- Virginia - Western Frontier - Late June 1780 -

Isaac Benning lay stretched beneath a large oak, hidden from view behind branches, leaves, brush, and tree trunk. The only clue an onlooker would have that he was alive would have been the slow rise and fall of his broad back. Of course, an onlooker would need to know where to look first. Isaac, whose enlistment in the Virginia Regiment ended shortly after the mauling at the Waxhaws, was clad in buckskin, blending into the scenery. He watched over a small shaded clearing, along an old game trail. Here on the eastern slopes of the Appalachians of Western Virginia, game was still plentiful, and Isaac was hunting deer.

He’d been at this spot for over an hour, waiting for deer to pass through on their way to a small creek nearby, where they would drink and nibble on the tender plants that blanketed the banks. Five miles to the east lay his family’s farm.

Isaac had missed the planting, while away at war, and regretted the extra burden this put on his family. His father, sister, and two younger brothers had labored hard tilling and sowing their small fields before the first summer rains. Isaac tried to atone for this by supplying enough meat for his family to last through the year. He would wait in this spot all day if need be. If no sizable game wandered by today, why then tomorrow he’d watch another trail. He knew the game trails hereabouts like he knew his own hand.

As he waited, his thoughts drifted to the war; to the friends he’d made, and lost; to places still wet with blood. Just now, Isaac wasn’t sure if he’d ever go back to his regiment. It wasn’t as if they’d come asking him to re-enlist, if he didn’t return. Plenty of men were available, even eager, to fight the British, after all. No one would really miss him. Besides, he’d done his part.

And after the Waxhaws, Isaac wasn’t sure he could face the bloodshed of "civilized" warfare again. The massacre had taken so much of the heart out of him, he wondered if his courage had been taken as well.

He listened to the squirrels chatter and the birds scold. A breeze sighed through the leaves; leaves of all shades of green, trembled nervously waiting for summer’s heat to arrive. Isaac Benning wasn’t a particularly religious man, but thought that maybe heaven was a little like this. He didn’t believe there were many places prettier, nor more peaceful, than these mountains, and their seemingly endless forests. Everything a man needed to live was here. If it wasn’t here then, he reckoned, a man likely didn’t need it.

A rustling sound from the edge of the clearing brought his senses to awareness. Alert, his eyes strained to catch the slightest movement. He realized the only sound he heard was the wind. Isaac waited for some sign of life. And there it was! Brown motion in the shadows, but still no sound. Only two things could cause that—an approaching storm, or man. There was no sign of foul weather in this day’s sky.

Into the small clearing ahead stepped a man, dressed in buckskins, carrying an old musket adorned with feathers, a war axe, and a sheathed knife on the belt around his waist. His reddish-bronze skin and long black hair told Isaac this was an Indian. Shawnee, he thought, although something wasn’t right. Just what would a Shawnee be doing hereabouts? This was too far east for Shawnee, and awful close to the British mandated border of 1768. Shawnee weren’t supposed to be anywhere near this place.

A few scalps hung from the man’s belt, and they were not all Indian scalps.

The Shawnee took a few cautious steps further into the clearing. He paused, listening, head cocked to one side. He sniffed the breeze. Satisfied, he turned and beckoned to unseen companions in the shadows. Two more Shawnee appeared. They were also well armed, and carried scalps on their belts. Two of the scalps were blonde, and one was orange as a carrot. There was no mistaking; they were the scalps of Whites.

So this was no simple hunting party; besides, it was too small. A raiding party, then, and they were too bloody close to Benning’s home for his liking. This meant trouble.

For five years the British had stirred up the Indian tribes, promising alliances and instigating attacks against the homes and settlements along the western frontier. Many tribes refused, not wanting to be involved in a war among the whites. In fact, Isaac knew the Oneida and Tuscarora tribes of the Iroquois League tended to side with the Americans, although unwilling to enter the war. Isaac thought that was a smart choice. But many tribes were more than happy to help the British cause. Yet Isaac couldn’t remember hearing any word about Indian activities in these parts for nearly two years.

Isaac didn’t like this at all, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it. He could slip away unnoticed, and warn his family and a few others. He doubted he’d be able to track these Shawnee down after he’d finished sounding the alarm. He considered himself a pretty fair tracker, but he wasn’t good enough to hunt down Indians and that meant some poor bastards would be caught unawares; their scalps would end up dangling from these Shawnee belts. So, his only choice was to stay, and stop them before they could kill more settlers. Since this was his home ground, Isaac figured he could set a trap for them, if he was very careful and very lucky. First thing would be to reduce their numbers.

Benning sighted along the barrel of his rifled musket, and drew a bead on the first man who’d entered the clearing. This would be their best tracker. He slowly cocked the rifled musket, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. He heard the crack-bang! The musket bucked into his shoulder as smoke filled the air. The first Shawnee was driven a few feet backwards, arms akimbo, then Isaac was on his feet racing away.

The two remaining Indians were stunned for a moment, then knelt over their fallen companion. He was quite dead—a large hole blown in his chest just below his throat. With a cry, they were up and pounding in the direction of the haze of smoke.

