Since 1998 - Historical and Genealogical
Resources
for the Upper New River Valley of North Carolina and Virginia
These materials have been made available by the courtesy of the Historical Society of Southwest Virginia and Rhonda Robertson.
Captivity of Mary Draper Ingles
JAMES BOONE KILLED OCTOBER 10, 1773
MASSACRE OF THE HENRY FAMILY
THE INDIAN MISSIONARY
CAPTURE OF JANE WHITTAKER AND POLLY
ALLEY
ATTACK ON THE EVANS FAMILY, 1779
ATTACK ON THOMAS INGLES' FAMILY
INDIANS AND THE MOORE FAMILY
THE HARMAN'S BATTLE
A FIGHT FOR LIFE
CHIEF BENGE CARRIES AWAY MRS. SCOTT
THE CAPTIVITY OF JENNY WILEY
MRS. ANDREW DAVIDSON AND CHILDREN
CAPTURED
DAVID MUSICK TRAGEDY
CHIEF BENGE'S LAST RAID
INDIAN TRAGEDIES AGAINST THE WALKER
FAMILY
Of all the young women taken into captivity by the Indians from Virginia's western frontier none suffered more anguish, nor bore her hardships more heroically, nor behaved with more thoughtfulness toward her captors than did Mary Draper Ingles.
Mary was born in 1732 to George Draper and Eleanor Hardin Draper within the present limits of Philadelphia. Her parents had come from the North of Ireland.
The Ingles were dissatisfied with their home in Pennsylvania and removed to Col. James Patton's grant of land in the Valley of Virginia. Patton had also come from the north of Ireland and no doubt they were acquainted before coming to America. Patton's settlement at the headwaters of the James River was known as Pattonsville.
This place also did not please George Draper; he wanted to move on again and make his home in the wilderness. So, one day he set out on a quest for a homesite, or to hunt game, and never returned.
Mrs. Eleanor Draper, not wanting to be left alone at Pattonsville, followed some of her neighbors to a new homeplace on New River, later to be called Draper's Meadows. Beside her two children, a son, John, born 1730, and Mary, she was accompanied by the family of Adam Harmon.
Here in the Draper's Meadows settlement Mary fell in love with young William Ingles, son of another settlers, and they were married early in 1750, their wedding being the first one on this frontier.
At the time of her marriage Mary was eighteen years old. There was no women living on this frontier blessed with better health, nor one more able to cope with the hardships of frontier life.
Dr. J. P. Hale, a descendant of Mary, writing in his TRANS-ALLEGHANY PIONEERS, said that he got much of his information about Mary from a sketch left to posterity by Mrs. John Floyd, wife of Governor Floyd of Virginia. Mrs. Floyd, who was born a Preston, had lived in the vicinity of Draper's Meadows and had long been a friend of Mary's.
So, from this source and from information left to him by his ancestors, Dr. Hale wrote of Mary as follows: "She spent much of her time in her girlhood days with her only brother in his outdoor avocations and sports. She could jump a fence or a ditch as easily as he; she could jump straight up nearly as high as her head; she could stand on the ground beside a horse and leap into the saddle unaided."
On July 30, 1755, (1) a band of Shawnees swooped down upon Draper's Meadows and killed, wounded or captured every person there.
Col. James Patton, Mrs. George Draper, Casper Barrier and a child of John Draper were killed; Mrs. John Draper, and James Cull were wounded; Mary Ingles, Mrs. Bettie Draper, John's wife, and Henry Lenard, were taken prisoners. (2)
At the time Mrs. John Draper was outside the house and was the first to see the Indians coming. Believing that they were up to mischief, she ran into the house to give the alarm and to get her sleeping baby.
Picking the child up, she ran out opposite the approaching Indians and tried to make her escape. However, the savages saw her, fired at her and the ball broke her right arm, causing her to drop the baby; but she managed to pick it up and continued her flight. However, she was overtaken and made prisoner. The child was brutally brained against the end of a house log and left lying on the ground.
In the house at the time was Col. James Patton, who had large land interests in the area. His nephew, William Preston, had also been in the house but had gone to Sinking Creek to ask Philip Laybrook to come over to Draper's Meadows and help harvest grain the next day.
Col. Patton, who was in command of the Virginia militia serving the region, had just brought a supply of powder and lead to be used by the settlers.
When the Indians attacked the house, Col. Patton was sitting at a table writing; beside him was his long broadsword which he seized upon the entrance of the Indians, and with it he began to fight. He cut down two of them but in the meantime he was shot by one of the attackers out of his range and immediately he died.
Quickly the attackers gathered up all the guns and ammunition and all the household goods they could get. Then, they set fire to the houses in the community.
At the time of the attack William Ingles, Mary's husband, was in the fields some distance from the house, looking over his grain field which was to be harvested on the morrow. Seeing the flames and smoke, he started running toward home, hoping he could be of assistance in protecting his family. But when he drew near the flaming houses, he saw that the Indians who were loading plunder on the horses, were well armed; and he stopped. He could see that the Indians had not only captured his wife and others of the Meadows, but that they also had the horses in their possession and that pursuit would be impossible.
When two Indians with tomahawks in their hands dashed after William, he ran into the woods. In jumping over a log he fell; and there he lay while the pursuers ran around the roots of the upturned tree instead of jumping over it as he had. When the Indians passed on, still looking for him, he eluded them by running in the opposite direction.
After the Indians and their captives had gone, a company of settlers gathered and started in pursuit; but by that time the raiding party had got so far ahead that nothing could be seen of them.
Some distance out on their trail, the Indians stopped at the home of Philip Barger, an old white-haired man, attacked him and cut off his head. They put the head into a bag and carried it to the house of Philip Laybrook on Sinking Creek, where they gave it to Mrs. Laybrook, telling her to look into the bag and she'd see one of her acquaintances.
Philip Laybrook, as well as young Preston, whom Col. Patton had sent on an errand, had left the house and had gone by a near trail back to the Meadows, else they might have met the same fate as Philip Barger.
It is most likely that Col. Patton, who had brought powder and lead to the settlement, had warned the people of possible Indian attacks. Already the French moving down into the upper Ohio Valley from Canada, had incited Indian tribes living in the valley to rise against the English who were slowly pushing over the Alleghenies.
Very little had been done in the new settlement at the Meadows to meet a possible attack; a few miles distant, at the head of Roanoke River, was Fort Vause but it was poorly fortified.
"On the third day out, the course of nature, which waits not upon conveniences nor surroundings, was fulfilled; and Mary Ingles, far from habitation, in the wild forest, unbounded by walls, with only the bosom of mother earth for a couch, and covered by the green trees and the blue canopy of heaven, with a curtain of darkness around her, gave birth of a daughter." (3)
Owing to her strong physical condition, Mary Ingles was able next day to resume the journey. After mounting a horse, she was allowed to take the newly-born baby into her arms, although Indians ordinarily would have killed it to get it out of the way. Dr. Hale said that the most likely reason it wasn't killed was because the Indians wanted to keep Mary alive and as contented as possible so that she might live until they could demand a big ransom for her.
About forty miles down New River the party crossed to the west side, coming out near the mouth of Indian Creek. From the mouth of Indian Creek they continued to follow New River to the mouth of Bluestone River, up which they had to travel until they could find a suitable ford. Upon crossing the stream they went over the headwaters of Paint Creek and came to Kanawha River, the same stream whose upper portion was called New River.
Eventually they reached the mouth of Campbell's Creek where there was a salt spring. Here the Indians went into camp, wishing to hunt and get a supply of salt to take with them to their villages.
Some of the Indians set up the pots which they had stolen from Mary's house, built fires under them, filled them with briny water and directed Mary and the older captives to boil the water down.
Mary proved very adept at salt making; and her skill, the Indians knew, would prove of value to them after they reached their Ohio River homes. Since animals were plentiful int he wood around the salt spring, a sojourn of several days was made in order that enough game might be killed for their immediate need and have some left to take with them.
But much to the sorrow of Mary and her companions, the journey northward was resumed. In about a month from the time they had left Draper's Meadows, they arrived at the Shawnee town at the mouth of the Scioto River which flows into the north side of the Ohio.
Upon the arrival of the party, the tribe gathered to celebrate; there as much dancing and singing. The savages took much delight in making all the captives except Mary, "run the gauntlet".
Running the gauntlet was a sort of cruel game, or chastisement, inflicted upon whites whom the Indians took prisoners. It was done by forming an aisle made by lines of Indians and forcing the victim to walk or run through the aisle while the savages lashed out with sticks or rocks, beating and bruising the runner. Some victims failed to come out alive.
Mary was spared the ordeal because she had proved to be docile and cooperative, or because they yet wanted to ransom her for money or goods. Most likely two of the captives, Henry Lenard and James Cull, failed to survive the gauntlet for history gives no account of them afterwards.
Her turn to suffer came when the raiders gathered to divide the spoils and dispose of the captives. Her friend, Bettie Draper, whose arm was yet in bad condition, was assigned to a hunter who said he'd take her further north. Then, a pang of anguish suffused Mary when a savage put a hand on the shoulder of little George and told the two-year-old boy to join a group of strange savages. George screamed and tried to escape, but the laughing Indians spirited him away forcibly. Next, Thomas, the four-year-old, was given to another group; and away they all went, leaving Mary sitting on a log, the baby in her lap.
Mary didn't know but what she and the baby would be given to yet another group, but she was allowed to remain with the Scioto people. She felt though, that her fate was merely being postponed.
But nothing could happen to her that would fill her with more grief or cause her more pain than seeing her two little boys torn from her. Yet, she must sit silent and endure it.
She bowed her head, praying that some miracle might happen, giving her a chance to see them again. Oh, that they could all be back home in Draper's Meadows, in their cabin, with their father! And she wondered what had happened to her husband. Had he escaped being killed? If so, what could he be doing now? Why hadn't he and a company of men, whom she just knew had been marshaled, pursued and rescued her?
Mary knew that the French in Canada were determined to come down into the Ohio Valley and push the English out; too, these Shawnees were allies of those French.
Although Mary had been cooperative with the Indians, she felt she shouldn't change her attitude even after losing her two beloved boys; being gentle with them might mean that her life would be spared.
One day some French traders came into the Indian town bartering for things they wanted with checked shirting. The Indians prized no wearing apparel above checked shirts. But the squaws were very poor shirt makers. Mary, who had long been adept with a needle and thread, as well as cutting cloth, saw an opportunity to make herself useful; and she began to make shirts. As she turned them out, the Indians would hoist them atop sticks and run through the town proudly showing them.
The French, seeing how useful this woman from the Virginia frontier was, realized she was a great asset to them, as well as to the Indians; and they became very friendly and considerate. After a few weeks spent in shirt making, Mary was told that she was to go down the Ohio River about one hundred and fifty miles and make salt. They seemed to have remembered how efficient she had been at salt-making back at the salt spring.
So, Mary and her baby, together with an old Dutch woman, who had been brought here from the Pennsylvania frontier were put into a canoe; and, then, a group of canoes, carrying hunters, set out down the river.
Every mile, Mary knew, was taking her still further from her home and her husband; yet there was nothing she could do to prevent the trip.
After days of travel on the river, the party arrived at Big Bone Creek, which flows into the Ohio River from the south; then, they rowed up the creek about three and a half miles to the lick. It was within the present bounds of Boone Co., KY, down river several miles from the present town of Cincinnati.
This salt lick had long been the gathering place of wild animals hungry for salt; and over the centuries many had come here and died. Some of the largest mastadon bones ever found were here when white men came. It was here that Christopher Gist, on his exploratory trip for the Ohio Land Company of Williamsburg, had picked up some huge bones to take back with him.
So, just as Mary Ingles was the first bride of the southwestern Virginia frontier, also she was the first white woman salt maker west of the Kanawha River.
Leaving Mary and the old Dutch woman here to boil water until only salt was left in the kettles, the Indians went away to hunt.
And after they had gone from her sight, Mary began to dream of Draper's Meadows and longing to be back there. But, she knew she was now about eight hundred miles away. Finding her way back, even though she could get food enough to sustain her, would be most difficult. There'd be streams to cross and gorges to climb through up where the Great Kanawha roared through the narrows of the Alleghanies.
Autumn was on the land. Nights were getting cool. Soon winter would come. Therefore, if she should undertake returning home, she must set out at once. But, what must she do with the baby? She couldn't escape being detected by Indians with a baby in her arms for it would surely cry. Furthermore, she couldn't carry it on so long a journey.
But, death would be better than staying on here and doing the bidding of the Indians. Even yet, she might be killed or burned at the stake. But, to try to escape and get caught would surely mean burning at the stake; it was nearly always the penalty for such an act, she had learned.
