by Allan Eckert
In the meanwhile, what Matthew Elliott and Monakaduto had been able to observe of Wheeling and Fort Henry convinced them that the place was teeming with soldiers and settlers and what the captive boy had told them was evidently true; the populace was in arms and ready, and whatever element of surprise the Indians had hoped to have had evidently been lost. Monakaduto was convinced the only way the American frontier could have been brought to this state of readiness in anticipation of his arrival was by the Moravian missionaries, or their converts, relaying intelligence from the Tuscarawas and Muskingum to the Shemanese leaders. Now he was more pleased than ever that he had uprooted them and sent them to the Sandusky. This present attack was finished, but next time, he was sure, the Americans would be receiving no early warning.
[September 13, 1781—Thursday]
Matters had not gone at all well for Brig. Gen. George Rogers Clark and his little army since his arrival at the Falls of the Ohio. Fort Nelson was found in a state of disrepair, its commander, Col. George Slaughter, despondent almost to the point of suicide, its garrison destitute, with clothing falling off their bodies in rags, the men themselves thin and weak from the starvation diet of quarter-rations for the past week and half-rations for the six weeks preceding that. And, in the face of this, the merchants of the little Louisville community outside Fort Nelson, with ample provisions on hand, continued to refuse to give any to the suffering garrison; they dealt strictly in cash, Clark was told, and considered extending credit to an American military establishment a total waste, as they were never repaid.
Obviously, the supplies Clark had brought downriver with him from Fort Pitt, while not abundant, were certainly worthy of the cheers with which the men of the Fort Nelson garrison greeted them. Anger swirled in Clark’s breast as he wrote to Gen. Washington, the Continental Congress and Gov. Nelson about the situation here, but he had little hope that anything would be done very soon to alleviate the situation. Worst of all, there was a strong likelihood that his call for Kentucky volunteers to accompany the planned invasion against the Shawnees and the upper Wabash tribes would largely go unanswered.
Things went from bad to worse. Shortly after their arrival, word was brought of the destruction of Col. Archibald Lochry’s force, the colonel himself killed along with 41 of his men and the remaining 55 captured, including the deserters he was returning to Clark.
On September 7, Gen. Clark was informed that a large commercial flatboat with a cargo of 250 barrels of flour had anchored at the foot of an island just below the Falls of the Ohio, quite near the Kentucky shore.438 The captain of the flatboat was an entrepreneurial riverman, Capt. Robert Elliott, who, with a crew of six, was transporting his cargo from Pittsburgh to New Orleans.439 In the morning Clark sent Lt. Jerry Johnson, an officer from the Monongahela, with a squad of ten men to see if any of the flour might be procured for the garrison.440
Lt. Johnson and his men marched down the shoreline to the crossing place just below the smaller island, where a small barge was tied up, a craft frequently used by scouts when they crossed the Ohio River on spying missions. Capt. Elliott’s barge was moored some 70 yards distant when, as Johnson’s men were boarding the little barge and Pvts. Aquilla Whittaker and Jim Armstrong were having a playful dispute about who was going to sit where, a party of Shawnees lying in ambush opened fire.441 Pvt. Benjamin Wright was shot through the forehead and fell dead in the barge. His brother, Pvt. William Wright, was shot through the right wrist. Pvt. Adam Keller was struck in the nose by a ball that then tore through his cheek and exited from the side of his head, but he was not killed. Pvt. Michael Humble took a ball high in the hip and fell, unable to rise. James Armstrong was struck in the side, but was still functioning. Their commander, Lt. Johnson, was shot through the shoulder and either fell or leaped into the water to escape. As he was swept downstream with the swift current, James Lindley, a seaman on Capt. Elliott’s flatboat, quickly launched a canoe and paddled to his aid. Johnson, however, unable to swim because of his wound, sank from sight just as Lindley was nearing him.442 The other privates, Whittaker and the wounded Armstrong among them, leaped into the water and turned the boat on its side to act as a shield from the second round of bullets just then coming from the Indians. By this time, a few ineffectual shots were coming toward the Indians from Capt. Elliott’s flatboat, and the Indians immediately fled into the woods and disappeared.443
A party was sent out by Gen. Clark to follow the Indians and engage them, but the trail ended a mile or so downstream where the Indians had hidden a canoe in a small inlet and it was evident that they had escaped to the north side of the river.
