Читать книгу Daughter of Shiloh - Ilene Shepard Smiddy - Страница 11

CHAPTER III

April 1, 1793—The Raid on Morgan’s Station

“Clarinda, see who’s at the door, child,” Martha scolded, thinking her daughter was ignoring the knock.

The truth was Clarinda vaguely heard her mother’s words as she knelt on the hearth. Her eyes were transfixed on the open fireplace. Lately, she had seen shadowy forms in the fire. Men, women, and children running for their lives. The apparition appeared only for an instant. At first, Clarinda thought she was dreaming. This time, she knew for sure that she was fully awake. She clearly saw terrified faces in the flames.

Feeling her mother’s touch on her shoulder, Clarinda jumped with a start as though pierced by an arrow.

“What’s wrong?” Martha asked, surprised at Clarinda’s sudden reaction.

“Oh, Ma, I saw them again. The phantom pictures. They were just like the last time. People running as if the devil himself was chasing them.”

Martha wiped her hands on her apron. “Girl, you’ve listened to too many of William’s and David’s yarns. See to the door.”

The knock came once more. Clarinda opened the door to find Polly Baker standing on the stoop. The Bakers had moved into a cabin across the square last fall.

“I’m sorry, Polly, do come in. Ma is baking bread. I guess I was lollygagging a bit.”

“I gave it no mind,” Polly said, coming inside. “Please, won’t you walk over to Becraft’s cabin with me? The sun is shining for a change. Most of the men and boys are out planting corn. I don’t want to go alone.”

“I’ll ask Ma,” Clarinda said, welcoming the chance to talk with Polly about yesterday’s church meeting. The vision in the fireplace slipped out of her mind while she chattered with her friend.

Back in the winter, a preacher named Handsford and his followers started clearing land for a new settlement. A church house was under construction, and later on they hoped to build a school. It was only a short distance from Morgan’s Station. Settlers living all around the area were happy to have a man of God move nearby.

The Allington’s singing service was a regular event at Morgan’s. Families from as far away as Peeled Oak came, but everyone looked forward to a time when they could attend a real church.

At Ralph Morgan’s urging Handsford had agreed to preach for them, at the station, on Easter Sunday. This was to be the first preaching ever held in that vicinity.

News of the upcoming service spread all around the region. More than a hundred people had come to hear the Easter message. It reminded Clarinda of the camp meetings back home in Virginia.

The ladies prepared baskets of food and spread their bounty on the ground for all to share. Even soldiers from the Furnace rode over to take part in the festivities. After lunch they played music and games and the men held a shooting match.

Clarinda and Polly admired the young men strolling about, handsome in their blue uniforms. However, when a soldier dared to look in their direction, they quickly turned away with a flurry of skirts and stifled giggles.

The girls were both mature beyond their years, their slim bodies showing the promise of early womanhood. Polly was thirteen years old, and Clarinda twelve. The two spent many hours together and shared their most cherished secrets.

Along about twilight a shy young soldier maneuvered his way to within speaking distance of Polly and Clarinda.

“Howdy, my name’s Sam Dunn,” he said politely. “I’m with Captain Enoch Smith’s militia. Well, to tell the truth, he’s my uncle.”

Clarinda remembered her manners, and introduced herself and Polly. “We live here at Morgan’s,” she told him. Hoping to keep the conversation going, she asked, “did you hear the preaching?”

“Ain’t much for churchgoing,” replied Sam. “But it’s right pleasant to see so many folks visiting and having a good time. Makes me think of North Carolina where I come from. Don’t see it happening much around here.”

“No, not yet, but you will soon.” Clarinda smiled, pleased to have a subject to discuss with him. “Since Kentucky gained statehood last year, more settlers are coming every week. We haven’t had any Indian trouble in over two years. My brother Jacob wants to start a school. He’s awful smart in book learning.”

Polly, standing beside Clarinda, envied the way she was able to chat with the soldier. Clarinda felt at ease. Her brothers and their friends always included she and her sisters in their conversations. Since coming to Kentucky the Allington men had taught their sisters how to hunt, trap, shoot, and read trail signs.

Clarinda even memorized the positions of the moon and stars in the night sky. If need be, she felt confident she would be able to find her way home in the dark. She knew too, that if she got lost, she could follow a stream or river until she reached a settlement. She constantly pestered her brothers and William with questions and was never backward around men.

The girls were enjoying the attention of the young recruit when David Allington appeared. Draping a protective arm about Clarinda’s shoulders, he drawled, “Ma’s looking for you girls. I just sent Nancy and Sarah home. Better run along.” David gave his sister a stern look, then smiled at Sam.

