Chapter Thirty-Four

A New Chapter - 1799

My Dear Sally,

As I promised so many years ago when you helped me to find my brother, Jonathan, I am sending along news concerning the search for my nephew, Matthew. When I spoke with Jonathan that day on Long Island, he was convinced that Matthew had died in the massacre. That has never been a settled issue in my heart, but I have not had much to go on these last fifteen years and up until recently my search for Matthew has been fruitless. I continued to search for Colonel Williamson when I could, but his trail vanished into western Pennsylvania.

But now, at long last, I have a good report. As you know, I married and settled not far from Fort Henry. The Lord has blessed me greatly and my farm and my mill have prospered and from them l have built a successful trade in grain and produce with the merchants in different villages of eastern Ohio. Recently, when I was in Zanesville, I learned that a man named David Williamson frequents a tavern there. I went to the tavern. He was not there that day, but I was assured that he often comes. I am going again this week to the village and will try to find the man. I believe he is the David Williamson who was the leader of the militia that perpetrated the massacre at Gnadenhutten. Perhaps he can tell me more about Matthew’s fate.

Also, I must advise you that I am very grateful that you have allowed me to tell you my story in my letters to you over the years. It has been a blessing and I doubt that I would have ever been free in my heart to receive the love of my gentle wife, Sarah, had I not been able to lay my feelings for the Amish Princess to rest by writing down her story. Perhaps some day, future generations of my family will benefit from hearing about Jonathan, Joshua, and White Deer and the consequences that choices have in our lives. But for me, the story will not be fully written until I have certainty about Matthew’s fate.

On another note, my wife and children have been greatly taken with your letters detailing your adventurous role in the saving of the Fort at West Point and the uncovering of the treachery of General Benedict Arnold. You should most definitely put your remembrances of that time into a book. I’m sure that many would be interested in the tale.

I will say goodbye for now, but if I discover any news about Matthew, I will most certainly inform you.

Your Friend,

Joshua Hershberger.

Joshua paused before the swinging doors. He wondered if this was the end of his search or just another dead end. Williamson had disappeared after Sandusky. Some said he left the militia and became a sheriff. Others said that he led the survivor’s of Crawford’s defeat safely back to Pennsylvania then died. Joshua had only discovered the whereabouts of Williamson when, by chance, he overheard one of his customers remark that the perpetrator of the Gnadenhutten massacre frequented McIntire’s Tavern in Zanesville, Ohio. So Joshua had come to the village with new hope of finding his nephew.

He took a breath and pushed through the doors. His eyes swept the room until he saw an old man seated in the corner at a table. The man was quite different from the officer who had arrested him twenty-two years before. That man had been a sharply dressed and focused leader of the militia, with a commanding presence. This man was overweight, bearded, and disheveled. A half-empty bottle and a glass sat before him. After so many years, he was barely recognizable. But it was Williamson.

Joshua walked up to the table. “Good day to you, Captain Williamson.”

The man looked up with bleary eyes. “Colonel Williamson, sir. An who be ye?”

“Don’t you remember me, Colonel? I’m Joshua Hershberger.”

“Hershberger, Hershberger…I remember that name.” He paused for a moment, looking at Joshua. Then the light dawned in his eyes. “Ah, yes, the coward I sent to prison…”

Joshua put a hand on the man’s arm. He leaned over and spoke quietly to the man. “We both have things we wish to forget. You, for instance, may have been a hero when you massacred those Indians, but you are not one anymore. Public sentiment has gone against you over the years.”

Williamson made a motion to silence Joshua and then motioned to a chair. “All right, all right, sit down.” Joshua saw him glance furtively around the room, but the other patrons did not seem to have heard Joshua’s remark and were ignoring the two men.

“What do you want of me, Hershberger?”

Joshua examined the man before him. The years had not been kind to Colonel David Williamson. Deep lines furrowed his brow and face. His eyes were sunken into hollow sockets and were bloodshot. His teeth were yellow and ground off and tobacco juice stained his beard and shirtfront.

“You’ve changed since my trial, Colonel.”

The old man put his face in his hands for a moment and then looked up. “And who wouldn’t change, carrying the weight that I have all these years.”

“So you cannot forget leading the men that massacred the innocent Christians in the Village of Peace?”

Williamson looked around again. His face was agitated and his hands were shaking. He tried to keep his voice low. “Yes, yes, I led them. But those Indians were not innocent. We had reason to believe that they were aiding Wingenund and his warriors on their raids against settlers all along the border. The villagers even admitted to saving Wingenund’s life after some of my men shot him. What else could we do?”

Joshua took the man by the arm. “They helped Wingenund the same way they would have helped you if you had been brought to them badly wounded. Zeisberger and Heckewelder were patriotic supporters of the revolution and often fed information concerning Captain Pipe and Wingenund’s movements to the colonial forces. You were wrong to kill those people and history will bear me out.”

