That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  Even more than earlier this year, Josiah Harmar was greatly disenchanted with the way things were shaping up on this frontier. His first impression had been that he was being given a free hand in the planned campaign against the Miamis and Shawnees. He thought he would be provided with more regulars and good artillery. He thought the use of militia would be kept to a minimum. Gradually, however, all these convictions had been undermined.

  He had been very pleased, of course, when this year Congress created a genuine United States Army, though rather appalled that the total force of regulars, officers and men alike, amounted to only 1,216 individuals. He was even more disenchanted by the fact that while the majority of these men had been sent to garrison the western forts—primarily Forts Pitt, McIntosh and Washington—most of them were raw recruits. Moreover, he was authorized to raise 1,500 additional men from the militias of Kentucky and Pennsylvania on a temporary basis for the expedition to the Maumee. There were few things Harmar disliked more than trying to run a campaign with a force of combined regulars and militia. Then, even that boon, if such it could be called, was tempered by further instructions that he was not to undertake the expedition with the notion of engaging in all-out war; its principal business, rather, was simply to make a show of strength to intimidate the tribes and make them more responsive to the proposals of peace being offered—on United States terms.

  In accordance with the President’s instructions, both Harmar and Gov. St. Clair had spent the summer sending peace proposals to the tribes, an effort wholly wasted, Harmar thought, in view of the continued attacks occurring in the Ohio Valley. Both he and the governor had known from the beginning that there was no chance the tribes would agree to the ultimatums stated in the proposals; they were more the orders of a despot to his subjects than the sort of negotiations that should be undertaken between heads of state. So, simultaneous with the sending out of emissaries to the tribes, they also began raising their army from among the militia. Kentucky had promised 1,000 men, Pennsylvania 500. St. Clair, who was as eager as Harmar to smash the tribes, slyly noted to the general that using militia in this case might not be all that bad, since there was about them a sort of savage ferocity, fueled by the hatreds that the border attacks by the Indians had ignited, and that such a temperament for vengeance could be difficult to restrain. In fact, St. Clair had mused, perhaps it would be unnecessary, even improper, to attempt to restrain them. The Miamis and Shawnees at Kekionga, St. Clair pointed out, should be made to smart, and, of course, if the militiamen did take a harsh vengeance, the commander and his regulars could be held blameless, as these uncontrollable nonregulars would be at fault; if, St. Clair had added meaningfully, the general was not overly concerned that the militia should take the blame.

  “No one,” Harmar had replied at once, “can have a more contemptible opinion of the militia in general than I do.”

  The call for militia had been issued, and throughout the summer they had come to Fort Washington, though not quite in the numbers promised. Kentucky came through with 800 men, and the Pennsylvanians, who arrived under command of Maj. James Paull—who was anticipating his first really major action against the Indians since he had escaped in Crawford’s defeat eight years ago—amounted to only 300 men. It got worse. Maj. Paull, visibly uncomfortable, was forced to admit that these militia he brought were largely poverty-stricken men who had been hired as substitutes by wealthy men who had been named to go but did not wish to do so. Not only did most of these replacements have no experience in fighting Indians, they did not own guns or even know the fundamentals of loading and firing a musket or flintlock. So now Harmar had been placed in the position of having his own regulars try to cram the basics of weaponry, marching and discipline into the inexperienced militiamen.

  Then there was the matter of the secondary expedition. Harmar not only had a smaller force than he anticipated, he was notified that he might have to send some of his men as a reinforcement to Maj. John Hamtramck at Vincennes who, in concert with Harmar’s move, would be leading a force of about 350 men up the Wabash to strike the Kickapoos as well as the Wea subtribe of the Miamis, and also to intercept and overpower any Indians attempting to flee Harmar’s advance by descending the Wabash.

  The orders went on to direct Harmar to make quick movements in order to surprise the enemy, while at the same time taking care to avoid falling into ambush. He was told to be very firm with the tribes but, similarly, to avoid antagonizing any he encountered who showed inclination toward negotiating for peace.