“How are you doing, soldier?”

“Fine, sir, just making polite talk with the ladies, meaning no harm.”

“It’s all right, son. Big brothers tend to get a mite heavy-handed.” David laughed, trying to put the soldier at ease. “What’s your name?”

“Sam, Sam Dunn, at your service.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sam.” David offered his hand, and Sam wrung it, relieved.

“Got to get back to my post before dark,” Sam said, moving in the direction of his horse.

“Good evening, Sam, ride careful.” David watched him go, remembering when he was a young soldier in Virginia.

Clarinda had glanced back over her shoulder just in time to see the handshake. “Well, at least David didn’t hurt the poor boy,” she giggled.

Looking intently at Polly now, Clarinda could tell they were both recalling yesterday’s events. “Ma, Polly wants me to walk with her to Becraft’s cabin. Jacob isn’t here for our schooling yet. Will it trouble you if I go?”

“Make sure you don’t tarry too long, we’ve got chores to catch up on. Old Beauty must be milked. The calf don’t take near what she gives. She’s fresh, but we can use the milk to feed the other stock. Nancy and Sarah are working on a quilt at Rebecca’s. Jacob is helping Jonathan and John in the fields, so no school for you today.” Martha wagged her finger at Clarinda as she spoke, then went back to her bread making.

“Yes, Ma, I’ll hurry right back,” Clarinda sang out, tying her bonnet over the unruly mass of dark hair.

The Allington men and William Rice had built new cabins near their fields, less than a mile from the station. They were living outside the fort, while Martha, Jacob, and the girls remained in the blockhouse.

The Becraft’s new cabin was about one fourth of a mile from the station in a large field. It set north of the main gate, in plain view of the fort.

Heavy rains in March had swollen Slate Creek out of its banks. The relentless downpour had cut a deep ravine across the newly plowed field near the bend in the creek, to the left of the field. The north gate swung loose on its hinges and part of the stockade fence was down. Repairs were needed, but security was no longer a major concern, so the gate was left open. The girls walked through without a care.

“Why are you going to see Mrs. Becraft?” Clarinda asked Polly.

“My mother wanted me to take this over for the baby,” Polly said, displaying a knitted cap and sweater.

“Won’t she look sweet in that,” Clarinda exclaimed, fingering the handiwork. “Ma said Mrs. Becraft has been feeling poorly. She asked Ma if I could dress her hair. I’ll just do it while we’re there. Maybe that will help to cheer her.”

Clarinda was glad the Bakers had come to Morgan’s Station. How pretty Polly is, she thought, seeing how Polly’s blond hair gleamed in the warm sunshine.

Tiny white and yellow butterflies fluttered around them. Dipping and swirling, they lighted only for seconds on the colorful wild flowers growing alongside the footpath.

A flock of crows made a terrible racket, circling around, disturbed about something. Clarinda also heard a squirrel, whose incessant barking caused her to look toward the hickory trees at the edge of the field. Today she was happy to be with her friend and the signs that would otherwise have alerted her to danger did not register.

Despite the rains, it had been an especially warm March. Lots of plants were up, and some were in full bloom.

“Wait for me,” Clarinda called out. She ran into the muddy field a short distance and picked a handful of sweet william. Holding the purple blossoms above her head, she continued walking with Polly. “I wonder why they’re called sweet william,” she mused.

Polly looked at her friend’s thoughtful expression and smiled. “Clarinda, you’re always seeking answers to questions nobody else asks. My mother says you’re twelve going on thirty.”

“Did she now? Well, the Allingtons are a curious clan, and made of strong stuff. Least that’s what my brother Jake says. He has taught all of us girls to read and cipher.

“I was nine when my Pa died. I can hear him still, saying, Clarinda, knowledge is freedom, and don’t you ever forget it. He said too, that freedom is a state of mind, one should hold it dear. I think of Pa a lot, and I’m just now beginning to understand some of what he meant.” Clarinda paused. She had never told anyone about her Pa before.

“Look, there comes Mr. Wade!” Polly shouted out a hello, waving a friendly greeting to the approaching horseman.

Wade pulled his mount up when he met the girls on the path. “Good day, Miss Allington, Miss Baker,” Wade said, a teasing note in his voice. He touched his wide-brimmed hat. “Where are you two ladies headed?”

“To see Mrs. Becraft,” they answered in unison.

“Well, it’s a good day to be out. Have a nice visit. I sold Preacher Handsford some corn and have to check my corncrib before he comes.”

