That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  Yet amazingly, despite continuing attacks such as these, ever more whites were pushing into the frontier areas and making their claims, all of them believing they would be the lucky ones who would avoid detection and death.

  [August 28, 1780—Monday]

  By this time, most of the militia that had been mustered into service at Wheeling and the other forts in preparation for Col. Daniel Brodhead’s proposed expedition against the Wyandots and hostile Delawares on the Muskingum and Tuscarawas rivers had been discharged, their enlistments or terms of call-up having expired.

  Brodhead was angry and blamed the delays on lack of supplies, yet there were those who knew the problem ran deeper than this. Resentment was growing among Brodhead’s subordinate officers for their commander in respect to rumors that had been circulating widely. Brodhead was known to be dabbling increasingly in land speculation—taking leave of his duties for extended periods to go out and explore and claim lands for himself or hiring others to do this for him. Brodhead was not a wealthy man and certain people began to question not only the propriety of the commander of the Western Department of the Continental Army doing this while he was in active service, but, equally, where he was getting the funds to hire others to do the same thing for him. Was it possible that he was appropriating funds earmarked for the procurement of supplies and that this was the reason not enough provisions had arrived? If so, was this not malfeasance, and should not charges be brought against him?

  Furthermore Col. Brodhead was, in his own way, a man rather unsure of himself, who frequently blamed his subordinates for his own mistakes and who, under the protection of his rank, all too often treated his officers with contempt and rudeness virtually to the point of intolerable insult. More than once irate officers had to be restrained by their fellows from physically attacking him or challenging him to a duel.

  The problem had reached such proportions that Col. John Gibson, second in command at Fort Pitt, forwarded the written complaints of other officers and himself to the War Office and requested that some sort of steps be taken to alleviate the situation. It was now clear that this problem would not soon be resolved—not soon enough, at any rate, for the Muskingum expedition to be put into operation before next spring. Therefore, no longer under the necessity of keeping themselves instantly available for such service, Capt. Samuel Brady increased and extended the number of patrols he and his Rangers were making—patrols that carried them down the Ohio as far as Grave Creek and up the Allegheny as far as Brady’s Bend.

  Eleven days ago—on August 17—just after Tom Edgington had moved his family from their Chartier’s Creek claim to a new domicile at Holliday’s Cove, another resident of the settlement, Hugh Ebbens, had arrived at Fort McIntosh, breathless from concerted paddling and bringing disturbing news. He had been out fishing along the Virginia shore of the river when, opposite the mouth of Little Beaver Creek, 14 miles downstream from Fort McIntosh, he discovered evidence of a canoe and another craft of some sort having landed. He had gone ashore himself to investigate and found, at the base of the hill and covered over with brush, an Indian canoe and a fairly substantial log raft, the latter so large that it would have taken a dozen or more strong men to carry it that far from the water’s edge to hide it.

  Brady immediately called his Rangers together and, in three canoes, they set off toward the site. Though Ebbens was very frightened and reluctant to go back, Brady finally managed to talk him into leaving his canoe at the fort and going along with them as their guide to show them where he had made his discovery.

  The canoe and raft were still there and Brady agreed that there must be at least 20 Indians in the party. He immediately led his party to the north side of the Ohio and set up an ambush, with the usual instructions that they would strike when the Indians were close to the north bank, but no one was to shoot until Brady’s gun was fired. The ambush was set up about 100 yards downstream from where the Indians would launch themselves, Brady figuring the raft would lose that much distance with the push of the current as they crossed. After several hours of waiting, the Indians appeared, laden with plunder from their raid, launched their canoe and raft and started across.

  There were seven Indians—Wyandots and Mingoes, Brady reckoned—in the canoe, another 15 aboard the raft. His estimate of where they would come ashore on the north bank was quickly proving to be accurate; they would obviously make landfall about 30 yards from where the whites were hidden. Ahead of the raft by some 80 yards, the canoe had come within 100 feet of the shore when the faltering nerve of Hugh Ebbens broke. He burst from cover and ran off in the direction of Fort McIntosh as fast as he could go.

