a day of rest; and from 1789, regular service was performed in the
north-west block-house at Campus Martius. The military law required
the regular muster of troops every Sunday at ten o’clock. They were
paraded by beat of drum, the roll called, arms inspected, and then the
procession, headed by Colonel Sproat with drawn sword, the clergyman
and the civil officers, with accompaniment of fife and drum, marched
into the hall appropriated for divine service. The arms of the soldiers
were placed by their sides, or in some convenient place, ready for use.
“One Sunday morning in the latter part of September, Peter Niswonger,
one of the rangers, went to visit a field he had planted with corn
and potatoes, on the east side of Duck Creek. He had some fattened
hogs in a pen, one of which he found killed, and a portion of the meat
cut out and carried off. Several hills of potatoes had been dug, and
in the loose earth he discovered fresh moccasin tracks; a proof that
Indians had done the mischief. Peter hurried back to the garrison at
the point, and gave the alarm. It was in the midst of morning service,
and the inhabitants were generally assembled in the large block-house.
The instant the words, ‘Indians in the neighborhood,’ were heard, the
drummer seized his drum, and rushing out at the door, began to beat the
long roll; the well known signal for every man to hasten to his post.
The place of worship, so quiet a few minutes before, was now a scene
of alarm and confusion. The women caught up their little children and
hastened homeward, and the place of prayer was abandoned for that day.
Anxiety for the fate of their brothers and husbands, who had gone in
pursuit of the dreaded enemy, banished all thoughts but the silent,
fervent prayer for their safe return. A party was soon mustered of
five or six of the rangers, several volunteer citizens, and soldiers
from the company stationed at the point. The men went up in canoes to
the mouth of Duck Creek, where they left their water-craft. The more
experienced rangers soon fell upon the trail, which they traced across
wide bottoms, to the Little Muskingum. At a point about half a mile
below where Conner’s mill now stands, the Indians forded the creek;
and about a mile eastward, in a hollow between the hills, was seen the
smoke of their camp fire. The rangers now divided the volunteers into
two flanking parties, with one of the spies at the head of each; three
of their number acting in front. By the time the ‘flankers’ had come
within range of the camp, the Indians discovered their foes, by the
noise of soldiers who lagged behind and were not so cautious in their
movements, and instantly fled up the run on which they were encamped;
two of their number leaving the main body, and ascending the point of a
hill with a ravine on the right and left. The rangers now fired, while
the Indians, each taking his tree, returned the shot. One of the two
savages on the spur of the ridge was wounded by one of the spies on
the right, who pushed on manfully to gain the enemy’s flank. The men
in front came on more slowly, and as they began to ascend the point of
the ridge, Ned Henderson, who was posted on high ground, cried, ‘Hence!
there is an Indian behind that white oak; he will kill some of you!’
One of the white men instantly sprang behind a large tree; another
behind a hickory too small to cover more than half his body, while
the third jumped into the ravine. At the instant the Indian fired, he
looked over the edge of the bank to see the effect of the shot, and saw
the man behind the hickory wiping the dust of the bark from his eyes;
the ball having grazed the tree without doing him any injury except
cutting his nose with the splinters. At the same time the Indian fell,
pierced with several balls.”
“The first Sunday school was taught by Mrs. Andrew Lake, a
kind-hearted, pious old lady from New York, who had brought up a family
of children herself, and therefore felt the more for others; she took
compassion on the children of the garrison, who were spending the
Sabbath afternoons in frivolous amusements, and established a school
in her own dwelling. After parson Story’s services were finished,
she regularly assembled as many of the younger children as she could
persuade to attend, and taught them the Westminster catechism, and
lessons from the Bible, for about an hour. Her scholars amounted
to about twenty in number. She was very kind and affectionate
towards them, so that they were fond of assembling to listen to
her instructions. Her explanations of Scripture were so simple and
childlike, that the smallest of the little ones could understand them,
and were rendered very pleasant by her mild manner of speaking. The
accommodations for the children were very rude and simple, consisting
only of a few low stools and benches, such a thing as a chair being
unknown in the garrison. One of her scholars, then a little boy of
four years old, who gave me a sketch of the school, says--for lack of
a seat he was one day placed by the kind old lady on the top of a bag
of meal, that stood leaning against the side of the room. The seed
thus charitably sown in faith and hope, was not scattered in vain; as
several of her scholars became prominent members of the church.”