Clarinda and Polly turned and watched Wade ride through the open gate into the square.

“Nancy and Sarah are forever whispering about James Wade’s good looks,” Clarinda told Polly. “He never pays them much mind, but he talks to me a lot. Did you know his brother was killed by Indians two years ago? It happened the very week our family rolled into Morgan’s Station. I remember how sad he was then.” Clarinda’s thoughts went back to that time.

It was not uncommon now to see Cherokees at the trading posts. Many changes had taken place on the frontier in the two years since the Allingtons arrived. Sometimes Indians hung around the station, trading furs for dry goods or cured tobacco.

The Indians Clarinda had seen at Morgan’s were quiet and reserved. They stayed mostly in the shadows, watching the white men’s activity, then went on about their business.

Clarinda’s memory flashed back to one day last winter, when a tall, well-built Cherokee seemed to be watching her. His scrutiny lasted for such a long time that she felt uncomfortable. She had gone inside the cabin to avoid his stare. Why did she remember that incident today she wondered? With all the new experiences in her life she had all but forgotten her earlier fascination with Indians.

James Wade rode into the station and turned his horse into the stable. It was at the end of the blockhouse, next to his corncrib. Removing the bit from the horse’s mouth, he gave him a few ears of corn. He then turned and walked over to Harry Martin’s place to sit a spell.

“Handsford came early for the seedcorn. I have some money for you.” Mrs. Martin said, handing Wade a chair. He had just sat down when the silence was broken by piercing, blood-chilling screams.

Wade jumped to his feet and yelled, “My God, that’s a Cherokee war cry.” His thoughts flashed back to his ride in. The crow’s raucous cawing and the squirrel’s chatter still lingered in his mind. Had he not been focusing all of his attention on Clarinda and Polly he would have noticed their significance. Any woodsman worth his salt should have known something was amiss.

Wade rushed outside. Dear God, he prayed, Clarinda and that Baker girl are out there. I’ll never forgive myself if they come to harm.

Harry Martin stopped long enough to jerk down his gun from over the door jam. He came through the door right on Wade’s heels.

The Becraft men and Andy Duncan had been working in the field near the cabin. Wade saw them running for their lives in front of a pack of screeching savages. Abraham Becraft was closer to the woods than his sons were. Wade was relieved to see him jump the rail fence and disappear in a stand of pine.

Harry Martin, with his gun uplifted, ran with all of his might toward the Indians, firing. Wade, hoping to find a gun, ran to the nearest blockhouse. Before flinging open the blockhouse door, he caught sight of women racing from their cabins.

“Everyone, get back inside!” he shouted. Frantically he searched for the guns. Joe Young appeared with his gun and took cover inside the blockhouse where Wade was. The usual stack of rifles and muskets was not there. The men had taken them to the fields early that morning.

Peering through a porthole, Wade could see the Becraft cabin. It looked to him like the Indians had been hiding down inside the gully that the rains had washed out. The deep ravine was just beyond Becraft’s place.

When Clarinda and Polly appeared and Mrs. Becraft opened her door, the warriors must have rushed out of the gully and commenced their attack. Some Indians were dragging the girls, moving swiftly, as if capturing the women was their prime objective.

Wade watched helplessly as Clarinda broke free from the brave who was holding her. She ran fast, her feet flying over the rough ground. She made it as far as a shallow ditch, where she tripped over her long skirt and fell headlong, arms outstretched. The Indian fell upon her, pinning her arms down.

Four Indians began herding Mrs. Becraft, her children, and Polly toward Slate Creek. Mrs. Becraft was clutching her infant to her breast, sobbing uncontrollably. Wade could see, even from this distance, that Polly was in a state of shock, stark terror showed in her face. Stumbling numbly, she was pushed and shoved along by her captors.

Clarinda had regained her feet. She must have figured she could not escape, because he saw her lift her head defiantly, straighten her skirts, and with head high, walk directly ahead toward Slate Creek.

“Good girl,” Wade mumbled. One thing Indians admired above all else was bravery.

Wade was able to observe the attack on the Becraft cabin from the vantage point of his porthole. It took place in only a matter of minutes. Being unarmed, he was helpless against such great odds. The remaining Indians were advancing fast toward the fort.

“There must be about fifty,” Wade said aloud, thinking Joe Young was nearby. He did not get an answer.