  Now, as he sat at his desk, well in his cups, hand clenched around the long neck of the rum bottle, he reread the final paragraph from Henry Knox that he had found so insulting:

  It has come to my attention that you are having a personal problem; that You are too apt to indulge yourself to excess with a convivial glass. Be aware that you must control yourself in this respect as, if there is any trouble in this regard, your career and reputation will be blasted forever.

  Gen. Harmar lifted the bottle to his mouth, took a healthy swig and then slammed it down atop the secretary of war’s signature.

  “Bastard!”

  [October 13, 1790—Wednesday]

  “The Americans are still coming, Wehyehpihehrsehnwah?” asked Michikiniqua.

  “They are still coming, Michikiniqua,” Blue Jacket replied. “The spies say they are very close. Tomorrow, perhaps, or the day after.”

  Little Turtle nodded. “Good. We will do as planned. All have been instructed. They will be very sorry they came.”

  The co-commanders of the Indian force stood silently for a long moment, looking out across the expanse of Kekionga. Except for a few scattered warriors moving about, everyone was gone. Weeks ago the majority of the women and children had been sent to far-distant places for safety—to the villages of their Potawatomi allies on the Elkhart and St. Joseph rivers and the Ottawa and Huron villages near Detroit.

  The first information the Indians here had learned of the march planned against them by Gen. Harmar’s army had come from Maj. Patrick Murray, commander at Detroit. He had received a message from none other than Gov. St. Clair. The man who the Americans now said was governor over all the Indian territories had told him of the forthcoming campaign and had then had the audacity—or stupidity—to ask him to keep it secret from the tribes. Maj. Murray had instead sent messengers galloping here at once with a warning.

  Spies had been sent out immediately to watch the Harmar force and report on its progress, while at the same time urgent messages had been sent to the tribes to the north and west of them to come and aid them, as they had promised, when the danger grew near. The Potawatomies had quickly responded that they would be on hand to assist and boldly proclaimed that if and when Harmar showed up with his army, their own Potawatomi women would chase the soldiers away with switches; at the same time they told the Miamis and Shawnees to send them their women and children for their safety.

  By late August the regular spy reports coming from the vicinity of Fort Washington indicated that Harmar had gathered a force of just under 1,500 men who were drilling daily and that the posted general orders said the march against Kekionga would begin in September. As soon as word came that Harmar had actually begun his march and was bringing along with him three pieces of artillery, a council of the northwestern chiefs was called at Miamitown—the place formerly known as the New French Store—adjacent to Kekionga.705 They had not expected the Wyandots and Delawares to show up, since both tribes were inclined, for the moment, toward peace and had been listening to the messages of St. Clair. They had, however, expected a large turnout of their allies from the other tribes—Potawatomies, Kickapoos, Ottawas, Chippewas, perhaps even some Winnebagoes and Foxes and Sacs—and in that they had been sorely disappointed. Only a few more than 100 Indians had shown up, most of them the Shawnees and Miamis themselves, but with a scattering of Potawatomies. That was when the Indians themselves had become fearful at the smallness of their own number when compared with
Harmar’s force of nearly 1,500 coming toward them. Even the arrival of 50 Ottawas in response to the appeal for help had done little to raise their hopes.706 That still made the odds against them virtually ten to one, but they harbored no thought of turning tail.

  The assembled Indians had selected Wehyehpihehrsehnwah and Michikiniqua—Blue Jacket and Little Turtle—as co-leaders in the coming confrontation, and all the whites at Kekionga—the British, the few French, the American turncoats—were warned to leave the area until the danger was past. The greater part of Kekionga was then set afire. Many of the rebuilt Shawnee towns such as Mackachack, Wapatomica, Blue Jacket’s Town, Wapakoneta and Kispoko Town—or, as some called it, McKee’s Town—were similarly evacuated and burned, and all the women and children were transported to the temporary camps on the Elkhart River headwaters.

  Since then, with considerable apprehension, the defenders had been waiting while the spies reported Harmar’s army coming ever closer. While they waited, Little Turtle and Blue Jacket had gone over their strategy on how to best the Americans. That was when they had decided, in view of their far fewer numbers than the enemy, to remain out of sight and let Harmar think everyone had fled in the face of such danger. Then, when his defenses were lowered enough to create a vulnerability of which they could take advantage, they would attack.

