That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  It was just after sunset this same day that Thomas McQueen and the lieutenant and Frenchman accompanying him stopped in their flight, this time planning to get a full night’s rest, as much for their horses as for themselves. Since the beginning of the wild retreat, when they had become separated from the main army, they had moved along at a steady pace day and night, pausing only four times, for an hour each time, to give their jaded horses a much-needed rest. Now, only a short distance from the old Fort Laurens area—as McQueen put it, “within spittin’ distance of home”—they hobbled their horses in a meadow clearing in the woods and stretched out nearby.

  Having had nothing to eat these past two days except a handful of parched corn apiece, they were ravenous. The Frenchman suggested they hunt some game, but McQueen said he thought it would not be a good idea, as a gunshot might be heard by Indians. A few minutes later, however, the lieutenant, turning his head as he lay supine in the grass, saw a raccoon climbing about in the upper branches of a tree.

  “By God,” he exclaimed, “there’s dinner!”

  He snatched up his rifle and, over McQueen’s protests, ran over to the tree and brought down the raccoon with a single shot through the head. He carried it back to the other men, grinning broadly, told McQueen to gather up some firewood and started to skin the dead animal. McQueen reluctantly got to his feet, and the lieutenant had no more than inserted his knife blade under the raccoon’s skin when a party of ten Wyandots emerged from the trees with their guns trained on the three volunteers. They had no choice but to surrender.568

  As nightfall approached, the eight Chippewa captors of Pvts. Michael Walters and Christopher Coffman stopped at their temporary camp a few miles to the east of Wingenund’s Town. Now, however, instead of having just the two captives, they had three.

  After the Indians had ambushed them and Joshua Collins managed to escape, the Chippewas had started with their captives back to their own little camp a mile or so from where Walters and Coffman had been captured.

  Shortly after the Chippewas began marching the two prisoners toward their camp, they came across a wounded volunteer sitting on the edge of the trail—Pvt. James Guffee. He had taken a bullet through his shoulder during the retreat but had not been knocked out of the saddle, and he managed to get this far through the prairie before he collapsed, weak and exhausted, and fell to the ground. When he finally came back to awareness, his horse was nowhere in sight. He had walked until he had come across this trail, where he had sat down to rest and where the Chippewa party found him. Knowing he was not strong enough to flee from the approaching Chippewas, he simply drew his hunting knife from its sheath, threw it in the trail and made no resistance to being taken captive.

  Michael Walters gave Pvt. Guffee some jerky to eat, and within minutes it seemed to have a decidedly recuperative effect upon him. This was perhaps in part inspired by Walters whispering to him that if he was unable to walk along with them as a captive, he would be tomahawked. In a few minutes they were on their way again. It was deep twilight before they finally arrived at the camp of the Chippewas in a secluded glen within a small grove of trees. The instant they stopped, Pvt. James Guffee slumped to the ground. He did not look at all well, and both Walters and Coffman noticed that his shirt was showing fresh blood from his shoulder wound.

  “I hope,” Walters murmured to his companion, “the rest he’ll get tonight will help him.”

  Christopher Coffman nodded, but he seriously doubted it.

  [June 8, 1782—Saturday]

  In the early morning light the residue of the main army of the Americans, on orders relayed from Col. Williamson, began its movement. The travel yesterday had been without major incident, though throughout the day the Indians, following at a safe distance, occasionally rode up close enough to fire random shots at the troops. Only one man had been hit, and that was a mere graze of the flesh on his forearm.

  They were a dispirited group this morning, however, riding horses so weary from the exertions of the preceding day that most could do nothing more than maintain a slow walk. The commander knew that if the Indians hit them again today, there would be no possibility of putting the horses into a gallop to get away. Fortunately, they saw no sign of Indians this morning, but although they seemed to have withdrawn, Col. Williamson harbored no illusions that his army was out of danger.

