SHAVER'S CREEK--MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF OLD SHAVER--HEROIC CONDUCT OF TWO
CHILDREN--ABDUCTION OF MISS EWING AND MISS McCORMICK--PETER CRUM, THE
LAST VICTIM OF THE SAVAGES, ETC.
The original settlement at Shaver's Creek was made in 1770, by an old
gentleman named Shaver. He was followed by Anderson, Maguire, the
Donnelleys, and some few others. Old Shaver met his death in a most
singular manner. One evening he left his home just at twilight, for the
purpose of putting his horse into a pasture-field. He did not return;
but his absence created no special alarm, as this was before the war,
and before any savages had appeared in the valley with murderous
intent. Next morning, however, his family not finding him, a search was
instituted, and his body, minus the head, was found in a lane near the
pasture-field. This was regarded as a most mysterious murder, and would
have been charged to the Indians at once, had they ever been known to
take a man's head off on any previous occasion. But as they always
found the scalp to answer their purpose, and never encumbered
themselves with the head, people shrewdly suspected that the Indians
had nothing to do with the murder. The family offered a reward of £50
for the head; and, although the country was searched in every
direction, it never was found.
The most active and energetic man in the Shaver's Creek settlement
during the Revolutionary war was Samuel Anderson. He succeeded, mainly
by his own exertions and the aid of a few neighbors on the creek and
the Little Juniata, in erecting a block-house fort on the flat near the
mouth of the creek, which was more or less occupied while the war
continued; and it is but a few years since the last vestiges of this
old fort were swept away by a freshet.
The fort itself never was assailed; and it just happens to strike us
forcibly at this time as a singular fact that the Indians, during the
Revolutionary war, always kept clear of the forts. Whether they did not
understand the nature of them, or feared the numbers usually
congregated in them, we do not pretend to say; but they always kept at
a respectful distance from them. Anderson's Fort, like the others, was
frequently disturbed by alarms--sometimes real and sometimes false.
An amusing instance of a false alarm at Anderson's Fort was given the
writer. In 1779, all manner of rumors and reports were afloat.
Everybody was forted, and the Indians formed the entire subject of
conversation. One afternoon, a half-witted, cowardly fellow was sent up
the path to bring the cows to the fort. He had been out about fifteen
minutes when he returned, looking wild and haggard, and almost out of
breath, declaring that the Indians were coming down the creek in full
force. In an instant the whole fort was in commotion: men seized their
rifles, dogs barked, children screamed, and everybody swore that the
audacious savages should have a warm reception. The entire force of the
garrison rallied out to a hill, and, with cocked rifles, awaited the
appearance of the enemy on the brow. Lo! he came; but, instead of
Indians, the alarm was suddenly quieted by the appearance of _three
cows_! A mock court-martial was ordered to try the half-witted chap
for raising a false alarm, and the jokers of the fort convicted him and
passed sentence of death upon him. The joke came near proving fatal to
the poor fellow, who for a long time could not be divested of the idea
that he was to be shot.
In 1779, one of the most remarkable cases on record occurred up
Shaver's Creek. The particulars are vague; but of the actual occurrence
of what we are about to relate there is no doubt whatever--the
circumstance having been mentioned to us by two or three persons.
Late in the fall of that year, two boys, aged respectively eight and
ten years, while engaged at play near a house in the neighborhood of
Manor Hill, were taken captive by two lurking savages, who came
suddenly upon them, and immediately started in the direction of the
mountain. After travelling some eight miles, they halted, built a fire
in the woods, leaned their rifles against a tree, and cooked some dried
venison, of which they all partook. After the meal, one of them drew
from his pouch a canteen filled with whiskey, which they drank at short
intervals until it was entirely drained of its contents. By that time
they had become very garrulous and very brave. They told war-stories,
sang war-songs, danced war-dances, and challenged the whole settlement
to mortal combat. The other Indian then pulled out his canteen, also
filled with fire-water, which was consumed in like manner; but, by the
time it was drank, their mirth and boasting gave way to the stupor of
inordinate intoxication, and, wrapping their blankets around them, they
stretched themselves before the fire, and were soon in a deep sleep.
