Who is there to mourn for Logan?
War & Peace in Native America
In the eastern Finger Lakes in the midst of the small city of Auburn,
NY, lies Fort Hill Cemetery. Preserved on the cemetery grounds is a
complex of earthen mounds whose builders remain unknown beyond the edge
of both written and remembered history. Officially Fort Hill is the
easternmost of the so-called "Indian mounds" in America; unofficially
there are tens of thousands more up through Nova Scotia.
Atop the highest of the Fort Hill mounds, inside a low earthwork
ring, sits the "Ceremonial Altar." At the dedication of Fort Hill
Cemetery in 1851 the founders elected to erect upon this "altar" an 80
foot high obelisk of native limestone in honor of Chief Logan, the last
chief of the Cayuga village which occupied the site in 1795 when the
land was ceded to the State of New York. A pure white marble plaque
affixed to the obelisk cries in stark simplicity: "Who is there to
mourn for Logan?"
This is the tragic story of Logan -- a man of peace driven into the
maelstrom of war.
I have followed some discussions on NativeNet on the question of
warriors/peacemakers among the native peoples of North America. Modern
American media have glamourized the warrior myth, and ignored the
profound traditions of peace, or else trivialized them into cliches like
the "peace pipe." Yet peace was a sacred tradition among native people;
smoking the "peace pipe" was truly a time of giving prayers and thanks
to the Creator. I hope this story of Logan deepens your insight into
this issue of war and peace among native Americans.
[The following narrative is taken from "The Frontiersman" by Allan W.
Eckert (copyright 1967), an authentic scholarly non-fiction novel about
how the whites took Kentucky and the Ohio Valley from the native
American tribes living there at the close of the 1700s. In the Author's
Note, Eckert wrote: "This book is fact, not fiction. Certain techniques
normally associated with the novel form have been utilized, but in no
case has this been at the expense of historical accuracy. In no case
has there been any 'whole cloth' fabrication or fanciful
fictionalization. Equally, every incident described in this book
actually occurred; every date is historically accurate; and every
character, regardless of how major or minor, actually lived the role in
which he is portrayed."]
Wednesday, March 16, 1774
Blue Jacket was deeply impressed by Tal-ga-yee-ta, the tall angular
Mingo chief of the Cayugas Q better known to both Indians and whites as
Logan Q not only because he had heard so much about this highly revered
man, but because he was the first Cayuga the youth had ever seen. It
seemed incredible that Logan's influence could be so great that with his
encouragement alone the unaligned tribes might side with the Shawnees to
repay the whites in kind for the harassment to Blue Jacket's adopted
tribe.
In his three years with the Kispokothas, Blue Jacket had entered into
their work, games, hunting, politics and religion with such fervor and
sincerity that already he had become a leader among those of his own age
and was looked upon with high favor by the older members of the sept.
This was why he had been permitted to accompany Pucksinwah and his party
in their important journey to visit Logan at his little village on
Yellow Creek on the Ohio side of the big river.
No other Indian on the frontier was as widely respected by both whites
and Indians as this Mingo. Time and again his wisdom and persuasiveness
had prevailed to smooth strained relationships between the two races and
his word carried great weight, not only among the Cayugas and Seneca,
but among the Delawares, Shawnees, Miamis and Wyandots as well. But it
was not for this reason along that before him now sat the stern-faced
delegation from the Shawnee tribe, come to task him to raise both voice
and hand against the whites. There was a more personal reason involved:
Logan was especially sympathetic to Shawnee problems because many years
before he had married a Shawnee maiden.
That Tal-ga-yee-ta should be known by the English name of Logan was not
surprising. His father, Shikellimus, had many years ago formed a close
personal friendship with James Logan, intimate of William Penn and
founder of the Loganian Library at Philadelphia. So firm was this
friendship that Shikellimus had named his second son after him. And
now, just as Shikellimus had been a good provider and friend of the
whites on the shores of Cayuga Lake in New York, so his son Logan's
wegiwa was famed as an abode of warm hospitality, friendship and
kindness to all, without distinction, along the shores of the Ohio
River.
>From Cayuga Lake, Logan had moved as a youth to the banks of the Juniata
Q a lovely, rambling river in central Pennsylvania which empties into
the great Susquehanna. Here he built a cabin and later met and married
the beautiful Shawnee girl. In spite of the many outrages committed
upon the Indians by white men, Logan continued to remain a friend to all
and not only refused to take part in the French and Indian war of
nineteen years ago and that of Chief Pontiac which followed, but became
a notable peacemaker during both. He was welcomed equally in the
councils of various tribes and in the homes of white settlers; all of
them knew they could trust him completely. He was a highly skilled
marksman and brilliant hunter with either bow or gun, and he had a
certain aura about him that commanded unblemished respect. As one
crusty old white trader put it: "Logan is the best specimen of humanity
I ever met with, either white or red."
