by Allan Eckert
Encountering a small run, he leaped over it but slipped on the muddy bank on the far side, lost his balance and tumbled into the stream. By the time he came to his feet, the Indians were upon him, and the voice was still calling for him to surrender. He knew he now had little choice but to do precisely that.
“No kill!” he cried, raising his hands. “No kill!”
The Indians took him, immediately relieved him of his tomahawk and hunting knife, and returned with him to the path. The voice really had belonged to Girty, who now stepped forward and shook his hand.
“It’s a good thing I recognized you, Edgington,” Girty said. “Otherwise these boys would’ve kilt you on the spot. You’re lucky they didn’t do it when you ran.”
The leader of the Indians, a well-built young man with a large new scar on his left hand, was eyeing Edgington in a speculative manner, and the frontiersman said to Girty, “Is he planning to kill me?”
“Don’t think so,” Girty said. “You remember that big fight the Poe brothers had last fall?” At Edgington’s nod he went on, “Well, this here is Scotach. He was in that fight, an’ his hand got shot plum’ through. Two of his brothers were kilt. Saw you comin’, an’ soon as I tol’ him I knew you, he said they would catch you and take you back to his daddy, Monakaduto—the one you know of as Half King—to adopt as his son to take the place of one o’them that was kilt. Reckon you’re safe for now. Let’s go.”
They tied his hands behind his back and marched him back toward Holliday’s Cove Fort. When the party arrived, they kept under cover and studied it from a distance. “Don’t you make no sounds now, hear?” Girty said. “You do, an’ Scotach’ll fergit all ’bout adoption and jest take your hair back.”
At the fort, Thomas Williams emerged with a halter in his hand and headed for the lot where his horse was hobbled. A few of Scotach’s warriors slipped through cover, moving closer to where the horse was and, though Edgington yearned to shout a warning to Williams, the Wyandot guarding him with upraised tomahawk made him realize the truth of what Girty had said, and he reluctantly kept still.
Just as Williams neared the horse, a single shot rang out and the settler crumpled to the ground and did not move. The horse neighed sharply and galloped back toward the little stable adjacent to the fort. Shrieking loudly, the Indians burst from cover and ran up to the dead man, cut off his scalp and returned, shaking the blood from it.
“How many men inside, Edgington?” Girty asked. His voice became threatening as he added, “An’ don’t you lie t’try an’ git us kilt. We seen men going in an’ out all day yesterday.”
The men that had been seen, Edgington knew, were just himself and Williams, who had gone out and in at intervals throughout the day for various reasons, with no suspicion they were observed. With only his own family and that of Williams inside, this party could take the place easily, but Girty had opened the door for him to possibly prevent that from happening.
“Nine,” he replied. “Well, eight men and a boy. Reckon they’ll be able to hold you off for a while.”
Girty shook his head and said what Edgington had hoped to hear. “Ain’t worth it to us right now. We ain’t tradin’ lives if we don’t have to.” He turned and spoke to the Indians rapidly in their own tongue, and the one named Scotach nodded.
In moments they were on their way again, heading now, Girty told him, toward Half King’s Town on the Sandusky and, for Edgington, into a very uncertain future.483
[April 2, 1782—Tuesday]
News of the Moravian Massacre, as it was being called, spread rapidly, and the reactions were greatly varied, though in most cases disapproving at best.
The settlers on the upper Ohio, with but few exceptions, tended to support the elimination of the Moravian towns. However, they were uneasy about the wholesale execution of the Christian Indians and feared a swift and massive retaliation in which they, being closest, would suffer most from the wrath of the hostile tribes. Some felt that the best way to thwart this possibility would be to quickly mount a follow-up expedition and similarly destroy the Sandusky towns. It was evident that Gen. Irvine at Fort Pitt was leaning in this direction as well, as was reflected in his letter to Col. David Shepherd, in which he wrote:
You are already acquainted with the resolution of Congress, and orders of the President and Council of Pennsylvania, respecting my command in this quarter; in addition to which, I have received instructions from his Excellency, General Washington. As making arrangements to cover and protect the country is the main object, and as it is to be done by a combination of regulars and militia, the business will be complicated. And, further, as there will be a diversity of interests, I think it of the utmost importance that, whatever plan may be adopted, it should be as generally understood as the nature of the service will admit. You will conceive that I stand in need of the counsels and assistance, on this occasion, of some of the principal people of the country. I wish, therefore, to see you and at least one field officer of every battalion in your county; for which purpose I request you will be pleased to warn such as you may think proper, to attend this post, on Friday, the 5th of April next. Punctual to the day will be necessary, as I have written to Colonel Marshall, and others, in Washington County also, to attend on the same day. Whatever difference local situations may make in sentiments respecting territory, a combination of forces to repel the enemy is clearly, I think, a duty we owe ourselves and our country.
The settlers in Kentucky, despite the prolonged suffering they had endured at the hands of the Indians, particularly the Shawnees, were shocked and dismayed by the barbarism of the Moravian Massacre and fearful in their belief that retaliation, when it came, would be directed at them as much as against the upper Ohio frontier. Yet some among them felt that, with the Indians decidedly off balance, a follow-up expedition should quickly be mounted to again strike at the Shawnee towns.