  The Indians saw him, of course, and shrieked a warning. The rafters, well out of effective range, immediately began energetically paddling with their chunks of bark back toward the Virginia shore. The warriors in the canoe also tried to get away, but Brady yelled, “Fire!” and a barrage of shooting broke out. All seven of the Indians aboard were killed.

  Some scattered shots were fired at the retreating rafters, but they made it back to the south shore without any being hit. Taking their weapons but leaving their plunder on the clumsy craft, they leaped away and raced into the woods—all except for one rather heavy individual who turned his back to them, bent over and defiantly slapped his behind in their direction.

  “Look at that red sumbitch!” snarled Able Rankin, one of Brady’s newer Rangers. He raised his gun and fired well over the warrior’s head just as he was straightening. The ball caught him in the center of the back, breaking his spine, and he died instantly.

  The canoe, riddled with holes, was half filled with water and drifting away with the current. All of its former occupants had sunk. Brady and his men got their own canoes out of hiding and crossed the river to the raft. Rankin collected the scalp, tomahawk, knife and gun of the Indian he had killed on shore, while Brady studied the loot and recognized enough of it to know that it had come from the small settlement a short distance up Montour’s Run, some six miles below Fort Pitt. He told his men they would return it to its rightful owners—assuming they were still alive.407

  Now, 11 days later, Brady and his Rangers, along with the old Delaware, Scare the World—who still refused to answer to the name of John Thompson—were 69 miles above Fort Pitt on the Allegheny, staring down at the bodies of the four Senecas they had just killed at Brady’s Bend. Several days ago, learning that a small band of warriors had killed a few settlers and taken some prisoners on the opposite side of the Allegheny from Fort Pitt, Brady, still headquartered at Fort McIntosh, had quickly assembled a dozen of his men, including a new probationary Ranger, Pvt. Eldon Andrews of the Eighth Pennsylvania. Andrews had asked to be included on a trial basis but Brady at first refused, simply because he didn’t care much for the young man. Andrews had then begged him to be allowed to come along, and when Brady started to shake his head in negation, Andrews abruptly charged that he was excluding him simply because he was a little lame from an old wound. Not even realizing before this that the young man did in fact walk with a slight limp, Brady relented and let him come along on a probationary basis, warning that he must keep up with the rest or he was out. Taking John Cuppy aside to avoid being overheard, he asked him to bring up the rear to keep an eye on the new man and give him a hand if he had any trouble.

  The Rangers had then gone upriver, picked up the trail opposite Fort Pitt and followed the raiders up the Allegheny. Moving at a mile-eating pace, they were about halfway to Brady’s Bend when they finally spotted the enemy—eight Indians with four prisoners—moving slowly up a steep hill some 200 yards ahead.

  Keeping to cover, Brady ordered his men into quick march in order to overtake and engage them, but while the Rangers were still considerably out of range, John Cuppy saw Andrews deliberately fire his rifle into the air, then toss it to the ground. The Rangers up ahead instantly treed, thinking they had been decoyed and fallen into an ambush, but Andrews called out that it was all right, saying he had stumbled and f
allen and his gun had gone off. While the others emerged, he brushed himself off, then stooped and picked up his weapon. By the time Brady was able to get a clear look ahead of them again, the Indians and their captives had vanished.

  Andrews apologized profusely, ending up with, “I guess accidents will happen.”

  “Wa’nt no accident,” Cuppy spoke up, eyeing the young man disgustedly. He turned his gaze to Brady. “You got yourself a coward here, Cap’n. This boy got skeered we was ackshully gonna get shot at. I seen ’zackly what happened.” He then explained what he had seen.

  A wicked fire came to life in Brady’s eyes and he bunched the front of the young man’s blouse in his fist and pulled him close. “You realize,” he said tightly, “I could justifiably shoot you right here and now?”

