by Allan Eckert
Five hours later, having used heavy ropes and a team of horses and a good deal of trial and error, the three-inch brass swivel, complete with mountings, lay dripping on the shore. A large crowd had gathered and an old Frenchman, who had traded with the Indians for many years, first under the French and then under the British, identified it as of French manufacture and guessed it was from the time when his countrymen had occupied Fort Duquesne, where Fort Pitt was now.449
Neely claimed the big gun as his own. It was heavily coated with river muck and corrosion and had obviously been spiked, but he was determined to clean it up, remove the spiking and get it back into top-notch condition, no matter how long it took.
But first, he decided, he was going to celebrate his discovery with an absolutely wonderful batch of clam chowder.
[September 30, 1781—Sunday]
Col. John Gibson had become convinced that Col. Daniel Brodhead had lost his mind. He had seen men go insane before, when under torture or in battle or under such duress that they could no longer tolerate a situation, but in those cases it had been a sudden snapping. In Brodhead’s case, it had been very gradual, subtle and insidious, but Gibson no longer had any doubt about it—Col. Brodhead was totally, hopelessly mad.
Now, writing to Gen. Washington, Gibson considered how he should report this to the commander-in-chief. To flatly assert that such was the case was perhaps too bold and might give rise to suspicion that he was simply impugning the character and abilities of his superior. To hint vaguely at it might not put the point across strongly enough or perhaps make it appear he was merely whining. In the end, he decided all purposes could best be served by simply stating the facts of what had occurred as best he could honestly express them.
He quickly read through the first paragraph of the letter, in which he told Gen. Washington what he had been able to discover in regard to the hostile northwestern tribes forcing the Moravians out of their towns on the Tuscarawas. He had also informed the general that he had sent spies up the Allegheny to French Creek, checking on the report of a major British force advancing from Presque Isle by way of Le Boeuf. He was pleased to state that they had uncovered no evidence to support the story. Now he focused his thoughts, dipped his pen and continued with the writing:
A large party [of Indians] has since done some mischief in the County of Ohio, and on Ten Mile Creek they have killed and taken 16 persons, and have effected this with the loss of only two of their party.
In my last, I informed your Excellency that I had fixed on ye 4th of September as a day of general rendezvous for the troops to assemble at Fort McIntosh, to make an excursion against the Wyandot Towns. On receiving the intelligence contained in the minister’s letter, with the advice of the principal officers, I postponed it until the 12th day of September, as by that time we might be able to obtain certain intelligence of the enemy.
Colonel Brodhead, though for what reason I am at a loss to determine, wrote circular letters informing the country that he had fixed on the 15th of September as a day of general rendezvous on Montour’s Run for the militia to assemble. This, and the Indians striking near Wheeling, threw the country into confusion. However, at the day I had appointed, upwards of 100 assembled, but the number was too small to attempt anything; while Colonel Brodhead had the mortification to find that not a single man appeared on the day fixed on for his general rendezvous. A day or two after, the officers wrote Colonel Brodhead a letter, informing him it was their opinion he could not, with propriety, in the present situation of affairs, re-assume the command, a copy of which I did myself the honor of enclosing in my last letter to your Excellency. He sent me an arrest by the Brigade Major, informing me that I was arrested for assuming the chief command at this post, thereby exciting mutiny and sedition amongst a number of the officers in this Department, and also for neglect of duty and disobedience of orders, and I was to confine myself to the range of the garrison; on receipt of which I desired the Brigade Major to inform him that I should pay no attention to his arrest, as it was evident to me as well from the letters of your Excellency, as also from the charge that had been exhibited against him, that he could not with any degree of propriety re-assume the command.
He continued attempting to command until the return of the express with letters from your Excellency at the Head of Elk. This put an end to the dispute, though Colonel Brodhead, even after the receipt of those letters, sent to inform me that he intended to publish it in General Orders that I was to take command of the Western Department, and wished to know whether it would be agreeable to me. I returned him for answer, that I thought there was no necessity for doing so, as the letters from your Excellency had been made known to the officers.
