by Allan Eckert
At eight A.M. a Negro man clad in Indian garb and carrying a white flag emerged from cover at the base of Wheeling Hill and came rather apprehensively toward Fort Henry. He stopped some 50 yards distant and called for the commander. This time it was Col. Ebenezer Zane who opened the door to his fortified house and called out to him, asking him what he wanted.
“I been tol’ t’come an’ tell you folks,” he said, “that y’all got one las’ chance to surrender. An’, suh, I thinks may be you ought’a do it. They got two hunnerd an’ sixty warriors an’ a British cap’n with 40 Rangers that’re gonna’ kill ever’ las’ one o’you, you don’t give up.”
“You tell that damned British officer and the chiefs,” Zane said in a deceptively mild tone, “that as long as even one person in Wheeling has strength enough to pull a trigger, we’ll keep right on fighting. Tell them as well that the next time you or anyone else comes walking in here, flag or no flag, he’ll be shot dead in his tracks. Now get the hell out of here!”
The man licked his lips nervously and then nodded, turned and started walking away, but his nerve gave way, and he broke into a run and was quickly gone. Shortly after that the firing resumed from the Indian force, coming mainly from those under cover on the sides and at the base of Wheeling Hill.
Throughout the day there was sporadic firing from both sides with little accomplished, but small parties of the Indians began driving off the settlement’s cattle and killing the hogs, sheep and poultry. By late afternoon most of the livestock was either gone or dead except for the dozen cows and 11 horses within the fort.
At ten P.M. another major assault against the walls was mounted with as much fury as any that had preceded it but, as before, it was unsuccessful, and the enemy finally pulled away, nursing its wounds.
Meanwhile, at Washington, the men who had been summoned from their outlying cabins were still coming in, but with agonizing slowness. A total of 30 had gathered by nightfall, but there were others yet to show up, and Col. Williamson, frustrated and angry with the delay, could maintain his patience only with great effort. He filled the time by having all who had thus far assembled check and double-check their weapons, their horses and all their gear.
Finally, close to midnight, it seemed that all had arrived who were going to show up. Forty men were on hand, and the question now was, should they wait until daylight, when they could ride at good speed and arrive at Wheeling in a few hours, or should they start out at once in darkness, when the going would be much slower and take them about twice as long? Concerns were raised, as well, about the strong possibility that the attacking Indians, no doubt expecting some kind of militia reinforcement to arrive, might have set up an ambush on the main road.
Time was of the essence and took priority and so, with the fog making the night even blacker than normal, Col. Williamson put them into motion, hoping to arrive at Wheeling just as dawn was breaking.
[September 13, 1782—Friday]
Throughout the night sporadic firing from the Indians had continued at Fort Henry but with little real effect. In the first light of morning, however, an unexpected quiet fell. The Indians on Wheeling Hill and in the cornfields seemed to have withdrawn. Only a few were still visible moving about on Wheeling Island, and some of the defenders now emerged from the fort, cautiously at first but then with greater boldness when no shots were directed their way. They advanced to the edge of the embankment over the Ohio and began pouring a hot fire at the warriors still on the island. Those Indians quickly left and, though it took a little while to fully realize it, the fact finally became clear that the Indians and British had actually terminated their efforts and the second siege of Wheeling was over.
Hardly had the enemy pulled out than the 40-man reinforcement from Washington under Col. David Williamson came into sight on the main road, weary from lack of sleep and nerves raw from anticipating being ambushed at every step of the way. Williamson, in the lead, was flanked by Capts. Andrew Van Swearingen and Eleazar Williamson, with Capt. William Boggs and William Shepherd’s son, Moses, close behind. Finding the action all over, squads of men were sent out to scout around and make sure the enemy was gone, while the remainder helped the Wheeling men drag the already bloated carcasses of the dead livestock to the river and throw them in so the current could carry them off. Hardly more than two hours after its arrival, the force from Washington was on its way home.