Shortly after their arrival here at Louisville, Gen. Clark had assigned squads of his men at the neighboring stations up Beargrass Creek to aid in their protection. One of these squads was commanded by Lt. William Crawford, son of Valentine Crawford, whose second in command was Ens. Thomas Ravenscroft. Among the privates were the brothers Thomas and Joseph Mason and the tough little Irishman, Samuel Murphy, late of Brady’s Rangers. They were assigned to Wells’ Station, nine miles above Louisville on Beargrass Creek.444 This little company, on September 9, went out hunting for buffalo with some of the resident Kentuckians and were having a wonderful time when a large party of Indians under Shemeneto, Thayendanegea and Alexander McKee showed up and chased them for many miles. They finally reached refuge of sorts at Squire Boone’s Station, established by Daniel Boone’s brother. Here they discovered that two men had just been killed while working in one of the adjacent cornfields and the residents were very fearful of venturing out.
Two days ago, on September 11, Lt. Crawford’s party escorted a group from here to Lexington. A scout around that settlement resulted in the discovery of a new pair of moccasins and other signs of Indians and it was decided that the rather weak settlement, consisting of 28 families, should be evacuated. Yesterday, half of these people, taking many of their goods with them and escorted by Crawford’s squad, set out for Linn’s Station, the idea being that another escort would be sent to guard the remainder when they followed. Young Isaiah Boone, Squire’s son, was along, proudly wearing a broad-brim beaver hat of Quaker style and carrying a rifle that seemed bigger than himself.
They had traveled only a few miles when a Kentucky militia officer with them, Lt. John Welch, was abruptly taken so violently ill that he was unable to continue. It was decided the rest of the party should go on while a dozen men under Lt. Crawford, including Sam Murphy and the Mason brothers, stayed as a guard for Welch, to bring him in when he felt better.
The larger portion of the party continued to be escorted by Ens. Ravenscroft and Sgt. Philip Muckano and, in a mile or so, they were abruptly ambushed by that large body of Indians, mainly Shawnees, under Shemeneto, McKee and Thayendanegea. Sgt. Muckano managed to get a shot off, and his bullet broke a warrior’s neck, but before he could even reload, he was himself shot dead and tumbled from his horse. After that, all was chaos. Little Isaiah Boone managed to escape but lost his beaver hat in the process, and Isham Floyd tossed away his empty gun and galloped off.
By this time, beyond earshot, with Lt. Welch feeling a little better, the Crawford party had begun following the others. Abruptly, they encountered a riderless horse coming toward them with a traveling bag attached to the saddle and recognized it as belonging to the party who had left them. Moments later a young woman and a little boy were observed coming in their direction, obviously captives of the two Indians with them, one of whom was mounted. Seeing Crawford’s squad, the Indians were startled and fled, although one swung his tomahawk at the young woman as he dashed away, which fortunately missed, and she told them of the attack during which many had been killed, including her mother. The little boy was her brother. A few others, she said, might also have been taken prisoner.
Taking her and the little boy with them, Crawford’s party went on by a circuitous route and reached Linn’s Station after dark last night. There they found others of the defeated party who had managed to esca
pe, including militia Col. John Floyd, who was in the process of berating his younger brother, Isham, for having discarded his gun. Murphy was pleased to find at Linn’s an old schoolmate of his, Sam Wells, Jr., from back on Jacobs’ Creek near Pittsburgh. Wells and his father had emigrated to Kentucky several years earlier.
Col. Floyd assembled 27 mounted men to leave under his leadership at three o’clock in the morning in an effort to rescue any survivors or wounded who might be found and to bury the dead. About 15 others, without horses, wanted to come along. Col. Floyd advised against it, but when they insisted, he agreed.
