Crawford's Defeat: A Tale of the Frontier in 1812

by Public Library of Fort Wayne and Allen County

During the early days on the Midwestern frontier, especially during the War of 1812 and the concurrent Indian warfare, terror was easily spread through settlements and villages by rumors of nearby redskins. Raids were frequent, and the horrors of Indian warfare made even the boldest men fear for their lives and for the lives of their loved ones. But even in the midst of danger, a practical joke was not unappreciated. Such was the setting for the following incident, retold in the INDIANA STATE GAZETTE of November 19, 1829.

The Boards and the Staff of the Public Library of Fort Wayne and Allen County present this account as an example of a type of humor found in Midwestern pioneer life. Personal and place names are spelled as in the original narrative. Grammar, spelling, and punctuation have been changed to conform to current usage.

There will be few old residents of Ohio, especially those who early settled in Knox, Richland, and Franklin counties and the counties north and west of them, who will not readily recall to mind the consternation that was frequently felt in neighborhoods and villages along the frontier during the eventful year of 1812. The situation of the towns and settlements in the counties above named was dangerous owing to their easy access from the Indian villages of the wild northwestern parts of the state. The inhabitants were subjected to a kind of border warfare and were exposed to much depredation and bloodshed.

Both before and after the surrender of our army at Detroit by General Hull, the Indians received encouragement and protection from the British forts in Canada. Irritated by the rapid and progressive encroachment upon their territories by the enterprising citizens of the states, they made frequent raids, sometimes firing barns and driving off cattle. In many instances they massacred or captured whole families. Bloody scenes of this kind were described daily by visiting hunters and scouts, and the horrors of the tomahawk and the scalping knife continually preyed upon the minds of our wives and children. The relation of these tales of savage cruelty, the note of preparations for war that then sounded through all our country, the daily sound of the drum and fife in our streets, the turning out of volunteers, and the enrolling of drafted men—all produced a feverish excitement in the mind of the public.

In the midst of the general feeling of patriotism that pervaded the sons of Ohio, we could frequently discover the thrill of terror as our eyes turned upon home and we thought of the defenseless situation in which we had left our families. With these excitements and with such a state of public feeling, slight appearances of danger were frequently sufficient to throw a whole neighborhood or village into a state of consternation.

On a fine afternoon in the month of May, 1812, a number of neighbors had assembled to assist at a logrolling on a farm a little south of the now flourishing town of Mount Vernon. The dangers with which they were surrounded and the fears and apprehensions that the Indians might make a descent upon the settlement became common subjects of conversation with them. And as the whisky was freely circulated and the men’s blood became warmed, there arose some fine bursts of patriotism and boasts of personal bravery.

“Let me but see the moccasin track of an Indian near Mount Vernon,” said Archibald Crawford, “and damn my eyes, give me but a good rifle, and I’ll soon drive them into the woods again!”

“Nay now, Archie Crawford,” said another who joined in the conversation. “We ought not to brag too high until we have been proved. How would your temper stand the welding heat? Suppose you were attacked by two at once?”

“How? Why, well, never fear me,” rejoined the other. “If my ammunition failed, or if my gun was taken from me, I’d so lay about me with these sledge hammers that they would soon give up the game. Why, I’ll tell you what it is, Emmett: these Indians are not so brave as you think. Besides, we fight for our country. And damn my eyes, but I believe that with Captain Walker’s Company, I could drive a regiment of them back to Sandusky.”

A general burst of laughter followed this high-toned declaration of personal bravery, and the labors of the day were resumed. Evening at length drew on; and the company, having taken the parting glass, began to separate. A little after dusk Archibald Crawford was on his way to Mount Vernon, where he resided. He crossed Dry Creek just above its confluence with the waters of Owl Creek, where they form what is now known as the Vernon River. Whistling the then familiar tune of “White Cockade,” he proceeded directly toward the footbridge that led across Owl Creek into the town.