After pondering the matter for some time, Mary mentioned her plan of trying to escape to the old Dutch woman, who told her it was foolhardy. If they should escape capture, fatigue and starvation would subdue them. They'd have to walk a hundred and fifty miles along the south bank of the Ohio River before reaching a point opposite the Scioto River where the Shawnee village was situated. And hadn't it taken them a whole mouth to make the journey from Draper's Meadows to Scioto?
Mary was well aware of this situation, but she definitely made up her mind that she would try to escape. It tore her heart out to think of having to leave her helpless baby, still, some Indian maiden or married squaw would perhaps adopt it. If she stayed, they both might die.
It seemed that a threat of death walled her in, nevertheless she would go, if the old woman would go with her. In order to convince the Dutch woman of trying to escape, she pictured to her the comforts of home with friends instead of existing among savages.
"But, if we try to escape and are caught, it means burning at the stake," the Dutch woman reminded Mary.
Eventually, the Dutch woman made up her mind that she'd try escaping with Mary no matter what the outcome. So, they fell upon the scheme of going out from the salt pots each day to hunt grapes and nuts and taking their wild foods back to the Indians in camp, but each day to remain away a little longer.
Day after day they went out and each time returned, the last time at sunset. Next morning, after tucking the baby in a blanket in its bark cradle, the women took a blanket each and, while the Indians were not observing them, stole away quietly as had been their custom. Instead of returning to camp at nightfall, this time they continued their trek along Big Bone Creek to the Ohio River and thence eastward.
Each of the women carried a tomahawk. In her story told later, Mary said she exchanged her broken one with a Frenchman who was cracking nuts on one of the big bones of the Lick. The Frenchman, not aware of her plans, exchanged with her, since a dull tomahawk would rack nuts as well as a sharp one.
The first day out, the two women hadn't got far from camp when the sun went down and darkness came. Knowing they could not travel at night in a strange forest, they raked leaves into a pile, wrapped their blankets about them and lay down.
And what did the Indians think about their not returning to camp? Dr. Hale explains, "The Indians became uneasy, thinking that they had strayed too far and lost their way or else had been killed by wild beasts.
"Some of the Indians went out in the direction the women had gone and fired guns to attract their attention, if they should be lost. They gave up the search that night, however, and did not renew it the next day. They did not at all suspect that the women had attempted to escape.
"These facts were learned by William Ingles (Mary's husband) many years later at an Indian treaty, or conference, held at Point Pleasant not long after the battle of the Point, when the Indians learned for the first time what had become of the missing women." (4)
Day after day the two women slowly tramped along the waters of the Ohio River; they subsisted on nuts, grapes, pawpaws and occasionally they found a small corn patch and they chewed raw kernels and swallowed them.
Yet, they were so tired and famished by the time they reached a point opposite the Scioto Shawnee camp they felt it would be impossible to go further. Already they had walked a hundred and fifty miles and there were several more hundreds ahead of them before reaching the upper waters of New River.
Fortunately for them, they found an old abandoned cabin at the edge of a corn patch. After pulling some ears of corn, they ate some raw and then lay down in the cabin to rest. And, while lying there, Mary let her mind survey the rugged mountains between this point and her home. She knew that they must cross the Big Sandy before reaching the mouth of the Kanawha; besides, there were smaller rivers to cross. There'd be no canoes, and the rivers would be so deep that neither she nor the old woman could wade them. When rested and strong, Mary could have swum the Big Sandy; but now in her weakened condition she knew an attempt would mean suicide. Yes, she was a month from home in time and already they were weak; besides, winter was coming on and there would be danger of sleeping out because of the likelihood of contracting pneumonia. Food would be more difficult to find for edible plants were already dying from frostbite. Had Many known the trails over the mountains, many miles would have been subtracted from the long way home; but she didn't know them and her only hope was to follow the streams.
Next morning the weary travelers found an old horse grazing near the corn patch. Hung about his neck was a tinkling bell, the clapper of which they muffled with leaves. Then, gathering what corn they could tie in their blankets, they threw it on the horse's back and resumed their journey, taking turns at riding. Slowly they proceeded up the river bank, taking care to remain out of sight of the Indian village on the opposite side of the river. There were times when both women would have to walk and one lead the horse for the terrain was too rough for a person to be safe on horseback.
But, day after day, they moved on, both humans and animal living on the corn they had brought along. After passing the points where the future cities of Ashland and Catlettsburg were to rise, they reached the Big Sandy. As Mary had expected, they couldn't cross at its mouth; yet, they must follow the bank of the Ohio beyond the mouth of the Big Sandy. So, there was nothing to do but travel up the Big Sandy until they reached a place shallow enough for them to cross. Fortunately, it was a dry autumn and the rivers were at low ebb. Should a heavy rain come, flooding the rivers, they would perish in the forest.
After going up the bank of the Big Sandy for a few miles, the travelers came to a big drift of wood which extended all the way across the stream. They tried it by crossing on foot; and, then, they returned to the horse.
Mary said she doubted whether the horse could cross on it, but the Dutch woman contended that he could. Against her better judgement, Mary agreed to let the horse try it. After all, they were a long way up stream from the mouth; and they'd have to go many miles more before they'd find the water shallow enough to ford.
So, they led the humble, obedient old horse out onto the drift, praying that he'd not break through the logs and brush. But their hopes were crushed when the horse's legs broke through, his feet in the rushing water below and his belly resting on top of the drift. The horse tried to extract himself but failed; and there he lay, helpless.
Knowing that they could not get the horse out, Mary took from his back the meager supply of corn and started on. The old Dutch woman got the bell and the strap to which it was fastened. Then, saying goodbye to the horse, they crossed on the driftwood and started down the east side of the stream, headed once more for the bank of the Ohio.
Eventually, they found themselves plodding again along the Ohio. Now, without the horse to ride occasionally, the old woman became discouraged. In her desperation she vilified Mary for having persuaded her to leave the Indians; then, she became so angry that she threatened to kill Mary. While the old woman was perhaps as strong as Mary, the latter was younger and fully able to hold her own in any physical struggle.
But, instead of physical combat Mary resorted to cajolery, telling her again that if they stuck to their goal they'd eventually reach friends. After all, it was too far to return to the Indians, furthermore returning would mean their being burned at the stake. So, the old woman waxed into silence and tramped on, foot past foot.
By this time the weather was getting cold. The women were now barefoot for they had lone since worn out their moccasins; also, their clothes were dirty and tattered.
But on they went, eating nuts when they could find them, pulling up plants and eating the roots. Once they came upon a deer head left by hunters; and they ate of the meat, although it was beginning to spoil.
In order to protect themselves from the cold winds at nights they crawled into hollow logs or under cliffs, if they could find them; otherwise, they slept in the open. Eventually, they passed the point where Huntington is now situated; but they were still far from the mouth of the Kanawha. But Mary, encouraging the old woman, continued to press forward, knowing that every step brought her that much closer home.
Their slow, plodding steps brought them to the mouth of the Kanawha.
Now that they were in the Kanawha Valley, Mary's spirits lifted; she had been over this land, and the river, she knew, came singing down past Draper's Meadows. But she was perhaps yet two hundred miles from home.
When it seemed that they could not go a mile further, they doggedly pressed no. They passed the future site of the city of Charleston, West Virginia. Then, as the days went by they came to places they well recognized; the mouth of Paint's Creek; The Falls of the Kanawha; then the mouth of Bluestone River; and, reaching this point, Mary felt a surge of hope, although she was weak and frail, whereas at this point on going down she was strong and healthy. But ahead lay home, and as long as she could get one foot past the other she'd keep moving forward.
A little way beyond the mouth of the Bluestone River, the old woman became desperate again, not so much because Mary had persuaded her to leave the Indians but because she was so starved and tired that her mind was off balance.
She told Mary that she intended to kill and eat her. Mary cajoled her by saying, "Let's draw sticks to see which one is to become the victim." To this the old woman consented. They prepared sticks and drew. Mary was the loser. She'd die at the hands of the old woman.
But Mary, always diplomatic with the Indians, began to offer the old woman large rewards if they but could get home to Draper's Meadows. But the Dutch woman wouldn't agree; instead, she grabbed Mary and began to beat her. Mary, although feeble, managed to twist from the older person's grasp, who, of course, was also weak. Then, Mary, started on up the river, leaving the old woman who had been exhausted by the struggle.
Once out of sight of her companion, Mary slipped under a bank and there remained until the old woman could recover and pass her. Already, it was sundown; and darkness was laying its deep shadows in the narrow valley.
The moon was out and spilling its dim slithers of light down through the tree tops when Mary emerged from her hiding place. Going to the river bank, she found a canoe half filled with decayed leaves. There was no oar or pole in it, but Mary was determined to cross the stream and, thus elude the old woman who would certainly attack her again.
Soon Mary found a slither of wood which had splintered from a tree blown down in a storm; with it she got into the canoe; bailed out the leaves, shoved off and managed to paddle across stream which at this place was not swift.
Once across, she went upstream a little way and to her delight found an empty cabin which she entered, lay down and spent the night.
Next morning she started on and found a corn patch above the cabin, which, she knew, had been used by hunters. She searched the corn patch for remaining ears but found that wild animals had devoured them.
Though so hungry she thought she would collapse, she started wearily on her way. Further upstream she sighted the old woman on the opposite bank. They stopped and shouted across to each other. The old woman was very persistent. She begged forgiveness and asked Mary to cross the stream and continue the journey with her. But Mary refused, thinking it'd be wiser to keep the river between them. So, they continued their journey, each on her own side of the river.
Mary knew that her remaining strength was gradually diminishing, but the fact that she knew she was within at least thirty miles of home renewed her courage and with tremendous will power she kept her tired legs moving.
Coming to a great cliff whose crags overhung the river, her trail seemed at an end and her life ready to ebb from her. She looked at the water rushing around the crags; she glanced up but couldn't see the top of the precipice because snow was feathering down. Making her situation more desperate was a cold wind whistling up the gorge.
There were but two ways whereby she could get past this cliff: one was to wade around it; the other was to go over the top of it and come down to the river again beyond it. She doubted whether she could wade the swift waters, too, she doubted whether she had enough strength left to climb the steep hill at the side of the cliff to the summit.
But she'd try wading. Soon she'd know what she could do. She set her feet into the water, waded out. A swirl caught her against the bank. Further up, she knew, the water was swifter and deeper. No, she couldn't get around the cliff by wading. It would mean her death.
And now she wasn't strong enough to try the cliff edge; besides, it was getting dark and snow was falling. She was wet now. She had nothing to eat, not even roots of plants.
In despair she lay down on the ground and remained there through the night. When day came, she found her muscles slightly rested. She looked up at the steep cliff side; she must climb it if she was to continue her journey. There was no other choice.
Setting her face to the slope, she began to climb, a few inches at a step. As she ascended, she caught onto bushes and let her arms help her legs proper her higher and a little higher. She'd climb a few yards and rest, then climb and rest again. By sheer will power she reached the summit just before sundown.
After resting, she began descending the other side of the ridge. By stepping, setting her feet, falling and sliding, she went down much faster than she'd ascended. The sun was down when she regained the river bank; but she continued to move onward, believing she might be nearing habitation. And her belief proved correct. In the dimness of twilight she entered a corn patch. Here she hallowed as loudly as she could and dropped to the ground. Night was on her again, and she knew she couldn't go further on her own.
She called out a second time; then, there came through the corn patch two men, rifles raised for shooting. The men proved to be Adam Harman and his son, whom she'd known at Draper's Meadows.
The men picked Mary up and carried her to their cabin where there was a fire roaring in the big fireplace. While the men tried to make her comfortable, Mary asked about her home and friends; they warmed water and bathed her swollen feet and legs. Then, they made venison soup; and, while she sipped it, they made a pallet for her in the corner of the room by the fireplace. Here she was wrapped in fresh, warm blankets. Although this pallet was not a bed, it was a luxury in comparison to the earthy, cold beds Mary had been lying on. For forty days and nights she had not even seen a fire, much less felt the warmth of one.
Next morning Mary told Adam Harman about the old Dutch woman and her experiences with her. Then she asked him if he'd go hunt her and bring her in. But, after hearing how the old woman had attacked Mary, he refused to go.
Instead, he put Mary on one of his horses; and he, mounting another, set out for Draper's meadows some twelve miles distant up the river.
Arriving at the Meadows, they found that there had been an Indian alarm and nearly everyone had already crossed New River to a small fort known as Dunkard's Fort; so, they also went to the fort.
