Mistress Betsey Stewarts Remarkable Quest Part 3 | Muzzle Blasts Archives March 2020
Mistress Betsey Stewarts Remarkable Quest Part 3
As narrated by herself and recorded by John Curry
This is an article that appeared first in the March 2020 Issue of Muzzle Blasts Magazine.
It was a time of hushed, almost palpable silence throughout the entire, far-western hamlet more properly known as Vincennes. Many tentative, French townspeople were afraid of this resolute, American army which so boldly marched up to within a longrifle’s shot of the British held, Fort Sackville with their flags flying, their drums rumbling and their fifes shrilly blowing. Others simply obeyed the commanding American officer’s orders, took no notice to the goings on and stayed out of the way. Red coated, English soldiers disdainfully peeked out from over their picket walls; taunting the stone-faced rebels as they maneuvered and assembled into a variety of unmistakably aggressive formations.
Col. George Rogers Clark having sent word to the town populace they should remain in their homes during this grave episode of potential violence lest they be mistaken for British sympathizers and dealt with accordingly; Betsy and Madame Vibbare huddled together in the elderly French lady’s tiny residence and dress-shop. Located a paltry few yards north of the fort on Market Street, the two women presently had themselves a ringside seat to the epic conflict ferociously raging just outside their door. Kentucky long rifles cracked. British artillery boomed. Men from both sides yelled and cursed at one another. Practically speaking, rifle fire from the Americans was quite devastating and more or less unanswerable as the British muskets possessed only a mere fraction of their antagonist’s immense range. Redcoats were dying and anyone inside Fort Sackville caught exposing even a sliver of his body paid a terrible price for it. Hamilton’s big guns were rendered at best ineffectual and at length, silenced completely – lock, stock and barrel as Clark’s sharpshooters made these targets a high priority. Captain Bowman later wrote; “The cannon played smartly. Not one of our men wounded, men in the fort badly wounded. Fine sport for the Sons of Liberty.” Col. Clark being at first, principally involved in securing the town; what initially began as a small contingent of well-concealed snipers positioned along key points around the fort, shortly grew into a regular turkey shoot as growing numbers of embittered Patriots became freed up and available to join in the deadly game. English soldiers were soon reduced to crouching down, well below the fort’s woefully gapped, log walls; behind the best cover, they could obtain. Meanwhile, friendly, pro-American, French townspeople recovered multiple stores of powder, lead and flints discretely hidden from the English soldiery for just such a purpose.
Late on the afternoon of February 24th, the mood waxed decidedly ugly. Driven by their outrage at the British military’s tendency of arming, agitating and equipping various, Native war parties sent into Kentucky, plus their ghastly habit of buying men’s, women’s and children’s scalps gleaned from these terrible raids by the hundreds, the rebels’ bloodlust rose to a fevered pitch. With terrified Red Coats at this point, afraid to get anywhere near the walls of their rickety old fort and the besieging Americans in possession of all the powder and lead they could use; even the slightest suggestion of a human form inside those flimsy, stockade walls became an excellent target. Clark’s army was now en masse, severely punishing that vile staging ground for the crime of murder in its most horrific form… and there was nothing the Fort’s residents could do but duck and pray.
British Colonel Henry Hamilton well understood, his only alternative was a speedy capitulation. At approximately ten a.m. on February 25th, the two commanding officers and their staffs - meeting at Saint Xavier church; (a short distance east of the fort) - an equitable cessation of hostilities was officially thrashed out. The former officers of Fort Sackville were given three days to settle their local, financial affairs before being hauled down with the remnants of their detachment to Fort Harrod and ultimately, the Virginia Capital at Williamsburg… as prisoners of war. Conversely, a handful of British enlisted men were actually granted their freedom on condition they would never again bear arms against the United States of America. A term they fully and honorably obeyed.
Thereafter, a feeling of happiness and security enveloped the community. Citizens sang and danced in the street. Our gal Betsy however, figured with the cessation of hostilities it was high time she started off for the far-away village of Detroit… wherever in the heck that might be. Ambling the short distance toward the fort, she wanted (first off) to extend her sincere congratulations to her fellow American compatriots, then procure the necessary supplies for this long trip and maybe gather any information she could. Shaking hands, bear hugging, kissing cheeks of one American after another; Betsy managed to learn the number one British officer in charge of all Indians – a Major John Hay – was now held captive and in the capable hands of Clark’s army! Explaining her predicament, she was instantly granted a judiciously supervised interview with the Englishman. Much to her satisfaction, Major Hay was quite forthcoming as well as familiar with her sister and her abrupt departure. Amid a brief but very considerate and sympathetic chat, the British Major gave Betsy a detailed account of Fiona’s leaving… in addition to the nine Maittise, Pottawatomi and Ojibway warriors she left out with. All of whom where indeed headed for Detroit as fast as they could go.