Though no Indian bodies were found, it was certain the defenders had killed a number of them and wounded many others. As for casualties in Wheeling, there had been only two: the slight graze on the forehead of Old Daddy Sam, and the foot wound suffered by Cobus Sullivan. Considering that the odds against them had been at least five to one, the Wheeling defenders were justified in the pride that welled among them.625
[September 14, 1782—Saturday]
Col. Ebenezer Zane detested writing out official reports, so the one he was preparing for Gen. William Irvine was brief in the extreme:
Wheeling, 14th September, 1782
Sir: On the evening of the 11th instant a body of the enemy appeared in sight of our garrison. They immediately formed their lines around the garrison, paraded British colors, and demanded the fort to be surrendered, which was refused. About twelve o’clock at night they rushed hard on the pickets, in order to storm, but were repulsed. They made two other attempts to storm, before day, to no purpose.
About eight o’clock next morning, there came a negro from them to us, and informed us that their force consisted of a British Captain and forty regular soldiers, and two hundred and sixty Indians. The enemy kept a continual fire the whole day. About ten o’clock at night they made a fourth attempt to storm, to no better purpose than the former. The enemy continued around the garrison till the morning of the 13th instant, when they disappeared. Our loss is none. Daniel [Cobus] Sullivan, who arrived here in the first of the action is wounded in the foot.
I believe they have driven the greatest part of our stock away and might, I think, be soon overtaken.
I am, with due respect, your obedient servant,
Ebenezer Zane.
[September 16, 1782—Monday]
When Lewis Wetzel stopped by Wheeling last evening after a weeklong hunting trip down the Ohio, Col. Ebenezer Zane told him about the siege the settlement had weathered and his regret, when it began, that Lewis had not been on hand to aid them.
“We’re still having one problem, though,” he added, “that you might be able to help us with, Lewis.”
“Which is?” Wetzel asked.
“Three of our men have been wounded since then, one pretty badly, evidently by one of the Indians still hanging around and taking pot-shots at them. Took us a while to figure out what was happening. Seems this Indian’s got himself into hiding in the rocks up the creek. Anyone comes near, he gobbles like a turkey, and when they come looking for the bird, he shoots.”
Wetzel grinned. It was exactly the kind of challenge he relished. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.
After questioning the men still recovering from their wounds about exactly where the attacks had taken place, he slipped off into the woods after nightfall and climbed well up into an elm tree close to the rocks and waited. Dawn came and went, and there was no trace of the Indian. By sunrise, Wetzel was beginning to believe the Indian was gone, and he was just about ready to descend when a movement in the rocks caught his eye, and he saw the warrior cautiously moving about in a well-hidden cleft in the rocks behind some bushes. Very quietly he reached into his pouch and extracted a fist-size rock he had picked up on the creek bank the preceding evening. He pitched it well away through a gap in the foliage, and it hit the ground a little distance away, bounded and rolled some distance through the dry leaves before stopping.
Instantly the Indian came alert and then stealthily crept from behind the brush. He crouched behind a rock, rifle ready, looking intently in the direction from which he had heard the rustling of the leaves. Cupping his mouth with one hand, he sounded a
short gobble that was a very credible imitation of a tom turkey.
Less than an hour later Lewis Wetzel strode up to Ebenezer Zane, pulled a bloody scalp from his pouch and, grinning broadly, showed it to him.
“Your boys here oughtn’t have no more problems,” he said. “Here’s your redskin turkey.”
[October 4, 1782—Friday]
As soon as Capt. Samuel Brady heard that the daughter of Capt. Andrew Van Swearingen had returned from Philadelphia to her father’s home near Washington village, he had left Holliday’s Cove and come to pay court, as he had told her father he meant to do.
Brady had thought Dusy—Drusilla—was beautiful before she left 15 months earlier, but she had returned even more lovely, with an added measure of maturity and poise in her bearing. At 17, she had changed from a girl to a young woman; the whole upper Ohio Valley took note of it, and Sam Brady was not the only man attracted.
