by Allan Eckert
Now, having arrived at the town, they were greeted by a large number of Wyandots, including many women and children, who streamed out of their dwellings with loud cries, cheers and whoopings. With hardly a pause in the main part of the village, on the east side of the river, they crossed at the fording place to the west side and continued westward, passing McCormick’s Trading Post, where a number of other warriors emerged, along with half a dozen or more British Rangers.
With Heady’s captors leading the way, the entire group moved gradually west a short distance to where, close to the John Leith Trading Post, they formed a double gauntlet line some 200 yards in length. At the far southern edge of the line, Heady was stripped of all clothing and his face and body smeared with black paint—the mark of the condemned man. He was made to understand he was to run to the painted post at the north end of the line, adjacent to Leith’s store. If he made it there, his life would supposedly be spared. Blackened as he was for death, however, Heady didn’t believe that for a moment. Despite the tomahawk wound on his thigh, now somewhat inflamed and causing him to limp a little, he thought he could reach the far northern end of the gauntlet, and he resolved that if he got close enough, he would burst through the line and dart into the store, hoping to find refuge there. If nothing else, he might at least be able to snatch up a weapon and die fighting.
Most of the women and children who took their places in the line were wielding switches and larger sticks with which to strike the captive as he passed. Younger boys readied themselves with tomahawks and small bows and arrows with sharpened but not barbed points. Some of the men also had clubs, and a few had tomahawks, but the majority were armed with rifles heavily charged with gunpowder but not lead. There was little delay in starting Heady on his way. One of the warriors cried “Go!” and, at the same moment, he was whacked savagely across the small of his back with a club; the blow caused him to stagger, though he managed not to fall. At once he began running as strongly through the double line as he could. A roar of shrieks and screams rose all the way down the length of the gauntlet, and participants positioned themselves to strike most effectively.
The rules of the gauntlet run, such as they were, required that no one could strike or shoot at him as he approached and thereby check his forward progress, but they were free to inflict whatever injury they could to his sides and back as he passed. The result was that a multitude of blows rained upon him as he ran past the screaming Wyandots, and soon the skin of his back and buttocks, arms and legs, was badly bruised and lacerated, and a number of arrows were stuck shallowly in his flesh. Worse yet was the intense stinging and burning pain inflicted upon him by powder burns, as warriors thrust their guns within inches of him and fired as he passed.
Despite the injuries, Heady’s constitution was such that he was holding up well as he approached the northern end of the line and the nearest point to Leith’s Trading Post. Abruptly he turned and smashed into the line, bowling over several people, and continued running right into the store.
John Leith was inside and Heady ran up to him and stopped, unable at first to talk as he gasped for breath but looking at the trader imploringly.575 Tempted though he was to thrust a weapon into the young man’s hands so he could defend himself, Leith did not do so, knowing it would place his own life in jeopardy. An instant later an Indian who had pursued him from the gauntlet line appeared in the doorway and threw his tomahawk. It struck Heady in the right side of his back, causing him to leap into the air with a cry of pain. He spun around and, with the weapon still embedded in his back, raced toward the door and bowled over the approaching Indian. The instant he plunged through the open doorway, however, he was struck by another tomahawk. The blade smashed into his brain and killed him.
As John Leith watched in horror, the shrieking Indians scalped Thomas Heady and then severed his head and stuck it on the end of a sharpened pole a dozen feet in length. They planted the butt end of the pole in the ground close to where he fell and left the body lying near the doorway to the trading post. As the excitement diminished, Leith approached a small group of the Wyandot leaders and asked permission to take down the head and bury it, along with the body, away from his store some distance. At first they refused to let him do so.
“Your people,” one of the chiefs told him, “do not bury our dead, and we will not bury yours.”
Leith was not so easily dissuaded, knowing that if he did not press the issue, the head and body might well remain where they were until they rotted. He shook his head angrily and resorted to the only form of pressure he could exert. “If you don’t let me bury those remains, I promise you I will move my trading post from here to Chief Pipe’s Village on the Tymochtee.”
The village of Pipe—Pimoacan’s Town—was about five miles to the west, and if Leith reestablished himself there, it would cause a considerable inconvenience for the Wyandots here at the New Half King’s Town. So, with poor grace, they gave in and told Leith he could do with the body as he wished. After a short while, when the Indians dispersed and returned to the village, Leith took down the head and returned it to the body. He washed the blood off both, wrapped them together in a clean blanket and buried them. A short time later some of the warriors returned and, seeing what he had done, took several sharpened stakes and drove them deeply into the fresh grave and through the buried body as a final act of triumph.
The villagers were still keyed up over it all when, hardly a quarter-hour later, a party of Delawares arrived with the American commander, Col. William Crawford, in tow. Another stir of excitement rippled through Half King’s Town. The Delawares were on their way to Pimoacan’s Village with Crawford but stopped by here to show him off and to see if Simon Girty would consent to seeing him, assuming that such a meeting would be all right with Monakaduto.