  Andrews, turning his head to avoid meeting Brady’s steely gaze, mumbled, “I’m sorry, Captain Brady. It won’t happen again.”

  “Damn right, it won’t!” Brady thrust the private away from him. “Get the hell out of here and back to McIntosh. I won’t tolerate a coward!”

  Andrews stumbled away back along the trail they had come and was soon out of sight.408 Putting that business aside, Brady put his Rangers into movement again and they resumed their trailing. Within two miles the trail ended at the shore of the Allegheny.

  “They’ve crossed,” Brady said. “Taking the trail on the east side so they can look back every now and then and see if we’re crossing after them. They’ll be moving fast as they can. C’mon, we’ll keep to cover on this side and try to get ahead of them up at the Bend.”

  Again they moved swiftly, and by early the next evening, they had reached Brady’s Bend. The Indian party had evidently just arrived there, too. On the flat at the river’s inside curve nearly opposite them, they could see the Indians just starting to set up camp. Instructing his men to stay out of sight and telling Scare the World to come with him, Brady set out for a low, grassy-topped knoll directly opposite the warriors. On the way he explained to Scare the World what he wanted him to do.

  When they reached the summit of the knoll, Scare the World hailed the warriors on the opposite side with a loud “Halloo,” and both he and Brady waved their arms in greeting. Slightly over 800 feet distant, the Indians called back, their voices faint but clear enough in the still evening air.

  “That one voice,” Scare the World said, “I know it. That is Warhoytonehteh.”

  “Cornplanter himself, eh?” Brady replied. “Okay, tell him what I told you to say.”

  In the Seneca tongue, Scare the World called across, “Are you going down after the Americans or coming back?”

  “Coming back,” came the reply. “What about you?”

  “Coming back, too. We are a small party and we have one prisoner. We are going to burn him. Do you have any?”

  “Four. Two we are going to burn tonight.”

  Scare the World looked at Brady, who nodded, and the Delaware hollered back, “We also have a keg of whiskey. But we have made camp already. Come over and bring your prisoners, and we will drink the whiskey and burn the prisoners together.”

  “No, we are making camp, too. If you will not drink the whiskey tonight but bring it over in the morning, we can drink it then and burn the whites.”

  “That is good,” Scare the World shouted. “We will save the whiskey for you to share and we will come over with the sun tomorrow.”

  Their waves were returned and Brady and Scare the World moved out of sight behind the summit. When they returned to the Rangers, Brady carefully laid out the plan. They would immediately move downriver a few miles to the easy crossing place called Goose Bar, then come up the other side in darkness and hit the Indian encampment.

  The plan worked beautifully. Only minutes before dawn they were creeping in close to the camp. The four captives were tied to trees and appeared to be asleep. Six of the eight Indians were sleeping close to the fire. One was sitting upright among them, and the final one was standing guard a short distance away. At the bark of Brady’s rifle, the standing guard fell. The others by the fire leaped up and, without pausing to snatch up their guns, scrambled to get away, but three more were killed before the darkness could engulf them. The one who had been sitting by the fire turned out to be Warhoytonehteh, who grabbed a broad, flat chunk of wood, raced to the river’s edge close by and plunged in with it.

  Brady and his Rangers bolted into sight and ran to the river’s edge. In the dim gray light of first dawn, they could make out Warhoytonehteh swimming outward and away with the current, clutching the big chunk of wood. The moment they started firing at him, Warhoytonehteh positioned the wood against the back of his head and neck and held it there with one hand while he swam with the other. Several more balls struck the water close to him and at least two thunked into the wood but did him no harm. In a little while he was out of range, at which point he discarded the wood and swam with powerful strokes to the opposite side of the river. Now, with the piteously grateful prisoners released from their bonds and armed with the guns of the Senecas, Brady and his men were staring down at the bodies of the four warriors they had just killed.409

  “Well, boys,” Brady said, “get those scalps, and let’s start moving back. I reckon these folks,” he tilted his head toward the freed captives, “are anxious to get home.”