But now the visage of the chief was troubled as he listened carefully to
Pucksinwah's plea: the whites were not only increasing their harassment
of the Shawnees, but were spreading into the Can-tuc-kee [Kentucky]
hunting lands and must soon cross the Ohio to drive them away from their
villages. Some whites in the border areas were masquerading as Indians
in order to steal horses or other possessions of their fellow men, were
even murdering and scalping them so the blame would be placed upon the
Shawnees or other Indians. The Shawnees could fight their own battles
with the whites, but the word of Logan was needed to encourage the other
tribes to stand fast and stop, by battle if necessary, any whites
crossing into the Ohio country; the Shawnees alone could not and should
not be expected to guard the entire frontier against encroachment for
the benefit of all the tribes; there was word that the white fathers in
the east were massing armies to come against the Shawnees and all tribes
must do their part to stem this flood.
Blue Jacket was moved by the impassioned plea of his chief, but the
reply of Logan, no less moving, was a deep disappointment. Never had
Logan raised his hand against the whites, even when some members of this
own family had been slain in battles with them, for there was no future
in warring with a nation having unlimited resources and more men than
all the tribes together. Were not the Shawnees themselves guilty of
stealing horses and equipment from the border whites? Had they not,
when occasion prompted it, slain whites? Would defiance of the armies
make the war wither and die or would it, instead, cause violent and
immediate retribution against which there could be no standing? The
Shawnees were brave and their complaints to some degree justified, but
how much better to attempt to reach an understanding, how much better to
be guided by clear thought than blind emotion? There must be a way in
which whites and the red men could live in harmony and peace, but this
could not be consummated without restraint on both sides. Logan would
not raise either his hand or voice against the whites, but he would send
emissaries to them to ask of them the same restraint that he was asking
of the Indians.
Pucksinwah argued no further. The meeting adjourned, and as the small
party of Kispokothas mounted their horses for the ride back to their
village on the Scioto, the Shawnee chief addressed the Mingo one final
time: Logan was a wise man but he must beware lest Matchemenetoo, the
Bad Spirit, blind him to the inevitable and he one day find himself in
grave peril from the white man. There was not now, nor could there ever
be, a true and equitable peace between Indian and white.
Saturday, April 30, 1774
It was customary, when canoes bearing whites met on the Ohio, to put
ashore and pass along whatever news each might have about the direction
from which they had come. Rarely, however, did both parties have news
as momentous as when the single large canoe bearing Jacob Greathouse,
Bill Grills and John and Rafe Mahon encountered the six canoes of the
Michael Cresap party near the mouth of Little Beaver Creek.
The news from Cresap, who was coming upstream, was the killing two days
before of a pair of Shawnee warriors at their Pipe Creek camp. Except
for Cresap himself and his husky companion, the party of 24 men was
jubilant about it. Their only regret seemed to be that one of the trio
of Shawnees had escaped and that Cresap, as leader of their surveying
party, had sternly forbidden them to carry out their half-formulated
plan of completing the job by wiping out the Yellow Creek village of
Chief Logan.
Cresap's companion was a strikingly handsome individual of 21. He was
from Albemarle County, Virginia, and his name was George Rogers Clark.
At this moment he was still almost beside himself with rage at what he
termed "the brutal, savage, senseless killings."
Roaring with bullish laughter, Greathouse slapped him on the back and
told him not to worry about it, that the men were justified in the deed.
At Pittsburgh, he explained, they had learned that Lord Dunmore was
gathering an army with the intent of striking the Shawnees on the Scioto
River. "So, just as well those two are killed now as later, eh?"
After some discussion, and in a rather casual way, Greathouse asked
where Chief Logan's village was located and learned that it was some
miles up Yellow Creek from its mouth, but that there was a contingent of
about twenty Mingoes from Logan's village camped right at this moment
along the Ohio River shore quite close to the mouth of that creek,
directly across the river from Baker's Bottom.
At this news, Greathouse shook his head and remarked that he hoped they
could pass them by unseen at night so as to avoid possible trouble, but
he winked at the Mahon brothers and Bill Grills. A wicked fire sprang
to life in the eyes of John and Rafe.
The two parties camped together that night and parted in the morning's
early light; Cresap and his men continued their paddling toward Fort
Pitt and the large Greathouse canoe drifted downstream. By late
afternoon the four men had reached Baker's Bottom and put ashore, there
to be met by a scraggly-bearded individual with rotted teeth and evasive
eyes whom Grills recognized as a rather disreputable character named
Tomlinson. With him were 27 men and they made up a motley group Q loud,
mostly drunken and filthy. They shouted familiar greetings and jovial
obscenities at Greathouse and the Mahon brothers.
