Wetzel, the Scout; or, The Captives of the Wilderness

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

CHAPTER XII.

It is one of those pleasant summer days, a few months after the occurrence of the events recorded in our last chapter, that we take a glance at the settlement which figures so conspicuously in our narrative, and which latterly had enjoyed comparative quiet.

Captain Parks, on his return from the adventure related in our last chapter, had given his opinion that the whole Shawnee tribe, and Bill especially, were a set of unmitigated scoundrels, and that it would never do to repose the least confidence in them.

Late in the evening of the beautiful summer’s day of which we speak, Kingman and Irene passed through the block-house and arm-in-arm made their way slowly toward the river.

The girlish beauty of Irene had ripened into all the fascinating charms of womanhood. There was a deeper blueness in her mild, affectionate eye, though it could still sparkle with its wonted fire, and a meeker, more subdued expression of the countenance.

“What a magnificent night,” remarked Kingman.

“Too beautiful to sleep,” returned Irene.

“For what, then, is it made?”

“For meditation and devotion.”

“And love!” added Kingman, pressing the girl impulsively to him. “It is now three years since I first asked you to be my bonny wife, Irene. You did not refuse me, but thought you were too young, and I waited another year before I asked you. You made the same answer the second time, and I have now waited two long years without making the slightest reference to it. We are both older, and I trust I am wiser now. Irene, will you be my wife?”

“I guess I am too old now.”

Kingman looked down into the face resting upon his shoulder, for he did not know the meaning of the words—but it was not dark enough to conceal the roguish twinkle of her eyes.

“Don’t you think I am getting too old?” she asked, reaching up and brushing the hair from his forehead.

“Well, you are rather old, that’s a fact—older than I ever knew you to be before—‘but better late than never,’ you know.”

“Then it matters little how late it is—so suppose we wait a few years longer yet.”

“An unsupposable case, my dear.”

“But not an impossible one.”

“I hope so. My gracious! I have waited three years already.”

“But we will be wiser and older then.”

“We will be older, I suppose, but little wiser.”

“And wiser, too, I am sure. We can try it and see, at all events.”

“Irene, will you not promise me now?” asked Kingman, in an earnest tone.

“Perhaps so. Ask and see.”

“Well, then, will you be my wife?”

“Yes.”

“Within a year?”

“Yes.”

“Within six months?”

“Yes.”

“Within three months?”

“No, sir.”

“When will you, Irene?”

“Next spring.”

“In February?”

“February is not in the spring; no, sir, not then.”

“Do name the time; I suppose it will be the last day of the season.”

“No, George. I will become your wife on the first of May—in the month of roses and flowers.”

Kingman drew the trembling girl closer to him, and pressed a pure kiss on her burning cheek. They sat and conversed far into the night, their voices just loud enough to reach only the ears for which they were intended.

“Should we not return?” at length asked Irene.

“I see no need of hurrying. Why do you ask?”

“It is somewhat late; and, besides,” she added, in a lower tone, “I believe I have heard something wrong.”

“Not frightened, Irene, are you?”

“Yes: for I fear we are in danger.”

“In danger from whom, I should like to know.”

“From Indians and wild animals.”

“From Indians! do you suppose there could be found a savage, Irene, who would harm a hair of your head?”

Kingman had hardly ceased speaking when he heard a rustling, and started to his feet. He reached forward to his rifle, which he had leaned against a tree not three feet away. It was gone!

“By heavens! we are in danger. Keep quiet, dearest,” he whispered.

The next instant they heard the deep, suppressed laughter of some one. Both were confounded. Wonder for a moment held them silent, then, as Kingman looked up he saw a form standing in the entrance.

“Frighten you any?” asked the well-known voice of Abe Moffat.

“Rather,” laughed Kingman. “Have you got my rifle?”

“I picked one up that was leaning against a tree here.”

“How did you get it without my knowing it?”

“Just reached over and hauled it up without saying a word. You needn’t blush so, Irene; I didn’t hear George ask you to be his bonny wife; I didn’t hear you promise him you would; but, George, if you value your little angel, you’d better get out of this as soon as convenient.”

“What mean you?” asked both, eagerly.

“O nothing! only the devil is to pay among the Shawnees again.”

“How did you know we were here?”

“I seen you go, and I can tell you, as I just now told you, you must do this courting at home, or in some safer place than this.”

Kingman concluded that the advice of the ranger was good, and arose at once.

