by Allan Eckert
Most of the Indians, remaining out of sight, paced the survivors back to the main army, where they expected the American commander would surely put his whole force into movement to return to the scene bristling for a major engagement. Gen. Harmar did indeed put them into movement, but not toward the scene of the attack; he ordered a retreat.
The soldiers were furious at the movement and their anger became intensified the farther away they marched. They could not understand why the army did not go back to the ambush scene, if for no other reason than at least to bury their own dead. Such a great outcry was made that when Harmar at last stopped to make camp for the night after a march of eight miles, he reluctantly agreed to let another detachment go out—this time a body of 360 men.710 They started out after dark under the command, once again, of Col. Hardin, but with Maj. John P. Wyllys heading the 60 regulars.
Once again the Indians were amazed that the American general would weaken his main force in such a way, but jubilant that he had done so. This detachment, arriving at Kekionga in the early morning light of October 22, then gravely weakened itself by splitting into four bodies and moving into different quarters of the town. Again the Indians were delighted, since they could not have withstood an onslaught by the full detachment. Now it was another matter, and they did not hesitate. With Blue Jacket and Michikiniqua leading them, they struck all four sections of the detachment in an assault so devastating in its intensity that the sections of the detachment fell apart and could not fully recover. The engagement, a series of harsh skirmishes, lasted three hours, and during the fierce fighting 113 more Americans were killed. The Indians had scored a second victory more than half again as substantial as the first. What little resistance was offered was quickly beaten down, and the survivors plunged into full retreat back to the main army with the horrifying news.
Once again the troops expected Gen. Harmar would now lead the remaining 1,270 men back in a furious full-army assault against the warriors. These troops were still fresh, their weapons not yet even fired and they were extremely eager to retaliate. But Harmar, swaying under the influence of the alcohol he had consumed, once again ordered a full retreat.711 It was begun on October 23, and this time he was determined not to stop, fearing that the wounded and sick among them, as well as their provisions and ammunition, would fall to the enemy. The artillery, brought along so laboriously, had never been used, and much of the army’s equipment, provisions and ammunition—as well as the packhorses carrying the goods—were abandoned and quickly taken by the Indians.
Blue Jacket, in the Indian encampment, argued hard for the Indians to follow up their victories with assaults against the main body of troops in retreat, saying that even though the Indians were still greatly outnumbered, the army was so demoralized that they could easily throw it into a full panic that might well result in the ultimate destruction of the entire army. Besides, their own number had now more than doubled, with the arrival only hours ago of a contingent of 150 Sac and Fox Indians from the Illinois country. Michikiniqua, however, advised that they should be satisfied with what they had accomplished, that to try for more was to tempt fate and they would risk turning victory into disaster. A vote was taken and the majority sided with Michikiniqua, so no follow-up attack was made.
The campaign statistics told the story quite clearly: 183 soldiers had been killed, including 75 regulars.712 Only 27 Indians had been killed outright and 18 wounded, of which three later died.713 Even as Harmar’s army was still making its way home, word was being carried by jubilant Indian runners throughout the Northwest: A force of only 150 Indians had attacked—and defeated!—an American army ten times its size. There was little doubt that if and when it became necessary again to mount an Indian force to strike an American army, they would have far more warriors than were with them on this occasion.
Harmar’s remaining army continued the march, the dispirited and all-but-rebellious troops little resembling the eager men who had set out on the campaign, and had reached Fort Washington at Cincinnati only a few hours ago. The volunteers had been quickly discharged, and the regulars retired to their barracks. And now Gen. Josiah Harmar, in his own private quarters, drank more of his brandy and resumed working on the draft of his report to Secretary of War Henry Knox.714
[November 14, 1790—Sunday]
Blue Jacket studied the officer seated before him at the headquarters desk in Detroit and wondered if he would be able to convince him of how much it would be in the British interest to give greater support to the Indians in their continuing struggle against the Americans. Though he had been gratified with their recent victories over Gen. Harmar, Blue Jacket was not foolish enough to think the Indian cause was won. As he had firmly told the council of chiefs that met immediately after that action, the Shemanese would come again, and it would be with a larger and stronger army and almost surely with a better commander.
While Blue Jacket studied him, Maj. Patrick Murray, commanding officer at Detroit, looked with interest at this tall, dark-haired man who was war chief of the Shawnees and, along with Little Turtle, one of the most imposing and influential figures among all the tribes of the Northwest. Even though the odds had been stacked against them, those two skilled Indian leaders had, to the utmost satisfaction of British agents Alexander McKee, Matthew Elliott, William Caldwell and Simon Girty, given the American army a severe drubbing and sent Gen. Harmar running back to Fort Washington with his tail between his legs. This was the first time he had ever met Blue Jacket and the very aspect of the man impressed him, as did his marvelous command of the English language. Further, what he most appreciated was the fact that, unlike the multitude of other chiefs he had spoken with in the past, Blue Jacket did not equivocate in his comments nor cloak his remarks in convoluted metaphoric phraseology. When he spoke, the words were, in fact, disconcertingly direct.
