"Stragglers Captured By The Savages"

       In my last post, I mentioned that some of the stragglers from Col. William Crawford’s army were not able to elude their Indian pursuers following the battle of Sandusky in June of 1782.  In this post, we will see what happened to the American commander and some of his men, as related by Butterfield.

       The confusion attending the commencement of the retreat of the Americans from their encampment in the grove, upon the Sandusky Plains, on the evening of the 5th of June, was the cause of the separation of Crawford from his command.  Just as the army moved off, he missed his son, John Crawford; his son-in-law, William Harrison; and William Crawford, his nephew; and, very naturally, at once made an effort to find them.  He called aloud for them, but there was no response.  His aid, too, Major Rose (he was called "major" by all the volunteers, although his real rank in the regular army was lieutenant, as we have already seen), was not just then by his side; so he called out for him also.

       At this moment, Dr. Knight came up and remarked to Crawford that he thought they were all ahead of them. He then said those he was looking for were not in front, and begged Knight not to leave him.  The doctor promised him he would not.  Both waited and continued calling for the absent men until the troops had all passed them.  The colonel then told the doctor that his horse had almost given out; that he could not keep up with the troops, and wished some of his best friends to remain with him.  He then exclaimed against the militia for riding off in such an irregular manner, and leaving some of the wounded behind, contrary to his orders.  Presently there came two men riding after them, — one an old man, the other a lad.  These were inquired of as to whether they had seen any of the missing men before mentioned.  They answered in the negative.

       By this time, there was very hot firing before them; near where the main body of the army was, as they judged.  Their course was then nearly southwest.  They had arrived near the cranberry marsh in which some of the volunteers were struggling, in vain endeavors to disengage their horses from the oozy soil.  Crawford and his three companions now changed their course to the north, traveling in that direction about two miles.  They were then in what is now Crane township, Wyandot county, about a mile and a half northwest of the battle-ground.

       At this point, judging themselves to be out of the enemy's lines, they changed their route, traveling due east, taking care to keep at a distance of fifteen or twenty yards apart, and directing themselves by the north star.  They reached the Sandusky river, distant three miles, a little before midnight, crossing that stream just above the mouth of Negro run, a small affluent of the Sandusky, flowing from the eastward.

       The old man who was with them often lagged behind; and, when this happened, he never failed to call for those in front to halt for him.  When they were near the river, he fell one hundred yards behind, and called out, as usual, for the party to wait.  While the others were preparing to reprimand him for making a noise, an Indian was heard to halloo, at a distance of about one hundred and fifty yards, as believed by, Knight, from the man, and partly behind him.  After this, he was not heard to call again, and they saw him no more.

       They then traveled onward, soon passing into what is now Eden township, in the county last mentioned.  By daylight, they had crossed into the present county of Crawford, at a point about two miles northwest of the spot where the town of Oceola, in Todd township, is now located,—only eight miles distant, in a direct line, from the battle-field.  Their progress had necessarily been slow on account of the darkness, and the jaded condition of their horses; those that Crawford and the young man were riding now gave out, and they left them.

       They again continued their journey—in a direction, however, more to the southeast.  At two o'clock in the afternoon [June 6], they fell in with Captain Biggs, who had carried Lieutenant Ashley from the field of action, dangerously wounded.  Traveling an hour longer, the heavy rain set in, which has been previously described; and they concluded it was best to encamp, as they were now incumbered [sic] with the wounded officer.  It was just as they came up with Biggs and Ashley that the battle of Olentangy commenced—particulars of which have already been narrated.  The battle-field was at a point in the Plains six miles distant, in a southeast direction. The place where the party made their camp was in what is now Holmes township, Crawford county, nearly two miles north of Bucyrus.  They had traveled only about nine miles since daylight.  They were in the woods and had been ever since midnight; the open country was two miles to the south of them.¹

        [June 7^th] As Lieutenant Ashley was still riding Biggs' horse, Knight now lent the latter his.  Crawford and the doctor, both on foot, went about one hundred yards in front, Biggs and the wounded officer in the center, and the two young men behind.  They were now traveling along the south bank of the Sandusky, and a mile and a half brought them to the point just east of Leesville, where the army, when outward bound, first struck the river.  Here several Indians started up within fifteen or twenty steps of Crawford and Knight.  As only three were at first discovered, the doctor got behind a large black oak, made ready his piece, and raised it to take sight, when Crawford called to him twice not to fire.

       One of the Indian's ran up to Crawford and took him by the hand.  The colonel again told Knight not to fire, but to put down his gun, which he did.  At that instant one of the Indians came up to him, whom he had formerly seen very often, calling him "doctor," and taking him by the hand.  The party had fallen into an ambuscade of Delaware Indians, whose chief was Wingenund, and whose camp was only half a mile away, in a northeast direction—Wingenund's camp, previously mentioned, distant twenty-eight miles in a straight line east of the battle-field.  As soon as the Indians were discovered by Biggs he fired among them, but did no execution.  "They then told us to call these people," says Knight, "and make them come there, else they would go and kill them, which the colonel did; but the four got off and escaped for that time.  The colonel and I were then taken to the Indian camp."  Captives to the Delaware Indians, we will leave Crawford and Knight at this point, to follow the fortunes of other stragglers from the army on the night of the 5^th of June.

       It will be remembered, that when the army left the grove on the evening the retreat began, three divisions, in marching around the camp of the Shawanese, struck the marsh that lay to the southwest of the battle-field, and that some of the men there lost their horses, which had stuck fast in the mire.  Among those who were unfortunate in this respect were John Slover, the pilot, and James Paull.  These men, with five others, all now on foot, being pressed by the savages, struck off together in a northerly direction, hoping thereby, as had Crawford and Knight, to avoid the enemy by taking a different direction from that followed by the army.  Two of the party, who had been in the same company with Slover, had lost their guns in the swamp.²

       During the night [June 6] they got out of the Plains, having crossed the paths made by the army in its advance, at a point about five miles east of the present site of Bucyrus.  They had traversed nearly the entire length of the open country—about forty miles from the Tymochtee creek by the route traveled; not very rapid walking, it is true; "but we would have made much greater progress," is the conjecture of Slover, "had it not been for two of our companions who were lame: the one having his foot burnt; the other being troubled with a swelling in his knee of a rheumatic nature."

       The party struck the woodland near the northeast corner of what is now Whetstone township, Crawford county, designing, very wisely, to keep north of the trail of the army, and to come in to Fort Pitt by way of Fort Mclntosh—the mouth of Beaver.  After traveling a few miles further into the woods, in a northerly direction, they changed their course due east, leaving the present sites of Crestline and Mansfield some distance to the south of them.