Whether the storm of war would not have reached our settlement or not it is difficult to tell. But the smouldering fire among the frontier was fanned into a raging flame by the perpetration of one of the greatest outrages that ever disgraced the American history. In March, 1782, Colonel Daniel Williamson and his command inhumanly massacred over a hundred of the peaceful Moravian Indians. These had long been such warm friends to the whites that they had incurred the displeasure of their own people thereby, and their murder was therefore entirely unprovoked and without the shadow of excuse.

Colonel Williamson sowed the wind and others reaped the whirlwind.

CHAPTER XIII.
REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.

A few days subsequent to the massacre of the Moravian Indians, Abe Moffat made his appearance at the village, and reported their slaughter. For days nothing else was referred to, and the minister, Edwards, was so heartbroken that he started at once and alone through the wilderness to satisfy himself of the full extent of horrors.

The distance to the scene of the massacre was great, and it was a week’s journey to go and return; but an impetus, such as seldom influence the motives of any one, impelled him forward. He arrived upon the ground late at night. With a silent and cautious tread the divine emerged from the forest and walked through the stricken village.

There was a faint moon overhead that threw a ghastly light upon the scene, and the ripple of the muddy Tuscarora, as it flowed darkly by, was the only sound that disturbed the solemn stillness. All at once, and unconsciously to himself, he came upon the edge of the pit containing the slaughtered bodies. At sight of the putrid Indians, piled promiscuously together, and rendered doubly woful by the moonlight streaming down upon them, a sudden faintness overcame him, and ere he could withdraw, he fainted and swooned away.

He recovered in a few moments, and without trusting himself to look again, turned and disappeared in the forest.

Late at night he started a fire against the dark trunk of a huge oak, and lay down to rest.

The divine generally slept heavily; but the terrible sight which he had so lately witnessed still haunted him in his dreams. He was feverish, and often uttered words that showed upon what his mind was constantly running. After a while he commenced dreaming. He saw the whole butchery again, as his terribly excited imagination conceived it, and finally it seemed that one of the Indians suddenly sprang up and brandished a tomahawk over his head. He possessed no power of moving, and finally awoke, covered with cold and perspiration. As he started up he found a portion of his dream a reality. In the dim moonlight the glowing eyeballs and gleaming visage of an Indian were visible close to his face.

“Why, Wingenund, is that you? What is the matter that you look so?”

This Wingenund was a Shawnee chief who was known and respected by many of the whites for the sterling qualities he possessed. He was brave, honorable, and—what was almost a paradox in a Shawnee—was merciful. He had taken little part, in the frontier wars, although, in the battles with other Indian tribes, he was the bravest among the brave. He was a middle-aged man, of much intelligence, and often visited the different settlements. He spoke the English language very fluently, and avoided that extravagant manner of expression so common among the North American Indians. Hence, the astonishment of Edwards was natural at seeing him in such a suspicious attitude.

“What is the matter, Wingenund? You would not take my life, would you?”

“I did not know you, good man, and came near doing it. But Wingenund will never harm you.”

“Nor any other white man, I hope.”

“Wingenund has dug up the hatchet, and it shall never be buried again until it has drank the blood of the cowardly white men.”

“What does this mean, good friend? I thought you were our friend.”

“I was, good man, but am no longer.”

“Not the friend of our settlement?”

“I am the friend of no man in whom a drop of pale-faced blood runs, except of Simon Girty and his men.”

“Are you not a friend to me, good Wingenund?”

“If we meet in battle, there is nothing but enmity between us.”

“I am sorry for that, but I trust we shall never meet thus. But, Wingenund, let me ask the meaning of this change, although I fear I know the reason already.”

“Have you been yonder?” asked the savage, pointing his hand back of him.

“I have only just returned,” replied the divine.

“You have seen the Moravian Indians?”

“I have seen them, Wingenund.”

“And yet you ask why I have dug up the hatchet!”

“But, remember, Wingenund, that none of us undertake to justify the cause of Williamson, and why should you seek to take vengeance upon the innocent?”

The chieftain’s brow grew darker still as he replied:

“It cannot do, good man; the tribes who have fought each other will unite together to make war upon you. I have passed through the villages and stirred them up. I told them what Williamson and his men had done, and that was enough. You must beware now.”

