by Allan Eckert
Drawing himself up as much as he could, he pressed his wounded thigh against the inside of the cavity in an effort to curtail the flow of blood that would be a giveaway in the water. Half a minute later he heard voices again and, immediately on the heels of that, footfalls on the log. There was a lot of talk from the Indians, and they stayed a long while. What little he could make out of their muted conversation, they had followed his blood right down the log to the water and, after waiting a long period, keeping a close watch on the scant lily pads, flagweeds and the open water, and closely studying the gap between the angled log and the water, they came to the conclusion that, in keeping with the courage expected of a brave warrior, he had chosen to drown rather than to allow his enemies to take his scalp.
It was perhaps an hour after their arrival at the log that the sounds of the Indian voices disappeared and silence fell. Brady, not ready to trust anything to chance at this point, remained huddled and cramped in the small hollow, even dozing now and then, until the little amount of light entering the branch hole dimmed in the twilight, and finally all was dark as night settled in.
When at last he wriggled out of the cavity, he came to the surface cautiously and eased himself with scarcely a ripple to the shoreline.467 There he lay in the shallows for another quarter-hour or more, simply listening. Finally, he pulled himself up on shore and began moving away. His wounded leg was very stiff, but gradually it limbered up as he walked. A light rain began to fall, and, despite the discomfort it caused him, he knew it was washing away traces of his escape.
He also knew that the Indians, who were undoubtedly rejoicing in his demise, had not seen the last of Capt. Samuel Brady.
Chapter 6
[October 12, 1781—Friday]
Martin Wetzel, having become acclimated once again to living among his own kind these past nine months following his long captivity, was still in Kentucky. His skills as an Indian hunter and his firsthand knowledge of the Shawnees—their language, strength and disposition—were invaluable to the Kentuckians in their continuing struggle against them. Lately, however, Wetzel had been thinking of home, and he had just about decided it was time for him to return to Wheeling Creek, from which he had been absent for three and a half years.
One of the things that had kept him here in Kentucky was his desire to meet and perhaps go on a hunt with the 26-year-old young giant of a man who had become legendary in his feats as a frontiersman—Simon Kenton. Now that time had come. He and Kenton had met at Boonesboro just a few weeks ago and Wetzel, prepared to be impressed, was not disappointed. Few men on the entire Ohio River Valley frontier impressed Martin Wetzel, but Daniel Boone was one and Kenton was definitely another.
Six and a half feet tall and very muscularly built, Simon Kenton had packed more experiences into his young years than most men on the frontier acquired in a lifetime. Here was a man who was a hunter among hunters, a man who had led innumerable expeditions against the Shawnees, who had spied for Clark in the Illinois and Indiana country, who had been captured by the Shawnees, run their harsh gauntlets seven times, had his arm and his skull broken by them, escaped and been recaptured, been twice condemned to death at the stake and yet managed to get away; who had spied on the British in Detroit during his captivity and somehow managed to get back to Kentucky to continue protecting the settlers here. Little wonder that he had become so legendary.468
Kenton had heard of Martin Wetzel, too, and, though he normally hunted alone, was amenable to going out on a hunt with this young man two years his junior. Apart from Boone and a select few others, there were not many he had hunted with who were not only truly self-reliant but dependable in case of emergency. Wetzel had a look about him of both. Kenton was very impressed, as well, with the new double-barreled rifle Wetzel had recently acquired, and curious about its accuracy.
Together they headed into the rolling hill country near the mouth of the Kentucky River for their hunt. While there were no longer the great herds of buffalo that had been in this area some years ago, there were occasional small groups of them and the area also still had a small population of elk and bear and quite a large number of deer.
Kenton and Wetzel hunted for a few days and each man was impressed with the abilities of the other. Then, the day before they were ready to call it quits and head for home, they discovered the tracks of an Indian party. Sign of Indians in the area didn’t come as a complete surprise; the evening before they had faintly heard some distant shots. Though it might have been other Kentuckians hunting, Kenton was not one to risk his life on such a presumption. They made a cold camp for the night and took turns sitting watch, but the darkness passed uneventfully. In the morning, just after dawn, they heard a single shot in the same general direction. Unlike most whites, who would have speedily headed in the opposite direction, Wetzel and Kenton immediately moved cautiously toward where the distant gunfire had been heard and, before long, came across day-old moccasin tracks.