       During the day—the 7th of June, and the second after the retreat began—one of the company, the person affected with a rheumatic swelling, was left behind some distance in a swamp.  "Waiting for him some time," is the language of Slover," I saw him coming within one hundred yards, as I sat on the body of an old tree mending my moccasins; but, taking my eye from him, I saw him no more.  He had not observed our tracks, but had gone a different way. We whistled on our chargers, and afterward hallooed for him, but in vain."  He was fortunate, however, in missing his party, as he afterward arrived safe at Wheeling.³

       The six men started at daybreak the next morning [June 8], and at nine o'clock were within about twenty miles of the Tuscarawas, in what is now Wayne county.  Here they were ambuscaded by a party of Shawanese who had followed their path all the way from the Sandusky Plains.  The Indians killed two of the men at the first fire.  Paull was untouched, and, notwithstanding his burnt foot, ran for life and escaped.  Slover and the other two men were made prisoners.  Strange to say, one of the Indians was of the party which captured Slover when a boy, in Virginia.  He was recognized by him; came up and spoke to him, calling him by his Indian name—Mannucothe.  He upbraided him, however, for coming to war against them.

       The three prisoners were taken back to the Plains, where the Indians had some horses they had taken which had belonged to the Americans.  These were found; and after the whole party had mounted, they started for the Shawanese towns upon the Mad river, in what is now Logan county.  On the third day after their capture, they came in sight of a small Indian village.  Hitherto, the savages had treated their prisoners kindly, giving them a little meat and flour to eat, which they had found or taken from other captives.  Now, however, the Indians began to look sour.  The town they were approaching was not far from Wapatomica, their principal village—situated just below what is now Zanesfield, in Logan county—to which the savages intended to take their prisoners.  We will here leave the three unfortunate borderers, for the present, to narrate other incidents which transpired upon the Sandusky, after the enemy relinquished their pursuit of the retreating army.⁴

        The story of the captives is not over yet.  The details of their sufferings, Lord willing, we’ll look at in my next post.

Christ, not man, is King!

Dale

1)      C.W. Butterfield, An Historical Account of the Expedition Against Sandusky (Cincinnati, OH: Robert Clarke & Co., 1873), p. 311-4. 
2)      Ibid., p. 316-8. 
3)      Ibid., p. 319-21. 
4)      Ibid., p. 322-3.

The Stragglers Head For Home & Lewis Wetzel Hunts For a Horse

       In my last post, we looked at some incidents related to the retreat of Crawford’s army after it failed expedition to take the Indian town of Sandusky in June of 1782.  There were several members of the American army who had become separated from the main force in its retreat back across the Ohio.  These men were truly left to “fend for themselves.”  Some made it home; others did not.  In this post we’ll look at some of their stories, as well as a “bonus” Lewis Wetzel sighting!

       Some of the stragglers from the army, who became separated from it on the night the retreat began, got very much confused, as might be expected, in their endeavors to find the trail of the retreating troops.  A few, in despair of regaining it, and others out of abundant caution, struck directly through the wilderness, taking a due east course for the Ohio.  Some became completely bewildered.  Nicholas Dawson, a volunteer from Westmoreland, father of John Dawson of Fayette county, and then living about four miles from Beesontown, had become separated from his companions when the army began its homeward march, and was endeavoring to make his way eastward, when he was discovered by James Workman and a companion, going exactly from the Ohio and toward Sandusky!  These men endeavored to persuade him that he was wrong; but Dawson insisted, with equal pertinacity, that he was right.

       After some further attempts to convince him of his mistake, with no better success, they told him he would certainly be killed if he continued upon the course he had been traveling, and as he had better be shot by white men than be tortured to death, they would kill him to prevent him falling into the hands of the savages!  This argument proved successful, and he turned about reluctantly.  All arrived home in safety.

       In the confusion attending the commencement of the retreat from the battle-field of Sandusky, Philip Smith, who, it will be remembered, was wounded in the elbow during the action, became separated from his company.  With him was a companion named Rankin.  Smith was a young man—born in Frederick county, Maryland, in February, 1761—then residing near Beesontown (Uniontown), in Westmoreland county (in that part which soon after became Fayette), at the time of volunteering for the expedition.  Concerning the previous history of Rankin, nothing is known.

       Both had lost their horses.  They had their rifles and ammunition with them, but were without provisions.  Their guns were of little service, as they did not dare to shoot for fear of Indians.  They were compelled, therefore, to a very scanty diet, as a general thing, of berries, roots, and young birds (when these could be caught).  They traveled usually by night, wisely avoiding all trails.  After awhile, they came across an Indian pony which they resolved to kill for food.  As they were afraid to shoot it, Smith determined to dispatch the animal with his tomahawk.  This, however, proved no slight affair.  It dodged all blows aimed at its head.  Finally, Rankin held his hat over the pony's eyes, which enabled Smith to deal a blow that felled it to the ground.  The animal was then killed, cut open, and its liver taken out, which, after being broiled, was, to the two hungry men, a savory dish indeed!

       About the third night of their retreat, two men on horseback overtook them, and they then all traveled on together until a stream was reached having high banks, where the party fell into an ambuscade of savages, who had doubtless followed them from the Plains.  There were four of the enemy.  The two men on horseback were shot dead—their bodies falling into the stream.

       When the firing took place, Smith was in the act of drinking—he had just stooped down to the water.  A ball passed very near his head; he was, however, unhurt.  Seizing the gun of one of the men who had been shot, he ran up the bank, and turned around to fire at the Indians; but the savages were too quick for him and dodged behind trees.

       In the meantime, Rankin, who was also unharmed, was running for life.  Smith threw aside his gun and ran after his companion; the latter mistook him for an enemy and three times turned to shoot him; but Smith saved himself each time by "treeing."  Rankin finally discovered who it was so eagerly pursuing him; when he slackened his pace and was soon joined by Smith.  The two now ran on together and escaped the savages.  The men who were killed had been with them but a few hours, and their names they did not learn.

       The two did not halt the next morning as daylight appeared, but continued their journey, fearing pursuit by the Indians.  They came soon after upon a deserted Indian camp, which, it appeared from the signs, a number of savages had just left.  A man lay there scalped and dead, but his body was still warm.  He had drawn his hand over the scalp-wound several times and smeared himself with blood from it, showing that he had been scalped while still alive!  He had been shot apparently while on horseback.  It was the opinion of both Smith and Rankin that he was not one of the volunteers, as he rode a shod horse, and none to their knowledge in the expedition had shoes on.  The Indians, after killing him, had immediately fled, for what cause was of course unknown.  Their fires were yet burning, over which corn (hominy) was cooking.  This the two half-famished men tasted, but did not eat, for fear of its being poisoned;—the temptation was great, as may be imagined.