“Wingenund, I know you are a brave man, and do not believe you would harm anyone whom you believed to be a friend. Listen, then, to what I say. We heard, some months ago, that Colonel Williamson, with one hundred men, was preparing to march against the Shawnees. The Shawnees had broken in upon their settlements at night, had burned their houses and scalped their women and children. They did this without provocation upon the part of the whites, and we knew they would do it again. To prevent this, these men were sent to chastise the offenders. They were not sent to murder defenceless people, as they did. One of our men joined them. He accompanied them to the Moravian towns, not dreaming of their intentions. When he saw the awful work they were about to commence, he told Colonel Williamson to his face that he was a base coward and villain to undertake it. He appealed to the men to join him in their resistance, running the risk of being shot himself while he did so. Nearly a score besought their commander to spare the lives of the Indians, and boldly stepped forward and demanded that it should be done. But the others refused. They were determined that all in their power should die, and those who first spoke against it, finally joined the others. But he from our settlement did not. He did what he could to prevent it, but could not. But he took no part in it. He was their friend, and felt as all but these men did. When this man arrived, and reported that he had seen these things, I could not believe him at first. I hastened here alone to satisfy myself of what I saw. I have told you how we feel, and, Wingenund, will you raise the hatchet against us?”

The chief trembled at this question, and Edwards saw that he was deeply affected. He remained silent a moment, and then answered:

“The good man has spoken truth. The other Shawnees and Indians may slay your people, but Wingenund never will.”

“That rejoices my heart, my good friend.”

“But I warn you,” he added, impetuously, as he recoiled a step—“I warn you, good man, of what is coming, that you may be prepared. The red men have gathered like the stars in heaven, and they have sharpened their knives and sung the war-song around the camp-fires. Wo to him who crosses into the country! He shall never return. Our scouts are scouring the woods, and none shall escape their eyes. Be warned, good man, Wingenund has spoken.”

Before Edwards could intercept the chieftain or make a reply, he wheeled around and darted away into the darkness.

The minister replenished his fire, and although he knew that the warnings of his savage friend should be heeded, he did not hesitate to lie down again in slumber. This time he was not disturbed, and when he awoke the sun was shining high in the sky, and the songsters of the wood were chattering gaily overhead. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he turned his face toward home.

The savages had comparatively little success along the frontier. The different settlements were so thoroughly armed and prepared, and the rangers so watchful and vigilant, that it was impossible to come upon them unprepared. Stragglers and hunters underwent the most danger, as they were followed and attacked by superior numbers in the woods, and rarely escaped their implacable foes. The great Tecumseh at this time was but a mere boy, yet the valiant deeds of his companions fired his soul, and he gave evidence even at this early day, of that wonderful prowess and courage which has since rendered his name immortal.

The Indians, growing bolder and more exasperated at their ill-success, finally crossed the frontier and attacked the settlers in Western Pennsylvania and Virginia. Several houses were burned, and their inmates either put to the torture or carried away into captivity. This was a bold proceeding, and demanded punishment immediately. A call was made for volunteers, and the incensed settlers collected together at once. Nearly five hundred men enrolled themselves for the campaign, and to show the feeling which actuated the settlers, we have only to mention that the monster, Williamson, was elected leader; and he made no secret of his intention to murder the remaining Moravian Indians. This created so much indignation among the men and subordinate officers that Col. Crawford, a brave and humane man, was appointed to the command, with power to control the actions of the entire force.

On account of the unexpected change in the aspect of affairs along the frontier, Irene had informed Kingman that she considered it best to defer their marriage day until there was peace, or at least, a nearer approach to it than at present. In the midst of war, when their own people were engaged in it, it seemed hardly proper their marriage should take place. Kingman saw the justice of what she said, and agreed that an indefinite postponement was demanded.

On the 22nd of May, a glorious spring morning, Colonel Crawford marched with his force into the Indian country. The first point visited was the Moravian towns, which they found deserted and forsaken. Here Abe Moffat, who had joined the company as spy, notified Crawford that their motions were watched by numerous Indian spies, and that every preparation was made to give them battle. The greatest care was necessary to avoid being drawn into ambush, and Crawford ordered the men to march slowly, keeping a good distance behind the rangers and scouts. There were nearly a dozen of these constantly outlying the army, who communicated at all times with it. As there was a score of Indian spies, most consummate tact and cunning was called into play for the two forces to avoid each other. As it was, personal encounters took place between the scouts, and the soldiers often heard the report of their arms or the yells of conflict. The Indian spies concealed themselves in the thick tops of the trees, and as this was practiced by numbers of the white rangers, it more than once happened that an Indian or American spy found themselves both inhabitants of the same tree. In such a case a short contest, always fatal to one and often to both, took place.

