Chapter Twenty-Six

Flight

The room in which Jonathan Hershberger was kept prisoner was on the top story of Fort Niagara’s old French castle above the soldier’s barracks. The walls were thick stone and the guards were vigilant and ever mindful of the importance of their prisoner—Nènhìlëwès, the Murderer. There had been few opportunities for escape and Jonathan had languished in his cell for three months. This morning he stood at the barred window looking out on the parade ground where British regular troops were drilling. Around the perimeters of the parade ground lounged a mixed group of Indians and British loyalists who had fled to the fort, looking for protection from the wrath of the colonial army to the south.

There was a sharp rap on the door, and then it opened peremptorily and the commander of the fort, Colonel John Butler, came in. Jonathan had met with him before and had grown to like the man. John Butler was a warrior and had served the British with distinction in the French and Indian War and his exploits appealed to Jonathan’s war-like sensibilities. While second in command of the New York Colony under Sir William Johnson, Butler built a huge estate in the Mohawk Valley, before the outbreak of the revolution. He abandoned his land under pressure from the rebels and fled to Canada. Now he commanded the Indians and those Tories who had joined him when Ethan Allen had pushed the British and their supporters out of New York in the early days of the war.

Butler pulled up the one stool in the room and motioned Jonathan to the bed. “Good morning, Hershberger. Are you being treated well?”

Jonathan glanced through the porthole in the door at the silent guard and then sat down. “I can’t complain, Colonel. The food’s decent but, present company excluded, the companionship is rather boring.”

Butler laughed. “And rightly so, Hershberger. After all, you’re not exactly an honored guest.” Then Butler turned serious. “I’ve a problem, Jonathan. As you may know, I was sent here a year ago to keep the local tribes neutral in this conflict between the Crown and the rebels. When Brant captured you, it was of no import to the chiefs until they found out who my prisoner was. Then they became wroth. They are demanding that I turn you over to them for torture. Your reputation as a killer of Indians has preceded you, and I have to face down delegations from the Six Nations every day. I am rather at a loss as to what to do. I like you as a man and would hate to imagine the devilish fate my esteemed allies have in store for you.”

Jonathan nodded. “I must say I am of the same mind as you, Colonel. Is there no hope for me then?”

Butler frowned and looked down. “The chiefs held a council yesterday. They wouldn’t let me speak. They worked themselves into a frenzy, smashing the war club on the ground and screeching. At the end they demanded your life in no uncertain terms. I’ve seen men tortured by these savages, and to tell you the truth, I’ve no stomach for it.” Butler glanced up and looked directly at Jonathan. “However, as one white man to another, there may be a way to avoid such, shall we say, unpleasantry.”

“And how might that be, Colonel?”

Butler stood and went to the window. “I’ve noticed the scullery maid making eyes at you from time to time.”

Jonathan nodded in silent affirmation.

“She’s a brazen wench, and because of her corruptible nature, she might be led into indiscretions whereby you might obtain egress from this charming suite of yours.”

“And, of course, the commander of the fort would turn a blind eye to these…these activities?”

“Yes, Jonathan, but only if the commander of the fort received the promise of the prisoner that he would never return to Canada.”

Jonathan smiled. “Well, Colonel, since there are plenty of reddys to deal with on the Ohio and south, I believe the prisoner could make that agreement.”

Colonel Butler stood up. “Very good, Jonathan, but I promise you that if you ever fall into my hands again, I will not hesitate to hand you over to the savages.”

“Understood, Colonel, understood.”

Butler turned to go and then he turned back. “I love Britain and I have given much to maintain my loyalty to the king. But the British cannot win this war. There is too much fervor on the side of the Colonials, and the Crown hires mercenaries whose hearts are not in this fight. So, if at the end of this contagion I fall into your hands, perhaps you might remember this conversation and show me the same kindness.”

“Agreed, Colonel.”

Butler reached out and the two men shook hands. Then he turned and left the room. Jonathan watched him go and hope blazed in his heart.

A few hours later Jonathan was sitting on his bed when he heard the click of a key in the lock and the door opened to admit the scullery maid with his midday meal. The armed soldier stood outside in the hallway. As she set the meal down, the maid ran an approving eye over Jonathan’s stalwart frame and pleasing features. It was not the first time she had made known her appreciation of Jonathan’s manliness. Jonathan remembered Butler’s words and he winked slyly at the girl. She blushed and Jonathan smiled invitingly. Without speaking aloud his lips framed the words, “Come see me tonight if you can.” The girl glanced back at the soldier and then looked down. Her head barely moved as she nodded silently.

The guard pushed the door further open and looked in with a frown. “Come, girl, let’s stop dallying. Tis not a royal feast you are preparing for this dog.” 

