by Allan Eckert
He encountered another erosion cut, only four or five feet deep, and he entered it and raced along its course in a bent-over position for some 600 yards before coming to a stop and cautiously peering over the rim. Far behind he saw the two emerge from the trees and then stop, looking about in apparent confusion. No dogs were with them and, after a few minutes, obviously exasperated, they turned around and headed back.
It was still a long way back to the settlements for a man naked and unarmed, but he knew the wilderness well, and was quite confident he would survive and make it home eventually. John Slover had won.606
[June 23, 1782—Sunday]
Michael Myers, having successfully escaped the Indians and arrived back at the settlements, considered the present state of unrest in the border country to be a blessing in disguise. Yesterday, not much more than a week after returning from the campaign, he and his brother, George, decided that with the Indians still busy chasing down stragglers of the campaign and gloating in their villages over their victory, this would be an ideal time to claim some land across the river in the Ohio country. It wasn’t.
[July 5, 1782—Friday]
An electric tension gripped Pittsburgh today, its nucleus at Fort Pitt in the form of the man carried into the installation just before noon. He had arrived by boat from Fort McIntosh under the protection of a squad of soldiers, and his identity—and bits and pieces of his story—was quickly known to everyone.
He was Dr. John Knight.
Early yesterday, so the news was passed, he had been discovered in the woods by a party of hunters west of the Ohio River above Wheeling and below Indian Cross Creek. His clothing—or what was left of it—was in tatters, his shoes gone, his feet badly cut and bruised, his chest laced with a latticework of deep scratches from brambles through which he had fought his way, his skin a multitude of insect bites, his general condition deplorable. In a state of near starvation, emaciated and utterly exhausted both physically and mentally, he was barely coherent when found. It took him some while to comprehend that the men who had found him were settlers and that, after three weeks of walking through the wilderness following his escape, beset by the demons of his imagination, he had finally reached safety. When the full realization came to him at last, he collapsed and wept.
He was taken to Fort McIntosh and there was bathed, fed and given clothing, and in little bursts of conversation his story unfolded. He had been captured after the Battle of Sandusky. Sentenced to death at the stake, he was being taken to the Shawnee capital of Wapatomica when he managed to escape from his warrior guard. The guard’s flintlock, which he had managed to take, had proven worthless, and he had finally thrown it away. Without a gun to bring down game, without a tomahawk or even a knife, he was able to find precious little to eat; a few green gooseberries here and there, a few unrolled fern fronds, the tender tops of nettles, some green May apples, a terrapin he caught in a creek and broke open on a rock and devoured raw. He had caught a newt and several crawfish when he turned over rocks in the edge of a stream; those he had eaten raw as well. His big meal during those three weeks was when he found the nest of a catbird with three hatchlings in it. He had taken them all, but, at the frantic behavior of the mother bird, he had put one back, which seemed to satisfy her, and he had eaten the other two, again raw.
All these elements of the Knight story were fascinating and evoked wonder and sympathy and praise. What overshadowed everything else by far, however, creating a great depth of sorrow and fever of passionate anger, was his relation of the gruesome, prolonged death of Col. William Crawford; all on the frontier knew him, all respected him and most were genuinely fond of him.
One who heard fragments of Knight’s tale through hearsay was a lawyer relatively new to Pittsburgh, having arrived here only the year before. A Scot by birth, he had immigrated to North America in 1753 and lived in Philadelphia for a time, working as a schoolteacher. At intervals he wrote plays that never gained much recognition, satires that fell flat and essays that were essentially either pointless or displayed an unmitigated hatred for Indians. Though he had never met any Indians personally, he considered them loathsome creatures and seemed incapable of writing about them without abundant use of the word savage. Not having gained his expected renown in any of these fields, he finally became a magazine publisher, guaranteeing that at least some of his writings would be seen by eyes other than his own.
