by Allan Eckert
To Lee’s surprise, Boone had chuckled, and Lee could have sworn there was a note of keen eagerness in the sound.
Now, arriving at Kenton’s Station and shaking hands with the huge frontiersman who emerged to greet him, Boone told Simon of his newly made decision to leave Kentucky. Kenton frowned.
“You won’t be coming back at all?” he asked.
The 53-year-old frontiersman before him shook his head soberly. “Ain’t nothin’ t’come back to, Simon. My land’s gone, most of my friends has got theirselves kilt, man can’t move aroun’ no more ’thout bumpin’ into somebody. No, I ain’t comin’ back. My oldest boy, Jesse, he’s got him a little place near the Salt Works, ’bout eighteen mile up Little Sandy. Reckon I’ll hunker with him some, then mebbe head on t’Missouri. Hear tell it’s a fine land. Wouldn’t want t’come ’long, would you?”
Simon Kenton shook his head regretfully. “Not now, Dan’l. Someday, mebbe. Send back word where you’re at. Someday you’ll see me show up.”
They shook hands awkwardly, embarrassed by the emotions that brought hot tears to their eyes. Boone abruptly turned and paced away with his characteristic stride. Kenton watched him until he disappeared into a wooded hillside to the east, then turned back toward his own station, filled with a deep sadness.
[November 6, 1788—Thursday]
Lewis Wetzel was beginning to regret that he had ever made the agreement with the new settlers at Marietta to be their chief hunter the remainder of this year. He had known from the beginning, of course, that he would have no difficulty providing them with all the meat they could use and had already proved it by bringing in so many deer, bear and buffalo that half a dozen of their womenfolk were constantly at work jerking the meat. Though they admired his skill and paid him without equivocation, harsh feelings toward him were aroused when he soundly criticized them for selling guns and ammunition to the Indians.
In addition to hunting meat for the settlers, he still had the responsibility he had taken on at Fort Harmar. Word of his presence at Marietta had become generally known and, because of his reputation for woodland skills and knowledge of the Ohio country, Gen. Harmar prevailed upon him to act as a scout for the army if and when an expedition was launched into the interior. He was also to regularly patrol some distance from the fort in conjunction with his hunting, reporting on any sign of hostile Indian activity he observed, but he was definitely not to engage any Indians encountered.
There had been a considerable rise in the number of Indians seen, of course, but that was due largely to the council of peace scheduled to be held next month at the fort by Gov. St. Clair. Even though the council was not scheduled to begin until December 13, the first arrivals had reached the mouth of the Muskingum on September 9; a party of 50 Senecas from New York under Chief Cornplanter—Warhoytonehteh—who had been escorted here in boats from Fort Pitt by Gen. Richard Butler and two companies of regulars under Capts. David Zeigler and James O’Hara. They had been cordially greeted by Gen. Harmar, who immediately posted a proclamation stating that a temporary truce had been agreed upon between the Indians and Americans until the peace council was concluded, which was expected to take several weeks once it began, and ordering that none of these Indians or any others yet to come were to be molested in any way. It was an order that did not sit well with most of the frontiersmen, and the people of the Marietta Settlement, across the Muskingum from Fort Harmar, were very apprehensive.
In the weeks that had elapsed since then, additional groups of Indian delegates had shown up and joined those already on hand, who had established a common temporary campground on a broad bottom along a small unnamed stream two miles north of the fort; a stream that was since being called Indian Camp Run.681 The delegates thus far on hand had arrived from great distances and wore their most colorful and decorative costumes. They represented all the tribes of the Iroquois League with the exception of the Mohawks, as well as the Ottawas, Chippewas, Delawares, Potawatomies, Wyandots and even the Sacs. Significantly, no Shawnees, Miamis or Kickapoos were on hand or had been invited.
Lewis Wetzel, who still harbored his abiding hatred of all Indians, had hoped he would encounter some of them on a one-to-one basis or, at most, no more than two or three at a time, but until today, that hadn’t happened, though he had been spying on them regularly. Once they arrived at the camp, the Indians remained there together or traveled in sizable groups between there and the fort for conferences with Gen. Harmar while they awaited the arrival of Gov. St. Clair.
