That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  The reprieved one was a 15-year-old youth who had been captured at age 12 during an attack on a sugar camp on the Rusdan’s Run tributary of Raccoon Creek 31 months before. Several young men, including his older brother, had been killed in that incident, and he and several others captured. Though never adopted into a family, he was kept at the village as a slave and had learned their language well and made himself useful. It had been thought that eventually he would be adopted. What saved his life now was the fact that a young Wyandot maiden his own age, chunky and not particularly pretty by his standards, had fallen in love with him. She intervened and begged Monakaduto to spare this one, and Monakaduto had agreed.458

  The young captive’s name was George Fulkes.

  [October 12, 1781—Friday]

  Few men on the frontier ever became so expert in the dangerous pursuit of Indian fighting that the Indians knew them by name and reputation and greatly feared and respected them. Capturing one of these elite few was a very high priority among them, and usually a very special death by prolonged torture was in store for that individual; assuming, of course, that they could continue to hold him once he had been caught.

  Daniel Boone was of this ilk. He had been captured by the Shawnees, even adopted by them, and remained with them long enough to discover their plans and then neatly escaped and thwarted those plans that had been so long in development. Simon Kenton was another. He, too, had been captured and condemned to death at the stake. Yet he had escaped the death sentence, eventually made his way back to Kentucky, and he remained a grave threat to the tribes. There were others: Martin Wetzel had been captured and ultimately escaped; his younger brothers, Lewis and Jacob, had been captured when mere little boys, yet had escaped, and Lewis, since then, had become a terror to the Indians, widely known and feared for his survival skills and remorselessness in killing Indians. Then, too, there was Sam Brady, who ranked as perhaps among the most feared and respected of all.

  While Capt. Samuel Brady ordinarily did not like to have his scouting parties exceed two dozen men, his incredible successes in beating the Indians at their own game had made him so popular that his scout and spy force, now known to all as Brady’s Rangers, had grown to more than 50. Usually he would divide this force in separate ranging parties under different, well-proven members of his command and send them on patrols in different areas. Their principal goals were to watch for Indian sign heading toward the settlements and to give timely warning. If they encountered small parties, they were to use their discretion as to whether they should attack.

  Once in a while, however, Brady was ordered to take more men than customarily, when the Indians he had been sent to spy upon constituted an especially large force. His present mission was one of those times. A particularly large war party—comprising, it was believed, primarily Mingoes, Senecas and Wyandots—had been moving about some distance up Beaver River, and Brady was ordered to take 40 of his Rangers and discover where they were and what they were about.

  They had been gone on this mission for nearly a fortnight now, initially striking out up the Beaver. Close to where that river is formed by the confluence of the Shenango and Mahoning, they had picked up the trail of the large Indian war party and followed it up the Mahoning River. Some 20 miles upstream, the Indians left the river and followed a well-used trail heading west.459

  Late in the afternoon the day before yesterday, they had come within sight of where the Indians, some 60 of them, were camped and had observed them from a distance. It was an area Brady had scouted several times in the past and he was familiar with the terrain. The camp was located on the east side of a substantial creek where the trail crossed at a fording place, just south of an oval-shaped swamp about 1,000 feet long lying between the fording place and the southern tip of a lake 1,500 feet to the north.460 Brady knew that a smaller Indian trail angled northward from where his party was now hidden and followed a narrow ridge that separated the lake from the swamp, that trail passing through a narrow defile of wooded slopes that would be ideal for an ambush.461

  As soon as it became dark enough to mask their movements, they eased into the defile. Brady gathered his Rangers and, in whispers, laid out the plan. It would involve the same kind of ruse the Indians had so often—and so successfully—used against the whites. Fourteen men were to take their places, well spaced and hidden, on the forest slope north of the defile, another 14 on the south slope.

  The remaining 12 men, led by Brady, would move around the west end of the swamp to approach the Indian encampment from the north and get themselves into position to fire into the Indian camp as soon after daylight as the Indians were up and gathered at their breakfast. The Indian force was large and, no matter how many they killed or disabled, they knew they would be pursued at once. Immediately upon firing, Brady and his dozen men would flee back the way they had come, around the west end of the swamp and then eastward along the ridge trail that led through the defile, with Brady himself bringing up the rear. Utilizing the long hours of practice they had expended in learning how to do it, they would reload as they ran. Passing through the defile where the remaining 28 Rangers were hidden, the runners would listen for Brady’s call, which he would give as they reached the eastern end of the passage. As soon as that call was given, the men would spread out in a line across the trail, kneel, aim and prepare to fire. When Brady, in the rear, reached that line, he too would stop, spin about, kneel and take aim. The 28 on the slopes, meanwhile, were to select specific individuals of the pursuing Indians as their targets, take careful aim and attempt to make killing shots when the signal for firing was given. However, the orders were to be observed very strictly: Not until Brady fired were any of the men on the slopes to reveal their presence or fire any guns. Once Brady’s signal shot was made, then all the Rangers were to fire simultaneously. It was Brady’s hope that they would kill or wound a good many, but undoubtedly many more of the enemy would be unhurt. The instant their rifles were fired, the Rangers were to scatter and head back for Fort McIntosh, every man on his own and no more than two men traveling together. They were to reload as they ran and be prepared to defend themselves if selected for pursuit.