Isaac, crashing through the trees and undergrowth, gave his pursuers an easy track to follow. He raced up a small ravine where a heap of rocks and boulders lay piled at the top. Making his way around them, he paused, crouched, and listened to the sounds of pursuit. His pursuers filtered through the trees below the ravine, moving slower now. They started tracking him, searching for signs of his passage. That gave him time to set an ambush.

Isaac loaded his musket. He heard the Shawnee making their way up the ravine. Easing between the boulders, he found a place that concealed him from view. Through a space between the boulders, he saw the two Shawnee reach the lip of the ravine. It wouldn’t be long before they realized his tracks didn’t continue. Slowly and carefully, he climbed to the top of the boulders then peered over. The pair had gone twenty paces beyond the ravine, and stopped, searching for his tracks. Isaac leaned across the top of a boulder and aimed at the man to the rear. If they were close enough together, and he timed his shot just right, Isaac reckoned he might be able to knock one of them into the other. Kill one, knock one over. Nice trick if he could do it.

"No matter," he thought, "one more down either way."

He waited while the two knelt, combing the area for tracks; the man in front stood and moved to his right. This brought him in line with his companion, and only a few feet ahead.

Isaac exhaled and pulled the trigger. No smoke, no bang, no recoil, nothing but a loud click that seemed unusually loud to Isaac. A misfire! The Shawnee froze and spun around searching for the source of the noise. They spotted him and let out hair-raising shrieks. As they sprinted for the boulders, Isaac cocked his musket again and fumbled for his powder horn. He pulled the plug, poured powder into the ignition hole, and the firing pan. Then Isaac calmly lifted the musket to his shoulder, as one of the Shawnee fired from below the rocks chipping bits of stone from beside Isaac. He aimed at the lead Indian, and fired. The man was knocked to one side as the ball tore through his shoulder. He fell dying. His companion leapt onto the rocks shrieking. Isaac dropped his musket and pulled his hunting knife from his belt, crouched, and waited.

The remaining Indian reached the top of the boulder and leaped at Isaac, war axe raised. Isaac straightened and drove up into the onrushing Shawnee’s chest, grabbing the wrist that held the axe, and pulled, propelling the Indian over his head.

The man landed on his back, winded. Isaac had already turned as the man somersaulted over him, and he dove onto the fallen figure, knife in hand. He landed on the Shawnee’s chest; grabbed the axe hand with his free hand, and drove his knife into the man’s belly. He heard the Indian grunt, and pushed the knife deeper, upward into the man’s chest. Isaac felt the man stiffen and shudder. Then the Shawnee seemed to shrink into the ground.

Isaac cautiously pushed himself off the body. He jerked the axe out of the Indian’s hand and tossed it aside, then looked at the man’s face. The eyes had begun to cloud over. He was dead.

Isaac rose to his feet and stepped back. He lost his footing, stumbled, and found himself sitting on the ground, back to the boulder, breathing heavily. He brought his trembling right hand up in front of his face. It was wet with the dead man’s blood. He shut his eyes for a moment while he rested, wiping his hand in the dirt beside his leg. Opening his eyes he stared at the dead body that lay before him. His knife handle protruded from the man’s lower chest; the man’s shirt was soaked in blood.

Tied to the man’s belt, he noticed a small pouch. Isaac scrambled to the body and pulled the little bag off. He found four gold sovereigns inside. British coins. British blood money. Isaac touched one of the coins and held it up. It gleamed in the sunlight. Isaac thought as he gazed at the coin, then he grunted and smiled grimly. He rose to his feet and dropped the coin back into the pouch, which he placed inside his shirt. He reached down and pulled his knife from the body and wiped it on the man’s shirt sleeve. He held the knife up, looking at the blood that still clung to the channel that ran along the blade, and remembered the last time he’d used it: on a Tory Dragoon; in South Carolina. Isaac shook his head, and stuck the knife back in his belt.

Bending over, he grabbed the man’s shirt, hoisted the body onto his shoulder, and picked up his musket. He made his way out of the rocky labyrinth and back to the top of the ravine. He glanced at the Shawnee laying a few paces away, nodded to himself, then started down the ravine. He still had one more task to perform before he would head for home.

* * *

Isaac Benning stood at the edge of the clearing where he’d watched for game. Three bodies now lay there, on their backs. Each one had a single gold sovereign wedged between its teeth. Inside Benning’s shirt was a pouch that held nine gold coins. From his belt hung the three European scalps; he would bury them on the way home. He also carried the dead men’s muskets. If any more Shawnee came along this trail, Isaac hoped they’d find these bodies, and understand the message he’d left them. He turned away from the clearing and headed towards home. There were warnings to spread. The Indians were coming back.

As he walked, muskets carried over his shoulder, Isaac thought about South Carolina. He thought about how he’d seen the idea of "Glory" in battle die in less than an hour at the Waxhaws, and he thought about Colonel Buford. Maybe Isaac could face battle again, but this time without illusions. Had "Buford’s Mistake" really been less than a month ago?

Benning's War
by Jeffrey Keenan

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