Continuing where he had left off a moment ago, Blue Jacket spoke again in a low, level voice: “Whether or not you are willing to admit it, Major, you British are dependent upon us for the continuance of the trade you enjoy in the Northwest. We, the Shawnees, are closest to the Americans and bear the brunt of every incursion into the Ohio country. The Wyandots are next, and they have helped us much in the past, though not in what has just happened on the Maumee. Because of our triumph, they have indicated they will help us again. The Miamis are next, and they are under Michikiniqua—the one you call Little Turtle—and they sometimes help us fend off the Shemanese. The Potawatomies are next, but they are far from the Americans. They have suffered few losses and are only halfway in their help to us. Some bands support us, such as those near here at Detroit and those on the St. Joseph, but others prefer to remain aloof. We continue to ask their help but do not know if we will get it. Whether or not we do, help from you must be given, or the British—and their trade—will be eliminated from the Northwest.”
Maj. Murray was even more impressed. Virtually these same thoughts in different words had been sent to him by a committee of merchants and traders of Detroit, with the request that he relay the message to the governor-general of Canada. That message had put things in terms of economics, often the most important means to get the attention of governmental officials, including even the King. They had written:
To his Excellency … the memorial and petition of the merchants of Montreal trading to the Indian or upper country humbly showeth that your memorialist being ardently engaged in the Indian or upper country trade of the province are not a little alarmed for the safety of the property which they have entrusted to the Indian country by reason of the late attempt of the Americans to establish by force a post or posts on the frontiers of the province near Detroit. That should such attempt be attended by success, it is evident that the Indian trade to the south of Lake Erie must fall into their hands to the loss and prejudice of the province in the sum not short of £30,000 sterling. That from so near a vicinity to Detroit your memorialist cannot help suspecting that the views of obtaining that key to the west or the northwe
st are strongly entertained by our rival neighbors; and they consider with much pain that should they possess themselves of Detroit, they will have in their power the means of commanding the whole western and northwestern trade, which your memorialist esteem to produce returns for British manufactories, chiefly in furs, to the value of £150,000 sterling. Your memorialist might remark on the bad consequences which would follow in particular to the new settlement should our neighbors become masters of the post of Detroit, but knowing that your Lordship can better discern than they can point out, the political injuries which the province would sustain in such an event, they confine themselves solely to the Indian trade, of which from long expense and extensive dealings they can speak with certainty and precision. Your memorialist are aware that by the Treaty of Peace of 1783, a great part of the Indian country was ceded to the American states, but having carried on the trade of that country as was usual before and during the war under the protection and safeguard of the government; your memorialist not having since the peace encountered any difficulty from the subjects of the American states, have been led to extend the Indian trade farther west than formerly, from which circumstances their property and connections in that country being greater and more widely extended, any sudden check to their commercial pursuits would occasion their ruin.
Maj. Murray was only too keenly aware that already two major British trading posts—Peter Loramie’s and John Kinzie’s—had been destroyed, and others were in jeopardy. The recent invasion by Gen. Harmar’s army—despite the fact that he had been defeated and forced back to the Ohio River—had obviously alarmed the Detroit traders tremendously. Now here was this Shawnee chief underlining the problems that lay ahead if British help were not provided.
“You have given us some guns and ammunition,” Blue Jacket continued after a slight pause, “and supplies of food and blankets and fabric. But what we need most is support by men. Armies! Give us soldiers and officers and artillery. Support us, just as you wish us to support your interests in our territory. This I can say”—his expression had grown more stern—“if you do not help us, we will be forced to abandon our homes and withdraw beyond the Mississippi.”
Maj. Murray toyed with the handle of a brass letter-seal for a moment, considering how to respond to this chief who was so unlike the others, knowing intuitively that platitudes and empty promises were not the answer. He had no authority to commit British forces to such an end, yet was quite painfully aware of the need to do so; just as he was painfully aware that if he did, it could easily provoke a new war with the Americans and, on a personally much more important level, be instrumental in the ruination of his own military career. Instructions had just come from Gov. Guy Carleton—Lord Dorchester—that he was to be effusive in his praise to the Indians for what they had accomplished but in no way to commit the British to allying themselves with the tribes in the new war that had just broken out. Should the British openly participate, there was little doubt that two of the most important targets the Americans would aim for would be His Majesty’s posts at Niagara and Detroit, both of which were not only of great strategic value in the Northwest but also of tremendous commercial value. Further, while upper-echelon British governmental officials were certain they would soon have to fight another war with the Americans, they were not at this time ready to do so, since they were presently enmeshed in difficulties with France that were taking most of their energies, manpower and material. Having given these matters momentary consideration, Maj. Murray turned his attention back to the powerful Shawnee chief standing before him.
