In 2011, David McCullough released The Greater Journey: Americans In Paris. In this tome, he followed haughty artists, authors, and socialites as they travelled through one of the world’s great meccas of culture and innovation.

It was brilliant, and it’s my favorite McCullough book.

He truly captures the ambition and hunger of a young American nation on the rise, seeking education and inspiration from one of Europe’s grandest cities.

I love the book, but what if McCullough took a different route? Instead of following liberal young thinkers through progressive Paris, what if he dropped America’s premiere satirist into one of its most conservative cities?

Mark Twain in Rome. It doesn’t get much better than that.

In 1867, Mark Twain was 32 years old and still finding his voice. In time he would become the nation’s premiere political and social commentator, but he was still decades away from that. Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn were but twinkles in his mind’s eye.

His first major writing gig was to act as a correspondent on a sweeping tour of Europe, Africa, and the Holy Land. Along with writing letters back to the New York Tribune detailing his exploits, he also published them in his first book entitled The Innocents Abroad.

It’s important to note that by 1867 Mark Twain had already assumed his famous pen name, but deep down he was still Samuel Clemens. His alter ego had not consumed his personality yet. In time he would drop his birth name altogether, but when he visited Rome he was still a riverboat pilot at heart.

When The Innocents Abroad was published in 1869, it was a massive hit. Most Americans expected Twain to fill their pages with fawning descriptions of ruins and churches, but instead he poked fun at nearly every aspect of “The Eternal City.”

This shouldn’t have surprised anyone. Born in Missouri, Twain was a Westerner to his core. On the frontier, humor was a survival mechanism, not just a quirk.

Most Americans were (and still are) blown away by Rome’s charms. As was his trademark, Twain found an alternate path. “This thing is growing monotonous,” he penned.

By the time he shared his Roman holiday with his readers back home, Twain had already toured “the Coliseum, and the gladiators, the martyrs, and the lions…” In truth, he had seen enough.

He found the crumbling columns and dirty marble to be tiresome, not because it wasn’t lovely, but because it was repetitive.

“I used to worship the mighty genius of Michael Angelo -- that man who was great in poetry, painting, sculpture, architecture -- great in every thing he undertook. But I do not want Michael Angelo for breakfast -- for luncheon -- for dinner -- for tea -- for supper -- for between meals. I like a change, occasionally” he joked.

Much to the chagrin of his tour guide, Twain was noticeably bored. The city appeared to have Michelangelo fever, and he, the unruly American, was immune.

“He designed St. Peter’s; he designed the Pope; he designed the Pantheon, the uniform of the Pope’s soldiers, the Tiber, the Vatican, the Coliseum, the Capitol, the Tarpeian Rock, the Barberini Palace, St. John Lateran, the Campagna, the Appian Way, the Seven Hills, the Baths of Caracalla, the Claudian Aqueduct, the Cloaca Maxima -- the eternal bore designed the Eternal City, and unless all men and books do lie, he painted every thing in it…”Enough, enough, enough! Say no more! Lump the whole thing! say that the Creator made Italy from designs by Michael Angelo!”

Twain was on a roll. “I never felt so fervently thankful, so soothed, so tranquil, so filled with a blessed peace, as I did yesterday when I learned that Michael Angelo was dead,” he quipped.

Much to the delight of his readers, Twain began to tease his Italian guide, and he included the conversation in its full glory.

“He has marched us through miles of pictures and sculpture in the vast corridors of the Vatican; and through miles of pictures and sculpture in twenty other palaces; he has shown us the great picture in the Sistine Chapel, and frescoes enough to frescoe the heavens--pretty much all done by Michael Angelo. So with him we have played that game which has vanquished so many guides for us--imbecility and idiotic questions. These creatures never suspect--they have no idea of a sarcasm.”

“He shows us a figure and says: “Statoo brunzo.” (Bronze statue.)

We look at it indifferently and the doctor asks: “By Michael Angelo?”

“No -- not know who.”

Then he shows us the ancient Roman Forum. The doctor asks: “Michael Angelo?”

A stare from the guide. “No -- thousan’ year before he is born.”

Then an Egyptian obelisk. Again: “Michael Angelo?”

Oh, mon dieu, genteelmen! Zis is two thousan’ year before he is born!”

In this moment Twain gave his country their first taste of his acerbic wit, and the American people ate it up.

He explained that “Guides know about enough English to tangle every thing up so that a man can make neither head or tail of it. They know their story by heart -- the history of every statue, painting, cathedral or other wonder they show you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would -- and if you interrupt, and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again.”

“After we discovered this, we never went into ecstacies any more--we never admired any thing -- we never showed any but impassible faces and stupid indifference in the presence of the sublimest wonders a guide had to display. We had found their weak point. We have made good use of it ever since. We have made some of those people savage, at times, but we have never lost our own serenity.”

What a smart alec.

There is so much more. The great thing about Mark Twain is that the hits never stop coming. When The Innocents Abroad was released in 1869 it was an instant classic. It sold over 70,000 copies in its first year alone.

While they did not know it at the time, post-Civil War Americans had found their moral compass, and it was broadcasting from the other side of the world.

It was the voice of a Westerner, and the United States would never be the same again.

In 1914, a Pennsylvania architect and philanthropist named Theodore Boal was fed up.

War had engulfed Europe, and the Central Powers were on the rise. As Germany and its allies scorched the countryside of France, Boal grew tired of America’s isolationist policies. While Congress sat on its hands, he decided to wage his own war.

Boal’s journey to the Western Front was a long one.

By 1914, Boal had amassed a fortune. His homes were amongst the most beautiful in the country, and he was lauded for his creativity. Born in Iowa in 1867, Boal studied design in Paris in the 1890’s and fell in love with the French people.

