University of Virginia Library

1785.

CAPTIVITY OF MRS. CUNNINGHAM.

In the latter part of June, a small party of Indians visited
the house of Edward Cunningham, an enterprising settler on
Bingamon, a branch of West Fork. Thomas Cunningham, a
brother of Edward, lived in a house almost adjoining. The
two families affording thus protection one to the other. At
the time spoken of, Edward and his family were in one cabin,

and the wife of Thomas, with her four children, (her husband
having gone east on a trading expedition) were in the other,
both families eating their dinners, when in stepped before the
astonished mother and children, a huge savage, with drawn
knife and uplifted tomahawk. Conscious of his security with
the mother and children, but fearing danger from Edward
Cunningham, who had seen him enter, the savage quickly
glanced around for some means of escape in an opposite
direction. Edward watched the movements of the savage
through an opening in the wall. In the other house was a
similar hole, (made to introduce light), and through it the
Indian fired, shouting the yell of victory. It was answered
by Edward, who had seen the aim of the savage just in time
to escape,—the bark from the log close to his head was
knocked off by the Indian's ball, and flew in his face. The
Indian seeing that he had missed his object, and observing
an adze in the room, deliberately commenced cutting an
aperture in the back wall, through which he might pass out,
without being exposed to a shot from the other building.

Another of the Indians came into the yard just after the
firing of his companion, but observing Edward's gun pointing
through the port hole, endeavored to retreat out of its range.
Just as he went to spring the fence, a ball struck him, and he
fell forward. It had, however, only fractured his thigh bone,
and he was yet able to get over the fence, and take shelter
behind a quilt suspended on it, before Edward could again load
his gun. Meantime the Indian in the house was engaged in
cutting a hole through the wall, during which Mrs. Cunningham
made no attempt to get out, well aware it would only
draw upon her head the fury of the savage; and that if she
escaped this one, she would most probably be killed by some
of those who were watching outside. She knew, too, it would
be impossible to take the children with her. She trusted to
hope that the one inside would withdraw without molesting
any of them. A few minutes served to convince her of the
hopeless folly of trusting to an Indian's mercy. When the

opening had been made sufficiently large, the savage raised
his tomahawk, sunk it deep into the brains of one of the
children, and throwing the scarcely lifeless body into the back
yard, ordered the mother to follow him. There was no
alternative but death, and she obeyed his order, stepping over
the dead body of one of her children, with an infant in her
arms, and two others screaming by her side. When all were
out he scalped the murdered boy, and setting fire to the house,
retired to an eminence, where two of the savages were with
their wounded companion,—leaving the other two to watch
the opening of Edward Cunningham's door, when the burning
of the house should force the family from their shelter. They
were disappointed in their expectation of that event by the
exertions of Cunningham and his son. When the flame from
the one house communicated to the roof of the other, they
ascended to the loft, threw off the loose boards which covered
it, and extinguished the fire;—the savages shooting at them
all the while; their balls frequently striking close by.

Unable to force out the family of Edward Cunningham,
and despairing of doing further injury, they beat a speedy
retreat. Before leaving, however, the eldest son of Mrs.
Thomas Cunningham was tomahawked and scalped in presence
of the shuddering mother. Her little daughter was next
served in the same way; but, to make the scene still more
tragical, the child was dashed against a tree, and its brains
scattered about. The mother, during the whole of these
bloody acts, stood motionless in grief, and in momentary awe
of meeting a similar fate. But, alas, she was reserved for a
different, and, to a sensitive woman, a far more dreadful fate.
With her helpless babe she was led from this scene of carnage.
The savages carried their wounded companion upon a litter.
Crossing the ridge, they found a cave near Bingamon creek,
in which they secreted themselves until after night, when
some of the party returned to Edward Cunningham's, but not
finding any one at home, fired the house, and made a hasty
retreat towards their own country.

Mrs. Cunningham suffered untold mental and physical
agony during her march to the Indian towns. For ten days
her only nourishment was the head of a wild turkey and a few
paw-paws. After a long absence she was returned to her
husband, through the intercession of Simon Girty, who ransomed
her, and sent her home. This one single act should
redeem his memory from a multitude of sins.