Now, however, Wetzel’s luck had changed. This morning he saw a member of the Seneca delegation leave the encampment by himself, heading toward Fort Harmar. Though Wetzel had no idea who he was, this was the influential subchief Tegunteh, who had struck up a rapport with Gen. Harmar at their first meeting and who seemed particularly proud of the new name he had bestowed upon himself some time ago—George Washington. Wetzel, upon seeing which of the two paths the Indian was taking toward the fort, immediately slipped away and took a position in hiding about a quarter-mile below the encampment, on the south side of a little run flowing into the Muskingum.682 A few minutes later Tegunteh appeared on the path. He moved down the slight north bank of the run, leaped over the rivulet easily and was coming up the south bank when Wetzel stepped out from his hiding place and shot him full in the chest. He quickly scalped the Seneca and then raced off, knowing that the report of his rifle had probably been heard in the Indian camp and that others would be coming to investigate. This time, however, Lewis Wetzel had made a serious error.
Though shot through the chest and scalped, Tegunteh—George Washington—was not dead. At least not yet.683
[November 9, 1788—Sunday]
It was the first time Lewis Wetzel had ever been in jail, and only the second time in his life his fate was in the hands of someone else. The first time had been when he and his brother Jacob had been captured when young boys by the Indians, from whom they had soon escaped. Wetzel was very set on escaping again now, though there was little time left before the hanging—his.
He’d made two mistakes, he told himself. The first had been in not making sure the Seneca subchief he had shot and scalped was dead, and he regretted that oversight. The second mistake had been in admitting that he was the one who killed the Indian, when, by a simple denial, he could possibly have avoided his present dilemma. Yet he did not regret having admitted it; he was proud of it then and still proud of it now.
The furor created by the shooting of the Seneca everyone was calling George Washington had been intense. Tegunteh, found by fellow Indians shortly after the shooting, had immediately been carried to Fort Harmar for medical treatment. Gen. Harmar, who had been quietly imbibing in his own quarters, was beside himself with rage when he learned of it and immediately went to the medical quarters, where the post surgeon was already trying to save the man’s life. At the commander’s entrance, the surgeon shook his head, signifying the wound was mortal and nothing could be done. The Seneca, however, regained consciousness and, between gasps, told what had happened and described the man who had shot him: a white man, tall, slender, dressed partly like an Indian, partly like a white man, with long black hair tied in a queue and wearing a cloth cap of three colors. The man had stepped out of the bushes before him without warning, grinned widely, raised his rifle and shot without speaking. The Seneca tried to say more but could not, and a few moments later he died.
The Indians were extremely upset, and it was only with great difficulty that Gen. Harmar prevented them from attacking the whites here. He did so by promising them that an immediate and thorough search would be undertaken to apprehend and punish the perpetrator. It hadn’t taken long. The description the dying man had given, everyone agreed, fit no one but Lewis Wetzel, especially the tricolored cloth hat he had favored of late and the fact that he had grinned before killing the Indian—a Lew Wetzel trademark.
Harmer issued an arrest warrant and sent out a half-dozen different squads of men to search for Wetz
el. They found him easily within minutes, at the cabin of an acquaintance. He was brought at once to the general, who asked him if he was the one who had shot and scalped the Seneca subchief known as George Washington.
“Don’t recognize the name,” Wetzel replied, “but I got nothin’ to conceal. I sure as hell killed one o’them red buggers this mornin’ at that little run to the north of here. Din’t know he was any kind o’chief, though. Wouldn’t’ve made no difference. He’s the only good Injen ’round here right now that I know of.”
“Damn you, Wetzel!” Gen. Harmar snapped. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“I surely do, Gen’ral,” Wetzel replied, nodding, “an’ I sure-fire don’t consider it no crime. I killed one o’them sumbitches that’ve been killin’ an’ takin’ our women an’ chill’un for years, that’ve been burnin’ our homes an’ barns an’ killin’ our cows an’ stealin’ our horses. The same red sumbitches that killed my brother an’ my paw an’ a whole lot of my friends. Damn right I known what I done! I ain’t never made peace with ’em and ain’t never goin’ to. I’ll shoot ’em down like the worthless dogs they are ’long as I live.”