       After leaving this camp, no more Indians were seen; but that night, as Rankin was making himself a pair of moccasins from the skin of a horse they had found (his moccasins being worn out), savages were heard at a great distance, whereupon the two extinguished their fire and pursued their journey.  They reached home in ten days from the time of their leaving the battleground—foot-sore, nearly naked, and well-nigh perishing with hunger.

       The volunteers who had been fortunate in not losing their horses, found their animals very much jaded and reduced in flesh upon their return to the settlements.  Their progress homeward was, therefore, as a general thing, very slow.  Some came singly, others in squads; not a few were on foot.  No discharges had been given; none were expected.  Quite a number came on together as far as Catfish, dispersing thence to their homes.  John Sherrard left his companions at this point, to visit a cousin, Hugh Sherrard, on Miller's run.  He found his relative in mourning for a son who had been killed by the Indians, in April previous—the same sad story, so often repeated upon the border; in this instance, intensified by the fact of a young wife being left a widow.

        The home of Sherrard was with the widowed mother of James Paull, in what is now Dunbar township, Fayette county—where he soon after arrived, but could give no intelligence of the widow's son.  The last time he had seen James, was on the night of the commencement of the retreat, when, just as the army was about to start, he was observed fast asleep.  Sherrard gave him a shake, calling to him: "Up, James, and let us be off; they are all starting, and we shall soon be left behind!"  He saw him spring to his feet, but immediately lost sight of him in the darkness, and had not seen him since or heard of him.  The disconsolate mother had now the most fearful forebodings.  She was a woman regarded as a sincere Christian.  As her son's companions returned to the neighborhood, she would immediately send a messenger to inquire whether James had been seen or heard of.  But no intelligence came.  Sherrard vainly endeavored to console her with the assurance that her son would undoubtedly be home in a short time; but, like Rachel of old, she would not be comforted, because he was not.

       But of all those who suffered from hope deferred until the heart grew sick indeed, and then, when the facts were known, from a recital of them, none was more to be commiserated than the wife of the commander of the expedition.  Hannah Crawford had parted with her husband with a heavy heart.  As the volunteers, one after another, returned to her neighborhood, with what anxiety did she make inquiries of them concerning her companion!  But no one could give the disconsolate wife a word of information concerning him.  Her lonely cabin by the Youghiogheny was a house of mourning now.  After three weeks of dreadful suspense she learned the sad news of her husband's death in the wilderness. ¹

       Sherrard, whom we left at his home at the widow Paull's, as soon as he had obtained a little rest, started for Beesontown to return the pack-saddle to the wife of Daniel Harbaugh, which, it will be remembered, he had taken from his dead companion's horse, on the banks of the Sandusky.  The story of the tragic death of his comrade was a most heart-rending one to the distracted wife.  There was, nevertheless, this consolation in her deep sorrow: she knew he was dead, and knew, too, the particulars of his last moments.  It was not with her as with a few who never after heard of their loved ones—not a fearful uncertainty, until death itself would have been a relief.

       Nearly all those who had become separated from the main body of the army, had, upon their return, the same story to tell of suffering from hunger; as only a few were fortunate enough to have preserved a sufficient supply of provisions.  Several had lost either their guns or ammunition; they could not therefore rely upon killing any game on the way.  It is related of one volunteer who reached home nearly famished that he cut up in small pieces his buckskin breeches and ate them with a relish.  Many saved their lives by eating serviceberries, which at that season of the year were ripe, and in some places found in abundance.  That some may have died in the wilderness of starvation, is not improbable, though the number must have been small.

       As might be expected, those on horseback were the first usually to reach their homes.  Some had been compelled to leave their horses in the wilderness and pursue their way, as best they could, on foot.  Thomas Mills met with this mishap.  His animal gave out at a spot near where St. Clairsville, county-seat of Belmont county, Ohio, now stands, and whither he had wandered in his endeavors to reach the Ohio.  He left his horse at what was known as the "Indian Spring," about nine miles from the river; then in the wilderness of course, now on the National Road.  Mills soon after reached Wheeling in safety.  He then proceeded to Van Metre's fort; when, after a day or two of rest, he began to think of returning for his horse.  At this time there was at the fort the famous hunter and Indian fighter, Lewis Wetzel.  Mills applied to Wetzel to accompany him in search of his horse.  The cautious backwoodsman discouraged the attempt and cautioned him of the danger.  But Mills was determined to recover his animal at every hazard; and Wetzel was not the one to refuse help because of peril, however imminent it might be.  So the two started.

       Rapidly, but cautiously, they made their way into the wilderness.  Approaching the spring, they discovered the horse, not however as he had been left, tut tied to a tree.  Wetzel at once comprehended the danger, signaled his companion, and then turned and ran for life.  Mills, however, rushed up to unfasten his animal, when instantly a discharge of rifles followed, and the unfortunate man, after having escaped all the dangers of the Sandusky campaign, fell mortally wounded.  The volley did not slacken the speed of Wetzel, who plunged through the enemy's ambuscade, followed now by four fleet savages, whooping in proud exultation of soon overtaking their intended victim.

       After a chase of half a mile, one of the most active of his pursuers approached so close that Wetzel was afraid he might threw his tomahawk, and suddenly wheeling, shot the savage dead in his tracks.  It was now that the habit he had acquired, of loading his gun while in full run, was put in requisition.  Keeping in advance of the Indians for another half-mile, a second one came up so close to him that he was again compelled to turn at bay.  But the savage this time was so near him as to catch the end of his gun, and for a time the contest was doubtful.  At one moment, the Indian, by his great strength and dexterity, brought Wetzel to his knee, and had nearly wrenched the rifle from the grasp of his antagonist, when the latter, by a renewed effort, drew the weapon from the savage, and thrusting the muzzle against the side of his neck, pulled the trigger, killing him instantly.