Most of the smitten young men who came to pay their respects evoked no reaction in her, but there were two exceptions. One was David Bradford, the young man with whom she had shared a mutual attraction before leaving for Philadelphia. Now he had become quite a handsome, serious, 24-year-old young man, cultured and intelligent, if a bit stodgy, and she experienced the same stirring of attraction she had known before. Furthermore, he had become a lawyer now, had opened his own office in Washington village and was becoming quite successful. He would definitely be a good catch.
The other was Sam Brady, who was three years older than Bradford. Brady was strong, capable, self-confident, good-looking and bold, though considerably rougher around the edges than his rival. He was not a particularly good businessman, and his prospects for the future were decidedly uncertain, yet he was an exciting man, and he stirred her as none other ever had before.
She saw a good deal of both of them in these first few weeks after her return and, while she appreciated young Bradford’s almost fawning attention, the wild-flowers he plucked to bring to her, the poetry he read to her and the esoteric thoughts he put to words, in the end the more down-to-earth, solid character of the self-assured Sam Brady attracted her more. There was a sense of aliveness about him, of barely controlled wildness. This was the man who, she had learned, only a few days before her return, had visited Nathan Ellis and, as the two men walked to the spring behind his cabin without their rifles, they had encountered a very large black bear that immediately advanced toward them, snarling. Ellis was ready to flee to the safety of the nearby cabin, but Brady had simply reached to his belt and said, “Suppose I tomahawk that bear?” Incredibly, he had charged at the big dangerous animal and done exactly that, killing it with just one well-placed blow. Yes, there was no doubt he was quite a man and, perhaps most important, she thought she might be in love with him.
Yesterday, when Sam Brady asked her to marry him, she had said yes, and just that simply they were engaged. But that was yesterday, and today was another matter. Today, now, at this moment, Samuel Brady had casually announced he was heading for Kentucky to claim lands there and that he would be gone for a while.
“A while?” Dusy said, frowning. “And just exactly how long is a while?”
Brady shrugged. “Just a few months. Maybe a little more. Depends on how things go.”
“Sam!” Points of anger flickered in her eyes. “How can you even contemplate leaving me like that? We just got engaged!”
“That has nothing to do with it,” he said, shaking his head. “Listen, Dusy, Captain Lodge and Captain Carnahan have formed a partnership, and they want me in on it. I’d be a fool not to join them. Can’t you understand? This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. Before long there’s going to be nothing left to claim in that country, and I aim to get there before that happens, and get my share.”
“But it’s so dangerous,” she said. “Please, Sam, don’t do this. You could be killed.”
“Oh now, Dusy, don’t get dramatic. You know I can take care of myself, and I don’t have any intention of getting killed, either.”
“I doubt,” she flared, “that any one of those near hundred men who got killed at Blue Licks a few weeks ago had any intention of getting killed. No, I won’t have it, Sam. You can’t go!”
“I can,” he told her firmly, “and I will. I’m leaving tomorrow. Listen to me, Drusilla. I love you and I know you love me, and when you get right down to it, that’s all that really matters. I’m doing this for you as well as for myself, and I expect you to support me in this. I also expect you to be here waiting for me when I get back.”
“Don’t count on it, Sam Brady!” she snapped. “Just don’t you count on it!”
[December 31, 1782—Tuesday]
The final months of 1782 had dwindled away no less eventfully than the earlier months had, making this year one of the most tragic and portentous the Ohio Valley had ever known. It had been the year of many attacks by the Indians on the tributaries of the upper Ohio and the unspeakable horror of the Moravian Massacre at Gnadenhütten; the year of the capture of Thomas Edgington at Holliday’s Cove and Joseph Parkinson’s cargo of flour intended for New Orleans; the killing of George Wetzel and Samuel McCulloch; the rendezvous of Crawford’s army at Mingo Bottom and the disastrous Sandusky Campaign that followed; the awful execution of Col. Crawford and the miraculous escapes of Dr. John Knight and John Slover; the terrible disaster that had befallen the Kentuckians at the Blue Licks.