“How many you figure, Martin?” Kenton asked.
Wetzel, without having to glance at the tracks again, promptly answered, “Five. Mebbe six. More likely five.”
“That’s what I figure, too. You want to leave?”
“Hell no,” Wetzel replied. “Let’s get us some Injens.”
Kenton grinned and nodded. The pair began tracking at once, moving slowly, keeping well to cover and leaving virtually no sign of their own passage, not only studying the tracks they were following, but just as often watching well ahead for that telltale movement or glint of metal or any other sign that might indicate they were themselves discovered and moving into an ambush. In a bit over two hours they came to a small run, along which the Indians had camped the previous night, but had now moved off.
“They killed a deer,” Wetzel murmured, finding traces of where the animal had been butchered and the offal carefully buried to avoid detection. “Yesterday, looks like. Reckon they jerked the meat during the night, what they ain’t et of it.”
“An’ a ’coon, too. This mornin’. Had ’im for breakfast, I ’spect. Not hunters, though. War party.”
Wetzel, who hadn’t put that together yet, was surprised. “How you figger that?”
“Mixed up paint powders here an’ put ’em on.” Kenton indicated a spot near the still-warm ashes of the fire where a little smudge of yellow ocher had smeared the edge of a rock and a barely visible drop or two of vermilion was on the dry grass. “Reckon they’re huntin’ two-legged game today. Let’s go.”
They continued following the trail, still using great caution but moving faster now. The trail ranged far, and the little war party was obviously moving rapidly, too. It was early in the evening when they crept up near to where the Shawnees were establishing their night’s camp. As they had figured, there were five warriors in the party. The camp was in a broad clearing along a small creek, the surrounding area comprised of low, dry grasses and not much cover except for a long-decayed log on the ground some 40 yards from their campfire on the stream bank.
The main concern now was to make certain that this party was not making a rendezvous here with another party thus far undetected by Kenton and Wetzel. To preclude such a possibility, they used what remained of the daylight to back off about 1,000 yards and make a complete circle around the camp, studying the ground closely. They found no tracks other than their own and those of the Indian party. Returning in the last of the daylight to where they had first spotted the enemy, they took up a position to watch them from cover.
“You want to get a couple of ’em or all five?” Kenton whispered.
“All five,” Martin whispered back. “What you got in mind?”
“If we fire on ’em during the night, we’ll get two, mebbe three, ’fore the rest get off in the dark. We want all five, we’re gonna have t’crawl up to that log in the dark an’ wait there till daylight.”
“Let’s do it,” Wetzel murmured.
They discussed their mode of planned attack and then waited until well after dark,
when all but one of the Indians had fallen asleep by the fire. Then they slowly and silently squirmed forward through the low grasses to a position behind the moldering log. Here they remained, watching the little camp until dawn. A short time later the Indians arose and moved about a little, relieved themselves and drank from the stream, then settled by the fire to eat some of their jerked meat.
At a nod from Kenton, the two whites took careful bead on their targets, fired simultaneously and killed two of the Indians. Wetzel immediately fired his second load and brought down a third one. Then he and Kenton, leaving their guns behind, leaped over the log, tomahawks in hand and, shrieking at the tops of their voices, charged at the remaining two warriors. That pair, having no time to snatch up their guns leaning against a nearby rock, took to their heels in different directions as fast as they could run. Kenton followed one, Wetzel the other. Ten minutes later Kenton returned to the camp with a bloody scalp in his hand, and, five minutes after that, Wetzel returned with the scalp of the fifth Indian.
They then discovered that one of the Indians, though mortally wounded, was still alive, lying on his stomach and moaning. Wetzel turned him over and saw to his shock that it was his former captor, Skootekitehi. The Shawnee, though in great pain, recognized him as well.
