by Allan Eckert
To allow time for Captain Wilson’s friends among the whites to gather to pay their last respects, the burial was postponed until today, and now, in the final hours of this eventful year, a goodly number of those friends came to pay last respects, along with many others who were simply curious onlookers.
Among the latter was David Morgan, a settler from Whitely Creek. He was clad in leather trousers and vest, both of an unusual nature, very smooth grained, soft and supple and sewn with meticulous care. When questioned about them by another onlooker, he grinned broadly.
“Best wearing clothes I’ve ever had,” he boasted, “vest and pants alike. Made ’em from the hides of two Injens I killed a couple months ago. Best job of tanning I ever did, too. Everybody ought to have some. And I’ll tell you something else, there’s nothing better for honing a razor than a strop made from Injen hide.”
[August 22, 1783—Friday]
After the unprecedented turbulence of 1782, the year that followed was thus far very mild. Weary of the war that had prevailed between them for so long, both the whites and the Indians were relieved to pull back their bloody tomahawks and, though not yet ready to bury them, at least only hold them in reserve until a more binding peace could be established between them.
This did not mean that the valley of the Ohio River was suddenly free of conflict; only that the incidents were less numerous and, for the most part, less brutal, with attacks more often resulting in captures than in killings. That a definitive peace treaty was in the offing was all the more evident as numerous prisoner exchanges occurred between the British and the Americans.
Among those exchanged was Thomas Edgington who, after 11 months of captivity, had finally been set free in March. His captivity, while fraught with dangers, had been a valuable experience for him and had taught him a new respect for the Indians. This was especially true with regard to the warrior who had captured him, Scotach, son of Monakaduto.
Had it not been for Scotach, Edgington was certain his lot would have been much worse, if not fatal. Scotach had treated him as if they were brothers, patting him on the back and encouraging him to stand and fight for his rights when imposed upon by other Indians and protecting him when it became necessary. More than once Scotach had engaged in brief scuffles with other warriors, slashing and feinting with knives, war clubs or tomahawks, avoiding giving or receiving fatal stabbings, blows or hackings. The arguments were always settled when Scotach unfailingly drew first blood. In addition, Scotach had shared with Edgington his blanket, his buffalo skin robe and his food, seeming always to give him the greater or better part. Those months with Scotach made a lasting impression, and Edgington, after finally being turned over to the British and exchanged by them, repeatedly declared to all that “Scotach has the highest principles and is the noblest and best man I ever met, be he white, black or red.” And when he finally was exchanged, Edgington did not leave his captors without a certain degree of respect and a greater understanding of why some whites who had been taken captive refused to return to their own culture when opportunity arose.
Having been released, along with Daniel Kinney and John Fitch, who had been captured while map-making on the Ohio near the mouth of the Muskingum, Edgington was finally reunited with his family at their old place on Chartier’s Creek and, not long after that, returned to Holliday’s Cove on Harmon’s Creek.
There were still many widely scattered incidents occurring on the frontier that made it clear that Indian and white relations remained far from settled, but life along the Ohio was, for the Americans, settling down to a greater degree of normalcy. Isaac and Rebecca Williams returned at last from Redstone on the Monongahela to their abandoned claims at the mouth of Grave Creek, as did Rebecca’s brother, Joseph Tomlinson, and soon their cabins had been rebuilt and their frontier lives resumed. Downstream from them some 82 miles, at the mouth of the Little Kanawha River, Alexander Parker had bought the tomahawk claims of Robert Thornton and hired Capt. James Neal to survey the site for him. It was the genesis of a town he planned to name after himself—Parkersburg.629
As if in testimony to the changes that were occurring along the river, with the Indian problems abating, settlers now began having troubles with their own kind. Six miles below the mouth of Yellow Creek but on the Virginia side of the river, a wealthy new settler named George Chapman, who hailed from near the Potomac River, had now claimed 1,000 acres of land.630 His first step, wisely enough, was to build a small fortified structure called Chapman’s Blockhouse for the safety of his wife and children. As soon as it was completed, he headed back east to get some money that was due him, leaving his wife and children in the care of a man named Bowler Skyles, whom he had hired to help with construction.