The following morning Mary again begged Adam Harman to go in search of the old Dutch woman, and this time he agreed to go. He started right away, going down the west bank of the river.
And soon he came upon the woman riding a horse at whose neck a small bell was tinkling. He found the woman to be dressed in an old pair of leather breeches.
She at once told Harman what had happened to her after parting company with Mary. She'd come upon a hunter's cabin where she'd found a pot of boiled venison and some leather clothes. She'd eaten of the meat and had rested two days and nights; then, finding a horse nearby, she'd tried her bell to its neck, mounted and was resuming her journey.
Harman brought the woman to Dunkard's Fort and there she remained until she heard of a party traveling to Pennsylvania by wagon. She asked for a ride and was gladly taken aboard. When she was ready to start, she didn't forget her little bell. Of her Dr. Hale said, "I'm sorry that not even her name has been preserved. In the tradition of the Ingles family she is known and remembered only as "the old Dutch woman." (5)
Mary had been greatly disappointed upon arriving at Dunkard's Fort not to find her husband there. She was told that he and her brother John, the husband, of Bettie, had gone down among the Cherokees, who at that time were friendly with the Shawnees north of the Ohio River, to learn if any of them knew anything of those who had been captured at Draper's Meadows.
Unfortunately, they had learned nothing; but, when, within a few days, they returned and found Mary, they were elated and, also, surprised. It was a happy reunion, as well as a sad one, for both Mary and her husband, William, grieved for their "lost babes in the woods." William said he wouldn't give up trying to find and ransom them, so they could come home.
In an effort to get news of his wife, Bettie, John Draper, Mary's brother, made several more trips to the Cherokee Nation. In the year 1761 many chiefs from the Ohio River Valley, as well as from the Cherokee Nation, assembled to make a treaty, or an agreement with the whites, about the close of the Cherokee war.
John Draper attended the gathering and fortunately he met an old chief from the north who knew about Bettie. She was in his immediate family, he said.
With this news John Draper set out north, found Bettie and paid a handsome ransom for her relief. Thus, she had been in captivity six years.
On her way back to the white settlement she told her husband that she had tried to escape, as Mary had done, but was captured and sentenced to be burned at the stake, but that an old chief hid her away and saved her life.
Then, she decided against trying to escape again. Instead, she decided to be of as much service to the tribe as she could, so she taught the squaws how to sew better and to cook differently; she nursed the sick and attended the wounded. As a result of this service, she became known as "heap good medicine squaw."
Mrs. Draper brought back some sad news for Mary Ingles and her husband; she'd learned that little George, who'd been two years old when wrested from Mary at Scioto, had died soon afterwards. And she'd never heard anything from Thomas.
However, about six years after Mrs. Draper's return news was received about Thomas. It came through a man by the name of Baker, who also had been held captive among the Shawnees for several years. Baker had lived in the same village with the Indian who had adopted Thomas as his son, and he knew both of them.
William Ingles at once hired Baker to return to the Shawnee country and try to ransom Thomas. So, Baker set out up the Valley of Virginia, across the mountains to Fort Pitt, and thence down the Ohio River to Scioto.
He found the foster father of Thomas and bargained with him to release Thomas, paying about one hundred dollars for his freedom. But Thomas, who had come to love his Indian father and the tribesmen, didn't want to leave. He spoke their language and lived, himself, like an Indian.
More by force than persuasion, Baker got the youth started and, in order to prevent his running away, kept him bound until they were forty or fifty miles from the Indian village. After being unbound, the youth pretended to be content; but he was merely laying a scheme to escape. And one night while Baker was asleep, the youth did escape.
Baker was afraid to go home without the boy, since he had paid out the ransom money; so, he returned to Scioto and again tried to find Thomas but the squaws had hidden him and Baker was helpless. Then, without Thomas, Baker returned to the Ingles home, now situated several miles up New River from Draper's Meadows, and gave a report.
Yet, William Ingles and Mary wouldn't give up trying to get Thomas home. A year later William Ingles, himself, accompanied by Baker, made the same long journey up the Valley of Virginia, across the Alleghanies and down the Ohio River. Upon arriving at Scioto, they were told that Thomas had gone to Detroit with a group of Shawnees and wouldn't return for several weeks. William, determined not to be disappointed again, waited out the time.
While Thomas returned, the father was successful in convincing him that he was the real father and that he and the mother wanted him to return home. William paid a ransom sum of the equivalency of one hundred fifty dollars to the youth's Indian father; and, then, the three men, Baker, William and son Thomas, started home, home to Ingle's Ferry. This was in the year 1768. Thomas had been away from his parents for thirteen years.
Thomas could not speak English. He was dressed as the Indians dressed. With him he had brought his much beloved bow and arrow. Although his mother was overjoyed to see him again, she said he was more like an Indian than like one of his own family.
He very reluctantly put on clothes such as the white settlers wore. Nearly every day he'd go off into the woods with his bow and arrow and stay for long hours.
William and Mary Ingles were very disturbed about their son's behavior and were constantly afraid that he'd try to escape and return to his Indian friends. They were glad, however, that he began to learn English and took an interest in it. They believed him to be a very intelligent young man, and they wanted him to be educated.
In order to have him educated his father sent him to Dr. Thomas Walker of Albemarle. William Ingles and Dr. Walker were close friends, they having roamed the forests together. Dr. Walker had made an exploratory trip into Kentucky in 1750.
Near Dr. Walker's home in Albemarle was a school called Castle Hill. Here young Thomas got acquainted with Madison, Monroe, Jefferson, Patrick Henry, and many other distinguished people who were constantly in the neighborhood. In later years Thomas Jefferson made him colonel of militia.
While in Albemarle Thomas made the acquaintance of Miss Eleanore Grills, whom he married in 1775, after the battle of Point Pleasant - the war between the frontiersmen of Virginia and the Indians at the mouth of the Kanawha River.
Then, after taking a bride, Thomas himself moved out onto the Virginia frontier, in the upper Clinch River Valley; and there he, who had been a close friend of the Shawnees, suffered the agony of having his own wife and children attacked by them. This story will be related later in this book.
At that memorial service the Hon. Allen T. Eskridge, Jr., of Pulaski, gave an historical sketch of the pioneer woman. Capt. William Ingles, a descendant of the pioneers, presented the tablet. Miss Mary Davis, president of the Ingles Literary Society, accepted it. Master Andrew Lewis Ingles, son of Mr. and Mrs. William Ingles, Jr., pulled a cord that unveiled the tablet.
The tablet was placed in the Ingles Library Society Hall. It shows the following words:
This Tablet is Presented September, 1915,
to
The Ingles Literary Society
at Radford, Virginia
by the Descendants of
William and Mary Draper Ingles
in grateful appreciation of
the honor paid them by the
use of their name.
Mary Draper Ingles
Born at Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1732
Died at Ingles Ferry, Virginia, 1815
She was the first white woman married
west of the Alleghany Mountains. Captured
by the Indians, July 8, 1755, at
Draper's Meadows, near Blacksburg,
Virginia. She was carried to Ohio.
Escaping from her captors, made her
way home alone, in winter; came eight
hundred miles through a trackless wilderness,
guided only by the streams and
subsisting on nuts and roots for forty
days. No greater exhibition of female
heroism, courage and endurance is
recorded in the annals of frontier history. (6)
FOOTNOTES: (1) This date is affirmed by a record in the Military Journal of the Preston papers of the Draper Manuscripts. Dr. Hale was wrong when he gave the date as "the 8th day of July 1755, a Sunday and the day before General Edward Braddock's defeat at the Forks of the Ohio River..." (2) Hale, J. P., Trans-Alleghany-Pioneers; (3) Ibid, p. 28; (4) Hale, Trans-Alleghany-Pioneers, p. 47; (5) Ibid, page 81; (6) Radford Normal Bulletin, Radford, VA, September 1915 {Date of Capture was July 30, 1755, Preston Papers.)
SOURCES: Dr. John P. Hale, Trans-Alleghany Pioneers, Second Edition, 1931; Radford Normal Bulletin, September, 1915; Pendleton, William: History of Tazewell County, Virginia; Preston Papers of the Draper Manuscripts.
Pages 1 to 26
Although General Edward Braddock's army was defeated July 9, 1755 at the Forks of the Ohio and his army retreated eastward, the English persisted in renewing attacks upon the French and Indians until the French were expelled from the Ohio River Valley. However, this victory brought little relief from Indian attacks along Virginia's southwest border. To the contrary, the threat of attacks became more intense; threat of danger merely moved from one border to another.
The Cherokees who had befriended the English in the French and Indian wars were aroused to hating the southwestern Virginia frontiersmen even before they reached their home in the South. On their way they stole horses to replace those they had lost in the war. The white settlers ran down many of the returning warriors and killed them. (1) This aroused among the Cherokees a deep resentment and hatred for Virginia's westernmost settlers. The treaty of peace signed between the English and French in Paris February 10, 1763 did nothing to allay the feeling.
Furthermore, the Cherokees, Shawnees and Mingoes realized that the Virginia settlers were fast encroaching upon their favorite hunting grounds in the Clinch River Valley, and they were determined not to give them up without a vigorous protest.
It was while this resentment on the part of the Indians was beginning to boil that Daniel Boone spent considerable time hunting in Southwestern Virginia and Kentucky and decided to remove his family and some of his neighbors from the Yadkin River in North Carolina to Kentucky.
In the summer of 1773 Daniel Boone met Captain William Russell in Clinch Valley; and the two seemed to have agreed to unite a strong party for a settlement in Kentucky, which place they meant to reach by way of Cumberland Gap.
Boone, after making an agreement with Captain Russell for farming implements and seed, returned to his home on the Yadkin. There he persuaded his wife's people, the Bryans, and five other families to make the venture.
On September 25, 1773, they set out with what belongings they could take. Upon reaching Wolf Hills, now Abingdon, Virginia, Daniel sent his seventeen-year-old son, James, in company with John and Richard Mendenhall, also of North Carolina, northward across country to Captain Russell's at Castle's Woods to obtain flour and farming tools. Daniel said he and the party would follow the old wilderness trail through the Big Moccasin Gap, over Wallen's Ridge, go into camp and let the women and children rest until James and his party overtook them. (2)
At Captain Russell's home, Henry Russell, seventeen-year-old son of Captain Russell, a man by the name of Isaac Crabtree, and two Negro slaves, Charles and Adam, joined James' party in order to help with the load of flour and farm implements. Captain Russell, himself, said he must follow later, since he had some necessary work to do at home before leaving. He would join David Gass who lived eight miles down river where he had laid claim to 435 acres of land in the Sinking Creek vicinity on the south side of the Clinch.
James and his party set out October 8, following the old Fincastle trail down past David Gass' place and crossed Clinch River at Hunter's Ford, now Dungannon. From that point they passed through Rye Cove, and took the wilderness trail over Powell Mountain to the headwaters of Wallen's Creek.
James and his companions could see signs probably made by his father's party; he knew that the place of rendezvous was but a few miles ahead. However, darkness overtook them, and fearing they might lose their way, they went into camp the evening of October 9.
They built a fire and ate a scanty meal. Then, lying down beside the fire, they tried to sleep. Although weary from the long hard walk, they couldn't sleep for the incessant howling of wolves evidently disturbed by the firelight.
The Mendenhall boys were so alarmed at the weird howling that they walked up and down, listening and making no effort to conceal their fear. Isaac Crabtree, although he also may have been afraid, joked about the howling.
"You boys are cowards," he said. "Might as well get used to such noises. Over in Kentucky where we're going wolves - and even buffaloes - will howl from the tree tops."
The fire died down; its light dimmed. The howling reached further and further into the forest. Little by little day dawned. The men and boys sat up, stretched, listening. For a while there was no sound but the whimper of the waters of Wallen's Creek and the eerie whisper of the wind in the trees.
But, suddenly, on the morning of October 10, that calm was broken by the war whoop of Indians who rushed up with knife blades raised and guns cracking.
Henry Russell was shot through the hips and brought down. Then, an Indian attacked him with a hunting knife and began to stab him. He grabbed the knife blade with his bare hands, trying to protect himself. But he failed. Soon he lay dead. Yet, the Indians shot arrows into his body. (3)
James was immediately attacked by a big Indian whom he knew to be Big Jim, a Shawnee, who had roamed the Yadkin Country and had pretended to be a friend of his father. Big Jim seemed to delight in whacking James with a knife and pounding him with a tomahawk. Instead of killing the boy instantly, the big Indian prolonged the torture.
The Negro Adam who had escaped to a pile of driftwood heard James cry out, "Oh, Big Jim, please don't! I'm your friend. I thought you were my friend, too. Oh, Jim, have mercy on me!"