The good fortune that had marked the activities of the hostile Indians throughout the first eight months of the year, however, finally took a downturn with the failure of the second siege of Wheeling, and in the four months that had passed since then, matters had not improved for them. A terrible blow had been struck against them when, in retaliation for the Blue Licks defeat, George Rogers Clark had mounted a second expedition of more than 1,000 Kentuckians and marched them against the Shawnee towns, utterly destroying Chalahgawtha and Piqua Town and forcing the tribe to once again move deeper into the Ohio country.626
The worst blow of all to the tribes, however, had come early in November, when a provisional treaty of peace had been signed between the British and Americans. The British relinquished to the Americans all their claims to the territory north and west of the Ohio River, effectively turning their backs on their red allies and not even mentioning them in the negotiations. With sweeping prisoner exchanges already in the offing between British and Americans, the Indians occupying this vast territory were left on their own to face the onslaught of encroaching settlers that was sure to follow. Part of the territory ceded to the Americans was the territory of the Iroquois tribes in upper New York—in direct violation of the promises made to them by the Canadian governor, Sir Guy Carleton, when those tribes had agreed to leave their homes and support the British cause. Carleton was no longer there, and Gov. Frederick Haldimand, through his agents, blandly said the Great King had directed him to tell his red children that his American subjects were sorry for what they had done and begged his forgiveness, and that he was now going to pardon them, and that he desired that his red children would no longer kill the Americans. Not in the least fooled, the Iroquois retorted that the Great King was lying and that he was going to forgive the Americans only because he had no choice but to do so, since they had defeated his armies. Their anger was great, and they said they would no longer be allies of the British. In an effort to mollify them, Haldimand set aside a parcel of land for them in Canada, which they accepted, but it was not their homeland and they remained deeply disgruntled.
The northwestern tribes got no such concession, and their appeals to Maj. Arent de Peyster in Detroit for continued support in arms, ammunition, supplies and manpower were thwarted. Haldimand had instructed him to tell the Wyandots, Shawnees, Miamis, Delawares and other Great Lakes tribes that, regrettably, he could not aid them as he had in the past and asked that they curtail, at least temporarily, their attacks against the settlements on the Ohio River and in Kentucky.627 Baffled and frustrated, the northwestern tribes vowed that with or withou
t British help, they would not give up their struggle for survival against the Americans. But now their prospects looked bleak indeed.
The attacks had continued, as had retaliation by the whites. Only five days ago, a party of bordermen, perhaps still under the influence of Christmas spirits drunk the day before, descended upon the camp of the longtime friendly Delaware Indian, Captain Wilson, on Killbuck’s Island, in the mouth of the Allegheny opposite Pittsburgh.628 They did not care that Captain Wilson had so often guided American troops and parties of Brady’s Rangers up the Allegheny against the hostile Indians, nor that he had once been selected by the whites, along with Andrew Montour, to execute a pair of hostile Munceys within sight of the island. Their only concern was that he and those with him were Indians and, so far as they were concerned, all Indians were enemies.
The party of whites crossed to Killbuck’s Island and crept up to the camp under cover of darkness. At a given signal they shot all the Indians in Captain Wilson’s party, including him. Then, as if realizing there might be repercussions, they fled without even taking the scalps. All the Indians had been killed instantly except Captain Wilson, and he was mortally wounded. He managed to get up after the attackers left, stagger to the river and, with great effort, swim to the shoreline at Fort Pitt. There, as he used the last of his strength to drag himself out of the water, a sentry saw him. Recognized, he was taken inside the fort for medical treatment, but it was too late. He smiled weakly at the doctor trying to treat him and said, “I know they would not have killed me if they had known it was little Wilson.” And then he died.