Upon his return to the US, he designed mansions in Colorado, lived temporarily in Washington, DC, and ultimately built his dream home in Centre County, Pennsylvania just outside of State College.

World War I ignited suddenly, but Boal knew the stakes from the beginning. He believed that Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany posed an existential threat to the free world, and he knew that America had no appetite for a foreign war.

That year, Boal travelled to France with his son and became a mercenary in the Great War. Stationed in France, he used his fortune to supply field hospitals and his son served as a cavalryman on some of the harshest battlefields of Europe. Although his service was valiant, he knew that it wasn’t enough.

He knew he could do more.

Since the start of the war, the “Preparedness Movement,” had swept the country. In 1916, Boal returned home to Centre County and announced the creation of a volunteer troop of horse-mounted machine gunners. He paid them out of his own pocket and personally led their training.

On a piece of open ground just a stone’s throw from Penn State University, Theodore Boal built his strike-force. His well-manicured pasture fences were ripped down. Trenches were dug across his fields, and machine gun nests were constructed. In a few short weeks, he transformed his country-estate into a replica of war-torn France.

They called it “Camp Boal.”

His original volunteers numbered only thirty-three. They were local boys from Central Pennsylvania, many of them college students from PSU, and he treated them like true soldiers.

Boal’s expectations were lofty, and his men answered the call. Their numbers swelled to nearly eighty. They labored hard through the summer at Camp Boal, and the sound of machine gun fire tore through the quietude of Happy Valley. That fall, Boal’s Troops did a three-month stint on the Mexican border to fend off the Poncho Villa’s raiders with the National Guard.

To Boal, it was merely a dress rehearsal.

They returned north in January of 1917 and were subsequently incorporated into the Pennsylvania Army National Guard and renamed Company A of the 107th Machine Gun Battalion. They deployed to Europe in May 1918 as part of the 28th Division.

Although his actions seemed farfetched in 1916, the reality was that Boal understood the emerging international order in a way that few others could.

Despite Congressional reluctance, he knew that America was destined to enter the world stage, and World War One was its opportunity to do so.

Eventually, “Boal’s Troop” was folded into the 28^th Machine Gun Battalion. By 1918, they were fully involved in overseas combat. They played important roles in the legendary Argonne Forest campaign, and revealed the skills that they first honed outside of State College, PA.

Eventually, Boal served as an aide-de-camp to General Charles M. Clement and later for Major General Charles H. Muir. For his efforts, he was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for valor and the French Croix de Guerre.

He was a hero to the Americans and French alike.

Following their service, the men of Boal’s Troop returned to Centre County and constructed a monument to their fallen comrades; they lost twelve men during their year of combat.

Today, the 28^th Infantry Division Shrine rests on the site of the Pennsylvania Military Museum in Boalsburg, PA. It sits solemnly along Rt. 322, decorated with decommissioned tanks and heavy artillery.

I visited the site last summer, and it was a moving experience.

Theodore Boal died in August of 1938. He is buried near his home.

The story of Boal’s Troop reveals the complex nature of international diplomacy, the uncertain future of the American republic, and the tenuous state of the American military in the pre-war era.

In October of 1775, Benjamin Franklin made a trip to Boston at the request of George Washington. Headquartered in Cambridge, the newly minted General struggled to organize his Continental Army. They were a motley collection of volunteers, Minute-Men, backwoodsmen, and militia units.

In many regards, they were an army without. They lacked financial support, military structure, supplies, and strategy. General Washington needed assistance, and he knew just who to turn to. By the fall of 1775 the British army occupied Boston, and Benjamin Franklin was prepared to put his worldly experiences to good use.

During his week in Cambridge, he haggled over matters of logistics and funding. Washington was a legislative neophyte, and he leaned on Franklin’s sharp political acumen to place the army on a secure footing. At 69 years old, Franklin was well suited for the task but found the topics to be tiresome.

On one occasion he dined with the Adams family but could not hide his exhaustion. According to Abigail Adams, Franklin was “social but not talkative, and when he spoke something useful dropped from his tongue. He was grave, yet pleasant and affable…I thought I could read into his countenance the virtues of his heart; among which patriotism shone in its full luster.”

To break his boredom, Franklin entertained himself by writing a song. Using history as a reference, he rewrote the lyrics of “An Old Courtier of the Queen’s” to disparage the British Army. He called the ballad “The King’s Own Regulars,” and targeted the Redcoats inability to contend with irregular forces.

Although he wrote the tongue-in-cheek song for his own self-amusement, he eventually decided to publish it in the November 27^th edition of The Boston Gazette. The colony of Massachusetts was on edge and needed a morale boost. For Franklin, the 18^th century “diss track” was too good to leave on the shelf.

In the document he condemns the Redcoats for their defeats at Prestonpans and Falkirk during the Jacobite Uprising of 1745, as well as for their horrific cowardice shown at Braddock’s Defeat a decade later.

He also criticizes the British Regulars for their defeats suffered during the Seven Years’ War at Fort William Henry, Fort Oswego, Fort Ticonderoga, and Louisbourg. Finally, he concludes the song by haranguing them for their retreat from Concord the previous April.

These military defeats were not selected at random, though. Franklin was directly attacking British Commander-in-Chief Thomas Gage. Although he was the highest-ranking royal officer in North America in 1775, Gage’s ascent was a hard one.

He battled the Jacobites in 1746 and was nearly killed at the British annihilation on the Monongahela (1755). During the French and Indian War, he was second in command at Fort Oswego (1756), and a key player at the failed assaults on Louisbourg (1757) and Ticonderoga (1758).

He likewise ordered the Regulars to march on Lexington and Concord earlier that spring.

