The Forks of the Ohio

By James David Bailey

Leaving the Mohawk Valley of New York colony young Logan McGill, the superb frontiersman Davey Duncan and the irascible Turley travel to the wilds of the Ohio country wishing only to hunt and trap. But they soon learn that their peaceful intentions are not enough as they are harassed by blood thirsty savages, a vengeful antagonist, and ultimately become swept up in a brutal frontier war.

After rescuing the beautiful Elizabeth Hay from her savage kidnappers the four seek refuge with a small, destitute army of Virginia militia. Led by the young and brave but inexperienced Colonel George Washington the Virginians must wrest possession of the forks of the Ohio from the French. Marching through a damp night they surprise a camp of French soldiers and fire the first shots that reignite the decades long conflict between England and France over control of North America. And once again numerous Indian nations are forced to choose which side to fight for. Though the Indians themselves realize that whoever wins, it is the Redman who will be the ultimate loser.

From the Iroquois villages of the Mohawk Valley to the skirmish at Jumonvilles Glen and the Battle of Fort Necessity, through General Edward Braddocks fateful expedition to Duquesne, The Forks of the Ohio brings to life the opening events of The French and Indian War as related by Logan McGill. The saga of Logan and his companions continues in the sequel, Holy Sacrament, where the bloody struggle shifts to the New York frontier and the Battle of Lake George.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 6, 2010
• ISBN: 9781465322449

James David Bailey

James David Bailey graduated from West Virginia University’s school of forestry in 1982 and worked as a forester for the state of West Virginia, where he became fascinated with the history of the Ohio Valley and the North American frontier. After returning to his hometown of Lima, in western New York in 2000, he completed work on a Masters Degree and became certified as a history teacher. There, at the Crossroads of the Indian Nations, he continues his research and writing about the settling of North American and the events that led to the birth of a new nation.

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The Forks Of The Ohio

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JD Bailey

Edited by Nancy Luckhurst

Copyright © 2010 by JD Bailey.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of historical fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

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Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER XXXVI

CHAPTER XXXVII

CHAPTER XXXVIII

CHAPTER XXXIX

CHAPTER XL

CHAPTER XLI

CHAPTER XLII

CHAPTER XLIII

CHAPTER XLIV

CHAPTER XLV

CHAPTER XLVI

CHAPTER XLVII

CHAPTER XLVIII

CHAPTER XLIX

CHAPTER L

CHAPTER LI

CHAPTER LII

CHAPTER LIII

CHAPTER LIV

CHAPTER LV

CHAPTER LVI

CHAPTER LVII

CHAPTER LVIII

EPILOGUE

Cover illustration—Map of the forks of the Ohio River, from the journal of George Washington, 1753 or 1754

Insert Reads:

The French are now coming from their Forts on Lake Erie and the Creek, to Venengo, to erect another Fort and from thence they design to the Forks of the Monongahela and to the Logs Town, and so to continue down the River building at the most convenient places in order to prevent our Settlements a little below Shanapin’s town. The Fork is the place where we are going immediately to build a Fort as it commands the Ohio and Monongahela.

The journal of George Washington

This book is dedicated to my parents

Mary Elizabeth Hay and Donald McGill Bailey

as well as to my children

Laura Ann and Logan James Bailey

PROLOGUE

Unexpected Visitors

December 31, 1753

For nearly a month the temperatures had been well below freezing as the storm continued to add snow to that which already blanketed the ground and roof of the isolated cabin. Leafless trees stood like frosted sentinels as steam rose off the nearby Monongahela River. The frigid water slid between the icy banks northward through the wilderness toward its rendezvous with the Allegheny, where the two would merge to form the mighty Ohio River.

A warm fire burned cheerfully in the hearth of the small dwelling at the mouth of Turtle Creek. The flickering flames made shadows dance in the corners as the German trader, John Fraser, hung an iron pot of broth over the fire and placed a skillet on coals near the flames. With a sigh he sat and stretched his legs after a long day then took up his pipe and tobacco. A knock on the solid oak door roused him from his moment of rest.

Guten Gott! he exclaimed bitterly, and a bit apprehensively, to the empty room. Wem machen die Holle ein? [Who the hell could that be?]

Any visitor was suspect, as there were no neighbors for miles around. The Irish trader, Gist, maintained a post miles upriver on Redstone Creek. Almost as far north was Logstown, a collection of shabby log cabins above the forks of the Ohio, now inhabited by a few English trappers of questionable character. John suspected the tavern was their main attraction, as well as the proximity of a friendly village of natives with even friendlier women.

No, a friendly visitor was unlikely, especially on a night like this. And surely, he hoped, not even a brigand would be prowling about in this tempest. But you never knew about the heathens, be they red or white.

Taking his musket, a weapon that was never far from anyone’s hand if he wished to see many days in the wilderness, Fraser pulled back the cock to check the priming. Satisfied with the charge, he crossed the room and stood against the wall beside the door.

Jah? Wer ist das? he asked suspiciously. [Yes? Who is it?]

From outside came the muffled response. Now hell, Fraser, blast yer eyes! You know the major and I don’t talk no damn German! Just open the door!

Fraser smiled in relief as he heard the familiar voice. He leaned his musket against the wall, unlatched the thick oak door, and swung it open. A gust of wind and snow swirled into the room as two bedraggled and bewhiskered men stomped across the threshold.

Herr Gist und the Major! You are back! Fraser yelled above the howl of the wind as he pushed the door closed. He had about given up on the two travelers; in fact he had not really expected to see them again after they’d left his cabin weeks earlier to continue on their mission.

Now, Fraser, who else’d ya expect to be foolish enough to be out on a night like this? Gist exclaimed.

Frontiersman Christopher Gist knew the western lands better than almost any other Englishman. Since his arrival from Ireland ten years earlier, he’d been trapping, trading, and exploring the frontier. After he’d established a trading post at Cuyahoga on Lake Erie, he made friends as well as enemies among the savages. Back in 1750, as an agent for the Ohio Company (a collection of wealthy land speculators), he’d scouted for suitable locations for settlement in the Ohio Valley. Presently, he was serving as the major’s guide to the newly constructed French Forts above Logstown.