       By this time the two other Indians had nearly overtaken Wetzel; but by leaping forward he eluded their pursuit until his unerring rifle was a third time loaded.  Anxious to have done with this kind of sport, he slackened his pace, and even stopped once or twice to give his pursuers an opportunity to face him.  Every time he looked around, however, the Indians "treed," unwilling any longer to encounter his destructive weapon.  After running some distance further, in this manner, he reached an open piece of ground, and turning quickly around, the foremost Indian jumped behind a tree; but, as this did not screen the savage, Wetzel fired and mortally wounded him.  The remaining Indian thereupon made an immediate retreat, and the intrepid backwoodsman soon after reached the settlements in safety, to relate his daring exploit.  ²

       Of those who didn’t return to their homes, those who were killed outright were the most fortunate.  There were others who prayed to be killed quickly so as to avoid the fate that awaited them.  Among those was the expedition’s leader.  Lord willing, we’ll pick up the story soon.

Christ, not man, is King!

Dale

1)      C.W. Butterfield, An Historical Account of the Expedition Against Sandusky (Cincinnati, OH: Robert Clarke & Co., 1873), p. 283-9. 
2)      Ibid., p. 291-4.

The Indians Counter-Attack, July 1782

       In my last post, we saw the American forces scrambling, after the battle of Sandusky, to retreat in an orderly fashion while also trying to stave off the attempts of the Indian forces and their British allies to annihilate the retreating forces.  The various pockets of Patriot forces were able, for the most part, to make it to the Ohio River and thence to safety.  Not all of the “retreaters” were so fortunate though, and Lord-willing we’ll look at their story in another post.  With the collapse of the American offensive movement, panic began to spread along the backcountry.  Those who had settled along the frontier expected that Indian reprisals were sure to come their way.  Here is an anecdote on one of the more interesting incidents that happened shortly after Crawford’s defeat.

       The frontiers were harassed during the summer months by frequent inroads of the enemy.  On the 11th of July [1782], three sons of Mr. Chambers, of Westmoreland county, were tomahawked and scalped; and on Saturday afternoon, the 13th of the month, Hanna's-town, the county-town of that county, was burned by a large party of Indians, and a number of the inhabitants killed and captured.  This place was about thirty-five miles in the rear of Fort Pitt, on the main road leading to Philadelphia.  "The express," wrote Irvine to Moore, on the 16th, "sent by Mr. Hoofnagle, through timidity and other misconduct, did not arrive here till this moment (Tuesday, 10 o'clock), though he left Hanna's-town Sunday evening; which I fear will put it out of my power to come up with the enemy, they will have got so far away.  However, I have sent several reconnoitering parties to try to discover whether they have left the settlements, and what route they have taken."

       The people were greatly alarmed.  "I fear," continued Irvine in his letter to Moore, "this stroke will intimidate the inhabitants so much that it will not be possible to rally them or persuade them to make a stand.  Nothing in my power shall be left undone to countenance and encourage them."

       About the I5th of July, a party of seven Wyandots made an incursion into one of the settlements, some distance below Fort Pitt, and several miles from the Ohio river.  Here, finding an old man alone in a cabin, they killed him, packed up what "plunder" they could find, and commenced their retreat.

       The news of the visit of the Indians soon spread through the neighborhood, and a party of eight good riflemen was collected in a few hours for the purpose of pursuit.  Among those assembled were two brothers —Andrew and Adam Poe.  These were both famous for courage, size, and activity.

       The party commenced the pursuit of the Indians with a determination, if possible, not to suffer them to escape, as they usually did on such occasions, by making a speedy flight to the river, crossing it, and then dividing into small parties, to meet at a distant point, in a given time.  The pursuit was continued the greater part of the night.  In the morning, the borderers found themselves on the trail of the savages, which led to the Ohio.  When they had arrived within a little distance of the river, at a point in what is now Hancock county,West Virginia, about two miles below the mouth of Yellow creek, a western confluent of the Ohio, Andrew Poe, fearing an ambuscade, left the party who followed directly on the trail, to creep along the bank of the stream, under cover of the weeds and bushes, to fall on the rear of the Indians, should he find them lying in wait.

       He had not gone far before he saw some Indian rafts at the water's edge.  Not seeing any savages, he stepped softly down the bank with his rifle cocked.  When about half way down, he discovered two Indians —one very large, the other small.  Both were standing with their guns cocked, and looking in the direction of the party which was approaching by the trail, and was some distance down the bottom.  Poe took aim at the big Indian, but his rifle missed fire.  The two hearing the snap of the gun, instantly turned round and discovered their foe, who, being too near to retreat, dropped his weapon and sprang from the bank upon the savages.  He seized the larger one with a powerful grip, at the same time embracing the neck of the smaller one, and threw them both upon the ground—all three falling together, but Poe uppermost.

       The small Indian soon extricated himself, ran to the raft, got a tomahawk to dispatch Poe, while the big Indian held the latter with all his might, the better to enable his companion to effect his purpose.  Poe, however, watched the motions of the Indian so well, that when in the act of aiming a blow at his head, by a vigorous and well-directed kick, he staggered the savage, and knocked the tomahawk out of his hand.  This failure on the part of the smaller Indian was reproved by the larger one with an exclamation of contempt.

       In a moment the Indian caught up his tomahawk, approached more cautiously, brandishing it, and making a number of feigned blows, in defiance and derision.  Poe, however, still on his guard, averted the real blow from his head, by throwing up his arm, and receiving it on his wrist.  He was severely wounded, but still able to use his hand. In this perilous moment, by a violent effort, he broke loose from the big Indian, snatched up one of the guns of the savages, and shot his assailant through the breast as he ran up the third time to tomahawk him.

       Meanwhile the prostrate Indian got upon his feet, and now, seizing Poe by the shoulder and leg, threw him, in turn, upon the ground; but the latter instantly regained his standing; when the savage again grasped him, and another struggle ensued; which, owing to the slippery state of the bank, ended in both being precipitated into the river.  Each now endeavored to drown the other.  Their efforts were continued for some time, with alternate success—first one being under the water, then the other.  Poe, at length, seized his antagonist by the tuft of hair on 'the scalp, and held his head down until he supposed him drowned.

       Relaxing his hold too soon, Poe found his gigantic foe ready instantly for another combat.  Again they grasped each other; but, in the contest, they were carried into the water beyond their depth.  This compelled each to loose his hold and swim for life.  Each sought the shore, to seize a gun, and end the strife.  The Indian proved the best swimmer and reached the land first.  Poe, seeing this, immediately turned back into the water to escape being shot, if possible, by diving.  Fortunately, the savage caught up the rifle with which Poe had killed the other warrior!