In short, Franklin was taking a personal shot at Britain’s top officer and having fun while doing so.

This song is classic Franklin. It’s a wonderful example of his wit, humor, and political mindset during the perilous year 1775.

The King’s own REGULARS;

And their Triumphs over the Irregulars.

A New SONG,

To the Tune of,

An old Courtier of the Queen’s, and the Queen’s old Courtier.

Since you all will have singing, and won’t be said, nay,

I cannot refuse where you so beg and pray;

So I’ll sing you a song-as a body may say.

’Tis of the King’s Regulars, who ne’er run way.

O the old Soldiers of the King, and the King’s own Regulars.

At Preston Pans we met with some Rebels one day,

We marshall’d ourselves all in comely array:

Our hearts were all stout, and bid our legs stay,

But our feet were wrong headed and took us away.

O the old soldiers, &c.

At Falkirk we resolv’d to be braver,

And recover some credit by better behaviour;

We would not acknowledge feet had done us a favour;

So feet swore they would stand, but-legs ran however.

O the old soldier, &c.

No troops perform better than we at reviews;

We march and we wheel, and whatever you chuse.

George would see how we fight, and we never refuse;

There we all fight with courage-you may see it in the news.

O the old soldiers, &c.

To Monongehela with fifes and with drums

We march’d in fine order, with cannon and bombs:

That great expedition cost infinite sums;

But a few irregulars cut us all into crumbs.

O the old soldiers, &c.

It was not fair to shoot at us from behind trees:

If they had stood open as they ought before our great Guns we should have beat them with ease.

They may fight with one another that way if they please;

But it is not regular to stand and fight with such rascals as these.

O the old soldier, &c.

At Fort George and Oswego, to our great reputation,

We shew’d our vast skill in fortification;

The French fired three guns, of the fourth they had no occasion;

For we gave up those forts, not thro’ fear-but mere persuasion.

O the old soldiers, &c.

To Ticonderoga we went in a passion,

Swearing to be revenged on the whole French nation.

But we soon turned tail, without hesitation

Because they fought behind trees, which is not the fashion.

O the old soldiers, &c.

Lord Loudon he was a fine regular General, they say;

With a great regular army he went his way

Against Louisbourg, to make it his prey;

But return’d without seeing it, for he did not feel bold that day.

O the old soldier, &c.

Grown proud at reviews, great George had no rest,

Each grandsire, he had heard a rebellion supprest.

He wish’d a rebellion, look’d round and saw none,

So resolv’d a rebellion to make of his own-

With the old soldiers, &c.

The Yankees he bravely pitch’d on, because he thought they would not fight,

And so he sent us over to take away their right,

But least they should spoil our review clothes, he cried braver and louder,

“For God’s sake, brother kings, don’t sell the cowards any powder.”

O the old soldiers &c.

Our General with his council of war did advise,

How at Lexington we might the Yankees surprise.

We march’d-and we march’d-all surpriz’d at being beat;

And so our wise General’s plan of surprise was complete.

O the old soldiers &c.

For fifteen miles they follow’d and pelted us, we scarce had time to pull a trigger;

But did you ever know a retreat perform’d with more vigour?

For we did it in two hours, which sav’d us from perdition,

’Twas not in going out but in returning consisted our expedition.

O the old soldiers, &c.

Says our General, we were forced to take to our arms in our own defence:

(For arms read legs, and it will be both truth and sense.

Lord Percy (says He) I must say something of him in civility,

And that is, I can never enough praise him for his great-agility.

O the old soldiers, &c.

Of their firing from behind fences, he makes a great pother,

Ev’ry fence has two sides; they made use of one, and we only forgot to use the other.

That we turn’d our backs and ran away so fast, don’t let that disgrace us;

’Twas only to make good what Sandwich said, “that the Yankees would not face us.”

O the old soldiers, &c.

As they could not get before us, how could they look us in the face?

We took care they should not, by scampering away apace;

That they had not much to brag of, is a very plain case.

For if they beat us in the fight, we beat them in the race.

O the old soldiers of the King, and the King’s own Regulars.

On the afternoon of September 13^th, 1901 Vice President Theodore Roosevelt was hiking. Lost among the eastern deciduous forests of upstate New York, the 42-year-old sought desperately to clear his mind.

He was climbing Mount Marcy, the highest point in New York state, and doing so at a breakneck pace. At 5343 feet in elevation, the towering peak was considered a geological highlight of the Adirondack Mountains. It was a challenging hike; the ground sloped circuitously toward its pinnacle, and Roosevelt was grateful to have it.

As he crushed piney needles and cones beneath the soles of his boots, he rarely slowed down and never admired his progress. He was fixated on reaching the top of Mount Marcy, and only then would he pause for a moment of reflection.

This singular quest for achievement was an obsessive trait that had served him well in his life, but on this day was proving insufferable to his aides that struggled to keep up.

One week earlier President William McKinley was shot twice by a lone wolf anarchist named Leon Czolgosz while attending the Pan-American exposition in Buffalo, NY. The assassins’ bullets tore through his abdomen, and the nation was sent reeling by the news.

For Roosevelt, the development was as disheartening as it was startling. Though Czolgosz had only loose ties to any actual political movement, the Vice President saw the attack on McKinley as just another salvo in the ongoing assault on American freedom.

For much of the last decade Roosevelt had boiled at the chatter of ideological extremists promoting all manner of new political alignments. Differing wildly in their perspectives, in Roosevelt’s mind they all served to derail the capitalist system that he loved so dearly.

When Roosevelt first received word of McKinley’s shooting, he was attending a luncheon hosted by the Vermont Fish and Game League on Lake Champlain. At the news, he boarded a train and sped hastily toward Buffalo.