We’re much obliged John, Gist said as he slapped the snow off his great coat. For a worrisome few days there, I didn’t think we’d make it. Cold as it is an’ all.

His companion removed his hat and cloak, revealing the uniform that identified him as a major in the Virginia militia. Fraser eyed the young man curiously, still marveling that one so young would be entrusted with such a mission. After all, others with more wilderness experience had tried and failed, presumably their bones left laying somewhere in the woods, and their scalp on some lodgepole. But Fraser’s thoughts were interrupted when he noticed that the man was suffering even more than Gist from the cold.

Please Major. Come over to the fire und warm yourself. Both of you—get out of those wet things.

Fraser took the wet cloaks from the men and hung them near the fire, then retrieved a jug from the hearth and filled two tankards with warm grog, a mixture of rum and water. The unexpected guests peeled off the remainder of their wet clothes, and hung them by the fire. They sat before the flames wrapped in blankets, in the only two chairs inside the small cabin. Fraser sat on a bloodstained stump that served as both chopping block and seat.

Tell me Chris, Fraser said, once all was settled, Did you deliver the governor’s message?

Aye, me and the major’s done visited the French, an’ it’s been a mite of hard travlin’ since we last seen ya, John. Had to go clear up yonder to Le Boeuf! he added disgustedly. Now we’re takin’ their reply to the guv’ner, and Alexandra’s a ways farther.

Jah! A far piece to travel in this weather, or any weather, for all of that. Fraser shook his head, then realized what Gist had said. You had to go on to Le Bouef?

One of the new French forts, Le Boeuf was located on French Creek, some twenty miles below Lake Erie.

Gist nodded as he took a pull from the steaming tankard. Relieved, he felt the warm liquid course through his body.

Aye, he said, wiping his mouth with the palm of his hand. The commander at Venengo, who’s now a sittin’ in yer cabin, under the White Lilies o’ France no less, sent us up thar, another six leagues, to deliver our message to his superior officer. He snorted. Just to make us go farther in this damnable weather, what with bein’ as played out as we already was, to my way o’ thinkin’. But we made it a few days later an’ handed the note to ol’ Captain Jacques Legardeur de Saint-Pierre hisself. He chuckled. An’ Dinwiddie was none too subtle, neither. Tol’ him to leave peaceably or be forced out!

Fraser took a swallow of grog, regretting his lost trading post, then almost choked on Gist’s words. He knew the men were delivering something of importance, but he had not known about the ultimatum.

Guten Gott! And how did he take it? he asked.

P’litely, Gist drawled. Ya know them Frenchmen. Smilin’ out’ a one side o’ thur mouths while snearin’ at ya out’ a the other. He chuckled grimly. Oh, but ya know he din’ like it. Thar ain’t no way they’s gonna pack up ‘n git out’a the Ohio country jus’ cause some English guv’ner tol’ ’em to.

Well, I cannot say I blame them! Fraser admitted, belaying his own thoughts on the matter. The German strode over to the fire and placed strips of venison in the heated iron frying pan. Beautiful rich country, it is, he commented over his shoulder as he arranged the sizzling meat with a fork.

Yes, beautiful, Mister Fraser, the young major agreed. But these lands belong to the domain of King George and the Dominion of Virginia! Gist and Fraser looked at him as if they had forgotten he was there. He’d been quiet until this point, as he enjoyed the warmth of the fire and been seemingly deep in thought.

From the western ends of the colonies to the Great South Sea, he continued, across that and including California, claims made over a hundred years ago and reaffirmed six years ago by Virginia’s then Governor, Thomas Lee.

Gist looked at him, a quizzical expression on his lean bewhiskered face, his brows knitted. Californ’a? He shook his head clear of the thought, then looked back at Fraser. He returned his attention to the German’s apparent meek acceptance over the loss of his trading post—a huge financial blow.

Yer sayin’ ya don’t blame ’em, Fraser? he asked incredulously. Yer excusin’ their behavior—an’ after what they done to ya! Why, whose side ya on anyway?

Gist winked at the major. He knew the German had no choice after Captain Joncaire’s small army arrived at Venengo from Le Boeuf, and under Sainte-Pierre’s orders, forced him to leave. He just enjoyed baiting the immigrant.

Herr Gist! Fraser exclaimed, waving the fork at him in a scolding manner. You know Joncaire told my two men, as well as the others, to leave the Ohio Country! He waved his hand eastward. ‘Go back over the mountains!’ he told them, ‘und don’t come back, under pain of death!’ All vas gone before I could say aye or nay!

The German’s face reddened as he talked. But jah! The goot captain’s lucky I wasn’t there at the time or, mein Gott! He shook a fist, but left the thought unfinished.

Good thing ya wasn’t, John, Gist said. Yer right. That Joncaire’s an arrogant ass, but if you’d ’ave upset him, there’s no tellin’ what he’d a done to ya. Pretty much tol’ the major and me what hole to crawl into after he’d read Dinwiddie’s letter.

Well, I’m not leaving! Fraser said defiantly.

Good fer you, Gist agreed. You’ve already been out ’ere longer’n any of us, John. Why give up now, just when yer startin’ to git the hang of bein’ a trader? Gist winked at the major.

The officer became curious. Just how’d you end up in Venengo, then here, Mr. Fraser?

Ach, Major, Fraser started, glad to relate his tale. That is an interesting story.

The German covered the pot and resumed his seat, then took his pipe and tobacco pouch out of his pocket. He took a big pinch of the golden leaf then offered the pouch to Gist, who accepted it with a nod of his head and produced his own pipe. The major politely refused the offered pouch while waiting for the trader to continue.

Thirteen years ago, it was, Fraser said while stoking the bowl, I first come over the Alleghenies.

Gist explained to the major. He’s the first white man to settle out here. Right, John?

If you say so, Herr Gist. He shrugged. Who am I to argue mit a guest? Anyway, I struggled mit the trade, und I done all right, but four years ago I came upon a savage, alone in the woods. Named Fron-goth.

