After Half King reached the camp, the English and about forty Indians opened a council. It lasted three days and, in the slow preparation and translation of long speeches, must have been exceedingly tedious. The substance of the speeches George made the Indians was that he and his men had come to fight by the side of the Six Nations and the Delawares, who were invited to send their women and children to safety in the English settlements. All other Indians of the Ohio were put on notice to choose between French and English and take the consequences.
The council, terminating June 21, was held under the eyes of the eight Mingoes, whose behavior confirmed the suspicion that they were spying on the force and were spreading false information concerning the strength of the French. To verify or disprove the statements of the Mingoes regarding the dispositions of the enemy, Washington sent out friendly natives as counter-spies. “I left off working any further on the road,” George explained later, “and told [the Mingoes] that as we intended to continue it through the woods as far as the fort, felling trees, etc., that we were waiting here for the reenforcements which were coming to us. . . . But as soon as they were gone, I set about making out and clearing a road to Red Stone.”
In spite of this deception of the enemy and the encouragement of friends, George discovered promptly that the council had been a failure. The Delawares could not be induced to go to the camp in the Meadows with their families. The Shawnees silently vanished. These were not the only disappointments. When the council was over, Half King and all his people started back to camp. As a consequence of this defection, George had to use his own inexperienced men as scouts to prevent surprise by the French.
This failure shook the faith of Washington in Montour and Croghan, who never were able to bring into camp more than thirty Indians, and not more than half of the thirty serviceable. Deeper than this reason for the Indians’ reluctance to fight was the meagreness of the presents George could offer. More Indian goods were coming but they had not arrived when most needed. Still another reason why the Indians had begun to hold back was their belief, not openly voiced, as yet, that the forces of the English were inferior to those of the French. The zeal of the Indians was dampened, further, by the shortage of provisions. All the flour and bacon of the advanced party had been consumed by June 23; nothing was left but a few steers, the milch cows and their calves. Until more provisions arrived, the English and their Indian guests would have to subsist on a little parched corn and on unsalted fresh meat.
George did not hesitate in the face of that contingency. He steeled himself to carry through what he had undertaken. He reasoned that the French either would come up the Monongahela and thence up Red Stone Creek or would follow the trail from Fort DuQuesne to Gist’s settlement. It appeared that the best attainable result was to be had by dispatching Captain Lewis with a few officers and sixty men to clear a road to the mouth of Red Stone Creek. The remaining troops must stay at Gist’s. Mackay and the Independent Company, presumably, still were at Great Meadows.
That night or the next morning, June 28, there arrived a message from Monakatoocha, a most startling message: The Chief had been at Fort DuQuesne two days previously, had witnessed the arrival of reenforcements there, and had heard the French say they were going to march forward and attack the English with eight hundred white troops and four hundred Indians. In Washington’s judgment, the fact that this report came from so experienced and trustworthy a man as Monakatoocha gave it credibility. An early attack by a greatly superior force was altogether probable, almost certain. He immediately sought the counsel of the few officers with him. Common judgment was that the scattered parts of the little force, Mackay’s Independent Company, Lewis’s detachment and Washington’s own contingent, should be united as soon as possible at Gist’s.
Captain Mackay understood the plight of his Colonial comrade and, as became a good soldier, hurried forward with his troops. Lewis, too, pressed his detachment and, by the forenoon of the twenty-ninth, was at Gist’s. In spite of this successful reunion of the scattered forces, the Indian allies became more and more alarmed. Some of them had scouted around Fort DuQuesne; some had heard exaggerated stories of the overwhelming strength of the French. All the natives soon gave warning that they would leave the English unless Colonel Washington returned to the fort in the Great Meadows.
The fort at Great Meadows would be more accessible to supplies. In addition, it should not be difficult there to get an early report of a French advance, whereas, at Gist’s, there always was the possibility that the French would slip eastward from Red Stone and lie in wait across the English line of supply. In favor of the strategy that would avoid this possibility there was, finally, the insistence of Indians on a withdrawal. Loss of the Indian scouts might be fatal in that difficult country. These considerations led George and his brother officers to decide unanimously that the column should retreat forthwith to Great Meadows. It was not an easy task. Besides the mountainous character of the country and the badness of the road, George had once more to contend with the lack of transport that had cramped and cursed the expedition from the day it reached Winchester. Only two teams, a few horses and the officers’ mounts remained with the troops. These animals and the men themselves were all the resources George had for moving the nine swivels, the ammunition and the baggage. The soldiers must draw the swivels; the ammunition and as many as possible of the other articles must be carried in the wagons and on the pack horses.
The retreat commenced—an ordeal that men endured only because the alternative was death in the woods from the bullet or war hatchet of an Indian. There was nothing to eat except parched corn and lean beef slaughtered, cooked and swallowed in the same hour. Every grade was a despair, every furlong a torture. The worst was the attitude of the men of Mackay’s Independent Company. They refused to help in getting the ammunition ready for transportation and, once the march began, would not lend a hand in dragging the swivels or removing obstacles from the road. These, said the regulars, were not the duties of soldiers, and could not be required of them.