  [October 10, 1780—Tuesday]

  In the two and a half years that he had been a captive, Martin Wetzel, now 23 years old, had come to know the Shawnees quite well, but he had never wholly adapted to their ways, and they had never wholly learned to trust him. Perhaps this was because it was always in his mind to escape and, though he did not make it obvious, somehow they seemed to sense it and they were always watchful of him and ready to pursue if he tried to get away. The fact that prisoners who attempted escape were, if recaptured, almost invariably condemned to death at the stake was a considerable deterrent. If he were going to make the effort, he would have to be convinced he stood reasonably good odds of getting away with it. Such an opportunity had not yet come along.

  He had almost attempted escape earlier this year when the majority of the warriors from Chalahgawtha, including the warrior who had captured him, Skootekitehi, had gone away with the British Capt. Henry Bird and his Canadians and regulars, along with Simon Girty and others, to attack the Kentucky settlements. But those who remained were even more watchful of him than before, and when the warriors returned after going up the Licking River and capturing and destroying Ruddell’s Station and Martin’s Station, he was still there.410 They had killed about 20 whites on their invasion and brought back about 450 prisoners, several of whom were burned at the stake. It was a horrible lingering death, and Martin Wetzel’s hopes of escaping receded even more.

  His hopes had risen when, in August, word was brought by Simon Girty and Red Snake that George Rogers Clark was advancing against Chalahgawtha with an army of Kentuckians. Martin thought the Shawnees would stand and fight but, instead, the principal chief, Catahecassa—Black Hoof—had ordered the village evacuated and burned and had retreated first to Piqua Town on the Mad River, a dozen miles to the north of Chalahgawtha.411

  When Clark arrived at Chalahgawtha and found it burning, he continued his advance against Piqua Town. Once again the majority of the population evacuated—taking their prisoners with them—to the Shawnee villages of Mackachack and Wapatomica, much farther up the Mad River, leaving behind only a few warriors to stand and discourage Clark. The little Battle of Piqua Town resulted before the few defending warriors withdrew. Clark’s army plundered the town and burned it, destroyed the crops there and at Chalahgawtha, then withdrew back to Kentucky.

  Now the Shawnees had returned to the destroyed Chalahgawtha village site, Skootekitehi bringing his adopted brother, Martin Wetzel, with them, and were rebuilding the village. But a new resolve had rooted itself in Martin’s mind. Somehow, some way, he was going to escape and make his way across the Ohio River to Kentucky and then back to Wheeling Creek, where he belonged
.

  [December 31, 1780—Sunday]

  The year 1780 was ending with the situation along the entire length of the Ohio River little changed insofar as Indian raids against the whites were concerned. Every settler lived with the disturbing knowledge that at any given moment he and his entire family might be wiped out by an unexpected attack, as had happened to so many over this past year.

  The Indians themselves, especially the Shawnees, who were most exposed to attack from whites along the Ohio River, were hardly less unnerved. Most of those who had moved to the upper Mad River Shawnee towns to escape the advance of George Rogers Clark’s army of Kentuckians had now moved back to the Chalahgawtha site and had rebuilt the council house and many of the residence wegiwas, but the village was only a weak reflection of what it had once been, and the majority of the Chalahgawtha Shawnees—including the principal chief, Catahecassa—knew in their hearts that it would never regain its former strength and beauty.

  On the upper Ohio River, many white settlers were now reconsidering their decision to oppose the British in the Revolution. It was apparent to them that the American authorities in the east gave little thought to, and had precious little concern for, the settlers on the western frontier and the terrible attacks that were being launched against them with such undeterred frequency. Some were even beginning to mutter remarks that if George Washington and other officials did not start paying some attention to the western settlers very soon, by supporting them with supplies and protecting them with federal troops, then they just might notify the British that they were divorcing themselves from the American cause and reaffirming their British loyalty. That turn of events might already have transpired but for the fact that it was questionable whether the British government, if successful, would permit the settlers to claim more Ohio Valley lands, or even retain the lands they had already claimed.