In this manner the American party marched forward, until at Upper Sandusky they found themselves compelled to give battle to an overwhelming force of Indians. The rangers warned Crawford that it would be a desperate and bloody struggle, as the savages were exasperated to the high pitch of fury by the slaughter of the Moravian Indians, and they had learned that Colonel Williamson was with him.

Crawford formed his men in order of battle as quickly as possible, addressing them, and awaking an enthusiasm which gave him great confidence. The battle commenced immediately, Crawford’s force preserving admirable order, and withstanding nobly the charge of the savages. But at the next charge Crawford saw, with inexpressible disgust, the cowardly Williamson (who feared the Indians were endeavoring to secure him) turned in with the utmost confusion and make a break for the woods. Crawford, in a voice of thunder, sprang forward and endeavored to check the retreat; but it was impossible. A panic had taken possession of them, and the exulting Indians gave them no chance or opportunity to reform.

Simon Girty took part in this memorable conflict, and during the retreat dashed into the woods and took prisoner—Abe Moffat! This he would never have accomplished had Abe not labored under the greatest disadvantages. He had broken the lock of his rifle so as to be unable to fire it, and was singled out by Girty, who being mounted ran him down before he had the slightest chance of concealing himself. Giving him in charge of several Indians, Girty again took to the woods and captured two more whites. Upon arranging them, it was found that there were over forty. Among these was Colonel Crawford himself. A council was immediately held, and the whole were painted black, and condemned to the stake!

We shall dwell upon the fate of but two of these—Colonel Crawford and Abe Moffat.

At the village resided the Indian chief, Wingenund. This chief had been known to Crawford sometime before, and had been on terms of true friendship with him, and kindly entertained by him at his own house; and such act of kindness, all red men remember with gratitude. Wingenund does not appear to have been present when the preparations were made for burning of the prisoners, but resided not far from the village and had retired to his cabin that he might not see the sentence of his nation executed upon one calling him his friend; but Crawford requested that he might be sent for, cheering his almost rayless mind with the faint hope that he would interfere and save him. Accordingly Wingenund soon appeared in the presence of the bound and naked white men.

He was asked by Crawford whether he knew him, when the Indian said he believed he did, and then asked:

“Are you not Colonel Crawford?”

“I am,” replied the colonel.

The chief displayed much agitation and embarrassment.

“Do you not recollect the friendship that always existed between us?” said Crawford.

“Yes,” said the chief, “I remember that you have been kind to me and we have often drank together.”

“I hope the same friendship continues,” said Crawford.

“It would, of course, were you where you ought to be.”

“And why not here?” urged the colonel. “I hope you would not desert a friend in time of need. Now is the time for you to exert yourself in my behalf, as I should do for you were you in my place.”

“I cannot. The King of England himself, were he to come to this spot, with all his wealth and influence, could not interfere. The blood of the innocent Moravians, more than half of them women and children, cruelly and wantonly murdered, calls too loudly for revenge!”

“My fate, then, is fixed,” said the wretched man, “I must prepare to meet death in its worst form.”

Wingenund, shedding tears, and deeply affected, then withdrew.

The colonel, observing terrible preparations going forward, called to Girty, who sat on horseback, and asked if the Indians were going to burn him. Girty replied in the affirmative. The colonel heard the intelligence with firmness, merely remarking that he would bear it with fortitude. At this juncture a Delaware chief arose and addressed the crowd in a tone of great energy, pointing frequently to the colonel. As soon as he had ended, a loud whoop burst from the assembled throng, and they all rushed at once upon the unfortunate Crawford.

A terrible scene of torture was now commenced. The warriors shot charges of powder into his naked body, commencing at the calves of his legs, and continuing to his neck. The boys snatched the burning hickory poles, and applied them to his flesh.

The squaws would take up a quantity of coals and hot ashes, and throw them upon his body, so that in a few moments he had nothing but fire to walk upon!

While this awful scene was being enacted, Girty rode up to the spot where Dr. Knight stood. After contemplating the sufferings of the colonel for a few moments, Girty told the doctor that he had a foretaste of what was in reserve for him. He swore that he need not expect to escape death, but should suffer it in all the extremity of torture.

The terrible scene had now lasted more than two hours, and Crawford had become much exhausted. At length he sunk in a fainting fit upon his face, and lay motionless. Instantly an Indian sprung upon his back, knelt lightly on one knee, made a circular incision with his knife upon the crown of his head, and clapping the knife between his teeth, tore the scalp off with both hands.