The settlers more distant from the frontier in both Pennsylvania and Virginia were awed that such a deed had been committed. A few were very outspoken in denouncing the inhumanity of the massacre, but the majority by far felt the Indians “got what they deserved.” Losing no time, they made highly premature plans to rush to the frontier and claim lands, perhaps even in the Ohio country itself, “now that it was safe” to do so.
The leaders in the east were, on the whole, deeply disturbed by the news of the Moravian Massacre and publicly denounced it, while privately pleased that at last it was the Indians who had been on the receiving end. For the most part, however, they had greater and more immediate concerns: The peace negotiations with the British in Paris were bogging down, political problems were besieging the new states and the problems of establishing an effective federal government were complex and vexing. Gen. Irvine, in the east at the time, was immediately ordered by Washington to return to his command at Fort Pitt and investigate. Appalled at the ghastliness of the deed and at the confusion and recrimination that was weakening Fort Pitt’s garrison, Irvine privately felt that the perpetrators ought to be hanged. He expressed these views in a letter to his wife and then, fearful of what might occur should those views become known, he added:
Whatever your private opinion of these matters may be, I conjure you by all the ties of affection, and as you value my reputation, that you keep your mind to yourself …
The Moravian Indians still at the Captives’ Town on the Sandusky were devastated by news of the massacre. Word of it had first been brought by the party of Wyandots and Delawares who had stopped by the Moravian towns just before the attack, then lingered in the area long enough to see Williamson’s force begin the destruction. The extent of the killings was not at first known, however, until Shabosh arrived with a few more details, and then the boy named Thomas, his scalp gone, came with his more detailed and horrifying account of the full extent of the massacre. Every one of these surviving Moravians had lost kin or friends.
The Moravian missionaries, headed by John Heckewelder and David Zeisberger, were overwhelmed w
ith guilt, realizing that in a way it was their own spying activities for the Americans that had started the chain of events that ultimately brought this terrible conclusion. They felt, with certain justification, that they had failed their flock of converts and were deserving of the cruel treatment they had been receiving from Simon Girty and others. The missionaries and their families had been taken to Lower Sandusky to be transported to Detroit for trial on espionage charges and, while awaiting that transportation, had been severely mistreated by Girty and even threatened with death. They had finally gotten away from him through the humanity of a Frenchman named Francis Levallie, who refused to treat them as brutally as Girty had ordered and instead escorted them safely to Detroit.484 In Detroit the missionaries underwent grueling questioning and a trial and, while everyone suspected them of being spies for the Americans, no proof was presented. They were exonerated and returned to their despondent flock, whom they moved to a slightly better area near the mouth of the Auglaize River where it empties into the Maumee.485
The British in Detroit were appalled by the Moravian Massacre, yet were not laggardly in putting it to their advantage, using it to light even hotter fires of unrest among the tribes and promote increased raids on the frontier from Fort Pitt to Kentucky.
The hostile Indians—in particular the Delawares, kin to the Moravians despite their persuasion—were infuriated beyond expression. They considered the Moravian Massacre to be a wanton outrage of the blackest nature, clearly depicting the real character of the Shemanese. Yet at just this bleak moment, word was circulating among the Indians that the British were pulling back, curtailing their support of the Indians because of peace negotiations going on with the Americans across the big water. On hearing this, Pimoacan—Captain Pipe, chief of the Delawares—angrily confronted the Detroit commander, Maj. Arent de Peyster. Holding in his hand a short stick, to the end of which was tied a human scalp, he spoke in a steely manner, his eyes never wavering from those of the commandant.
“Father! Some time ago you put a war-hatchet in my hands, saying, ‘Take this weapon and try it upon the heads of my enemies, the Long Knives, and let me know afterward if it was sharp and good.’ Father, at the time when you gave me this weapon, I had neither cause nor inclination to go to war against a people who had done me no injury; yet, in obedience to you, who say you are my father and call me your child, I received the hatchet, well knowing that if I did not obey, you would withhold from me the necessaries of life, without which I could not subsist, and which are not elsewhere to be procured but at the house of my father.
“Father! Many lives have already been lost on your account. Nations have suffered and been weakened. Children have lost parents, brothers have lost brothers and relatives have lost relatives. Wives have lost husbands. It is not known how many more may perish before your war will be at an end. Father! You say you love your children, the Indians. This you have often told them; and, indeed, it is for your interest to say so to them that you may have them at your service. But, Father, who of us can believe that you can love a people of a different color from your own, better than those who have a white skin like yourselves?
“Father!” Pimoacan’s eyes narrowed and his voice became harder. “Pay attention to what I am going to say! While you are setting me on your enemy, much in the same manner as a hunter sets his dog on the game, while I am in the act of rushing on that enemy of yours with the bloody destructive weapon you gave me, I may happen to look back to the place from whence you started me, and what shall I see? Perhaps I shall see my father shaking hands with the Long Knives; yes, with those very people whom he now calls his enemies. I may then see him laugh at my folly for having obeyed his orders, and yet I am now risking my life at his command.
