by Allan Eckert
What happened then was horrifying in the extreme. The four soldiers were at first pushed and shoved about violently, struck with fists and clawed at by the grasping hands of the frenziedly shrieking women. The four began screaming in terror and crying for help, and then one of them was struck a vicious blow in the back of the neck with a tomahawk and killed. He was immediately scalped. In succession the other three were similarly tomahawked and scalped by the shrieking horde of women and boys. Some, bearing the freshly taken scalps, rushed up to Col. Crawford and Dr. Knight and slapped them across the face repeatedly with their bloody trophies. The tormentors continued to slash at the bodies with tomahawks until there seemed no area of those four bodies that was not mutilated.
A short gauntlet line was formed then, the women and children arming themselves with switches and sticks cut from a nearby clump of brush. Col. Crawford and Dr. Knight were led to the head of the line. First the colonel, then the surgeon ran through, both men taking a pelting and suffering a number of painful welts but no severe injury. At a command from Wingenund, the gauntlet lines broke up and the march was resumed.
Now, as they progressed on the trail due north, followed by a number of the villagers who maintained a short distance behind, mistreatment of both surviving Americans by their guards began. They were shoved, struck with fists, sticks and clubs and occasionally kicked as the march continued. In about another mile the trail they were on was intersected by a trail from the east; approaching them on this trail was a small mounted party of Wyandots, half a dozen British Rangers, a few traders and Simon Girty, who was riding his fine gray horse.581
This new group gathered about the chiefs and an animated discussion followed in the native tongue, which neither Crawford nor Knight could follow. Girty was especially urgent in his remarks to Pimoacan as he offered his horse and saddle, his Negro slave, his rifle and all the money he had with him—$1,000—in an effort to purchase Crawford, but Pimoacan shook his head and gruffly refused. Girty’s considerable influence with the Wyandots did not extend to the Delawares.
The newcomers joined the ever growing procession to the northwest, and Girty spoke briefly to Crawford, saying that although he would continue trying to save him, he doubted if anything could be done.
“The Indians are very bitter against you,” he said, “so much that I doubt I could save you if you were my own father.”582 In another mile and a quarter the trail turned just slightly north of due east and they followed it another three-quarters of a mile to the principal village of the Delawares, Pimoacan’s Town.
Crawford and Knight were fearful that there would be another gauntlet to run here but, instead, they were taken directly to a council ring, where a fire was already burning and the majority of Delaware chiefs and subchiefs were on hand, along with many warriors. Two of the most notable on hand were Chief Tarhe—The Crane—and Chief Buckangehela, their villages closest to those of their allies, the Shawnees.583
Within a short time the council was in full session, with Simon Girty acting as interpreter and also making a strong plea for Col. Crawford not to be sentenced to death. A barrage of recriminations was raised against the officer, foremost among which was the accusation that he participated in the massacre of the converted Moravians at Gnadenhütten just a little over three moons previously.
“That’s not true,” Crawford protested. “I was not there and did not participate in that expedition in any way. Col. David Williamson was in charge. I would never have done something like that.”
Girty interpreted and Pimoacan frowned. “Then how is it,” he asked through Girty, “that you have just led an army against the Indians—Delawares and Wyandots alike—with the intention of killing all you encountered, even women and children?”
Crawford had no response for this, but he attempted to veer the matter off course by taking a different tack. “I do not personally hold any enmity against the Indians,” he said sincerely. “Four years ago when everyone was for killing them, I very much favored the Delawares at the salt licks on the river you call Mahoning.”
When Girty interpreted, there were immediate gasps and a loud outbreak of angry accusation and denunciation. When it faded away, Pimoacan summoned his wife, Michikapeche, and she soon appeared before him. As they conversed, she became very agitated, stared at Crawford and nodded. She pointed at him and, as she broke into a tirade, Crawford could see that one of her fingers was missing to the first joint. Gradually her outburst died in its intensity and, when Pimoacan gestured, she left immediately.