Fron-goth’s a Seneca chief, Gist explained to the major.

Fraser took a burning brand from the fire and puffed his pipe to life, exhaled, then gave the brand to Gist. Blue smoke swirled around him as he continued his story.

He was hurt—a death sentence out here. Seems he fell und broke his arm. I just set and splinted der arm und helped the chief back to his village, at Venengo. Mit danke [with thanks], Fron-goth invited me to start a trading post at his village. He chuckled and added grimly, I think mein trade goods had something to do with it.

But when the Franzosen [Frenchmen] came, I traveled down the Allegheny to the Monongahela, the forks where the two rivers merge to become the Ohio. I continued to go south, up the Monongahela, to get here. Und I will move no more!

So yer stayin’ on here at Turtle Creek? Gist asked him. The trade’s better up thar.

Ja, Fraser agreed sadly, returning to the fire, But it’s safer here. He stirred the broth, then turned the meat over and covered the skillet.

Gist grew mad. They got no damn right to kick us out! he said bitterly, looking at the bowl of his pipe.

Ja, I like it no more than you, Herr Gist, Fraser agreed. But the French, they believe their claim is strong, like the Colonies. Und do not, friend, be forgetting that Herr Champlain claimed these lands for France, over a hundred and fifty years ago. He looked at the Virginian. Do the English charters go back das far, Herr Major? He shook his head doubtfully.

I believe so, Mr. Fraser. Queen Elizabeth authorized a colonizing venture to Humphrey Gilbert in 1583. After claiming Newfoundland, he set sail for home to England and died when his ship sunk off the coast of the Azores. His charter was given to Walter Raleigh. The following year, Raleigh landed in what he later called Virginia. Though those first attempts at colonizing were failures, the claim was made. That was nigh onto one hundred years before Marquette, who arrogantly claimed the interior of the continent. Why, the Pilgrims even came before him! And as I said, those claims stretch from sea to sea.

Fraser grunted. Perhap that’s so. But King Louis does not give a rat’s crap what some dead English king did, or a live one either. Und failed colonies do not hold any score in his mind. No, it is possession by military strength that matters, and Celeron, with an army, repeated their claim up and down the Ohio just over four years ago, it was.

Taking wood from a bin next to the fireplace, he fed the flames, then straightened. Don’t get me wrong, Herr Major. I too would like to see the Union Jack across this valley, but the French, they beat the English here mit soldiers, not a claim on paper. He refilled their tankards as his guests stared glumly into the fire.

Und even so, Fraser continued, if it is a only a matter of claims, I’m thinking France und Britain will not recognize them anyway. Mien Gott! Pennsylvania and Virginia can not even settle their own dispute over the Ohio Country!

Fraser produced a spoon and dipped out some broth. He delicately blew on the steaming liquid. Ach! he sputtered while his guests chuckled at his antics. It must cool a bit! he exclaimed as he replaced the lid and swung the pot back from the flames. He poked at the meat with a wooden fork, then set it aside. With a sigh, he sat back on the stump. He picked up his pipe from the table, inspected the bowl, tamped it down, and re-lighted the dregs.

Gist starred into the fire and gloomily summarized the situation. So the French ’ave had forts on the Saint Lawrence, the Great Lakes and the southern Mississippi River for years. Now they’re invadin’ the Ohio Valley and they’ll soon have the Colonies surrounded, penned neatly between the mountains an’ the Atlantic. It won’t be so hard with the help of their savages, to push east an’ drive us into the sea.

Fraser pointed his pipe at the young Virginia major Jah, so here we are. Britain und France, once again they are going to fight it out. Und who knows, maybe you are right, und the issue will be settled this time. One way or the other.

The three men sat quietly as they sipped grog and contemplated the inevitability of the coming conflict.

Ominously, the wind roared down the chimney and gutted the flames. Outside the tempest howled as snow swirled through the trees and darkness enshrouded the river and the surrounding wilderness.

Fraser changed the subject in an attempt to break the melancholy mood. Why did you decide to journey back to Virginia mitt out horses und your men?

After we left Venengo, Gist answered, the horses was almost played out, none too strong t’ begin with, them being the same ones we rode out’a Alexandr’a with two months ago. The major here, Gist nodded his head toward the Virginian, thought we’d make better time a’foot, an’ let the others git their selves and their horses back best they kin. He shrugged. Argued a’gin it, but he’s headstrong for a young’un. Gist winked at Fraser. The young major snorted and smiled.

Gist laughed as he remembered their journey. Should’ve seen him, John. He slapped his blanket-covered thigh and shook his head. We was just above the forks and floating acrost the Allegheny on a raft we’d made. He gestured upriver. Wasn’t froze over yet, ya see, an’ the major’s pole up an’ got stuck in the bottom. Fraser chuckled as the major rolled his eyes upward.

Well, the pole got run over by the raft, shootin’ ol’ George’s arse over tea kettle off the raft n’ out over the water. Well, he hung there for a moment, an’ ya should’a seen the look on his face; eyes bulging, then splash—in he went—head first! The major now joined in with the contagious laughter of his companions, as he reluctantly acknowledged the humor of the near fatal incident.

Mien Gott! What then? Fraser asked.

Well, I looked fer ’im, Gist continued as he slowly regained control of himself. But all I saw was his hat a’bobbin’ downriver with the current. Then of a sudden, up comes his head, an’ he was spittin’ an’ sputterin’. ‘By damn the waters cold!’, he says as I held my pole out to ’im.

Und? Fraser prodded, enthralled with the story.

Well, I got ’im aboard and we finally made it to a piece o’ land in the middle o’ the river. I was up all night keepin’ a fire going under the major’s clothes with ’im wrapped in my blanket.

He must have been near froze! Fraser exclaimed.

Aye, Gist agreed. You should’ a seen ’im! He sat there a shiverin’, and a shakin’, all blue in the face, his red nose and frozen hair stickin’ out a from under the blanket he was bundled in. My blanket it was, as his was wet an’ froze stiff. But there he was, just warmin’ and a’settin’ idle by the fire all night. It was me that almost froze to death keepin’ his arse warm!