  [October 15, 1790—Friday]

  The expedition led out of Vincennes and up the Wabash River by Maj. John Francis Hamtramck ended as the force returned to Vincennes today after a march of more than 200 miles.

  In accordance with his orders from the secretary of war, Hamtramck had put his little army of 350 men on the move to intercept any Indians fleeing from Gen. Harmar’s advance far to the east, but they had problems from the very beginning. First, the anticipated supplies for the expedition had not arrived, and there had been considerable discussion among the officers over the wisdom of beginning such a campaign without the proper provisions and ammunition. Maj. Hamtramck, however, had nipped such talk quickly and sharply; their orders were to embark on the expedition and that was what they were going to do, so long as the men were capable of marching and fighting. They would simply have to accept the fact that they would be on limited rations, and whatever shooting was to be done would be by carefully selecting targets and not wasting ammunition.

  Even worse, however, was that during the first few days of the march more than half the men fell ill with a highly debilitating virus that made its appearance the very day of their departure. Only a few men were stricken at first, but it spread rapidly, and by the fourth day out, close to 200 of the men were afflicted, including Maj. Hamtramck. Fevers, vomiting and a pervasive weakness plagued them and their progress was excruciatingly slow.

  At the mouth of the Vermilion they found several Indian villages that were vacant; the warriors had gone up the Wabash to aid in the impending battle with Gen. Harmar’s advancing force, while the women and children had been evacuated hurriedly as soon as it was discovered that Hamtramck’s force was approaching. Without opposition the army had burned the villages and destroyed the crops, but the effort of doing even that had been so exhausting in their present condition that Maj. Hamtramck finally agreed that it would be foolish, perhaps suicidal to continue, and he ordered their return to Vincennes.

  It was very fortunate he did so. Awaiting them somewhat farther up the Wabash near Ouiatenon and the Tippecanoe River was a large body of Potawatomies, Kickapoos and Weas, poised to attack them ferociously when they marched into the ambush that had been prepared. When the Indians discovered the American force had turned back, some of them tried to overtake and cut off the column, but an attack was never made.

  So now the army was back in the fort unharmed, having accomplished virtually nothing and, unbeknownst to them all, having avoided a great disaster only by the narrowest of margins.

  [November 3, 1790—Wednesday]

  The good fortune that the army of Maj. Hamtramck experienced was not reflected in the expedition of Gen. Josiah Harmar. Though all the odds were on his side in respect to manpower, weaponry and provisions, his campaign had become, by any yardstick other than his own, a humiliating disaster. Yet, in the first carefully worded draft of his report to the secretary of war, Harmar, if not claiming outright victory, was giving a strong impression that the expedition had been every bit the success the government had desired. As he had just put it in the conclusion of that draft:

  No interruption whatever was offered by the enemy on our return; a convincing proof, this, of their having received a blow which they felt. I flatter myself good consequences will be the result. We have not, I conceive, lost much more than man for man with the savages. Our loss can be repaired: theirs is irreparable.

  It was a well-couched lie.

  Rarely, if ever, had any army of its size made such an unnecessary and incomprehensible botch of a campaign. Supported by two troops of cavalry and fully equipped with the newest and best firearms available, bolstered by artillery, well provisioned with food and ammunition and, most significantly, outnumbering the enemy by a margin of ten to one, they faced a pitifully small number of warriors armed with less-than-adequate muskets and flintlocks and with no artillery, a meager supply of ammunition and food supplies barely reaching subsistence level. Yet for every Indian killed, at least six Americans were killed; far in excess of the man-forman loss Gen. Harmar claimed. And though a few of the regular army officers chose to accept Harmar’s evaluation of the campaign and declare it a victory, Sgt. Benjamin Whiteman of the Kentucky militia expressed the feeling of by far the majority of the men when he remarked, “If that was victory, then I pray to God that I may never see defeat!”