Skyles planned to murder Chapman on his return with the money. He waited until just before he was due to arrive home and then, pretending alarm, rushed into the residence blockhouse.
“Better take your kids an’ hightail it to the nearest neighbor, ma’am,” he said. “I seen Injens acomin’ this way from up Yellow Crik way and reckon they’re fixin’ t’hit this place.”
Mary Chapman, however, was no man’s fool. She had not liked Skyles from the beginning, and now, instantly suspecting his design, she nodded and said, “I’d better get the gun to protect the children.” She took it down from its wooden pegs over the fireplace and turned with it leveled at the center of Skyles’s chest. “Now, Mr. Skyles,” she said menacingly, “if there are any Indians about, you’re the one. You’ve got ten seconds to get out of sight before I start shooting.”
Skyles knew immediately that she was not bluffing, and he leaped away and fled into the nearby woods.631
An incident perhaps most indicative of the change in attitude between the Indians and whites had just occurred. Yesterday a lone Wyandot Indian appeared at the door of the house where Andrew Poe was now living with his wife, whom he had married about a year earlier. The Indian said his name was Ronyeness and that he was hungry and would appreciate some food. Actually, he was the brother of one of the Indians killed in the big fight that Andrew Poe’s party had had with Scotach’s party in September, two years earlier, and his sole purpose in coming here was to kill Poe to avenge his brother’s death.
Poe and his wife welcomed him. Poe used his left hand to shake hands with him, since the right hand was now useless and atrophied as the result of the injury he had received in that fight. The Poes not only invited him in and asked him to share their meal with them, they invited him to stay overnight. Deciding this would give him an ideal opportunity to kill them both while they slept, Ronyeness accepted.
The Poes were very friendly to him, fed him well at their table and showed a genuine interest in him and his people as they conversed over dinner. Afterward they used some of their best bedding to make a pallet for him on the floor before the fireplace. When they all retired for the night, Ronyeness feigned sleep until the heavy breathing of the Poes convinced him they were asleep. Yet Ronyeness hesitated, thinking of the kindness with which they had treated him. At last he arose and, tomahawk in hand, crept stealthily to their bedside. A shaft of moonlight entering the window illuminated their faces in peaceful repose. He raised the tomahawk over Andrew’s head and then hesitated again, abruptly stricken by the thought of the awful deed he was about to commit upon these people who had treated him so cordially. For a long moment he stood that way and then gradually lowered the weapon and returned to his pallet, where he quickly went to sleep.
The next morning, as they finished the good breakfast Mrs. Poe had prepared, Ronyeness hesitantly admitted that he had come well over 100 miles just to find Andrew Poe and kill him, and he told them how he had stood over them in the night. “But you were so kind to me, so caring,” he said, rising and moving toward the door, “that my heart would not let my hand have its way. I will go away now and never trouble you again.”
Though Mrs. Poe had become a little pale, Andrew rose as well and walked to the door, where he shook the Indian’s ha
nd again. “My people are presently digging the hole to bury the hatchet that has so long been raised between us and your people,” he said. “We must now learn to live in friendship with each other. And we hope that you, Ronyeness, will return and visit us again in peace.”
[August 30, 1783—Saturday]
Samuel Brady had returned from Kentucky to the upper Ohio after somewhat longer than the “few months” he had initially anticipated. Having been headquartered in the Louisville area, he and his two partners had found it necessary to go considerably deeper into Kentucky than anticipated to find land not yet claimed by others. Yet the three had wound up doing very well—Brady alone had claimed more than 10,000 acres of good land—and they considered the whole journey a success.632 There was also the matter of a group of Kentuckians who had decided to cross the Ohio and penetrate deep into the Ohio country to steal horses from the Shawnees; horses, they said, that had originally been taken from the Kentucky settlements. Brady and his companions had been urged to go along but had refused and even recommended against it because of the efforts being made by the American government to end the Indian war and effect a lasting peace between the red men and the whites. When they returned, they learned the Kentucky party had been successful in stealing the horses, but the furious Shawnees had pursued and overtaken them before they reached the Ohio again and attacked. Two of the Kentuckians had been killed along with one of the Shawnees, while the Indians recovered most of their horses.
