That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  General Wayne is unquestionably the most active, vigilant, and enterprising Officer in the American Service, and will be tempted to use every exertion to justify the expectations of his countrymen and to efface the Stain which the late defeat has cast upon American Arms.

  So now the die had been cast, and the next step was for Gen. Wayne to begin gathering his army. The Congress was all too uncomfortably aware that, with the destruction of St. Clair’s army, the total number of United States regulars in the west had dropped to only 750 officers and men, and the funds appropriated—$1,026,477.05—were specifically designated to raise, pay and equip a new United States Army of 5,000 regulars, of which “an adequate proportion” were to be assigned to Maj. Gen. Wayne and his second-in-command, the newly promoted Brig. Gen. James Wilkinson, for an expedition against the Indians of the Northwest. Wayne, as directed, immediately moved his headquarters to Fort Pitt to begin amassing a force of 2,500 men that Secretary of War Henry Knox had quickly dubbed the Legion of the United States. He arrived at Fort Pitt on June 14 and was saluted by a discharge of the artillery.

  Wayne was given one year in which to build his army to its requisite strength and, during that interval, to mold the men into a strong, highly disciplined force. He meant to do exactly that, if at all possible. Yet already it was apparent that it was going to be difficult to raise the number of men authorized by Congress. Enlistments were very slow and practically all of the men who came were very young, hardly older than boys, seeking adventure or escaping from lives they simply didn’t like.

  Gen. Wayne was also informed that several different peace overtures were in progress with the western tribes and that should those efforts bear fruit—which all believed to be highly unlikely—Wayne’s efforts at building the army might be largely in vain. In the meantime, however, to show the good intentions of the United States, it was imperative that during this interval of contact with the tribes, no offensive measures be launched by any force against them. It was Gen. Wayne’s responsibility, therefore, to instruct all the various frontier county lieutenants of Pennsylvania, Virginia and Kentucky of this directive.

  Because there were many similar letters to be written, Wayne kept the message brief and terse, beginning with the Kentucky counties in order to instantly forestall any plan the new State of Kentucky might have been harboring, now that it was no longer controlled by Virginia, to move against the Indians. His first letter was directed to Col. Henry Lee:

  Head Quarters, Pittsburgh, June 23, 1792

  Sir: The President of the United States has thought it proper to endeavor to come to some explanation with the hostile Indians in order to lead to such measures as will, eventually, be productive of a General Peace. In the interim, and until the effects of those overtures are known, it would be highly improper that any hostile attempts should be made against any of the Indian towns or settlements, however laudable that kind of zeal and enterprise may be in due time and season.

  I am therefore ordered by the President, and I do hereby, in his name, most solemnly forbid and restrain any attempts being made against any of the Indian towns until the result of the aforesaid overtures for peace are known; but this restraint does not extend to prohibit the severest punishment against all hostile parties of Indians who may be found hovering upon the frontiers. You will, therefore, govern yourself accordingly.

  [July 15, 1792—Sunday]

  The James Stoops cabin was on land that had originally been claimed by Brig. Gen. Edward Hand when he first came to Fort Pitt as its new commander in early 1777. Stoops had been, in fact, a private in Gen. Hand’s Royal Irish Regiment and was one of several soldiers in the unit who had liked the wild beauty of the upper Ohio River area and decided to sink his roots there. Neither an adventurer nor a landclaimer himself, he had heard of Gen. Hand’s extensive claims up Chartier’s Creek and the fact that the general was willing to sell certain plots. When he applied to the general for this purpose, Hand told him where the lands were located from which he could choose, and Stoops had immediately gone there, liked what he saw and bought a small parcel only a few acres in size.