But Big Jim gloating in his savage attack, continued to torture helpless James until he screamed out in agony, "Kill me, Big Jim! Quick! Get it over with!"
Big Jim was intent upon making death come with all the torture possible, and he continued to whack away with his knife. James would, like Henry Russell, grab onto the blade until his hands were cut to shreds. Even after death, the slashing went on until the bodies were horribly mutilated. Then, leaving a war club on the scene, the Indians slunk away into the forest. (4)
All in the party were killed save Isaac Crabtree and the two Negroes. Adam, after watching the massacre from the driftwood, ran into the woods, tried to find his way back to Castle's Woods but got lost and wandered alone several days before finding his way out.
Negro Charles was taken prisoner and forced to travel with his captors. About forty miles from the scene of the attack, two Indians quarreled over possession of him, each wanting to take him North to sell him. Unable to settle the dispute, the leader of the party slew Charles with a tomahawk; and, then, the disputants ceased to argue.
Isaac Crabtree might have continued on the trail to tell Daniel Boone what had happened to his son; but, instead, he took to the woods and returned to Castle's Woods. Because of the outrage he became deeply embittered toward all Indians and swore revenge; and later he did stir up trouble, which only made Indian threats on the settlers more pronounced.
Later in the day Captain Russell, Captain Gass and their small party came upon the murder scene. A runner was sent forward to warn Daniel to watch out for a possible attack on his people. Others began to dig graves.
Upon receiving the bad news, Daniel Boone hurried his little crowd of people into a ravine for protection. They put out sentinels and scouts.
The shocked and grieved Rebecca Boone could do nothing for her slain son, but to show her respect she sent a runner back with a clean linen sheet in which to wrap his body and keep it off the ground.
Some writers say that Daniel pursued the attackers down a creek and then returned to camp to help defend the people there. At night a few of the Indians stole toward the camp, but Boone's defenders shot at them and chased them away. Upon scouting the premises next morning blood was found, indicating that some of the bullets had hit their marks.
Although members of the party were alarmed, Daniel Boone still wanted to continue the journey. Captain Russell, however, persuaded him to take his family to the neighborhood of Castle's Woods and await a change in the warlike behavior of the Indians. Boone had sold his possessions on the Yadkin and could not well return there. So, he took Captain Russell's advice and went with him to the Clinch River Valley. The remainder of the party returned to the Yadkin or to the Holston settlements.
Boone said he didn't want to crowd the families in either Russell's or Moore's Forts, both of which were in the Castle's Woods vicinity. He said he could support his family during the autumn and winter with his trusty rifle; and, if he could find an abandoned cabin he'd take it. (5)
Fortunately, Captain David Gass had such a cabin on his farm situated about half way between Hunter's Ford, now Dungannon, and Castle's Woods, known as the Sinking Creek area. To this cabin Bone took his family and settled down for the winter.
It was believed that the Indians guilty of this attack were Cherokees and Captain John Stuart, British Indian agent among the Cherokees, urged them to give up the murderers; and, as a result, one chief was executed and another escaped only by fleeing to the Chickaway tribe. It was learned later, however, that the marauding band was composed partially of Shawnees because some of the books and farming tools carried by the James Boone party were found and brought in and delivered to the whites by the northern Indians as a result of the treaty following Dunmore's War the next autumn. (6)
Soon after the massacre of the James Boone party Isaac Crabtree, who managed to escape, threw the whole border into a state of panic when, keeping his vow to kill all Indians he could, began his killing foray at a horse race in the Watauga settlement in Tennessee. He shot and killed one Indian who was a mere bystander at the races.
This murdered Indian was Cherokee Billy, a kinsman of an influential Cherokee chief.
Settlers on the frontier were fearful of a revenge attack by the tribe. In order to prevent such a war some of the leading settlers hastened to assure the Cherokees of their disapproval of Crabtree's conduct. An award of 50 pounds English money was issued for Crabtree's arrest. To this amount Governor Dunmore of Virginia added 100 pounds.
Several settlers knew of Crabtree's whereabouts and could easily have collected the reward, but they had suffered so much from Indian attacks that they had no inclination to turn up a man who had killed one of the savages.
It was thought that no further trouble would come from Crabtree, but later hearing that a party of three Cherokees were hunting on the Nola Chucky River, he hurried thither with intent of attacking them. But, when upon arriving, he found thirty-seven instead of three. He returned to his father's home at Big Lick, now Saltville, Virginia.
In order to quell his yen for private warfare the county officers of Fincastle County persuaded him to join a military group whose job it was to defend the border. (7)
FOOTNOTES: (1) Summer, Lew P., History of Southwest Virginia, p. 70 (2) Addington, R. M., History of Scott County, Virginia, p. 14 (3) Draper Manuscript, 6C14 (4) Draper Manuscript, 6C7-20; 6S79-83, 11CC12, 13C133 (5) History of Scott County, Virginia op. Cit. P. 15; (6) History of Scott County, op. Cit p. 16 (7) Draper Manuscripts.
Pages 27 to 34
While Daniel Boone and his scouts were going from fort to fort int he lower Clinch settlement, trying to protect the settlers from Indians, the family of John Henry on the upper Clinch was attacked.
John Henry was living on the south side of Rich Mountain, in Thompson Valley, where he had bought land from the Royal Land Company, when a band of Shawnees struck his home. (1)
John Henry that 8th day of September 1774, evidently wanting to get a breath of fresh air, stepped to the door and unbolted it. He stretched his arms to inhale the odor of the morning breeze when a party of Indians who lay in wait fired a gun, and Henry fell on his face in the yard. He wore on the waist band of his pantaloons a large metal button which must have served as a target for the Indian's gun, as the ball passed directly through it.
The savages then rushed over the supposedly dead body of Henry into the house were they tomahawked, killed and scalped Mrs. Henry and all her children but one little boy, who was made prisoner. (2)
He immediately ran to the woods and shortly after accidentally met with old John Hamilton who concealed him in a thicket until he should go and alarm the fort (Witten's) and bring him assistance. Hamilton had the courage to go to Henry's house, but he saw nothing either of the Indians or the women and children. (3)
This Hamilton (sometimes spelled Hambleton) was an enlisted man at Fort Witten. On his way back to the fort to get help he met a man by the name of Bradshaw, who, upon becoming alarmed at seeing Indian sign in his cornfield that morning, had started to Rich Valley, where his family had gone on a visit. He went on to Rich Valley to warn his family and the settlers of impending Indian attacks.
Now, returning to Bickley's account of the massacre as told to him by an old gentleman who had got the story from his ancestry: "A company was soon collected and preparations made to follow the Indians, who, it was supposed, had carried off the rest of the Henry family. But, when they arrived at the fatal spot, they found the wife and six children murdered, scalped and piled up after the manner of a log heap, on a ridge a short distance from the house. One child was not found, a little boy, whom it was supposed had been carried off. A large hole was opened, which became common grave for the mother and her unoffending children.
"The identical spot on which John Henry was buried (he'd been taken to the fort, where he died a few hours afterwards) could not be found some years afterwards; but after the passing of considerable time the supposed place was opened and it proved to be the place as judged by the remains of puncheons and boards, which had been substituted for a coffin and they found the identical button through which the fatal ball had passed. The button is now in possession of someone in this county (Tazewell)."
FOOTNOTES: (1) Pendleton, William: History of Tazewell County, p. 435 (2) Bickley, Dr. George: History of Tazewell County, Virginia 1852, reprinted in Summers' Annals of Southwest Virginia (3) Campbell, Major Arthur, Virginia State Papers.
Page 35 to 37
It seems very strange indeed that an Indian boy would want to become a missionary among the white people. But there was such a boy. His name was Dale, and he belonged to the Mingo tribe which lived on the Ohio River.
Patrick Porter, who had a fort near Falling Branch on Clinch River, went with the Clinch Valley troops to fight Cornstalk at Point Pleasant in 1774. One night after the troops were told they could go home, there came to Patrick Porter's campfire the notorious Chief Logan.
Chief Logan, tall and reddish-brown, clad in a hunting coat, moccasins and leggins, tapped Patrick Porter on the shoulder and said, "You are Patrick Porter. You live on Clinch River. I have been to your fort. Many times I could have killed you, but I would not. You good man. You good father to children who lived near your fort."
Patrick Porter reached out a hand. The Indian chief shook it.
"What can I do for you, Chief Logan?" Patrick Porter asked.
"Much," said the chief. "Not for me but for a friend of mine."
"What is it, Chief Logan?" Patrick Porter held to his long rifle. A coon tail hanging from his cap flapped in the wind. The air was chill. Leaves rustled as they swept along over the woodland floor. It was autumn.
Out of the dark came an Indian boy. He was naked, save moccasins on his feet and a piece of deer skin about his loins.
"This is Dale," the Indian chief said. Patrick Porter shook hands with the boy. "Glad to know you, Dale," he said. The boy merely grunted.
The campfire crackled. A flame leaped up, lighting Dale's tired face. Away in the woods an owl hooted.
Chief Logan put a hand on Patrick Porter's shoulder again.
"White people kill all of Dale's family. Kill all his kin. Now he wants to go with white men and learn to read from their books. He wants to preach the word of God."
Patrick Porter was amazed. He said, "The white people kill your relatives, yet you want to go and live with them?"
Dale nodded.
"He want to go with good white people, like you, Captain Porter. And I know you are good. I pick up to take him."
Patrick Porter stooped and threw a fresh stick of wood onto the fire. Sparks flew. Smoke twisted up in a spiral and was snatched by the wind.
"Chief Logan," Patrick Porter said, "we white people need to do some kind deed for your people because the whites have been cruel. Especially have they been cruel to your people, Chief Logan."
"Uh! Very cruel," Chief Logan grunted. He folded his arms across his big chest.
"Then Patrick Porter will take Dale?"
"I should like very much to take him" Patrick Porter replied. He paused and leaned heavily on his gun. Then he added, "But I am afraid to take him. The Mingoes are still angry with the white people. They will follow me to my home and kill me for taking the boy."
"No, no!" said Chief Logan, shaking his head. "We will fix that someway."
"I'm afraid we can't," Patrick Porter said. "Now you take him away before your tribesmen come. The war is over. Let's spill no more blood."
Chief Logan and the Indian boy went away into the woods. The trees seemed to cry. Patrick Porter felt bad. He lay down by the fire, but he could not sleep. He wondered whether Chief Logan would bring Indian braves and attack his camp.
Early next morning Patrick Porter, lying near the campfire, heard the leaves rustle. He leaped up, gun in hand, ready to shoot. But after one close look he let the gun barrel drop. There before him stood the boy Dale, alone. In his hand was a scrap of paper. He reached it toward Patrick Porter who took it, turned to the firelight, and read in English which he knew a white man had written. But to the note was Chief Logan's name. The note read:
"Mr. Porter, I ask you again to take Dale. I have fixed it so Mingoes won't follow. I told them that Dale had been drowned in the river while crossing."
Patrick Porter shook his head.
"I cannot take you," he said. "I tell you the Mingoes will find you. They will kill me and all my people."
The Indian boy reached out his hands, pleading. He did not speak.
Patrick Porter's heart was touched too deeply for him to keep on saying no.
"Very well," he finally said. "I will let you go. I shall risk it. Now lie down here by the fire and rest."
Dale traveled all the way to Clinch River with Patrick Porter and lived with him at the fort on Falling Branch near the river. He was a happy lad, and he really tried to learn. Little by little he came to understand English words. Then he begged to be taught to read and write. Patrick Porter saw to it that he had a tutor.
Patrick Porter was himself a student of the Bible, and he interested the Indian boy in its stories. After a few years, Dale was able to read for himself.
"You need more name than Dale," Patrick Porter told him one day. "And I am giving you the name Arter. From now on you are Arter Dale."
"Good," said Dale, thumping his youthful chest. "I like the name Arter Dale."
The boy grew to manhood, and there on Clinch River he married a white girl. Today, many are the people who pride themselves in having in their veins the blood of Arter Dale.
Arter became a leader in his community. He became a convert to Christianity and later joined the Methodist Church. For many years he served the Church as a minister preaching to the white people along the river valley.
FOOTNOTES: Source: History of Scott County.
Pages 38 to 41
During the spring of 1777, a party of Indians, under the leadership of the half-breed Benge and a savage white man by the name of Hargus, crossed the range of hills north of Clinch at High Knob and made their way to Fort Blackmore at the confluence of Stony Creek and Clinch River in Scott County, Virginia. The white man, Hargus, had been living in the neighborhood but had joined the Indians to evade punishment for crime and became an inhumane persecutor of his race.