The offer of lands for military service brought new emigrants from
Pennsylvania and Virginia, and the firmness and wisdom of directors
and agents, backed by the counsel of old Revolutionary officers,
preserved the settlement in the midst of formidable dangers. Among
other inconveniences brought by war, the mills were stopped, and it was
necessary to grind the corn in hand-mills, though flour might still be
procured at “head-waters.”
There were but two hand-mills in the garrison, and a large coffee-mill,
which had once belonged to a ship of war. The hopper held a peck of
corn, and it was in great demand. After this imperfect grinding, the
finest of the meal was separated with a sieve for bread, and the coarse
boiled with a piece of venison or bear’s meat, making a rich and
nourishing diet, well suited to the tastes of the hungry pioneers.
One instance of strict honor, in the midst of privation is mentioned
of the wife of an officer in the United States’ service, and one of
the most worthy men in the colony. During the period of the greatest
distress, the mother had consented to cook for a young man who owned
a lot adjoining hers, and ate his meals at his own cabin. While the
bread, which was made of musty meal, was baking, she always sent her
children out to play, and when baked, locked it immediately in the
owner’s chest, lest they should see it, and cry for a piece of what
she had no right to give them. When a few kernels of corn chanced to
be dropped in grinding, the children would pick them up like chickens,
and eat them. A few of the inhabitants had cows, for which, in summer,
the forest afforded ample provender. In the latter part of the winter,
the sap of the sugar maple, boiled down with meal, made a rich and
nutritious food; and the tree was so abundant, that as large quantities
of sugar were made as the number of kettles in the settlement would
permit. By the middle of July, the new corn was in the milk, and fit
for roasting; and this, with squashes, beans, etc., put an end to fears
of actual starvation. So urgent was the necessity, that these different
vegetables, before they were fully formed, were gathered and boiled
together, with a little meal, into a kind of soup much relished. It was
even said that the dogs would get at and devour the young corn.
Under these discouraging circumstances, the inhabitants contributed
all the money they could raise, and sent two active young men by land
to “Red Stone,” to procure supplies of salt meat and a few barrels of
flour. It was a hazardous journey, on account of the inclemency of the
weather--it being early in December--and danger from the Indians, who
since St. Clair’s defeat were more active in harassing the settlements.
The young men, however, reached head waters, and made the necessary
purchases, which they were about sending down the river when it was
suddenly closed by ice. Nothing, meanwhile, was heard of them at home,
and the winter wore away in uncertainty, some supposing the messengers
had gone off with the money, and others that they had been killed by
the savages. The ice broke up the last of February with a flood that
inundated the ground on which the garrison was built, and early in
March the young men arrived with a small Kentucky boat loaded with
supplies, and entering the garrison by the upper gate, moored their
ark at the door of the commandant, to the great relief and joy of the
inhabitants.
The expedition of Gen. Harmar having failed of its object, the
north-west territory was still a battle-ground for confederate tribes
from Lakes Erie and Michigan, from the Illinois, the Wabash, and the
Miamis. The famous chief, Little Turtle, was at their head. This
failure having made a deep impression, there was a demand for a greater
force under the command of a more experienced general; and Arthur St.
Clair was selected as most capable of restoring American affairs in
the north-west. His army was assembled at Cincinnati with the object
of destroying the Miami towns. Gen. St. Clair’s defeat on a branch of
the Wabash, November 4th, 1791, was one of the heaviest disasters in
the annals of savage warfare. Its effect was to expose the whole range
of frontier settlements on the Ohio, to the fury of the Indians, and
spread so much alarm among the inhabitants, that many talked of leaving
the country. Their final determination, however, was to stay and defend
their property, and the ensuing winter, in spite of disasters, brought
fresh arrivals of colonists. During the continuance of the war, the men
were obliged to work their fields with arms in their hands; parties of
fifteen or twenty laboring, while three or four were posted as sentries
in the edge of the woods or enclosure. Thus food for their families was
obtained at the risk of the rifle or the tomahawk.