  The land he chose was just a little less than three miles up Chartier’s Creek from its mouth, on the east side of the creek and at the far end of a broad, slightly sloping bottom that angled gently upward from the creek for about a mile to the base of a steep hill. Stoops had built his cabin on that gentle rise, about three-quarters of a mile from the creek itself and some 65 feet above the stream. Directly behind the cabin a heavily forested hill rose steeply to a crest 140 feet above the cabin. It was a lovely location with a beautiful vista looking down over the sloping meadow to the creek and not really very far from Fort Pitt—six miles by water to the nearest point on Chartier’s Creek and only a little over three miles by land, following the path going directly over the hills eastward.751

  James Stoops and his wife, Jane, were among the very first settlers of the little Chartier’s Creek Valley. For over 15 years they had lived in this cabin he built, gradually expanding it over the years to accommodate their steadily growing family, until now it was quite an extensive log house with six rooms and, close by, a cow barn and smaller attached milkhouse at a little spring, two smaller log sheds and a rather large outhouse. Even though, over the years, they had never been threatened by Indians, several attacks had occurred against settlers who had built their cabins close to the banks of the creek and, especially, those located closer to its mouth at the Ohio River.

  Those years they had been here were generally good ones for James and Jane—Janie, as he called her.752 When they had first come to this area and settled on the land, they had four young sons, and during the interval they had lived in this cabin, she had borne him 11 more sons and one daughter—a total of 16 children, making theirs among the largest single families in the entire Pittsburgh area. Ebenezer and Elizabeth Zane, who had thus far had 13 children, were acquainted with the Stoopses and jokingly said they kept trying to catch up to them, but the Stoopses always managed to stay ahead.753 One of the eldest Stoops sons, who was a bit of a wag, made a remark that remained with the family through the years, saying, “There are fifteen brothers in the Stoops family, and each of the brothers has a sister.”

  Even in the worst of times previously, when Indian attacks had occurred with frequency and sometimes within a couple of miles or so of their place, the Stoopses had always felt themselves quite secure, and James Stoops was fond of lauding himself for having selected so safe an area in which to build a home. Yet, ever since St. Clair’s disastrous defeat, a prevailing sense of apprehension had settled over the family. In the eight months since that defeat, the Indians had become extremely bold in their attacks, striking families practically in the shadow of smaller forts in some settlements and even on the very outskirts of some of the larger communities, including Wheeling, Washington and Pittsburgh. It was a very nerve-wracking time.

  Yesterday, Jane Stoops was particularly nervous, as word had come early in the day that the John McCandless family, who lived along Chartier’s Creek only three miles distant, had been attacked. McCandless was another of the soldiers originally of Gen. Hand’s Royal Irish Regiment and a close friend of the Stoopses. Just after dawn, so the Stoopses learned, the Indians had attacked, and, while the McCandless family had been able to hold the attackers off from within their cabin and no one was hurt, their three horses had been stolen, their two cows and three pigs killed and the combined cow barn-stable burned.

  For the first time since their departure, Jane Stoops was particularly grateful that all but one of her children were away. Four of the five youngest were presently in Pittsburgh, attending school, while the baby of the family, three-year-old William, was here at the cabin. The other 11 had all left here three months earlier on a very special trip that the family had discussed for many years—a trip to Mother Ireland, the origin of their parents, to stay for a year with close kin whom they might otherwise never get to meet and to experience for the first time th
eir roots in the soil of King’s County.

  All through the day yesterday, after learning of the attack on the McCandless place, Jane Stoops had been very jumpy. Half a dozen times or more, while outside the cabin or when peering from the windows, she had thought she detected furtive movements in the woods or fields. Each time, she told James what she thought she had seen, and each time, when he looked, there was nothing.

  “Ah, darlin’,” he finally told her lightly, attempting reassurance, “t’is shadows ye’re leapin’ at, not Injens. The spooks have taken ye by t’hand, they have.”