Because of his war paint and other markings, Wade was sure the lead Indian, wearing eagle feathers and leather hair trappings, was a Cherokee war chief. The Indian carried a beautifully finished rifle in one hand. The polished brass on the butt glistened as it caught the rays of the sun. In the other hand he brandished a shining tomahawk. He leapt across the plowed furrows, wailing a high-pitched, screeching war cry. Wade’s thoughts raced. At some time or place he had seen that rifle before. But where?

The warriors were wearing only breechcloths, their bodies greasy with war paint. The chief dropped to one knee, appearing to aim at Martin, who was running straight for him. Martin was firing wildly. It looked impossible that the Indian chief could miss, but he did. The other warriors were some ten to fifteen paces behind their chief, all spread out in a line and making for the station.

Wade studied their body markings and concluded they were not all from the same tribe. The chief wore Cherokee symbols, except his black hair was thick and long. That was unusual, because Cherokee were noted for shaving their heads, except for a small tuft of hair on the top called a scalp or warlock. Without his paint and feathers, this chief would not look at all like an Indian.

As Wade watched, Andy Duncan and the Becraft boys came abreast of Martin, so he spun back around and headed for the blockhouse. Martin must have seen an escape route. Swerving to the left to go past his cabin, Martin grabbed his oldest child, yelled at his wife to carry the baby and follow him. They fled toward the south gate, but stopped for a moment out of the Indian’s line of vision.

Wade saw Martin take his knife and slash loose his wife’s billowing petticoats so that she could run. Just as the Martins reached the gate a little girl came into Wade’s view, running behind the Martins. She looked like one of the Becraft children. How had the Indians missed her? Wade saw her fall. The shot spun her around like a rag doll. Unaware, the Martins made their way into the woods. The ball was probably meant for Martin, Wade grimaced. Indians took children captive whenever possible.

Wade’s eyes fell on Martha Allington, her hands white with flour, running with head down, she followed the Martin’s escape path.

Joe Young, having the only other gun inside the station, besides the one Martin took with him, rushed out to join in the fray. Joe’s wife threw both arms around him, clinging so tightly he was unable to shoot his gun. Somehow he managed to break her hold and fired at the oncoming savages. He got off one shot before pitching forward on all fours. Wade imagined he was mortally wounded or dead.

Seeing Joe fall, his wife, Elizabeth became crazed with terror. She ran shrieking, straight into the arms of a fierce-looking Wyandot warrior. Wade recognized the Wyandot headdress. Each tribe wore a distinct type of headgear. It was a sure way of telling an Indian’s tribe. What he could not understand was why the members of different tribes had joined together to pull off this raid. Nothing was making any sense.

Mrs. Young was hitting, scratching, and kicking with all of her strength. The Indian caught her up, hung her upside down over his shoulder and took off at a lope to catch up to his comrades and their captives.

Glancing back at the fallen Joe, Wade saw him slowly regain his feet. Dazed, Joe looked around, probably for his wife but she was nowhere to be seen. Not knowing what had taken place, he ran to catch up with Duncan. The two of them crawled into some hazelnut bushes growing near the stockade. The bushes were thick and provided enough cover for the two men to creep undetected along the fence and out the south gate to safety.

Wade did a quick survey of the square. He saw that the remainder of the war party was gathering near the cabins across from the blockhouse he occupied. He smelled the acrid stench of gunpowder, heard the cries of the dying, and watched as one frenzied, bloodthirsty savage scalped a man while he was still alive.

Wade did not consciously feel the vomit spew from his throat. He felt the slime and knew his clothes were wet with it.

His body was trembling, and his knees seemed too weak to carry him. He doubted if he could remain hidden much longer.

Horrified, he saw the Indians were setting fire to the fort. They probably suspected people were hiding inside the buildings, and knew flames would drive them out into the open. The whole place would be ablaze within minutes.

Out of desperation, Wade made his decision. His only hope of surviving was to get out of the fort now. He dashed out of the blockhouse and ran, bent low, working his way to the stable. Twice he got close enough to grab the mane of his horse, and both times the frightened animal tore loose his grip.

Knowing he only had seconds before being discovered, he ran out of the stable, leaving the door open behind him.

A quick look back revealed the Indians had divided into two groups. One bunch was busy firing the cabins. The others were shooting randomly. It was a wonder they did not shoot each other, they were so careless with their aim. Men, women, and children were fleeing in all directions, trying to escape both the attackers and the flames.

Abner Baker, Polly’s father, was a big heavy Dutchman who could hardly run. He came from behind a cabin, getting between Wade and the two Indians, who had seen Wade come out of the stable. The huge bulk of Baker took a volley meant for Wade. He fell heavily to his knees, and then his whole body jerked and lay still.

