On a December night in 1763, a band of armed men slipped through the darkness toward a small Indian settlement near Lancaster, Pennsylvania. They had ridden hard from the frontier settlements of Paxton and Donegal, driven by years of grief and rage. Their target was Conestoga, a quiet village of peaceful, friendly Iroquois Indians who had lived alongside the white settlers for generations. Within minutes, the night air filled with screams, gunfire, and the thud of tomahawks.
When it was over, fourteen men, women, and children lay dead, scalped, and mutilated in their own cabins. The men responsible called themselves the Paxton Boys. The Scottish-Irish settlers of Pennsylvania’s western frontier had suffered terribly during the French and Indian War and Pontiac’s War. Shawnee and other Indian tribes had raided their settlements with brutal efficiency, killing and capturing hundreds of settlers.
Men, women, and children were slaughtered without distinction. Farms were burned, livestock stolen, and scalps taken as trophies. The survivors buried their dead and tried to rebuild, but the raids continued without mercy. In desperation, some of these settlers organized themselves into a band of rangers known as the Paxton Boys.
Their purpose was to patrol the frontier and put an end to the Indian raids coming from the unsettled lands west of the Allegheny Mountains. These were hard men, accustomed to the brutal realities of border life. They were scouts, rangers, hunters, farmers, and traders who had lost relatives, property, and livestock to Indian attacks. Many of them were religious zealots who found ample justification in the scriptures for treating the Indians as the ancient Israelites had treated the Canaanites: to strike them, destroy them utterly, make no covenant with them, and show them no mercy.
Their hatred, however, was not confined to the Indians alone. The Paxton Boys were just as furious with the Quakers and the provincial legislature in Philadelphia. They complained, with a sense of righteous grievance, that they, on the oppressed and exhausted frontier, suffered injustice and persecution while the lawmakers and Quakers sat in comfortable safety, wasting precious days in futile debates and showing more concern for the copper-skinned heathen than for their own people on the border. The frontier hatred of Indians was bitter, unquenchable, and often blind.
To many settlers, all Indians were alike, fit only to be tracked down like wild beasts and exterminated from the face of the earth. It was the misfortune of a small group of wandering Indians, who sold brooms for a living, to arouse the suspicions of the Paxton Boys. They were accused, if not of secretly committing the murders and thefts on the frontier, then at least of conspiring with the perpetrators and passing information to them. The Paxton Boys had organized themselves into a protective force under the command of their own pastor, the Reverend Colonel Elder, who was known to ride about with his tri-cornered hat and his rifles slung over his shoulder.
Under him served Captain Lazarus Stewart and Matthew Smith, two bold and reckless partisan leaders of the time. Smith heard from some inquiring scouts that an Indian known to have committed some of the recent atrocities had been tracked to the Conestoga settlement. That was enough to rouse his fervor. He hastily gathered some of his like-minded men, and they rode to the peaceful Indian village.
Smith dismounted and crept forward, rifle in hand, to reconnoiter. He saw, or imagined he saw, a number of armed warriors in the cabins. His group was too weak to launch an attack, so they returned to Paxton. Spies were sent out, and the very next day, a party of fifty-seven horsemen set out, determined to crush the natives.
They reached their destination at dawn, divided into small squads, and stealthily surrounded the humble cabins. One of the Indians, startled by strange sounds coming from a cabin, came toward them. One of the men swore, “That’s the one who killed my mother! ” and shot him without mercy.
That was the signal. The men, eager for the slaughter, let out a terrible cry and rushed from the darkness of night into the peaceful cabins, firing, stabbing, and striking with tomahawks. They scalped everyone they found inside—fourteen men, women, and children. Then they seized whatever plunder was available and set the village on fire.
The survivors of the shattered community scattered into the surrounding countryside. When the night raiders returned from their fateful mission, they were met by Thomas Wright, who later testified that he was horrified by their disheveled appearance and the blood-stained tomahawks hanging from each saddle. He asked where they had been and what they had done. When they told him, they saw the horror on his face and asked if he believed in the Bible, and whether the scriptures did not command the destruction of the heathen.
The devil, it is said, can quote scripture for his own purposes. Strangely believing, or pretending to believe, that they had performed a great service, these bloody criminals quietly dispersed to their homes. The lawless and excessive actions stirred up a great commotion. Society was divided in opinion, but the vast majority of those who had personally suffered from barbaric atrocities either supported the massacre or excused it.
The remnants of the Conestoga tribe, terrified and panic-stricken, did not know what to do or where to go to escape the wrath of their bloodthirsty enemies. Finally, they were advised to go to the county sheriff for protection. In the midst of growing excitement, they were taken to Lancaster and lodged in the county stone jail, which was considered strongly built enough to provide adequate protection. Word of the outrage spread like wildfire.