  As the army moved off from the little open grove where they had spent the night, the half-scalped Pvt. John Hays lingered behind. Yesterday, riding in the litter, he had become increasingly more uncomfortable and had announced, when they stopped to camp last night, that he was feeling well enough to ride by himself. Glad to have one less wounded to care for, Angus McCoy had provided him with a horse belonging to one of the men killed in the battle on the upper Olentangy. Hays, not having eaten anything during the past two days, was now ravenously hungry and was in the midst of baking some stick-bread over a campfire when the order was given to start the day’s march.

  “You go on, Angus,” Hays told Pvt. McCoy. “I’ll follow in a few minutes, soon as this bread is cooked.”

  McCoy nodded and, aided by several other men, got the wounded reloaded in their horse litters and set off with the main body of troops. None of the wounded had died during the night, but several were in extremely bad shape and all were in great pain.

  Squatting beside the small cookfire, Hays finished making his bread, stuffed two warm pieces of it into his pouch and kept one in his hand to munch upon as he rode. He mounted his horse without further delay and set off to overtake the others, who were now about ten minutes ahead of him. Hardly a minute after he started out, eating his bread as he rode, he passed near a cluster of brush and small trees. He did not even hear the approach of the whizzing arrow that buried itself in his back. He stiffened sharply and began leaning toward one side when a rifle cracked. The ball struck a handsbreadth from where the arrow was lodged, ripping through his heart. He was dead when he hit the ground, and a few moments later the remaining portion of his scalp was taken, along with his gun, his horse and his pouch containing the remaining still-warm stick-bread.

  Miles to the north and west, the party of Chippewas, with their three captives, roused and prepared to continue their march. Both Christopher Coffman and Michael Walters were in good shape, but the wounded private the party had found yesterday, James Guffee, was not. He had considerable difficulty getting to his feet and, in fact, had to be helped by Walters.

  The Chippewa warriors, squatting by their own little fire a few yards away, muttered among themselves and seemed to be paying little attention to the captives. After a few minutes, however, three of them came to their feet and strode to the captives. Without a word or sign of warning, one of them jerked his tomahawk from his belt and buried it in the back of Pvt. Guffee’s head, killing him. The other five warriors at the campfire murmured in approval and came to the scene.

  As Walters and Coffman stared aghast, the warriors scalped the downed man and then ripped open his shirt, plunged a knife into his chest and cut out his heart. From one to another they passed the bloody organ, each in turn lifting it to his mouth and biting out a chunk of the muscle, which they chewed and swallowed. It was not an uncommon practice among the Chippewa to do this—a ceremonial act that they believed imbued them with the strength and courage of the enemy they had slain—but to Pvts. Walters and Coffman, it was the most horrifying sight they had ever witnessed. A short time later, as the Chippewas broke camp and set off westward along the trail toward Wingenund’s Town with their two remaining captives, both were silently wondering which of them might be next in line for similar treatment.569

  After a mile or so, a fine white-tailed deer flushed from cover and bounded away in front of them, untouched by the several bullets shot by the Chippewas. To Michael Walters’s amazement, one of the warriors approached and handed him his own rifle, which had been taken from him the day before. It was empty of powder and lead but, through a mixture of signs and scattered English words, the I
ndians gave him to understand that he was hereafter expected to help them hunt game for provisions. When another deer, or perhaps a buffalo, was sighted, hopefully in time for them to plan some hunting strategy, they would load his gun and he would have one shot with which to help bring down the quarry.

  There was a second reason the gun was restored to Walters, though this one the Chippewas kept to themselves: Prisoners were less obvious if they were carrying rifles, and the Chippewas, knowing they would be passing through Wingenund’s Town soon, feared their prisoners would be taken from them or killed.

  Less than an hour later, they came to Wingenund’s Town, where the Delawares welcomed the Chippewa war party with restrained cordiality. The residents looked at the two white men appraisingly. They paid little attention to Michael Walters, assuming, as the Chippewas had hoped they would, that since he had a rifle, he was an ally of the Chippewas and helping to guard a single prisoner. They gave much closer study to Christopher Coffman, and a minor argument arose between them and the Chippewas. The Delawares evidently wanted to form a gauntlet line for Coffman to run through, but the Chippewas refused to go along with the idea, making it clear that they were saving him in good health to run gauntlets at their own villages, which was their right as the captors. The Delawares reluctantly gave up on their idea and the Chippewas, relieved, stayed only a little while to exchange news and relate battle experiences with Wingenund’s people.