Well before dawn this morning they started out, Floyd riding his fine black gelding named Shawnee. He was flanked by his brother Isham and Pvt. Aquilla Whittaker, with Sam Wells, senior and junior, riding directly behind.445 Only a few days before, young Sam Wells had so infuriated Col. Floyd by some sort of prank that Floyd had literally thrown him out of his house. After traveling a few miles, the party encountered an elderly couple who had been in the attacked party and had managed to escape. Traveling slowly and carefully during the night, they had seen a number of Indians but had avoided detection. The couple told them where these Indians were and then, escorted by two of the unmounted men in the party, hurried on toward the safety of the fortified Linn’s Station.
It was early daylight as Col. Floyd’s party approached the point where the Indians were supposed to be. He split his force into three columns, himself leading the center, Capt. Sturgus on his right and Ens. Ravenscroft, Sam Murphy with him, on the left. They crossed Floyd’s Creek and advanced up a hollow, directly into an ambush set up by Alexander McKee, James Girty and Thayendanegea. Capt. Sturgus, glimpsing the enemy first, was the only man to get a shot off before the Indians opened up with a tremendous volley and quickly moved to surround the columns. Sturgus was mortally wounded, as was Samuel Wells, Sr. Some of the men, especially those afoot, took cover, but the majority began retreating.
Floyd’s horse, Shawnee, panicked by the explosion of shots, became unmanageable, reared and screamed and then plunged away, with the colonel trying to bring the animal under control. In a few hundred yards the horse passed beneath a low-hanging branch that swept Floyd from the saddle and slammed him to the ground. The horse ran off. With Indians approaching at a run, Floyd turned and fled on foot, having lost his gun in the fall.
Toward the rear of the retreaters, Sam Wells, Jr., occasionally wheeled his horse and presented his rifle at the pursuers, helping to keep the Indians at bay while the whites, both mounted and afoot, continued to race away. Finally, having helped the others get a good lead on the Indians, he wheeled his horse and galloped forward. Off to one side he saw Col. Floyd running with Indians pursuing not far behind. He galloped to him and, seeing the colonel was so spent that he was nearly falling, he leaped off his horse and tried to help Floyd into the saddle. So exhausted he could not at first swing his legs up, Floyd rode for 30 yards or so on his stomach across the saddle, young Wells running beside. Even in this distress, Floyd recalled with chagrin that this was the young man he had thrown out of his house only a few days ago because of a silly prank. At last he was able to swing a leg over the horse’s back and settle himself in the saddle.
Sam Murphy got one shot off and, while trying to reload, dropped the lead ball. While fumbling for another, Indians started rushing toward him and he retreated. He was chased a considerable distance and every once in a while he would whirl and point his rifle at his pursuers. They would immediately dodge behind trees and he would run on. A ball struck him in the hip but he continued to flee. Then he spotted an Indian angling in ahead of him on an interception course. They aimed their rifles at one another, but the Indian’s gun snapped in a misfire and Murphy jumped behind a tree.
Hearing a sound at his rear, Murphy whirled and found a warrior ready to pounce on him. He brought his gun up and the Indian, trying to dodge away, tripped and fell. He was abruptly slammed into by the Indian who, moments ago, had snapped his gun at him, and the two rolled around on the ground, but then the other Indian joined in the tussle and they soon had him pinned. Murphy reached for his knife but discovered that the handle had been shot off by the ball that entered his hip and the blade was wedged in the sheath.
Close by, Valentine King, wounded below the shoulder blade, was captured, as were Ens. Ravenscroft, Daniel Whittaker and Nicholas Soap.446 Murphy was led past the latter two and Whittaker smiled at him. The pair were the subject of a dispute between two rival clusters of Indians over who should have them as captives. At that point Thayendanegea walked up and methodically killed both of them with his sword. Then, in attempting to wipe the blood off the weapon on his leg, he inadvertently turned the blade and severely sliced open his own flesh.447 Ripping up the dead Whittaker’s shirt into strips, Thayendanegea bound up his badly bleeding wound and then approached Murphy.
“What did your party come here for?” he asked in perfectly good English.
“To bury the dead,” Murphy replied, expecting to be killed any second.
“Why don’t you do it then?”
“I will if you’ll let me.”