The journey was nearly four hundred miles, and upon his arrival he was told that the President’s prognosis seemed positive. The bullets had not harmed any vital organs, and the bleeding had been stopped. Roosevelt was uplifted by the news, and White House officials suggested that he escape to the mountains in a public show of optimism.

TR, as he preferred to be called, did not need to be asked twice. Roosevelt’s destination was the Tawahus Club near Newcomb, NY. Situated at the foot of Mount Marcy the tiny resort was an up-and-coming destination for Manhattanites eager to escape the daily grind of city life.

It was pleasant, but undeveloped. There were other Adirondack getaways that offered more comfort and amenities, so few New Yorkers chose the Tawahus Club for their vacations. For most socialites it was too far north, too isolated, and too underserved…for Roosevelt, it was perfect.

He called for his wife and children to meet him there at once.

Six days after McKinley was gunned down, the Vice President and his family were nestled safely in the Adirondack Mountains. The previous days had been a whirlwind of newspaper, telegrams, and false hopes…like the rest of America he was anxious, frightened, and exhausted.

While most of the nation poured over daily newspaper updates regarding the fallen president’s condition, Roosevelt took to the hills. To escape the stress and anxiousness of the time, Roosevelt asked for a party to guide him to the top of Mount Marcy, and onward he trekked.

The climb to the top of New York’s highest peak was done entirely on foot trails without the aid of climbing gear. The paths were narrow, often allowing only one traveler to squeeze through at a time, and Roosevelt’s speedy pace easily left his aides in the distance.

Even as Vice President Roosevelt was not interested in being guided on a gentleman’s hike; he sought true isolation in the wilderness and was reluctant to slow his progress.

While the trail was winding and treacherous, the dense forest would sometimes break up to reveal rocky waterfalls forcefully rushing down the slopes. Twisted tree limbs and gnarled roots constantly tripped Roosevelt as he pressed upward, but they were a welcomed obstacle when compared with the political machinists that awaited him back in Washington, DC.

As he broke through the cloud line, the peak of Mount Marcy finally towered overhead. While most of the journey had been cloaked in the cover of thick trees and brush, the peak ahead was made almost entirely of exposed grey limestone. After twelve grueling miles it was an unforgiving site, but an invigorating one for any hiker intrepid enough to brave its slopes.

From the peak Roosevelt was treated to a 360 degree view of the mighty Adirondack Mountain range, including the prominent spires of Mount Haystack to the southeast, Mount Skylight to the south, and Mount Colden to the west. It had been a grueling two day sojourn, but it was exactly what the Vice President needed to shake off the burdens of service during such uncertain times.

By the time his aides had caught up with him, TR was already headed back down the trail. Before his climb began he was made aware of a unique mountain lake known as Tear-of-the-Clouds; though he bypassed it during his upward journey, he was anxious to see it on the way back toward the resort.

As the Vice President sat on the shores of the lake, he absorbed as much as the tranquility as time would allow. His quest for solitude was but a pipe dream, for a man in his position was rarely afforded such a luxury. He knew that the rest of his party would soon arrive, and he inhaled the fresh air as though he was preparing to take it with him back down the mountain.

Suddenly, the sound of a crashing runner caught his attention from an unlikely place. Instead of coming down the mountain, this runner was climbing up.

“After reaching the top I had descended a few hundred feet…where there was a little lake,” Roosevelt recalled. “…I saw a guide coming out of the woods on our trail below. I felt at once that he had bad news...” Emerging from the forest at approximately 1:25 pm the messenger handed Roosevelt an urgent telegram that would change his life and alter the fate of a nation.[i]

It read:

“THE PRESIDENT IS CRITICALLY ILL. HIS CONDITION IS GRAVE. OXYGEN IS BEING GIVEN. ABSOLUTELY NO HOPE”

By the time that Vice President Theodore Roosevelt reached the lodge where his family was staying, the news of McKinley’s condition grew darker by the hour.

“THE PRESIDENT APPEARS TO BE DYING AND MEMBERS OF THE CABINET IN BUFFALO THINK YOU SHOULD LOSE NO TIME COMING,” read the latest telegraph.

Getting to Buffalo was going to be a journey in itself, and Roosevelt wasted no time. After saying his farewells to his family at the Upper Tahawus lodge, he boarded a horse drawn carriage and began his descent out of the mountains. With the nearest railroad station in North Creek, the Vice President needed to cover forty miles in the black of night.

Despite the perilous conditions, his horses streaked through the darkness until reaching Aiden Lair Lodge, another nearby resort destination, where they were swapped out for fresher legs. The remaining trek to the North Creek rail station was sixteen miles further down the mountains, and the pair of large, black Morgan horses struggled to keep their footing under the stress of the driver’s demands.

To lessen the bumping the driver slowed around the bends of the winding road, prompting Roosevelt to shout “Oh that doesn’t matter! Push ahead!”

By the time the Vice President’s carriage reached North Creek, it was after 5 o’clock in the morning and a special train was standing by. As he boarded the car to Buffalo, nearly three hundred miles, he was handed a slip of paper by his secretary William Loeb, Jr.

The telegram read “THE PRESIDENT DIED AT TWO-FIFTEEN THIS MORNING.”

The moment did not seem to phase the 42 year old on the verge of becoming the youngest chief executive in American history. He hurried onto the train and dictated a message to his wife still sleeping in her mountain retreat.

Along with his Edith, Roosevelt next launched a broadside of memorandums to advisors, confidents, and political powerbrokers. It seemed that in the chaos of the morning, the future President was already making plans for the job ahead.