The governor issued a proclamation denouncing the inhuman acts and offering a reward for information leading to the arrest of the perpetrators. But the blood of the Paxton Boys was hot with rage. When they heard that an Indian accused of shedding the blood of one of their number was among the imprisoned refugees, a group of more than fifty men gathered secretly and marched boldly toward Lancaster. It is said that the plan of their leader, Lazarus Stewart, was only to demand that this person be handed over and executed alone if convicted of murder.
But human rage, once greatly stirred, cannot easily be pacified. It goes out of control and resembles the ferocity of a tiger once it tastes blood. The fighting parson, Reverend Elder, used all his influence to dissuade them from their unlawful scheme. He rode after them on horseback, begged them, protested, and threatened them, all in vain.
Then, as a last resort, he stopped his horse in front of them to block the narrow road and ordered them to disperse. At that, Matthew Smith leveled his rifle at the heart of his own pastor and ordered him to clear the way, or he would fire. The way was thus opened, and the determined band soon rushed into the streets of Lancaster, reined their panting horses into a tavern yard, and hurried to the jail en masse. They broke down the door and entered, shouting terrible cries, armed to the teeth with rifles, knives, and tomahawks.
The poor Indians, about twenty in number, were huddled in the jail yard. They heard the terrible uproar and saw the grim crowd of cruel oppressors. It was said in testimony that some of them tore pieces of wood to defend themselves. Whether this changed the purpose of the invaders will never be known.
What is certain is that they were attacked fiercely, trampled, stabbed with knives and tomahawks, and shot with rifles at very close range, until their heads and brains were scattered on the walls and floor. While this was happening, the judges and leading citizens were attending Christmas Day services in the church. The door burst open suddenly, and the terrified congregation heard shouts: “Murder! Jail!
Paxton Boys! Indians! ” That was enough to freeze the blood of everyone present. Before any of them could reach the jail, the horrible crime had been committed, and the killers were seen fleeing from the town on horseback.
Benjamin Franklin, in his account of the massacre, wrote that the poor victims, when they discovered the dreadful intent of the raiders, divided into their little families. The children clung to their fathers, knelt, protested their innocence, declared their love for the English, and claimed they had never done them any harm in all their lives—and in that state, they all received the tomahawk. This picture may be somewhat exaggerated, but those who witnessed the dreadful scene all agreed that the poor souls met their fate with the stoicism characteristic of their race. At that time, a company of Scottish Highlanders, on their way from Fort Pitt to Philadelphia, was stationed in or near the town.
It is said they refused to interfere, though this seems unlikely, as the terrible tragedy, carefully planned and executed with silence and speed, lasted only about a quarter of an hour. The people gathered in the jail yard to gaze in horror at the ghastly, pitiable sight. A respectable and intelligent citizen of the town described it in a letter:
“Between 15 and 20 Indians were placed there for protection. The first I knew of it was while I was in my father’s store near the courthouse.
I saw a number of people running in the street toward the jail, which tempted me and some other boys to follow them. About 60 yards from the jail, we met 25 to 30 men on good horses, armed with rifles, tomahawks, and scalping knives, fully equipped for murder. I ran to the jail yard, and there—what a horrid sight! Near the back door of the jail lay an old Indian and his wife, particularly well known and respected by the townspeople for their quiet and friendly behavior.
His name was Will Soc. Opposite him and his wife lay two children about three years old, whose heads had been split with a tomahawk and scalped. About the middle of the jail lay a stout Indian shot in the chest. ”
His legs had been cut off with a tomahawk, his hands severed, and then a rifle ball was fired into his mouth, blowing his head to pieces and scattering his brains on the wall about a yard away.
This man’s hands and feet had also been cut off. In this state they all lay, men, women, and children, in the jail yard, shot, scalped, and dismembered. But this was not the end. The shocking massacre stirred up intense anger along the frontier.
The border settlers knew that many of the men who took part in this crime were not mere thugs, but among the best and most capable inhabitants, who had long and effectively served as rangers protecting the entire frontier. They also knew how much that frontier had suffered from brutal atrocities. While they did not strongly condemn the crime, they tended to justify its perpetrators. In Philadelphia, however, the situation was entirely different.
There, the massacre was viewed with strong disapproval. The Quakers, in particular, attacked not only the killers but the entire Presbyterian sect with a storm of blame and abuse. In response to public demands, large rewards were offered for the arrest of the criminals. But these men did not hesitate to face trial; they boldly declared the necessity of their actions and defended them with arguments and religious texts.
The tension along the frontier was so great that arresting the leaders of the deadly gang was nearly impossible, or at least would have required a large military force. The tension did not subside with time but grew day by day. The backcountry settlers had long suspected the Moravian, or Christian, Indians of being involved in the attacks of the heathen Indians, and several attempts had been made to attack them and drive them from their lands. Their situation became so dangerous that eventually, even before the events already described, the Quaker assembly was forced to disarm them and then remove them.