After the savages had withdrawn, Cunningham went with
his family into the woods, where they remained all night, there
being no settlement nearer than ten miles. In the morning the
alarm was given, and a company of men soon collected to go
in pursuit of the Indians. When they came to Cunningham's,
and found both houses heaps of ashes, they buried the bones
of the boy who was murdered in the house, with the bodies of
his brother and little sister, who were killed in the field; but
so cautiously had the savages conducted their retreat, that no
traces of them could be discovered, and the men returned to
their homes.

Subsequently, a second party started in pursuit, and traced
them to the cave; but it was found the enemy had left the
night previous, and all hope of effecting a successful pursuit
was given over. After her return from captivity, Mrs. Cunningham
stated, that at the time of the search on the first day,
the Indians were in the cave, and that several times the whites
approached so near, that she could distinctly hear their voices;
the savages standing with their guns ready to fire, in the
event of being discovered, and forcing her to keep the infant
to her breast, lest its cry might indicate their place of concealment.

CAPTIVITY OF TWO BOYS.

In the spring of this year, the Indians early re-appeared
in the neighborhood of Wheeling. One of their first acts on
Wheeling creek, was the captivity of two boys, John Wetzel,

Jr., and Frederick Erlewyne, the former about sixteen years
of age, and the latter a year or two younger. The boys had
gone from the fort at Shepherd's, for the purpose of catching
horses. One of the stray animals was a mare, with a
young colt, belonging to Wetzel's sister, and she had offered
the foal to John, says the account which we follow, as a
reward for finding the mare. While on this service, they
were captured by a party of four Indians, who, having come
across the horses, had seized and secured them in a thicket,
expecting the bells would attract the notice of their owners,
as they could kill them. The horse was ever a favorite object
of plunder with the savages; as not only facilitating his own
escape from pursuit, but also assisting him in carrying off the
spoil. The boys, hearing the well-known tinkle of the bells,
approached the spot where the Indians lay concealed, congratulating
themselves on their good luck in so readily finding
the strays, when they were immediately seized by the savages.
John, in attempting to escape, was shot through the wrist.
His companion hesitating to go with the Indians, and beginning
to cry, they dispatched him with the tomahawk. John,
who had once before been taken prisoner and escaped, made
light of it, and went along cheerfully with his wounded arm.

The party struck the Ohio river early the following morning,
at a point near the mouth of Grave creek, and just below
the clearing of Mr. Tomlinson.[36] Here they found some hogs,
and killing one of them, put it into a canoe they had stolen.
Three of the Indians took possession of the canoe with
their prisoner, while the other was busied in swimming the
horses across the river. It so happened that Isaac Williams,[37]
Hambleton Kerr, and Jacob, a Dutchman, had come
down that morning from Wheeling, to look after the cattle,
etc., left at the deserted settlement. When near the mouth

of Little Grave creek, a mile above, they heard the report of
a rifle. "Dod rot 'em," exclaimed Mr. Williams, "a Kentuck
boat has landed at the creck, and they are shooting my
hogs." Quickening their pace, in a few minutes they were
within a short distance of the creek, when they heard the loud
snort of a horse. Kerr being in the prime of life, and younger
than Mr. Williams, was several rods ahead, and reached the
bank first. As he looked into the creek, he saw three Indians
standing in a canoe; one was in the stern, one in the bow,
and the other in the middle. At the feet of the latter, lay
four rifles and a dead hog; while a fourth Indian was swimming
a horse, a few rods from shore. The one in the stern
had his paddle in the edge of the water in the act of turning
and shoving the canoe from the mouth of the creek into the
river. Before they were aware of his presence, Kerr drew up
and shot the Indian in the stern, who instantly fell into the
water. The crack of his rifle had scarcely ceased, when Mr.
Williams came up and shot the one in the bow, who also fell
overboard. Kerr dropped his own rifle, and seizing that of
the Dutchman, shot the remaining Indian. He fell over into
the water, but still held on to the side of the canoe with one
hand. So amazed was the last Indian at the fall of his companions,
that he never offered to lift one of the rifles which
lay at his feet in self-defence, but acted like one bereft of his
senses. By this time the canoe, impelled by the impetus
given to it by the first Indian, had reached the current of the
river, and was some rods below the mouth of the creek. Kerr
instantly reloaded his gun, and seeing another man lying in
the bottom of the canoe, raised it to his face as in the act of
firing, when he cried out, "Don't shoot, I am a white man!"
Kerr told him to knock loose the Indian's hand from the side
of the canoe, and paddle to the shore. In reply he said his
arm was broken and he could not. The current, however,
set it near some rocks not far from land, on which he jumped
and waded out. Kerr now aimed his rifle at the Indian on horseback,
who by this time had reached the middle of the river.
The shot struck near him, splashing the water on his naked
skin. The Indian seeing the fate of his companions, with the
utmost bravery, slipped from the horse, and swam for the
canoe, in which were the rifles of the four warriors. This
was an act of necessity, as well of daring, for he well knew
he could not reach home without the means of killing game.
He soon gained possession of the canoe, unmolested, crossed
with the arms to his own side of the Ohio, mounted the captive
horse, which had swam to the Indian shore, and with a
yell of defiance escaped into the woods. The canoe was
turned adrift to spite his enemies, and was taken up near
Maysville with the dead hog still in it, the cause of all their
misfortunes.