  While there, Walters and Coffman were shocked to see, being held in a little compound under heavy guard, their army’s commander, Col. William Crawford, along with Dr. John Knight and nine other soldiers, including a couple from their own company. Walters wished he could talk to his colonel, but he was not close enough, and before an opportunity could present itself, five Delawares arrived triumphantly with scalps, and the Chippewas, motioning to Walters and Coffman to come along, left the village abruptly, lest their captives be stolen from them by the excited Delawares. They headed in the direction of Monakaduto’s Town, on the Sandusky near the mouth of Tymochtee Creek.

  Some 80 miles east of the Sandusky battleground, John Slover was still leading the little group of men with whom he had linked up on the Oak Creek Trail. Having pushed farther south than the rest of the army, they had followed a well-used trail for many miles until it came to the headwaters of a southeastward-flowing stream that seemed familiar to Slover. After following it for a few miles, he finally realized it was the Walhonding and that they were on the trail that led directly to where the great village of Goschachgunk had once stood, at the point where the Walhonding and Tuscarawas meet to form the Muskingum River. Not wanting to raise their hopes too soon, Slover kept the knowledge to himself until they were much farther downstream.

  When his companions—William Nemins, James Paull, Thomas Heady and Col. Crawford’s nephew, William Crawford, and son-in-law, William Harrison—realized that they were now only seven or eight miles from that confluence, they were jubilant and congratulated Slover and themselves on getting this far. Escape seemed firmly in their grasp at this point. Their exultation, however, just as Slover had feared, was premature.

  The six men had not gone another mile when, wholly unexpectedly, a party of Indians—a dozen Shawnees and four Wyandots—leaped into the trail before and behind them with weapons leveled. Harrison, Heady and Crawford froze in place, but Slover, Paull and Nemins plunged off toward the underbrush. William Nemins was shot dead before he got there. Slover was pursued a few yards by three Shawnees who overtook him and pounced, bringing him to the ground. James Paull, more fortunate than the others, got into the heavy cover and, through fast running and adroit maneuvering, eluded his pursuers and got away.570

  Back on the trail, several of the Shawnees had disarmed and were holding young Crawford and William Harrison. The four Wyandots had similarly taken Thomas Heady who, though by far the largest and most muscular of the party, had suffered a shallow tomahawk gash across his thigh and so had made no attempt to flee, submitting without struggle.571 John Slover, still rolling about on the ground with the three Shawnees who had caught him, abruptly cried out to them in the Shawnee tongue as they pinned him, hoping to confuse them enough that he might be able to break away. His impromptu plan backfired.

  The Shawnees immediately recognized Slover as their former captive and chortled in glee. Swiftly tying his wrists behind him, they took him back onto the trail. Another of their number had scalped the dead Nemins and joined them with his trophy and the private’s gun and knife.

  The Wyandots held a brief exchange with their Shawnee allies and, on completion of the discussion, led Pvt. Thomas Heady to where their horses were hidden to take him back to the Sandusky. The dozen Shawnees conversed more after the Wyandots were gone and then took the captives to their horses. At once they mounted and began driving the three toward the west.

  “God Almighty, John,” Harrison gasped, “where are they taking us?”

  Slover, with sinking heart, did not respond. He had understood most of what he could catch of their conversation, and he was aware that they were taking them directly to the Shawnee capital village of Wapatomica on the upper Mad River. He also knew only too well what their fate would be when they got there: death at the stake.