The engine steamed southward toward Albany, and Roosevelt watched the peaks of the Adirondacks shrink in the distance. As the landscape flattened and dawn broke, he contemplated the enormous responsibilities that awaited him, and the freedom that he would lose in the process.

Washington, the Presidency, and all that came with it would bog him down in a way that he never experienced before.

The expectations were tremendous, as were the pressures to succeed, and his time in the White House would be all encompassing. As he left the Adirondacks behind, Roosevelt bid farewell to “the beauty and charm of the wilderness” uncertain of when he would next see it again.

That afternoon Roosevelt’s train arrived in Buffalo. To his astonishment thousands of onlookers flocked to the rails with hopes of catching a glimpse of the new President whizzing by. What had been a somber trip turned into a celebration, and throngs of waving citizens cheered his arrival.

At 1:30 pm the engine’s brakes screeched to a halt at Terrace Station to the delight of hundreds waiting outside.

Theodore Roosevelt stepped onto the platform to a chorus of huzzahs and cheers; unshaken by the moment, he did his best to steady his gaze and hide the fatigue of days before. In the street outside a carriage waited along with twelve mounted police officers. He climbed in, signaled ahead, and they raced off.

Thus began the Presidency of Theodore Roosevelt.

The Declaration of Independence can teach us a lot about the Whiskey Rebellion.

Naturally, when we hear the term “Independence Day” we think of Thomas Jefferson. I picture the man scribing away in a stuffy Philadelphia apartment, with sweat pouring from his forehead.

July 4^th, 1776, will live on forever as our first birthday, but few realize it was the result of a long process of multi-state, multi-county, and multi-town debates.

By the time Jefferson wrote “We hold these truths to be self-evident,” there had already been dozens of similar declarations passed throughout the American colonies.

Dozens? The number was close to ninety.

In the two years before July 4^th, 1776, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Western Pennsylvania all drafted resolves deriding the Crown. Massachusetts, too. In fact, they published several of them.

Don’t let this surprise you, but don’t trivialize it, either. In the American Colonies, it was customary for these sorts of ideas to flow upwards.

In the case of American independence, citizens gathered in towns to express their deep concerns about British abuses. As a result, they would draft a set of resolves and pass them to the leadership at the county level.

Following a larger council, those same county officials would likewise create a document enumerating their concerns, and they would next pass it up the chain to the colonial government in their respective capitals.

This process was highly effective, and a critical part of representative government within the British Empire. In 1776, Jefferson had read many of these earlier pronouncements before drafting the final copy of his own.

Case in point: the Virginia Declaration of Rights (June 12, 1776) was an impressive and eloquent document, and Jefferson borrowed from it liberally. Ray Raphael, a noted Revolutionary historian, joked that “Jefferson was not the author of independence, he was merely the editor.”

Now to the Whiskey Rebellion.

We remember the insurrection as one of screaming radicals flogging tax collectors. That was true, but that wasn’t how it started.

In the Spring of 1791, concerned western farmers first resisted the Whiskey Act the way they knew best. They utilized the same correspondence and resolution system that brought about the Declaration of Independence fifteen years earlier.

Delegates first met in their county seats to air their grievances. They met in Greensburg (Westmoreland County), Pittsburgh (Allegheny County), Washington (Washington County), and Brownsville (Fayette County). In each case, the local leadership published a set of public resolves. They explained their concerns and numerically listed their specific complaints.

Sound familiar?

Just a few weeks later a much larger, multi-county effort was held in Pittsburgh at the Sign of the Green Tree Tavern. All of the previous members were in attendance, plus a lot of new ones.

The Tavern was a who’s who of western leaders including PA Assemblymen Albert Gallatin, US Congressman William Findley, and Washington County Deputy Attorney General David Bradford.

Just like in 1776, they produced another document that was larger and more formal. It was called “The Green Tree Resolves,” and they named themselves “The First Pittsburgh Convention.”

Gallatin took a copy of the resolves to the Pennsylvania Assembly, and Findley took them to Congress.

When compared to the procedural drafting of the Declaration of Independence, it was the same process. It was the system that they knew best, and they attempted to use it again.

In 1776, the British Empire responded to the Declaration by sending troops to suppress the insurrection. In 1794, the United States Government did as well.

Let’s raise a glass for the rebels.

In the aftermath of the French and Indian War (1754-1763), both Virginia and Pennsylvania claimed the Ohio River Valley.

In reality, confusion was the sole ruler.

From the British imperial perspective, settlement over the mountains was made illegal by the Royal Proclamation of 1763. Fearful of alienating its Native allies, the Crown elected to segregate the entire western backcountry.

That was a failed effort. Settlers poured into the West, and a jurisdictional tug-of-war began. Since the 1740’s, the modern cliché stating that “possession is nine-tenths of the law” was the norm.

France built forts in the 1750’s from the Great Lakes to the Ohio River, and Britain needed to wage a global war to uproot them.

In that same tradition Virginia and Pennsylvania followed suit. They both engaged in aggressive building projects…some were authorized, and some were not.

The story that followed was a mess. Using the Braddock Road (built in 1755), Virginians poured into the Ohio Country. Pittsburgh quickly became their defacto capital in the region.

Pennsylvania answered in kind. Its settlers followed the Forbes Road (1758) and established their base of operations at Hannastown in Westmoreland County.

In the lead up to the Revolution, the rival colonies engaged in a cold war to determine the future of the West. Both entities sent militias to defend the frontier, and they took turns arresting one another’s citizens in the name of their absentee governors.

That all changed in 1774 when Virginia escalated the conflict. The colonial assembly officially named the Ohio River Valley as “The District of West Augusta.”

It was a bold play. They claimed Pittsburgh as part of their domain and even renamed Fort Pitt “Fort Dunmore” after their colonial Governor John Murray, 4^th Earl of Dunmore.