The year 1791 was more fruitful of tragic events in the vicinity of
Marietta than any other. After that time the Indians were occupied
in defending their own borders, or their villages, against American
troops, and had little time for hostile incursions. The expenses
in which the war had involved the Ohio Company, caused the failure
of payment for the lands; petitions were presented to Congress for
donation lots, and those emigrants who came after the termination of
Indian hostilities obtained better lands, on more favorable terms,
than those who had undergone all the privations, labors, and sufferings
which preceded the privileged season.
“The winter of 1791-2,” says Spencer in his narrative, “was followed
by an early and delightful spring; indeed, I have often thought that
our first western winters were much milder, our springs earlier, and
our autumns longer than they now are. On the last of February, some of
the trees were putting forth their foliage; in March, the red-bud, the
hawthorn and the dog-wood in full bloom checkered the hills, displaying
their beautiful colors of rose and lily; and in April the ground was
covered with the May apple, bloodroot, ginseng, violets, and a great
variety of herbs and flowers. Flocks of parroquets were seen, decked
in their rich plumage of green and gold. Birds of every species and of
every hue, were flitting from tree to tree; and the beautiful redbird,
and the untaught songster of the west, made the woods vocal with their
melody. Now might be heard the plaintive wail of the dove, and now
the rumbling drum of the partridge, or the loud gobble of the turkey.
Here might be seen the clumsy bear, doggedly moving off, or urged by
pursuit into a laboring gallop, retreating to his citadel in the top
of some lofty tree; or--approached suddenly--raising himself erect in
the attitude of defence, facing his enemy and waiting his approach;
there the timid deer, watchfully resting, or cautiously feeding, or
aroused from his thicket, gracefully bounding off, then stopping,
erecting his stately head and for a moment gazing around, or snuffing
the air to ascertain his enemy, instantly springing off, clearing logs
and bushes at a bound, and soon distancing his pursuers. It seemed an
earthly paradise; and but for apprehension of the wily copperhead, who
lay silently coiled among the leaves, or beneath the plants, waiting
to strike his victim; the horrid rattlesnake, who more chivalrous,
however, with head erect amidst its ample folds, prepared to dart upon
his foe, generously with the loud noise of his rattle apprised him of
danger; and the still more fearful and insidious savage, who, crawling
upon the ground, or noiselessly approaching behind trees and thickets,
sped the deadly shaft or fatal bullet, you might have fancied you were
in the confines of Eden or the borders of Elysium.”
The author of “Miami County Traditions,” says: “The country all around
the settlement presented the most lovely appearance; the earth was
like an ash-heap, and nothing could exceed the luxuriance of primitive
vegetation; indeed, our cattle often died from excess of feeding, and
it was somewhat difficult to rear them on that account. The white-weed,
or bee-harvest, as it is called, so profusely spread over our bottom
and woodlands, was not then seen among us; the sweet annis, nettles,
wild rye, and pea-vine, now so scarce, every where abounded; they were
almost the entire herbage of our bottoms; the two last gave subsistence
to our cattle, and the first, with our nutritious roots, were eaten by
our swine with the greatest avidity. In the spring and summer months, a
drove of hogs could be scented at a considerable distance, from their
flavor of the annis root.”
