That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  David Marks and three or four others had pursued the two running up the stream, while young William Jackson ran to his father to guard him. Marks and another of the whites, both good runners, outdistanced the others. They did not see Scotach angle away from the stream and race through the woods, but continued to close on the fleeing warrior until the man with Marks suddenly stopped, threw up his rifle and snapped off a shot that took the warrior through his upper leg and tumbled him into the leaves. Before he could rise, Marks was upon him, and his own shot, at point-blank range, smashed into the warrior’s brain, killing him.

  Back at the river, having lost his grip on Scoleh, Andrew Poe tightened his arm even more firmly around Dakadulah’s neck, but the big warrior got his own arms around Poe’s middle in a fierce grip that all but cracked the captain’s lower ribs and severely limited his ability to breathe. Scoleh, free of the struggle, jerked the tomahawk out from his waistband and swung a blow with it at the white man’s head. Poe saw it coming and kicked out savagely, his right foot catching Scoleh’s wrist and sending the tomahawk spinning into the river.

  Scoleh recovered, scrambled to Dakadulah and pulled his brother’s tomahawk from the waistband and began circling with it, feinting blows and looking for an opportunity to strike Poe without hitting his brother. He saw his chance and swung, but Poe again saw it coming and held up his right arm to ward it off. The tomahawk plunged deeply into his lower arm, making a gash over seven inches long, severing one of the wrist bones and the tendons to three of his fingers. Jerking with the pain, Poe pulled the embedded tomahawk free from Scoleh’s grasp. The weapon stuck to his wrist a moment more and then fell to the ground beneath the struggling combatants.

  Scoleh, having lost the second tomahawk, snatched up his rifle. Adam Poe was by now running down the shoreline toward them and, knowing his gun was empty, stopped some 40 yards away and began swiftly reloading. Scoleh also began reloading, and it became a race as to who would finish first. Scoleh, in his haste, dropped his ramrod and instantly scooped it up again, but he had lost a precious second or two. Adam Poe finished first and, just as Scoleh began raising his gun, Poe sent a shot into the center of his chest and killed him.454

  Dakadulah and Andrew Poe had by this time, in their continuing struggle, rolled into the river. There were no shallows along this stretch of shoreline, and both men went under. Poe managed to grasp Dakadulah’s hair with his uninjured left hand and attempted to keep the warrior’s head under the surface. Their struggling carried them farther out into the river until they were some forty feet from shore. Poe had managed to get a gasping breath of air or two as they rolled, and he was sure he had prevented the big Indian from doing so. When his adversary suddenly went limp, he thought he had drowned and, unable to swim with his injured arm, he released his grip on the hair and struck out for shore.

  Immediately, Dakadulah came to the surface just below him, gasping and choking, and he, too, swam for shore. Uninjured, Dakadulah got there first and scrambled back to where his rifle lay on the bank, snatched it up and leveled it at Andrew, who ducked down and began kicking farther out into the river. Dakadulah aimed at Poe’s exposed head and shot, but the gun only snapped, having lost its prime when dropped. By this time, Adam Poe had again reloaded and, in order to save Andrew, shot too hastily. His bullet struck Dakadulah high in the hip, slamming him back into the water some 20 feet from Andrew.

  Capt. Poe surged back toward where Dakadulah had gone below the surface and was practically on him before he rose. Again he was able to grasp the big Indian’s hair with his left hand and force his head under water. They rolled and thrashed in the water and Poe brought up his knee, catching Dakadulah in the groin. The Indian went limp, and Poe kicked again and then again. He got his own head above the surface and sucked in a breath, then planted a foot in Dakadulah’s stomach and kicked him outward and downward, at the same time releasing his grip on the hair.

  Adam Poe, gun reloaded and pointed at the water, was ready to shoot again as soon as the big Indian’s head should reappear on the surface, but Dakadulah had drowned and sunk. Several hundred yards downstream, Scotach peered from hiding at what was occurring. Wounded, weaponless and greatly outnumbered, he realized there was nothing he could do. Staying to cover, he continued down the shoreline another quarter-mile, then entered the water and swam across to the Ohio side.

  Andrew Poe had defeated his adversary, but now his own strength was all but gone, and he struggled feebly to get back to shore. At this moment John Jack and another of Poe’s men came running along the high bank above to assist Adam and, seeing the man in the river and taking him to be an Indian, loosed shots at him. Jack’s companion shot first, and his ball struck the water a foot or so from Andrew’s head. Jack’s ball, however, struck Andrew in the rear of his right shoulder close to his neck and inside the collarbone, passed through his body and exited at the top of his ribs on the left side. Andrew was now so disabled, he could not swim and began to sink. Adam tossed his own gun aside, leaped into the water, just managed to catch hold of Andrew’s shirt before the current swept him away and, with some difficulty, hauled him back to shore.