Gen. Harmar’s expression was set in harsh lines. “You are going to hang for what you have done, Wetzel, I promise you. I’m going to see to it personally.”
Wetzel had thought it was just talk, that surely a white man could not possibly be executed for killing an Indian, but he had been locked up in the guardhouse, and now it was the third day he was here. A few friends and acquaintances had come to see him during this interval, but any hopes he harbored that they were bringing good news or might be able to help him were dashed. Now, with little hope remaining, he sent word to Harmar that he had something to say to him. It was about an hour before the commander arrived, and there was no glimmer of compassion in his expression or his voice.
“What do you want, Wetzel?”
“Gen’ral, I ain’t never had no hankerin’ t’be hung like a dog. ’Sposin’ you let them Injens pick their two best fighters with whatever weapons they want—knives, clubs, ’hawks. Give me the same t’face ’em with, an’ let us fight it out. They’ll like it better, an’ I sure t’hell will, too. If I’m goin’ out, I’d ’preciate goin’ as I always ’spected to someday.”
Gen. Harmar shook his head. “Can’t do it. As an officer appointed by the law, it is the law by which I must be governed, and the general government has no provisions for allowing any such thing to be done. The penalty for killing an Indian in a time of peace—and this has been proclaimed as being such—is hanging. You, sir, will indeed hang. Furthermore, I, sir, will delight in drinking a toast over your corpse.”
“Then at least, Gen’ral, grant me a request.” Wetzel’s voice quavered, and he seemed on the verge of breaking down.
“What request?”
“I’m a woodsman, Gen’ral, a free spirit. These three days have been—have been — God, Gen’ral, I’m going crazy in here. No fresh air, no exercise. I cain’t stand it. Please, please! let me get out into the air and just do some exercises. That’s all I ask.”
“So you can escape?”
“No. If that’s what you think, make it impossible. Surround me with a ring of soldiers and, outside them, a ring of Indians, so I cain’t break out. Please!”
“I’ll consider it,” Harmar told him, then walked briskly away.
The hour that had passed since then seemed interminable, and Wetzel was beginning to think he had failed, but now a squad of soldiers came to the guardhouse and marched him in their midst to a broad clearing well away from the river or trees, where some 50 armed soldiers formed a ring. Beyond them more than twice that many Indians formed a second ring, their expressions dark as they looked at Wetzel, an air of anticipation about them, as if they assumed this was some sort of American version of the traditional Indian gauntlet.
Wetzel was now released inside the double ring and, after looking around for a moment, he let out an exuberant yelp and began leaping and twirling in a series of gyrations that caused the soldiers and some of the Indians to break into laughter. The merriment increased as he executed a series of somersaults from one side of the circle to the other, then returned doing a series of very rapid cartwheels that didn’t stop in time and carried him tumbling into the line of men. He quickly regained his feet and excused himself for overshooting and then went across the circle twice more, rolling, somersaulting, twisting, leaping, cartwheeling. Each time he came close enough to the line before stopping that those surrounding him pulled back a little and broke up some to get out of the way of his feet and knees and elbows, and each time he gathered himself, came to his feet and went into a new set. The next one, however, was even more remarkable, beginning with a few full body flips in the air, several very fast somersaults and then evolving into some especially broad and rapid cartwheels.
As he neared the lines, again the men in that arc of the circle gave way and then decidedly separated as he careened directly into them. Still cartwheeling, he passed them by and continued another 30 yards. Abruptly the cartwheels ended and he was running at great speed. He was fully 60 yards past the line before the realization dawned he was actually trying to escape. The first shots were sent after him when he was 80 yards away, but they were hurriedly fired and missed. By then he was, for all intents and purposes, out of range and closing on the woodlands. More shots peppered the ground around him, but all missed widely, while the Indians behind broke into furious howls and the soldiers shouted angrily and many of the men in the line set off in pursuit.