THE DOOLIN MURDER.

Edward Doolin was one of the earliest settlers near the
mouth of Fishing creek. He improved the farm now partly
owned by Samuel McEldowney, about one mile above New
Martinsville, Virginia.[38] Most of the settlers on Fishing creek
had, on the opening of spring, moved into Tomlinson's fort;
but Doolin, not apprehending danger, refused to go. The
circumstances of this murder are thus given by General Butler,
who was one of the Commissioners appointed to hold
treaties with the northern and western Indians. His Journal,
from which we extract, was kept during his visit to the
Miami, in 1785:

"I saw one Irvine, who had come from Cumberland river
in a boat; he arrived at Fort McIntosh just the evening before
I set out. He says he met General Clark below Sciota
a small distance, the 13th inst., on his way to the falls of the
Ohio. He says he met with the wife of one Doolin, whose
husband and two children were murdered by the Indians on
Fish creek, on the 20th instant. Their conduct was very

extraordinary. They came to the door and knocked, very
early in the morning; the man rose out of bed and was shot
through the door, which broke his thigh; on his falling, the
door was broke in by the Indians, who tomahawked him and
two children; the woman in fright lay still. They told her
not to be uneasy, that they would not hurt her or the child
she had in her arms, and desired she would not leave the
house, as they would soon be back again, but did not intend
to injure her; that they were Cherokees, and would never
make peace. She asked why they troubled her, that the
Indians had made peace with General Clark last fall; they
said, not they; that if they could meet General Clark they
would kill him also. He says he does not think the Indians
mean to do any mischief generally, that it is a few banditti,
who are a collection of Cherokees, Shawanese, etc."

Mrs. Doolin afterwards married Edmund Martin, and
moved with her husband to Kentucky.

CAPTIVITY OF MRS. FRANCES SCOTT.

Mr. Scott, a citizen of Washington county, Virginia, had
his house attacked on Wednesday night, June 29th, 1785,
and himself, with four children, butchered upon the spot.

Early in the evening, a considerable body of Indians passed
his house and encamped within a couple of miles. Himself
and family had retired, with the exception of Mrs. Scott,
who was in the act of undressing, when the painted savages
rushed in, and commenced the work of death. "Mr. Scott,
being awake, jumped up, but was immediately fired at: he
forced his way through the midst of the enemy and got out
of the door, but fell. An Indian seized Mrs. Scott, and
ordered her to a particular spot, and not to move: others
stabbed and cut the throats of the three younger children
in their bed, and afterwards lifting them up, dashed them
upon the floor, near the mother; the eldest, a beautiful

