, were ordinary travelers. Hailing the approaching party, they would wave as if in friendship and head toward them, as was the custom, to share whatever news either party had. Then coldly, methodically, they would kill everyone and take everything they had, including cargoes that were sometimes quite valuable.

  Word eventually got around of Meason’s nefarious activities, and a party of 20 men set out to kill him. Meason’s spies, however, brought word of their intent and approach. The river pirate and his men, leaving behind the cave filled with many thousands of dollars’ worth of plunder, took only the cash and escaped downriver by such a slender margin that those in the approaching boats sent several ineffective shots their way as they fled.

  Meason then set himself up along the Mississippi between Natchez and New Orleans, at a place called the Walnut Hills; from here his cutthroat gang waylaid the trails and robbed passersby. It was not terribly long before he was apprehended at New Madrid on the west side of the Mississippi and sent to New Orleans for trial. However, it could not be legally proven that any of his crimes had been committed in the Spanish dominion, and so he was shackled and put into a boat to be taken upriver and turned over to United States authority at Kaskaskia. His guards were careless, however, and one night while they were at their shore camp, he seized the gun of the guard who had the key to his irons an
d killed him. The others ran off and escaped, and Meason, free once again, reassembled his old gang and began his old operations anew, now with a very high reward upon his head, dead or alive.

  What the settlers and government could not do, however, his own men accomplished for them. Today a dispute arose among them about the equitable distribution of some loot that had been taken—Sam, as usual, demanding the lion’s share—and deciding they could have all the money and the reward as well, his own men overpowered him and cut off his head.402

  [July 16, 1780—Sunday]

  Caleb Wells was one of the multitude of settlers on the upper Ohio River frontier who had responded in May to the militia muster call posted by the county lieutenant. Wheeling was now not only a very large settlement but had become something of a tent city as well, with the large number of men who had assembled for an expedition rendezvous here called by Col. Daniel Brodhead. Rumor had it that they would be crossing the Ohio River and marching against the Muskingum Valley Indian towns.

  Now, two months after Caleb’s arrival here, his 60-day enlistment period was just expiring—as were those of the majority of the men—and once again the planned expedition was being deferred. The first postponement had come only two days before the expedition was planned to begin, on May 22. The second starting date, June 4, also came and went. Then they were to go on June 24, but expected supplies had not arrived, and Col. Brodhead had once again postponed it, this time until June 28. Again the starting date was indefinitely postponed, and now they were asking the militia to reenlist for an additional two months. No one was very happy about it. Lately, talk was beginning that the expedition would probably not get into motion this year at all, and so all this time and effort would have been wasted.

  Caleb Wells wasn’t really as upset about all the delays as many of the men were, especially those who had crops that needed tending. New to the frontier, he had not had an opportunity to visit Wheeling before, and he was rather enjoying the experience. A very competitive man, Wells was intrigued with the stories that were being told about the Indian-fighting abilities and frontier skills of the 16-year-old named Lewis Wetzel.