“Mah-ten,” he gasped. “Shoot me. Kill me.”
Wetzel refused to do so and, when he explained his connection with the man, neither would Kenton. They gathered up the Indians’ guns, which they decided should go to settlers who needed them, and then hunkered down by the fire and ate some of the jerky from the pouches of their dead foes. Skootekitehi’s breathing became more labored and it was evident the end was near. At last he asked for water. Wetzel formed a cone of a broad weed leaf and brought him a few swallows, which he drank, then groaned pitiably for a moment and died. Though they had scalped the other four, they did not, by unspoken agreement, scalp Skootekitehi.
The two young frontiersmen talked a while longer at the fire. Finally, Wetzel shook his head. “Reckon since I’m this close to the Ohio,” he said, “I’ll head on back to Wheeling. It’s about time.”
Kenton nodded and held out his hand, and the two men shook warmly. “Watch your scalp, Martin,” the big frontiersman said. “You’re a good man to be out with.”
Martin Wetzel nodded, picked up his double-barreled rifle and moved off. After 30 feet or so he stopped and turned. He dipped his head at Kenton again, smiled, then walked away, filled with pride at what he considered to be the greatest compliment he’d ever received.469
[October 18, 1781—Thursday]
Scare the World, despite his being a Delaware, had become one of the men whom Capt. Samuel Brady most depended upon in his forays. Though he was getting “a mite long in the tooth,” as Brady put it, Scare the World could still keep up quite well with the younger men and, in fact, outlast many of them. He was now about 70 years old, but his abilities in reading sign, in outthinking hostile Indians and in providing good advice during their expeditions against them had not faltered in the least with his increasing years.
Scare the World’s only real failing, so far as Brady could determine, was his passionate fondness for liquor. He never drank in moderation, only in excess—whenever and wherever liquor was available. He had a great capacity for alcohol and did not care the least in what form it came. Neither did he concern himself unduly about who was the owner; he watched for it constantly, and if he encountered it, he would drink it. Whether a pint or a gallon jug, a keg or a barrel, he would drink until either the liquor was gone or he sprawled unconscious from its effects.
Today, having gone five days without his favorite beverage, Scare the World prowled about Fort McIntosh as he was wont to do, peering into every nook and cranny, every traveler’s bag, every cabinet or box he encountered. It was in the hospital room of the fort that he came upon a small box of medical supplies just received from the east and rummaged through it.
The pint bottle he found had a label on it, but since he could not read, it meant nothing to him. He uncorked it and smelled alcohol, and that was all he cared about. The taste of the stuff was not good, but he was sure it would have an effect. It did. This was a bottle of medication that had been ordered for use in treating the somewhat promiscuous Fanny, daughter of the present Shawnee interpreter at Fort McIntosh, Nonhelema—The Grenadier Squaw. Fanny was suffering from a particularly virulent venereal disease, and the label on the bottle warned that it must be used in small, carefully measured doses, since it was poisonous.
Scare the World was correct in believing the alcohol-smelling liquid would have an effect. It killed him in less than half an hour.
[October 22, 1781—Monday]
The Seneca half-breed Andrew Montour was now convinced that suggesting this fall hunt to Rousch and Danagh had been a mistake. Their sneaking off in the middle of the night had placed him in a very ticklish situation with these Munceys now gripping his arms and eyeing him in a most unfriendly manner.
This whole business had begun about a week ago when two Pittsburgh trading partners, a Dutchman named George Rousch and a red-headed Irishman named Neil Danagh, stopped their canoe at Montour’s Island five miles below Fort Pitt to visit with him.470 As they sat having a drink and talking, Montour had mentioned that he was planning to go on his fall hunt soon, this year to Connoquenessing Creek, a tributary entering Beaver River from the east 11 miles above Fort McIntosh.471 He planned to hunt for deer and turkey on the headwaters of the Connoquenessing. When Danagh and Rousch showed an interest, Montour invited them to come along, and they accepted.