His background, according to an ungenerous few in his circle of acquaintances, was an apt foundation for his next career step—studying law in Maryland. It was shortly after becoming a lawyer that he came to Pittsburgh, a town that in recent years had become a very litigious place, due to the many land disputes being filed. It was a place, perhaps, where a smart—or crafty—lawyer might make his fortune. He had not yet made that fortune in the year since coming here, but he had more deeply established a virulent dislike for Indians generally, for the British who used them against the Americans and, most pertinently, for the renegade Simon Girty, who had long lived in the Pittsburgh area; the man who had turned his back on his own people and gone over to the British and Indians.
Now, as he heard the stories going the rounds and saw the reaction of the border people to what they conceived as the heroism of Dr. Knight and the anger and depression caused by the news of the execution of their beloved Col. Crawford, he quickly realized that there was probably no better way to become more noted here and elsewhere than by becoming actively involved in the matter. He meant to show the Indians in the worst possible manner, highlighting their savagery and ignoring anything that might mitigate what they had done—such as the unspeakable massacre of the Moravian Indians, for which they sought vengeance—or anything that might display honestly, if not sympathetically, their motives for opposing the encroachment of the whites. And as a focal point toward which the reader might direct his rage, he meant to ignore anything showing Simon Girty as possessing any degree of compassion—such as the multitude of times he had saved captives from death and befriended them in many ways, or the manner in which he had tried to assist Crawford during that ordeal, even to the point of putting his own life in jeopardy on the colonel’s behalf. He was determined to portray Simon Girty, deliberately and with calculated maliciousness, as the most despicable and detestable renegade who ever existed on the American frontier.
It was with this idea in mind that the lawyer acted swiftly to present to the American people the story of Dr. Knight and Col. Crawford … and Simon Girty. He now presented himself at the bedside of Dr. John Knight, armed with paper and pens and ink, and introduced himself with a disarming smile.
“Doctor Knight,” he said, “I am a writer and publisher, and I would like to have you dictate to me, so I can prepare it for publication under your name, your narrative of the fullest possible details of the ordeal suffered by you and Colonel Crawford. My name, incidentally, is Hugh Henry Brackenridge.”607
[July 22, 1782—Monday]
As a result of the disastrous Sandusky Campaign, 34-year-old Col. Ebenezer Zane, now commanding Fort Henry in Wheeling, had become very apprehensive about the safety of Wheeling in general and his own family in particular.608
The sharp increase in attacks by the Indians since the campaign, along with the sighting of several Indians moving about stealthily across the Ohio, had convinced him that the Indians, perhaps the British as well, were preparing to make another major strike against Wheeling, similar to the one they had made five years ago, and he felt it imperative to be as prepared as possible for that eventuality. If such an attack did occur, it could well wipe them out, as the settlement was now very weak. Gen. Irvine had recalled all the regulars from Fort Henry, and only a small handful of militia remained under Zane’s command to defend this largest settlement beyond Pittsburgh.
Fortunately, they still had the old French swivel that Lt. Matthew Neely had left behind when he was recently reassigned from his command here at Fort Henry. But what was so distressing at the moment was the great lack
of gunpowder. Soon after the return of the defeated Crawford army, Col. Zane had sent a requisition to Gen. Irvine at Fort Pitt to replenish his stock, and Irvine returned a dispatch directing him to draw the quantity he desired from the supply that had just been forwarded to Col. Marshall opposite Mingo Bottom. Zane had immediately gone there for it, only to find that the gunpowder Marshall had received was already spoken for.
Now Col. Zane sat down at his small desk and wrote to Gen. Irvine once again in swift, sure strokes:
Wheeling, July 22, 1782
Sir: I applied to Colonel Marshall for powder to furnish this garrison of that you have sent to Mingo bottom. He tells me it is already issued to the militia, which lays us under the necessity of applying once more to you for 30–40 pounds. Any powder you may now furnish for the use of this garrison I will undertake to account for and replace if not burnt at the enemy.
Five militia are all the strength we have at present, excepting the inhabitants of the place. A few Indians have been viewing our garrison yesterday and have returned on their backtrack, in consequence of which, we may shortly expect an attack. If any aid can be afforded, it will be very acceptable; if it cannot, we mean to support the place or perish in the attempt.
I am, with due respect, your obedient, humble servant,
Ebenezer Zane
William Irvine, Brigadier General, Commanding Western Department,
Fort Pitt.