  Andrew Poe was carried to where the rescued Philip Jackson was sitting beside the dying Tom Cherry. The tomahawk wound in Jackson’s shoulder was painful but not serious. The whole little company gathered at this spot, and Andrew’s numerous wounds were treated as best could be done, but it was obvious that he needed competent medical treatment as quickly as possible. There was no time to scalp the dead Indians or do anything more than collect what weapons could be quickly found. While some of the men moved speedily up to the ridge to get the horses and bring them here, others constructed a horse litter out of a blanket and poles cut from saplings. By the time they finished, Tom Cherry had died. They draped his body over his saddle and fastened it securely. Then they tied the litter between two of their horses and put Capt. Poe into it and immediately headed for the nearest place where there was a doctor—Wheeling.455

  [October 8, 1781—Monday]

  Scotach, approaching his father’s village—Half King’s Town on the upper Sandusky—knew it was time to stop and prepare for his arrival. Though he had long since steeled himself to ignore the pain in his wounded hand, his movements were nevertheless clumsy as he gathered some twigs and dry grasses. Using flint, steel and tinder from his pouch, he soon had a small fire going and continued to feed it with pieces of bark, seeking especially bark from the white oak, which would leave a residue of black ashes. With the small fire fueled enough, he crouched beside it, settling back on his heels, and once again let the grief he was bringing home to Monakaduto fill his own mind and heart as he thought of what had occurred over these past few days.

  Having swum to the Ohio side of the river following the attack, he had cautiously made his way back to a point opposite the mouth of Tomlinson Run. From a high point of ground, he was able to see the Shemanese tying a dead man stomach down over the back of one of their horses and another on a litter between two other horses. In a few minutes they had mounted their own horses and were quickly swallowed up by the woods as they followed a trail up into the hills to the south.

  Though certain it was no ruse, Scotach nevertheless decided he would not leave this place until late in the day. As he waited, he searched for and found several of the herbs—now wilted from the frost—that would ease the pain throbbing up his left arm from his wounded hand. These he mashed between two rocks into a pulpy mass, which he then stuffed into the wound, followed by a wadding of buzzard down from his pouch packed into both sides of the wound to curtail bleeding and promote coagulation. Locating some mandrake plants, he broke off a few of the large wilted leaves and wrapped them around his entire hand and then tied them in place with a long rawhide thong carried in his pouch.

  Just before sunset Scotach moved farther up the bank of the river, estimating how far the current would carry him downstream as he crossed so he would come ashore near where the action had occurred. In the
twilight, pushing a large chunk of dry wood before him, he waded into the river and, clinging to the floating wood, struck out swimming as best he could to the other side. Despite his calculations, he still came ashore somewhat below where he had intended. He walked back upstream and, in the gathering gloom of nightfall, came to the body of his brother Scoleh close to the river’s edge. Though he searched the vicinity closely, he could not find his other brother, Dakadulah, and somehow he knew the Great Spirit had lifted him home in Her net from beneath the river’s surface. Grateful that Scoleh had not been scalped, he picked him up with some difficulty and carried him in his arms to where the raft had been and was gratified to find it still wedged in the reeds and weeds along the shore. The bodies of the two warriors that had been killed there were still in the weedy shallows close by. He laid Scoleh’s body on its surface and then waded out and loosened the raft enough that he could easily pull it free when the time came. The other two dead warriors he placed beside Scoleh, and then he began to search for the others.

  He easily found the body of the warrior who had been guarding the captive and carried him the short distance to the raft and laid him beside the other three. That left only two missing—Dakadulah and the warrior who had run up the smaller stream with Scotach. Dakadulah, he was sure, had been swallowed by the river, and, remembering the two shots that had been fired behind him moments after he and the warrior split, Scotach assumed his companion had been killed. But since there would be no way of finding his body in the darkness, he reluctantly dismissed any idea of searching for him.

  He waded into the stream again and, as he struggled to free the raft, he stepped upon something hard. He reached down to the bottom and was more than a little pleased when his hand closed around a tomahawk that had been dropped by one of the warriors who was killed here. He put the weapon securely in his waistband, continued to tug at the raft until it was free. He tied the raft to his waist with a short cord and pulled it along behind him as he swam, pacing himself so as not to become exhausted. It was very difficult with the current tugging at them, and as a result, he was fully three miles downstream from the point where he started when he finally staggered to shore at a broad bottom.456

  One by one he carried the bodies well up on the shore to a point above the normal spring high-water level. Using the only tool he had—the recovered tomahawk—he dug a grave more than three feet deep, wide enough and long enough to accommodate the four bodies lying side by side, their heads toward the east. By this time it was sunrise and Scotach had very little strength left, yet he searched farther up the shoreline and into the woodlands to find the appropriate herbs, which he gathered and scattered over the bodies. From his pouch he removed the last of his kinnikinnick, saturated and useless now for smoking, and scattered it over the bodies. Then slowly, tiredly, he began refilling the grave with the soil he had removed. By noon he had finished and he searched for a large rock. He found one too big to be carried but managed, with difficulty, to roll it to the foot of the grave—a marker that he and others of his tribe, when he described it to them, would be able to find again. Eventually, he knew, they would come back here and disinter the remains, scrape away what remained of the flesh and carry the bones back to their own burial ground close to the village for proper final ceremonies.