  Having approached to within 60 yards of the Indian encampment under cover of darkness, Brady and his dozen men crouched in the tall dry weeds and awaited the dawn. When it came, there began to be activity in the Indian camp, and within half an hour the majority of the Indians were up and about, had gone to the stream to drink, had relieved themselves and had gathered about their several campfires to breakfast. It was then that, at Brady’s signal, the Rangers rose from hiding and fired.

  The surprise was complete, and about ten of the warriors fell where they stood. The remainder, some 50, seeing the 13 men racing away on foot, snatched up their weapons and were immediately in pursuit, shrieking and howling in their fury. Around the west end of the swamp the pursuit was maintained, the Rangers about 100 yards ahead of the Indians. On reaching the northwestern edge of the swamp, they turned to the east on the trail and followed it through the defile, loading as they ran. At the eastern end Brady barked his command and they stopped, wheeled about and formed their line, dropped to one knee and presented their weapons. Brady, last to do so, took a bead on the warrior who had moved into the lead among the pursuers. Effective range was about 70 yards, but, murmuring “Steady, boys, steady!” he waited until the man was no more than 50 yards distant before he fired.

  Instantly a barrage of 39 other rifle shots came, and a large number of the Indians tumbled, many dead, others writhing in the agony of their wounds.462 Those unhurt halted and fled back the way they had come until out of range and then took to cover. By that time the Rangers themselves were well on the move, scattering as instructed, no one pausing to take a scalp, collect a weapon or do anything else but get out of the area as quickly as possible.

  Only one of the Rangers was caught. Ironically, it turned out to be Samuel Brady.

  Having skirted the eastern edge of the swamp and know
ing that the majority of his men would be traveling generally eastward first before swinging to a more southerly direction, he struck out almost directly south, reloading as he ran. A few minutes later, as he approached the main Mahoning Trail, he stopped and peered from cover toward the Indian camp a quarter-mile to the west. A few Indians were moving about but not many and, as soon as he thought it safe, he ran across the trail and into the woodland on the opposite side. Then, settling down to the steady, mile-eating pace he could maintain for hours, he continued to run, angling slightly eastward.

  In less than a mile he approached a fording place higher up the same stream the Indians had camped along, now coming from the east.463 He plunged into the creek and started surging across the waist-deep water. He was about at the midpoint when a party of five Wyandot hunters, one of them carrying a dead spike-point buck draped over the back of his neck, stepped out of the woodland ahead.

  Any attempt to flee would have drawn shots at once, and he knew he would be killed before he got back to the bank he had just left, so Brady tried to brazen it out. He stopped and grinned broadly, held his rifle pointing skyward to the rear and raised his hand in the peace greeting.

  “How’d’ya do,” he said in a friendly manner.

  The leader of the party, a man of about 40, wasn’t fooled. He recognized Brady and barked a command, and he and another brought their rifles to bear on him. The one carrying the young buck remained in place, but the other two waded into the stream and relieved Brady of his rifle, tomahawk and knife. Then, motioning him ahead of them, they all moved to the north bank and began following a dim foot trail that roughly followed the course of the creek, leading directly back to the Indian camp.

  Brady was sure these five were not part of the war party he and his men had attacked and that they knew nothing of the ambush. He was equally sure that the war party was not yet gone from that encampment, and he was correct. It was still there, and more Indians had returned from the ambush site, some carrying dead, some helping wounded. Had he not been recognized, the Ranger commander would very likely have been executed—as he expected he would be the moment he was led into the camp. But the very recognition of him saved his life. Brady was a very important prisoner, and his execution must be a national event, witnessed and participated in by as many as possible.

  So, though he was considerably jostled and abused, he was not immediately killed. A hemp rope was used to bind his wrists behind him, and a long rawhide tug was fastened snugly around his neck. He was led across the fording place of the stream at the camp and then westward on the trail another two miles to another fording place, this one crossing the 100-foot-wide Cuyahoga River, on the opposite side of which was a small Mingo village called Honnia. Here the trailing end of the tether around his neck was attached to a post in the midst of the village. There he sat throughout the remainder of the day, as numerous bodies were brought in from the ambush. There was great grief for the number who had been killed, and runners were sent in different directions to various villages with news of the ambush, the capture of their notorious foe and the plans for his execution to be held at Half King’s Town on the upper Sandusky. From what he could understand of their conversation, Brady gathered he was going to be forced to run the gauntlet here the following morning, then be marched on toward Half King’s Town, slightly more than 100 miles west.

  Late last evening a bowl of stew was brought to him by an overweight middle-aged squaw who spooned it into his mouth. He ate it eagerly, knowing he would need the strength it would restore; knowing as well that in order to escape he must be as rested as possible. Having had virtually no sleep the night before, he paid no attention to the three guards positioned to watch him throughout the night and simply curled up on his side and slept, though he awakened in discomfort several times because of the cold night air.