When Gen. Putnam had concluded a treaty with the Indians on the Wabash,
fourteen of the chiefs came to Marietta, November 17th, 1792, under
the escort of American officers. The next day a public dinner was
given to them at Campus Martius, to which the officers of the garrison
and the citizens of Marietta were invited. The procession was formed
on the bank of the Ohio, where the boat landed, and the chiefs were
conducted, with martial music, to the north-east gate of the garrison,
a salute of fourteen guns being fired as soon as the head of the column
appeared in sight. The procession then moved through the gate to the
dining hall, a room twenty-four by forty feet large, in the hall of
the north-west block-house, where the feast provided had been arranged
by the ladies of the garrison. An eye-witness says: “The entertainment
was very novel, and the scene peculiar and striking. Shut up in the
garrison, and at war with the other tribes of the forest, shaking hands
with our red guests, and passing from one to another the appellation
of _brother_! It seemed to renew the scenes of the first year’s
settlement, and make us almost forget war was upon our border.”
After the banquet and ceremonies were concluded, the chiefs were again
conducted to their boats. The next day they were invited by several
gentlemen of the stockade garrison at the point, to smoke the pipe of
friendship; after which they proceeded on their journey.
Another of the female pioneers whose name tradition has preserved,
is Sally Fleehart, who became the wife of John Warth, a noted hunter
and ranger, and lived in one of the barracks. Warth learned to read
and write in the intervals of his ranging tours, and after the peace
settled in Virginia, and served as a magistrate, becoming a wealthy
planter and owning a number of slaves. His success was attributable to
the education given him by his wife, who had been brought up on the
frontier, and possessed not only unusual intellectual cultivation for
that class, but all the intrepidity and activity common to women at
that day, in a remarkable degree. She could fire a rifle with great
accuracy, and bring down a bird on the wing, or a squirrel from the
tree, as readily as could the practised arm of her husband.
The women resident in the forts had but little respite from anxiety
and dread, except in the depths of winter, when the Indians rarely
committed depredations, or lay in watch about the settlements. As
soon, however, as the wild geese, seen in flocks steering their
course northward, or the frogs piping in the swamp, gave token of
the approach of the more genial season, the return of the savage foe
might be expected. Thus the more timid part of the community, and the
elder females never welcomed the coming of spring with the hilarity
it generally awakens, preferring the “melancholy days” of gloom
and tempest, when they and their children were comparatively safe;
regarding the budding of trees and opening of wild flowers with sad
forebodings, and listening to the song of birds as a prelude to the
warcry of the relentless savage. The barking of the faithful watchdog
at night was another cause of terror, associated as it was with
visions of the Indian lurking in his covert; and it was seldom heard
by the timid mother without raising her head from the pillow to listen
anxiously for the sound of the distant warwhoop, or the report of the
sentry’s rifle; to sink again into uneasy slumber, and dream of some
wild deed or fearful occurrence. Some amusing incidents are related
of the alarm created in a garrison by the sudden outcry of persons who
were dreaming of Indian assault. This part of the suffering peculiar to
those times, can hardly be imagined in our days of peace and security.
One instance of the confusion created by a false alarm may be
given:--“One dark and rainy night in June, while John Wint, a youth
of eighteen, was on the watch in the tower of the middle blockhouse,
he saw by a flash of lightning a darklooking object climbing over a
log, which lay about fifty yards from the fort. A report had been
previously circulated of Indians being seen in the neighborhood, and
this appeared about the height of a man. At the next flash John hailed
and fired the same instant. All remained quiet outside; but the report
awakened every body within the garrison, and men came running from all
quarters in great alarm, thinking the savages were already upon them,
for no sentinel ever fired without good cause. The women came hurrying
along with their screaming children, and the soldiers with their guns
ready for service. In the midst of the tumult, Col. Sproat was soon on
the ground, and questioned the sentinel closely as to what he had seen
or heard. John was rather confused at the disturbance he had raised
without being able to state some more definite cause than the dark body
bearing resemblance to a man, which he had seen standing on a log. He
said he had fired at a white spot he saw above its head by the flash of
lightning, and there were many surmises as to what it could be; some
thinking it must be an Indian, others protesting John had fired at
nothing to see the fun of a night alarm, as he was known to be fond of
a little harmless sport. No further signs of the enemy were discovered,
as no one would venture out in the dark to reconnoitre for savages.