  Despite his seeming nonchalance, James Stoops was also experiencing an uncommon case of nerves. Though he told himself it was silly and that there was nothing to fear, he had strongly barred the cabin door from the inside, as well as all the heavy wooden shutters, before they retired for the night. He had even reprimed his rifle and leaned it against the wall close to their bed, placing powderhorn and shot pouch close at hand. Jane Stoops’s apprehension had lingered, and twice before midnight she had risen silently from their bed and, at different sides of the cabin, briefly opened a shutter and peered fearfully out toward the deeply shadowed woods and silvery meadow grasses beneath a ghostly three-quarters moon. Each time, although there was nothing to visibly alarm her, the fears persisted. Finally, however, she fell into a deeper, uneasy sleep.

  It was three hours after midnight and two hours or more before dawn when the Stoopses were awakened by the sound of the cabin door being pushed against its bolting bar and then the heavier impact of something, no doubt a log, being smashed against it to break through. Indian voices could be heard outside, and to the din was added the cries of three-year-old William, who had awakened and was terrified. Jane snatched him up and held him close in her arms while James grabbed the flintlock and slung powderhorn and shot pouch over his shoulders. Then he shook his head and spoke grimly.

  “We can’t fight them off, lass. Too many. We’ll have to try t’get out the back window and over the hills. C’mon. An’ try t’keep William still, ye hear?”

  They went to the rear window and, while the battering at the door continued, James cautiously opened the shutter, saw no one and then swung open the window. The Indian voices came more clearly now, but all from the front side of the house. James handed Jane the gun and stood on a chair that enabled him to squeeze through the small opening. He reached back in and took the gun from her, set it against the outer wall and leaned back to take little William. As Jane lifted him up, the child began to scream and she clapped her hand over his mouth, whispering to him urgently to be quiet. Again she tried to lift him, and again, as soon as her hand left his mouth, he shrieked. Once more she put her hand over his mouth, terrifying him even more, and now she shook her head.

  “We cannot do it, James. They’ll hear ’im, and for certain it’ll be the end o’us. Go! Get away. Come back with help soon as ye can.”

  “No. I’ll not leave without ye, Janie, nor without William. C’mon, lift ’im again.”

  She did so and instantly his cries erupted anew, and she stifled them. “James,” she whispered urgently, “for the love o’God, go! Ye’ve got the youngun’s in Pittsburgh t’think of, too, y’know. They’ve got to have one o’us, don’t ye see? An’ the others’ll be back, too. William an’ me, we’ll hide in the ’tater hole an’ could be they’ll miss us. Come back with help if ye can. Oh, James, dammit man, go!”

  With her free hand, she abruptly pulled the window closed and bolted it and then swung the shutter shut and locked it as well. James, with no choice remaining, groaned and snatched up his gun and raced off up the slope. In a clearing 70 feet over the house, he looked back and saw a half-dozen or more shadowy Indian figures still smashing at the cabin door with the log. He aimed and fired at them and saw them leap apart. Two instantly ran toward the hill in pursuit of him. He turned and raced away up the dark wooded slope, hearing again the battering at the door of the cabin just as he reached the crest.

  Inside the cabin, Jane Stoops ran with William still in her arms to the main room and pushed aside the rocker over the two extrawide boards of the plank floor. She slipped her fingers into the slot and pulled upward, and both boards, attached to each other, came up as one, exposing the potato cellar—a cubicle compartment about four feet in each direction, empty at this time of year. The black hole yawning below frightened William as much as the window had, and try though she did to get him into the aperture with her, he fought and kicked and screamed in his terror, causing the Indians outside to redouble their efforts and making splinters fly into the room.

  Realizing that even if she got into the hole with him and pulled the planks back over them, his cries would give them away, Jane ran with William to the bedroom, jumbled the coverlets together in a heap at the foot and pulled them over him.

  “Darlin’, darlin’,” she whispered, “listen to me. Be a brave little man now and stop cryin’, y’hear? Now ye’ve got t’lie still. Don’t move, an’ no sounds! Ye’ve got t’do this, William. D’ye understand, son?”