The Indians, having cautiously and stealthily approached the river down Stony Creek and fearing they might be discovered, crossed some distance below and came up in the rear of a high cliff south of, and opposite, the fort, concealing their main body in the bushes at the base. In order to command a view of the fort, they sent one of their number to the summit of the cliff to spy out the condition of the fort and to act as a decoy. He ascended in the night and climbed a tall cedar with thick foliage at the top, on the very verge of the precipice, and just at the break of day he began to gobble like a wild turkey. This imitation was so well executed it would have been successful but for the warnings of an old Indian fighter present by the name of Matthew Gray. Hearing what they supposed to be a gobbling turkey, and desiring him for breakfast, some of the younger members of the company proposed to go up the cliff and shoot him; but Gray told them if they wanted to keep their scalps on their heads they had better let that turkey alone and if they would follow his directions he would give them an Indian for breakfast.
Having promised to obey his instructions, he took several of them with him to a branch which he knew to be in full view of the Indians and told them to wash and dabble in the stream to divert the attention of the enemy for half an hour, while he went to look for the turkey, which still continued to gobble at short intervals.
Gray, having borrowed an extra rifle from David Cox, crouched below the bank of the stream and in this manner followed its course to where it emptied into the river, half a mile below at a place known as Shallow Shoals. Here he took to the timber, eluding the vigilance of the Indians by getting in their rear. He then crept cautiously up the ridge, guided by the gobbling of the Indian in the top of the cedar on the cliff. Getting within about seventy-five yards of the tree and waiting until his turkeyship had finished an extra big gobble, he drew a bead upon him and put a ball in his head. With a yell and spring the Indian went crashing through the tree-tops and over the precipice, a mangled mass of flesh and bones.
Then commenced a race for life. Gray had played a desperate game, and nothing but his fleetness and his knowledge of savage craft could save him. He knew that the Indians in ambush would go to their companion on hearing the report of the rifle and that they were not more than two hundred yards away. He did his best running and dodging, but they were so close upon him that he would have been captured or killed had not the men of the fort rushed out to his rescue.
The Indians, finding that they had been discovered and that they were not strong enough to attack or besiege the fort, started in the direction of Castle's Woods. The people at the fort, knowing that the settlement at Castle's Woods was not aware that the Indians were in the vicinity, determined to warn them; but the difficulty was how this was to be done and who would be bold enough to undertake it, as the Indians were between the two forts.
When a volunteer for the perilous expedition was called for, Matthew Gray, who but an hour before had made such a narrow escape, boldly offered his services and, getting the fastest horse and two rifles, started out through the almost unbroken forest. Moving cautiously along the trail, he came near Ivy Spring about two miles from the fort, when he saw signs which satisfied him that the Indians had halted at the spring. There was no way to flank them, and he must make a perilous dash or fail in his mission. Being an old Indian fighter, he knew that they seldom put out pickets. The trail made a short curve near the spring; he at once formed the plan of riding quietly up to the curve and then, with a shot and a yell, dash through them.
He arrived at the settlement in safety and, thus, in all probability saved the lives of all the settlers. The Indians, however, captured two women on the way - Polly Alley at Osborn's Ford, as they went up the river, and Jane Whittaker near Castle's Woods.
Finding the fort at Castle's Woods fully prepared for their reception, the band had to abandon their murderous purpose and pass on with their captives, without permitting themselves to be seen. Reaching Guess' Station, they remained part of the night; finding it well prepared for defense, they continued their journey to the "Breaks," where the Russell and Pound forks of Big Sandy pass through the Cumberland Mountains.
After this, they traveled every day, resting at night, until they reached the Ohio at the mouth of Sandy. Crossing the river on a raft of logs with their prisoners, who suffered more than can be described or conceived on the long march, they reached their destination at Sandusky. The two young women were closely confined for some time after their arrival, though they were eventually stripped and painted and allowed the liberty of the village. They were closely watched for a month or more; but, seeing they made no attempt at escape, the Indians abated their vigilance. Observing this, the girls determined to make an effort at escape. Having been permitted to wander about at pleasure from time to time and punctually returning at night, the Indians were thrown off their guard. Having wandered one day farther from the village than usual and being in a dense forest, they started out on the long journey toward their home.
After traveling all night, they found themselves only about eight miles from the village; and, finding a hollow log, they crept into it, with the determination of remaining concealed during the day. They had been in it but a few minutes before Hargus and two or three Indian came along in pursuit and sat down upon it, and the girls heard them make their plans for the next day's search. Returning late in the afternoon, having lost the girls' trail, the Indians sat down upon the same log to rest; and again the occupants beneath them heard their plans for pursuit. These were, that a party should pass down each of two rivers which had their sources near their village and emptied into the Ohio. They became very much enraged at having been baffled by two inexperienced girls and threatened their victims with all sorts of tortures should they be recaptured.
Hargus, more furious than the Indians themselves, struck his tomahawk into the log to emphasize his threats and, finding it return a hollow sound, declared the girls might be in it, as they had been traced thus far. He sent one of the savages to the end of the log to see. The savage went and looked; but, seeing that a spider had stretched its web across the aperture, he made no further examination. This web, which probably had not been there an hour, saved them from recapture and it may be from a cruel death.
After the Indians left, the girls, having heard their plans, left the log and resumed their journey, taking a leading ridge which ran at right angles with the Ohio and led them to it not far from opposite the mouth of Sandy. They could hear the yells of the Indians in pursuit each day and night until the reached the river, when, from a high promontory, they had the satisfaction of seeing their pursuers give up the chase and turn back towards their village.
They had nothing to eat for three long days and night but a partially devoured squirrel from which they had frightened a hawk. On the night of the third day after the Indians had quit the pursuit, they ventured to the river, where they were fortunate enough the next day to see a flat-boat with white men in it descending the stream. The men took them aboard, set them across at the mouth of Sandy, and furnished them with a sufficiency of bread and dried venison to last them two weeks. Also, they gave each girl a blanket.
The girls took their course up Sandy on the same trail they had gone down some months before, but in one of the rapid and dangerous crossings of that stream they lost all of their provisions, as well as blankets. This, though a great calamity, did not discourage them. They pushed on with friends and home in view. They found their way through Pound gap and reached Guess' Station about the middle of September, having been on the journey about a month. Here they found friends who gave them food and, after they had rested, accompanied them to their homes.
Source: Cole, Life of Wilburn Waters, pp 153-154. This story is found nowhere save in above source, consequently it is sometimes referred to as a traditional tale.
Page 42 to 47
John Evans and his son, Jesse, came to the upper Clinch River Valley from Amherst County in 1773 and settled some eight miles northeast of the present town of Tazewell.
Jesse Evans and his little family were happy in their cabin home. Fearing that Indians might attack and thinking that a fence built around the house with slabs from a sawmill might prove of some protection, Jesse had made such a fence. The slabs, or wattlings, as they were called, were close together, forming a wall which was six feet high. Just beyond this fence at the rear of the house was a vegetable garden.
One day in the midsummer of 1779, four of the children asked Mrs. Evans to be allowed to go out and play; and she told them they might but to watch out for Indians.
Mrs. Evans and her eldest daughter got busy weaving cloth; as Mrs. Evans wove, her daughter filled quills.
Suddenly Mrs. Evans heard a child scream; then another and another.
"Oh, Mamma!" came a plaintive cry into the house.
Mrs. Evans jumped up from her weaving and started to run outside when she saw eight or ten Indians knocking slabs off the fence and pouring through. They had guns, scalping knives and tomahawks in their hands. They made the valley roar with a war whoop.
When she got to the door, she saw her children being tomahawked and scalped. She instantly believed that the four children outside were now dead and there was nothing she could do for them. But she might save herself and her eldest child.
She slammed the door and dropped the long bar in place. But the door was too small for the opening, and she knew the Indians could poke a gun through it and fire at her. She told her daughter to get in a corner away from the door and sit down. The girl did as told and sat crying.
Presently, a gun barrel was thrust through the crack at the side of the door and an Indian outside was using it as a lever to pry the door open. Seeing what the attackers were trying to do, Mrs. Evans came up beside the wall to the edge of the door and grabbed to the gun barrel. She, like most frontier women, had worked in the fields and was strong.
With both hands she jerked at the gun barrel and brought it through as far as it would come. She now had slight advantage because she was in possession of more of the gun then the savage.
A tug-of-war ensued. She jerked, and the Indian outside jerked. She could hear shouting and laughing. But she held on to the gun barrel, straining her every muscle to keep the Indians from getting the door open.
Soon the gun relaxed. Now, Mrs. Evans wondered what would be tried next. A moment of silence came; during the time she stood trembling. She wished that Jesse might happen in from the fields with the workmen. They surely would chase the Indians away.
But her wishes went to naught. Whatever was done she herself must do, she, one woman against nearly a dozen Indians. Soon the Indians threw themselves against the door, hoping, she knew, to burst it off its hinges.
They pounded and pounded. They yelled and yelled. Meantime, Mrs. Evans clung to the gun barrel. She thought of turning loose and making a try at shooting her husband's gun which hung to deer antlers over the fireplace. But if she let loose the Indians would have the gun to which she held. Then, they'd surely pry open the door with it.
Another tug-of-war ensued. The Indians jerked the gun toward them. Bu the trigger guard had caught on the door facing; and it would not go out unless turned, which they didn't seem to think to do.
Now, just what else could she do? She couldn't get the gun over the fireplace. And even though she could they'd get in and tomahawk her and her only surviving child.
Then it occurred to her to try an old ruse.
"Oh, Jesse!" she yelled. "Come on to the house quick. But watch the Indians. Hurry!"
She knew that the Indians couldn't well see over the fence, and she thought they might believe that her husband was approaching the house somewhere beyond it.
This yelling did work. The Indians outside let go the gun, and she thought they were retreating. For a moment she still stood holding to the gun barrel. But soon learning that no one held to the other end, she pulled the weapon through. Then, she looked out a small, high window and saw the savages hurrying away across a field.
For a moment she relaxed, sat down on a homemade stool and felt her strength wane. Then, her little girl came and stood holding to her, weeping and trembling.
And, while she sat grieving for her dead children, she head something outside again. She sprang alert, grabbed the Indian's gun and was ready to defend herself the best she could. Then, a familiar voice called, "Oh, Jesse!"
Now she opened the door. Standing outside was a Mr. Goldsby who lived a little way up the valley.
"Oh, Mr. Goldsby!" the woman wailed. "Indians have been here. They've killed my children. Four of them. And Jesse is out working. Him and other men."
Mr. Goldsby's eyes popped out; and without a word he turned and ran through the slab gate, which now stood ajar, and hurried up the trail and out of sight. After his departure, Mrs. Evans closed the door and latched it again.
"I know he'll go find the men working in the fields," she said to her daughter. "They'll come. They'll save us, if the Indians come back."
She waited and waited. But her husband didn't come. Neither did Mr. Goldsby or anyone else. The Indians had killed all of them. If so, the attackers would be back at the house soon. She'd better leave and hurry to Major Taylor's about two miles distant. She picked up the gun which she had wrested from the Indians and with her surviving daughter set out toward the home of Major John Taylor. She reached her destination in safety and was herself the first to arouse help.
But before men arrived at the Evans cabin, Jesse himself returned to his home from work, entered by the open gate on the side of the house opposite the place where the children lay dead and suspected nothing wrong. He was tired from his labors in the field and sat down to rest.
While he sat, he picked up a book and began to read, just to pass time. But, soon he began to wonder where his wife and children could be. Perhaps they had gone to the spring for water, or they were down in the vegetable garden back of the house.
When they did not return in what he thought was reasonable time, he started out to look for them. He circled the cabin, and there at the back found three of his children killed and scalped.
Dashing back into the house, he took down his gun and started for Major Taylor's to get help. He believed that his wife and two children had been captured and he must summon a company of men to go no pursuit of them.
When he arrived at the Major's his grief became tinged with joy for here was his wife and eldest daughter, alive. He wept. Then, he laughed nervously and thanked God that not all of his family had been killed.
It was already dark, but men came and offered to go after the Indians. A council was held, and it was considered futile to start out in the dark in pursuit of Indians whose direction of retreat they didn't even know.
"They were all killed, weren't they, Jesse?" Mrs. Evans asked her husband. "Our other children?"
"I saw three bodies," Jesse said.
"Only three?"
"Three, yes."
"Then, they've got the other one. They've taken her away. Poor child!"