The girl placed the bowl of soup and piece of bread on the stool next to Jonathan’s bed and then gathered up the tray and turned to go, but not before she gave Jonathan a glance filled with promise. Jonathan smiled back, his mind racing with his plan to escape. All he had to do now was wait.

It was early in the morning before the sun broke the last darkness of the night when Jonathan heard a faint scratching at the door. He roused quickly and walked to the door. Through the barred porthole he could just make out the features of the girl in the darkness. Jonathan barely heard her whisper. “I’ve come, but you must be quiet. I gave the downstairs guard an extra ration of rum, and he’s fast asleep.”

Jonathan whispered through the bars. “Will you come in or do we just talk through the porthole?”

There was a faint clank as the girl produced a ring of keys. “I took these from the guard. I can only stay a little while.” Jonathan could hear the excitement in her voice, and he waited while she unlocked the door. As the door creaked open, Jonathan reached for the girl as if to pull her into an embrace. Her arms slipped around him and then suddenly his hands were around her neck and he was squeezing with all his strength. Her eyes went wide with terror and then slowly her struggles ceased and she slumped in his arms. Lowering the unconscious girl quietly to the floor, he picked up the keys and slipped through the door. He glanced up and down the hallway and then made his way silently to the stairs.

At the bottom, next to the barracks door, the sleeping guard lay with his face on a table, the empty cup of grog by his hand. Jonathan crept silently down the stairs. The guard’s rifle leaned against the wall and a powder horn lay beside it. Jonathan lifted the weapon silently and moved toward the stairs that led to the ground floor. The guard snorted in his sleep and stirred. Jonathan stopped and stayed motionless for a long moment. He waited until he was sure the guard had gone back to his rum-soaked dreams, and then he silently slipped down the stairs to the side door. It was locked. As he lifted the keys, he heard a scream from the upstairs room. It was the maid calling for help. She had awakened! Quickly, he tried the keys. On the third try, the lock clicked and the door swung open.

Across the parade ground, he saw the palisade that guarded the fort along the river. He knew the river would lead him south toward Fort Pitt. Behind him he heard the alarm being raised in the barracks. A group of Indians came running toward him. Quickly, he pointed toward the castle. “Hurry, a prisoner has escaped. I’ll go to warn the guards at the river.”

As the Indians passed him, Jonathan ran through the open gate toward the water. Dozens of canoes were drawn up on the sandy shore, and he picked one and shoved it out into the current that the river made as it poured into Lake Ontario. Then he turned and ran swiftly south along the river. Behind him he heard the yells of the Indians. The anger in their screeches told him that they had discovered their most hated enemy had escaped.

They’ll be after me with a vengeance!

Jonathan kept to the trail along the shoreline and ran as swiftly as he could. Beside him the river flowed smoothly down toward the lake. He knew it was about fifteen miles to the mighty falls on the river, and if he could make it there, he could lose himself in the wilderness above them. Suddenly, a branch beside his head snapped as a musket ball whizzed by. He looked over his shoulder to see that several braves were on his trail, one of them less than one hundred yards behind. In his days in the woods, Jonathan had perfected a skill that he now put to good use. He could load and fire a rifle while on a dead run, and he was a crack shot.

Quickly loading the rifle, he turned and shot the leading brave. The Indian tumbled headfirst into the dust and lay still. Jonathan ran on while the following Indians came up to the body of their comrade. Their shrieks of rage filled the air and then they redoubled their efforts, but Jonathan’s prowess as a runner kept him ahead of his pursuers and even gave him a lead of several hundred yards.

Soon the three months of inactivity began to tell on Jonathan. He felt his legs growing tired. With the Indians not far behind, Jonathan knew he would have to use cunning rather than speed to outwit his enemies. Wetzel had taught him many tricks to avoid capture, and now he began to employ them. Plunging off the trail into the deep woods, he began to leap over logs and large stones. He found an area of hard-baked ground where he would leave no track and ran across it. At one point he worked his way up a stony ravine, leaping from rock to rock. He knew that his pursuers would have to go slowly now and look for every sign of his passing. This gave him a great advantage.

After an hour, he came to a long section of moss and sand where his footprints would show plainly, so he slipped off the trail, ran ahead, and then walked backward, leaving a plain trail that pointed the wrong direction. Then he clambered up a hillside until he came to the top, and using branches, he let himself down onto a ledge below the crest; he came to a creek and crossed it by swinging himself into a tree and climbing from one tree to another; he waded brooks where he found hard bottom, and avoided swampy, soft ground.

Soon the forest was silent. The sound of his enemies had faded and vanished. He knew that only the most skilled of Indian trackers could follow him.

The rising sun began to filter through the dense forest. The cries of morning birds and the chatter of black squirrels filled the air. He was alone. Then he turned south with the rising sun on his left and began to travel straight toward Fort Pitt. Once more, Jonathan had escaped.

