General Clark's Expedition—A Dark Page in American History—Colonel Crawford's Disastrous Failure and his own Terrible Fate—Simon Girty.

Kentucky now approached an eventful period in her history. As we have stated, the career of Daniel Boone is woven in the very warp and woof of the narrative of the early days of the West, and in order to reach a proper understanding of the life and character of the great pioneer, it is necessary to carry the two along together.

The defeat and massacre at Blue Licks excited a profound shock and indignation along the frontier, and the feeling was general that necessity demanded the chastisement of the Indians, who would be likely otherwise to continue their depredations.

The gallant and clear-headed officer, General George Rogers Clark, the "Hannibal of the West," issued a call for volunteers to assemble at Bryant's Station. The General was so popular, and the confidence in him so universal, that hundreds flocked to the rendezvous, where, in a brief time, he placed himself at the head of one of the most formidable forces ever raised in that portion of the country during its early days.

The Indians were too wise to meet this army in anything like open battle. They carefully kept out of its way, expending their energies in picking off stragglers, and occasionally sending in a stray shot from some point, from which they could flee before it could be reached by the infuriated soldiers.

General Clark pushed forward, burned several Indian towns, and laid waste many fields. A few prisoners were taken, and a few killed, when the expedition returned and disbanded.

This was the only enterprise of the kind that was set on foot by Kentucky during the year 1782, which, however, was marked by one of the darkest deeds on the part of white men, which blacken the pages of our history.

On the 8th of March, Colonel Daniel Williamson, with a body of men, marched to the Moravian town of Gnadenhutten, where he obtained possession of the arms of the Christian Indians through treachery, and then massacred one hundred of them in as cruel and atrocious manner as that shown by Nana Sahib at Cawnpore. The harvest of such an appalling crime was rapine and death along the frontier, as it has been demonstrated many a time since.

These outrages became so numerous that Colonel William Crawford organized an expedition in Western Pennsylvania, numbering 450 men, with which he started against the Wyandot towns on the Sandusky.

His force in fact was nothing but an undisciplined rabble, and no one could predict anything but disaster, when it should penetrate the Indian country. It was this lack of discipline that had given the death-blow to so many expeditions against the tribes on the frontier, and which is the strongest ally an enemy can have.

Early in June, Colonel Crawford's force reached the plains of Sandusky, straggling along like the remnants of a defeated army, and so mutinous that numbers were continually straying back, deserting openly and caring nothing for the wishes or commands of their leader.

Colonel Crawford saw that a crisis was approaching, and calling a council, it was agreed that if a large force of Indians was not encountered within the succeeding twenty-four hours, they would withdraw altogether from the country.

A thousandfold better would it have been had they done so at once.

Within the succeeding hour, scouts came in with the news that a large body of savages were marching against them, and at that moment were almost within rifle-shot.

The proximity of danger impressed itself upon the soldiers and officers, who made hurried preparations to receive the warriors that appeared shortly after, swarming through and filling the woods by the hundred.

The whites were eager for battle and they opened upon them at once, keeping up a hot galling fire until dark, when the Indians drew off. The soldiers slept on their arms.

At daylight the fight was renewed, but it assumed the nature of a skirmish more than that of a regular battle. The Indians had suffered severely, and they were more careful of exposing themselves. They took advantage of the trees and bushes, firing rapidly and doing considerable damage.

But the soldiers were accustomed to such warfare, and they not only held their own ground, but maintained a destructive, though desultory fire which was more effective than that of the enemy.

The most alarming fact was that the Indians were not only waiting for re-enforcements but were receiving them all through the day. The spies of Colonel Crawford reported that other warriors were continually coming in, it being evident that runners had been sent out by the chiefs to summon all the help they could command.

This caused a great deal of uneasiness on the part of the whites, who saw the probability of an overwhelming force gathering in front of them, with the awful sequel of massacre, which had marked so many expeditions into the Indian country.

At sunset, when the second day's battle ceased, an anxious consultation was held by the officers of Crawford's command, at which the momentous question was discussed as to what was to be done.

The conviction was so general that they would be attacked by a resistless force, if they remained on the ground another day, that it was agreed to retreat during the night. As the savage force was already very large and was hourly increasing, it will be understood a withdrawal could only be accomplished by the utmost secrecy, and amid the most profound silence. It was decided, therefore, that the march should begin at midnight, in perfect silence, and preparations were made to carry out the decision of the council of officers.

At a late hour the troops were arranged in good order, and the retreat was begun. A few minutes after, some confusion and the firing of guns were noticed in the rear and threatened a panic, but the soldiers were speedily quieted, and the withdrawal resumed in an orderly manner.

Probably it would have been continued as intended, but, at the critical moment, some terrified soldier called out that the Indians had discovered what they were doing and were coming down upon them in full force.

The retreat at once became a rout, every man feeling that scarcely a hope of escape remained. The cavalry broke and scattered in the woods, and the desperate efforts of Colonel Crawford, who galloped back and forth, shouting and seeking to encourage them to stand firm, were thrown away.

As if it was decreed that nothing should be lacking in this grotesque tragedy, the men shouted and yelled like crazy persons, so that the impression went to the astounded Indians that "the white men had routed themselves and they had nothing to do but to pick up the stragglers."

The sequel can be imagined. The warriors sprang to the pursuit and kept it up with the ferocious tenacity of blood-hounds, all through the night and into the succeeding day. The massacre went on hour after hour, until over a hundred of the soldiers had been killed or captured, and still another frightful disaster was added to those which already marked the history of the development of the West.

Among the prisoners captured were two—Dr. Knight, the surgeon of the company, and Colonel Crawford himself.