Scarcely had this been done when a withered hag approached with a board full of burning embers, and poured them upon the crown of his head, now laid bare to the bone. The colonel groaned deeply, arose, and again walked slowly around the stake. But why continue a description so horrible?

Nature at length could endure no more, and at a late hour in the night he was released by death from the hands of his tormentors.

When Colonel Crawford was stripped and painted black for the stake, his shoes were also taken off and cast away.

Moffat stood by when this was done, and the action seemed to have given him a thought, for he kicked off his own moccasins, and walking forward to where the shoes lay, he managed to work his feet into them.

Of course his actions were observed by the Indians, but they supposed that nothing was intended by it further than to secure a protection for his feet.

When Crawford, in his torture, was compelled to walk barefooted over the living coals, Girty turned upon his horse and spoke to Moffat:

“Ah, that’s what you put on them shoes of his’n for, is it? Never mind—when we come to toast you, they won’t do you no good.”

One or two more of the prisoners were burned upon the spot, when it was determined to march the others to the Shawnee towns, where hundreds of others might feast themselves with the sight. For this purpose the prisoners were separated, and under the guardianship of either one or two Indians, marched off singly into the wood.

Dr. Knight, the companion of Crawford, as said before, was given in charge of one warrior, from whom he managed to escape in the wood during the march. The others, who had any appearance of stubbornness, or who seemed likely to give trouble, were given over to well-armed savages to watch their motions.

Such was the case with Moffat.

The Shawnee towns were a long distance away, and, as the prisoners were compelled to keep separate by their masters, the march required considerable time.

Moffat was the very last one who started. He rejoiced at this, as it left the coast clear behind him, and Girty had accompanied those in front.

The ranger could see, from the looks the two savages gave him, that they were anxious to ascertain his feelings. If his eye sparkled, or he retained his usual vivacity, their suspicions would be aroused; and he accordingly feigned the deepest despondency and despair.

During the day, Moffat’s hands had been simply tied behind him, and he marched in front of the two savages. At night, he well knew he should be more securely bound, and it was his determination to elude his enemies, if possible, before that time.

In the afternoon he feigned sickness, beseeching the savages to halt and rest at short intervals. Although hungry, he refused all food, and on one or two occasions actually dropped to the ground, as if with faintness.

The suspicions of the Indians were naturally roused at first, but the sickness of their captive was so well assumed and carried out, that they were finally deceived. They halted several times, and allowed him a few moment’s rest. As Moffat lay upon the ground, at such times, he groaned and rolled and writhed as though in great pain; but, in reality, he was working at the thong which held his wrists. By doubling his foot beneath him, catching it and twisting the thong over the shoe, he succeeded in getting it in such a position as to allow him to chafe and rub it against the nails in the shoe. Now, it is no easy matter for a person to bring his foot and hand together behind him and keep them in that position for any length of time; and if one is disposed to doubt it, they can easily satisfy themselves by a trial. But with the lithe, muscular ranger it was quite an easy matter. His great hope was to chafe the ligature until it could be broken by a desperate tug. In this he was more successful; for, as he lay upon the ground, rolling and writhing as usual, he felt the cord part behind him, and his hands were free. In a moment he arose, of course keeping them behind him, and the string in its position as much as it was possible for him to do so.

From the manner of the savages, it was evident they suspected nothing.

Abe, however, rather overdid the matter at last. He became so faint, and sank to the ground so often, that the savages began to get out of patience. They ordered him to his feet several times, and once, when he did not rise soon enough, he was brought up all standing by a rousing kick. This did not suit him very well; but under the circumstances he concluded to pocket the insult, for the good reason that there was no other course for him to pursue.

At last darkness commenced settling over the forest. The savages were anxious to reach some point ahead, and as their frequent halts for their prisoner had delayed them, they now hurried forward and traveled later than they otherwise would. One savage, as stated, walked in front of Moffat, and the other behind.

As they were walking in a part of the forest darker and denser than usual, Moffat suddenly wheeled upon his feet, and before the hindmost savage could suspect his intention, struck him a stunning blow that felled him like a death-stroke. As he darted away the rifle of the other Indian was discharged and he started in pursuit. But he was out of sight, and in the forest—that is all a Western ranger asks. The whole night was before him, and he would have every opportunity that he wished.

He had run but a few rods when he settled down to a walk, for he felt that his escape was effected. The settlement was reached in due time, where he was gladly received by his friends. His escape may be considered one of the most remarkable that he had yet met with.