The express returned here on the 17th instant, and the depositions against Colonel Brodhead were not begun being taken until yesterday, owing to a difference between Colonel Brodhead and Captain Fowler respecting the appointment of the Deputy Judge Advocate; however, the matter is now settled, and I hope the business will go on without any interruption.
I hope your Excellency will pardon my intrusion on your patience with the length of this letter, as I do it in justification of my conduct in this dispute, lest any reports may prejudice me in your Excellency’s esteem.
I have, with the advice of Colonel William Crawford and other principal gentlemen of this country, fixed on the 15th day of October for the militia to assemble at Fort McIntosh, in order, if possible, to make an excursion against the Wyandotte Towns; and from the accounts which I have from the different parts of the country, the people will turn out, and I expect to be able to collect 700 men at least for that purpose. Colonel Crawford goes with me, and most of the principal gentlemen of this country.
Inclosed are the returns of the troops of this department. This will be handed your Excellency by Major William Croghan, who has spent some time in this department; he will be able to give your Excellency a full account of every transaction in this country. Permit me, therefore, to refer your Excellency to him.
I have the honor to be, with perfect respect,
Your Excellency’s most ob’t. humble Servant
John Gibson, Col.
Comdg. W. D.
His Excellency Genl Washington
Gibson put his pen aside, pushed his chair back and rubbed his eyes. He hoped that what he had written would give Gen. Washington a firm enough nudge to at least make him consider removing Col. Brodhead from this country, where his erratic interference was creating so much unrest and disruption.
Col. John Gibson need not have concerned himself; only six days ago—on September 24—Gen. George Washington had issued a recall for Col. Daniel Brodhead and had appointed a new commander of the Western Department of the Army—Gen. William Irvine.
[September 30, 1781—Sunday]
Capt. Andrew Poe had taken his turn on the guard watch 15 minutes ago and, from the small woodpile close at hand, he had added the last remaining piece to the campfire coals.450 The unexpected drop in temperature from yesterday had resulted in a fitful night’s sleep for him and for the dozen others in his little company. Now he huddled near the new bloom of warmth emanating from the combusting fresh wood. It was still quite dark, though he knew that dawn would be breaking in another half-hour. That was when he would awaken the others, so they could all be in their saddles and on their way as soon as there was sufficient light to see the ground.
He thought about what had brought them to this place and wondered if they would be successful in today’s search. It had been near noon yesterday when young William Jackson had reached the small fort at Collier’s, where Andrew Poe was commander. The 17-year-old was disheveled, exhausted and very upset. It had taken some while for Capt. Poe to sort out the fragmented pieces of Jackson’s story.
William and his father, Philip Jackson, who was in his early sixties, had spent the previous night at tiny Burgett’s Fort, a fortified cabin on the North Fork of King’s Creek, where they had been staying for safety’s sake during the re
cent rash of Indian raids. Two other families had been there with them, but only two other men besides themselves. In the early morning his father had risen and, taking his rifle with him, said he was going to their cabin, a mile and a half distant, to get something but that he would be back for breakfast. When he hadn’t returned by the appointed time, William became worried and went to the cabin. He found it plundered and his father gone.
William told Capt. Poe that he then carefully checked the ground outside the cabin and found tracks of both his father and a number of Indians, and it was evident he had been captured. The tracks, William said, headed north. He knew it would be useless to go back to Burgett’s, since they did not have horses, manpower or firearms enough to mount a pursuit. Holliday’s Cove Fort, three and a half miles distant to the southwest, had only recently burned down, and most of the people from that settlement were still at Wheeling. His only alternative had seemed to go to Collier’s Settlement on Harmon’s Creek, where he knew Capt. Poe commanded a small militia company.451 He had alternately run and walked up and down the hills for six miles south and had finally reached the little fort.