Wetzel laughed aloud as he ran, yelled triumphantly as he plunged into the woods. Thereafter he remained silent as he ran as hard as he had ever run, taking dangerous chances in leaping over ravines and throwing himself over and beyond windfallen trees. He did nothing particularly devious in his running until he was fully a mile from the fort and the sound of pursuit behind him had faded. Then, gasping but not allowing himself respite, he went into a series of evasional maneuvers that called on all the skill he had acquired in his years as woodsman and Indian fighter. Another half-mile, and he encountered what he was looking for. He squirmed his way deep and deeper yet into the dense briars and other brush cloaking two fallen trees at angles to one another, drawing himself into the small space beneath the one that had fallen across the other and broken. Here he would wait until nightfall before resuming his flight.
Now the familiar broad grin stretched Lewis Wetzel’s lips wide, and he knew he had won.
[November 20, 1788—Thursday]
The general feeling in Wheeling over the escape of Lewis Wetzel from imprisonment in Marietta had been one of jubilation. Long having borne the brunt of Indian attacks on this frontier, the residents of the Wheeling area took little stock in the peace talks going on at Fort Harmar. To the contrary, the number of Indians coming to the talks had caused a considerable rise of apprehension among the settlers, and while some Wheeling residents thought what Wetzel had done was at least inappropriate at such a time, the majority applauded his killing of the Seneca subchief and were appalled that he had faced a sentence of death by hanging because of it.
The story had gone the rounds about how the incident took place, followed by Wetzel’s apprehension and his subsequent escape; how he had waited in his hiding place until dark, then went directly to the Ohio River several miles below the mouth of the Muskingum and swam across. He had gone at once to the new cabin of Rebecca and Isaac Williams, across from Marietta, but no one was there. He’d had better luck, however, half a mile farther, when he’d come to the similarly new cabin of Hamilton Carr, who was home and welcomed him.
Carr had given Wetzel fresh clothing, fed him and, though he had no rifle to spare, given him his shotgun and ammunition. There had been no incidents as he made his way to the Wetzel homestead on Wheeling Creek, seven miles above the Forks. No one was there, and on going to the neighboring Bonnett property, he had learned that everyone was at Wheeling preparing to take shelter the
re should the peace talks break down and a new spate of Indian warfare break out.
On his arrival at Wheeling, there was a happy reunion with family and friends but still considerable concern for his safety. Word of his escape had preceded him and, with it, the news that Gen. Harmar had posted a reward of $500 for Lewis Wetzel, dead or alive. While he had many friends here, there was always the chance that he might be captured or killed for a reward of that size; it was almost half again as much as an ordinary soldier made in an entire year. Those closest to him suggested that he go away for a year or two, perhaps take a trip down to New Orleans, and give things a chance to cool down. Wetzel agreed to do so.
Three days ago, armed again with a new flintlock given to him by Lewis Bonnett, he bought passage on a flatboat en route to New Orleans that had stopped for the night at Wheeling. The boatmen were not informed of Wetzel’s fugitive status, but it had become apparent, as they approached the Muskingum before noon today, that he did not wish to be seen. The stop at Marietta was to be brief, mainly to drop off some dispatches and supplies from Fort Pitt. During that interval Wetzel hid under a greased cloth covering sacks of beans and corn that were part of the cargo.
Not until the flatboat was shoved away from the Marietta wharf and was floating free again did Wetzel emerge, but then he let his pride cause him to make an uncharacteristic blunder. As they floated past the mouth of the Muskingum and reached their closest point to Fort Harmar, some 40 yards offshore, he saw troops parading, and he cupped his mouth and gleefully yelled, “Here’s Lewis Wetzel, by God, so come and take him if you can.”
The soldiers looked toward the flatboat, and Wetzel did a little impromptu jig on the deck, turned a cartwheel to eliminate any doubt and then called out again in the same vein. This time they recognized him, as they pointed excitedly and some raced off to the fort. A few minutes later Wetzel’s good humor faded as a squad of eight soldiers and an officer ran to the shore and launched themselves in a sleek ten-man canoe. Though the flatboat was now several hundred yards distant as it drifted with the Ohio’s strong current, it was clear that the powerfully paddled canoe would overtake them very quickly.