       At this juncture, Adam Poe, missing his brother from the party, and supposing from the report of the gun, that he was either killed or engaged in conflict with the Indians, hastened to the spot.  On seeing him, Andrew called out to him from the water to "kill the big Indian."  But Adam's gun, like that of the Indian's, was empty.  The contest was now a question of time only—as to which would load first.  The savage, in using his ramrod, was not as quick as his antagonist.  This gave Adam the advantage; and, just as the Indian was raising his gun, he shot, mortally wounding him.

        Adam now jumped into the river to assist his wounded brother to the shore; but Andrew, thinking more of the honor of carrying home the scalp of the big Indian as a trophy of victory, than of his own safety, urged him to go back and prevent the struggling savage from rolling himself into the stream and escaping.   But Adam's solicitude for the life of his brother prevented him from complying with his request.  The consequence was that the Indian, although in the agonies of death, succeeded in reaching the water and getting into the current; so that his scalp was not obtained.

       During the conflict, and just as Adam had arrived at the edge of the bank for the relief of Andrew, one of the party who had followed close behind him, seeing a person in the river, and supposing him to be a wounded Indian, shot and wounded him in the shoulder.  It was the struggling Andrew who thus received the second wound; but, from these injuries, he afterward recovered.  In the meantime, the remaining Indians had been overtaken by the borderers, and all but one killed; with the loss, however, of three of the pursuers—one, a young man by the name of Cherry.  The Indian shot by Adam Poe, was a noted chief of the Wyandots, known as Big Foot.  ¹

       Such was the nature of the conflict that raged along the Ohio River valley in those days.  It was the intrepidity and courage of men such as the Poe brothers that secured the western frontier for the fledgling United States.

Christ, not man, is King!

Dale

1)      C.W. Butterfield, An Historical Account of the Expedition Against Sandusky (Cincinnati, OH: Robert Clarke & Co., 1873), p. 268-74.

The American Forces Retreat From Sandusky, June 5-6, 1782

       In my last post, we saw the American forces under the command of Col. William Crawford defeat the opposing Indians forces that were arrayed against them.  Crawford’s force held the field at the cessation of the fighting on May 4, but the Americans were not out of the proverbial “woods” yet.  In this post, we’ll take up the story on the following morning.

       At six o'clock on the morning of the 5th, the firing was renewed between the contending parties, but in a desultory manner, and at long shot only, and so continued during the day.  Little damage was done on either side.  The relative position of the belligerents was unchanged.  The Americans still occupied the island of timber, with their outposts extending well up to the edge of the prairie surrounding them.  The Wyandots on the north and the Delawares on the south were abundantly satisfied with being able to hold the foe between them until reinforcements, hourly expected, should arrive; while the Americans attributed the slackness of their fire to the chastisement of the evening previous.

       Crawford would gladly have attacked the foe at early dawn, but there were obstacles in the way.  Some of his men were sick from the fatigues of the march, some from the extreme heat of the weather, and others from the bad water they had been compelled to drink since leaving the river; and, as already mentioned, there were several wounded.  To give all of these the proper attention and care would require the services of several of the volunteers; and it was thought best, as the savages were in such force, not to attack them until every soldier, unless sick or disabled from wounds, could take part in the engagement.  It was, therefore, determined not to make a general attack upon the Indians until after nightfall.  "We were so much incumbered with our wounded and sick," is the language of [Lt. John] Rose, "that the whole day was spent in their care, and in preparing for a general attack the next night."

       The volunteers felt confident of an easy victory; and there was much in the conduct of the troops the previous day to inspire such a belief in the mind of the commander.  Orders had been obeyed cheerfully; and the officers displayed much bravery and coolness.  The firing interfered but little with the active measures being taken for the coming conflict.  The loss of the Americans through the entire day was four wounded.  Crawford was making every effort to be fully prepared to strike a decisive blow.  Plans were discussed and fully matured for the attack in force.  Suddenly, however, all wore a changed aspect!

       The afternoon was not far advanced when the quick eye of a sentinel, stationed in a small copse to the northeast of the grove, caught sight of an advancing troop, partly to the left and in the rear of the Wyandots, rapidly approaching the lines of the latter.  That they were all mounted he plainly saw.  The next moment disclosed to his astonished vision that they were a body of white troops.  It was [Lt. Col. John] Butler's Rangers.  They had encamped, the evening previous, six miles north, at the mouth of Tymochtee creek.  Crawford was soon informed of this sudden apparition of a civilized foe.  That the savages would be able, in any event, to obtain aid from Detroit, had not been dreamed of by any one in the American army.  It was surmised now, that they had been stationed at Lower Sandusky or upon the Miami of the Lake—the Maumee—and had thus been enabled to reach the Plains in so short a time.  Their appearance was certainly well calculated to strike dismay to the hearts of the whole army. ¹

       It must have been a great surprise for the Patriot forces to see British-aligned Tory forces coming to the support of the Indian forces.  This was Capt. William Caldwell’s company of Butler’s Rangers that had been dispatched to the British stronghold of Detroit.  Because of their supposed involvement in the Wyoming Valley and Cherry Valley massacres of 1778, they were regarded as no better than their savage allies by the Patriot settlers of the backcountry.  Certainly the appearance of this band must have given the Americans no little concern.

       Crawford saw that the contemplated attack must be abandoned, and that a defensive policy would have to be adopted. He immediately called a council of war of the field officers, to take into consideration the changed aspect of affairs.  While they were deliberating, a large reinforcement—apparently two hundred strong— of Shawanese was discovered advancing from the south.  They moved along in full view, and took up a position to the west of the Delawares; so that the trail from the south, which had been followed by the Americans, ran along between the two camps of the savages.  At a distance, in the prairie, parties of the enemy were seen to pass to and fro, and small squads were discovered constantly arriving as reinforcements.  "They kept pouring in hourly from all quarters," are the words of Rose.

       The council of war unanimously resolved upon a retreat that night, as the succors of the enemy rendered their entire force so much superior in numbers, that to risk an engagement would be, in the judgment of all, hazardous in the extreme.  Besides, it was now fairly to be presumed that the enemy would continue to be reinforced.  "Prudence, therefore, dictated a retreat," wrote Rose to the commandant at Fort Pitt. Orders were given, and preparations at once begun, for a retrograde movement, to commence at nine o'clock.  There was, it was evident, no other course to be pursued.

       The volunteers killed were now buried, and fires burned over their graves to prevent discovery.  Of the twenty-three wounded, seven were in a dangerous condition.  Biers were prepared for these.  The wounds of the others were mostly slight; none so bad but they could ride on horseback.  The whole body was to form in four lines, or divisions, keeping the wounded in the center.  By sundown the arrangements were all complete.