  It was by then early afternoon, the first day of October, and he walked wearily away into the woods. Well into the hills, he discovered a large fallen tree with a large, cavelike hollow in its bole. Making sure it was not occupied by muga or peshewa or meshepeshe—bear or wildcat or panther—he backed into the opening and lay on his stomach, tomahawk in hand, and went to sleep. He slept without interruption the remainder of the day, through the night and well into the following morning.

  When he awoke, Scotach was stiff and sore and hungry. His left forearm and hand were swollen from his injury, and a deep, pervasive throbbing emanated from the wound. He had some pieces of food in his pouch, watersoaked but still edible—jerky intermingled in a mass of now glutinous parched corn—but he ate none of it. This was a day of mourning, a day to grieve for his lost brothers and companions. He built a little fire and kept it so by adding only minimal quantities of wood at relatively short intervals. For a long while he crouched by the fire, more often than not simply staring at its flames but, on occasion, muttering sing-song incantations or tossing his head back and giving vent to mournful howls. Several times he wept, his shoulders heaving spasmodically. Twice, after stoking the little blaze, he circled the fire in a strange shuffling dance, punctuated by high leaps in which he arched himself backward and then bent far forward at the waist, issuing more of the melancholy cries. Finally, at nightfall, he allowed the fire to die away and crept back into the log and slept again.

  On the third day of October, he started his walk home, eating the distasteful mess of jerky and parched corn as he walked, moving to the west and eventually coming to a path he recognized. He began to follow it but soon camped for the night. By evening the next day, after crossing the Tuscarawas not far above the remains of Fort Laurens, he was fortunate enough to bring down a cottontail rabbit with a good throw of the tomahawk. He roasted it for his dinner over a somewhat larger campfire and slept close by it for the warmth it generated. For three more days he walked, making his little camp each night, usually going hungry but one time climbing a tree to dispatch a raccoon he spied in the upper branches and that he ate with great enjoyment.

  By nightfall yesterday, he knew he was close to his father’s village and would arrive on the morrow about the time the sun was at its highest. Twice he saw other Indians at a distance, but he did not approach them or make himself known. He ate nothing and made his camp beside a stream, where he bathed himself, scrubbing every inch of his body with coarse gravelly sand. He slept this night sitting with his back to a large tree.

  This morning he had walked until within a mile of the village, keeping off the trail so he would not meet anyone else, as it would not be seemly to explain what had occurred before the village as a whole had been alerted. Then he had stopped and built his little fire and fed it the chips of white oak bark until all the wood was consumed and only ash remained. Now, at last, coming out of his reverie, he poked and scattered the ashes somewhat so they would cool more swiftly. As soon as it was possible for him to do so, he scooped up handsful of the ash and rubbed it into his chest and onto his face until his skin was stained a dark gray. Then he straightened and began walking the final mile to Half King’s Town.

  Half a mile from the village he began chanting the death song and issuing the death howls that would alert the villagers that he was arriving with news of defeat and death. They began coming out to meet him, and seeing who he was and his ash-coated appearance, they picked up the cry and fell in behind him. The eerie sound, rising and falling from ever more throats in unison, was picked up now by those still in the village, a deeply melancholy sound.

  Scotach stopped in the center of the village, and they formed a wide circle about him. His father, Chief Monakaduto, appeared and stood with the villagers and, when Scotach raised both arms high overhead and then let them slowly lower straight out from his shoulders, the howls and chanting began dying away. By the time his arms were at his sides, silence had fallen over the assemblage.

  Scotach again raised his arms, his right hand straight up and spread to show five fingers, his injured left hand similarly raised, the fingers clenched as best he could close them, except for his index finger, which pointed straight up. There was a gasp, and a low moaning sound began among some. They now knew that six warriors had been killed. Scotach lowered his arms again and slowly pivoted in place, letting his eyes sweep across the people. When he saw the mother of the warrior who had been killed while guarding the captive, he pointed at her, and she immediately began to weep and raise the death cry. He turned further and pointed at the father of one of the warriors who had been killed at the raft, and he, too, broke into the death cry and tears began coursing down his cheeks. For
the relatives of each in turn he pointed, and the cries were raised. Finally he faced his own father. Toward him he pointed with both hands. Monakaduto’s expression darkened, and he wept and raised his plaintive cry with the others.

  The larger circle broke up and smaller circles formed around those who had been designated, and they comforted them and raised their voices with them in the death song. Scotach moved to his father and he and Monakaduto embraced, and then they wept more together over the loss of sons and brothers.

  The grieving in the various circles lasted for a long time. Then finally, as they became still, Scotach again became the center of attention as he related the details of what had occurred—the capture of the white man, the unexpected attack by the whites who followed, the deaths, the flight across the river and then back to recover the dead, the burial, the mourning, the long journey home.

  Gradually Monakaduto’s grief was overshadowed by a growing anger. Were the Moravian missionaries, Heckewelder and Zeisberger, still in the new village called Captives’ Town, three-quarters of a mile upstream from Half King’s Town, where the converted Indians were now staying, he would have ordered their death at the stake as appeasement for their loss, but the German missionaries had already been sent to Detroit.457 There were, however, eight American prisoners in the town. Monakaduto ordered them executed but then spared one. The seven who were killed were not burned at the stake, but simply tomahawked and scalped.