girl of eight years old, awoke, escaped out of the bed, ran to
her parent, and, with the most plaintive accents, cried, `O
mamma! mamma! save me!' The mother, in the deepest
anguish of spirit, and with a flood of tears, entreated the
savages to spare her child; but with a brutal fierceness, they
tomahawked and stabbed her in the mother's arms. Adjacent
to Mr. Scott's dwelling house another family lived, of the
name of Ball. The Indians attacked them at the same time;
but the door being shut, the enemy fired into the house
through an opening between two logs, and killed a young
lad; they then tried to force the door, but a surviving brother
fired through and drove them off; the remaining part of the
family ran out of the house and escaped. In Mr. Scott's
house were four good rifles, well loaded, and a good deal of
clothing and furniture, part of which belonged to people
that had left it on their way to Kentucky. The Indians,
being thirteen in number, loaded themselves with the plunder,
then speedily made off, and continued travelling all night.
Next morning their chief allotted to each man his share; and
detached nine of the party to steal horses from the inhabitants
on Clinch river. The eleventh day after Mrs. Scott's
captivity, the four Indians who had her in charge, stopped at
a place of rendezvous to hunt. Three went out, and the
chief, being an old man, was left to take care of the prisoner,
who, by this time, expressed a willingness to proceed to the
Indian towns, which seemed to have the desired effect of
lessening her keeper's vigilance. In the day time, as the old
man was graning a deer skin, the captive, pondering on her
situation, and anxiously looking for an opportunity to make
her escape, took the resolution, and went to the Indian carelessly,
asked liberty to go a small distance to a stream of
water, to wash the blood off her apron, that had remained
besmeared since the fatal night of the murder of her little
daughter. He told her, in the English tongue `Go along!'
she then passed by him, his face being in a contrary direction
from that she was going, and he very busy. After getting to
the water, she went on without delay towards a high, barren
mountain, and travelled until late in the evening, when she
came down into the valley, in search of the track she had
been taken along; hoping thereby to find the way back,
without the risk of being lost, and perishing with hunger in
uninhabited parts.1

"That night she made herself a bed with leaves, and the
next day resumed her wanderings. Thus did that poor woman
continue from day to day, and week to week, wandering
in the trackless wilderness. Finally, on the 11th of August,
she reached a settlement on Clinch river, known as New
Garden.

"Mrs. Scott related, that during her wandering from the
tenth of July to the eleventh of August, she had no other
subsistence but chewing and swallowing the juice of young
cane, sassafras, and some plants she did not know the names
of; that, on her journey, she saw buffaloes, elk, deer, and
frequently bears and wolves, not one of which, although some
passed very near, offered to do her the least harm. One
day a bear came near her, with a young fawn in his mouth,
and, on discovering her, he dropped his prey and ran off.
Hunger prompted her to try and eat the flesh; but, on reflection,
she desisted, thinking that the bear might return
and devour her: besides, she had an aversion to raw meat.

"Mrs. Scott long continued in a low state of health, and
remained inconsolable at the loss of her family, particularly
bewailing the cruel death of her little daughter."

MURDER OF TWO SISTERS.

Next to the Tush murder, perhaps the most melancholy
occurrence on Wheeling creek, was that of two sisters—the
Misses Crow. The parents of these girls lived about one mile
above the mouth of Dunkard, or lower fork of the creek.

According to the statement of a third sister,[39] who was an eyewitness
to the horrid tragedy, and herself almost a victim,
the three left their parents' house for an evening walk along
the deeply shaded banks of that beautiful stream. Their walk
extended over a mile, and they were just turning back, when
suddenly, several Indians sprung from behind a ledge of rock,
and seized all three of the sisters. With scarcely a moment's
interruption, the savages led the captives a short distance up
a small bank, when a halt was called, and a parley took place.
It seems that some of the Indians were in favor of immediate
slaughter, while others were disposed to carry them into
permanent captivity. Unfortunately, the arm of mercy was
powerless. Without a moment's warning, a fierce-looking
savage stepped from the group with elevated tomahawk, and
commenced the work of death. This Indian, in the language
of the surviving sister, "Began to tomahawk one of my
sisters—Susan by name. Susan dodged her head to one
side, the tomahawk taking effect in her neck, cutting the
large neck vein, [jugular] the blood gushing out a yard's
length. The Indian who had her by the hand, jumped back
to avoid the blood. The other Indian then began the work
of death on my sister Mary. I gave a sudden jerk and got
loose from the one that held me, and ran with all speed, and
took up a steep bank, gained the top safe—(but just as I
caught hold of a bush to help myself up, the Indian fired, and
the ball passed through the clump of hair on my head, slightly
breaking the skin;) the Indian taking round, in order to meet
me as I would strike the path that led homeward. But I ran
right from home, and hid myself in the bushes, near the top
of the hill. Presently I saw an Indian passing along the
hill below me; I lay still until he was out of sight; I then
made for home."[40]