       During the afternoon, as in the early part of the day, occasional shots were interchanged between the outposts of the contending parties, but usually at a distance of from two to three hundred yards.  Dunlevy, who was engaged in the edge of the prairie watching the enemy, frequently heard, as during the battle the day before, the voice of Simon Girty.  He was very well acquainted with the renegade, and thought there could be no doubt of his identity, and so expressed himself to his comrades at the time.  It was generally believed among the volunteers—though in this they were mistaken—that Girty had the chief command of the enemy; and many afterward so reported.

       The day had been as hot as the one previous; and, as then, there had been much suffering for the want of water.  John Sherrard sought the pool from which he had supplied his comrades during the battle; but, to his surprise, found it entirely dry.  His narrative of what followed is interesting: "After searching the grove around, I was fortunate enough to find another supply, and again busied myself relieving the men of my company.  At length, overcome with heat and fatigue, I sat down at the foot of a large oak tree, and in a short time fell asleep.  How long I slept I can not say.  I was aroused by some bark falling upon my head from above, which had been knocked off the tree by the balls of the enemy.  I then resumed my task of carrying water."

       It was no sooner dark than the officers went on the outposts and brought in the men as expeditiously and quietly as possible.  The whole body was then formed to begin the march, with Crawford at the head.  Each of the four divisions was commanded by the same field officer as on the outward march, except that of Major Brinton.  This officer being wounded, Major Leet had already taken command of his division.  Just at this time the enemy discovered the intentions of the Americans, and opened a hot fire. Some of the men became alarmed.  This precipitated matters.  A few in the front lines hurried off, and most of those in the rear were not slow to follow, leaving the seven dangerously wounded men; some of whom, however, got off on horseback by the help of kind comrades, who waited for and assisted them.

       It was the express order of Crawford that the wounded should all be taken along; and it was only the confusion arising from the army being so unexpectedly attacked, just at the critical moment the retreat was to have commenced, that interfered with that humane command.  It was, indeed, generally supposed by the officers that all the wounded had been brought off; hence Rose to Irvine: "We secured all our wounded."  Lieutenant Ashley was carried from the field by the brave and magnanimous Captain Biggs, unknown, however, to the army.  Only two, it is believed, were left to the insatiate vengeance of the savages.

       The whole army was soon in motion, with Crawford at their head; and the only wonder is, that the movement did not degenerate at once into a total rout.  Such, however, was not the case, although there was considerable confusion and a great noise.  Says Rose to Irvine, apologetically: "In a body trained to the strictest discipline, some confusion would have arisen, upon such an occasion."  Major McClelland led the division in front, and was soon engaged with the Delawares and Shawanese.  It had been determined at the council to retreat on the same route followed by the army in their march out.  This led due south from the battle-field for a short distance, until the Indian trace was struck, which would then take the army in a course toward the southwest—directly between the two camps of the savages.  It was at this point that McClelland's line suffered severely.  That officer fell from his horse, desperately wounded.  Calling to John Orr, who was near, he told him to take his horse (Orr was on foot) and "clear himself," which he did.  Little did the unfortunate major imagine the awful fate that was awaiting him—or he certainly would have craved the mercy of a bullet through his heart!  Orr afterward related that he heard several of the men who were in the conflict, say that the horsemen on the retreat rode over McClelland; and it was the general belief that he was killed where he fell.  Such, however, was not the fact.  Frightful tortures by the merciless savages were doled out to him afterward.

       Although the enemy had early discovered the movement of the Americans, and had opened fire upon them, yet they were in great confusion and apparent alarm.  It was not clear to them that a retreat was really intended by Crawford.  They were fearful it was only a feint— a ruse or maneuver of some kind, not a flight.  It was, perhaps, this uncertainty', or the well-known aversion of the Indians to night contests, that saved the borderers.  Certain it is the enemy did not make an immediate effort to pursue them.

       While McClelland's party was hotly engaged with the Delawares and Shawanese in front, the other divisions, to avoid the savages, bore off in a southwest direction, leaving the combatants to the left.  This brought them near the swamp before spoken of, into which, owing to the darkness, rode some of the Americans.  The rear division was here attacked by the Indians, and suffered some loss.  Several of the men were compelled to leave their horses hopelessly entangled among the bogs, or stuck fast in the oozy soil.

       The march was continued around the western margin of the swamp with considerable confusion.  When it was supposed by the volunteers that they were entirely beyond the enemy's lines, they changed their course to the southeast.  A little before daylight, the trail they had followed on the inward march was reached; and, at break of day, they came to the site of the deserted village of the Wyandots—Upper Sandusky, Old Town— when a halt was called.

       The three divisions, in their march from the battlefield, had described the half of a circle, the center of which is the site of the present town of Upper Sandusky; but McClelland's division had marched, in a greatly demoralized condition, along the trail leading by the springs, and had already arrived irregularly and in much confusion, at the Old Town.  It was evident they had suffered severely in their contest with the combined forces of the enemy; luckily, however, they had not been pursued far by the savages.

       Detached parties continued to arrive at the deserted village, and the army, in a short time, numbered about three hundred.  It was now discovered that Colonel Crawford was missing—"whose loss," says Rose, "we all regretted."  No one could give any information concerning him;—whether killed, captured, or making his escape through the wilderness, was a matter of conjecture with every one.  Dr. John Knight and John Slover were also missing.  Major McClelland was reported killed.

       The command of the army now devolved upon Williamson, who immediately exerted himself in collecting the different parties, and in bringing order out of the general confusion.  He was powerfully aided by the gallant Rose, and the retreat was again continued.

       It will be remembered that, on the march out, as the army passed along the Indian trace in the woods before reaching the deserted village of the Wyandots, a sugar-camp had been noticed, where, apparently in the early spring, maple sugar had been made by the savages.   Isaac Vance, one of the volunteers from Washington county, as the army was passing along, espied a brass kettle that had been used by the Indians in this camp to boil sap in, and which had apparently been left in the hush through an inadvertence.   This kettle, in the eyes of the backwoodsman, was a prize of too much value to be left in the enemy's country; so, dismounting, and seizing a bowlder [sic], he soon had the utensil flattened, ready for transportation.   It was then securely fastened to his saddle; and, notwithstanding the stirring scenes through which the finder soon after passed, was transported all the way to the home of the borderer. ²

       Not long after the army had reached the open country southeast of the mouth of the Little Sandusky creek, and was well on its way in the Plains, a large body of the enemy was discovered a considerable distance in the rear.  It consisted of mounted Indians and the British light cavalry.  At noon, the army had reached a point on the trail due south of the present site of Bucyrus, in Bucyrus township, Crawford county.  "The enemy," says Rose, "hung on our rear through the Plains;” and they now began to press the Americans.