He leaned over and gave the young man a squeeze on the shoulder. But we made it. An’ here we are, thawin’ out our frostbitten parts, eh, Major?

Least you are both all right, Fraser said. Safe enough for now. He rose and filled his guests’ mugs with more of the steaming grog.

Gist’s expression became serious. Aye. Unless that savage that the major let go gets some friends and comes after us. Delaware he was. Lenni Lenape. He shook his head as he looked at the young officer and muttered, Still think we should’a done ’im in.

What do you mean? Fraser asked.

Gist explained. This here savage appears out a nowhere—says he was just huntin’. In that damnable weather? Well, true to my suspicion, he done tried to lead us in the wrong direction, then commenced to shoot at us. George here, pushed me out a the way of the musketball, jus’ in time.

Least I could do, the Virginian commented.

Aye, an’ I thankee agin, Gist replied. But I’m a thinkin’ he’s on our trail now, an’ this time bringin’ along his heathen friends.

All three sat quietly for a few moments, as they imagined war whoops coming from the woods mixed with the wind that howled around the cabin.

Well, they won’t come looking here, Fraser assured them after a moment. No savages will be out on a night like this. Maybe not for weeks; it keeps snowing und cold, I’m thinking. You better stay here, until the weather improves, jah?

Thank you, sir, but no. I have to get back to Alexandria, then on to Williamsburg to deliver the letter from Saint-Pierre to the governor, explained the major.

Ach! The letter! Fraser said. You never did tell me, Herr Gist; what was Saint-Pierre’s response?

Huh, Gist snorted. Just what I’d been sayin’. They ain’t about to abandon three new forts, one on Lake Erie and two in the Ohio country, and move back to Quebec or Montreal, even Nag’ra, just ’cause a bewigged British colonial guv’ner, four hun’erd miles away an’ acrost the mountains at that, says ‘Boo’. He shook his head. Could’ a saved George the trouble by tellin’ Dinwiddie that m’self.

‘Tis the protocol of nations, Mr. Gist, the young man said patiently. The polite request, with the hopes of avoiding armed conflict.

Protocol my sweet Irish arse! Armed conflict is all them damn French bastards understand, Gist replied angrily. He calmed down and sighed, Well then, what’ll ya recommend the guv’ner do now, Major?

The young Virginian pondered Gist’s question for a moment, then replied quietly. We must stop the encroachment that the French should never have had the chance to start. The colonies should have accepted The Half King’s offer to build a fort in the Ohio Country last year.

Aye, Gist replied. An’ why didn’t they take Tanaghrisson’s offer?

Dinwiddie wanted to do just that and make it a joint effort, the major answered. But the Colonial Assemblies were too busy with their own petty bickering.

They all knew The Half King, called Tanaghrisson by his people, was a pro-English civil chief of the Seneca. His people followed him into the Ohio Valley to establish their village and escape the French influence growing among their people. But the assemblies of Pennsylvania and Virginia, as the major explained, who both claimed the Ohio Valley, were not so quick to back up those claims when it came to spending money. Funds that may well be wasted should a royal decree, or a simple survey, disallow their claim to the Ohio. Thus they politely turned down The Half King’s request.

The major became more resolute as he continued. After Dinwiddie reads Saint-Pierre’s response, I’ll recommend that it’s time, damn it, man, it’s past time, that we station a permanent British presence in this country. We should establish that post where the Allegheny and Monongahela merge; about ten miles downstream from here, right Gist?

Holding his pipe with the stem clenched between his teeth, Gist eyed the young Virginian. He slowly nodded his head, belaying his great relief in hearing the major’s decision. He himself had recommended the same thing, even relayed The Half King’s request, but his advice had fallen on deaf ears, as they assumed it was made in his own self-interest.

The major nodded his head. That’s it, then! That’s the very spot! We can control the entire Ohio valley from there and stop the French advance. I will tell the governor that we should take The Half King’s offer, with or without the assistance of the other colonies, and build the fort right on the forks of the Ohio!

Hafta say, I’m glad ta hear it, Major, Gist replied. We could use some added eyes round here, an’ a buffer twixt us an’ the French. And the business too, Gist and Fraser thought.

Well, if it’s a fort you are to build at the forks, Major Washington, you had better hurry, Fraser added grimly. I wager that the French are set to do just that as soon as the weather breaks.

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The late war with the French, is it? Aye, now there’s a yarn to tell, but in the first going we were tussled up most considerably. Here’s what I did, and what I heard.

Logan McGill, 1779

CHAPTER I

The Last of the McGills

March 1754

I was restless and full of myself, as many a lad of twenty may be. I was my own man and elated with the success of my first venture as a free and independent trapper. My companions, Davey Duncan, Le Gillette and Jon Werner had survived riotous rivers, raging tempests, and everything the wilderness could throw in our path, and were returning from our long winter of trapping with bales of prime beaver hides and those of other varmints in the bottom of our canoes. Now, with the arrogant attitude of youth, I felt my companions and I could handle any situation, though I knew naught of the coming struggles.

Taller than any McGill before me, I stood over six feet when barefoot and was well muscled, having worked all my twenty years on my family’s farm in the Mohawk Valley near Schenectady, on the edge of the New York frontier. My brown, shoulder length hair and deep blue eyes came from the mixture of my mother, who was Scottish, and my father who was of Scotch-Irish descent. As were the other residents of the frontier, mostly Protestant Germans and Dutch, with a smattering of Irish and Swedes, we were just naturally more loyal to our neighbors and ourselves than to an English king thousands of miles across an ocean.

We had sold our gather at Schenectady, then my friends went on to Albany where I would join them in the fall and be off on another hunt, but first I returned to my family to help put in the crops. Though when I arrived I found our cabin burned, and my father lying mortally wounded. All others of my family were dead, save for Catherine, who I could not find.

It was my father’s dying wish for me to find her, but I needed no such prompting. It had been Senecas, he said, which was a surprise to me, as I thought they were peaceful with the English. So why had the Senecas raided our cabin?