“Chief Blue Jacket,” he said at last, “you must continue to protect the barrier between the white and red people, and you must not forsake the trade that links us together in amity and interest. I have the utmost sympathy for the position and needs of the Shawnees in this matter, and I commend you for the brilliant defense you have made of your country. I will give you whatever support it is in my power to give, and I will relay your words to your great father, the King, for his consideration and direction. You have stated your right to the country you are defending. You are the best judges of the rights by which you hold your lands. Your country, you say, has not been given away. You cannot then be blamable in being unanimous to defend it.”
Blue Jacket frowned, not entirely sure what Maj. Murray was saying—or not saying. “Your words,” he said slowly, “circle like the birds that never land. I will try to catch them and take them back to my people to hear. I will take the weapons and ammunition you have given us, and those they will understand. We will wait to see what your great father, the King, has to say. And we expect he will help his Indian children as they have helped him.”
[December 12, 1790—Sunday]
“I never should’ve gone on that damned hunt,” Whittaker mumbled, just before he lost consciousness.
From the very beginning, Daniel C. Whittaker had no idea why he had agreed to go with the party from Wheeling. It had all begun with the stories that were going the rounds at Wheeling and the other settlements that the deer hunting to be had along Stillwater Creek was so phenomenally good as to be all but unbelievable. The big problem, of course, was that Stillwater Creek was a tributary of the Tuscarawas and was located across the Ohio, well into Indian territory, and the Indians had been marauding very frequently this year.
As the season had progressed toward early winter, however, the Indian attacks along the upper Ohio had diminished considerably, and it was the general belief that the Indians themselves, as was their habit, had largely gone away on their own winter hunts. Thus a group of 14 men from the Wheeling area decided that if there was ever a time to check out the fabulous hunting along Stillwater Creek, now was that time, and they invited Whittaker to go along for a week’s hunt. Against his better judgment he had agreed.
Stillwater Creek was really not all that far away from Wheeling; a simple crossing of the Ohio right at Wheeling and then up Indian Wheeling Creek to its headwaters—a distance of about 18 miles, then a few miles over a ridge or two to the headwaters of the Stillwater, and down that stream another four or five miles to the prime hunting area—a good day’s hike with a total distance of 25 to 30 miles.
In retrospect, Whittaker realized the Indians had doubtless been aware of their presence in the Ohio country from the moment they crossed the Ohio. They had surely watched the white hunters, biding their time and not showing themselves. How much better for them to defer a strike against these foolish whites until they were finished with their hunting and had bundled up their packs of hides and parcels of meats and were ready to start the trip back.
The hunting had been exceptionally good. On one day alone they had accounted for 56 deer, three bears and a good number of other game. Only twice had a day passed without at least 20 deer being taken. By the time they had hunted for six days, they had all the meat and hides it would be possible to carry on the four packhorses they had brought with them. Over the campfire the evening before last, they had congratulated themselves on their skill and chortled over the fact that what they would bring back to Wheeling the following day would feed everyone there for a long time to come.
Since they had not seen the first indication of Indians in the area during these days of hunting, they all felt quite secure and decided they did not need to post a guard as they had on previous nights. Everyone wanted to be well rested for the trip back to Wheeling.
It was at about two or three o’clock in the morning yesterday, when all the men, Whittaker included, were rolled up in their blankets and asleep around the fire, when the war party of Wyandots and Mingoes struck. There was no way of knowing for sure how many attackers there had been, but Whittaker estimated somewhere between 20 and 30. They had crept up close to the camp and then, at a signal from one of their number, had fired simultaneously at the blanket-wrapped sleepers. In that single moment, 14 men from Wheeling were killed.
The sole exception was Dan Whittaker. Miraculously, not a single shot had been directed at him. He r
emained dead still and, peeping out from the folds of his blanket, saw the Indians begin moving from one to another of the dead men, scalping them and taking their blankets and guns and anything else that might have any use or value.
Whittaker had always been an athletic man, very fleet of foot, and one of the feats he could still perform was being able to lie flat on his back and, in a single bound, spring up and land on his feet. He resolved that when the Indians came to scalp him, he would make such an effort, toss his blanket over the heads of the closest Indians, snatch up his flintlock—which lay on the ground beside him—and try to speed away into the darkness before they could react. The greatest impediment, he realized, was the fact that there were patches of snow on the ground and he did not have his moccasins on—they had been hung on sticks near the fire to dry out during the night.
The dead man to his right was being scalped, and two other Indians were leaning over him when he sprang up as planned. The startled warriors jerked back, and as he landed on his feet, he flicked his blanket into their faces, grabbed his rifle and plunged away toward the darkness. A furious howling erupted from the Indians and several threw hatchets or scalping knives at him, all of which missed except one tomahawk. The handle of that weapon struck his shoulder a stunning blow, causing him to drop his rifle. The tomahawk spun to the ground ahead of him and he scooped it up as he ran past and continued his desperate race.