It was the first of July when the exhausted men pulled the swivels into their feeble fort in the Great Meadows. The fort must be strengthened so that it would be safe until an enlarged force was able to take the offensive against the French. Tired as were the men, those who had the mettle and the muscle must clear a longer field of fire, fell trees, work on the stockade or dig trenches outside. The position did not now appear to be the “charming field for an encounter” that Washington had thought it when he first had sheltered his wagons behind “natural entrenchments.” It was possible, George quickly perceived, to carry his crude trench beyond a small branch, so that his men could be sure of getting water. Moreover, as part of the ground around the fort was so marshy that a direct assault by infantry probably could be made from one direction only, the south, it might be possible, also, to complete the little stockade in the middle of the entrenchments and to secure there the powder and provisions. This was the measure of advantage. For the rest, the fort was in a damp “bottom”; woods came within easy musket range of it; high ground surrounded it. Time did not permit the selection of a stronger, more defensible site. The best had to be made of a weak position. George gave it the name of Fort Necessity. Its effective total of fighting men was 284.
About daybreak on July 3, a single shot rang out. The troops were ordered to get under arms. Sleepy soldiers scarcely had made ready for action when a steady rain began to fall. For five hours, the unsheltered men had rain, rain, rain. In preparation for the enemy’s arrival, George could do almost nothing except to urge the men to keep their powder dry. Mud was deep inside the fort; water was rising in the trenches. About eleven o’clock, an alert sentinel caught a glimpse of armed men and sounded a new alarm by firing his musket. It was a challenge the French accepted. George saw them emerge from cover and move forward in three columns. The shout of the white men and the wild yell of the Indians told the garrison to expect the utmost in soldierly skill and the wor
st in savage cruelty. George met valor with vigor. He moved his troops into the open and formed them to repel a charge. When the French halted and opened fire at approximately six hundred yards, there was no wavering by the English and, fortunately, no loss. George did not let the men return the fire at that distance.
Now the French began to advance as if they intended to press their attack home. At the word of command, the English slipped back immediately into their trenches, which were deeper than ever in water. From the low parapet of these defences, the Virginians and the regulars prepared for a volley that would repulse the onslaught, but the charging soldiers dropped to the ground, scattered and almost disappeared. “They then,” wrote Washington, “from every little rising, tree, stump, stone and bush kept up a constant, galling fire upon us. . . .” He saw, too, that it was not directed against his men only. The French deliberately shot every horse, every cow and even the dogs in the camp, until, while the engagement still was young, the English realized they had lost already their transport and their meat.
The Virginians and Carolinians felt sure they killed many a Frenchman and kept the others from pressing closer, but they themselves now were losing steadily and were having more and more difficulty in keeping their weapons and their cartridges dry enough to use. The unequal fight continued into the late afternoon and rose in the fury of fire until the rain filled the trenches, got into the men’s cartridge-boxes, wet their firelocks and reached even the powder that had been placed carefully in what was thought to be the driest spot inside the stockade. The fire fell off.
About eight o’clock, there came a cry from the French, “Voulez-vous parler?” No. There was a wait and then another shouted question from beyond the trenches: Would the commander send out an officer to receive a proposal, an officer who could speak French? The messenger would be permitted to return unhurt.
Washington, heavy-hearted, but convinced of his duty, called two French-speaking officers, van Braam and William La Peyroney, and sent them out between the lines to ascertain what the French proposed. They soon brought back assurance that the French were willing to permit the English to return to Virginia without becoming prisoners of war. Probably because of the vagueness of these terms, Washington rejected them and instructed his representatives to return for further parley. La Peyroney either had been wounded earlier in the day and collapsed about this time, or else he received a shot that dropped him now. Van Braam was left as the one French-speaking officer to carry on the negotiations. The Dutchman left the entrenchments and returned, after a time, with a folded sheet. On the first page were the badly penned opening paragraphs of a Capitulation, in French, accorded by Coulon de Villiers, commanding the troops of His Most Christian Majesty, to the English troops dans le fort De Necessité. As best van Braam might, he undertook to translate the difficult handwriting. In the Dutchman’s own poor English the document set forth that it never had been the intention of the French to disturb the peace and bonne harmonie that subsisted between the two princes, “but only to avenge . . .”
There van Braam came to a word over which he probably hesitated as at least one other translator did subsequently. It may have looked as if it were l’assailir, which did not make sense. Van Braam finally translated it as “death,” or “loss” or “killing”—there later was some doubt which word he used. The text then went on ”qui a été fait sur un de nos officiers,” which of course was easy. Washington and others believed the language meant that the French said they sought to avenge the death of one of their officers, who, of course, was Jumonville.