        The eastern verge of the prairie was now not very far ahead.  By two o'clock, the woodland had almost been reached, when the enemy crowded hard upon their rear, and began a flank movement of the Americans both right and left.  "It was evidently their design," wrote Rose to Irvine," "to retard our march, until they could possess themselves of some advantageous ground in our front, and so cut off our retreat, or oblige us to fight them at a disadvantage.  Though it was our business studiously to avoid engaging in the Plains, on account of the enemy's superiority in light cavalry, yet they pressed our rear so hard, that we concluded on a general and vigorous attack, whilst our light-horse secured the entrance of the woods."  ³

       The Americans, once on the verge of total victory, now seem to be on the verge of annihilation themselves.  The retreat had not turned into a total rout, but the Patriot forces were now without their commander and desperately trying to keep from being surrounded by their savage foes.  Lord willing we’ll pick up the story in my next post.

Christ, not man, is King!

Dale

1)      C.W. Butterfield, An Historical Account of the Expedition Against Sandusky (Cincinnati, OH: Robert Clarke & Co., 1873), p. 214-16. 
2)      Ibid., p. 217-25. 
3)      Ibid., p. 227-28.

The Campaign Against Sundusky Begins

       In May of 1782, after suffering much from the attacks upon their settlements by the British-supported Indian tribes, the enraged settlers began to assemble their forces in preparation for an attack against the perceived “hive” of the operations against them: the Indian settlement at Sandusky.  In this portion of Butterfield’s work on the subject, we catch a glimpse of what the typical volunteer looked like.

      There was much enthusiasm in the settlements, preparing for the campaign; nevertheless, there was, generally, a due appreciation of the desperate nature of the project.  A march so far into the enemy's country as was now proposed, had not been made in that direction, from the western border, during the war.  The venture, therefore, required stout hearts and steady nerves, when looked fairly in the face.  It is a tradition—nay, an established fact—that many, aside from the ordinary arrangements necessary for a month's absence—not so much, however, from a presentiment of disaster as from that prudence which careful and thoughtful men are prone to exercise—executed deeds "in consideration of love and affection;" and many witnesses were called in to subscribe to "last wills and testaments."

       It was generally understood that, when the army should begin its march from Mingo Bottom, it would press forward with all practicable speed to effect a surprise, if possible; the best horses, therefore, in the settlements were selected for the enterprise.  In their trappings, as might be expected, nothing was sacrificed to show—to mere display.  Bridles of antique appearance, and saddles venerable with age—heir-looms in not a few instances, brought over the mountains—were put in order for the occasion.  Pack-saddles also were called into requisition for carrying supplies.  These were, as a general thing, exceedingly primitive in their construction.  Some furnished themselves with extra rope halters, in expectation of returning with horses captured from the enemy.

       The volunteer, in his war-dress, presented a picturesque appearance.  His hunting-shirt, reaching half-way down his thighs, was securely belted at the waist, the bosom serving as a wallet.  The belt, tied behind, answered several purposes besides that of holding the wide folds of the shirt together.  Within it, on the right side, was suspended his tomahawk; on the left, his scalping-knife.  He wore moccasins instead of shoes upon his feet.  His equipage was very simple.  Strapped to his saddle was the indispensable knapsack, made of coarse tow cloth, in which were several small articles, placed there, perhaps, by a loving wife, or a thoughtful mother or sister.  From the pommel of his saddle was suspended a canteen—a very useful article, as the weather was unusually warm for the season. Flour and bacon constituted his principal supply of food.  His blanket, used as a covering for his saddle, answered also for a bed at night.

       Of his weapons of defense, the volunteer relied mainly upon his rifle.  Trained to its use almost from infancy, he was, of course, a sharp-shooter—frequently a dead-shot.  Taking his trusted weapon down from the hooks, where it was usually to be seen suspended beneath the cross-beams of his cabin, he carefully cleaned it, and picked the flint anew.  His powder-horn was then filled, and securely fastened to a strap passing over his left shoulder and under the right.  His leather pouch, either fastened to his belt or thrust into his bosom, was first filled with bullets, bullet-patches, and extra flints.  The edge of his tomahawk was made a little keener than usual; and his scalping-knife was carefully examined before being thrust into its leathern sheath.

       The moment of leaving was, in many cases, a trying one to the volunteer.  There are many incidents still lingering in the memory of the aged, who, in their youth, were told the tales of these parting scenes. "My father was one of the volunteers," writes Joseph Paull, a citizen of Fayette county, Pennsylvania, "and at that time was young and unmarried.  When he determined on going he told his widowed mother.  She was greatly distressed.  'Why, James, said she, 'you are not well enough to go; you are sick.'  'I can ride,' was the response, 'and I can shoot.'  'But,' interrupted the mother, 'suppose you lose your horse?'  'Well,' said James, 'I have made up my mind to go.'  And go he did, leaving grandmother in great grief, as he embraced her and bid her good-bye.  He was very sad when he mounted his horse and rode away.  Once with his comrades, however, his sadness soon wore off."  Usually, however, the soldier took, leave of home without ceremony.  A common mode was to step out of the door of the cabin, discharge his rifle, and immediately march off, without looking back or saying a word.  Hand-shaking, parting words, and kisses were too trying to his feelings!

       The volunteers were mostly of Irish or Scotch-Irish descent—young, active, and generally spirited.  Many were from the Youghiogheny and around Beesontown (Uniontown), in Westmoreland county.  Most of these came on to Redstone Old Fort (Brownsville), on the Monongahela, where they were joined by many from the settlements around, and from the "forks of Yough."  They then proceeded to Catfish (Washington), in Washington county.  After the accession of a considerable number from this vicinity and Ten-mile, the whole moved westward, adding a few to their numbers in "Pan-handle" Virginia.

       As the volunteers threaded their way toward the Ohio, along the bridle-paths, their course was mostly through dense forests; only here and there was there a lonely cabin, or, perchance, a fort or stockade.  As they passed these, they were sure to be cordially greeted by the borderer; and matrons, in linsey petticoats, with home-made handkerchiefs as the only adornment for their heads and necks, standing barefoot in front of their doors, waved onward the cavalcade with many a "God speed you, my brave lads!"  Many, however, were dilatory in their arrival at the Ohio; so that all were not gathered opposite Mingo Bottom when the crossing began—indeed, some crossed the river above and others below the appointed place, traveling along the west bank of the stream until they reached the site of the old Mingo town. ¹

Christ, not man, is King!