“You were with the white chief general called Hand when he destroyed the villages of my people,” he said coldly, addressing the colonel. “And not only on Mahoning, where you killed little boys who were innocently hunting. You also helped to destroy Kuskusskee, where my brother and mother were murdered and where part of my wife’s finger was shot off. Where our women were murdered.”
When Girty finished interpreting, Crawford responded, “If the one with the end of her finger gone is your wife, then ask her about the soldier who was going to tomahawk her and the chief soldier who saved her life. I am the one who saved her. I had nothing to do with the death of your brother, Captain Bull.”
“She would not have been hurt,” Pimoacan replied coldly, “if your soldiers had not gone there. Our women would not have been killed. Our boys. My brother, who was their chief. You have brought death to the Delaware people many times, and now you have tried to do so again, but we were too much for you, and now it is your soldiers who have paid for your foolishness. And now it is you who must pay for it.”
Girty himself had been a part of Gen. Hand’s bungled Squaw Campaign but had wisely hidden the fact from these Indians. Now Crawford, by his own admission, had placed himself there and could not have more surely sealed his own fate. The assemblage clamored for Crawford to be executed and, one by one, Pimoacan called for the views of the chiefs. Not one spoke in his favor and, when they were finished, he passed the final judgment—death at the stake.
In a desperate effort Girty launched a fresh plea for the life of his friend, offering more and more ransom, until the chief silenced him with a slashing motion of his hand.
“We will free him,” Pimoacan told him, “only if you are willing to take his place for the burning.”
The Indian agent shook his head and looked away.
There was a flurry of activity as Pimoacan issued a series of orders and a large segment of the population of the village quickly moved off. The black charcoal paint on the face and upper body of both Dr. Knight and Col. Crawford had thinned and run due to their perspiration, and now they were taken to one of the huts, where fresh paint was applied. Both were given some food, but neither touched it. They simply waited in silence for what was to come. As they waited, Crawford remembered his refusal the night before, in Monakaduto’s Town, to accept Girty’s help in escaping; remembered as well Girty’s warning that he might come to wish he had accepted the offer.
It was beyond midafternoon when the two captives were taken from the hut and marched back three-quarters of a mile along the road by which they had arrived, to the point where the trail turned from the north to the northeast. Now, at that point, they turned to the north again and followed a much narrower path toward the line of trees that grew along the banks of Tymochtee Creek. Within 300 yards they came to the edge of a bluff overlooking the stream bottom 20 feet below. On the level surface of this bluff, a fire was burning in a clearing among white oak trees, and several hundred people had already gathered. Most of those already assembled were warriors, but there were also about 70 women and boys, plus a small number of British Rangers and traders. Even some other longtime captives, some of them adopted into the tribe, were on hand.584
Standing in an isolated area 20 feet or so from the fire was a sturdy young tree that now resembled a post. Though still firmly rooted in the soil, it had been cut off 15 feet above the ground and all its branches stripped away. Less than a foot below where it had been topped, a
rope had been firmly tied and trailed down to the ground, where it ended in a little coil. The two captives were led past it and, a short distance from the fire, they were made to sit on the ground. Here they were verbally abused by the spectators and subjected to a spate of mild blows with fists and sticks until Chief Pimoacan put a stop to it.
Several chiefs in succession spoke to those assembled, but neither Crawford nor Knight had any idea what was being said. Simon Girty, who would have been able to tell them, was at this time seated on the ground quite a distance from them, close to Pimoacan and Wingenund. The talking lasted for upward of an hour, concluding late in the afternoon.
At a motion from Pimoacan, several warriors went directly to Col. Crawford, pulled him to his feet and stripped him. His wrists were bound behind him with a length of rawhide. Then he was led to the tree post by Scotach, son of Monakaduto, and the end of the rope trailing down from the top of the tree post was firmly tied around the short length of rawhide ligature between Crawford’s wrists. When completed, there was enough leeway in the tether for the condemned man to move straight out from the tree a few feet or to circle it two or three times before being forced to more or less unwind in the other direction.