Dodging first left, then right, Wade zigzagged toward the open gate. He felt bullets lift his hat from his head and heard the thud as they struck the stockade. The two braves in pursuit of him were within a few feet when he passed through the opening. At breakneck speed he raced down the path to the spring. He jumped the spring branch and dove headfirst into the heavy underbrush on the bank of Slate Creek.

Wade was careful not to make a sound when he slid into the swift current. The two braves stopped at the spring. Unable to see where Wade went, they turned their attention back to the slaughter inside the square.

Wade moved cautiously through the water, clinging to the overhanging branches. He managed to reach a point on Slate Creek that was a good way above where he last had seen the captives. He stopped to listen and catch his breath. From his hiding place he could see flames shooting skyward. The whole fort was on fire. Black smoke was turning the bright morning to twilight. If the men in the outlying fields did not hear the shots, they would surely see the billowing smoke.

He followed the streambed for a while, putting some distance between himself and the burning fort. Crossing the Slate below the mouth of Spencer Creek, Wade ran through Botts’ place. When no one answered his call, he ran on and staggered into view near Troutman’s Station. He knew this road. It had opened the first year corn was hauled from the station to the Furnace.

The men at Troutman’s were out with their guns. A Negro man had seen Wade on foot, hatless and running, when he crossed the wagon road. Thinking Wade to be an Indian, he had given the alarm.

With his head bowed, gasping for breath, Wade told the terrible story of the raid. Troutman ordered everyone into his blockhouse. He dispatched a rider to warn Preacher Handsford’s settlement. Wade asked for a horse and Troutman gave him his fastest gelding.

Riding hard to reach Montgomery, where the militia was stationed, Wade’s mind flashed back to early morning. He had felt such surprise and pleasure at meeting Clarinda and Polly on the path near the station. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

On his way to alert the militia Wade spread word of the attack to every cabin he came upon. At the military post the officer in command started preparing to track down the renegades. Wade explained his bewilderment at seeing so many tribes represented in the melee.

Captain Enoch Smith listened to Wade’s story. “Did you say the chief was a Cherokee, carrying a trophy rifle?”

Wade nodded. “Yes, and he looked familiar, but for the life of me I can’t figure out why.”

“Sounds like Chulio to me. He’s a half-breed. Cherokee father, French mother. Very cunning, speaks English. Has some schooling. It’s been a long time since he’s carried out a raid. He’s been active in treaty meetings promoting peace. The Indian agents and the military trust him. That’s how he got that rifle. Always wears his long hair pulled back, tied with eagle feathers.”

“That describes him all right,” Wade said. “He wore the markings of a high-ranking chief.”

“Was Ralph Morgan killed in the attack?” the captain asked.

“No, he took his family up to Boonesborough on some business. Joe Young told me they left before daybreak.”

Captain Smith had to get his men ready for what might turn into a long campaign. He gave Wade a gun and some ammunition. Wade advised him he would continue to warn other settlers on the way to his father’s farm.

Dawson Wade’s place was about two miles from Morgan’s. Wade stopped first by Harper’s Creek, at his sister Esther’s house. The Pleaks were overjoyed to see him. He learned from them that Abraham Becraft had survived. He had come in two hours before, confused and scared. Becraft had told Wade’s parents that he saw James Wade shot down and set upon by two Indians.

Wade shook his head in disbelief. Becraft must have seen that happen to someone else. The poor man surely witnessed the capture of his family from where he was hiding in the pines.

“It’s a cursed thing them Indians have done,” Wade said to Pleak. “Can’t figure what brought it on. The captain said he hadn’t heard of any Indian killings that might have provoked them.”

Wade remounted and said “We’ll send anyone who needs doctoring over here.” It was well known that John Pleak was good at digging out bullets.

“Just tell the men to gather here,” John called out. “We’ll decide then on the best way to rescue the captives.”

It was easy for Wade’s parents to believe Becraft’s story, because Wade’s horse had galloped in, lathered and spent. Wade’s father caught the animal and commenced to rub him down while he waited for more news.

Dawson Wade did not have long to wait. James came pounding down the road and dismounted on the run.

“James, son, praise God. Your mother is crazy with grief. She took your rifle and set out with the other families for Mount Sterling.” The elder Wade embraced James in a bear hug.

“Indians, Pa, it was awful. I forgot to take my gun this morning. They took some women and children.”

Young Wade stripped to the waist while he talked, splashing his body with water from a basin near the door. He was pulling on a clean shirt when Jonathan and David Allington came running into the yard.

