by Allan Eckert
Col. William Crawford was dead.587
At a gesture and some words from Wingenund, two warriors came forward and cut the bonds away. Then they grasped him by the ankles and dragged him to the fire, which had just been replenished with numerous sticks, branches and logs. Two other warriors came to help, and they pitched the body into the hottest part of the blaze. At this, a prolonged wild cheering erupted from the crowd.588 The Indians then piled fresh firewood over the body until it was completely covered. Within minutes the fire had become a roaring conflagration. A dance began around the blaze, the dancers and spectators alike raising their voices in the repetitive, hypnotic chant of the scalp song that lasted far into the night:
“Aw-oh … Aw-oh … Aw-oh … Aw-oh …”
[June 12, 1782—Wednesday]
Shortly after dawn Dr. Knight, who had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, was awakened by his Shawnee captors and told by one who could speak some English that he was to march with them today for the Shawnee capital, Wapatomica. The Shawnee who spoke to him was a husky man of about 30 named Tutelu, whose very expression told Knight that when they arrived there he would have to run the gauntlet and, if he survived that, soon after he would be burned at the stake.589
Before setting out, the Shawnees went to Pimoacan to thank him for his hospitality, but then the Delaware chief told them that their strength was still needed; other parties of Delawares, Shawnees and Wyandots were still ranging to the south and east as far as the Ohio River as they attempted to overtake and kill or capture whatever members of Crawford’s army were still eluding them.590 The Shawnees agreed to help. It was decided, however, to send the captive on without delay. Since Dr. Knight gave every appearance of being a weak man—neither a big man nor one who gave the least indication of being able to fight, much less attempt to escape—it was decided that Tutelu should be the one to take him back to Wapatomica.
Knight’s hands were bound behind his back, and soon Tutelu was nudging the captive ahead of him along the trail. The warrior, however, unable to resist the opportunity, first took Knight back to the site of last night’s prolonged execution. Forcing the captive to look at the ashes and pointing at the small residue of charred flesh and bone, Tutelu spoke in an ominous voice.
“That your captain,” he said. “Big captain no more.” He laughed and added, “Soon that be you.”
[June 13, 1782—Thursday]
It was in the forenoon today, 19 days since leaving Mingo Bottom, that the residue of Crawford’s army arrived back at that initial rendezvous point under Col. David Williamson. They were overjoyed to find that a number of men, thought to have been lost, had arrived there the day before.
Carrying their most seriously wounded in horse litters and many of the men afoot, Williamson’s force was a haggard, fear-ridden group who had been harried practically every step of the way by Indians in pursuit. The retreat had been very slow, and on some days they had not put more than ten miles behind them. The knowledge was always foremost in their minds that any who lagged behind would almost certainly be killed and scalped or captured and then tortured to death. This was emphasized when, hardly half a mile before reaching the river, two of the men in the rear guard had been shot at by Indians and one of them slightly grazed across the back of his hand by a ball. Worse yet, among those who were suddenly missing was Pvt. Thomas Mills, whose big gray gelding that had served him so well on this campaign had gone lame. He had paused to rest the animal and see what he could do for it, promising he would follow shortly and overtake them. He hadn’t, and now he was feared dead or captured.
A strong body of sentries was ordered on patrol by Williamson as soon as the army stopped here on the banks of the Ohio. At the same time, the wounded were made as comfortable as possible, and as their wounds were carefully bathed with water from the river and clothing torn into strips to make fresh bandaging, Maj. John Rose swiftly wrote in his report to Gen. Irvine:
Those volunteers who marched from here under the command of Col. William Crawford, are this moment returned and re-crossing the Ohio with Col. Williamson.… Several of them are in a dangerous condition, and want immediate assistance of which they have been deprived since the loss of Dr. Knight.… I am sorry to observe they did not meet with that success which so spirited an enterprise, and the heroic bravery of the great part deserved.591
His concern over the absence of Dr. Knight to treat the wounded was eased somewhat, however, when a boat that put out from the Virginia shore arrived on the Ohio side and Dr. John Donathy stepped out. Word had already swept through the frontier about the disastrous defeat of Crawford’s army, and when it reached Dr. Donathy, he had immediately taken his medical supplies downriver and waited on the Virginia side opposite Mingo Bottom for the return of the army.