Before daybreak next morning the men who had gathered at Major Taylor's started out for Jesse's cabin. Upon arriving they buried three little bodies. Just three. Believing, like Mrs. Evans, that the other one had been carried away, they were on the verge of starting out to hunt the trail of retreat, when they heard a child crying beyond the vegetable garden.
Jesse, hearing the cry, ran toward the sound. And down there near the springhouse was Mary, her face covered with dried blood. Sweeping her into his arms, Jesse kissed her. She said, "I waked up. I want a drink. I went to the spring."
"And you got a drink, didn't you?" Jesse said consolingly.
"I got a drink. I was thirsty."
Jesse trembled in sympathy for the child as he looked at her scalp hanging hideously over her forehead. Mumbling consoling words and hugging the child to him, he went to the house; there he had one of the neighbors get a horse ready. Soon he was in the saddle, holding the little girl in his arms. He rode to the nearest frontier doctor who sewed her scalp back in place.
The girl recovered, grew to womanhood, married and reared a large family of her own.
Later it was learned the Goldsby managed to get home, but the excitement and exertion he experienced brought on a hemorrhage of the lungs; as a result he had to stay in bed for a long time afterwards. But he slowly recovered.
Sources: Pendleton, History of Tazewell County, p. 437; Bickley & Pendleton.
Page 48 to 53
Thomas Ingles, who was captured at Draper's Meadows July 30, 1755 and taken north with his mother, Mary, when he was four years old, stayed among the Indians thirteen years and learned their language and their customs. He so loved his Indian father and his Indian father's children that he did not want to return to his blood father and mother when the opportunity arose. But return he did.
Years later, after marrying an Albemarle County, Virginia girl, he moved to Burke's Garden in the Clinch River Valley; and later his own family was attacked by the same tribe of Indians with whom he had lived when a boy.
However, it was the notorious chief, Black Wolf, and a band of outlaw Shawnees, whom he'd never got acquainted with on the Ohio, that attacked his home that April, 1782.
Thomas Ingles and his Negro man were in the field plowing when Thomas saw a band of Indians surround his cabin, rush inside, and immediately come out with his wife and three children. Also, some of them were carrying house plunder.
Mrs. Ingles and the children were screaming for help as they were led away. Thomas left his horse standing hitched to the plow and hurried toward home, which was but a short distance away.
Thomas drew fairly near his family, now captives, and paused. Neither he nor his Negro had a gun. So, Thomas knew it would be suicide to attempt a fight and went no further.
Now, Thomas, who had once lived among the Shawnees and so liked their ways that he didn't want to return with his father to their home on New River, saw members of this same tribe marching away with his dear ones.
Thomas knew that he could get help no closer than the North Fork of the Holston, perhaps thirty miles away. But he'd go there and ask for help. Unhitching his plow horse from the plow, he mounted and set out on the trail toward Holston. From Burk's Garden he rode down the little valley and took the trail through Little Moccasin Gap and to the river.
Arriving there, he found it to be muster day. A group of men had assembled and were being drilled by Thomas Maxwell, who had formerly lived at the head of Bluestone River.
About the same time that Thomas Ingles had seen the Indians taking his family away, a Joseph Hix and his Negro man, coming across a ridge, also saw them. They, likewise, knew that a fight was useless, so Hix hurriedly walked through Burk's Garden, crossed Brushy Mountain to a small settlement in the present Bland county, where he got a small group of men to accompany him back to the Garden. They arrived about the same time Thomas Ingles and Maxwell did.
The two companies of men were formed into one, and Captain Maxwell was put in command. At once they started out on the well-known Indian trail. At the head of Clinch River they saw signs which indicated the savages had just passed with the captives.
Here on the very headwaters of the Clinch, where a few houses dotted the landscape, ore settlers joined the little army. From here on every precaution was taken not to dash upon the Indians and surprise them lest they kill their prisoners.
On the fifth day after the attack the pursuing party were at the headwaters of the Tug Fork of the Big Sandy River. Two advance scouts stole forward, looking and listening. Then, in the night, a light was seen. Stealing closer, they saw that the Indians had gone into camp for the night.
Now, the scouts backtracked and reported what they had found. The white men held a council. It was decided that if they hurried on and tried to rescue the woman and her children that night the Indians would have the advantage since they were familiar with the camp ground and could easily kill the prisoners and slink away into the dark.
So, a plan for a dawn attack was made. Captain Maxwell would take half the men and during the night circle far around the Indians and come back toward camp, cutting off escape. Thomas Ingles would take charge o f the other half of the company and steal up from the rear.
Maxwell and his party made their circle through the dark woods too big, got lost and were not in position to help Thomas and his contingent when daylight came. Knowing that the Indians would soon break camp, Thomas Ingles decided to make an attack anyhow. And following is the story as told by J. P. Hale, great-grandson of Thomas' parents:
"As soon as he fired a shot, some of the Indians began to tomahawk the prisoners, while others fought and fled. Thomas Ingles rushed in and seized his wife just as she had received a terrible blow on the head with a tomahawk. She fell, covering the infant of a few months old, which she held in her arms. The Indians had no time to devote to it. They had tomahawked the little five-year-old daughter, who was named Mary, after her mother, and his little three- year-old son, named William, after his father. His Negro servants, a man and woman, captured with his family, escaped without injury.
"In making their escape, the Indians ran close to Captain Maxwell and party and, firing on them, killed Captain Maxwell, who was conspicuous from wearing a white hunting shirt.
"The whites remained on the ground until late in the evening burying Captain Maxwell, who was killed outright, and Thomas Ingles' little son, who died from his wounds during the day. Mrs. Ingles and the little girl were alive though badly wounded.
"It was not known definitely whether any of the Indians were killed, but while the whites remained on the scene they heard groans from the adjacent laurel thickets that seemed to be made by persons who were suffering or dying.
"After burying the dead and giving such attention as was possible to the wounds of Mrs. Ingles and her little daughter, Mary, the party began its return march to the settlements. Owing to the critical condition of Mrs. Ingles and her daughter, the party had to move very slowly; and it required four days for them to reach William Wynne's fort at Locust Hill, one and a half miles east of the present town of Tazewell.
"William Ingles, father of Thomas, received the news of the capture of his son's family a few days after it occurred; and he immediately left his home on New River for Burke's Garden. Anticipating that there would be dire need of surgical attention, he took with him the best surgeon he could get in the New River settlements. He reached Wynne's fort about the same time that Thomas Ingles with his wife and children arrived there. No relief could be given little Mary, and she died the morning after the rescue party reached the fort. The surgeon was more successful with the case of Mrs. Ingles. He extracted several pieces of bone from her skull, and treated the wound so skillfully that she was able to travel on horseback in a few weeks, when she, with her husband and babe, returned with William Ingles to his home at Ingle's Ferry, on New River. Very soon thereafter, Thomas Ingles, with his wife and infant daughter, moved to Tennessee and settled in succession on the Watauga River, at Mossy Creek and at Fort Knox, now Knoxville. There his daughter, Rhoda, who escaped death at the hands of the Indians, grew up to lovely womanhood and became the wife of Patrick Campbell, a prominent citizen of Knoxville. Some time subsequent to his daughter's marriage, Thomas Ingles moved to Mississippi, where he remained until he died." (1)
FOOTNOTES: (1) Hale, Trans Alleghany Pioneers; Pendleton, History of Tazewell County; Bickley, History of Tazewell County.
Pages 54 to 58
No family on Virginia's western frontier suffered more at the hands of Indians than that of Captain James Moore, who moved with his family from what is now Rockbridge County to Abb's Valley in 1772. "In September, 1784, a party of Indians entered the present limits of Tazewell County, Virginia and divided themselves into small parties to steal horses and to annoy the settlers; three of them came to Abb's Valley, in which resided Captain James Moore and a brother-in-law named John Poage. The Indians had been for a day or two lurking around, waiting and looking for an opportunity to seize horses or murder the settlers.
"These three Indians were Black Wolf and two youths about eighteen years old, one of them a son of the Wolf. While they were lurking around in Abb's Valley, Captain Moore one morning sent his son, James, Jr., a lad about eighteen years old, to a distant pasture to get a horse to take a bag of corn to mill. While James was on his way to the pasture, he was suddenly set upon by Black Wolf and his companion." (1)
James, like his father, was a hardy frontiersman. He was an expert at shooting as was his father who had shown his bravery and marksmanship in the Revolutionary War not long since closed.
Wolf told James to catch one of the horses, which he did; but, when the Indian insisted on holding to the bridle, he slapped the horse's withers and made him dash away. Unable to catch the horse again, Wolf made James start walking. The two young Indians went in front, Wolf behind, covering their tracks as they went.
When a short way out, James began to break bushes, hoping to leave sign; but Wolf surmised his intention and made him quit. Next James made tracks in muddy spots - he was barefoot; but the old savage noticed his tracks and, shaking a tomahawk, told him to walk outside the path.
When night came, Wolf left the captive into a laurel thicket, where his arms and feet were bound with rawhide thongs. Then, a long strap was tied about his body; and the other end wolf tied to his own arm.
While he lay there in the thicket, James wondered what was happening at home. Would there be a party trailing his captives? Wolf had been so careful to blot out all trail sign, it as doubtful whether his father could find the direction they had taken. But James knew he was young and strong and he could endure hardships and, perhaps, sometime get a chance to escape captivity and make his way back through the mountains.
At dawn Wolf started again, making his way to Maxwell Gap in a high ridge. In this gap, Wolf brought from its hiding place an old iron Dutch oven which he gave to James, demanding that he carry it. With a rawhide strap he slung it to his back without protest; but, when he grew tired, he threw the oven down. Seeing what he had done, Wolf ordered him to go on carrying it. Knowing that he must do as bidden or be brutally chastised, he filled the oven with leaves, put it on his head, over his hat, and resumed walking.
Some miles north of the gap when rain began to fall, one of the young Indians stopped James, removed the oven from his head, and reached for his hat. This infuriated the captive; and he struck the savage, showing he would rebel at any such robbery of his clothes. Then, the Indian made signs to his gun lock; and, learning that the hat was wanted to keep the gun lock dry, James handed it over. Then, they went on. When the rain ceased, the young Indian returned the hat.
The party traveled along the crest of a ridge which pointed toward the Ohio River; on this high ridge no game was to be found; neither were there berries; nuts were not yet ready for eating. Therefore, James, as well as his captors, became very hungry. But, Wolf knew how to relieve hunger temporarily; he skinned bark from a yellow poplar, took out the inner part and boiled it in the Dutch oven. This bark tea they drank.
On the fourth day out they killed a buffalo, made broth and drank freely of it. They took along some meat which they broiled next day.
Soon they were so far on the trail that Wolf believed they were out of danger of pursuit. Then, he slowed down, killed game and feasted on it until their hunger was gone.
Reaching the Ohio River, they crossed by means of a raft which they made from dead timber found in a drift. Once across, they went to the Shawnee town at the mouth of the Scioto River. During the trip James had suffered from exposure; he was wearing clothing fitting only for warm weather and the nights had been cold. He wore neither shoes nor moccasins, and his feet were covered with blisters.
At first, wolf did not take the boy into the Indian village lest the celebrating savages do him harm; Wolf wanted to keep him alive in order to sell him to become someone's slave. And later he was sold. Wolf traded him to his sister for an old horse.
Winter set in early, bringing a deep snow. During the while, hunting parties killed very little game; and it was necessary to live on parched corn. James, as well as the Indians, felt the pangs of hunger.
But endure the winter the lad did. All the while, he hoped to escape and return home. But, in April of the following spring he found that a chance to escape was made almost impossible, when his owner attended a festival with him.
At this festival a French trader, Baptist Ariome, decided he wanted him; and a trade was made. For a bundle of goods, the Frenchman bought him and took him to his home in Canada, not far from Detroit.
Not long after James was bought by Mr. Ariome, he met a Mr. Sherlock, a trader from Kentucky, who had once been a prisoner in this same tribe. Through Mr. Sherlock's help, a young man named Moffat, whose father lived in the same region as James' father, had been freed from captivity and was going back home. So, James asked Moffat to tell his father that he had been moved from Indian captivity to a white man's family in Canada.
Mr. Moffat took the message to Captain Moore, and it was the first he'd heard from his son since his capture.
Upon learning of James' whereabouts, Captain Moore began to make plans to go get him; but obstacles seemed almost insurmountable. Scheme after scheme was planned, but each one fell through. Yet, Captain Moore was consoled in one thing: James was now living with a kind man, so Moffat had told him.
Time ticked along. Then, in June 1789, nearly two years after James' capture, Black Wolf with forty warriors started out to make another attack upon the Abb's Valley settlement. On July 13, just after nightfall, the party came to the vicinity of Captain Moore's house and lay in hiding through the night.
