That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  The most immediately important business under discussion was the projected expedition against the Indians in the Sandusky Valley. Even though it had now been clarified that regulars could have no part in such an offensive and that there would be many obstacles to overcome, it was the consensus that a volunteer force could be assembled of a magnitude great enough to insure success in carrying the war to the heart of the Indian country. Then came the task of firming up the details of organization as well as when the expedition would begin and where it would rendezvous.

  The number of volunteers to participate was the first consideration and it was essential that the force be large enough to handle any and all contingencies. A first tentative figure was set at 500 men. Every volunteer was required to provide his own rifle, bedroll, provisions and horse. It was also deemed necessary that the expedition be set into motion as soon as possible and that the line of march and destination be kept secret. The rendezvous was to be held on May 20, and it was assumed that three or four days would be required for all the troops to arrive, cross the river, assemble there and elect their officers for the expedition. Selected as the site for the rendezvous was the east shore of the Ohio directly opposite Mingo Bottom. Once all assembled, the men would cross the river to make their base camp on Mingo Bottom proper. Named after the Mingo village that had existed there prior to 1772, Mingo Bottom was a broad elevated bottomland of some 250 acres. It was situated three-fourths of a mile above the mouth of Indian Cross Creek, 20 miles above Wheeling and 70 miles below Pittsburgh, and was selected not only because it was most centrally located for their designs but because it was one of the easiest crossing places.487 The 20-acre Mingo Island was in the Ohio at this point, and just above the head of it, where crossings were usually made, the river was shallow enough that in especially dry years it could be forded on horseback without the animal ever being forced to swim. In more normal conditions the portion that required swimming was quite limited.488

  So at last the wheels were in motion to end, once and for all, the Indian threat on the upper Ohio River frontier.

  Or so it seemed.

  [April 28, 1782—Sunday]

  Joseph Parkinson felt very lucky. He was certain he was going to succeed where others before him had failed. Thus far all previous efforts to establish a regular Ohio River commerce between Pittsburgh and New Orleans had failed. But Joe Parkinson had the strong feeling that his star was in the ascendancy and that this was only the maiden voyage of the first boat of a fleet that would establish him as the pioneer founder of commercial cargo transport on the Ohio.

  The fact that they had experienced a temporary delay yesterday when they ran aground on a bar was only a minor inconvenience. Now, allowing himself the luxury of just lying still in his bunk for a little while before the others began rousing, he considered their journey so far.

  A ferryman by trade, he had established Parkinson’s Ferry on the Monongahela a few years ago and had done very well with it, but ambition for bigger and better endeavors gripped him. Selling out his ferry business and pooling all his resources, plus those of a few daring investors, he had this large broadhorn built, with a good dry hold for cargo storage and an excellent cabin capable of sleeping a dozen in individual bunks lined with cornhusk mattresses.

  With just about all that remained of his capital, he had purchased a full cargo of flour in sacks, kegs and barrels, hired ten good shooters as guards and crew and set off for the far-distant bayou country. His initial plan had been to make no stops whatever but to maintain a daily 24-hour drift down the main current.

  All had gone well, and yesterday about noon, some 40 miles below Wheeling, they had entered the Long Reach, that 17-mile stretch of river that was practically free of the sinuous bends that marked most of the giant river’s course. They were within a few miles of the foot of that stretch when they noticed a derelict canoe wedged along the Virginia shore. Hardly more than half a mile beyond that, there was a sudden heavy scraping sound and then a jolt as the big broadhorn slid through the skin of mud cloaking a sand bar and wedged itself tightly.489

  Irked at the inconvenience, Parkinson first ordered four men overboard, then four more and finally all ten of his men in an attempt to free the craft. It was all to no avail, and after working at it for a couple of hours, he sent two men back to recover the derelict canoe. He hoped that by putting as much as possible of the cargo into the canoe, he would lighten the load in the larger boat enough that the crew would be able to pry it free.

