Daughter of Shiloh. Ilene Shepard Smiddy

      Captain Enoch Smith had promised a detachment of troops by sunrise, and William Sudduth, a seasoned veteran, was bringing his men from Hood’s Station. When all were assembled they would begin tracking the Indians and try to obtain the release of their prisoners.

      The men of Morgan’s Station were anxious to assess the damage, knowing full well from the eyewitness accounts that no one at the station would be found alive.

      Weary and disheartened, the small band stood on the outskirts of the once busy station they called home. Darkness had fallen, but the glow of dying embers provided an eerie light. All of the buildings were burned to the ground, except for Wade’s corncrib. It stood alone, a sentinel, marking the place where their loved ones had died. They heard no sound except for the sighing of the wind, and there was no sign of life.

      Nobody dared leave the safety of the trees. Tomorrow they would ride in with the militia. It would be soon enough to bury the dead. The men of Morgan’s Station stared silently into the charred remains of the fort, watching their hopes and dreams turn to ashes.

      James Wade, gesturing farewell, reined his horse homeward. The Wades and others who lived nearby offered to share all they had with their unfortunate neighbors. The Allington brothers opened their new cabins to the homeless men. After some discussion, the whole group decided to camp at Pleak’s. There they would be up and ready to follow Captain Smith’s troops in the morning.

      Esther Pleak came racing down the road to meet the returning men. “David, Jacob, your mother Martha found her way to our cabin. She is bone weary, but in her right mind and unharmed.”

      The Allingtons were overwhelmed with relief. Their mother had always been the fiber that held the fabric of their world together. But how could they possibly cope with the loss of Clarinda?

      “Thank God,” Jonathan spoke. “Has anyone seen William Rice? We expected to find him and the rest of our family here.”

      “They have not come yet” Esther answered. “Martha is asleep. She saw them take Clarinda, just before she ran into the woods. Poor woman, she crawled inside a hollow log and hid until the Indians left. She is overcome from grief and exhaustion.”

      “We’ll let her rest,” said Jacob, looking to his brothers for agreement.

      A lone rider came racing in from Montgomery’s Station. He told of meeting Rebecca’s wagon on the Mount Sterling road and brought news that Harry Martin’s family was safe.

      Martin had told the military officer how he had hidden his family in the woods near Peeled Oak for a time. When they got to Montgomery’s, Martin had to come in alone to obtain clothing for his wife. He said he cut off her skirts during their escape, and she had traveled in her pantaloons. They were scratched and bleeding from briars, but otherwise unhurt.

      A few of the men slept, tossing fitfully. They alternately dreaded the dawn and wished for its coming. The Allington brothers were unable to sleep. They talked low, discussing the raid long into the night.

      “How can we rescue Clarinda and the other captives?” David wondered.

      “Where will the Indians be likely to take them?” Jake wanted to know. Nobody had any answers.

      “I’d like to know what’s behind warriors from other tribes following Chief Chulio, if it was him?” Dawson Wade scratched his head. “If the Indian nations are joining forces it means trouble.”

      The settlers were aware of the bloody war being waged in the Ohio and Indiana Territories by several tribes. Some men from Kentucky had volunteered to help put down that uprising.

      The Shawnee, under Blue Jacket, and the Miami, led by Little Turtle, were responsible for the massacre of numerous pioneers who dared to cross the Ohio River. However, Kentucky, now a state and bound by a treaty of peace with the Cherokee nation, had witnessed only a few Indian incidents the past two years.

      Trade and commerce flowed between the Cherokee towns to the south and the white settlements in the east. If this raid was an isolated escapade pulled off by a few disgruntled braves, why were they led by a noted war chief? Such a deed would bring dishonor to himself and his people. Dawson Wade asked himself these questions. Perhaps tomorrow would supply some answers.

      William turned to watch Rebecca’s wagon roll out of sight on the Mount Sterling road. He had promised his wife he would find her mother, and then go after Clarinda. Although she acted so grown up, Clarinda was only a child. She would be frightened, but he felt certain she would never let her captors know.

      William hoped with all of his heart, if Clarinda was alive, that the Cherokee would keep her. They usually adopted their female captives into the tribe. He had traded for furs in some of the Cherokee towns, and knew their headmen. Through them he might be able to obtain Clarinda’s release.

      Usually the Wyandot, Seneca, and Shawnee, sold their captives into Canada as slaves. He prayed this would not happen. If it did, he knew they would never see Clarinda again.

      It was pitch dark now. William stayed clear of the road. He heard riders go past. They were talking about the raid. He kept still. He had to accomplish this mission alone. Moving in a wide circle around the fort, he tied his horse near the spring. From there he crept along on his belly until he reached the shadows where the south gate had been. Some of the buildings were still smoldering. The thick smell of death and smoke hung in the night air.

      The Indians had not wasted bullets on the animals. Instead they shot chickens, ducks and geese with arrows. Clarinda’s beloved Old Beauty was full of arrows. The calf lay dead beside her.

      William did not touch the mutilated bodies. He was looking for only one. It was his intention to take care of Martha’s burial, sparing Rebecca and her brothers the horror of seeing any deplorable atrocity a war party might do.

      He sifted through the ashes of Martha’s home. There were broken pieces of her treasured blue flowered dishes. With sadness he rubbed the gold rim with his thumb, recalling the happy occasions when the dishes had graced the Allington table.

      Martha’s body was not anywhere to be found. It occurred to William that all of the horses were missing. Of course they would take the horses, he thought. That may have been what they were after.

      Careful not to disturb anything, William made one last inspection of the fort. At daybreak he would search the woods for Martha. He decided to wait out the night in the undamaged corncrib, and join the soldiers when they arrived in the morning.

      On April 2, 1793, one hundred fifty troops and volunteers assembled at Montgomery’s Station, under militia Captain Enoch Smith. Smith’s militia picked up the trail at Morgan’s Station. The Indians had a good head start. David recognized the young Sam Dunn. He made it a point to speak with him. Sam was shocked to learn the two lovely girls he had met were among those taken.

      The militia found the trail easy to follow, but they were soon sickened by the carnage they came upon. They traveled about five miles, just above the head of Little Slate, when they found Rachel Becraft. She had died from a crushing blow to her head. The weapon was probably the blunt end of a tomahawk. Being ill, she likely could not keep up. The Indians had stripped her down to her shift, but the poor woman had not been able to walk. Her bare feet were cut and swollen. Nearby her small baby was found, a mass of brains, blood and flesh. Both scalps had been ripped from the victim’s heads. Captain Smith sent a detail back with the bodies.

      The Indians turned down Beaver Branch about seven miles out of Morgan’s. There they killed Robert Craig’s four-year-old son. This time the captain made a decision to bury him where he was found. Robert held his son briefly, then laid him in the shallow grave. Sam Dunn was weeping openly. Robert put his arms around him, comforting the young soldier, when it was he who needed solace.

      About five miles farther, Mrs. Craig was found. Her skull had been cruelly caved in. She was alive, but it was a fatal wound. Robert knew there was no hope. He cradled his wife in his arms. Seven-year-old Betsy Becraft lay moaning against a large stone. She was half-conscious. Her skull had been crushed but the blow was a glancing one. Her injuries