The French sent ’em he answered.

It had always been the French who incited the savages to attack the helpless settlers on the frontier of the English colonies. It had been the way for generations, so I believed him now.

But it was finding Catherine that was my foremost thought. If she were alive I would find her and bring her home. But I could not do it alone, so I would enlist my trapping companions Duncan, Gillette, and Werner.

I buried my parents and brothers and said what words I could remember over the graves. Taking my musket, powder and shot, and packing what food I could find I walked east along the trail that followed the Mohawk River. At Schenectady I followed the portage trail to the Albany.

The small formerly Dutch town on the Hudson River was, of course, a stark contrast to the wilderness, what with the well constructed houses, neat gardens, picket fences and clean streets, some even made of brick. I avoided the seedier back streets, with their mud and where the less scrupulous men and looser woman, hogs and other livestock ruled.

I walked through the unguarded gate of the neglected palisade into the busy town, and was soon passed by freight wagons, fine carriages, people on horseback, or walking, seemingly going in all directions on all conceivable errands. There were all sorts of people, mostly Dutch and English but plenty of Germans, a few Swedes and Indians.

Aside from old crumbling Fort Orange on the hill overlooking the town and river the steeple of the Dutch Reformed Church dominated the skyline, but the stone Saint Peter’s Episcopal Church was an impressive structure in its own right. The town included all kinds of shops, dry goods stores, stables, smithies and eateries. There were law offices and hotels, a school, and boarding houses. Warehouses and shipyards, including sailor’s dives and brothels, lined the docks below town along the Hudson. Of all the likely spots, I knew where to find my friends.

I went to the taverns. They were undoubtedly spending their winter taking on drinking, wenching, or both, and enjoying the dubious attributes of civilization after they spent long months of depravity in the wilderness. Well, maybe not Duncan.

The woodsman and I had a different attitude. We both loved the wilderness and the independence of the free life that it offered. And like Duncan I had decided long ago that wilderness life, for all its hardship and loneliness, was the life I loved. Still, while Duncan avoided towns as much as possible, I did not find the settlements as disagreeable as he did. There were advantages, and I liked being around people—to a degree.

But Duncan was born to the wilderness. He had spent most of his life in the woods, usually alone, and as a result he possessed vastly more woodsman skills than I did. During the winter I came to know him as a man completely at one with the wilderness, as much as any man I had met in my brief life, with the possible exception of a few of the savages with whom my father and I had hunted.

A tavern it was when I found them, but surprisingly I saw Duncan first. He was sitting in the corner watching the crowd, a mixture of those types of men I saw in the streets. Musket across his thighs, as he never was without it, the woodsman looked as discontented and irascible as a wet cat.

Davey Duncan! I called to him. You scalawag!

Logan McGill? Didn’t plan on you getting here for months, though I’m glad you are, even to the point of ignoring your insult.

Before I could even say yea or nay he continued. I’d never heard him put so many words together so fast. I tell you I’ve had more’n enough of this place, he was saying. It’s too crowded. A man can’t walk across the street without having to reply to some smilin’ fool’s hello or tip his hat to a high falutin’ lady. I am surely wishful to be gone. Anywhere. C’mon, let’s us go a hunting! Duncan rose and made as if to leave. Remember the spot not too far from here where… ?

My smile faded. I’m afraid I’m not here for that, my friend.

He stopped and looked at me. What is it? What’s happened?

Those damn Senecas, I seethed. They attacked my family. Pa and my brothers held them off, best they could. I saw the sign, and they got three of them. But there was a whole passel of the heathens. Too many. They slashed ’em, Duncan, before they could even come in from the fields. They killed them all and stole my sister. Burned the cabin.

Duncan touched my shoulder and motioned to a chair. We both sat as I choked back my pain.

Pa was alive when I got there, but I couldn’t do for his wounds. But before he died, I promised him that I’d get Catherine back. Which is why I’m here.

By God, we’ll find her, Logan. Don’t you fret none.

I knew I could count on you. But we’ll need help. Where are Werner and Gillette?

Help like them won’t get it, he answered. Werner’s upstairs and probably drunk. Gillette’s over there.

Duncan led the way, but Gillette was too well into his cups and was in no mood to leave. Just as well, I thought, as I never fully trusted the stocking-capped Frenchman.

Duncan, of a like mind, shrugged his shoulders. It’s Johnson we need, he said. If anyone can get your sister back, it’s him.

I kicked myself for not thinking of William Johnson, the wealthy Mohawk Valley businessman and adopted Mohawk. He could talk to their great chief Hendrick who was Johnson’s loyal friend. Mayhap he would have advice on how to deal with the Senecas.

We gathered our gear and took the trail back up the Mohawk the way I’d come. With no canoe available it would take two days of walking along the river to reach Johnson’s home. Cleared meadows and scattered cabins broke through the woods along our path, but few of the settlers trusted two well-armed strangers. Though I grew up in the valley, us boys kept to our isolated home, working our plot of ground and never did much socializing. As for Duncan, he always kept out of sight, roaming the woods.

For that matter, I never knew where he hailed from. From time to time I’d run into him while hunting, if he allowed himself to be seen, though my brothers and even pa never saw him, didn’t even believe he existed when I mentioned him. Sometimes we even shared a hunt or a fire. But in the morn I’d wake and he’d be gone, as if he never had been there. Now I wondered, for someone who was a loner, why did he associate with me and put up with those we had wintered with? It was a puzzle, but a question for another day, for it was enough that he was here now.

That night we camped well back from the river, building a small fire out of the driest wood we could find to limit the smoke, for it is ever wise to lessen the sign of our presence, as the river was traveled by potential enemies. We broiled strips of venison and washed down our meal with creek water, keeping our ears open and our charged muskets close to hand.

Tell me about your father, Duncan said after we had eaten.

Donald McGill was a seafaring man from Ireland, I said. It is little enough I know of his early years.

What brought him to land in the colonies?

Sam Bellamy. You ken him?

Bellamy? Aye—the pirate. And a notorious scoundrel, though he died as easy as any man when they hung him. Was your father a pirate, then?

