The selective draft, according to Dr. Jacobs, a very intelligent Seneca Indian, residing on the Cornplanter Reservation in Warren County, was practiced by Pennsylvania Indians in some of their earlier conflicts, notably in the bloody warfare in the Cherokee country.

In the war against the Cherokees, there was a popular apathy at home, as it was not undertaken to repel an unjust invasion, but for the purpose of aggression, after the murder of a number of Cherokees by the Lenape, and as such did not appeal to the just and patient tribesmen in general.

In order to increase the invading armies beyond the limits of the volunteer quotas of warriors and chiefs, who were of patrician antecedents, the draft was resorted to, with the result that a formidable host departed for the Southland, ravaging the enemy’s country, and bringing in many prisoners.

The Cherokees were not completely vanquished, as they were victorious in some of the conflicts, and also made numerous prisoners. Some of these were tortured to death, others were adopted by families that had lost their sons, while a few escaped and made their way Northward.

The war was followed by the usual period of upheaval and reconstruction, and the moral code of the redmen suffered as much as did modern civilization as an aftermath of the world war. Many Cherokee prisoners were brought to Pennsylvania and put at menial work, or bartered as slaves while others intermarried with the northern tribes, so that Cherokee blood become a component part of the make-up of the Pennsylvania aboriginies. The Cherokee legends and history lingered wherever a drop of their blood remained, so that the beginnings of some, at least, of our Pennsylvania Indian folk-lore hark back to the golden age of the Cherokees.

They certainly have been the martyr-race, the Belgians of the North American Indians, even to the time of their brutal expulsion from their Carolina homes during the Nineteenth Century by U. S. troops at the behest of selfish land-grabbers, and sentenced to die of exhaustion and broken hearts along the dreary trek to the distant Indian Territory.

Among the bravest and most enthusiastic of the Pennsylvania invaders was the young warrior In-nan-ga-eh, chief of the draft, who led the drafted portion of the army against the Cherokee foemen. He was of noble blood, hence himself exempt from the draft, but he was a lover of war and glory, and rejoiced to lead his less well-born, and less patriotic compatriots into the thick of battle. Although noble rank automatically exempted from the draft, the young scions of nobility enlisted practically to a man, holding high commissions, it is true, yet at all times bold and courageous.

In-nan-ga-eh was always peculiarly attractive to the female sex. Tall, lithe and sinewy, he was a noted runner and hunter, as well as famed for his warlike prowess. At twenty-two he was already the veteran of several wars, notably against the Ottawas and the Catawbas, and thirsted for a chance to humble his southern rivals, the Cherokees. He wished to make it his boast that he had fought and conquered tribes on the four sides of the territory where he lived, making what is now the Pennsylvania country the ruling land, the others all vassal states.

He was indiscriminate in his love making, having no respect for birth or caste, being different from his reserved and honorable fellow aristocrats, consequently at his departure for the south, he was mourned for by over a score of maidens of various types and degrees. If he cared for any one of these admirers, it was Liddenah, a very beautiful, kindly and talented maiden, the daughter of the noted wise man or sooth-sayer, Wahlowah, and probably the most remarkable girl in the tribe.

That she cared for such an unstable and shallow-minded youth to the exclusion of others of superior mental gifts and seriousness of purpose, amply proved the saying that opposites attract, for there could have been no congeniality of tastes between the pair. Temperamentally they seemed utterly unsuited, as Liddenah was artistic and musically inclined, and a chronicler of no mean ability, yet she would have given her life for him at any stage of the romance. She possessed ample self-control, but when he went away her inward sorrow gnawing at her heart almost killed her. She may have had a presentiment of what was in store!

During invasions of this kind, communication with home was maintained by means of runners who carried tidings, good or bad, bringing back verbal lists of the dead, wounded and missing, some of which they shamefully garbled.

In-nan-ga-eh was decorated several times for conspicuous bravery, and was reported in the vanguard of every attack, until at length came the shocking news of his ambush and capture. Over a score of the most beautiful maidens along the Ohe-yu and Youghiogheny were heartbroken to distraction, but none more so than the lovely and intellectual Liddenah. This was the crowning blow, her lover taken by his cruel foes, being perhaps boiled alive, or drawn and quartered. Seated alone in her lodge house by the banks of The Beautiful River, she pictured all sorts of horrors befalling her beloved, and of his own deep grief at being held prisoner so far from his homeland.

It was a humiliation to be captured, and by a band of Amazons, who begged permission to entrap the fascinating enemy. Finding him bathing in a deep pool, they surrounded it, flinging at him slightly poisoned darts, which made him partially overcome by sleep, so that he was only able to clamber out on the bank, there to be secured by his fair captors and led in dazed triumph to their chief.