Now, having crossed the river, his first concern was those in most desperate need of attention. Capt. Ezekiel Rose was one of them. Despite his pessimism about surviving his serious chest wound, he was still alive and convinced, during his lucid moments, that it was his recitation of The Lord’s Prayer without an error that had pulled him through. A new trauma was in store for him now, however. The wound was dirty, clotted with old blood and gummy with debris that had stuck to it. With the evidence suggesting that more debris had been carried into the flesh, it was necessary to cleanse it at once to prevent infection.
Dr. Donathy called for a ramrod, and one was brought to him at once. From his kit he removed a fresh yard-square silk cloth and put the end of the ramrod to the middle of it, draping the remainder down its length. Then, with two men propping Capt. Rose up in a sitting position, he pushed the cloth into the bullet hole in the chest. Capt. Rose gasped but endured the new pain. The doctor pushed on the rod gently, gradually increasing pressure. Little by little the cloth-draped rod passed through the chest cavity until it began protruding from the hole in Rose’s back. Gripping that end of the cloth firmly, Donathy now ordered a militiaman to carefully withdraw the ramrod. Again an extended gasp wheezed from Rose’s mouth as the instrument was removed.
Gently, then, Dr. Donathy began pulling the fabric through. Rose groaned loudly, but the sound quickly died away. The first part of the cloth emerged dark with old clotted blood and some debris, but as more of it emerged, it became soaked with the bright red of new blood, which was precisely what the physician wanted. By the time the cloth was fully pulled through the hole, the wound was reasonably cleansed of foreign matter, and there was much less likelihood of complications. With compresses pressed against the wounds front and back, the doctor snugly wrapped the torso in bandaging. Then he squeezed the man’s arm and grinned.
“You did very good, Captain Rose.”
Rose did not reply. He had passed out from the pain.
The physician then moved on to treat others of the wounded, including Maj. James Brinton, Capts. James Munn, Joseph Bean and George Brown, Ens. James Collins, and Pvts. John Orr, John Walker and Joe Edgington. He assured all of them that they would survive their injuries.592 There were some, however, he knew could not possibly recover.
Among the most seriously wounded was Pvt. John McDonald, who was in extreme pain from his broken thigh. When Pvt. Angus McCoy fetched Dr. Donathy to his side, the physician shook his head almost immediately upon seeing the wound, realizing at once that nothing could be done. The bullet had shattered his thigh bone very high, and the damage was massive. Worse yet, he had now developed gangrene and amputation was impossible.
Dr. Donathy shook his head again, murmured a few words of comfort and then moved on to tend others. Angus McCoy took McDonald’s hand and squeezed it.
“Can you hear me, John? … John?”
“I … hear.”
“Listen to me. I promise you, John, I’m going to get you home, and you’re going to be alive when we get there. I swear it!”593
As soon as all the wounded were attended as best as was possible and the men and horses had rested somewhat, Col. Williamson called in the sentinels in preparation for t
he crossing of the Ohio River.594 Within minutes the entire remainder of the defeated army was fording the great river.
The Crawford Campaign was over.595
Chapter 7
[June 14, 1782—Friday morning]
Now began the lying and the maneuvering for position in an uncertain future. Capt. John Hardin, having returned earlier with his men in an escape unheralded by any Indian attacks, let it be known in his official letter to Col. William Davies of the Virginia Board of War that it was through his own great skill as an officer and strategist that his company had survived the campaign. Subtly, very subtly, he planted the seed for himself to command any future undertaking against the tribes, writing in part:
… There seems to be a great spirit in general amongst the people for another campaign, which I am in hopes will have the desired effect.