Dr. Knight and the Colonel were taken at the close of the second day, the latter having incurred unusual danger from his anxiety respecting the fate of his son. Their captors were a small party of Delawares, who carried them to the old Wyandot town. Just before reaching it, a halt was made, and the celebrated chief, Captain Pipe, painted Dr. Knight and Colonel Crawford black. This meant they had already been doomed to death by being burned at the stake!

Their immediate experience did not tend to lessen their terrors. As they moved along, they continually passed bodies of their friends that had been frightfully mangled by their captors, who were evidently determined that the massacre of the Christian Indians should be fully avenged.

When near the Indian town, they overtook five prisoners who were surrounded by a mob that were tormenting them by beating and taunting. Suddenly the Indians sprang upon them with a yell, and every one was tomahawked. Colonel Crawford was turned over to a Shawanoe doctor, and Surgeon Knight went along with them.

A few minutes previous, Simon Girty, the renegade, rode up beside them and became more fiendish in his taunts than the Indians. He had been acquainted with Colonel Crawford years before, and had special cause for enmity, because the Colonel had used his efforts to defeat Girty for some military office he was eager to obtain.

He now commented upon their appearance (being painted black and of course in great distress of mind), and he assured them that their death at the stake was one of the certainties of the immediate future. He laughed and swore and was in high spirits, as well he might be; for, inspired as he was by the most rancorous hatred of his own race, he had been gratified that day by assisting in one of the most dreadful disasters to the settlers that had ever occurred on the frontier.

When the village was reached, Colonel Crawford seized a forlorn hope of escaping by appealing to a Shawanoe chief named Wingenund, who had frequently visited his house, and between whom quite a strong friendship existed.

When the chief learned that Colonel Crawford was painted black, he knew that nothing could save him, and he withdrew to his own lodge that he might not witness his sufferings; but Crawford sent for him, and the chief could not refuse to go to his friend.

Their meeting was quite affecting, the chief showing some embarrassment and pretending to be uncertain of the identity of the prisoner, through his paint.

"You are Colonel Crawford, I believe."

"Yes, Wingenund, you must remember me." "Yes, I have not forgotten you; we have often drank and eaten together, and you have been kind to me many times."

"I hope that friendship remains, Wingenund."

"It would remain forever, if you were in any place but this, and were what you ought to be."

"I have been engaged only in honorable warfare, and when we take your warriors prisoners we treat them right."

The chief looked meaningly at the poor captive and said,

"I would do the most I can for you, and I might do something, had you not joined Colonel Williamson, who murdered the Moravian Indians, knowing they were innocent of all wrong and that he ran no risk in killing them with their squaws and children."

"That was a bad act—a very bad act, Wingenund, and had I been with him, I never would have permitted it. I abhor the deed as do all good white men, no matter where they are."

"That may all be true," said the chief, "but Colonel Williamson went a second time and killed more of the Moravians."

"But I went out and did all I could to stop him."

"That may be true, too, but you cannot make the Indians believe it, and then, Colonel Crawford, when you were on the march here, you turned aside with your soldiers and went to the Moravian towns, but found them deserted. Our spies were watching you and saw you do this. Had you been looking for warriors, you would not have gone there, for you know the Moravians are foolish and will not fight."

"We have done nothing, and your spies saw nothing that your own people would not have done had they been in our situation."

"I have no wish to see you die, though you have forfeited your life, and had we Colonel Williamson, we might spare you; but that man has taken good care to keep out of our reach, and you will have to take his place. I can do nothing for you."

Colonel Crawford begged the chief to try and save him from the impending fate, but Wingenund assured him it was useless, and took his departure.

Shortly afterward the Indians began their preparations for the frightful execution.

A large stake was driven into the ground, and wood carefully placed around it. Then Crawford's hands were tied behind his back, and he was led out and securely fastened to the stake.

At this time, Simon Girty was sitting on his horse near by, taking no part in the proceedings, but showing by his looks and manner that he enjoyed them fully as much as did the executioners themselves.

Happening to catch the eye of the renegade, Colonel Crawford asked him whether the Indians really intended to burn him at the stake. Girty answered with a laugh that there could be no doubt of it, and Crawford said no more. He knew that it was useless to appeal to him who was of his own race, for his heart was blacker and more merciless than those of the savages who were kindling the fagots at his feet.

The particulars of the burning of Colonel Crawford have been given by Dr. Knight, his comrade, who succeeded in escaping, when he, too, had been condemned to the same fate. These particulars are too frightful to present in full, for they could only horrify the reader.

Colonel Crawford was subjected to the most dreadful form of torture, the fire burning slowly, while the Indians amused themselves by firing charges of powder into his body. He bore it for a long time with fortitude, but finally ran round and round the stake, when his thongs were burned in two, in the instinctive effort to escape his tormentors.

The squaws were among the most fiendish of the tormentors, until the miserable captive was driven so frantic by his sufferings that he appealed to Girty to shoot him and thus end his awful sufferings.

This dying request was refused, and at the end of two hours nature gave out and the poor Colonel died.

Simon Girty assured Dr. Knight that a similar fate was awaiting him, and Knight himself had little hope of its being averted. A son of Colonel Crawford was subjected to the same torture, but, as we have stated, Dr. Knight effected his escape shortly afterward.

Simon Girty, the most notorious renegade of the West, remained with the Indians until his death. He became a great drunkard, but took part in the defeat and massacre of St. Clair's army in 1791, and was at the battle of the Fallen Timbers, three years later. Fearful of returning to his own kindred at the end of hostilities, he went to Canada, where he became something of a trader, until the breaking out of the war of 1812, when he once more joined the Indians and was killed at the battle of the Thames.