“We’ve been planting,” David said, gasping for breath. “Heard the gunfire, it sounded near to the Furnace, then we saw the smoke.”

“Is it the station?” Jonathan asked, tears streaming. He grabbed James’ arm. “Come on man, let’s go now. Our Ma and Clarinda are in there.”

James Wade relayed the morning’s tragic events to the brothers. He told them how Clarinda and the others were taken, adding that he saw Martha run out the south gate into the woods. This news, grim as it was, gave David and Jonathan a slim shred of hope.

William Rice had built his home on land out of sight of the Allington’s farm. He heard the muffled shots, and saw smoke rising above the treetops. Dropping everything, he started running from the field toward his cabin. Up ahead he could see Rebecca and her sisters talking to a man on horseback.

The messenger had just brought word of the Indian attack and Clarinda’s capture. There was no time for questions or details. The rider had to warn others of the raid.

While hitching up the wagon William gave orders to his wife, “Rebecca, you take the young’uns, with Nancy and Sarah to Mount Sterling. It’ll be safe for all of you there.”

“What about Ma? My God, what will happen to Clarinda?” Rebecca cried. “Wade said the militia won’t go to Morgan’s until morning.”

“I’ll go for Martha, just pray I’m not too late.” William hugged his family and lifted them into the wagon bed. “Do as I say Rebecca. Don’t stop for anything.” William touched her face gently as he gave her the warning.

“Indians won’t come this way, militia’s too close. Go now, hurry.” Filled with dread, he watched them leave, calling after them “there’ll be other folks on the road. Stay together.”

Changing into buckskins and moccasins, William grabbed his gun and knife. Riding his horse Indian fashion he raced hellbent for Morgan’s Station. His experience as an Indian scout in the early days would stand him in good stead now.

Dawson Wade had some friends among the Cherokee. The way this attack was carried out puzzled him. He knew of the chief known as Chulio. He could think of no logical reason for him to be involved in any raid. He tried to recall everything he’d ever heard about the chief.

The white man’s name for the Cherokee chief was Shoe Boots, so named because of the knee-high moccasins he wore. In the early years, before Washington’s army defeated the British, and before the Cherokee agreed to the terms of the peace treaty, Shoe Boots and his warriors rampaged against all whites who dared cross into Cherokee land.

“Hard to believe it was Chulio,” Dawson told the men. “He has a reputation for being fair-minded and straight forward in dealing with fur traders and the military. I think he lives in a town on the Tennessee River, deep in the Cherokee nation.

“He should be busy chasing Creeks or Red Sticks off Cherokee land. Kentucky is way out of his territory. It’s even told that he fought alongside the Tennessee militia in the Revolution.”

The elder Wade, hoping to reassure Clarinda’s brothers, now that Jacob and John had arrived, told them the Cherokee seldom mistreated captive women.

More men on horseback came to offer assistance. They brought some good news. Andy Duncan had made his way to Anderson’s place, near Mount Sterling, but he reported the Indians numbered around two hundred.

“No, only about forty, maybe fifty, and some of them took off with the captives,” James Wade told them, wanting the truth known about what really happened.

One man in the group spoke to Wade “I saw your mother on the Mount Sterling road and asked her for your gun, thinking we could use more weapons here. She was holding it close like it was a child and refused to give it up. Said you were dead and would have no need of your rifle.”

“My poor Ma. Pa, try and get word to her. The rest of you, we’re going to gather at John Pleak’s place. Get your horses and dogs and meet us there.” Wade took off at full gallop.

By the time the horsemen gathered at Pleak’s it was nearly dark. They talked among themselves and agreed it would be prudent to stay in the shadowed shelter of the forest on their way to the fort. Indians could still be lurking near the ruins, and there was the possibility they might harm the captives if they thought they were being followed.

Captain Enoch Smith had promised a detachment of troops by sunrise, and William Sudduth, a seasoned veteran, was bringing his men from Hood’s Station. When all were assembled they would begin tracking the Indians and try to obtain the release of their prisoners.

The men of Morgan’s Station were anxious to assess the damage, knowing full well from the eyewitness accounts that no one at the station would be found alive.

Weary and disheartened, the small band stood on the outskirts of the once busy station they called home. Darkness had fallen, but the glow of dying embers provided an eerie light. All of the buildings were burned to the ground, except for Wade’s corncrib. It stood alone, a sentinel, marking the place where their loved ones had died. They heard no sound except for the sighing of the wind, and there was no sign of life.