In the morning, after the gates were opened, a party went to the log
pointed out by John, and found a large black dog, which belonged to
one of the soldiers, with a rifle shot through the centre of a white
spot in his forehead.” The accuracy of the shot attested the sentry’s
excellence as a marksman, though much useless anxiety had been excited
by his mistake.
This is a brief notice of the earliest settlement in Ohio, the germ
whence has sprung a great and powerful State. The termination of the
Indian war, brought about by the victorious campaign of Gen. Anthony
Wayne, and the conclusion of the treaty at Greenville in 1795, restored
peace to the harassed settlements; mills were erected, roads opened,
and the inhabitants who had so long been immured within the walls of
forts, went forth to till their grounds and clear away the forest
unembarrassed by the dread of a lurking enemy.
Brickell, in his narrative of captivity among the Indians, relates a
curious anecdote of the escape of Mrs. Jane Dick. “Her husband had
concerted a plan with the captain of the vessel which brought the
presents, to steal her from the Indians. The captain concerted a plan
with a black man who cooked for McKee and Elliot, to steal Mrs. Dick.
The black man arranged it with Mrs. Dick to meet him at midnight in a
copse of underwood, which she did, and he took her on board in a small
canoe, and headed her up in an empty hogs-head, where she remained till
the day after the vessel sailed, about thirty-six hours. I remember
well that every camp and the woods were searched for her, and that the
vessel was searched; for the Indians immediately suspected that she was
on board, but not thinking of unheading hogsheads, they could not find
her.” This happened the summer before Wayne’s campaign.
* * * * *
Mary Heckewelder, the daughter of Rev. John Heckewelder, whose early
labors as a Moravian missionary among the Indians are well known, is
said to have been the first white child born in Ohio. The following
sketch was sent by her to the editor of the American Pioneer: “I was
born April 16th, 1781, in Salem, one of the Moravian Indian towns on
the Muskingum river, Ohio. Soon after my birth, times becoming very
troublesome, the settlements were often in danger from war parties, and
from an encampment of warriors near Gnadenhutten; and finally, in the
beginning of September of the same year, we were all made prisoners.
First, four of the missionaries were seized by a party of Huron
warriors, and declared prisoners of war; they were then led into the
camp of the Delawares, where the death-song was sung over them. Soon
after they had secured them, a number of warriors marched off for Salem
and Schönbrunn. About thirty savages arrived at the former place in the
dusk of the evening, and broke open the mission-house. Here they took
my mother and myself prisoners, and having led her into the street and
placed guards over her, they plundered the house of everything they
could take with them and destroyed what was left. Then going to take my
mother along with them, the savages were prevailed upon, through the
intercession of the Indian females, to let her remain at Salem till the
next morning--the night being dark and rainy, and almost impossible for
her to travel so far. They consented on condition that she should be
brought into the camp the next morning, which was accordingly done, and
she was safely conducted by our Indians to Gnadenhutten.
“After experiencing the cruel treatment of the savages for some
time, they were set at liberty again; but were obliged to leave
their flourishing settlements and forced to march through a dreary
wilderness to Upper Sandusky. We went by land through Goshachguenk to
the Walholding, and then partly by water and partly along the banks of
the river, to Sandusky creek. All the way I was carried by an Indian
woman, carefully wrapped in a blanket, on her back. Our journey was
exceedingly tedious and dangerous; some of the canoes sunk, and those
that were in them lost all their provisions and everything they had
saved. Those that went by land drove the cattle, a pretty large herd.
The savages now drove us along, the missionaries with their families
usually in the midst, surrounded by their Indian converts. The roads
were exceedingly bad, leading through a continuation of swamps.
“Having arrived at Upper Sandusky, they built small huts of logs and
bark to screen them from the cold, having neither beds nor blankets,
and being reduced to the greatest poverty and want; for the savages
had by degrees stolen almost everything both from the missionaries and
Indians on the journey. We lived here extremely poor, often having very
little or nothing to satisfy the cravings of hunger; and the poorest
of the Indians were obliged to live upon their dead cattle, which died
for want of pasture.