“Now, Father,” he went on, after pausing to hand the scalp-stick to de Peyster, “this is what has been done with the hatchet you gave me. I have done with the hatchet what you ordered me to do, and have found it sharp. Nevertheless, I did not do all that I might have done. No, I did not; my heart failed within me. I felt compassion for your enemy. Innocence had no part in your quarrels, therefore I distinguished—I spared; I took some live flesh, which, while I was bringing them to you, I spied one of your large canoes, on which I put them for you. In a few days you will receive them and will find that the skin is the same color as your own. Father, I hope you will not destroy what I have saved.”
Some of the fire in Pimoacan’s voice faded and was replaced by a more beseeching note as he concluded: “You, Father, have the means of preserving what, with me, would perish for want. The warrior is poor and his cabin is always empty, but your house, Father, is always full.”
It was clear now that, in view of what the Williamson expedition had done, the total annihilation of these detested enemies had become paramount in the minds of the Delawares, Wyandots and other tribes. No one could deny that they had the determination, courage and fighting ability for the task. All they lacked were horses, firearms, gunpowder, cannons, food, supplies and manpower.
And now, at last, the British at Detroit committed themselves to providing their Indian allies what they lacked.
[April 5, 1782—Friday]
Gen. William Irvine was in something of a quandary. It was clear that the settlers of the upper Ohio were strongly in favor of forming a more powerful expedition to march against the Sandusky villages, and the general thought this a splendid idea. At the same time they expected the regulars at Fort Pitt to participate in the campaign and this was something he would not be able to permit without specific orders from the War Department.
Three days ago he had received a letter from the Washington County lieutenant, Col. James Marshall, that distilled the feelings of the upper Ohio River settlers to a single sentence:
This is most certain, that unless an expedition be carried against the principal Indian towns early this summer, this country must unavoidably suffer.
Part of what made Marshall so definite in his conclusion was the extremely important intelligence that had just been obtained in respect to the plans of the British and Indians. That intelligence was brought by a man long since believed to be dead—John Slover.
Slover knew the northwestern Indians very well, especially the Shawnees, Miamis and Wyandots. In 1761, when only eight years old, he had been captured by a party of Miami Indians on the bank of Montour’s Run, within a stone’s throw of his parents’ cabin. Taken by them to their principal village of Kekionga at the head of the Maumee River, he lived among them for six years, at which time he had been traded to the Shawnees and lived with that tribe for another six years.
In 1773, at age 20, Slover had gone to Pittsburgh with a party of the Shawnees and, while there, was recognized by white relatives and convinced to return home with them. He did so, but reluctantly, because by then he had become much attached to the Indian way of life. Serving off and on as a guide to the military at Fort Pitt and Fort McIntosh, he gradually became accustomed to living with the whites again and became popular among them.
Then, on August 6, 1780, Slover was again captured by Indians, this time by Wyandots, while he was hunting snapping turtles. Ironically, his second capture was again on Montour’s Run. His neighbors thought he had probably been killed, but that was not the case. He had been taken to Half King’s Town, where he successfully ran the gauntlet and later was adopted into an Indian family. A quick study, he learned their language rapidly and could soon converse fluently with them. Thanks to this ability he was able to listen with great interest to their councils and, in so doing, learned their plans in respect to the settlers on the upper Ohio. He acquired a great many minor bits of information, but the most important thing was that the Indians had, in their war councils, determined upon two expeditions with British assistance—one to go against the Kentucky settlements; the other a major assault against Wheeling.
Today, the meeting called for by Gen. Irvine with the various county lieutenants and principal field officers of those counties was brought to o
rder. Col. David Shepherd, accompanied by one-armed Maj. Samuel McCulloch, represented Ohio County, Virginia.486 In turn, each of the officers from the different posts reported on their manpower, defenses, supplies and preparedness, as well as the projected number of militia and volunteers that could be raised. It was a huge disappointment to these officers when Gen. Irvine informed them that, while he would aid them in any way possible in the defense of their forts, settlements and people, these counties could not expect much, if any, material assistance from the government for an offensive measure against the Indians and that they would have to depend upon the valor and skill of their own county residents. Any plan of offensive nature, however, would nonetheless be under his control and military direction.
Though the Pennsylvania county lieutenants had received instructions from their state’s executive, none had been received by the lieutenants of Monongalia and Ohio counties from the executive of Virginia, so it was agreed among the officers present that those counties would act on a voluntary basis until such authority was obtained.
The regulars presently stationed at both Fort Pitt and Fort McIntosh, Gen. Irvine told them, must remain at their posts, making it the full responsibility of the militia to regularly patrol, as they had been doing, the entire frontier from Pittsburgh downstream 90 miles to Wheeling. New and extended patrol schedules were laid out, and among the assignments made were those that appointed Thomas Younkins and Martin Wetzel as spies for Beeler’s Station and Wheeling respectively. Their duties involved scouting through the woods and along the Ohio River shoreline in the vicinity of these forts, ever watchful for sign of Indian incursions. If and when such sign was discovered, they were to follow to its source and ascertain, if at all possible, the strength of the Indian force and where it might be heading next to make an attack.