In the silent time before the dawn, a month after Jonathan’s return to Fort Henry, a large group of men crept through the dark, silent forest. Around them the mist hung among the trees like a shroud, dampening all sound. Jonathan Hershberger, now a captain in the militia, signaled to the men following him and pointed through the trees. Ahead, they could see the Shawnee village. Jonathan motioned to the men around him and they spread out, dropped to the ground, and began to crawl through the brush surrounding the village. From the distance came the cry of a nighthawk, but no bird made the call. It was one of Jonathan’s men signaling that more of the militia was in place on the far side of the settlement.

The men crept forward, rifles at the ready. No sound came from them, no hesitating; but a silent, slow, forward motion showed their plan. In a huge circle, they surrounded the village of sleeping, unsuspecting Indians. They slipped over the moss and ferns, Jonathan leading the way. Inch by inch they advanced. The slow movement was tedious, difficult and painful. They rustled no leaf, snapped no twig, shook no brush, but moved slowly forward, like the approach of death. The seconds passed as minutes; minutes as hours; an entire hour was spent in advancing twenty feet!

A dog yapped once and was silenced by a swift and silent knife. Then at last, as the faint rays of the eastern sun cut the still darkness with the gray of approaching dawn, Jonathan rose to his feet. The men around him stood, and holding their rifles at the ready, they pushed forward to the edge of the village. Not a person stirred in the quiet lodges, not a sound of warning alerted the villagers to their impending doom. Finally, as the sun edged over the horizon, Jonathan raised his rifle in the long-awaited signal. The men rushed forward into the village, each leader followed by two or three others who burst in on the sleeping natives with rifle and tomahawk in hand. The attack was swift and brutal. Shots and screams filled the air, accompanied by the horrific sound of hatchets striking through bone and sinew. Crowning it all was the bloodthirsty yell of Jonathan Hershberger—a scream filled with hatred and malice that chilled the blood of those who heard it. Within a few moments, it was all over. Not one of the residents of the village survived.

After the massacre, the militiamen gathered in the center of the village. They looked for their leader, but Jonathan was not to be seen. One of the grizzled bordermen shook his head and spit a chaw of tobacco on the ground. “He’s always this way after a fight. Once the bloody work is done, he goes off in the forest to fight his demons. He’ll be back soon, and then he’ll be ready to kill more of these varmints.”

A young man who was new to the troop looked around him at the carnage. His face was pale. “But that awful scream; he sounded insane.”

The old veteran nodded. “Well, yung’un, when the blood lust gets on him, he is insane. He came home to find his wife and son gone and his brother in jail. Now he just wants to kill Injuns and when he gets like that, I would advise staying out of the way of his knife and hatchet. He might mistake you for one of the reddys.”

“But why?”

Another man spoke up. “The Injuns killed his ma and sisters right in front of him, and he swore eternal vengeance on the whole red race.”

The young man pointed to the bodies of a woman and her child that lay where they had been cut down while fleeing the wrath of the militia. “Even on them?”

“This is war, boy, and the reddys have sided with the British. This is our land and them and us can’t both live here.”

“But they were here first. My father says the Delaware and the Shawnee were peaceful people before the Penn family stole their land. I signed up to defend my home, not to murder innocent women and children. Besides, isn’t Jonathan married to an Indian woman?”

“When the captain returned from Niagara, his wife and child had left the fort. No one knows where they went. After that, Jonathan gave himself completely up to his war on the Indians and, truthfully, it’s probably better his wife ain’t around. She’s Wingenund’s daughter and he’s the most deadly of our enemies. She probably went back to her people, and she best stay there.” The veteran turned the dead Indian boy over with his foot. “See that face? Remember it as long as you live. If we don’t kill him today, he’s burning your house down around your head a year from now. I know it ain’t pretty, but it’s the way it is. Whites and Injuns are gonna fight until one of us is gone from Ohio, and if I got anything to say, it ain’t gonna be whites. Get that through your head, and you’ll live to a ripe old age.”

Just then the bushes parted and Jonathan strode into the circle of men. “All dead?”

The veteran shook his head. “Ever’ one of ‘um, Captain.”

“Good! Burn the village to the ground. I don’t want anyone to ever live here again.”

The young man pointed to the bodies. “Ain’t you gonna bury ‘em?”

Jonathan shook his head. “Leave them where they lie. The coyotes will take care of them. We got more important business to attend to. Get going.”

The men hastily made torches and began to walk among the lodges, setting fire to every dwelling and storehouse. The young man watched the captain as he directed the men. On Jonathan’s belt were several new scalps, still red with the blood of his victims. The young man shook his head and then set about to do his duty.