Col. David Williamson, too, began feathering his own nest by claiming victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. In his report of the campaign, undertaken today, he made it clear that Crawford had disappeared and that he, Williamson, had assumed command of the army, bringing it to safety. As he wrote to the commander of the Western Department:
I take this opportunity to make you acquainted with our retreat from Sandusky Plains, June 6th. We were reduced to the necessity of making a forced march through the enemy’s lines in the night, much in disorder; but the main body marched round the Shawanese camp, and were lucky enough to escape their fire. They marched the whole night, and the next morning were reinforced by some companies, of which I can not give a particular account, as they were so irregular and so confused.…
I must acknowledge myself ever obliged to Major Rose for his assistance, both in the field of action and in the camp. His character in our camp is estimable.…
During the twenty days of the campaign, each one, with a single exception, was a day of marching. Two battles were fought in the meantime and two victories won. The extrication of the army from the toils woven around it by a foe so much superior in numbers may be considered remarkable.
[June 14, 1782—Friday noon]
Lewis Wetzel had not been in favor of this present project from the beginning, and that feeling had grown in him throughout this entire morning. In all the years he had traveled these trails, he had never seen Indian sign so prevalent as it was now. He keenly regretted letting himself be swayed into taking on this fool’s errand, and he regretted even more that he had decided to let the boy, Joshua Davis, come along with Tom Mills and himself.
It had all begun late last night, when Davis and Mills had shown up at his cabin and the latter had launched into his story. Though Wetzel had heard hearsay regarding the failure of Col. Crawford’s Sandusky Campaign, he had talked to no one yet who had actually survived it, and so—mentally congratulating himself on having had sense enough not to have participated in it—he listened carefully as Mills briefly went over the details of the march, the battle near the Sandusky Towns, the panic that had swept through the army as the retreat began and the follow-up battle on the upper Olentangy.
Mills referred frequently to his big gray gelding, belonging to his father, that had served him so well in the campaign and that he had taken such pains to care for. When they were some 35 miles from the Ohio, he said, the gelding began going lame. He had checked the hoof on the leg being favored but could see nothing wrong with it. Nevertheless he was beginning to lag back from the main army, and apprehension had risen in him that both he and his horse would be taken. He had left the trail and stopped, well hidden in a glen to one side, to rest the horse for half an hour and then remount and catch up.
During that interval a party of some 60 Indians trailing the army passed by, and Thomas Mills had stood fearfully, his hand cupped over the gelding’s nose so he would not snort and give away their presence. They hadn’t been seen, and after the Indians passed, there was no further thought in Mills’s mind about overtaking the army.596
He remounted and found the horse was no longer limping, and so he headed southwest and soon found a trail he had heard about heading southeast—the Wheeling Road, some of the border scouts had laughingly called it—that eventually hit the Ohio River opposite Wheeling. He followed that trail at a fast pace, faster than he should have, he admitted, in view of the gelding’s recent lameness. Some 18 miles from Wheeling, approaching well-known Indian Springs, the jaded horse began limping again badly and simply gave out.597
Mills then made the decision that had ultimately brought him to see Lewis Wetzel. He unsaddled the gelding and turned him loose to graze and wander, tying a small bell to the animal’s neck to aid in recovering him. Then, hiding the saddle and gear he could not carry, he set out the remaining distance on foot, arriving at the Ohio at sunset and swimming across to Wheeling.
There he had rested at the Davis cabin, lamenting the loss of his father’s horse and expressing his determination to go back and recover him. Fifteen-year-old Joshua Davis had volunteered to go along, and it was decided they needed someone more experienced than themselves in woods lore and Indian fighting to lead them. Lewis Wetzel was the natural choice, so, taking their rifles along, they went to his cabin at once.
Wetzel had at first rejected the idea, saying it was crazy, with all the Indians skulking about, to go into their territory to search for a horse, but Mills was insistent and gave Lewis a French crown as preliminary payment and the promise of three more when they returned, whether they had the gelding with them or not, and Wetzel gave in and agreed. He was dubious about Joshua Davis going with them, but Davis, a strongly built young man, was insistent, claiming he meant to join Brady’s Rangers in a few years and needed the experience.