As soon as he got the details, Andrew Poe raised the dozen men of the militia that were on hand, including his 33-year-old brother, Adam, who was six years his junior, as well as John Jack, David Marks, Thomas Cherry and seven others. William Jackson said he would go, too, if someone would let him borrow a horse.
The 13 mounted men left Collier’s about noon and, rather than going back to the Jackson cabin, which Capt. Poe said would accomplish nothing but make them lose valuable time, he led them on a direct northwestern course, figuring the party would be heading for the river and hoping to cross their trail or intercept them. The ground was well cluttered with autumn leaves, so they had to travel slowly and study the surface closely for any signs of passage. They found none and, by the time it was too dark to see trails any longer, they had traveled about ten miles. Beside a cornfield they found an old corncrib with some corn still in it, which would provide food for their horses, so this was where they had made camp last night, the men taking turns sitting guard-watch.452
Now, in the predawn darkness, Andrew Poe came to his feet and stretched hugely. He was a large man with dark hair and hazel eyes, two inches over six feet in height and powerfully built, weighing 225 pounds. Feeling the urge to relieve himself, he walked several yards away from the fire and was momentarily puzzled at the crunching sound under his feet. He bent to look but could see little in the darkness, so he stretched his hand down and felt. The whole surface of the ground, as well as the weeds and grasses above it, were coated with a hoary rime of heavy frost, first of the season. It could not have come at a more appropriate time.
A surge of energy and exultation flooded him and he spun back to the campfire, shaking each of the men in turn and saying, “C’mon, c’mon, get up! We’ve got a heavy frost! Let’s use it while we can. C’mon, get up!”
The men rose, quickly wolfed down some of the food they had brought and saddled their horses. As soon as it was light enough to see the ground sufficiently, they set off to the north, following a ridge. Knowing the frost would disappear quickly when the sun struck it, they moved as rapidly as possible. The day grew brighter and the frost glistened like a fairyland icing over everything on the ground. They studied the surface carefully as they rode and then, hardly over a mile from where they started, found the tracks they were seeking. The marks of Philip Jackson’s shoes were clearly evident and, though he couldn’t be sure, Andrew Poe estimated that there were six or seven Indians and the party was probably no more than a quarter-hour ahead.
The footprints led northwest, and the pursuers moved more rapidly now that they were on the trail. In another two miles they reached the summit of a hill overlooking the Ohio River. The tracks went down that hill, heading toward the mouth of a stream that Andrew Poe immediately recognized as Tomlinson Run. He believed the Indians had canoes hidden there and that it would be their intention to cross the Ohio and paddle upstream two miles to the mouth of Yellow Creek on the Ohio side.
“We’ll leave the horses here and move down on foot,” he whispered. “Check your loads. And no talking now, we don’t want ’em to hear us or they’re likely to kill Mr. Jackson and scatter.”
They descended the wooded hill as silently as possible, although John Jack seemed incapable of moving without making some sort of noise, either with his feet or his mouth. At the base of the hill they crossed a little rill where the water was still swirling with mud from the passage of the Indians and their captive. The noise made by Jack as he plodded through the water exasperated Poe, and he decided to separate from the others. With hand signals he indicated they should follow the tracks to the stream’s mouth, now no more than 100 yards ahead, though still not visible because of the screen of riverine bushes. Andrew set off to the left, directly toward the Ohio, about 50 yards distant.
In a few moments Capt. Poe reached the high bank. He approached it cautiously and peered over its edge and downward. Some 15 feet below were two Wyandots shoulder to shoulder, both crouched and with rifles leveled, cocked and ready to shoot. They were listening intently and looking toward the mouth of Tomlinson Run, wholly unaware of Poe above them. Glancing at the mouth of the creek, Poe saw four more warriors tugging a fairly large raft out of hiding in the bushes and hard at work trying to get it launched. Farther up on shore sat Philip Jackson, watching the Wyandots and guarded by another warrior standing a few yards away.