  [June 9, 1782—Sunday]

  The Chippewa war party with Michael Walters and Christopher Coffman in tow reached the Sandusky River in the late afternoon today, crossed to the west side at a fording place and moved downstream from there on the main trail. The earlier fears of the captives that they were eventually to be executed had been diminished by their stop at Wingenund’s Town, and by the Ottawas refusal to let the two men run the gauntlet there because they wanted the captives in good shape to run the gauntlet when they reached the Chippewa Towns. That, Walters reasoned, had been only a ploy to get them away from the Delawares quickly. Since then, during this day’s journey toward Monakaduto’s Town, he had been able to gather that the Chippewas planned to take them to Detroit and turn them over to the British for the ransom they would receive.

  Having crossed the Sandusky River, it was only a matter of a few more miles downstream to the mouth of Tymochtee Creek and the Wyandot village. Before sunset they arrived there, and the residents of Monakaduto’s Town greeted the Chippewas with greater warmth than had the Delawares. Nevertheless, they too were disappointed when the Chippewas would not permit their captives to run the gauntlet. The Wyandots fed their guests, including the captives, and they exchanged news and experiences of the recent battle into the evening.

  Coffman and Walters were more than surprised to see, among the prisoners on hand here, their earlier companion, Joshua Collins. As with Col. Crawford in Wingenund’s Town, however, they did not get close enough to speak to Collins and ask how he had come to be captured after making his escape from the Chippewa party. The bruises and swellings on his head and upper body were clear evidence he had been forced to run a gauntlet upon arriving here. They were glad to see that he had survived it.572

  While the Chippewas were being entertained, Coffman and Walters, tied to a post nearby, were approached by several British Rangers who stared at them with such loathing that Walters was sure they would have killed them had they thought they could get away with it. Despite this, Coffman asked the men if they would help them escape.

  “Help you escape?” said one of them incredulously. He spat on the ground at their feet. “You two ought to be hanged for fighting against King George.”

  Even though the Chippewas were being treated cordially, they remained apprehensive that their hosts might try to confiscate the two captives and, at last, with the twilight deepening, the Chippewas returned to Walters and Coffman and led them northward out of the town to an isolated hut that had been offered them for the night. Here, with the two whites tied back to back, they settled down to await the morning, leaving one of their number on guard should the Wyandots come during the darkness to steal their prisoners.573

  [June 10, 1782—Monday]

  Earl
y this morning, Col. William Crawford, Dr. John Knight and the nine other American prisoners being held at Wingenund’s Town for the past three days were led away from the village, heading westward, guarded by a strong party of 17 Delaware warriors. The captives were greatly dejected, having just been told they were being taken to Pimoacan’s Town on Tymochtee Creek. They would be marched first to the old Half King’s Town, where they would spend the night, and tomorrow they would complete the journey.

  The procession soon passed the place where Crawford and Knight had been captured and not long afterward began following the trail by which the army had made its initial approach to the old Half King’s Village. When that trail moved toward the southwest, however, the party continued straight west on another, smaller trail that was a more direct route than the one following the left bank of the Sandusky River.

  Now, as they continued traveling, Crawford learned that his companion of many years ago, Simon Girty, was presently staying at Monakaduto’s house in the New Half King’s Town, not far from where the battle was fought. Seeing a possible ray of hope there for getting himself out of this present predicament, Crawford managed to convince his captors to take him there to talk with Girty instead of with the others to the old Half King’s Town.

  When they came to where the trail split, 15 of the warriors led all the prisoners, except for Crawford, to the left fork, heading west and slightly south toward the old village, still about another seven miles distant. The other two warriors directed Crawford to follow the northwest fork and said they would reach Monakaduto’s new town in about an hour.574

  Almost at this very moment, someone else was entering that New Half King’s Town who was not at all happy to be there—Pvt. Thomas Heady, under guard of the small party of Wyandot warriors who had been involved in his capture. The muscular young volunteer was in fairly good shape, considering he had been forced to run along with the horses much of the distance from where he had been captured toward this principal town. Only when his wounded leg began bothering him more and he became so exhausted that he slowed them considerably had he been permitted to ride double with one of the warriors for the remainder of the journey.