  The little boy nodded and hid his face in the comforter as she covered him completely and then tossed a small pillow on the pile. Then she raced to the potato hole, lowered herself into it and pulled the pair of fitted planks over the gap just as the cabin door finally gave way and the Indians burst in. She heard the thudding of their feet as they plunged about above and the smashing of things being broken. Then came the sound she had most dreaded hearing. William suddenly screamed at the top of his lungs, and she knew they had discovered him. His cries became louder as he was carried into the main room, and she was terrified lest they kill him.

  “No!” she cried. “Don’t hurt him. Please, don’t hurt my little boy!”

  The sound of her voice stilled them as they peered about for its source. One who could speak broken English called out, “Woman! Where you are? Come out!”

  Jane Stoops told them where to look, and they lifted up the floorboards and pulled her out of the hole. William, being held by one of the seven Wyandots, was whimpering, and they let her go to him and take him. Then, as one guarded her and the child, the other four plundered the house of all they felt was of value to them, gorged themselves on the food they found and then set the place afire. They led Jane, carrying William, to the milkhouse, where they drank deeply of milk from a container kept cool in the spring. Then they killed the cow, took the Stoopses’ only horse and disappeared with their two captives in the darkness, the flames from the house lighting the predawn sky behind them.

  [July 18, 1792—Wednesday]

  The mission to the Sandusky Towns undertaken by Capt. Sam Brady, Johnny Wetzel and John Williamson had not accomplished much, except for what one could read between the lines.

  Wetzel and Williamson were both good men, and Brady was glad he had chosen them. Wetzel, at 22, had all the signs of becoming every bit as skilled a frontiersman as his brothers, Lewis and Martin, though he did not harbor quite the virulent hatred of the Indians that they held. Williamson was chosen not only because he was one of Brady’s most experienced and trusted Rangers but because he had been part of Brady’s party that set out to spy on the Sandusky Towns the first time, 12 years ago—a lifetime ago, it seemed.754

  They had dressed themselves as Indians to give themselves an edge if detected, but the journey to the Sandusky Towns had been relatively uneventful. They had kept to cover as much as possible all the way and, though they had seen two small parties of Indians at a distance, they were not themselves seen. On the upper Sandusky they had spied on Half King’s Town and were surprised and disappointed to find it almost devoid of men and the two trading posts on the other side of the adjacent fording place—John Leith’s and Alexander McCormick’s—both very quiet. Only a small number of women and children were on hand.

  A similar spying effort seven miles farther downstream at Monakaduto’s Town, close to the mouth of Tymochtee Creek, resulted in finding a similar situation: a good number of women, children and
elderly men, but only a handful of warriors. They surmised the warriors were either off on raiding parties or attending a major council somewhere, probably the latter. In order to find out, they took a Wyandot woman captive and tried to question her.755 Since she could not speak English and the three whites knew only a smattering of the Wyandot tongue, the questioning left much to be desired, but they gradually got the idea that a large council was being held at the mouth of the Cuyahoga. Knowing that that place had been a staging area for attacks in the past, they were half-convinced that a new strike was being organized there against the upper Ohio River settlements.

  It was far out of their way to go to the mouth of the Cuyahoga and their supplies were inadequate for the journey, but they went anyway, taking the Wyandot woman along with them as a captive. Keeping to cover, they followed the trail leading to the Cuyahoga’s mouth, but when they arrived there they found no one, not even any sign that a council had recently been held there. A war party of a dozen Wyandots was camped on the site, and Brady, Wetzel and Williamson observed them for a day, but they left hurriedly after their woman prisoner managed to escape during the night and disappear.756 They were sure she had gone to the Wyandot camp and would tell them her story—including the fact that the three of them were dressed as Indians. That would instantly put the warriors on their trail. Brady decided it would be too dangerous to follow the Cuyahoga upstream to the carrying place and then to the Tuscarawas just above the ruins of old Fort Laurens, as this would be the most likely route to follow and the warriors might get ahead of them and set an ambush.757 Instead, they headed southeast to strike the Mahoning, follow it to the Beaver and then downstream to Fort McIntosh.