Pale and drawn, Crawford watched as Scotach finished his task, and then his gaze moved across the assemblage, paused for a moment on Pimoacan and Wingenund and then fixed on the Indian agent seated on the ground near them.
“Girty,” he called, shaking his head as if this were all a bad dream, “do they really intend to burn me?”
“Yes,” Girty replied.
“Then,” Crawford responded, straightening in resolve, “I will try to take it all patiently.”
As Scotach continued to stand nearby, the colonel lifted his head and looked skyward. “Lord God Almighty,” he prayed in a soft voice, “have mercy on my soul. Dear God, help me to conquer my fear and bear with strength what is going to be done to me here and now. In God’s name, I ask this.” Crawford remained looking upward and his lips continued moving, but now his voice became inaudible, even to Scotach standing close by.
Pimoacan now took a stance a short distance away and addressed the assemblage in a strong, hard voice, telling them that this was the man who had brought so much grief to the Indians; the man who had been involved in the destruction of the Delaware villages on the Mahoning four years earlier, and who, at that time, at the destruction of Kuskusskee, had been involved in the murder of Pimoacan’s brother, Captain Bull, and their mother, and in the wounding of Pimoacan’s wife, Michikapeche, as well as others; the man held responsible for the massacre only a few months ago of nearly 100 of their Christianized brethren at the Moravian town of Gnadenhütten; the man who had now marched an army of men into the very homeland of the Delawares and Wyandots with the avowed intention of killing all they met and showing mercy to none, not even women and children. This, then, was the man who was condemned to death for these crimes, and that death should begin now.
The assemblage broke into whoops and screams as he finished and, as Scotach withdrew a short distance and sat on the ground, one warrior broke from the crowd and, drawing his knife from his belt as he ran, rushed to Crawford. He jerked the colonel’s head down and swiftly used the blade to slice off both the officer’s ears. Crawford gasped but did not cry out. The warrior stuffed the trophies into his belt pouch and withdrew.
A few moments later a large number of warriors approached Crawford, whose neck and shoulders were brightly stained with his blood. All were armed with flintlock rifles heavily charged with gunpowder only. One after another, as Crawford moaned and vainly tried to jerk out of the way, the muzzles of the weapons were held close to him and the guns fired, the resultant blasts scorching and charring his flesh and sending burning bits of the powder through his skin, where it continued to burn and sting with a fury far worse than any swarm of hornets. A total of about 70 shots were fired until his entire body from neck to knees was peppered and burned with shallow, extremely painful wounds, including even his genitals, from which smoke from the burning gunpowder continued to rise well after they were finished shooting.
Simon Girty appealed to Pimoacan to end this torture and free Crawford and once more offered, in exchange for this favor, his horse, his possessions, his rifle, the $1,000 he carried and $2,000 more he could get. But Pimoacan continued to shake his head and, as the pleas continued, the chief finally became so aggravated that he whirled toward Girty with a savage expression, his words filled with malevolence.
“Silence! You keep begging—say one more word!—and I will make another stake to burn you!”
Girty fell silent and watched as a new torment was begun for Crawford. The Indians, men and women alike, gathered at the fire where slender hickory poles, each a dozen feet in length, had been laid across it and burned through in the middle, leaving six-foot lengths with one end still burning around a white-hot core. These were thrust at Crawford everywhere from neck to feet, sizzling as they poked into skin and flesh and blood. It seemed almost to be a contest among the tormentors to see where they could poke the burning end to cause the utmost pain, again his genitals being a favored target as well as his rectum, his nipples, navel, armpits. He circled in an attempt to get away, stumbling and falling as he went around the tree post as far as he could in one direction and then again in the other, but each time he scrambled back to his feet and moved on. He bore the torture with great fortitude, yet time and again he would moan in agony as a burning pole poked a previously untouched spot, and at length there were no more undamaged spots. His skin, first reddened and blistered, became blackened and curled into little charred crisps, exposing raw red flesh beneath.