This rock-solid news both frightened and reassured her. Fiona’s exodus to Detroit was exactly what Betsy had already deduced and now - as strange and incomprehensible as it seemed… having no idea where it was or how to get there – our hard-headed, Irish colleen had steeled herself to the notion that Detroit was where she was going. Her business swiftly concluded in Vincennes plus a short but tearful goodbye to her dear friend, Madame Vibbare and the courageous De Pothier family; Betsy’s intentions were to head north, up the mighty Wabash River without further ado. As Colonel Clark was now sending small groups of spies and rangers upriver to scout for any sign of enemy movement; Betsy (herself perfectly armed and accoutered) had received permission to travel northward with one of the first units for as long as she wished. Moving quietly about whenever made the acquaintance of a great, congenial bear of a Sargent from the Wheeling/Fort Henry area of northwestern Virginia, surprisingly enough named “Mark Stewart”… (of hardline Scottish heritage and being no relation). The two instantly developed a warm rapport becoming exceedingly amicable toward one another as the hours and the miles drifted by. Nonetheless, when Betsy mentioned her sister’s name and her traveling up this very same river in ’78 – surrounded within the company of a band of Indians, Mark’s eyes widened up like a pair of pewter, dinner plates and his jaw dropped. Hardly able to talk; he blurted;
“Me closest mate – James O’Conner, was here at that time along with Captain Helm and sent up the Wabash on a similar scouting mission… just like us. He an’ his party came upon yer sister and those rascally Indians headed north, a short distance above where we are right now. They’d evidently turned on her, tied her up and taken her captive, to do heaven only knows what. Jimmy and his company attacked ‘em from cover; killing twa’, wounding several others and driving them off with no injury to the burdie. From that time on’erd ‘ol Jim and Fiona became vera fain o’ ither…Swearing he’d permit no harm nor transgression to befall her ever again, yer sister and James were married back in Vincennes! Following his discharge, they moved to Jim’s farm near Wheeling - where they live ta this day!”
Flabbergasted, Betsy was momentarily unable to speak. Staring directly into Mark’s face with a blank expression of shock - tears welling up in her eyes; Betsy slowly laid her head against his massive chest, sobbing uncontrollably. “There, there lassie, da’na cry. All’s well.” He murmured quietly, cradling her in his arms.
“Meself’n me Virginia friends’ll be going back ta Wheeling town as soon as this little fracas is over. Ye could go along with us ta see yer sister and her new husband, if ye like... I know ye’d be welcome.” Confused and a bit disconcerted, Mark’s kind and comforting statements only served to make poor Betsy cry all the harder.
“I’m so sorry Betsy girl, I’m powerful sorry. I did’na mean ta hurt yer feelings nor make ye cry.” Grabbing him by the sides of his head with tears streaming down her cheeks, she looked him straight in the eye and kissed him hard on the lips saying; “Sargent Mark Stewart, those are the most wonderful words I’ve ever heard in me life.”
With an end being brought to Col. Clark’s wildly successful, Vincennes campaign; Mark, Betsy and a number of others bound for Pittsburg and the Fort Henry area made their way back to Louisville where a good, serviceable flatboat was acquired. From that vicinity they passed on up the broad Ohio to Wheeling with (thanks be to God), no appreciable trouble sustained.
This however, did not mean they wouldn’t have their uneasy, apprehensive moments, nor that they ever let their guard down for one single second. Traveling straight up the middle of the river; as a rule on vividly illuminated, star filled nights… they kept a practiced, experienced eye on both banks: One moon-bright evening, with a half dozen or so men casually enjoying the view from above board - coming close to Wheeling and warily proceeding through the narrows, they were all at once approached by a single canoe gliding swiftly in their direction; conveying two lone Indians. In a flawed, imperfect English, the duo brazenly ordered them to pull their craft into the west bank and stop. Not realizing this particular vessel was literally filled to overflowing with well-armed, battle hardened militiamen, the warriors made splendid targets for those who came boiling out from below deck. Sure enough, as the boat continued on toward the north and Fort Henry, the shrill yips and cries of an angry war party, emanating from some point beyond that western shoreline were clearly discerned.