Within minutes of the landing, Tomlinson and Greathouse had their heads
together discussing something in undertones. Once they sauntered to the
river's edge where, by looking diagonally downstream, they could just
make out the Mingo camp on the Ohio shore. Greathouse grinned and
nodded and thumped Tomlinson on the back.
After dinner the two leaders discussed a plan with the rest of the men.
Of them all, only one objected -- Bill Grills -- and he was quickly
sneered down. Less than an hour later, shortly after full darkness had
come upon them, Greathouse and Tomlinson crossed the river to the Mingo
camp where they were greeted in a friendly manner by Shikellimus, father
of Chief Logan. Old and wrinkled and mostly toothless, he was pleased
to be honored by a visit from the whites. Greathouse, reasonably fluent
in the Iroquois tongue, smiled pleasantly and wished him peace,
happiness and a full belly. His party of six men were camped just
across the river, he said, and they would be pleased to have the Mingoes
join them for some fine rum spirits and perhaps to engage with them in a
marksmanship competition.
Shikellimus shook his head regretfully. It was a disappointment, he
said, that most of them had work to do, since they were breaking camp in
the morning. However, he did not wish to offend these kind white men
and so he would send five good marksmen to represent him and his party.
They shook hands again and the two white men paddled back to their
camp.
Ten minutes after their return, a light canoe scraped ashore and from it
stepped five Mingo braves and a decidedly pregnant squaw. She was
sister of Logan and daughter of Shikellimus, and she declined to drink
any rum, as did her brother, Tay-la-nee, and her husband. The other
three men, however, tilted the jug frequently, not noting that the six
white men took only small sips when they drank. There was laughter and
some small talk between Greathouse and Logan's brother, and before long
the three drinking Mingoes had become very unsteady.
Greathouse cut four sharp little pegs from a twig and tacked his
handkerchief to the trunk of a tree within the light of the fire. With
a piece of charcoal he made a small circle in the center, marked off
thirty paces and invited the braves to show their skill. In succession
the three tipsy Indians fired, two missing the handkerchief entirely and
the third hitting just the edge of it. Logan's brother, however, sent a
shot into the exact center of the little circle, and his sister's
husband cut the charcoal with his ball.
Engrossed and laughing with their own fumbling efforts to reload, the
Indians did not realize anything was amiss until Logan's sister suddenly
ran toward the river, screaming an alarm in the still night air. The
Mingoes looked up in surprise to find themselves quite alone in the
center of an arc of men who had leaped from hiding, their rifles at
ready. Rafe snapped off a quick shot at the squaw and her screaming was
cut short as she flopped disjointedly to the ground. The Mingoes
dropped their useless guns and clawed for knives and tomahawks, but a
volley of shots rang out and all five fell, dead or dying.
A barely audible shout came from across the river and within half a
minutes a lookout from Tomlinson's group warned that the remaining
Mingoes were on their way over to investigate. Those who had fired
reloaded swiftly and the entire party of whites crouched in the darkness
along the shore until the boats came within range. At a shout from
Tomlinson, 31 rifles roared Q all except Grill's Q and most of the
occupants of the boats were killed instantly. Those few who were not
dove into the water and struck out for the Ohio shore, but only three
made it. Shikellimus was not among them.
Now the whites returned to the camp and methodically scalped the five
dead men lying there. Logan's sister, they found, was still alive. The
rifle ball had entered her back and lodged in her right lung and she was
only semiconscious. Under orders from Greathouse she was lashed by her
wrists to a pole which was then raised and angled into the fork of a
tree so that her feet hung a foot or two off the ground. The
frontiersman cut away her garb and tossed it aside; then he jerked the
tomahawk from his underarm sheath and with one vicious swipe, laid open
her belly, spilling its pitiful contents in an obscene hanging mass.
No one had even noted that Bill Grills was longer with them. From fifty
yards away in the heavy darkness of the woods he had been watching, but
now he turned and slipped silently away. His association with both
Jacob Greathouse and the frontier had just ended permanently.
Sunday, May 1, 1774
With a gentleness belying the great anger that raged in him, Chief Logan
cut loose the body of his sister and laid her on the ground between the
bodies of her husband and brother. Wordlessly he touched her lips and
then did the same with his brother and his sister's husband.