Early next morning two men, William Clark and Irish John, began reaping wheat near Captain Moore's home. Captain Moore himself went out to salt some horses. Two children, William and Rebecca, had gone to the spring for water. Another child, Mary, ten years old, went to call the reapers to breakfast. A boy, Alexander, was also outside somewhere.
Just then, Indians swarmed down from a ridge, some going to the place Captain Moore was salting horses, and the other surrounding the house. Upon seeing the onrush of savages, Mary ran into the house where her mother, Margaret, John and Jane were. Also in the house was Martha Evans, a visitor from Walker's Creek, now in Giles County.
The doors of the house were of heavy timbers, which a bullet would not penetrate; the windows ere small and high and equipped with heavy shutters. In the excitement Mrs. Moore and Martha Evans closed and barred the doors, not thinking about Captain Moore and part of the children being outside.
Captain Moore started running to the house and could have got in had the doors been open. Upon seeing the closed door, which he would have entered, he ran past it and stopped at a fence. Just as he paused, several bullets struck him; he ran a few steps and fell dead. Immediately he was scalped.
The three children, William, Rebecca and Alexander, who were outside, were immediately slain. There were several guns in the house; two of these Martha Evans took upstairs, hoping that John Simpson who was up there ill might be able to point the muzzles out a crack and fire at the savages. But upon gaining the upper room she found Simpson already dying, having been shot while he looked out a crack.
Coming down from the upstairs room, Martha raised a puncheon in the floor and crawled through the hole. Mary, who had called the reapers to breakfast, started through the hole also, the youngest child, an infant, in her arms. The child was crying as the result of a wound in its shoulder.
Martha told Mary not to bring it down since its crying would betray them. But Mary would not go down without it. Then, the puncheon was replaced, hiding Martha.
Fortunately, the child, Joseph, was away from home at his grandfather Poage's at Lexington, and thus escaped the tragedy.
The Indians managed to batter a door down, entered and took Mrs. Moore and her four children prisoners. Then, the attackers gathered up what spoils they could carry and piled them outside; but they did not immediately leave. Instead, they gobbled up the breakfast which was on the dining table.
The reapers had gone to the few scattered houses in the vicinity to get help, but the Indians seemed to know that help would not be here for some time; so, they went about dividing the plunder. Then, they killed all the cattle and horses, save three, in the nearby fields.
While this was going on, Martha Evans stole from her hiding place and ran outside opposite the Indians; in a nearby ravine she again hid, this time under a shelving rock on which rested the end of a log.
When the savages were about ready to leave, one of them seated himself on the log and began to work with his gun. Martha thought the Indian had seen her and was getting ready to shoot her, so she came out and gave herself up. She was not killed but was taken prisoner and made to join the others.
When help reached Captain Moore's cabin, the Indians had gone with their captives, so they buried the three slain children and Simpson; then, they departed to get a larger company of men to pursue the Shawnees. One of the men went seventy miles to notify Colonel Cloyd who was in command of the nearest detachment of militia. On the fourth day after the attack a company of forty men arrived at the Captain Moore cabin, found the body of Captain Moore, which the first party of men had missed, buried it and then started northward in pursuit of the raiding party.
Of the three horses the Indians started away with, one was a vicious young stallion called Yorick. No one had been able to manage him but John Simpson. On the second day on the trail some of the Indians who had been leading him decided to ride him. One who mounted him was thrown and stomped to death. A second young Indian who prided himself in being able to manage wild horses mounted Yorick, was thrown and while down was bitten and kicked until dead. Then, the vengeful nature of the savages asserted itself; and they shot and killed the unmanageable animal.
The terrain between Abb's Valley and the Ohio River bore an unbroken forest, and the journey brought almost unbearable fatigue to the prisoners. The Indians were always in fear of pursuit and the possible escape of the prisoners, each of whom they tied with a leather strap at night; and an Indian guarded each with the strap in his hand and a tomahawk within easy reach.
And on their grueling journey the Indians began to kill off the laggards. Little boy John was the first casualty. And Indian held him back out of sight of his mother, killed and scalped him and, then, took the scalp to show his mother what had happened. But this did not end the cruelty. The infant whom the mother had been carrying was one day snatched from her arms and brained against a tree and the body tossed out of the trail.
Eventually the party gained the mouth of the Big Sandy, and here they crossed the Ohio River and soon they were in the Shawnee camp at Scioto.
There was much dancing, singing and celebrating when the party entered the Scioto village with so many scalps, prisoners and plunder. But one old chief called a council and warned his people that they were making a mistake by plundering the homes of the settlers on Virginia's frontier. Such might bring war with the whites, and their own country would be invaded. But the plunderers disagreed with him, shook their heads and went away in sullen silence.
In a few days the captives were separated, Martha Evans and Mary were taken to one village, Mrs. Evans and her daughter Jane to another. Their being allowed to stay two together gave them some comfort. Mrs. Moore in one camp and Martha Evans in another, talked with the younger ones about possible rescue or escape; but the days came and went and no hope came.
One day there came into the two villages a party of Cherokees who had attacked settlers in western Pennsylvania and had been routed. Still bitter from the defeat, they saw the white captives and at once threatened to kill them just to avenge their hatred of whites.
They planned to get the Shawnees drunk and then persuade them to kill their captives. But some of the squaws heard the plotting and stole Martha and Mary away and hid them until the Cherokees left. However, Mrs. Moore and little Jane were not so fortunate; they were put to death, but just how, history does not record.
Afterwards, when Martha and Mary were brought to the village where her mother and Jane had been left, they were shown an ash heap in which lay human bones. Mary inquired about Jane and her mother; and no one would tell her anything, so she felt certain that they had bene burned. Although Mary was then but ten years old, she secured an old hoe from the Indians, dug a hole and buried the bones.
Then, there were just Martha and Mary left among the savages. They wondered what would become of them. Mary knew that in Canada far to the north she had a brother, James; but would she ever see him?
Late in the autumn of 1786 a party of whites made an excursions into Shawnee territory, destroying villages as they went. Those of Mary and Martha's village heard about the approaching whites and decided they most move out. Knowing that they were going to move, Martha Evans wrote words on trees and rocks which she thought the invading whites might see, and pursue and thereby rescue her and Mary.
But nothing came of the written words. The white men came and burned the villages and went back east. They, like the Shawnees in their attacks on the Virginia frontier, settled nothing; they merely aroused the savages to a greater state of fury. Upon their return to the vacant towns, the Indians found that they had neither shelter nor food. Therefore, there was nothing left for them to do but travel north into Canada and hope to find shelter and food among the French whom they had once aided in war.
Already winter was upon them, and they must move as fast as possible. Immediately they set out on the long journey. Everyone was poorly clad, and each suffered from cold. Oftentimes the squaws cut down huckleberry bushes, boiled the twigs and the members of the party drank the water.
Despite the hardships they encountered December found the Shawnee refugees in Detroit, from which place they crossed over into Canada and spent the winter on the peninsula between Detroit and Lake Erie.
Here during a frolic, when most of the Indians got drunk, Mary was sold for a few gallons of rum to an unscrupulous man named Stogwell, who had been a Tory in the Revolution and had escaped to Canada to save his life.
Martha Evans was bought by a man by the name of Caldwell, who also was an unprincipled man. Fortunately for her, though, she was traded to an Englishman named Dolson, a wealthy and quite respectable man.
In the family of Mr. Ariome, James had been treated as one of the family. Also, Mr. Ariome told him not to give up his idea of returning to his home in Abb's Valley. On one of his trips he had learned, through a Shawnee hunter who had been in the party which made the attack on his father, what had happened at his old cabin home.
And the winter afterwards he learned that his sister Mary and Martha Evans were in Canada. He at once made plans to visit Mary, but she was sixty miles away; the winter was cold and traveling was hazardous.
Then, one day he chanced to meet Mr. Stogwell who now owned Mary. He told the Englishman that he wanted to see his sister and meant to set out on a journey for that purpose. Mr. Stogwell told him that after winter was over he would move to the same community in which Mr. Ariome was living, so James decided to wait.
Then, next spring James got to see his sister, yet a mere child. It was a happy reunion, though James was very sad because of the bedraggled way Mary looked. Her clothes were old and ragged. She was emaciated and care-worn, showing that she had been starving for food and suffering mental anguish.
Mr. Stogwell, James learned himself, was a cruel and base man. He showed his little white slave girl no compassion whatsoever, Mary soon indicated.
She explained to James that she had often become so hungry that when she washed dishes she'd gather the crumbs int he dishwater and eat them.
Simon Girty, known for his cruelty and ruthlessness, did one noteworthy act. He had seen Mary Moore at the home of Stogwell and knew how she was suffering, and he advised James to make a complaint against Stogwell to Colonel McKee, the British agent for Indian affairs. James did as advised, thinking that Colonel McKee would get Mary away from Stogwell. The colonel did not force Stogwell to give the girl up, but he reprimanded the cruel man severely; and from then on he was not so harsh with her. Also, the colonel told Mary's owner that should a time come when she could be sent back to her homeland, he, Stogwell, should give her up without ransom.
In this neighborhood was Martha Evans, also. Soon all of them managed to get together and talk over their different situations. There was a difference because James was happy in his home; besides, he was in love with a charming young lady. All his homefolk were dead save Joseph who had gone to live with a grandfather and Mary who was here near him. Mary, on the other hand, was very unhappy because she was treated like a slave; she was hungry and ill clad. And Martha knew that her family yet lived and would like to have her home as much as she'd like to be home.
Martha Evans' family lived on a branch of the Bluestone River in what is now Giles County. They were desperately worried about her. No one was certain which way the captives had gone, although it was thought that the Shawnees had taken them northward.
Martha had a brother, Thomas, who planned day after day to take a gun, a few clothes, mount a horse and go in hunt of her. But what an undertaking! To go alone into a land inhabited by hostile Indians would most likely mean his death.
But Thomas set out and traveled to the Shawnee towns about the time Mary and Martha were taken to Canada. He found Girty and Conoly, two renegade white men, who traded among the Indians and knew pretty well what went on among them. But these men said they knew nothing about Mary or Martha; they didn't even believe that they had been brought to any Indian village. And, most likely Girty didn't know about them until they were taken to Canada, although Thomas said later that he believed they knew but were concealing information from him.
Eventually Thomas heard that there was to be a meeting of Indians and white people on the border of Kentucky, and the main purpose of the gathering was to ransom prisoners. Thomas was in hope his sister would be brought there, so he attended. His sister was not present; but from one who had long been a prisoner among the Indians he learned that Martha was in Canada, not far from Detroit.
Since he was now about out of money and thinking he'd have to pay a ransom for his sister before he could get her, he returned home. He told his parents where Martha was; also, he told of many narrow escapes he himself had had on the trip.
Although Thomas was given what money he'd need to go to Canada, winter was approaching; and he thought it best not to start again until next spring. And, when spring came, he set out, riding horseback. Although he came near losing his life at the hands of the savages several times, he continued to travel until in August he arrived at the home of Betsy Dolson, where Martha was living.
It was a happy Martha who dashed into her brother's arms. As soon as a burst of emotion subsided, she calmly asked, "Are all the folks alive?" And she was extremely happy when he said yes.
The Dolsons were good enough to let Thomas stay with them while he rested from his long journey. Meanwhile, he learned from Martha that James and Mary Moore were in the neighborhood, although each was at a different place.
Thomas, although having come the long journey, found a great problem before him; that was getting Martha safely home. When he saw Mary Moore, he learned that she was anxious to go back also, although her parents were dead. But James, since he was in love with a girl of the community and was being treated well by his owner, didn't much want to go; but, when he saw that Thomas Evans would be carrying a great responsibility in trying to get the two girls home, he said that he'd go along, help them back to Virginia, then he'd visit friends and relatives and return to Canada.
It was well up in October when the four people were ready to start back for Virginia. James and his sister Mary went with hunters across Lake Erie by boat, taking the luggage of all four of them. Meantime Thomas and Martha Evans, taking three horses, rode around the end of the lake and met the others where the boats landed.
On the southern edge of Lake Erie the travelers found themselves among friendly Indians who had been taught the principles of Christianity by Moravians. Since some of these Indians were going on a hunting trip, the Evanses an the Moores went for a considerable distance with them.
And it was well that they did for they learned that a son of Simon Girty had planned to kill James Moore and Thomas Evans and take the girls back with them. But the presence of friendly Indians fouled them, and the would-be murderers returned to their homes.