“Aye, damn you!” Thayendanegea snarled, seeming on the verge of striking him down, but then he turned and strode off.
Murphy was then approached by another man who he thought at first was an Indian but then recognized as James Girty. The little Irishman held out his hand to shake, but Girty refused to take it, though he said, “You’re safe enough now.”
When the Indians led the captives away, they passed the place where the party from Squire Boone’s Station had been ambushed, and Murphy counted ten dead and scalped men, women and children still lying on the ground.448
This incredible day’s tragedies were not yet over. At Louisville three of Gen. Clark’s officers, Capts. Charles Tipton and John Chapman, along with Ens. Thomas McGaughey, asked his permission to take an excursion up the Lower Road to the Beargrass settlements. Clark granted them leave to do so and even let Tipton borrow his sword, the captain’s own sword having been broken in an affray some days earlier.
The three, with a slave along to attend them, set off on the road and hardly an hour later were ambushed by a small party of Shawnees under a subchief named Gushawa. Chapman and Tipton were killed instantly, but McGaughey and the slave managed to escape and get back to Fort Nelson with the news.
Gushawa, taking the sword Capt. Tipton had been wearing, saw engraved in script upon it, the name George Rogers Clark, and for some time believed he had actually killed the great white chief, especially since Tipton and Clark were of approximately the same build and both had reddish-sandy hair.
But Gen. George Rogers Clark was still very much alive—as he was determined to prove to them in the weeks and months ahead.
[September 19, 1781—Wednesday]
Monakaduto and his Wyandots had reached the headwaters of the Walhonding when they overtook the Moravian Indians and captive missionaries still being herded toward Sandusky by the mixed Indian party under Chiefs Pimoacan and Wingenund. They halted and the chiefs conferred for some time, Monakaduto sourly telling them of having the planned attack against Wheeling aborted, because of the high degree of preparedness among the settlers and soldiers. That the roving Indian parties had enjoyed considerable success in striking outlying cabins and killing numerous whites as well as taking quite a few prisoners did little to mollify the keen disappointment Monakaduto felt over failure of the principal objective.
“The Shemanese had been warned we were coming and were very ready to receive us,” he told them, his hard gaze moving toward missionaries Zeisberger and Heckewelder, who sat a little distance away with their wrists bound behind them, “and that warning must have come from those two. Our British friends in Detroit will get the truth out of them, and then we shall see what kind of punishment they will receive.”
“You have come back to us,” Pimoacan observed, “with half of the warriors who went with you. The others have returned to the Muskingum an
d Tuscarawas?”
“Some,” Monakaduto said, nodding. “Most have stayed behind in small parties to continue striking the places where the Shemanese are most unprotected. My son, Scotach,” he added proudly, “leads one of these parties. It includes six other warriors, including his two younger brothers, Dakadulah and Scoleh. They have vowed not to return without many scalps.”
“Are we not to attack Wheeling at all then?” Wingenund asked.
“For this season, no. As I have said, they are strong and ready and protected in their fort. Without the thunder guns of our British friends to crack open those walls, we cannot root them out. The winter is too close to organize any further attempt on Wheeling this season, but next year we will strike them hard, and they will not be able to withstand us. You will see.”
[September 23, 1781—Sunday]
Lt. Matthew Neely, stationed at Fort Pitt, decided that since this was such a gloriously beautiful warm day—perhaps the very last of the season that would permit such activity—he would take a refreshing swim in the river adjacent to the fort. Clad only in an old pair of trousers, the legs torn off at the knees where they had worn through, he plunged into the cool water. After the first momentary shock, he quickly became accustomed to it and paddled about, gleefully kicking water into the air.
Originally from the coast, Neely very much enjoyed fresh seafood, especially shellfish. Clam chowder was one of his favorite foods and, though in his estimation freshwater clams could not compare with those from saltwater, he decided he’d gather some from the river bottom. For half an hour he repeatedly dove and searched, finding almost two dozen in that interval. Deciding to make one last dive, he slid beneath the surface to the bottom and all but collided with a large hard object. At first he thought it was a log, but then he became excited when he realized it was a cannon.