He recalled now the warning given him six weeks ago by the Kispokotha
chief, Pucksinwah, that he should beware lest Matchemene too blind him
to the inevitable. He had been blinded then; just as he had been
blinded several nights ago when the young Shawnee, Blue Jacket, had come
with an account of the death of his two companions by Michael Cresap's
party and his warning that he had overheard the men planning to destroy
Logan's own Yellow Creek village.
And now, because of that blindness, his family was dead, viciously
murdered without cause. A cold, frightening fire burned in his eyes as
he raised his tomahawk high and told the Mingoes with him that peace had
ended, that they would not return to the Yellow Creek camp but to
Kispoko Town on the Scioto River and that his tomahawk would not again
be grounded until he had taken ten lives for every one that was slain
here last night.
Wednesday, October 26, 1774
Simon Girty, Simon Kenton and John Gibson found Chief Logan where they
had been told his little camp was located: beneath the branches of a
great spreading elm along the south bank of Congo Creek. They had come
when it was learned that Logan had refused to attend the peace
conference but would dictate a message to be read there. Girty would
translate and Gibson would take it down on paper.
Logan stood before them silently, a figure commanding the respect of any
who might look upon him. He was clad only in fresh doeskin leggins and
high moccasins laced to mid-calf. At the back of his head he wore four
white-tipped brown eagle feathers and on each wrist and his left upper
arm were wide bands of beaten silver. Around his neck was an
intricately fashioned necklace of colorful beads and silver and down his
well-muscled bare chest hung two queues of straight black hair held near
their ends by smaller circlets of silver. He wore no weapon of any
kind. Despite the primitive costume, his bearing was as regal as any
king in royal garb.
Most striking, however, was his strong face, etched by sadness, his deep
dark eyes reflecting an inner pain beyond description. The expression
did not change as he shook hands briefly with the three white men, nor
did it alter to any appreciable degree as he began to dictate in a soft
voice:
"I appeal to any white man to say if ever he entered Logan's cabin
hungry and I gave him not meat; if ever he came cold or naked and I gave
him not meat; if ever he came cold or naked and I gave him not
clothing.
"During the course of the last long and bloody war, Logan remained
idle in his tent, an advocate for peace. Nay, such was my love for the
whites that those of my own country pointed at me as I passed and said,
'Logan is the friend of the white man.' I had even thought to have
lived with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the
last spring, in cold blood and unprovoked, murdered all the relatives of
Logan, not sparing even my women and children. There runs not a drop of
my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for
revenge. I have sought it. I have killed many. I have fully glutted
my vengeance.
"For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace; but do not harbor
the thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He
will not turn on his heel to save his life.
"Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one."
Monday, November 28, 1774
The treaty had been swiftly concluded after the reading of Chief Logan's
speech Q a speech that had moved the whites as much as the Indians.
Many of the soldiers had committed it to memory and it was the subject
of much conversation around the campfires; especially the last lines.
One militiaman would ask the question aloud, "Who is there to mourn for
Logan?" and another would reply with great feeling, "Not one."
At the first public reading of it, George Rogers Clark had turned to
Michael Cresap who stood beside him and muttered, "You must be a very
great man that the Indians shoulder you with every mean thing that ever
happened."
Cresap scowled. "If I ever encounter Greathouse again, I swear I'll
tomahawk him."
Saturday, September 1, 1781
Simon Kenton was well aware that the worst of the Indian atrocities were
committed after the attacking savages had discovered and consumed stores
of whiskey. He could also name off more than a score or more white men
who had been slain because they were too befuddled by drink to protect
themselves. If more basis was needed, it had come with a shock this
summer when Simon learned from a Detroit escapee that liquor had,
indirectly, caused the death of his Mingo friend and benefactor, Chief
Logan.
Logan, he was told, had also become addicted to whiskey, and when it was
refused him at Detroit one night he had mumbled an angry retort to the
effect that if the British wouldn't give it to him, perhaps the
Americans would and that he would go to Clark in Kentucky. The fear
that he would influence his Mingo friends equally in this matter was
enough to seal his fate. He had been followed and, while on the path to
the very cabin Kenton and Girty had helped him build, was murdered by a
tomahawk blow from behind.
***************************
COMMENT: Only this for now. After spending several months
investigating Fort Hill I learned the story of Logan. One full moon I
went there with a young woman who was dying of cancer and sat there
meditating on the fate of Logan, of my companion, of all the victims of
war and disorder. And I wept. For Logan. For my friend. For all
those who have died in battle and disease. For the world of nature who
is dying before our industrial onslaught even as the great maple, beech
and oak trees at Fort Hill are dying. For me, Logan is not history.
Logan is not information or an idea. Logan is an experience. Logan,
too, is my friend and my brother.
the turtle
Earthwise Education Center, P.O. Box 91, Camden, NY 13316
315-675-8498