  Most of the men could not remember any campaign that had begun more auspiciously. Among the troops, hopes had been very high, confidence unanimously strong, morale greatly elevated and prospects most encouraging. The whole strength of the army was 1,453 men, almost 80 percent of which were militia.707 The campaign had begun when, on September 26, Harmar sent the advance force of 1,133 militia marching out of Fort Washington under Col. John Hardin with orders to proceed on Clark’s trace for 25 miles and then to stop and await further orders. They drove with them the herd of beeves that would be the meat source for the troops on this campaign. Harmar and his 320 regulars left the fort at ten o’clock the morning of September 30, bringing along three pieces of artillery consisting of two brass cannon—a six-pounder and three-pounder—and a brass five-and-a-half-inch howitzer. They soon joined the militia, and the whole force moved northward.

  On October 6, as the army crossed the Little Miami at the site of the still-visible remains of Chalahgawtha, Gen. Harmar studied the old Indian town site and the surrounding countryside and noted in his log:

  All these Chillicothys are elegant situations—fine water near them and beautiful prairies. The savages know how to take a handsome position as well as any people on earth. When they leave a Chillicothy, they retire to another place and call it after the same name.

  As the army set up camp on the seventh evening of the march, the sentries caught an Indian nearby. Though he was one of the numerous spies keeping an eye on the army and reporting its progress to Michikiniqua and Blue Jacket, he convinced them he was merely trying to steal a horse. Everyone thought Harmar would question the man immediately but, when he was told about the prisoner, he called from inside his tent that he would question him in the morning. The fact of the matter was, he was well into his cups in his private source of brandy and was enjoying it too much to be interrupted.

  After some rather rough questioning in the morning, the captive admitted that the Miamis and Shawnees were collecting by the New French Store next to Kekionga at the head of the Maumee River and that Simon Girty had gone across Lake Erie to collect additional forces; that if he had returned with them by now, which was likely, the Indian force would be too strong for Harmar’s army to overcome. Gen. Harmar believed him and was considerably worried by the intelligence.

  Th
e army continued its march to the marsh-rimmed expanse of Indian Lake, then followed the old portage path to the upper Auglaize River and traced its course downstream to the Maumee. All this way they frequently saw Indians hovering about well out of range, but there were no skirmishes.

  Simon Girty was with the Indians now, observing what the American army was doing. When his presence was seen and reported to Gen. Harmar, the commanding officer paled. From that point on he seemed very nervous and upset.

  The Indians watched from hiding as the army turned upstream at the mouth of the Maumee and at length came to the newest Chalahgawtha of the Shawnees, now wholly abandoned and only a few miles downstream from Kekionga. Here the army made a more permanent camp and set about destroying crops and buildings. The Indians, biding their time, continued to watch as the army, still using Chalahgawtha as a base, entered Miamitown and burned the abandoned trading post of John Kinzie after plundering it of everything they wanted, then went on to burn all the other buildings that the Indians had not themselves burned during their evacuation. They watched with mute frustration and barely controlled anger as great portions of their cornfields were chopped down, stacked and burned and some 15,000 bushels of stored corn were destroyed, along with many other vegetables already harvested. They watched and they waited, keenly alert for the American commander to make any blunder, and at last they were rewarded.

  Incomprehensibly to Michikiniqua and Blue Jacket, on the morning of October 19, the American general unnecessarily split his force and sent out a detachment of 200 of his men. The detachment was under command of Col. Hardin, but Lt. John Armstrong commanded the 30 regulars included, who were in the van of the detachment. Their orders from Gen. Harmar were to range outward to the northwest, engage any enemy encountered and destroy whatever towns they found.708 As soon as the Indians determined what direction the detachment was heading, Blue Jacket and Michikiniqua led the Indian force swiftly around them out of sight and set up an ambush where the Indian trail passed through heavy brush in the Eel River bottom, northwest of Kekionga. Col. Hardin had not thought it necessary to send out a forward guard or flankers, and the whole detachment marched directly into the ambush. Shrieking and screaming, the Indians loosed a deafening barrage of shots, which served the planned purpose of making them seem to be a much larger force than they were. A demoralization close to abject panic took hold of the Americans, and they hastily retreated, leaving 70 men dead at the scene.709