The Indians fled to Philadelphia for safety. In the middle of winter, they were compelled to prepare for emigration. They numbered 140 people. In November, the solemn procession set out—the elderly, the young, the sick, and the blind in wagons, while the rest walked on foot, on their arduous journey.
In every village and hamlet, they were met with rudeness, insults, and threats. Passing through Germantown, they were insulted by an angry mob. But the weary pilgrims, in their humility and gentleness, did not reply and continued steadfastly on their way, until they reached the Philadelphia barracks safely. There, the soldiers stationed there obstinately refused to receive them, and the frightened refugees were forced to stand in the street for five hours, constantly exposed to jeers and insults threatening to kill them.
As the soldiers continued to treat them badly, the miserable procession set off again. They trudged in a gloomy march, followed by an angry, restless crowd of thousands, advancing about six more miles to Province Island, where they were lodged in some abandoned buildings. There they held their religious meetings and remained peaceful until the Conestoga massacre already described, which completely changed the course of events. Soon, those who had taken part in that massacre of peaceful Indians were heard boasting that they would settle the matter with the Indians in Philadelphia.
The idea, strange as it was, quickly gained popularity. They accused the Quakers of scandalous behavior, claiming they were spending public money to keep savages all winter, savages who would be found scalping and slaughtering on the frontier in the spring. Endless accusations were made. Meetings were held, inflammatory speeches delivered.
False and absurd reports spread widely, and soon these reckless frontiersmen found an echo for their sentiments among a noisy and lawless element in Philadelphia itself. They had previously sent a wagon loaded with the scalped and mutilated bodies of their neighbors to shock the Quakers into understanding how the Indians, their favored followers, treated the frontier. Now they resolved to go themselves, armed, and demand protection. This was no empty threat.
A force estimated at between five hundred and fifteen hundred men was gathered in January, under their most popular leaders, and they actually set out on a march to Philadelphia. The declared purpose of this bold expedition was to exterminate the Moravian Indians. The political intentions behind it against the Quakers were never revealed. Their numbers grew with every mile, and the tremendous excitement caused by the reports of this daring campaign in Philadelphia can be imagined.
Terror and confusion gripped the city, which became a beehive of activity. Even the peaceful Quakers felt what was coming. In this grave emergency, the magistrates were forced to take immediate measures to repel the Indians by force. Eight pieces of heavy artillery were placed in the barracks where the terrified Indians were held.
Citizens, including many young Quakers, took up arms and stationed themselves in the barracks, which they fortified as best they could for defense. On the night of February 5th, the approach of the frontier mob was announced. Every preparation was made to receive them. The whole city was in an uproar.
Bells were rung, streets lit up, and citizens, suddenly awakened from sleep, were ordered to the town hall to receive their weapons and ammunition. Two companies of volunteers marched to the barracks, and four additional cannons were mounted. These rapid and decisive preparations made the approaching mob stop and think. Some gentlemen were sent to visit them and ask the cause of their complaints.
With great pride and arrogance, they claimed there were murderers among the Moravians and rudely demanded that they be handed over. To pacify them, one of the group’s leaders was persuaded to enter the barracks and point out the offenders. Every retreating Indian was examined, but none could be found guilty of any crime. Hearing this, the rangers claimed that the Quakers had moved and hidden the guilty Indians.
The claim was proven false, and the angry invaders were forced to abandon their scheme and return home. The Indians now became an object of great curiosity, and thousands visited them from all ranks and classes. Crowds of respectable listeners attended their Sunday prayers, and the soldiers themselves were examples of kindness, gentleness, and sincerity. Yet their condition remained extremely harsh, for they were accustomed to a free life of roaming the forests.
The confinement had a devastating effect on them. The well-seasoned food did not suit them, and as summer progressed, fever and smallpox spread among them, causing heavy losses and great despair. At least fifty-six of them died during this long captivity, while the rest were not released until March 1765, after the Indian war had ended. They settled in a new place they built near the Wyonung River and named it Friedenshütten, or “Tents of Peace.
” They now lived in peace, and after all their severe trials and tribulations, they were for a time content, happy, and prosperous. The Paxton Boys, like Captain Jack, Lewis Wetzel, and Tom Quick, were products of a brutal frontier war. Captain Jack’s family had been killed by Indians near Jack’s Mountain, about eighty miles northwest of where the Paxton Boys lived near present-day Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Tom Quick’s father had been killed by Indians near Milford, Pennsylvania in 1756.
The cycle of violence seemed endless. One of the most interesting aspects of these events is that the Paxton Boys’ march on Philadelphia finally pushed some Quakers to abandon their peaceful vows and form a fighting force to defend their city and the Moravian Indians from the Paxton Boys. They did not hesitate to take up arms to defend the settlers on the frontier from Indian raids during the war, but neither did they hesitate to take up arms to defend the Indians themselves.