Nobody dared leave the safety of the trees. Tomorrow they would ride in with the militia. It would be soon enough to bury the dead. The men of Morgan’s Station stared silently into the charred remains of the fort, watching their hopes and dreams turn to ashes.

James Wade, gesturing farewell, reined his horse homeward. The Wades and others who lived nearby offered to share all they had with their unfortunate neighbors. The Allington brothers opened their new cabins to the homeless men. After some discussion, the whole group decided to camp at Pleak’s. There they would be up and ready to follow Captain Smith’s troops in the morning.

Esther Pleak came racing down the road to meet the returning men. “David, Jacob, your mother Martha found her way to our cabin. She is bone weary, but in her right mind and unharmed.”

The Allingtons were overwhelmed with relief. Their mother had always been the fiber that held the fabric of their world together. But how could they possibly cope with the loss of Clarinda?

“Thank God,” Jonathan spoke. “Has anyone seen William Rice? We expected to find him and the rest of our family here.”

“They have not come yet” Esther answered. “Martha is asleep. She saw them take Clarinda, just before she ran into the woods. Poor woman, she crawled inside a hollow log and hid until the Indians left. She is overcome from grief and exhaustion.”

“We’ll let her rest,” said Jacob, looking to his brothers for agreement.

A lone rider came racing in from Montgomery’s Station. He told of meeting Rebecca’s wagon on the Mount Sterling road and brought news that Harry Martin’s family was safe.

Martin had told the military officer how he had hidden his family in the woods near Peeled Oak for a time. When they got to Montgomery’s, Martin had to come in alone to obtain clothing for his wife. He said he cut off her skirts during their escape, and she had traveled in her pantaloons. They were scratched and bleeding from briars, but otherwise unhurt.

A few of the men slept, tossing fitfully. They alternately dreaded the dawn and wished for its coming. The Allington brothers were unable to sleep. They talked low, discussing the raid long into the night.

“How can we rescue Clarinda and the other captives?” David wondered.

“Where will the Indians be likely to take them?” Jake wanted to know. Nobody had any answers.

“I’d like to know what’s behind warriors from other tribes following Chief Chulio, if it was him?” Dawson Wade scratched his head. “If the Indian nations are joining forces it means trouble.”

The settlers were aware of the bloody war being waged in the Ohio and Indiana Territories by several tribes. Some men from Kentucky had volunteered to help put down that uprising.

The Shawnee, under Blue Jacket, and the Miami, led by Little Turtle, were responsible for the massacre of numerous pioneers who dared to cross the Ohio River. However, Kentucky, now a state and bound by a treaty of peace with the Cherokee nation, had witnessed only a few Indian incidents the past two years.

Trade and commerce flowed between the Cherokee towns to the south and the white settlements in the east. If this raid was an isolated escapade pulled off by a few disgruntled braves, why were they led by a noted war chief? Such a deed would bring dishonor to himself and his people. Dawson Wade asked himself these questions. Perhaps tomorrow would supply some answers.

William turned to watch Rebecca’s wagon roll out of sight on the Mount Sterling road. He had promised his wife he would find her mother, and then go after Clarinda. Although she acted so grown up, Clarinda was only a child. She would be frightened, but he felt certain she would never let her captors know.

William hoped with all of his heart, if Clarinda was alive, that the Cherokee would keep her. They usually adopted their female captives into the tribe. He had traded for furs in some of the Cherokee towns, and knew their headmen. Through them he might be able to obtain Clarinda’s release.

Usually the Wyandot, Seneca, and Shawnee, sold their captives into Canada as slaves. He prayed this would not happen. If it did, he knew they would never see Clarinda again.

It was pitch dark now. William stayed clear of the road. He heard riders go past. They were talking about the raid. He kept still. He had to accomplish this mission alone. Moving in a wide circle around the fort, he tied his horse near the spring. From there he crept along on his belly until he reached the shadows where the south gate had been. Some of the buildings were still smoldering. The thick smell of death and smoke hung in the night air.

The Indians had not wasted bullets on the animals. Instead they shot chickens, ducks and geese with arrows. Clarinda’s beloved Old Beauty was full of arrows. The calf lay dead beside her.

William did not touch the mutilated bodies. He was looking for only one. It was his intention to take care of Martha’s burial, sparing Rebecca and her brothers the horror of seeing any deplorable atrocity a war party might do.

He sifted through the ashes of Martha’s home. There were broken pieces of her treasured blue flowered dishes. With sadness he rubbed the gold rim with his thumb, recalling the happy occasions when the dishes had graced the Allington table.

