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 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.