At the moment, less thought was given to this than to the specific terms. First, the English commander could retire with his entire garrison to his own country. No insult would be offered by the French, who would do all they could to restrain their Indians. Second, the English could carry with them all their belongings except their artillery and “munitions of war,” which the French “reserved” to themselves. Third, the defenders of the fort would receive the honors of war and could march out of the entrenchments with drum beating and with one small cannon. Fourth, as soon as the terms were signed, the English were to strike their colors. Fifth, at daybreak, a detachment of French would see the English marched off and the French left in possession of the fort. Sixth, as the English had no horses or cattle with which to remove their effects, they could put these en cache until they could send draft animals for them; and to this end they could leave a guard, on condition that they should not work on any establishment in that vicinity or on that side of the mountains for one year. Finally, as the English held prisoners taken at the—again that word van Braam translated “loss” or “death” or “killing” of Jumonville—they must liberate and deliver these men, under escort, at Fort DuQuesne. As surety for this and for the general agreement two Captains were to be left as hostages until the arrival of the French and Canadian prisoners. The victors offered to provide a guard for these hostages, who promised return of the French prisoners in two and a half months at latest.
The main provisions were honorable. George balked at one stipulation only: the English ought not to be compelled to surrender their “munitions of war,” because that phrase would include ammunition. If the troops started back without powder and ball, every man of them might be killed and scalped by the Indians. Van Braam must return to the French and insist on the elimination of that phrase.
Back once more went the Captain. He soon returned: The French had been reasonable. From the capitulation the words et munitions de guerre had been stricken by a penstroke. There remained the question of hostages. Who of the Captains should be delivered to the French? Van Braam and Stobo, young, unmarried and unattached, were the most available hostages. The French commander was so informed. George signed the capitulation in a hand that showed neither excitement nor exhaustion. Mackay, too, attached his name because he would not recognize the authority of a Colonial to act for his troops. It was then about midnight of July 3.
Destruction of belongings took some hours. It was close to ten o’clock on July 4 when the survivors marched out of the fort. They stepped to beat of drum; their colors were flying; they carried their arms; they received the honors of war; but they could not keep the Indians from plundering what they left behind or anything they did not guard vigilantly while they carried it with them.
When the survivors of Fort Necessity were counted at the bivouac the next morning they numbered 293 officers and men. By the time it reached Wills Creek on July 8 or 9, the Virginia Regiment had been reduced by death, wounds, detachment, lameness and desertion to 165 rank and file. Total killed finally were counted at thirty and the wounded at seventy for the entire force, which, at the beginning of the expedition, had consisted of about four hundred of all ranks.
George and most of his officers soon recovered from the physical strains of the battle and the retreat, but the surviving private soldiers of the Virginia Regiment less quickly responded to rest and full rations. This exhaustion could lead to demoralization, but, in retrospect, there had been little in the conduct of the men that should shame them or their Colonel. Cowardice there doubtless had been, but the only notorious display of lack of mettle had been by an officer. Lieutenant Colonel Muse had shown himself unable to endure the dangers of combat. Speedy resignation was acceptable.
This was individual humiliation. General distress was created in the command when some officer with a reading knowledge of French scrutinized the text of the capitulation. The word that van Braam had translated “loss” or “death” or “killing” proved to be in one place I’assassin and in the other I’assassinat. For the first time it was plain to the English officers that they unwittingly had made an acknowledgment that they had assassinated Jumonville. George, Mackay and Stephen were willing to swear that van Braam had not once used the word “assassination” in translating the paper; but there the word was. In their wrath, they suspected the worst and denounced van Braam as treacherous.
Their indignation would have burnt
even more deeply had they realized with what satisfaction the French regarded the entire operation against Fort Necessity. De Villiers, one of six brothers of Jumonville, was furiously anxious to avenge his brother’s death and was in command. The fight, according to de Villiers, had cost him two killed and seventeen wounded. When de Villiers’ comment appeared in print, it was not lacking in self-praise or in derogation of his adversaries: “We made them consent to sign that they had assassinated my brother in his camp; we had hostages for the security of the French who were in their power; we made them abandon the King’s country; we obliged them to leave their cannon, nine pieces; we destroyed their horses and cattle and made them sign that the favors granted were evidence that we wanted to use them as friends.”
Dinwiddie was balanced in his criticism and was relieved, in a sense, that the disaster had not been worse. When the Governor learned of the defeat, he soon persuaded himself that he explicitly had ordered George not to attack until “the whole forces were joined in a body.” Although he blamed George to this extent, Dinwiddie adhered to his belief that larger responsibility rested on the other Colonies and, among Virginians, first on those who, having contracted to deliver flour promptly, had failed to do so. Croghan was as much condemned at Alexandria and in Williamsburg as he had been at Fort Necessity. Criticism was not limited to the Colonies in general, to Washington, to Croghan and to other traders who did not meet their contracts for provisions or transport. Gradually, after George came back to the settlements, he learned how and why the Governor had been disappointed, most of all, in the failure of the North Carolina contingent and of the two New York Independent Companies to reach Great Meadows.
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