The Chieftain was elated at the capture, and treated the handsome prisoner with all the deference due to his rank. Instead of boiling him in oil, or flaying him, he was feted and feasted, and the warlike bands became demoralized by catering to his pleasure.

It was not long before the chief’s daughter, Inewatah, fell in love with him, and as her illustrious father, Tekineh, had lost a son in the war, In-nan-ga-eh was given the choice of becoming the chief’s adopted son or his son-in-law. He naturally chose the latter, as the wife-to-be was both beautiful and winning.

The war resulted in defeat for the Cherokees, although the old chief escaped to fastnesses further south with his beautiful daughter and alien son-in-law. All went well for a year and a half after the peace when In-nan-ga-eh, began to feel restless and listless for his northern mountains, the playground of his youth. He wanted to go on a visit, and asked the chief’s permission, giving as his word of honor, his love for the chieftain’s daughter, that he would properly return.

The Cherokee bride was as heartbroken as Liddenah; she had first asked that she might accompany him on the trip, which was refused, but she accepted the inevitable stoically outwardly, but with secret aching bosom.

In-nan-ga-eh was glad to get away; being loved too much was tiresome; life was too enervating in the warm sunshine on Soco Creek; he liked the camp and the hunting lodge; love making, too much of it, palled on him. He wanted to be let alone.

Accompanied by a bodyguard of selected Cherokees, he hurriedly made his way to the North. One morning to the surprise and delight of all, he appeared at his tribal village by the Ohe-yu, as gay and debonair as ever. As he entered the town almost the first person he saw was Liddenah. She looked very beautiful, and he could see at one glance how she loved him, yet perversely he barely nodded as he passed.

When he was re-united with his parents, who treated him as one risen from the dead, his sisters began telling him about the news of the settlement, of his many friends, of Liddenah. Her grief had been very severe, it shocked her mother that she should behave so like a European and show her feelings to such an extent. Then the report had come that he had been put to death by slow torture. “Better that,” Liddenah had said openly in the market place, “than to remain the captive of barbarians.”

Once it was taken for granted that he was dead, Liddenah began to receive the attentions of young braves, as they came back from the South laden with scalps and other decorations of their victorious campaign against the Cherokees. Liddenah gave all to understand that her heart was dead; she was polite and tolerant, but, like the eagle, she could love only once.

There was one young brave named Quinnemongh who pressed his suit more assiduously than the rest, and aided by Liddenah’s mother, was successful. The pair were quietly married about a year after In-nan-ga-eh’s capture, or several months before he started for the North, leaving his Cherokee bride at her father’s home on the Soco.

Quinnemongh was not such a showy individual as In-nan-ga-eh, but his bravery was unquestioned, his reliability and honor above reproach. He made Liddenah a very good husband. In turn she seemed to be happy with him, and gradually overcoming her terrible sorrow.

When In-nan-ga-eh had passed Liddenah on entering the village, he had barely noticed her because he supposed that he could have her any time for the asking. When he learned that she was the wife of another, he suddenly realized that he wanted her very badly, that she was the cause of his journey Northward. The old passion surged through his veins; it was what the bark-peelers call “the second run of the sap.”

Through his sisters, who were among Liddenah’s most intimate friends, he sought a clandestine meeting with his former sweetheart. They met at the “Stepping Stones,” a crossing near the headwaters of Cowanshannock, in a mossy glade, which had formerly been his favorite trysting place with over a score of doting maidens in the ante-bellum days.

Liddenah, inspired by her great love, never looked more beautiful. She was probably a trifle above the average height, gracefully, but solidly made. Her skin was very white, her eyes dark, her hair that of a raven, while her aquiline nose, high cheek bones and small, fine mouth made her resemble a high-bred Jewess more than an Indian squaw, a heritage perhaps from a remote Semitic origin beyond the Pacific. She showed openly how happy she was to meet In-nan-ga-eh, until he told her the story of his tragic love, how she had broken his young heart by cruelly marrying another while he languished in a Southern prison camp. In vain she protested that, on all sides came seemingly authentic reports of his death; he was obdurate in the destiny he had decreed. Quinnemongh must die by his hand, and he would then flee with the widow to the country of the Ottawas. The hot blood surging in his veins, like a second flow of sap in a red maple, must be appeased by her submission.

Liddenah was horrified; she came of eminently respectable ancestry, she admired Quinnemongh, her husband, almost to the point of loving him, but where that affection ended, her all-pervading obsession for In-nan-ga-eh began and knew no limitations in her being.