Out of necessity. After the merchant ship he was on was captured, rather than serve below decks as a slave he proved his worth as a navigator and fighter. He helped win a prize or two, though his heart was not in it. So when they sailed into New York harbor he had words with Sam and jumped overboard. With the good captain’s own sword! I added proudly.

Ha! There’s a man I’d like to have met! And your ma?

She was beautiful, and hard as nails for all of that. Scottish herself, my father met her at Schenectady. She loved my father and was happy. Though she did not always approve of his ways. Or at least she made a show of it. Maybe it was just her way to try and keep us boys civilized, for pa had given up the sea for her, and was a good provider, but he traded his love for the deck of a ship for the hills of the wilderness. Constantly roaming, he was, and he taught us boys all he learned from his own experiences and the savages who would teach him. I was getting melancholy, so I changed the subject.

Now tell me, how do you know of Johnson?

Huh! Who in this valley does not know the trader?

True words, and that was answer enough. It was Johnson who had helped my father, as with scores of Mohawk Valley immigrants, in locating suitable sites for settlement, helping them raise their cabins and barns, as well as giving them credit to gain an outfit to start farming or trapping. He would even supply them with a mule or farm implements, free of charge. The Irishman also introduced my father to the Mohawks.

Before daylight we started. There were occasional river travelers and at times we passed a wagon or people on foot going up and down river, though we avoided the later. Halfway to Johnson’s we passed by Schenectady, and after another fifteen miles we reached the impressive stone mansion called Mount Johnson, across the river from the Mohawk village of Teantontalogo and old Fort Hunter. We walked through the open cast iron gate, between the blockhouses, which were added during the late war, and came to the large wooden doors when suddenly they opened and the big broad shouldered Irishman himself stood on the threshold. He was dressed in buckskin pants but a white shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows exposing muscular arms with his thick black hair pulled back and tied at the nap of the neck in a queue, as was the fashion.

Logan McGill! he almost shouted, shaking my hand, but by damn man, it has been a long time! Then he looked over my shoulder at my companion. And with Davey Duncan yonder, at that! But by God, it is good to see the both of you! Come in, come in and we shall have a mug of my best, some’ at to eat, and then you can tell me what you’re all about.

A half-hour later we were still seated at his table, with a second tankard of ale in front of us each and in the center of the table an empty trencher that had been full of cheese and bread, a large haunch of meat, and slices of apples. There was a fire in the hearth, as the early spring evenings fast grew cold. I had just told Johnson why we were there while his woman was doing kitchen work, pretending to not hear our conversation.

I am sorry to hear of your parents, Johnson was saying. Your father was a good man. Though he came late, men like him helped settle this country and keep it from the French. ‘Tis sad the bad luck your whole family has had. Such is the peril of frontier life.

Aye, I said, and now Catherine in a Seneca village. My anger grew as I thought of that. Mr. Johnson, my sister is all that is left of my family, and she is not to live the rest of her life a savage!

I looked at the Irishman. I knew he was an adopted Mohawk and had tolerance for Indian ways, but after the deaths of most of my family by their hands, I did not feel the same.

Johnson stared into the fire, and nodded his head slightly. I wished I had spoken softer, but the hatred in me burned, more than likely always would. I did not know then that Johnson objected to the term ‘savage’ for the Indians, but he made no comment. After a moment he got up, and motioned for us to follow.

With our tankards freshly filled Johnson led us into the den where another fire was burning. The flames were flickering in our faces and casting dancing shadows in the room as we sat in silence for a few minutes. Johnson broke the silence, speaking softly.

It is true, you know, that I am an adopted Mohawk. As such I have sworn to love and protect them and the rest of the members of the Iroquois League, and likewise they have sworn to love and protect me. It has been this way since ’42. Their ways and customs I admire and respect. They may seem heathenish to ‘civilized’ man, though their ways work well for them. I have eaten with them, hunted with them. Shared in their rituals, their happiness, joys, and sorrows. I have enjoyed weeks in their villages, shared their warfare, cared for their old and young and sick and bedded the women they have offered to me, it would be a dishonor to them if I did not. The Iroquois are as much my people as the English. They are my family and welcomed here anytime, day or night, for whatever reason; what is mine is theirs, just as what is theirs is mine.

Now Johnson looked at me as he continued. Logan, I understand your hatred for those who murdered your family, but remember, all of those attacks, until the last one, were instigated by the French and carried out by their Indians, not Iroquois. They have always been trying to make allies of a few of the Seneca, as well as the Canadian tribes. But only recently have the French talked some of the Seneca into turning their backs to the consensus of the Iroquois League and to take up the hatchet against the English. So do not blame the Iroquois as a whole. There are good and bad among all people, everywhere.

But there’s peace now, I objected. Why would the Seneca raid the English?

Johnson nodded his head. Aye, King William’s War has been over for seven years now, and there may be peace between England and France, but nothing was settled over here, at least as far as New France is concerned. Their agents, including the Jesuits, continue working on shifting Iroquois alliance to their advantage, especially the Senecas, who are the closest to them and more easily swayed. The Seneca are more willing to tolerate the French, who only trade with them. But they see the English as the greater threat, and view us as liars and cheaters, determined to steal their land and quick to take advantage of them in the trade. The French perpetuate that feeling among them and now have successfully swayed some of their chief’s, and that is why your family was raided. And I’m afraid it won’t end there, in fact it’s just beginning. As I have feared for some time now the French are invading the Ohio Country.

I sat silently, absorbing Johnson’s words. It looked as if another war was in the offing, which didn’t surprise me given the history of the relations between New France and the English colonies. But I knew naught of the Ohio Country, and cared less. My immediate problem was finding Catherine.

I did not mean to give you offense by my earlier comments, Mr. Johnson, I told him. I understand what you said about the savages, and I know it’s true, there are good and bad among all people. But in my heart there will always be the hatred for those that killed my family and stole Catherine, whether they be Seneca or Mohawk, either allied with the French or English. All I know now is that Catherine is in a Seneca village, and my father’s last words were to find her and free her if I can. That is what I aim to do.