At last, after many months in Kentucky, Brady and his companions headed back to the upper Ohio. Never much of a letter writer, he had not written to Drusilla Van Swearingen at all since his departure. Now he was regretting not having done so and thought she would probably be irked. Actually, it turned out to be a lot worse than that. When he arrived at Washington on a hot Sunday afternoon in mid-August, he found that the absence of letters from him during the whole period he was gone had led her to conclude that he had been killed, or that he was not planning to return, or that he had simply forgotten about her. In any case, he learned, she was now engaged to Brady’s former rival, David Bradford, who had become quite a prominent lawyer. The match evidently pleased her father considerably. Not only was the 18-year-old belle of the Ohio frontier engaged, but the wedding arrangements had been made, as had the wedding gown, and the ceremony was set for the following Thursday, four days distant.
Brady immediately wrote her a note telling her of his return, apologizing for his long absence and for not writing and saying that he had learned of her pending wedding to Bradford. In view of his own failings, he wrote, he did not blame her for this unexpected development, and she was certainly free to do as she felt best. However, he wished to see her face to face and have her tell him that she actually preferred Bradford over him. If she could do that, then he would step out of the way, but if she wavered and inclined toward him, he was ready and willing to fulfill his previous pledges to her and marry her at once. To this end he would immediately pay a visit to her father to ask for her hand. Then he dispatched the note to her by way of a friend riding in that direction.
True to his word, Brady spruced himself up and rode to the Van Swearingen place. As he approached, he saw Capt. Andrew Van Swearingen working in his rye field and immediately rode to him. They greeted one another and shook hands, and then Brady wasted no time getting to the point.
“I’ve heard Dusy plans to marry Lawyer Bradford next Thursday,” he said. “Expect she’s doing that because she figured I’d gotten killed or something in Kentucky. Well, I didn’t and I’m back. I aim to have her if she’ll have me, and I’m asking your consent.”
Van Swearingen picked up a long rye stem and chewed on the end for a moment. Then he pointed at a nearby shock of rye and shook his head. “Those rascals that stacked my rye there put the butt ends in and the heads out, and it’ll have to be done over again.”
The evasion did not balk Brady. “I asked your consent to marry Dusy,” he said, a slight edge to his voice.
“Can’t imagine why they would’ve stacked grain with the heads sticking out,” Van Swearingen went on. “Stupid thing to do, and it’ll just have to be done over.”
Now Brady was definitely getting heated. “Captain Swearingen, I am senior, by God! She pledged herself to me last year, and if she’ll have me, I still aim to marry her. She is mine, with or without your consent, but I would thank you for an answer of some sort.”
Van Swearingen looked at Brady in a speculative way for a moment and then nodded and smiled. “I would thank you to take her.”
The meeting with Drusilla a few minutes later went better than Brady had let himself hope. She had been greatly excited upon receiving his note, though she didn’t let it show when he reached the house and was initially cool.
“I thought you were dead, Sam. Why didn’t you write to me?”
“There aren’t many mailbags when you’re deep in Kentucky, Dusy,” he said, but then shook his head. “No, that’s not the reason. I could’ve written those times I was in Louisville. Just that one thing or another kept coming up, and I kept putting it off.” He shrugged. “Never was much of a letter writer, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t love you. I did. I still do. Do you love me?”
“I’ve promised to marry David.”
“Do you love him?”
“He’s a good man, Sam. He’s very smart and successful and caring.”
“Do you love him?”