“Tonight”, said In-nan-ga-eh, scowling dreadfully, “I will surprise the vile Quinnemongh in his lodge house, and with one blow of my stone war-hammer crush in his skull, then I will scalp him and meet you at the stepping stones, and by the moonlight we will decamp to the far free country of the Ottawas, his scalp dangling at my belt as proof of my hate and my bravery”.

Liddenah gave a reluctant assent to the fiendish program when they parted. On her way home through the forest path her conscience smote her with Mosaic insistence–the blood of her ancestors, of the Lost Tribe of Israel, would not permit her to sanction the murder of a good and true warrior. She would immolate herself for her family honor, and for her respect for Quinnemongh.

Arriving at the lodge-house she went straight to Quinnemongh and confessed the story of her meeting with the perfidious In-nan-ga-eh, all but the homicidal part. Quinnemongh was not much surprised, as he knew of her great love for the ex-Cherokee prisoner, and In-nan-ga-eh’s capricious pride.

“Quinnemongh”, she said, between her sobs, for, like a white girl, she was tearful, “I was to meet In-nan-ga-eh tonight, when the moon is over the tops of the trees, by the stepping stones, and we were to fly together to the country of the Ottawas. You present yourself there in my stead, and tell the false In-nan-ga-eh that I have changed my mind, that I am true to my noble husband”.

Needless to say, Quinnemongh was pleased at this recital, and promised to be at the ford at the appointed time. Like most persons under similar circumstances, he was eager to be on his errand, and departed early, armed with his favorite scalping knife. Liddenah kissed and embraced him, calling him her “hero”, and once he was out of sight, she darted into his cabin and lay down among his blankets and buffalo robes, covering herself, all but the top of her brow, and huddling, all curled up, for the autumnal air was chill.

The moon slowly rose higher and higher until it reached the crowns of the giant rock oaks along the edge of the “Indian fields”. The gaunt form of In-nan-ga-eh could now be seen creeping steadily out of the forest, bounding across the clearing and, stone axe in hand, entered the cabin where he supposed that Quinnemongh was sleeping. A ray of shimmery moonlight shone full on the upturned forehead of his victim. Animated by a jealous hate, he struck a heavy blow with his axe of dark diorite, crushing in the sleeper’s temples like an eggshelleggshell. Leaving the weapon imbedded in his victim’s skull, he deftly cut off the long bushy scalp with his sharp knife, and, springing out of the hut, started off on a dog-trot towards the stepping stones, waving his bloody, gruesome souvenir.

He approached the fording with the light of the full moon shining on the waters of the brook; he was exultant and grinding his teeth in lustful fury. Who should he see there–not the fair and yielding goddess Liddenah, but the stalwart form of the recently butchered and scalped Quinnemongh. Believer in ghosts that he was, this was almost too much of a visitation for him. Pausing a minute to make sure, he rushed forward brandishing the scalp in one hand, his knife, which caught the moon’s beams on its blade in the other.

“Wretch”! he shrieked at Quinnemongh, “must I kill you a second time to make you expiate your sin at marrying Liddenah”?

Quinnemongh, who stood rigid as a statue at the far side of the ford, replied, “You have not killed me once; how dare you speak of a second time”?

“Whose scalp have I then”? shouted In-nan-ga-eh, as he continued to rush forward.

“Not mine surely”, said Quinnemongh, as he felt his comparatively sparse locks.

Just as the men came face to face it dawned on both what had happened, and with gleaming knives, they sprang at one another in a death struggle. For half an hour they fought, grappling and stabbing, kicking and biting, in the shallow waters of the ford. Neither would go down, though Liddenah’s scalp was forced from In-nan-ga-eh’sIn-nan-ga-eh’s hand, and got between the breasts of the two combatants, who pushed it, greasy and gory, up and down as they fought. They literally stabbed one another full of holes, and bit and tore at their faces like wild beasts; they carved the skin off their shoulders and backs, they kicked until their shin bones cracked, until finally both, worn out from loss of blood, sank into the brook and died.

In the morning the scalped and mutilated form of Liddenah was discovered among the gaudy blankets and decorated buffalo robes; a bloody trail was followed to the stepping stones, where the two gruesome corpses were found, half submerged in the red, bloody water, in an embrace so inextricable, their arms like locked battling stags’ antlers that they could not in the rigidity of death be separated. Foes though they were, the just and patient Indians who found them could do nothing else but dig a common grave in the half-frozen earth, close to the stepping stones, and there they buried them together, with Liddenah’s soggy scalp and their bent and broken knives, their bodies to comminglecommingle with earth until eternity.