After leaving the hunting party, the travelers went southward, knowing that it would take them about five days to reach white settlements in Pennsylvania. These days, they knew, they would be traveling through an area inhabited by hostile Indians. When they lay down to rest at night, Thomas always gave the rest instructions on how to travel should they be separated. He himself would try to engage the savages, should they be attacked, while the others escaped. He told them to follow streams and watch out for certain mountain peaks. The general direction would be toward Fort Pitt.
After a month on the way, the party arrived in mid-November at the home of relatives of Thomas and Martha. Here they stopped to rest. While they were there, Thomas dislocated his shoulder and in an attempt to reset it broke his arm. This delayed their going out immediately. And during the wait winter set in, and travel was made more difficult.
It was yet a long way home. Thomas was almost without money again and must get some right away. James knew that if they could reach relatives of his near Staunton, Virginia they could get help. In James' own words, handed down to posterity, here was the situation: "Mr. Evans got his shoulder dislocated. In consequence of this we remained until spring with an uncle of his in the vicinity of Fort Pitt (Pittsburgh). Having spent nearly all his money in traveling and with the physician, he left his sister and proceeded on with Mary and me to the house of our uncle, William McPhaestus, about ten miles southwest of Staunton, near the Middle River. Here he (Thomas) received from Uncle Joseph Moore, the administrator of father's estate, compensation for his services, and afterwards returned and brought his sister in." (2)
After returning to his home, Thomas Evans married his old sweetheart, Ann Crow. Soon thereafter he moved to the Big Sandy River Valley, near the present town of Prestonsburg, Kentucky. Later he moved again, this time to Salem, Indiana. He died there in 1829.
For a long time after returning to Virginia, James Moore felt an urge to go back to Canada; but little by little the urge faded and he fell in love with Miss Barbara Taylor who lived near his grandfather's in Rockbridge County, and on February 16, 1787 they were married. (3)
James was staying with his grandparents (the Poages) near Lexington; also, Mary was staying there; Joseph who escaped the massacre of his family by having been left here by his father, Captain Moore, was still here.
James and his wife moved to Abb's Valley and took up residence on the same farm where the massacre of the Moores had happened. Also, to this same place came his brother, Joseph Moore, and his wife.
Mary continued to live with her maternal grandparents for two or three years; then, she stayed with an uncle who had married her father's sister. In October 1798 she married Rev. Samuel Brown. To them were born ten children. Her husband died October 13, 1818.
Then left a widow with a large family of children. Mary found the struggle great; but she met it with as much fortitude as she had in living with the Indians. She died in the latter part of April, 1824
FOOTNOTES: (1) Bickley (2) Bickley (3) Pendleton, History of Tazewell County, p. 414. SOURCES: The Captives of Abb's Valley, by a son of Mary Moore (we do not know which son) published by the Presbyterian Board of Education, Philadelphia, 1854; Pendleton's History of Tazewell County (1920) and Bickley's History of Tazewell County (1852).
Pages 59 to 76
The Harmans' battle with Indians on the headwaters of the Tug Fork of the Big Sandy River was a well-known story told around firesides in the pioneer days of settlers on Virginia's last frontier. It found its way into the stories told by Bickley of Tazewell County, Virginia, and into the stories of Connelley. (1)
However, dates and some events were confused by both of these writers, who might have checked reports made by frontier military men to the governor of Virginia.
Both these writers confused the names of Mathias Harman, the elder, with Mathias Harman, the younger, in their relationship with Indians. Perhaps this was because there was a tendency when in doubt to give the elder Mathias Harman credit for adventures really made by the younger Mathias.
The older Mathias, who settled in the upper Clinch Valley with his brothers, Henry and George, perhaps around 1772, proved such a fearless Indian fighter that the Indians called him "The little devil with the big nose." For short they simply said, "Old Skygusty." (2)
In the account of the Tug River fight with Indians, Bickley and Connelley gave credit to Old Skygusty when in reality it was Mathias, the younger, a nephew of Old Skygusty, son of Henry Harman, who was involved. (3)
Bickley dates the skirmish as having taken place 1784; Connelley dates it as having happened merely a few days before the attack on the Thomas Wiley home, when Jenny Wiley, wife of Thomas, was carried into captivity, and stated the Harman battle invited the Indians to an attempt to get revenge on Old Skygusty by attacking his home. But, as proved by the Virginia State Papers, the incident actually took place in the fall of 1788. A report from Lieutenant Walter Crockett to Governor Randolph of Virginia, dated February 16, 1789, stated that Henry Harman and his two sons had a skirmish with the Indians late in the fall and behaved like heroes. (4)
Therefore, the Harman fight at the head of Tug Fiver could not have come immediately before the capture of Jenny Wiley, October 1, 1789; however, there is evidence that the Indians thought Old Skygusty was the leader of the Harman hunting party and that they had killed him in the fight, but nonetheless many months later they made a foray on the upper Clinch Valley settlement with intention of attacking and destroying Old Skygusty's family, but through error attacked the home of Thomas Wiley instead.
But, as to the incidents in the Harman fight on Tug River, virtually all accounts agree. (5)
And that story may be summarized as follows:
Henry Harman, a brother of "Skygusty" Mathias Harman, and his two sons, George and Mathias, together with George Draper, went from Clinch Valley over onto the headwaters of Tug River to hunt that autumn of 1778; they were going particularly for bear and consequently they took along pack horses in addition to their mounts.
They thought it was so late in the season that the Indians would not likely be on the prowl, although they were to hunt in the woods traversed by a well-known Indian trail leading from the Ohio River to the Clinch River settlements.
Upon arriving at the hunting ground late in the afternoon, Henry Harman ordered the party to stop and pitch camp. In the matter of camp building Henry was skilled, and consequently he began building one to suit his own taste.
While Henry worked making camp, George and Mathias took their guns and went out, hoping to kill a deer for their supper. Meanwhile, George Draper was assigned the job of hobbling and caring for the horses.
In a very short time George Harman returned and said he had run upon an Indian encampment. The campsite was deserted; but a fire was still burning, which meant that the Indians were close about, perhaps also hunting.
Henry said, "And they may not be hunting just now. It could be that they are out there somewhere watching us."
George Harman exhibited a pair of leggings which he had found at the Indian campfire. Henry took them and looked them over. He queried his son further and came to the conclusion that the party of savages must number seven or more.
We'd better pack up and hurry back to the settlement," Henry said. "They may be headed that way to attack some family. Maybe we can prevent it and save lives. Yes, we'll start back, although we'll have to travel into the night. Could be, too, we'll run into them and have to put up a fight."
George Harman went into the woods and called Mathias, who, hearing his voice, came to the caller and returned to camp with him. Each man checked his gun and saw that it was ready for action. Meanwhile Henry Harman noticed that Draper who had what was known among hunters as "Buck Ague" was in a state of agitation because of the excitement.
Then, Henry said, "Young man, I fear you can't fight."
"I don't feel up to a fight," Draper said.
"Well, we'd better start," Henry said. "I'll lead the way. Draper, follow me." They mounted their horses and started out, the pack horses following. Mathias and George rode behind.
They had gone but a little way when Draper said, "Henry, I can see better than you. Let me ride in front, and I'll keep a sharp watch out."
So, Draper was allowed to take the lead. They had gone but a short distance when Draper probably trying to be jocular, said, "I see 'em! I see' em!"
Henry made an investigation and found no Indians.
"It's no time to tell lies or make jokes," Henry said.
The men rode on, peering to right and left, listening the best they could above the steady clop of the horses' hoofs.
Again Draper, halting his horse, called a warning. "There they are! They're just ahead. Behind a big log!"
The whole party halted. The men listened and tried to look ahead. They neither heard nor saw anything. A big dog which they had with them ran ahead to the log, reared up on it, but did not bark. This convinced Henry that no Indians were out there. But, Henry and his sons dismounted and ventured a little way toward the log. They still saw nothing.
Henry remarked to Draper, "Son, a man who'll joke once, or lie once, will do the same again. I tell you it's no time for either."
This time Draper was neither lying nor joking for in a moment a burst of flames came from the vicinity of the log. Draper, who was still mounted, dug his heels to his mount's flanks and made the animal dash on by the log.
Henry was still in front of the packhorses and his two sons. The Indians rushed upon him, now letting arrows fly. One thunked into his chest. He fell back to where his sons were. The horses nickered and showed signs of stampeding.
The Indians soon drew nearer the three Harmans, carrying tomahawks, knives and bows, as well as guns. Henry could see that there were seven of them.
"Mathias," Henry called, "hold your fire. Me and George will shoot."
So, Henry and George fired. They soon saw they had hit two of the attackers but failed to bring them down.
George Harman was lame as a result of having had "white swelling" in his childhood. He limped, and the Indians evidently observed it. His gun was now empty, as the Indians knew, so they rushed him with raised tomahawks.
Seeing the danger, George swung his gun barrel in order to defend himself against the attack. He succeeded in getting in a counting blow, bringing the nearest Indian to his knees. But he was down for only a moment; he leaped forward, half bent, at George. George swung the gun barrel again and brought the attacker to his knees once more.
George then fumbled for his hunting knife. He couldn't get it from its sheath, but he did get hold of a knife which the Indian was carrying and whammed it deep into the attacker's side. Mathias, who managed to get hold of a tomahawk, pounded the same savage with it and finished him.
While this fight was going on the rest of the Indians were shooting arrows into Henry's chest. They kept maneuvering him, hoping, it seemed, to get a clear shot at his left breast. Meantime Henry was trying to load his gun again. He had the job almost done when an arrow point struck his elbow near the joint. It hit a vein or an artery and blood spurted. Then, presently another arrow flew and struck him again in the chest.
The gun loaded, he raised the muzzle, aimed at an Indian and pulled the trigger; but the gun failed to fire. He found that blood from his arm had got into the frizzin pan and wet the powder.
But the mere raising of the gun, which the Indians knew had just been loaded, caused them to retreat to a place where others stood with empty guns.
Mathias, whom Henry had told to reserve his fire, now asked if he might shoot.
"Yes," Henry said. "Quick, too.
Mathias singled out an Indian who appeared to be dressed as a chief, standing at a beech tree. He fired and the Indian fell away from the tree, throwing his tomahawk into the air.
Now, two Indians lay dead. Seeing that they were perhaps defeated or believing they could not win, the others started running up the hill.
After they had gone, Henry fell upon the ground, exhausted, and fainted from the loss of blood. Mathias and George got water from a brook nearby, washed his wounds an bound his arm to stop the flow of blood. Soon he rallied, sat up and said, "Boys, we've whipped 'em. Give me my pipe."
One of the sons got his pipe, filled and lighted it; and he began to smoke. As soon as he felt able to mount a horse, the three Harmans reloaded their guns and started on their way.
A little way out they found that Draper had ridden his horse off the trail, dismounted and hid behind a log. But, knowing he must not stay behind, he mounted his horse again and continued on with the Harmans.
FOOTNOTES: (1) Connelley, Harman's Station; (2) Scalf, Henry P., Floyd County, Kentucky, Sesquicentennial, p. 18; (3) Harman History, p. 244; (4) Virginia State Papers, Vol. 4, p. 564; (5) Floyd County, Op. Cit. P. 17. SOURCES: Bickley; Virginia State Papers; Scalf, Henry P., Floyd County, Kentucky and Connelley, Harman's Station. Pages 77 to 83
In Baptist Valley, on the headwaters of Clinch River, Richard Pemberton, April 16, 1785, took his long-barrel rifle down from its antler rack and carefully examined it.
"Are you going hunting?" his oldest son asked him.
"No, just to examine my fence. I'm afraid my cattle might be out and go astray."
"Then, why are you taking the rifle?"
"Son, I most always take it when I go out. There could be Indians about. Understand?"
"Then, if Indians should come while you're out, what would me and Mother and Brother do?"
Richard stood looking at his son. "Well, maybe you'd better come along. All of you. You'd be safer outside that in here if Indians do come. And they're bothering the settlers a lot these days."
So, with Richard went his wife and two children. They walked over the hill a distance of about two miles to a tract of land he had rented from William O. George and had planted to corn. He found that the fences were standing and no cattle had broken out.
The sky was clear and blue. Against it a few hawks circled, looking down as though watching for chickens. And, nearby, in a woodland other eyes were looking; eyes of Indians.
The Pembertons started back home when they heard feet padding the ground behind them. Turning, Richard saw two Indians bearing down on him and his family with bows and arrows set ready to shoot.
"Run, children!" Richard yelled. "Mother, take them and go to Mr. Johnson's." Mr. Johnson lived only about a half mile away and at the time he had several men working for him.
Mrs. Pemberton took the hands of her children and ran, but every f