The eldest boy, who had feigned sleep some time previous, now got up
and shook the younger, who also got upon his feet. He then took one of
the rifles, cocked it, and rested it on a log, with the muzzle within a
few inches of the head of one of the savages, and then motioned the
younger boy to hold it. He then got the other rifle, and in like manner
placed its muzzle near the head of the other savage. So far, the whole
proceeding had been carried on by pantomimic action, and not a word
spoken; but, every thing being now in readiness, the boy whispered
"_Now!_" and both rifles went off at the same time. The elder boy
killed his man outright; but the weight of the butt of the rifle in the
hands of the younger threw the muzzle up, and he merely tore his face
very badly. The wounded savage attempted to rise, but, before he could
do so, the boys commenced running for home; nor did they stop until
they reached it, which was at two o'clock in the morning and just as a
party had assembled to go in search of them.
Their story was soon told; but so incredible did it appear that no
person believed them. Instead of giving credit to their narrative of
improbabilities, the parents were inclined to whip them and send them
to bed, for getting lost in the woods and then lying about it. Next
day, however, they persisted so strongly in their statement, and told
such a straightforward story, that at length a party of some six or
eight persons agreed to go to the place, providing the children
accompanied them. To this they readily assented; and the anxiety they
manifested to go soon removed all doubt as to the truth of their
statement.
In due time they reached the spot, where they found a dead Indian, the
two rifles and canteens; but the wounded savage was missing. Where he
had lain there was a pool of blood; and, as it was probable that he had
not gone far, a proposition was made to search for him, which was about
being acted upon, when one of the men noticed blood upon the trunk of
the tree under which they stood, which caused him to look up, and among
its top branches he saw the wounded savage. The frightful wound upon
his face awakened the pity of some of the men, and they proposed
getting him down; but an old ranger, who was in the party, swore that
he had never had a chance at an Indian in his life, especially a treed
one; that he would rather lose his life than miss the opportunity of
shooting him; and, before an effort could be made to prevent it, the
savage received a ball through his brain, came crashing down through
the limbs of the tree, and fell by the side of his dead companion.
Their bodies were not disturbed; but their rifles were carried home,
and given to the boys, who kept them as trophies of the event.
This daring and heroic act on the part of children so young illustrates
most forcibly the kind of material people were made of who flourished
in "the days that tried men's souls."
In 1782, Miss Elizabeth Ewing and Miss McCormick were abducted by the
Indians, between Shaver's Creek and Stone Valley. They had been to the
former place, and were returning home by a path, when they were
surprised and taken prisoners by a small band of roving Indians. It was
late in October, at a time when no suspicion was entertained that the
Indians would ever again enter the valley. None had been seen or heard
of for months, and all the alarms and fears of savages had subsided;
hence their absence was little thought of until they had been several
days gone. It was then deemed entirely too late to send a force to
recapture them.
When captured, they had some bread with them, which they scattered
along the path they took, in hopes that if their friends followed it
would give them a clue to the route they took. The wily savages
detected the stratagem, and took the bread from them. They next broke
the bushes along the path; but the Indians saw the object of this, too,
and compelled them to desist. They then travelled for seven days,
through sleet, rain, and snow, until they reached the lake, where Miss
McCormick was given as a present to an old Indian woman who happened to
take a fancy to her.
Miss Ewing was taken to Montreal, where, fortunately for her, an
exchange of prisoners took place soon after, and she was sent to
Philadelphia, and from thence made her way home. From her Mr. McCormick
learned the fate of his daughter--her communication being the first
word of intelligence he had received concerning her. He soon made his
arrangements to go after her. The journey was a long one, especially by
the route he proposed to take,--by way of Philadelphia and New York;
nevertheless, the love he bore his daughter prompted him to undertake
it cheerfully.
After many days' travelling he arrived at the place where Miss Ewing
and Miss McCormick parted; but, alas! it was only to realize painfully
the restless and migratory character of the Indians, who had abandoned
the settlement and gone into the interior of Canada. Again he journeyed
on, until he finally reached the place where the tribe was located, and
found his daughter in an Indian family, treated as one of the family,
and subject to no more menial employment than Indian women generally.
The meeting of father and daughter, which neither expected, must have
been an affecting one--a scene that may strike the imagination more
vividly than pen can depict it.