In 1776, the Old Dominion further solidified its gains by creating three new counties out of the West Augusta occupation zone: Ohio County, Monongalia County, and Yohogania County.

This was described as an act “for ascertaining the boundary between the County of Augusta and the District of West Augusta, and for dividing the said District into three distinct counties.”

That September, the Virginians established a temporary court at “Augusta Town” near modern Washington, PA. It sat near Washington Crown Center Mall, to be exact. It was short lived.

Consider this article to be your primer for the West Augusta District. We will discuss where they were located, how they functioned, and, most critically, what remains.

Yohogania County

The most politically powerful of the new counties was Yohogania. Using the Ohio River and Kiskimenitas River as its northern boundaries, the county included most of the modern counties of Allegheny, Fayette, Beaver, Westmoreland, and Washington Counties in Pennsylvania. It also encompassed parts of Hancock and Brooke Counties in today’s West Virginia.

As required by law, any lawful county in the Virginia colony needed a courthouse to fulfill its basic functionality. The court was first established at Augusta Town (Washington), followed by Pittsburgh, and held at the renamed Fort Dunmore (Fort Pitt).

The courthouse would eventually move to the banks of the Monongahela River near modern Elizabeth, PA at the home of Andrew Heath.

Using AI, along with period descriptions and sketches, I have faithfully recreated the Yohogania County Courthouse below. Note that each courthouse was required to construct a pillory, whipping post, and dunking stool for punishments.

I used the word “Courthouse” loosely. To modern onlookers the government center was nothing more than a two-story log cabin. The upper story was the court itself, and the lower section was used as a county jail.

Many of the county’s residents maintained loyalty to the Virginia Colony throughout the Revolution. Pittsburgh was used as a launching point for Governor Dunmore’s war against the Shawnees in 1774, and most of Southwestern Pennsylvania’s original land deeds were authorized and maintained by Virginia, not Pennsylvania.

Monongalia County

Monongalia County was the most rugged of the three counties formed in the West Augusta District. The boundaries of the county included much of northern and central West Virginia, as well as the Pennsylvania counties of Fayette, Greene, and Washington.

This subsection contained the vital future settlements of Uniontown, PA, Brownsville, PA, and Morgantown, WV.

Beholden to the same laws as its contemporaries, Monongalia County established its courthouse where the Monongahela River and Georges Creek met. This roughhewn cabin was constructed on the property of Theophilus Phillips. Today, this is in the vicinity of New Geneva, PA.

Descendants of Phillips describe the location as 1/2 mile southeast of PA Rt. 166. George Washington verifies this description. During his 1784 travels, he visited the Phillips plantation. The September 24th entry reads “the fork [confluence of the Cheat and Monongahela Rivers] was about 2 miles and a half from Colo. Philips,” he wrote.

Originally a native of New Jersey, Phillips established churches in the vast frontier region and eventually made his money exporting produce southward to the rich markets of New Orleans.

In 1782, the courthouse was relocated to Morgantown, WV. Monongalia County survives today absent its Pennsylvania holdings, and Morgantown remains its county seat.

In the twenty-first century most locals lovingly call it “Mon County,” further distancing them from its much greater history.

Ohio County

While its sisters were about “the here and now,” Ohio County was Virginia’s investment in the future. It encompassed parts of modern Washington and Greene Counties in Pennsylvania, and sections of Brooke, Ohio, and Marshall Counties in West Virginia.

Most importantly, it granted the Old Dominion an enormous chunk of the Ohio River’s coastline.

The Ohio River was the gateway to the west, and cities like Wheeling ensured that Virginia’s grand age of imperial rule would extend well into the 19^th century.

To meet the county’s courthouse mandate, electors chose a site known as “Black’s Cabin” for their government center. This is in the modern city of West Liberty, WV.

For two hundred thirty years, the Ohio County Courthouse remained a fixture in the community and boasted itself as “the first courthouse in the Mississippi Watershed.”

Sadly, the cabin fell into disrepair. There was a valiant attempt to save it, but it was torn down during the COVID-19 pandemic.

I’ve included some before and after images here. It’s a sad reminder that if we don’t care for these resources, they will be lost.

The Ohio County Courthouse was used for years after the Revolution and even hosted some Whiskey Rebellion trials.

Like most of our past, today it is only a memory.

A Lost Chapter

In 1780 the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and the Commonwealth of Virginia brokered a deal to extend the Mason and Dixon Line to its western terminus.

As a result, Virginia lost its holdings in the Monongahela River Valley and the Three Rivers region. Critically, it retained full control of its Northern Panhandle and its stake in the nation’s future.

These border squabbles seem trivial to us today, but they were critical for understanding the complicated dynamics of Early America, especially the Revolutionary Era.

History is messy sometimes. Embrace it.

In 1965, Appalachia was in crisis.

The nation was modernizing rapidly. Interstate highways criss-crossed the nation, affecting the lives of tens of millions of people. In the wake of this innovation, Americans came to appreciate one of their greatest freedoms: the freedom to move.

Eisenhower’s great road network transformed American life, but its effects were not felt everywhere. Unlike their neighbors to the northeast and southeast, Appalachian peoples were mostly left out of the transportation boom.

This was a major problem for President Lyndon Johnson, who knew that the country was only as strong as its weakest link. In the final year of his tumultuous first term, this accidental president proposed a bold step to fix the problem.

The Appalachian Highway Development system sought to connect the peoples of Appalachia with the rest of their countrymen. The plan was sweeping, and encompassed thirteen states from New York in the north, to Mississippi in the south.