Shortly thereafter; grinding their big cumbersome flatboat to a halt at the landing directly below the little settlement, all passengers very happily disembarked. Hauling their cargo, animals and belongings up that imposing bluff in the darkest depths of the night; they were promptly inundated with numerous, rousing cheers, congratulations and an endless barrage of questions. Mark and Betsy trudged along, side by side – smiling and waving amongst the weary Vincennes veterans with Mark bearing the lion’s share of Betsy’s trail gear and effects. Paying no attention to the extreme lateness of the hour, many local Wheeling/Fort Henry residents - drawn up and clustered all around, earnestly inquired to their well-being as no few recounted that fleeting but concentrated burst of rifle fire they’d heard echoing from downriver earlier in the night and were a bit worried about what might have happened.
Thoroughly exhausted, the travelers were fed and shown to their quarters for a good solid night’s rest… Their first in three weeks. Escorting Betsy and Mark to a small cabin constructed tight up against the southeastern corner of the fort, a kindly, older fellow remarked; “Here we are Mr. Stewart. You and your wife should be comfortable in here.” To which Mark rather embarrassingly stammered; “Oh, nae sir, we’re nae… married. Nae yet at any rate. I’m just bringing the lady’s belongings into her quarters.” Embarrassed now himself, the elderly gentleman replied; “Please forgive me folks. I thought…” Betsy quickly interjecting; “Nothing to forgive friend. Ye’ll be right soon enough.” Depositing Betsy’s things in her new quarters; the two kissed and said there “good night’s”, as Mark
(with a smile on his face) lethargically made his way over to the large, central, men’s cabin.
That next morning Betsy (filled with anticipation) was up and out her cabin door in the blink of an eye. Scanning the general area, she couldn’t help but notice, people were simply everywhere inside and around the stockade. Way more than last night. Recent Indian depredations had once again become quite a problem and settlers for miles around were scurrying to the fort in droves. A light but happy breakfast with Mark and a handful of familiar, Vincennes expatriates where Betsy, having gulped down her meal announced she was off to find Fiona. Lightly kissing Squire Stewart on his forehead, she received a stern warning not to drift out of eyesight from the fort for any reason whatsoever - with the present situation being what it is. Mark had been here in ’77 and ’78 and new full well what a siege on Fort Henry meant. Betsy cheerfully agreed saying she fully understood the dangers… at which time Mark kissed her hard, full in the face… smacked her on her rear end and told her to go find her sister. Off like a shot, Betsy felt as though she was at this moment, on the single most important mission of her life.
Little did she know, her search was to be exceeding brief. Zipping this way and that inside the fort commons – inquiring as to the whereabouts of one, Mrs. Fiona O’Conner with everybody she met; she very hastily got her answer. A rowdy group of young children playing in the dirt blithely pointed beyond the cannon tower and toward a lady unobtrusively seated at her spinning wheel. “That’s Mrs. O’Conner right there m’am”, one pintsized, decidedly skinny, barefoot girl yelped. Thanking the kids, Betsy’s knees weakened as she teetered across that slight distance. Suddenly petrified… scared to death. Not knowing what to say nor if she even had the ability to say it. Coming upon her precious, long-lost sibling; Fiona was engrossed in her work and did not immediately look up. Once more Betsy was awash with remembrances of how very thoughtful, loving, gentle and motherly her older sister was. “Hello Fiona”, Betsy almost whispered. “I’ve been a lookin’ for ye.” Raising her gaze from her work to Betsy’s face; Fiona stared incredulously for a heartbeat. Then bursting into tears, she leapt up knocking her chair backward; flying over her spinning wheel. Screaming and crying uncontrollably, she grabbed her sister, showering her with kisses. “Oh Betsy, Betsy, Betsy, darlin’ Betsy, I never dreamt I’d live ta see ye again. I’m so happy I could bust.” The two hugged, kissed and cried for a spell as they profusely disclosed to each other their many trials, tribulations and triumphs over the last couple of years… Very soon their sobs turned into sheer delight; their poignant melancholy turned into uproarious giggles and peals of laughter. Fiona told Betsy all about her wonderful James and how amazingly happy they were. Betsy told Fiona about Mark; how happy they were and their plans to wed right here in Wheeling as quickly as circumstances would allow.