“Okay, you’re in,” Wetzel had said, grinning. Then he added to Mills, quite seriously, “Josh’ll make a scout yet. He’s got mettle.”
Davis had long harbored a hero worship for Wetzel, so the praise pleased him more than any compliment he had ever before received, and he seemed to swell with pride.
This morning, then, they had left at first light, and Wetzel gave them one last chance to quit. “This is a dangerous thing we’re settin’ out on,” he warned. “Iffen you boys don’t back out now and call this off, be prepared to fight, ’cause chances are you’re gonna have to.”
They had elected to go on, and Wetzel had finally shrugged and led the way, crossing the Ohio by canoe at the point of Wheeling Island and striking up the so-called Wheeling Road trail as it moved westward along the ridge south of Indian Wheeling Creek. Depending on his companions to keep up—which they did, though with difficulty—Wetzel had moved rapidly but also listened carefully and studied the ground closely as they traveled.
Throughout the morning they progressed, and now, late in the forenoon, as the day was growing hot, they were approaching the spot where Thomas Mills had abandoned his horse. They came to Indian Springs, and young Mills was elated when Wetzel pointed out a fresh hoofprint, hardly an hour old, with a distinct V-cut apparent.
“That’s him!” he chortled. “We oughta hear the bell pretty quick.”
They followed at a swifter pace, and within about two miles more they heard the tinkle of the bell in the woods just off the trail ahead. At the same moment, Wetzel grunted in alarm as he encountered fresh Indian moccasin tracks atop those of the horse, obviously made only minutes before. Homing in on the sound of the bell, Mills abruptly broke into a run past Wetzel, ignoring his hissed warning to stop.
Instants later, a burst of gunfire came from ahead. Mills screamed, dropped his rifle and collapsed, holding his left leg, the femur broken by a heavy lead ball.598 Wetzel himself felt searing pain as a ball creased his hip. Ahead of them some 50 yards, a dozen Delawares under a tall, lean warrior named Long Pine burst from cover and rushed toward them.599
Wetzel threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired, killing a Delaware running close to Long Pine. Behind him, Davis fired but no Indians fell. Mills had by now recovered his own rifle, and Wetzel yelled at him to shoot at them, his words garbled b
ecause of the extra lead balls he made a habit of carrying in his mouth, but Mills seemed paralyzed with fear and made no attempt to shoot.
“Go!” Wetzel shouted at Davis, standing ten yards behind, and instantly the boy, empty rifle still in hand, turned and fled. Wetzel, close at his heels, was already spilling gunpowder from his horn into the rifle barrel as he ran.600 He glanced behind and saw the Indians reach Mills and instantly fell him with a tomahawk blow to the head. Four of the Delawares, including Long Pine, dropped their empty guns and continued to run, taking up the pursuit of Wetzel and Davis, confident the guns of the two fleeing whites were empty.
Wetzel, easily as swift a runner as Davis, lagged behind as he reloaded, letting Davis increase his lead and the Indians close the gap. When they got within a dozen yards, the Delawares screeching in anticipated triumph, Wetzel whirled and sent a ball through the chest of one, dropping him, then immediately rushed on, reloading.
The Indians paused momentarily at their companion, saw he was dead and shrieked in anguish and anger. Deciding the two guns that the whites had initially shot included the gun of the white they had tomahawked, they were now certain the enemy guns were empty and resumed pursuit with even greater vigor, rapidly closing the gap again between themselves and Wetzel.
With the powder and ball loaded, Wetzel turned the gun around, muzzle pointing back, to pour a charge in the pan. The Indians closed faster than he anticipated and he had no sooner finished than the rifle was nearly torn from his grasp by one of his pursuers, who overtook him with a burst of speed. They wrestled briefly for control of the gun, and with the two remaining Indians almost upon them, Wetzel jerked the gun toward himself so that the warrior’s arms holding the barrel were stretched out in front, and in that instant Wetzel cocked the gun and pulled the trigger.