  The two men soon returned with the canoe, paddling it with pieces of bark located on shore. It took a great deal of work but it finally had the desired effect and the broadhorn floated free. They nudged the big boat very gently back onto the bar to facilitate the reloading of the flour, and by the time that was finished it was growing dark and the men were exhausted. That was when Parkinson broke his 24-hour drifting plan and decided to let the boat remain lightly wedged here for the night and allow the crew a solid night’s rest.

  Now, with the dawn growing brighter, Joe Parkinson swung his legs off the bunk, stretched hugely and said, “All right, boys, the holiday’s over. Let’s get drifting.”

  With low groans and some grumbling, the men came awake and began to stir. After a little while one of them scuffed sleepily toward the doorway and stepped outside. A moment after he disappeared from sight came the sharp crack of a rifle nearby. Another of the guards, close to the door, snatched up his rifle and raced outside. Instantly there was another shot.

  “Men inside!” came a call. “Two of your people are already dead. All will die if you do not come out now and surrender. You will not be killed if you surrender. If you try to fight, you die. No guns! You must come out now or die. Now!”490

  They had no choice and knew it, so Parkinson glumly gave the order and the remaining eight crewmen filed out. Parkinson followed them, his expression set in grim lines as he saw the two dead crewmen on the deck. Indians were already swarming over the gunwales and quickly searching the survivors for weapons. Others raced into the cabin to see if there were more men who had not emerged, and three removed the hatch over the hold and stared into the dimness below. Parkinson counted 15 warriors, but there may have been more out of sight. The tracks on the bar showed that they had crossed to it from shore during the night and had evidently hidden beneath the bow of the broadhorn until daylight.

  Within 20 minutes the dead men had been scalped and their bodies thrown into the river, while the captives were led ashore. Parkinson glanced back just before the trees cut off his view and saw the Indians already beginning to unload the cargo.

  Joe Parkinson no longer felt at all lucky.

  [April 28, 1782—Sunday]

  It had been a long time since Old John Wetzel had gone out hunting with his sons and, when Martin, now 25, remarked that he had seen a lot of game along the Ohio River on the Indian side of the stream during his captivity, plans were made to do some hunting in the bottoms there. Two of Old John’s younger sons, George, 22, and Lewis, 18, decided they would go along, too, as did two of their Wheeling Creek neighbors, Thomas Mills and Hamilton Carr, both 18. The Wetzel dog, a medium-size brown-and-white mongrel, also came along and sat with Old John in the bow. George took the stern. This was an unusual outing for him, as he had never become the skilled woodsman and Indian fighter that his four brothers were. George was of a gentler nature, a good-looking, serious-minded, studious young man.

  Now, having paddled down the Ohio in their canoe close to the right bank, they continued studying the muddy banks and bars and the closer cover for signs of game. It was noon when they came to a good-looking stretch of bottomland with some deer tracks visible near the water. Tom Mills suggested he go ashore and move along slowly on foot through the bottoms, while the Wetzels continued down another mile or so before putting in. By walking toward one another, they might be able to corner some deer between them.

  They let him out and resumed paddling along the Ohio shore but had not paddled
much over a mile when, just as they were nearing a small willow-grown island closer to the Virginia shore, they caught sight of a large broadhorn well ahead that appeared to be wedged on a bar. Men were unloading sacks and kegs and carrying them to shore, and Old John, shading his eyes and staring intently, suddenly hissed a warning.

  “By damn, they’re Injens!”

  The words had barely left his lips when a flurry of shots broke out from the dense undergrowth on the nearby shore. George Wetzel grunted and fell partially forward as a ball struck him in the chest, but then he caught himself and straightened. The Wetzel dog let out a brief yelp and fell dead in the bottom of the canoe.

  “Down, everybody!” George cried. Blood was drooling from the corner of his mouth. “Stay down. I’ll get us over t’that island. Don’t show yourselves. I’m dead anyway.”