Permission was granted by Monakaduto himself, who led Crawford and his two guards to his own house where Girty was temporarily lodging. Despite the fact that it was now nearing midday, Girty was still asleep, having drunk himself into a stupor the preceding night. Monakaduto roused Girty and then let the captive and the British agent talk privately.
“Heard you was took, Colonel,” Girty said, regarding him through bloodshot eyes. “I get no pleasure seeing you here. Guess you know you’ve got yourself into bad trouble.”
“I know that, Girty,” Crawford replied. “That’s why I asked to see you. I was hoping you’d somehow be able to help get me out of this. I’ll see that you’re well rewarded.”576
Girty shook his head. “I ain’t got much hope of that. Trouble is, it’s the Delawares got you, not Wyandots. Them Delawares are plenty damn mad over what happened at Gnadenhütten.”
“I had no part in that,” Crawford protested. “That was Dave Williamson’s work.”
“Figgered as much. But you led this one, an’ they’ll just figger you done both. Reckon you boys didn’t come here for no friendly visit, so they ain’t gonna be no kind feelin’ toward you.”
“The point is, can you get me off? You can tell them I’ll divulge military information in exchange for my freedom, but for nothing less. Can you ransom me?”
Girty shrugged. “Dunno. Doubt it. But I got me some friends aroun’ an’ I’ll talk to ’em an’ see what mebbe we can do. You wait here and I’ll do some checkin’ an’ see. Might take a few hours.”
Then he was gone. Crawford settled back to wait, still apprehensive but also with more optimism than previously, knowing the influence Girty carried with many of the Indians. Crawford’s optimism was not at this moment being experienced by his namesake nephew, his son-in-law and one of the expedition’s guides. Those three, Ens. William Crawford, Pvt. William Harrison and Guide John Slover, were at this very instant approaching the Shawnee capital village of Wapatomica, some 40 miles to the southwest.
As these men were led into the town, they passed the still smoldering remains of a fire and the body of a man who had been tortured to death at the stake. As they came closer, they recognized the fresh
ly burned remains of Maj. John McClelland. Grateful to leave the scene behind, they moved on to the center of town, where they were surrounded by a noisy swarm of Shawnees. Slover was well known here, of course, having been a Shawnee prisoner for six years, and many of the Indians called to him and made remarks, most of which were not complimentary. Surprisingly, however, several approached and shook his hand and seemed delighted when he addressed them by name.
A group of warriors were on hand from the village of Mackachack, some six and a half miles southwest of here, down the Mad River. After some discussion between them and the others, the leader of the Mackachack Shawnees pointed at Ens. William Crawford, who was immediately turned over to them and led off toward their village to be burned at the stake.577
More discussions were begun and dragged on and on, and gradually verbal disputes broke out among them. After two hours or more, they seemed no closer to agreement than when they began. The conflict seemed to arise from what they should do with John Slover. Ordinarily, an escaped captive who was recaptured was condemned to death as a matter of course. Slover, however, had been well liked during his tenure here, and there were those in the crowd who apparently thought his life should be spared. At last, after two hours of squabbling, it was decided that a formal council would have to be held where all who wished to have their say in the matter could be heard, a vote taken and the matter resolved. A young woman with whom Slover had been more than friendly, Pahcotai Sisqui—Autumn Leaf—requested and was given the responsibility of keeping him—and preventing his escape — until the council was held in three or four days.
Where Pvt. William Harrison was concerned, however, there was no debate. As Slover was now taken off to one side, the private was stripped of all clothing and taken out 100 yards or more from the village. A double gauntlet line quickly formed, extending all the way from where Harrison was positioned to the huge msi-kah-mi-qui, or council house. If he managed to make it through the gauntlet and into the structure, he would be safe, at least for a while.
Harrison was started down the gauntlet by a savage blow with a club across his buttocks. It lifted him off his feet and knocked him flat, and he was struck numerous times more with switches and clubs before he was able to regain his feet and commence running. Once started, however, he amazed everyone with his fleetness and ability to dodge the blows aimed at him.
As he approached the council house, still relatively unharmed, one of the Indian women ran up with a panful of hot coals, stepped directly in his path and threw them full in his face. Many struck him and bounced away, doing little harm, but one hit his open eye and he screamed with the pain. At the same time, using the momentum he had built up, he leaped and kicked her in the stomach with such force that it killed her. Immediately pummeled by the weapons of those nearby, he tried to break free and get to the council house, now only mere yards away. It was not to be. The husband of the woman he had killed rushed up brandishing a rifle and put a bullet through Harrison’s head.
Harrison was scalped and his body dumped beside the burned remains of Maj. McClelland. Then both were beheaded, their bodies dragged outside the town for the dogs to feed on and their heads impaled on tall poles, which were then stuck in the ground in the center of the village near the council house.
Back at Half King’s Town in the late afternoon, Col. William Crawford, awaiting the return of Simon Girty, had begun to think that his former companion would not return at all. As the hours passed, he had become progressively more depressed. Now, with sunset approaching, his depression became overwhelming as Simon Girty finally returned to him, his expression grim. What the British Indian agent had to say did nothing to elevate Crawford’s spirits.