Several squaws went to the fire with broad pieces of bark and scooped up quantities of the hot coals. These they carried up close to Crawford and heaved at him. Those that struck his body did little additional damage to him as they simply bounced off and fell to the ground. But on the ground they caused a new torment for him, as he soon was unable to step anywhere within his bounds without putting his bare feet down on glowing embers and hot ashes.
While this was occurring a small group of British traders showed up—men who dealt almost exclusively with the Delawares and who were held in high esteem by Pimoacan, Tarhe, Wingenund and other Delaware chiefs. Girty, the evening Crawford came to see him, had sent messages to these men at their posts at Lower Sandusky and on Mohican Creek, begging them to come and use their influence with the chiefs to save Crawford’s life. Now they had come, as quickly as they had been able, but they saw at a glance that it was too late, and they shook their heads and did nothing to intervene; Col. Crawford was beyond help.
The torture continued past sunset and into the twilight, and at one point Col. Crawford glimpsed Simon Girty sitting close to Pimoacan and Wingenund, his features frozen in grim lines. He called loudly to him then.
“Girty! Girty! For God’s sake, Girty, shoot me through the heart!”
Girty turned his head and saw Pimoacan and Wingenund staring at him, and then he looked back toward the colonel and called out, “I dare not, Crawford. They would burn me as well.”
There was no response from the man being tortured, and it appeared he had not heard the reply. A moment later, unable to witness any more of this, Girty got to his feet and walked off without looking back.585 Staring straight ahead, he paid no attention to the man he passed who was approaching the fire—a white man dressed like an Indian. It was his own brother James, who, after a curious glance after his older brother, continued forward and sat on the ground near where Simon had been seated.
The torture continued, but it was obvious now that Crawford was growing weaker. He tottered and shuffled, all the while still being poked with the burning poles, and finally he called out again.
“Girty, please, shoot me—kill me!”
James Girty looked at him with disgust for a moment and then grinned. “I can’t, Crawford,” he said. “Don’t you see I ain’t got my gun?” Then he turned and
made some comment to the Indians seated behind him, and they all laughed loudly.586
Finally, after some two hours of intense agony, Crawford fell to the ground at the base of the tree post and lay still, only semiconscious. At this, Shabosh—Joseph—who had escaped the Moravian Massacre, leaped up from where he had been sitting as a spectator, rushed to the pole and scalped him. That, as well as the long moan that issued from the colonel’s lips, delighted the spectators, who hooted and howled their approval, a sound that grew in volume when Joseph took the scalp over to Dr. Knight and held it before his eyes.
“This is your great captain!” he said, then slapped Knight repeatedly with it until the surgeon’s own face was stained with the blood.
When Crawford continued lying there, face down in the deepening twilight, an old Cherokee woman who had lived many years with the Delawares picked up one of the broad pieces of bark and scooped up a mound of hot coals from the fire. These she carried to the recumbent colonel and heaped on both his back and his bare skull where his scalp had been. Again a deep prolonged moan rose from Crawford, and he struggled back to his feet and once more began shuffling around the tree post as the prodding with fire poles was resumed.
It was then that Knight’s Shawnee guards forced him to his feet and led him away to Pimoacan’s Town, where they were planning to stay the night at the Delaware chief’s invitation. But as John Knight walked away, the grisly scene behind him remained all too clear in his mind, and he knew he would never entirely be free of that image.
Out of sight behind him, the same woman who had piled coals on the colonel now scooped up another heap of them and, returning to the tree post, scattered them thickly all over the ground to which he was confined. Amazingly, Crawford walked across them, his shuffling forcing some of the coals up onto his toes and arch, others under the soles of his feet, yet he showed no reaction. The prodding and poking with burning poles continued and, at last, just before nightfall, the shuffling stopped and the tortured man teetered in place for a moment, then fell heavily and did not move again, his ordeal ended.