  The others dropped and lay down in the bottom of the big canoe as George, gasping with the effort, paddled on an angle away from the Ohio shore and toward the willow-covered island. More shots were coming and, though none struck George a second time, a number punched through the sides of the canoe and had some effect. Martin felt a pain as if a hot iron had been laid against his skin, and he saw that a ball had creased his right shoulder, gouging a shallow two-inch trench. Hamilton Carr cried out as a ball caught him more solidly, entering high in the right arm, breaking the bone and exiting from the back of his shoulder.491

  With commendable effort, considering the seriousness of his chest wound, George managed to paddle the big canoe out of effective range and slip behind the cover provided by the little willow-cloaked isle.492 A few shots were still being fired at random by the Indians, but when Lewis and his father began a return fire, the Indian shots died away. It soon became evident that they were gone.493 A glimpse downstream revealed the big broadhorn floating aimlessly, evidently having been set adrift after the cargo, or at least a good portion of it, had been offloaded and taken away.

  George Wetzel was in bad shape. Frothy red bubbles kept forming at his lips, and his color had gone, leaving him waxen and only semiconscious. It was essential to get him to medical care as soon as possible, and that meant Wheeling. Carr, in considerable pain, needed treatment, too. They had no idea what had happened to Tom Mills, though they hoped he had made his escape up the Ohio shore.494 They started upstream, staying close to the Virginia shore, but for all the effort they put in their strokes, it was to no avail.

  They were still about 20 miles below Wheeling and just passing Captina Island when George Wetzel died. They buried him at the head of the island.495

  [May 6, 1782—Monday]

  As more reports of the Moravian Massacre filtered through the country, each retelling magnified and even more atrocious than the original brutal act, the sense of outrage swelled and caused extraordinary reactions.

  Hundreds of miles to the south, the Cherokees, while never great friends of the Delawares, sympathized with them to the point where a chief named Rattlesnake in the village of Toque gathered 30 of his best warriors and led them toward the Ohio River to aid the northern tribes—the Delawares and Shawnees in particular—against the settlers in the Kan-tuck-kee hunting grounds. They were not the only ones to decide that Kentucky should bear the brunt of retaliation. Well to the north, at Detroit, British Capt. William Caldwell began concerting plans with Girty and the Shawnees for a major assault against those settlements during the forthcoming summer.

  Today, in Richmond, Virginia Gov. Benjamin Harrison was writing his message to the House of Delegates, and he relayed to them a compilation of the news he had thus far received in dispatches from the west. Two weeks ago the first of the reports had arrived, and the ripple of shock that spread in its wake quickly became a large wave of anger that such an act of inhumanity could have occurred. A week ago, having received additional details, many of them unnecessarily exaggerated, Gov. Harrison sent outraged circular letters to the county lieutenants and leading officials on his state’s frontier:

  In Council, April 30th, 1782

  Gentlemen—

  The Executive, having received information by the enclosed papers of the most shocking and cruel murder being committed on some friendly tribes of Indians, are called on by every tie of humanity and justice to use their utmost endeavors to bring to condign punishment all those concerned in it, who live within their jurisdiction, and as there is no certain way of coming at the truth of this massacre but by the assistance of some persons of known honor and integrity who live near the place from whence these murderers went, I most earnestly request the favor of you to make the strictest enquiry into the matter, and when you find guilt that you punish it with all the rigor of the law, and that you give me a particular account of your proceeding and the discoveries you make as soon as possible. Any reasonable expenses you may incur in the prosecution of this business, shall be repaid you. The honor and justice of the country will be so materially wounded if the culprits escape punishment, that I am sure if you had no other inducements to exert yourself but their preservation, you would not leave anything in your power undone to investigate the truth of this cruel affair; but if these were out of the question, your sentiments of humanity and the duties you owe to society and to heaven, would call on you in too powerful a manner to be resisted. If force should appear necessary to you to answer the purposes of your appointment, you’ll please to apply for it to the commanding officers of Hampshire & Monongahela.

  I am, &c.