From the intentness of the pair below him, Poe was fairly sure they had heard the noise John Jack was making in the approach, and that though not sure what the sound signified, they were nevertheless ready to fire as soon as anyone came into view. One of the Indians below was very large and muscular, the other of medium size and build. These two were Monakaduto’s sons, Dakadulah and Scoleh.453 Poe knew immediately what he had to do: He would shoot the big Indian and then leap down onto the smaller one and kill him with his sheath knife.
Silently bringing his rifle to bear, Poe took dead aim at Dakadulah’s head and squeezed the trigger. The hammer of his rifle leaped forward, but only snapped; it was a total misfire, without even a flash in the pan. Instantly the two Indians below spun around, uttering “Waugh!” in their surprise. Just as instantly, Poe dropped his gun and launched himself off the bank and dived onto the pair. He struck them heavily, locking his left arm around the neck of the big one, throwing him down onto his back with Poe fully on his chest, while the captain’s right arm simultaneously tightly locked around the neck of the smaller one. Dakadulah and Scoleh dropped their rifles, screeched mightily and began struggling. Scoleh’s cocked rifle fired when it struck the ground, the ball going harmlessly into the nearby bank.
The five Wyandots at the mouth of the stream jerked into alertness, and the four by the water—including the war party’s leader, Scotach—snatched up their rifles, which they had laid on the raft’s surface. The warrior guarding Jackson immediately swung his tomahawk at the captive’s head. Jackson tried to lunge away, and the blade embedded itself in his shoulder. As the warrior jerked it loose for another attempt, Adam Poe shot him dead. The four raft-launching Indians exchanged shots with the whites charging out of the underbrush, but only two balls found their targets, one passing through the left hand of Scotach, another mortally wounding Thomas Cherry as it entered his side and tore through the lower part of his lungs. Scotach barked a command, and he and another warrior, dropping their empty guns, broke into a frantic run up the shoreline of Tomlinson Run; the other two, still standing in the shallows, discarded their guns, pulled out their tomahawks and crouched low to the water, attempting to hide behind the short weeds along the shore.
In his precipitous leap upon the Wyandot brothers, Andrew Poe had not had time to draw his knife and now he had gotten himself into quite a predicament. Dakadulah was as large and strong as Poe himself, and he bucked and struggled against Poe’s grasp around his neck and the white man’s weight on his c
hest. At the same time, Scoleh squirmed and kicked as he attempted to escape from the iron grip Poe had around his neck with the other arm. Poe’s knife was in its sheath and pinned for half its length between his own body and Dakadulah’s. Nevertheless he tried to inch himself up enough to where, with his left hand, without removing his grip around Dakadulah’s neck, he could reach the haft. But the Wyandot realized what he was trying to do and grasped Poe’s left wrist in a powerful grip.
Acting more intuitively than anything else, Poe then tried to force the frantically struggling Scoleh downward so that without loosening that grip around the warrior’s neck, he might be able to grip his own knife and pull it free from the sheath. He managed to grasp the end with thumb and forefinger and took a desperate chance: He relaxed his grip around the smaller Indian’s neck, knowing the Wyandot would instantly pull free but hoping that at the same moment he could jerk the knife out and stab him before he could move out of reach.
Scoleh did duck out from the loosened grip, and at the same moment, Dakadulah released his grip on Poe’s wrist and bucked Poe upward. The captain’s knife was momentarily no longer pinned between the two bodies, and the jerk Poe gave to the hasp with thumb and forefinger pulled the knife out of the sheath so easily that it flipped from his grasp, spun through the air and landed on the shore several feet away.
As all this was going on in a matter of seconds, more shots broke out from Poe’s men, and the two Wyandots who crouched with tomahawks in hand by the raft were both killed in the shallows. The two who had raced up Tomlinson Run—Scotach and the warrior with him—split at the leader’s command. The warrior continued running upstream and Scotach, cradling his wounded hand against his stomach, broke off into a tight turn and angled back through the trees and weeds toward the Ohio well below where his brothers were struggling with the big white man.