Fortunately for all, this particular Indian raid didn’t last too long as the settlers at Fort Henry had been sent warning
shortly beforehand by a kindhearted Moravian Reverend
David Zeisberger, of the details perilously gleaned vis-à-vis that impending, bloody plot. With everyone on to them and ready to give as good as they received, the Ohio Valley Natives’ loosely organized incursion soon fell apart: Alexander Wright (not a man particularly known for his bravery), shooting an Indian and driving away a small war party around a half mile from Beeler’s Fort; raced back to the tiny stockade and early on, spread word of the Indian presence. The audacious woodsman - Zeke Caldwell, while standing guard over a small, hunting encampment on
the west side of the river composed of himself and three other Wheeling men, heard a series of somewhat questionable noises. Wolf cries… Owl hoots… Turkey putts… Very, very quietly
- one by one, he awakened his companions; whispering with his hand over their mouths, they should get to their canoe... Now!Caldwell then stomped around the camp; casually brought in additional firewood to build up his fire and eventually stumbled off into the darkness fumbling at the front of his breeches, as if he was getting ready to relieve himself. Once in the dark he swiftly made for their awaiting canoe, shoved it out into the current, hopped aboard and the four straightaway paddled fifty rods upstream before the duped Indians were able to lob a few, wildly unsuccessful shots at them. Making a beeline for Fort Henry, their potentially disastrous encounter was instantly related, further aborting the Natives’ menacing offensive.
As you may well imagine, Betsy became Mrs. Mark Stewart within the week; amidst a joyous, high-profile ceremony. Fiona (of course) being matron of honor with Mark’s closest friend James, ably fulfilling the role of best man. Thus, considering the late flurry of turmoil and disorder, Mark and Betsy’s unpretentious, backwoods marriage became an occasion of great relief and happiness for the entire community… The tide was indeed beginning to turn for the diminutive town of Wheeling. Those previous, two sieges of 1777 and 1778 despite their apparent victories, had not ended well for the Ohio Valley Nations as their attacks, ambuscades, etc. were amply paid for with the blood of many an Indian warrior and English Redcoat alike. Only one more large scale attack (to be perpetrated in 1781 by the fierce Wyandots) was attempted with their cunning stratagem once again discovered well ahead of their arrival, defused and effectively nullified. Nevertheless, northwestern Virginia wasn’t completely free of danger yet. The Indian depredations would continue below the Ohio for some time at a much smaller but no less violent level. Taken upon the whole however, things were starting to look better: The war was over. England was defeated. The western borderlands were becoming more and more securely established - and this little wedding proved to be a sort of
exclamation point, jubilantly proclaiming that assessment.
--
Spring of 1783; the Stewart’s and the O’Conner’s left western Virginia’s, Grave Creek/Middle Creek area, traveling down the broad Ohio and up Kentucky River to the fondly remembered settlement of Harrodstown. Fiona and Betsy had shared countless happy remembrances over a multitude of brightly burning, evening hearth-fires with their husbands… of the wonderful people, lush, abundant cropland and (as in Wheeling) a steadfast, unconquerable spirit existing out there which could never be extinguished nor broken. The two families eventually built their homes in the fabled “cane-lands” of Kentucky; deftly positioning themselves close beside one another, several miles south of Fort Harrod near the scenic, merrily dancing headwaters of Goose Creek.
Interestingly enough; a continual abundance of friends, neighbors, amateur historians and curious travelers alike would from time to time, simply appear on Betsy’s front porch to talk, reflect, ruminate and mull over her extraordinary experiences along the early, far-western frontier for many years to come. Late in the twilight of her life, Betsy still enjoyed nothing quite so much as a nice cup of tea complemented by a lively chat with inquisitive visitors … and the remarkable quest of Mistress Betsy Stewart gently passed on into the basic, elemental fabric of our beloved, colonial American west.
- The End -
*** FYI… The first installment of this relatively elaborate persona is located in the September 2017 issue of Muzzle Blasts magazine and the second installment is located in the March 2019 issue. If you don’t still have them, contact the N.M.L.R.A.’s main office (812-667-5131) for current availability, price and shipping costs.
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