No offense taken, Logan, said Johnson. Of course I will do what I can to help you, though as you now know, I may not be the influence I once was with the Seneca.

It may be possible that Catherine is no longer alive, Duncan said. And if she is still alive, she may even have been traded to another tribe.

Johnson considered Duncan’s words, then shook his head. No, I do believe she be alive still Davey. The Seneca are like all the Iroquois tribes in their customs of adoption, if only to increase their population, Johnson said. I doubt they would have traded her.

He turned to look at me. You said your father killed some Senecas in their raid on you, Logan. She may have been adopted by one of the families who lost a warrior—to replace him—as well as a woman can replace a warrior. Then too, she may be revered as belonging to a family strong enough to give them a good fight, as it sounds like your family did. Johnson hinted at her worth as breeding stock, a thought I would not let enter my mind.

Johnson thought for a moment, looking into the fire. Then seemed to come to a decision. I will talk to my friend Hendrick about this. He may have knowledge of where she is and could help find her. Tomorrow, we will go to his village.

Tomorrow, I would meet one of the most powerful and influential chiefs of the Iroquois League. If any one could help us get Catherine back from the Seneca, it would be King Hendrick.

CHAPTER II

The Eastern Door

Mist covered the river as we paddled our canoes upstream from Mount Johnson just before sunrise. We slid by dark woods that were thick with essentially leafless trees. The riverbanks were tangled with smaller trees and shrubs competing for the early spring sunlight. Ducks left the river ahead of us, squawking in protest at being disturbed at such an early hour. Our canoes were filled with gifts for the Iroquois tribes we would meet on our journey, as well as for the Senecas to be offered in exchange for Catherine.

Ransom? I had said to Johnson. Like she’s some horse or a slave?

It’s the only way Logan, he replied. Or at least the only safe way. Would you risk her life?

When you put it that way, no, Mister Johnson. But it just doesn’t sit right.

I know, he replied sympathetically, squeezing my shoulder. But we’ll bring her back, and that’s the important thing.

So now we paddled silently, giving all our attention to the front of the river as we peered through the gloom of dawn for any submerged snags, rocks or floating logs. Daylight soon brightened the world and improved our vision and our vigilance relaxed somewhat. Then Johnson told us about the Mohawk chief the English called Hendrick.

His Mohawk name is Tiyanoga. It was he who decided to adopt me into his tribe, he said, then chuckled. He gave me the name Warraghiyagey.

War-rah-ghee-yea-gee? I said clumsily, trying to pronounce the name as it sounded to me.

Johnson smiled as he dipped his paddle. Duncan guided the canoe from the stern, his musket across his knees. That’s close enough, he said.

What does it mean? I asked him as I dipped my paddle over the opposite side.

‘The Man Who Undertakes Great Things,’ he said proudly, then humbled. A somewhat grandiose name, I’d be the first to admit, and one I hope that I may someday deserve. Anyway, Tiyanoga chose me to be his go between, and to better help him understand the confusing ways of the Englishmen. And likewise, to communicate to them the meaning of his words and thoughts.

What manner of savage is he? I asked, still unaware of Johnson’s disaproval of the term savage for the Indians, though he showed no outward annoyance.

He is a very wise man whose word is law among the Mohawks, Johnson replied. But he is universally revered and loved among all the Iroquois. He earned his position by being a great warrior, and as such he was one of the three chiefs taken to England to be presented to Queen Anne. That was in 1710. It was his first of two such trips. He is now over sixty, but still respected as a warrior among warriors. I will ask him to accompany us to the Seneca villages.

He went on to tell me about the five original tribes of the Iroquois League, some of which I knew, having grown up in the frontier close to Schenectady. Their nations were located in a line running from east to west, likened in their minds to a longhouse. The Mohawks were the keepers of the eastern door of this longhouse, which started at the Hudson, and the Seneca were the keepers of the western door, their villages being located in the Genesee Valley. Between them, running from east to west, their villages scattered throughout a beautiful expanse of forests and pristine lakes, were the Oneida, Onondaga, and the Cayuga. A sixth nation, the Tuscarora, an Iroquoian tribe from the south and newcomers to the league, were located just to the south of the Oneidas and Onondagas, in the upper Susquehanna and Delaware River valleys of Pennsylvania.

We went ashore just before sunset. After we had eaten and the fire was banked I asked Johnson why the Iroquois were so important to the French and the English. Duncan sat wiping down and oiling his musket, easily the cleanest flintlock on the frontier.

They hold a strategic location, Johnson answered, and have been of vast importance in determining which European power would have access to the beaver trade in the Great Lakes area. Originally they were allied to the Dutch. When the English took over the colony we inherited that allegiance. Lucky for us they hate the French, a feeling particularly strong among the Mohawk.

That they hate them I know, but why is that? I asked. Seemed I was asking all the questions. Duncan sat quietly, his musket leaning on his thigh. More than likely he knew all this, but he was listening.

It is due to Samuel de Champlain, Johnson began. Unwittingly, and I say again luckily for England, he aligned himself with the Hurons and Algonquins of Canada, the ancestral enemies of the Mohawks. He helped them win a battle against them at Crown Point in 1609. That was the first time the Mohawks had seen firearms. Champlain fought them again a year later and a third time a few years after that.

So they hate them simply because of Champlain? I asked.

Aye, Johnson said, But the hatred of the Mohawks goes much deeper. The Iroquois, who once lived farther north on the St. Lawrence, have been fighting the Algonquian tribes for centuries. As far as I can tell, their legends say that the Hurons—before the coming of Champlain—pushed them south. The French have just been taking advantage of ancient tribal feuds. Since then, to fan their hatred the Canadian governors de Tracy, Denonville and Frontenoc, repeatedly attacked the Iroquois’ villages and destroyed their crops.

That had to do with the Iroquois interference in their fur trade, the woodsman commented. We looked at him, having almost forgotten he was there. As I assumed, Duncan knew more than I did. Which is what this fight has always been about.

More or less, Johnson agreed. That is part of the matter.