Williamson took the bottle, poured himself another drink, and drank it straight down. He offered the bottle to Joshua, but Joshua shook his head. Williamson’s jaw trembled and his hands shook even more. Then he laid his head on the table and began to sob. “You’re right, you’re right. It was terrible. I should never have allowed it. But your brother…your brother.” After a long time, Williamson pulled himself together and looked up.

Joshua looked into his eyes. “What about my brother?”

“When Jonathan arrived on the morning of the massacre, he was drunk. He recognized one of the Indians, a man called Scar, and killed him. Then he got into one of his killing frenzies and urged the men on. They had been drinking all night and followed him. It got out of hand. It seemed like the right thing to do when we voted, but when the men started butchering those children…there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t stop them.” He stared blankly over Joshua’s shoulder, and Joshua knew the man was recalling some fiendish scene, for Williamson’s face was twisted in torment. Finally, Williamson focused his eyes and grabbed Joshua’s arm. “I am beleaguered day and night. Help me…forgive me.” The old man laid his head on the table again.

Joshua patted Williamson on the back, gently. “I am not the one to give forgiveness. You must seek the mercy of one much greater than I.”

Williamson steadied himself. “God would never forgive me.”

“Just tell Him what you said to me. You will find peace.” There was a long silence. Then Joshua spoke softly. “Colonel Williamson, I did not come here to wring a confession of guilt from you. I have another question that only you can help me with.”

“And what is that?”

“My nephew, Matthew, Jonathan’s son, was with the Indians that day, but his body was not found among the victims. Do you know what happened to him?”

Williamson nodded. “Several of the men left after we voted to kill the Indians and refused to be part of what happened. Obadiah Holmes was one of them. He discovered that Jonathan’s son was among the children, and he took him away.”

Joshua’s heart leaped. “Matthew is alive?”

“The last I saw he was. Holmes hid him in the woods, waiting for Jonathan to arrive. But then the slaughter started and before he could give him to Jonathan, Jonathan disappeared into the forest. Holmes looked for him but Jonathan had vanished. So Holmes took the lad with him.”

“Where, man? Where?”

“To Pittsburg, he took the boy to Pittsburg.”

Obadiah Holmes sat with Joshua on the porch of his small home on the outskirts of the growing town of Pittsburg. A small child sat on Holmes’ lap and several others played in the yard.

“I had the lad for almost six months, Mr. Hershberger. I tried everything to find Jonathan but I could not locate him. Then after a year or so, I heard that he had gone to New York, but with my wife and a growing family of my own, I could not leave here to find him. You were in prison and I just didn’t have the ability to do anything.”

“Then what happened to Matthew?”

“I heard about a group of people in Youngstown that found places for the orphans of settlers killed in the war. They were kindly people, good Christians, mind you, and they took him in.”

“Do you know what happened to him after that?”

Holmes hesitated for a moment. “No, I have never been back, but from what I heard, they often apprenticed the older lads or got them a place as an indentured servant. Matthew was a fine lad, and I am sure they placed him in a good home.”

Joshua stood up. “Are you telling me that you took Matthew to an orphanage and simply abandoned him, knowing that he had living relatives? Why didn’t you at least contact me? I have been searching for him for years.”

Holmes stood also. “Now, Mr. Hershberger, don’t be angry. I did the best I could for the boy. I had my own family to look after, and there was no pension for militiamen. You and your brother were both gone, and to be honest, I just wanted to put the whole thing behind me. After a while, I did not think about it anymore. At least Matthew had someone to look after him. And after all, I did save him from the scalping knife. That’s got to be worth something.”

Joshua took a calming breath. “Yes, yes, you are right, Obadiah. You did save my nephew, and for that, I thank you. Now, can you give me the name of the people that you left him with?”

“Yes, and I can tell you how to find them. They are well-known in Youngstown. Ask anyone there for the home of Mrs. Cowpers.”

Joshua reached out his hand. “I want to thank you, Obadiah, for what you did for Matthew and for this information. You have given me great hope that my nephew can be restored to his family. I will bid you farewell.” Joshua turned to go. He had taken a few steps down the path toward the gate when Holmes called out.

“Mr. Hershberger, wait. I forgot something.” Holmes went into the house. When he returned he held an envelope in his hand. He came down the steps and handed it to Joshua. “She gave it to me.”

“She?”

“Why, yes, Jonathan’s wife, the Indian lady. The one they called the Amish Princess. She was a brave ‘un. She tried to talk sense into Williamson and the men. She begged them to have mercy on the children. When I went to get Jonathan’s boy that night, she wrote this letter. She asked me to get it to you, but you was gone. I’ve had it all these years.”

Joshua took the letter. His hand shook as he stared at the writing on the envelope. It was Ruth’s firm hand, and it was addressed to him. He stared at it for a long time and then slipped it into his pocket. He bid goodbye to Holmes and walked away. As he turned into the lane in front of the house, he was surprised to find that he was weeping.