She was silent for a moment and then raised her eyes to meet his. She reached out, touched his arm and shook her head. “No, Sam,” she said. “It’s you I love.”
She melted into his arms, and after that things went much better. David Bradford was disappointed when the wedding was called off, but he accepted her decision philosophically, though his feelings for Samuel Brady were somewhat less than cordial. A new wedding date was set, nine days after the original one, to allow time for word to be circulated of the new date and the new groom.
Now the big day had arrived, a gorgeous, cloudless late summer day. Before a huge crowd, including a large number of Brady’s Rangers, the bride and groom—she in her beautiful gown and he in the only presentable clothing he owned, his crisp, regular army uniform—stood before the preacher at the Van Swearingen residence and pledged their troth until death they should part … an eventuality that, on the upper Ohio River frontier, all too often came quickly and unexpectedly.
[September 12, 1783—Friday]
Jacob Greathouse was back, having arrived by canoe at Holliday’s Cove Fort early in the morning. Though the huge, brutish frontiersman had left the upper Ohio not long after he instigated Dunmore’s War by his horrible massacre of the family of Talgayeeta—Chief Logan—just over nine years earlier, no one knew where he had gone, and Greathouse himself did not elucidate.
He was traveling without the band of rough bordermen who had associated with him in those days—John and Rafe Mahon, Joe Smith, Josh Baker, Joe Tomlinson, Ed King and others. His only companion now was his wife, a rather disreputable-looking woman who was as uncouth as he and would stand up to anyone, man or woman, except to her husband, who beat her savagely at times. She always seemed to come back for more.
Few of the residents greeted him with any degree of cordiality, only too well aware of his mercurial moods and uncontrolled temper. From the doorway of their own cabin, the newlyweds, Drusilla and Samuel Brady, saw him arrive and Sam shook his head. “Can’t imagine what that troublemaker wants here,” he muttered. “I only hope he leaves soon.”
He didn’t leave soon enough. He accepted a jug from an old acquaintance who, in the course of passing news, asked him if he’d heard about the “pet” Delaware named Captain Wilson having been mortally wounded when a party of bordermen attacked his camp on the day after Christmas last year. Greathouse laughed loudly and shook his head.
“Nope,” he said in his loud, irritating voice, “but I’m hellfire glad t’hear it. The sooner they kill ever’ one o’them red niggers, the better. An’
that goes for their damn squaws an’ kids, too. Kill ’em all, is what I say, an’ I’ll tell y’sure.… I damn well done my part in hurryin’ a few along t’hell.”
Brady overheard, and his expression darkened. He had held a special affection for Captain Wilson and had been dismayed when he learned of the Delaware’s death. Now he strode up to Greathouse and planted himself a few feet in front of him and spoke harshly.
“Greathouse, you and your kind are not wanted here. Get back in your boat and leave. Now!”
Taken somewhat aback, Greathouse was not one to be easily pushed around. He cocked his head, frowning, not recognizing Brady at first. His hand moved toward the tomahawk in his belt. It stopped when Brady pointed at the weapon.
“You pull that ’hawk on me, Greathouse, and I’ll kill you.” The words were cold, menacing.
Now Greathouse recognized who it was, and he let his hand drop to his side. His lips smiled; his eyes did not. “Now I ’member you. Ye’re Brady, king o’ the spies. Cain’t figger you gittin’ het up ’bout any Injens bein’ kilt. I hear ye’ve kilt a few here an’ there. You gittin’ sof’ with all this peace talk goin’ ’roun’?”
“Let me tell you something, Greathouse,” Brady said, his tone level but deadly. “I’ve lost a kind father and a loving brother at their hands, and I’ve gone farther in search of revenge than any man has gone—as far as any man could go, or any would dare to go—but I would never kill an Indian in time of peace, nor women or children in war or peace. And I won’t tolerate a man who would. Now, either pull that tomahawk or get out. And if you pull it, I will kill you.”