To the French, that is all of it, Duncan argued. And it looks like they’re starting it up again. Only this time they’re planning big and stirring up the Ohio savages.

Johnson nodded, as curious as I as to how the woodsman knew so much.

Ohio? I asked Johnson.

Aye, Johnson answered. They’ve started building forts out there, as well as alliances with the Ohio Indians, who are also Algonquian tribes, such as the Shawnee, Delaware and Miami, who also have their own reasons for hating the Iroquois, who claim to control the Ohio Valley through the right of conquest. Soon those tribes, I fear, may all fall under French influence.

I nodded in understanding. Then they’ll control those tribes as well.

No one can control them, Johnson replied. They have not met with a lot of success as of yet. There are a few holdouts, such as the Miami chief Unemakemi, or Old Briton as he is called by the English. But give them time. The French have the loyalty of the Great Lakes tribes to the north, and their influence is spreading.

So where do the English stand? I asked.

Johnson thought about that, then answered. We are not in a favorable position. No doubt there’ll be another war, and most of the tribes will help the French. That’s another reason for this trip. I’d been planning to start renewing old alliances with the Iroquois tribes, the Seneca being most important. All the Iroquois will be vital, again, or the English will be in serious trouble.

Is it as bad as that, then? I asked him.

He was thoughtful for a moment. Aye, and I do believe that the fight coming will be all decisive. But try as I may I cannot get the damned colonial assemblies to believe the threat is so serious. He sighed, adding gloomily, I may not, until it is too late.

After we had rolled in our blankets my mind wandered as Johnson and Duncan slept. The night sounds were loud, a chorus of crickets chirping and frogs croaking, but I barely noticed them. Much of what Johnson had told me I knew, but I never had thought of what it meant to my life.

As to the previous wars I knew there had been three in the last seventy years or so between France and England. Each one had started in Europe and then spilled over to the colonies. We called the conflicts King George’s, Queen Ann’s and lastly King William’s War. In all of them the savages of Canada, being encouraged and supplied by the French, swooped down from the north on the frontier settlements of New England and New York. Those were brutal raids that resulted in horrific death and destruction, the taking of captives and separating of families, the looting and burning of whole villages.

We started early the next morn and reached Canajoharie at about midday.

Why are their villages sometimes called castles? I asked Johnson as I viewed the simple cluster of longhouses from a distance. Teantontalogo, across from Mount Johnson, had appeared much the same.

The first white people to visit these villages saw the remainder of log palisades that surrounded them, he answered. They were left from a time of intense intertribal warfare, before the coming of the Great Peace and the formation of the League. Since then the palisades became unnecessary, and they were neglected and have long since rotted down, though remnants can be found.

Johnson had sent a runner to the village to announce our arrival to Tiyanoga. A procession of warriors, which had started to assemble as we came into sight, met us at the canoe landing. Dogs barked at the newcomers. Two warriors, who recognized Johnson, yelled at the dogs and shooed them away with sticks. The scolded canines slunk a short distance away with their tails between their legs.

The same two warriors shouted a greeting while wading a few steps into the water to guide the canoe to shore. We could see more warriors and half-naked women and naked children gathered behind the warriors, trying to get glimpses of the visitors. The warriors themselves were clad only in breech clouts this warm spring morning, with their exposed copper skin liberally smeared with bear grease to ward off stinging insects and the effects of the hot sun.

As we stepped out of the canoe Duncan took up his musket.

Leave it, Johnson advised. I smiled as the woodsman reluctantly replaced the weapon into the canoe. I understood his apprehension, as the savages did not share the same concept of ownership as we Europeans, and often merely took things that appealed to them at the time. They might return the item, then again, they might not.

The warriors spoke eagerly to Johnson and he replied just as enthusiastically in the guttural Mohawk language as they clasped hands and exchanged hugs. Everyone smiled and laughed.

It was obvious that Duncan was no stranger to these people as they also extended a welcome to him, although without the enthusiasm they had shown Johnson. Then Johnson turned their attention toward me. I knew not what he said, other than my name, and the savages closest to me approached, saying Muh-gill and something in Mohawk that I assumed was a greeting. We shook hands, wrist to wrist, as they had with Johnson and Duncan.

The first two warriors said something to Johnson then lead the way through the curious crowd, away from the river, and toward the village proper. Johnson motioned for us to follow. We were led to the biggest longhouse in the middle of the smaller dwellings.

The old warrior stood in front of the opening, waiting for us. His long black mane was peppered with white hairs. A scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his left ear and he was putting on weight around the middle in his old age, though he was still an impressive figure of a man. He greeted us like sons after Johnson introduced us. We went inside the dim and musty longhouse and sat around the central hearth. A dozen warriors I assumed to be subchiefs joined us.

First we’ll observe a brief Woods Edge Ceremony, Johnson said to me in an undertone. It’s custom. Go along, I’ll explain later.

The chief uttered a long elaborate oration, gesticulating with sign language as he talked, then filled a long pipe and offered it to Johnson, who took an ember from the fire to light it. As the pungent blue smoke rose to the ceiling, he passed the pipe to Tiyanoga who drew a puff and passed it to me, then I passed it to Duncan. The pipe was passed around to all until it had burned out, then we ate a bowl full of tasty stew with deer meat, acorns, squash, and corn, brought to us by his women.

Johnson then explained to Tiyanoga the nature of our visit. With the guttural sounds of the Mohawk tongue they discussed at length the matter of the Seneca raid on my cabin, the death of my family, and the abduction of my sister. Tiyanoga’s face grew grim as Johnson talked, and when he finished the chief’s reply grew more heated as he talked.

When he had finished Johnson looked at me. As you can tell Tiyanoga is very upset, as I knew he would be. He had heard rumors about the Seneca raid and said he had already planned to visit Kaendae and demand an explanation for his young warriors raiding on Mohawk lands. He is sure once he discusses this with him that Kaendae will also be angry at those braves for this breach of Iroquois protocol.

Cain-die? I said, again repeating the name as it sounded to me.

The chief of those young men, Johnson explained. "His village