Dale

1)      C.W. Butterfield, An Historical Account of the Expedition Against Sandusky (Cincinnati, OH: Robert Clarke & Co., 1873), p. 64-8.

Border Warfare During the War for Independence

       One aspect of the American War for Independence that often gets overlooked in the popular histories of the time period is the border war between the white settlers and the British-allied Indian tribes.  This short passage excerpted here gives a little insight into the kind of savage warfare that was taking place even after the surrender of Cornwallis, where both sides were employed in the attempted extermination of their opponents.

      The expedition of [Col. David] Williamson to the Muskingum [the massacre of the Moravian Indians at Gnadenhutten, March 8 & 9, 1782] did not allay the excitement upon the frontier; it was now prevailing all along the border.  On the 24th of March, a party of borderers attacked a few friendly Delawares who were living on a small island at the mouth of the Allegheny—known as Smoky or Killbuck's island, since gone—just opposite Fort Pitt.  Several of the Indians were killed, including two who held commissions in the service of the government; the remainder effected their escape into the fort, except two who ran into the woods and succeeded in eluding their pursuers.  Even the life of Colonel [John] Gibson was in jeopardy, who, it was conceived, was a friend to the Indians—so great was the agitation throughout the western country. And it is not to be wondered at— savages were making their way into the settlements; the settlers were threatened, on all sides, with massacres, plunderings, burnings, and captivities. There was alarm and dismay in every quarter.

       The people of the border were forced into forts which dotted the country in every direction. These were in the highest degree uncomfortable.  They consisted of cabins, block-houses, and stockades. In some places, where the exposure was not great, a single blockhouse, with a cabin outside, constituted the whole fort.  For a space around, the forest was usually cleared away, so that an enemy could neither find a lurking place nor conceal his approach.

       Near these forts the borderers worked their fields in parties guarded by sentinels. Their necessary labors, therefore, were performed with every danger and difficulty imaginable.  Their work had to be carried on with their arms and all things belonging to their war-dress deposited in some central place in the field.  Sentinels were stationed on the outside of the fence; so that, on the least alarm, the whole company repaired to their arms, and were ready for the combat in a moment.

       It is not surprising that there was a deep and widespread feeling of revenge against the hostile and marauding savages.  The horrid scenes of slaughter which frequently met the view were well calculated to arouse such passions.  Helpless infancy, virgin beauty, and hoary age, dishonored by the ghastly wounds of the tomahawk and scalping-knife, were common sights.  When the slain were the friends or relatives of the beholder—wife, sister, child, father, mother, brother— it is not at all a wonder that pale and quivering lips should mutter revenge.

       From Pittsburg south, including the valleys of the Monongahela and Youghiogheny, and the territory west of these to the Ohio, was a scope of country having, at this time, a considerable population; nevertheless, there were few families who had lived therein any considerable length of time that had not lost some of their number by the merciless Indians.  ¹

Christ, not man, is King!

Dale

1)      C.W. Butterfield, An Historical Account of the Expedition Against Sandusky (Cincinnati, OH: Robert Clarke & Co., 1873), p. 38-41.

More of Capt. Cresap's Sharpshooters

       Here’s another account of Capt. Michael Cresap’s frontier riflemen from the same book I referenced in my last post.

      One of the first companies that marched to the aid of Washington when he was at Cambridge in 1775 was that of Captain Michael Cresap, which was raised partly in Maryland and partly in the western part of Virginia. This gallant young officer died in New York in the fall of 1775, a year before the surrender of Fort Washington, yet his company may be taken as a fair sample of what the riflemen of the frontiers of our country were, and of what they could do. We will therefore give the words of an eyewitness of their performances. This account is taken from the Pennsylvania Journal of August 23rd, 1775.

       "On Friday evening last arrived at Lancaster, Pa., on their way to the American camp, Captain Cresap's Company of Riflemen, consisting of one hundred and thirty active, brave young fellows, many of whom have been in the late expedition under Lord Dunmore against the Indians. They bear in their bodies visible marks of their prowess, and show scars and wounds which would do honour to Homer's Iliad. They show you, to use the poet's words:

"'Where the gor'd battle bled at ev'ry vein!'

        "One of these warriors in particular shows the cicatrices of four bullet holes through his body.

       "These men have been bred in the woods to hardships and dangers since their infancy. They appear as if they were entirely unacquainted with, and had never felt the passion of fear. With their rifles in their hands, they assume a kind of omnipotence over their enemies. One cannot much wonder at this when we mention a fact which can be fully attested by several of the reputable persons who were eye-witnesses of it. Two brothers in the company took a piece of board five inches broad, and seven inches long, with a bit of white paper, the size of a dollar, nailed in the centre, and while one of them supported this board perpendicularly between his knees, the other at the distance of upwards of sixty yards, and without any kind of rest, shot eight bullets through it successively, and spared a brother's thigh!

       "Another of the company held a barrel stave perpendicularly in his hands, with one edge close to his side, while one of his comrades, at the same distance, and in the manner before mentioned, shot several bullets through it, without any apprehension of danger on either side.

       "The spectators appearing to be amazed at these feats, were told that there were upwards of fifty persons in the same company who could do the same thing; that there was not one who could not 'plug nineteen bullets out of twenty,' as they termed it, within an inch of the head of a ten-penny nail.

       "In short, to evince the confidence they possessed in these kind of arms, some of them proposed to stand with apples on their heads, while others at the same distance undertook to shoot them off, but the people who saw the other experiments declined to be witnesses of this.

       "At night a great fire was kindled around a pole planted in the Court House Square, where the company with the Captain at their head, all naked to the waist and painted like savages (except the Captain, who was in an Indian shirt), indulged a vast concourse of people with a perfect exhibition of a war-dance and all the manoeuvres of Indians; holding council, going to war; circumventing their enemies by defiles; ambuscades; attacking; scalping, etc. It is said by those who are judges that no representation could possibly come nearer the original. The Captain's expertness and agility, in particular, in these experiments, astonished every beholder. This morning they will set out on their march for Cambridge."

  Talk about confidence.  I’ve got some friends who are excellent shots but I’m not sure that I would want them to shoot an apple perched on my head!  Call them foolhardy or call them brave, there’s no question that these men were expert marksmen and the dread of their Indian and English foes.

Christ, not man, is King!

Dale

1)          Danske Dandridge, American Prisoners of the Revolution (Charlottesville, VA: The Michie Company, 1911), p. 5-8.