They had gone some 35 miles upstream on the Connoquenessing and made a nice camp and had been enjoying a fairly successful hunt until late this afternoon when the party of seven Muncey Delaware warriors showed up under a subchief named Shingwelah.472 They greeted Montour in a cordial enough manner but the looks they gave his companions were decidedly unfriendly, and they neither greeted nor conversed with the Americans and, when they spoke at all, it was in the Delaware tongue.
Montour, though his expression did not change, recognized one of the warriors in the party as none other than Mamatchtaga, one of the two warriors who last year had been condemned to death at Pittsburgh; one of the two who were to be executed by tomahawks in the hands of Montour and Captain Wilson. Montour had successfully executed the Delaware named Copper, but that had been the occasion when Mamatchtaga had leaped into the river and escaped amid a rain of shots. Since it was Captain Wilson who had been in charge of Mamatchtaga and was supposed to deliver the lethal blow, it seemed possible that Mamatchtaga did not recognize Montour; certainly he showed no indication of it.
The war party decided to spend the night in their camp and Mamatchtaga, without looking at the whites, made an offhand remark to one of his companions: “I intend to have a red-haired scalp by morning.” Having spoken in his own tongue, he did not think either of the whites could understand, but Rousch understood enough to get the gist of what had been said.
“I think,” Rousch murmured to Danagh, “they mean to kill us tomorrow morning.”
“Never did trust that half-breed Montour,” Danagh muttered back. “What d’ya think we should do?”
“We got that jug of rum,” Rousch replied. “I think our only hope is to get ’em drunk and then kill ’em all while they’re asleep tonight.”
Danagh agreed and they brought out the big brown glazed crockery jug and offered it to the leader of the war party. Shingwelah accepted it without thanks and took a large swallow, then handed it to the warrior beside him with a guttural comment. The warrior took a swallow and passed it on. When it had made the rounds and came back to Shingwelah, he extended it toward Rousch.
“No, no,” Rousch said, “you keep. For you to drink. All of it. For you.”
Shingwelah grunted a negative and continued holding the heavy jug out to Rousch until he took it back. The Dutchman looked toward Montour, who shook his head.
“They will drink no more,” he t
old the whites. “Shingwelah told them one swallow only, no more.”
Thwarted in their plan, Danagh and Rousch made another. They built their own campfire a short distance from the Indians and, without telling Montour about it, agreed they would lie down and pretend to go to sleep, but in the midst of the night they would slip away and head for Pittsburgh. This they had done and Montour had no knowledge of it until, just a short time ago, as dawn was breaking, he was roughly awakened by a warrior on each side gripping his wrist and yanking him up to a sitting position. Now Shingwelah, the heavy liquor jug in his hand, confronted him with narrowed eyes.
“You warned the two Shemanese to get away in the darkness,” he accused.
“No,” Montour replied, shaking his head, “I did not. I said nothing to them.”
Shingwelah’s voice became harder. “You and another, one year ago, tried to tomahawk Mamatchtaga at Pittsburgh.”
Montour swallowed. “I did nothing to Mamatchtaga,” he said. “Another man had him. I was told to execute a different Indian. I did so, but I did not try to harm Mamatchtaga.”
The expression on Shingwelah’s face was set in cold, harsh lines. “You killed the Indian who was with Mamatchtaga,” he said. “That man’s name was Copper. He was my brother.”
Montour saw him draw back the heavy jug and knew what was to happen now. There was no hope of escape, so he simply shut his eyes and did not see Shingwelah swing the jug in a powerful arc. The tremendous blow caught him full in the center of his forehead, and the thick crockery smashed into pieces. It also caved in the whole front of his skull and left jagged shards of the crockery sticking in his head.
Andrew Montour was dead.473
[December 31, 1781—Monday]
The year 1781 closed in relative quiet, yet with the sense that things were afoot that would cause significant change and, perhaps, wreak great havoc. The electrifying news of the surrender of Gen. Cornwallis at Yorktown on October 19 seemed to signify that the war of the Revolution was nearing an end and the Americans had won. Even though there had been no official cessation of British-American hostilities and no peace conferences yet called, the feeling was strong that the war was all but over in the east. The situation in the west, however, was not so encouraging.