  This morning, remarkably refreshed by the food and sleep, he was again fed a bowl of food, this time a sort of porridge in which there were small pieces of meat. Obviously they were intending to keep him healthy so that his death by torture, when it came, could be extended for as long as possible.

  Shortly afterward they began assembling and stretched themselves out in a long double line to the west, armed with switches, briars, clubs, sticks and other weapons with which to strike him as he passed. At the starting point, beside the principal campfire, a ring of Indians who would not be participating in the gauntlet—mainly small children, the elderly and women holding babies—had gathered to watch Brady go through his ordeal. But seeing them, a plan bloomed in Brady’s mind. It would be a desperate gamble, but it was his only hope. Just a few moments ago the snug rawhide thong was loosened and removed, the rope binding his wrists behind him was cut away and he was led to the starting point amidst a babble of voices, laughter and derisive shouts.

  Now, as he stood beside the fire at the beginning of the gauntlet line, Brady was told by word and sign language to remove his clothing. He shook his head and, as a warrior stepped up and stretched out his hands to grab his hunting shirt and rip it off, he struck the Wyandot a solid blow between the eyes, sending him sprawling. In the same movement he leaped to the nearest part of the circle of onlookers, snatched a blanket-swathed baby away from a squaw and pitched it onto the coals of the campfire. The screams of the baby, the shriek of the mother and the cries of concern from the onlookers intermingled. There was a scramble of bodies as many of the people leaped instantly to rescue the infant, and in that instant Brady was off and running. Pursuit was immediate as a horde of warriors fell in behind in the race to overtake and recapture him.

  As fast as he had ever traveled on foot, Brady ran northward, keeping the Cuyahoga River to his right. The village was at a broad stretch of the river and the fast current splashed across the wide shallows that formed the fording place they had crossed yesterday. Now, however, he was upstream from that place and the river here narrowed, was even more swift and very deep. From previous patrols when he had studied this area, Brady remembered the big stone called Standing Rock that projected from the swirling water upstream from here.464 About 100 yards above that landmark, the Cuyahoga passed in wild turbulence through a narrow gap in the great rocks of the shore. It was toward that spot Brady headed.

  Certain he could not outdistance them and wanting to take him alive, the pursuing Indians close behind Brady did not fire any shots but merely put all their effort into overtaking him. Just about a mile from where he began his run, Brady passed The Standing Rock, and when he reached The Narrows in another 300 feet, the closest of his pursuers was no more than 60 feet behind him. Without pause and gathering all his strength into one huge effort, Brady reached the rim of the ledge and projected himself out over the deep swirling river in a gigantic leap.

  The shore from which he jumped was on the same level as the shore on the opposite side 22 feet away, but on the east bank there was a ledge about four feet wide and perhaps five feet lower. Brady landed on this ledge, his momentum carrying him into the bank and nearly rebounding him into the river.465 Not pausing to exult over his accomplishment, Brady scrambled to his feet and immediately climbed the remaining five feet to the level ground above.

  Completely dumbfounded by this feat, which none of the pursuers would even have considered attempting, the Indians halted at the edge. Now, seeing their incredible foe on the verge of escape, one of them fired his gun. The ball dug a deep trench through the outside of Brady’s right thigh and tumbled him, but he regained his feet and hobbled into the protective cover of some nearby trees.

  For the Indians, there was no possibility of crossing the Cuyahoga here—the turbulent water was about 20 feet deep—and they had no recourse but to rush to the nearest crossing places. About half of them returned to the fording place at the village, a mile below, the other half to a place about half a mile upstream where, just below a small island, a crossing could be made with difficulty. The head start it would give Brady was not much, but it was something.

  Favoring his in
jured leg, which was bleeding profusely and, to his dismay, leaving a trail of blood a child could follow, Brady ran to the east. In three-quarters of a mile he came to the west bank of the same creek upon which he had been captured, but now considerably larger and only half a mile above where it emptied into the Cuyahoga. Here he encountered another Indian trail that, within mere yards, went to a fording place.466 He crossed here and, emerging on the other side, found that he was leaving a blood trail even more apparent than before, but he also realized that this was the same trail that skirted between the lake and the swamp, where he and his men some 30 hours earlier had effected their successful ambush.

  He hastened along that trail toward the lake but, before reaching there, heard the sound of voices coming in the distance behind and knew they would overtake him in minutes. He redoubled his efforts and reached the southern extremity of the lake shore. There were a few lily pads here and some patches of flagweed but not enough that he could hide among them and escape detection. But just before him was the trunk of a huge chestnut tree on the bank that must have fallen into the lake a year or so before. It angled into water that was 12 feet deep here and he raced down its length to the water and plunged in. He returned to the surface in the little space under the angled log but knew that this was exactly the place the Indians would look first. Deciding that however little protection the lily pads offered, they were probably his only hope, he raised his left foot to thrust himself away from the tree trunk. Instead of wood, however, his leg went into a cavity and as quickly as he realized it, he submerged and found the opening. The cavity was large enough only for him to squirm inside to about his knees before it narrowed sharply. But in the space where it narrowed, his head broke free of the water and, in the dimness, he could see a faint bit of daylight entering from a branch hole along the side of the log a few feet above him and no larger than the diameter of his arm.