“I have tried with all those I know who might have helped,” he told the colonel. “All but a few refused even to listen. They don’t have much fondness for Americans. Most said you deserve whatever may be in store for you, which most hoped was death. Those few who might have helped can do nothing to get you released.”
Crawford said nothing, but he shook his head slightly. Girty continued: “You will be staying in this village tonight, and in the morning the Delawares will take you to Pimoacan’s Village, which will almost surely be the beginning of the end for you. There is only one possible hope left. Escape. Tonight will be your only opportunity, and I strongly urge you to take it. Only one Indian will be guarding you tonight, and he is almost certain to go to sleep, at which time you can slip away. I have told you where my camp is. Come there, and you will find my horse already saddled and ready for you. My Negro will also be waiting to go with you, and he will guide you on the road toward Detroit, as far as he can go and still get back to my camp by morning. At Detroit you can give yourself up at the garrison and you will be taken into custody, but at least you will be safe with the British officers there. This, my friend, is all I can do for you. You can easily get away, if you will. If not, tomorrow they will kill you.”
Crawford continued shaking his head and replied in a voice so soft it was barely audible, “I am too weak and tired to try that.”
“You may come to wish you had, my friend,” Girty murmured sadly. “Don’t give up hope yet. I will still be tryin’ t’save you somehow.”578
A short while later Crawford’s Delaware guards led him away to the hut that had been provided for them for the night. The colonel went with them meekly, as if sleepwalking in the midst of a worsening nightmare.
[June 11, 1782—Tuesday]
It was sunrise when Col. Crawford was roused by his two Delaware guards. He had slept little during the night, dozing fitfully and occasionally moaning as if in pain. He refused to accept any of the food the guards offered him and when they left the New Half King’s Town for the abandoned town, just over eight miles distant up the Sandusky River trail, his movements were so lethargic at first that they had to prod him along with growing impatience.
As they passed the island of trees that had been the battleground, he barely took note of it and simply plodded on. Not until they reached the springs where the army had stopped to rest and drink before heading north into battle did he seem to come out of his torpor somewhat. He drank deeply at the springs and even wondered if Dr. Knight would still be at the abandoned Half King’s Town when they arrived. When they moved on, continuing south, he vaguely noted that they passed several bodies beside the road. He took them to be volunteers, but he could not recognize any, since their heads were missing.
John Knight was, in fact, at the old town when they arrived, as were four of the nine soldiers who had arrived there with him. He and those four had been stripped to the waist, and their faces and chests had been painted black shortly after their arrival at the town. Crawford knew what that meant.
To Dr. Knight’s query about whether he had received any encouraging news from Girty, Crawford shrugged. “Girty has promised to do all in his power for me but is doubtful he can succeed. The Indians are very much inflamed against us.”
Pathetically glad to see their commander again, the men crowded about him, asking for any news that might be encouraging. The other five soldiers who had arrived with them, Dr. Knight told him, including the good-natured Pvt. John McKinley, had been similarly painted, but they had been taken away shortly before dark.
Within minutes of his arrival, Col. Crawford was similarly painted on his face and chest. Then the two Delaware chiefs, Wingenund and Pimoacan, approached him. In an oddly cordial manner they greeted him and shook his hand. Then all 19 of the Delawares herded the six prisoners before them northward on the trail by which Crawford had just arrived.
As they neared the spring area again, the five bodies were still sprawled along the road where Crawford had vaguely noted them earlier. Now a number of Indian boys moved among them, occasionally pausing to plunge knives or tomahawks into the carcasses. Two of the boys were kicking a round object in the road and, as the prisoners passed close by, the youngsters paused and stared at them malevolently. The object they were kicking turned out
to be a severed head that had been scalped. Disfigured and battered though it was, the captives recognized it as the popular Pvt. John McKinley, and the horrifying realization dawned on them that these bodies being abused were those of the five volunteers that had been taken away from the old town the evening before.
The procession, augmented by several other warriors who had joined them along the way, paused briefly at the springs again to drink, then continued northward on the trail leading back to the island of trees where the battle had been fought. In less than a mile and a half, however, they turned left on a smaller trail that angled to the northwest, just south of the extensive cranberry bog.579
At this point they were joined by a substantial party of Shawnees led by their war chief, Shemeneto. The two Indian parties paused while Pimoacan, Wingenund and Shemeneto talked animatedly for a time, gesturing occasionally toward the captives. When their conversation was concluded, Pimoacan spoke a few words to his men, and at once two of the Shawnee warriors came to the prisoners and separated Dr. Knight from the others, taking him into the midst of their group. It was obvious that the regimental surgeon was now their captive. The combined groups immediately resumed the journey toward the northwest.
Within four miles they came to a small Delaware village where there were perhaps a dozen warriors and easily four times that many women and children, the latter mainly boys.580 They paused here briefly as the villagers clustered around Pimoacan and Wingenund, chattering excitedly, and the word Gnadenhütten was frequently voiced. After a few minutes Pimoacan issued an order and the warriors escorting Col. Crawford and the four privates took those latter four and turned them over to the villagers.