[July 30, 1782—Tuesday]
Tom Mills, Sr., father of the young man who had been killed by the Indians just 16 days ago, was having a difficult time shaking off the depression that had settled over him then. While his son’s determination to recover the big gray gelding that belonged to his father was understandable and something the senior Mills admitted he would probably have done too, it had not been worth sacrificing his life. But Thomas Mills, Jr., like his father, had been a bullheaded young man who often acted on impulse and ignored the possible consequences. As a result, he had paid the price. Now the elder Tom Mills, having lost his son, his horse and his fine saddle, remained plagued by a depression that wouldn’t let go.
Realizing that he needed to do something to get his mind off the tragedy, Mills turned to his favorite pastime, fishing. An inveterate angler, he fished the Ohio River and its tributaries with great frequency, usually did very well and often sold his catch of bass, pike, muskellunge and catfish to other residents of the Wheeling area. Lately he had been pitting himself against a huge catfish that on three occasions had thwarted him over the past few months.
Mills had first become aware of the big yellow catfish—a shovelhead, he called it—last April, when he paddled his canoe into the mouth of Glen’s Run, four miles above Wheeling on the Ohio side of the river. The water was clear, and he had baited his hook with a walnut-size hunk of rancid deer liver and flipped it with his cane fishing pole into the water beside a large submerged log just a short distance up from the stream’s mouth.609 He had watched, amazed, as what seemed to be a section of the log disengaged itself from the shadows and swam to the bait. Though Mills had caught many shovelheads up to 30 pounds and two that had tipped the scale in Wheeling at 40 pounds, this fish appeared to be at least twice that large. Nonchalantly, the catfish had opened its mouth and virtually inhaled the bait.
Tom Mills had jerked on his pole to set the hook and momentarily felt the awesome power of the fish before the pole shattered at midpoint. Then the strong line had broken close to the hook. A week or so later Mills had gone back with a sturdier line and pole, and virtually the same scenario was repeated. About a month ago, while his son was off on the Sandusky Campaign, he had tried again, this time relinquishing the use of a pole and tying the line to his canoe, but he lost the fish again when, after being hooked, it thrashed and fought so hard against the weight of the boat that the hook straightened and jerked free.
So now, just after dawn on this beautifully clear day, Tom Mills was heading for Glen’s Run again, this time confident that, with changed tactics, he was going to get the fish that had become something of a personal challenge. Instead of hook, line and pole, he was armed this time with a gig he had fashioned from a three-tined pitchfork, the tines straightened and strong sharp barbs forged at their tips.
The whole Wheeling community knew by now of Mills’s contest with the big fish, and while all were hoping he would be successful this time, a few were concerned about his setting out on the river when so many Indians were still hovering about. Tom Mills, a big, self-confident man, was not overly concerned, but he did agree to take a couple of young men along with him, though more to help in getting the big catfish than as defenders. The mouth of Glen’s Run was off the beaten path, and he doubted that Indians would trouble him there. The two young men, both 18, were Henry Smith and Hamilton Carr, the latter still not fully recovered from the broken right arm he had suffered when shot by Indians on the hunt with the Wetzels at the end of April, when George Wetzel had been killed. All three had their flintlocks with them.610
Arriving just after sunrise at the mouth of Glen’s Run, Mills outlined his strategy to his two companions. While Carr, in the stern, poled the broad oversize canoe quietly toward the spot where the big catfish lurked in water five feet deep, Mills would stand in the bow, arm cocked to thrust the gig as soon as they were near enough to their quarry. Smith, close behind him, would hold the rope attached to the butt end of the spear, to contain the fish if the gig were jerked out of Mills’s grasp. Even if that didn’t happen, it would take the combined efforts of the two to haul the huge fish into the boat.
The plan worked well. With Mills standing in the bow and Smith crouched close behind, the canoe slid quietly toward the submerged log. Abruptly Mills lunged, thrusting the gig with all his strength and making a perfect strike, all three barbs penetrating deeply into the fish just behind its head. The water erupted in violent splashing, and the three men shouted triumphantly and yelled advice to one another as the fight was waged.
