Daughter of Shiloh. Ilene Shepard Smiddy

rushed out of the gully and commenced their attack. Some Indians were dragging the girls, moving swiftly, as if capturing the women was their prime objective.

      Wade watched helplessly as Clarinda broke free from the brave who was holding her. She ran fast, her feet flying over the rough ground. She made it as far as a shallow ditch, where she tripped over her long skirt and fell headlong, arms outstretched. The Indian fell upon her, pinning her arms down.

      Four Indians began herding Mrs. Becraft, her children, and Polly toward Slate Creek. Mrs. Becraft was clutching her infant to her breast, sobbing uncontrollably. Wade could see, even from this distance, that Polly was in a state of shock, stark terror showed in her face. Stumbling numbly, she was pushed and shoved along by her captors.

      Clarinda had regained her feet. She must have figured she could not escape, because he saw her lift her head defiantly, straighten her skirts, and with head high, walk directly ahead toward Slate Creek.

      “Good girl,” Wade mumbled. One thing Indians admired above all else was bravery.

      Wade was able to observe the attack on the Becraft cabin from the vantage point of his porthole. It took place in only a matter of minutes. Being unarmed, he was helpless against such great odds. The remaining Indians were advancing fast toward the fort.

      “There must be about fifty,” Wade said aloud, thinking Joe Young was nearby. He did not get an answer.

      Because of his war paint and other markings, Wade was sure the lead Indian, wearing eagle feathers and leather hair trappings, was a Cherokee war chief. The Indian carried a beautifully finished rifle in one hand. The polished brass on the butt glistened as it caught the rays of the sun. In the other hand he brandished a shining tomahawk. He leapt across the plowed furrows, wailing a high-pitched, screeching war cry. Wade’s thoughts raced. At some time or place he had seen that rifle before. But where?

      The warriors were wearing only breechcloths, their bodies greasy with war paint. The chief dropped to one knee, appearing to aim at Martin, who was running straight for him. Martin was firing wildly. It looked impossible that the Indian chief could miss, but he did. The other warriors were some ten to fifteen paces behind their chief, all spread out in a line and making for the station.

      Wade studied their body markings and concluded they were not all from the same tribe. The chief wore Cherokee symbols, except his black hair was thick and long. That was unusual, because Cherokee were noted for shaving their heads, except for a small tuft of hair on the top called a scalp or warlock. Without his paint and feathers, this chief would not look at all like an Indian.

      As Wade watched, Andy Duncan and the Becraft boys came abreast of Martin, so he spun back around and headed for the blockhouse. Martin must have seen an escape route. Swerving to the left to go past his cabin, Martin grabbed his oldest child, yelled at his wife to carry the baby and follow him. They fled toward the south gate, but stopped for a moment out of the Indian’s line of vision.

      Wade saw Martin take his knife and slash loose his wife’s billowing petticoats so that she could run. Just as the Martins reached the gate a little girl came into Wade’s view, running behind the Martins. She looked like one of the Becraft children. How had the Indians missed her? Wade saw her fall. The shot spun her around like a rag doll. Unaware, the Martins made their way into the woods. The ball was probably meant for Martin, Wade grimaced. Indians took children captive whenever possible.

      Wade’s eyes fell on Martha Allington, her hands white with flour, running with head down, she followed the Martin’s escape path.

      Joe Young, having the only other gun inside the station, besides the one Martin took with him, rushed out to join in the fray. Joe’s wife threw both arms around him, clinging so tightly he was unable to shoot his gun. Somehow he managed to break her hold and fired at the oncoming savages. He got off one shot before pitching forward on all fours. Wade imagined he was mortally wounded or dead.

      Seeing Joe fall, his wife, Elizabeth became crazed with terror. She ran shrieking, straight into the arms of a fierce-looking Wyandot warrior. Wade recognized the Wyandot headdress. Each tribe wore a distinct type of headgear. It was a sure way of telling an Indian’s tribe. What he could not understand was why the members of different tribes had joined together to pull off this raid. Nothing was making any sense.

      Mrs. Young was hitting, scratching, and kicking with all of her strength. The Indian caught her up, hung her upside down over his shoulder and took off at a lope to catch up to his comrades and their captives.

      Glancing back at the fallen Joe, Wade saw him slowly regain his feet. Dazed, Joe looked around, probably for his wife but she was nowhere to be seen. Not knowing what had taken place, he ran to catch up with Duncan. The two of them crawled into some hazelnut bushes growing near the stockade. The bushes were thick and provided enough cover for the two men to creep undetected along the fence and out the south gate to safety.

      Wade did a quick survey of the square. He saw that the remainder of the war party was gathering near the cabins across from the blockhouse he occupied. He smelled the acrid stench of gunpowder, heard the cries of the dying, and watched as one frenzied, bloodthirsty savage scalped a man while he was still alive.

      Wade did not consciously feel the vomit spew from his throat. He felt the slime and knew his clothes were wet with it.

      His body was trembling, and his knees seemed too weak to carry him. He doubted if he could remain hidden much longer.

      Horrified, he saw the Indians were setting fire to the fort. They probably suspected people were hiding inside the buildings, and knew flames would drive them out into the open. The whole place would be ablaze within minutes.

      Out of desperation, Wade made his decision. His only hope of surviving was to get out of the fort now. He dashed out of the blockhouse and ran, bent low, working his way to the stable. Twice he got close enough to grab the mane of his horse, and both times the frightened animal tore loose his grip.

      Knowing he only had seconds before being discovered, he ran out of the stable, leaving the door open behind him.

      A quick look back revealed the Indians had divided into two groups. One bunch was busy firing the cabins. The others were shooting randomly. It was a wonder they did not shoot each other, they were so careless with their aim. Men, women, and children were fleeing in all directions, trying to escape both the attackers and the flames.

      Abner Baker, Polly’s father, was a big heavy Dutchman who could hardly run. He came from behind a cabin, getting between Wade and the two Indians, who had seen Wade come out of the stable. The huge bulk of Baker took a volley meant for Wade. He fell heavily to his knees, and then his whole body jerked and lay still.

      Dodging first left, then right, Wade zigzagged toward the open gate. He felt bullets lift his hat from his head and heard the thud as they struck the stockade. The two braves in pursuit of him were within a few feet when he passed through the opening. At breakneck speed he raced down the path to the spring. He jumped the spring branch and dove headfirst into the heavy underbrush on the bank of Slate Creek.

      Wade was careful not to make a sound when he slid into the swift current. The two braves stopped at the spring. Unable to see where Wade went, they turned their attention back to the slaughter inside the square.

      Wade moved cautiously through the water, clinging to the overhanging branches. He managed to reach a point on Slate Creek that was a good way above where he last had seen the captives. He stopped to listen and catch his breath. From his hiding place he could see flames shooting skyward. The whole fort was on fire. Black smoke was turning the bright morning to twilight. If the men in the outlying fields did not hear the shots, they would surely see the billowing smoke.

      He followed the streambed for a while, putting some distance between himself and the burning fort. Crossing the Slate below the mouth of Spencer Creek, Wade ran through Botts’ place. When no one answered his call, he ran on and staggered into view near Troutman’s Station. He knew this road. It had opened the first year corn was hauled from the station to the Furnace.

      The men at Troutman’s were out with their guns. A Negro man had seen Wade on