  Benjamin Harrison

  In addition to reports of the Moravian Massacre, Gov. Harrison had been receiving an abundance of disturbing reports on the sharply increased attacks being made on the settlers in retaliation for that act, along with disturbing intelligence about enemy plans in the making for launching large-scale attacks. In one attack a few weeks ago, a few of Capt. Sam Meason’s Negroes were captured by the Indians. Peter Stalnaker, Henry Baker and Henry Yoho immediately headed for Wheeling to give the alarm. They were ambushed by Indians hiding behind a large rock at The Narrows of Wheeling Creek. Stalnaker shot the Indian closest to him, and both he and his horse were instantly killed in return fire. Yoho’s horse was also shot and fell but scrambled back to its feet and carried him to safety. Henry Baker’s horse took a bullet in the side just behind the foreleg but ran about 100 yards before falling dead and pinning Baker beneath it. Baker extricated himself and tried to flee, but was overtaken and captured.496

  Now, continuing the writing of his message to the House of Delegates, Harrison added:

  General Clark, by his last letter, expects a powerful attack this spring on Kentucky from Detroit; his information comes from Illinois, and he thinks it may be depended on. We have sent him artillery and stores down the Ohio. I hope they will get to them in time, but in this, as in every thing else, we have been greatly obstructed by poverty.

  The inhabitants of Monongahela, Montgomery and Greenbrier are in great distress. Many families have been either killed or carried off. The earliness of the attacks gives them reason to apprehend it is only a prelude to what they have to expect, and that though mischief has been done, it was rather by reconnoitering parties coming before a much more powerful invasion, than intended as any thing serious. A sufficient number of men have been ordered out to protect the country for the present, and more will be sent if there should be occasion. The expense attending these various parties when brought into an aggregate sum amount to something serious, and when the losses of our people are taken into the account, probably to more than would have been sufficient to have set on foot two or three expeditions against the restless savages and have answered the purposes of protecting the country much more effectually. I do not think a just idea of the expense of carrying on such a war can be formed from what has hitherto been done, where parade and ostentatious show seem to have prevailed, all which should be discontinued. Provisions might be laid up in different parts of the frontier this fall which could be procured in commutation for money taxes. When this was done, a sufficient number of mi
litia could be marched to either or all of those posts in a very short time, to make a sudden attack on such nations of Indians as were the most troublesome, which, repeated two or three times, would bring them to reason, or force them to quit their country altogether, and settle at so great a distance from us as to put it out of their power to annoy us much. I give this opinion with diffidence, yet think it worthy of consideration.

  Whatever would eventually occur, this was shaping up to be a most eventful year on the western frontier.

  [May 1, 1782—Wednesday]

  Monakaduto had listened in grim silence as his spies, fresh from the upper Ohio frontier, related their disturbing news. They had discovered that the Americans were organizing a large invasion into the Ohio country by the end of the month, this one aimed directly at the Wyandot and Delaware villages on the upper Sandusky River. The army was expected to be 500 men or more, and their principal target, apparently, was to be Monakaduto’s own large home village, which the Americans called Half King’s Town. Highest up the Sandusky River, it was also the first village the whites would reach if and when they did come.

  Monakaduto wasted no time. Runners were dispatched at once to Detroit, requesting help from the British in terms of food, ammunition, troops and artillery. Others were sent to the chiefs of the Delawares, Shawnees, Miamis, Potawatomies and Chippewas, urging them to send war parties to the upper Sandusky at once to strike the Americans when they arrived.

  Then he gave orders for his large village to be abandoned and two new villages to be established by the inhabitants. Most of the women, children and elderly would be moved farther out of reach and protected by a buffer of other villages inhabited by warriors. That more distant village, to be called Monakaduto’s Town, would be some 15 miles down the left bank of the Sandusky River, on a piece of good high ground just above the mouth of Tymochtee Creek.497 The second village, the New Half King’s Town, where the majority of the warriors would stay until this crisis ended, would be established eight miles below this village being abandoned and seven miles above Monakaduto’s Town. It would be on both sides of the Sandusky River at a fording place adjacent to the long-established British trading post called McCormick’s Store and close to a small settlement of Delawares. Another store was also close by—John Leith’s Trading Post, where British provisions and annuities were doled out to the Indians.498