It was unfair to claim that these people were left out by President Eisenhower’s original interstate system, but roads like I-79, I-64, and I-77 were simply not enough. They were throughfares at best, and did little to improve the lives of the millions of hard-working people that lived along its periphery.

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Historically, geography always worked against Appalachia. West Virginia had dozens of rivers, but unlike the major watersheds nearby, they were a literal dead end. Aside from the Ohio and Potomac Rivers, most flowed inward. Historically, the great river systems of the east led to the sea and became key corridors of growth.

The Mountaineer State’s rivers offered no such relief. Rivers in West Virginia terminated deep in the heart of the mountains and did not lead to the sea. In a way, residents were commercially and socially trapped by this conspiracy of Mother Nature. They couldn’t escape or expand even if they wished to.

Thus came the stereotypes. To the outside world, Appalachian Americans were ridiculed as backwards, incestuous, uneducated, and incapable of breaking free from the bonds of traditions. They were jeered as banjo-pickers and cousin-lovers. The Hatfield and McCoy Feud enthralled the nation, used as further evidence that these mountain people were locked in an almost medieval standstill.

As the nation prospered, it appeared that Appalachia was frozen in time.

None of this was true. West Virginia, Kentucky, and North Carolina had some of the most innovative and ambitious people in the country. At one time, the city of Wheeling had more millionaires per capita than any other metropolitan region in America.

They had a will, but they needed a way.

Back to 1965. LBJ knew all of this, and his economic plan was sweeping. It was formally presented to Congress as the “President’s Appalachian Regional Commission.” As part of his revitalization effort, LBJ proposed the “Appalachian Highway Development System,” the first step in a sweeping age of reform.

According to the report, the thirteen states of Appalachia held the potential to add billions of dollars to the existing GDP, but they needed an expanded federal investment to unleash their true power.

The enthusiasm in Congress was palpable. Senators like Robert Byrd (who is still a legend in the region) led the charge. He boasted that the mountains held the key to prosperity and believed that Appalachia’s coal reserves would power America into a new era of post-war dominance on the world stage.

Sixty years later, he was proven correct. Since its passage, the AHDS has built over twelve thousand miles of new interstate highways, state routes, and regional road networks.

Each section was designated as a “Corridor,” labeled from A through X. You can still follow them today, and they are proudly marked.

Vast stretches of the Carolinas, Northern Alabama, and Western Pennsylvania became physically tied to the rest of the nation, and the money flowed outwards. Recent studies have found that the initiative produced more than fifty-four billion dollars of new growth since its passage.

Travelers have also benefitted tremendously. In total, the new highways saved commercial drivers over 230 million hours of travel time and have resulted in over forty thousand new jobs.

Amazingly, the AHDS has paid off in big ways. For every $1.00 invested, America has seen an overall return of $3.70.

Even after six decades, LBJ’s original vision is still paying off. Improvement projects continue in most Appalachian states, including a much-needed expansion of I-68 connecting Western Maryland to Eastern Ohio.

Country roads are still taking America home.

Ah, Kecksburg.

Western Pennsylvanians have a soft spot for that little town…even if they are reluctant to admit it.

It sits in the heart of Westmoreland County at the base of Chestnut Ridge. It’s quiet and scenic, but that’s not unusual for the Laurel Highlands region.

Lean in closer and I’ll tell you the real reason we care so much. On December 9th, 1965, a spaceship crashed there. Or maybe a meteor? Or maybe nothing at all.

The official story from the federal government is the latter.

That night, a strange object emitting a green flame streaked across the Great Lakes. It flew over Ontario, Michigan, Ohio, and Pennsylvania. It finally crashed into a copse of trees outside of Kecksburg, PA just before 5 pm. It was seen by thousands of people during its midair flight, but only a small handful of witnesses saw it after it touched down in Westmoreland County.

Locals insist that US military officials arrived almost immediately. They loaded the acorn-shaped object onto a flatbed truck and sped away in the darkness. Sixty years later, we still have no answers.

We love the Kecksburg incident in these parts. It’s the X-Files meets CSI meets Roswell. It’s fact versus fiction. It pits regular people against the Cold War arrogance of the federal government.

Dozens of patriotic Americans witnessed an acorn shaped object smoking in the woods that night. They described it as burnt orange all over and made of metal with no seams or welding of any kind. Some claimed it had a strange, hieroglyphic language written on it. Others weren’t so sure. Either way, Uncle Sam told them it was all a figment of their imagination.

Move along. Nothing to see here.

We’ll never know the truth, and we’ve accepted that. But that’s what’s so thrilling about the whole affair.

Imagine the surprise when our little town of Kecksburg made an appearance in Steven Spielberg’s new alien blockbuster Disclosure Day.

I won’t spoil anything, but a dramatization of the mysterious Kecksburg crash is given significant screen time.

It was the highlight of the film for me. “Pennsylvania’s Roswell” got its fifteen minutes of fame. It was the biggest break for Kecksburg since Robert Stack’s Unsolved Mysteries featured it in 1990.

We live in a different time now. Former President Barack Obama admitted that aliens are real, and the government is releasing document dumps that reinforce those claims. Secretary of State Marco Rubio is on the record that UAP’s exist (they’ll always be UFO’s to me) and insists that they are a national security threat.

Folks…all bets are off.

So now that Kecksburg is back in the conversation, let’s look at how it was portrayed in Disclosure Day. Let’s discuss what Spielberg got right, and what he got wrong.

Initially, we are given a first-person view of a camera man, and he’s zooming in on a clapboard that reads “KECKSBURG, PA” in scribbled handwriting. Soldiers and scientists are busy in the background. It’s nighttime.