Mr. McCormick made immediate arrangements to take his daughter with
him; but, to his surprise, the Indians objected. Alone, and, as it
were, in their power, he was at a loss what course to pursue, when he
bethought himself of the power of money. That was the proper chord to
touch; but the ransom-money asked was exorbitantly large. The matter
was finally compromised by Mr. McCormick paying nearly all the money in
his possession, retaining barely enough to defray their expenses; after
which they went on their way rejoicing, and, after a weary journey,
reached their home in safety.
It may be as well to mention that Miss McCormick was a sister to Robert
McCormick, Sr., long a resident of Hollidaysburg, who died a year or
two ago in Altoona, and the aunt of William, Robert, and Alexander
McCormick, now residents of Altoona.
And now we come to the last Indian massacre in the Valley of the
Juniata. It occurred on the left bank of the Little Juniata, near the
farm of George Jackson, in the latter part of August, 1781.
At that time there was a regular force of militia in the garrison at
Huntingdon, another at Shaver's Creek, and another at Fetter's. The
Indians were well aware of this, for they constantly kept themselves
advised by spies of the progress of affairs in the valley. The
settlers, feeling secure in the presence of the militia, abandoned the
forts and went to their farms. During the summer of 1781, the alarms
were so few that people began to consider the days of their trials and
tribulations as passed away; but it appears that it was ordained that
another black crime should be added to the long catalogue of Indian
cruelties.
One evening George Jackson, hearing a noise in a corn-field adjoining
his house, went to the door to ascertain the cause. Dark as the night
was, he made out the figures of two men, who he thought were stealing
corn, or at least about no good; so he let loose his dogs--a hound and
a bull-dog--upon them. The hound gave tongue, and both started directly
into the field, where they bayed for some time; but the men did not
quit the field. In ten minutes the dogs returned, and Mr. Jackson found
that the skull of the bull-dog had been wounded with a tomahawk. This
circumstance led him to suspect the real character of the intruders,
and he went into his house, took down his rifle, and returned to the
porch. The light which shone out of the door when Jackson opened it
revealed the position of affairs to the Indians, and they ran to the
other end of the corn-field, closely pursued by the hound.
Peter Crum, a worthy man, well known and highly respected by all the
settlers in the neighborhood, was a near neighbor of Jackson's. He had
rented the Minor Tub Mill, and on the morning after the above
occurrence he went to the mill a little before daylight and set it
going, then raised a net he had placed in the stream the night before;
after which he started leisurely on his way home to get his breakfast.
In his left hand he carried a string of fish, and over his right
shoulder his rifle; for, notwithstanding the great security people
felt, they were so much in the habit of constantly having a rifle for a
travelling companion, that many of the old pioneers carried it on all
occasions during the remainder of their lives.
When Crum reached the bend of the river, a mile below his mill, at a
time when an attack from Indians would probably have been the last
thing he would have thought of, he heard the sharp crack of a rifle,
and on looking around saw two Indians on the hill-side. He dropped his
fish, and opened the pan of his rifle to look at the priming, when he
noticed that he was shot through the right thumb--at least it was so
conjectured. Catching a glimpse of one of the Indians, he attempted to
fire, but the blood of his wound had saturated the priming. The Indians
noticed his unavailing effort to shoot, and, probably thinking that he
was trying to intimidate them with an empty gun, jumped into the road.
One of them, it appeared, was armed with a rifle, the other with a
heavy war-club. The latter, it is supposed, approached him from behind,
and dealt him a blow upon the skull, which felled him, and the blow was
evidently followed up until the entire back part of his head was
crushed in the most shocking manner, after which they scalped him, and
disappeared.
When found, (which was supposed to be within two hours after the
murder,) Crum was lying with his face to the ground, his rifle by his
side, and the Indian war-club, clotted with blood and brains, lying
across his body,--a sad sight for his wife, who was among the first on
the spot after the tragedy.
This murder, committed in open daylight on a frequented road, in the
very heart of a thickly-populated country, did not fail to produce the
most intense excitement, and a party of rangers started at once after
the marauders. They soon got upon their trail, and followed them to the
top of the mountain, getting sight of them several times; but they were
always out of rifle-range. They knew they were pursued, and took such a
route as the rangers could not follow, and so eluded them, and carried
in triumph to the British garrison at Detroit the last scalp taken by
the red men in the Juniata Valley.
[Illustration: PULPIT ROCKS, WARRIOR RIDGE.]