The struggles of the fish carried them back to the creek’s mouth and into the Ohio some 20 feet from shore, the canoe twice taking on water as the shifting weight of the men nearly capsized it. The barbs, however, had penetrated deeply, severely wounding the fish, and it soon weakened. In a few moments more, chortling with glee, Mills and Smith got their quarry to the side of the boat and, with combined effort, slid the huge brownish-yellow fish over the gunwale and into the bottom of the canoe, where it continued to flop and slosh about weakly in the accumulated two or three inches of water. All three of their rifles, now useless, were also in that water.
The men were still laughing and congratulating one another when the shots broke out. A party of about 30 Wyandots, attracted by the splashing and excited yelling, had crept up and fired from hiding at a distance of about 40 yards. Both Mills and Smith were hit. The latter, bleeding from multiple wounds, fell into the bottom of the canoe, groaning and trying to keep his nose and mouth out of the water. Smith had been struck by a single ball that creased his groin and, squalling with pain and fear, he leaped into the river away from the Indians and quickly grasped the side of the canoe.
The Indians burst out of cover shrieking, throwing down their guns and jerking out their tomahawks as they raced to the shore. Unharmed in the stern, Hamilton Carr shoved with his pole to get them away from the shore, though hampered by the weight of Smith hanging on. He shouted at Smith to get back in or let go, and Smith hoisted himself back aboard, the canoe nearly capsizing and shipping more water as he did so. But now, with another thrust of the pole, Carr managed to get them out into deeper water and swifter current. Mills, bleeding badly, struggled to his knees with his hands braced on the opposing gunwales.
By this time the Indians had surged back to shore, snatched up their guns and were reloading. The moment they resumed shooting, Smith once again jumped out of the boat and, as before, grasped the side. Mills grunted, struck by more bullets, and again fell into the bottom of the canoe. Carr, miraculously still unscathed, now
dropped the pole into the boat, snatched up a paddle and began using it.
“Head for the other side!” Smith screamed. “Tom’s done for. We’ll leave him there. We’ll have a better chance on shore.”
“We’re not leavin’ anybody!” Carr snapped. “Either get in or let go.”
Once more Smith clambered aboard, again nearly capsizing them. Scattered shots were still being fired but were going wide of their mark as the current and paddling moved the boat farther away. Sixteen more Wyandots appeared on the Virginia shore where Smith had wanted to land, and they began taking long shots, but none had effect. They also fired, at even longer range, at a canoe being paddled by Andrew Zane and James Fulton. Those two, heading upstream to fish, had been attracted by the struggles with the big catfish and had headed in that direction, but had turned back when the firing broke out. Now, with shots coming at them from both the Ohio and Virginia shores, they paddled furiously downstream to warn the residents of Wheeling. Those settlers who were presently on Wheeling Island, alerted to the imminent danger, immediately crossed back to Wheeling and took refuge in Fort Henry.
Crying, moaning and holding his crotch, Smith made far more of a fuss over his slight flesh wound than Mills was making over his many wounds, some of which appeared serious. The canoe was a quarter filled with water now and very sluggish in the water, but Smith refused to help with the paddling, claiming his side hurt too much.
“Then for God’s sakes, Henry,” Carr said disgustedly, “at least hold Tom’s head up out of the water so he won’t drown in the bottom of the damn boat!”
Wheeling was undergoing a flurry of activity when they got there: People were running to the fort carrying guns, food and cherished possessions while other men climbed into the two blockhouses and onto the swivel platform. The canoe was seen approaching, and a crowd met them on shore and carried the semiconscious Tom Mills, nearly dead as much from drowning as from loss of blood, to the quarters of Elizabeth Zane. Shooing out everyone except two women to help her, she ordered Mills stripped and then, one by one, tended his bullet wounds—17 of them, plus two slight grazes. That he was alive at all was nothing short of a small miracle. Bullets had pierced both arms at different places and broken one of them below the elbow. Both legs had been hit several times, the right one most seriously, as one ball had entered above the knee and shattered the bone. He had been struck in the fleshy part of both hips, and a single ball had passed through both buttocks as he kneeled in the canoe. He had also been wounded in the right side, the right shoulder twice and the inner thigh.