Martha’s body was not anywhere to be found. It occurred to William that all of the horses were missing. Of course they would take the horses, he thought. That may have been what they were after.

Careful not to disturb anything, William made one last inspection of the fort. At daybreak he would search the woods for Martha. He decided to wait out the night in the undamaged corncrib, and join the soldiers when they arrived in the morning.

On April 2, 1793, one hundred fifty troops and volunteers assembled at Montgomery’s Station, under militia Captain Enoch Smith. Smith’s militia picked up the trail at Morgan’s Station. The Indians had a good head start. David recognized the young Sam Dunn. He made it a point to speak with him. Sam was shocked to learn the two lovely girls he had met were among those taken.

The militia found the trail easy to follow, but they were soon sickened by the carnage they came upon. They traveled about five miles, just above the head of Little Slate, when they found Rachel Becraft. She had died from a crushing blow to her head. The weapon was probably the blunt end of a tomahawk. Being ill, she likely could not keep up. The Indians had stripped her down to her shift, but the poor woman had not been able to walk. Her bare feet were cut and swollen. Nearby her small baby was found, a mass of brains, blood and flesh. Both scalps had been ripped from the victim’s heads. Captain Smith sent a detail back with the bodies.

The Indians turned down Beaver Branch about seven miles out of Morgan’s. There they killed Robert Craig’s four-year-old son. This time the captain made a decision to bury him where he was found. Robert held his son briefly, then laid him in the shallow grave. Sam Dunn was weeping openly. Robert put his arms around him, comforting the young soldier, when it was he who needed solace.

About five miles farther, Mrs. Craig was found. Her skull had been cruelly caved in. She was alive, but it was a fatal wound. Robert knew there was no hope. He cradled his wife in his arms. Seven-year-old Betsy Becraft lay moaning against a large stone. She was half-conscious. Her skull had been crushed but the blow was a glancing one. Her injuries did not appear life threatening. Sam Dunn lifted Betsy gently, soothing her with his calm voice.

William Sudduth’s men had caught up with the militia at the site of the massacre. He sent some men to help Robert Craig and Sam Dunn carry the survivors back to Montgomery’s Station.

Seven more mutilated bodies were soon found. Mrs. Craig’s infant son, Joe Young’s two-year-old boy, two Baker children and the three remaining Becraft children.

The company of men placed the bodies side by side in a mass grave. Joe Young vowed his vengeance.

The Indians had loaded the horses with plunder from the fort. The troops could tell this by the deep tracks the horses made in the soft earth. If a load turned or shifted, rather than take the time to adjust it, the Indians cut it loose. Several such bundles were found scattered along the trail.

Twenty-five miles farther, it became obvious the Indians were gaining ground, and moving fast. Captain Smith called a halt to the pursuit at the head of Triplett Creek. The troops were getting deep into unfamiliar wilderness. The Indians had the advantage. They knew the region. It was their homeland. The soldiers did not. Here even a hunting party could ambush them easily.

They were nearing the Cherokee nation. The men were weary and sick at heart. Never, since beginning service in Kentucky’s militia, had any of them seen such depredation.

The volunteers agreed with Captain Smith that they should turn back. They determined that some captives were probably still alive, Polly, Nancy and Susie Baker; Clarinda Allington; a sister of Apsy Robinson; Joe Young’s wife, Elizabeth; and fourteen-year-old Ben Becraft.

Captain Smith reasoned that if the Indians found they were no longer being followed, they might spare the captive’s lives.

William Rice, who had been so relieved when he learned of Martha’s escape, said he would go on to the Cherokee towns and villages alone. He was determined to follow the trail wherever it led and bring Clarinda back.

Joe Young said he would never give up looking for his wife, Elizabeth. The two men were experienced woodsmen and hunters. Both knew the tribes and their customs. Both spoke the Cherokee tongue. They might succeed where the militia could not.

Captain Smith advised the two that if they continued the search, it would be at their own risk. Neither the United States government nor the state of Kentucky had any jurisdiction in the Cherokee nation. Indian tribes were sovereigns, and the relationship between them and the United States was government to government.

It was a tricky business. Once the captives were on tribal land it became a problem for the War Department.

Clarinda’s brothers wanted William to let them go with him. He refused, stating he could travel faster and accomplish more alone. William and Joe Young agreed to each follow a different path.

Extra ammunition was given to the two men. The Allingtons realized that if Clarinda could be rescued, William was the one who could do it. They wished him Godspeed.