Fiction: There were numerous eyewitnesses (both civilian and military alike) at Kecksburg on the evening of December 9^th, 1965, but only one had a camera. John Murphy, a local radio host for WHJB, took several photos of the crashed object in the woods. He also interviewed many of the locals on scene. Before he could report his findings, military officials confiscated his film. Murphy’s photos would’ve been enormously important, but they have vanished. On the inverse, no eyewitness reported any military or government official with a camera of any kind. Worse yet, the only official government reports that still exist come from the defunct “Project Blue Book,” which erroneously labels the crash site as nearby Acme, PA, not Kecksburg.

Next, the camera pans to an enormous silver object protruding from the ground. It is a spacecraft of some kind. It is long, narrow and resembles an ice cream cone. Its back end rests high above the heads of the government agents on site.

Close: One of the earliest eyewitnesses on site was Jim Romansky, a volunteer firefighter from nearby Latrobe, PA. He described the object as being entirely scorched and having a burnt orange color. He also said it was acorn shaped, approximately 10-12 feet long, and 8 feet in diameter. He stressed that it was large enough for a single man to stand inside when upright. The object from the film has more of a classical sci-fi look but doesn’t quite match Romansky’s description. Romansky was not the only eyewitness though, another man named Bill Bulebush gave a similar account. Others however claimed that the object was much smaller, roughly the size of “two suitcases.”

Finally, government officials are shown interrogating an alien sitting on the ground near the crash site. He (somewhat comically) holds his bulbous ET head like he’s dizzy and dazed. No one nearby seems to truly care for his well-being.

Fiction: Nobody…and I mean NOBODY claims to have seen an alien or a pilot on site in December of 1965. Witnesses stated that military officials loaded the crashed object onto a flatbed truck and hurried it out of town. They also saw men wearing radiation suits carry away a large rectangular box from the site. Local newspapers reported the entire incident as a meteor crash, and the government said there was nothing found. After that night, people mostly forgot about the incident until the UFO craze of the mid-1980’s. If anybody saw an alien, it would’ve been mass hysteria in Westmoreland County. It should be said that one man did come forward and claimed to have seen a strange figure moving inside the object, but it was not until four decades later.

Theories abound about what really happened on December 9^th, 1965. Some researchers speculate that the object was a Soviet spy satellite, and others that it was an American re-entry vehicle. Both are plausible, but the silent majority in Western Pennsylvania are secretly hoping that maybe, just maybe, Steven Spielberg is right.

Pittsburgh’s North Side is a very historic place.

It’s home to the world’s first professional football game, two World Series victories, and six Lombardi trophies.

But there’s more to the region formally known as “Allegheny City,” than its sports.

President-elect Abraham Lincoln spoke there, it was the western terminus of the Pennsylvania Main Line Canal, and where H.J. Heinz forged his Ketchup empire.

But, sadly, not all historic sites have a marker.

Two hundred and fifty years ago, the Allegheny River’s northern shore was the location where the region’s Native American population buried their dead. This is not a reference to the mound-building populations of paleo-America, either.

These burials occurred during the colonial period and extended well into George Washington’s presidency.

The site is lost to history, and rests unmarked near PNC Park. To be exact, it sits directly beneath the DL Clark Candy Company.

The first historic reference comes from May 2^nd, 1762. During that time the region was newly claimed by Great Britain, who wrestled it from Imperial France during the Seven Years’ War (1756-1763).

Fort Pitt, the city’s namesake, was still under construction.

The note comes from the trader James Kenny. He was a Pittsburgh regular during the colonial period.

“This Day Delaware George was Interr’d over ye Alegheny River,” he wrote. “A file of Soldiers attend’d, who fire’d three Rounds over his Grave. Geo. Croghan & many White people attend’d ye Burrial, in ye night ye Indns Shot off Guns many time, as they say to drive away ye Evil Spirts.”

In total, the funeral for Delaware George cost £10, and George Croghan picked up the tab.

The next reference comes from 1788. The American Revolution had been over for five years, and a new Indian war was starting in the Northwest Territory. A quarter-century later, the cemetery was still being used.

An American militia commander named John May and “several other gentlemen” crossed over the Allegheny River from Pittsburgh to visit the site. They travelled on a barge named “Congress,” and wore white uniforms.

If they seemed overdressed, they were.

The burial ground wasn’t their destination, but an “object of curiosity” along the way. They were actually visiting Colonel Butler’s plantation. May writes that “…among other objects of curiosity we went to see some Indian graves.”

According to his notes, there were no headstones, but tall wooden poles that were “daubed with red” at the top. He stated that the structures were meant to be “left out of the ground as tall as the [people who were] buried.”

It was a particularly somber moment for May, because the most recent burial was still fresh. He paid his respects to “Old Kimtony, the Indian chief, who died a few days since.”

The final source in the historical record comes in October 1829. William McCullough Darlington (that’s a name many will recognize), recalled watching a street being built with some of his boyhood schoolmates.

During the construction “near the outlet of the Canal,” the boys were delighted to see four skeletons emerge from the soil. One of them had been buried in a wooden casket and secured shut with nails.

The curious workmen opened the casket to find a complete skeleton adorned with many ornaments, consisting of “mostly copper rings.”

These were most likely the remains of Delaware George, judging by the expense of his burial in 1762.

By the end of the 19^th century, the burial ground was completely covered over and forgotten.

It was replaced by Cremo Street, which has also vanished. The image below shows a picture of Cremo Street after a flood in 1906.

Today, this lost piece of hallowed ground sits somewhere beneath Martindale Street.

Next time you find yourself on the North Side, consider the sanctity of the place, and if you feel so inclined, pay your respects.

Whiskey was America’s first “cryptocurrency” on the frontier.

Following the American Revolution, the young United States struggled to find its footing. It was burdened with debt, and unable to control its own territories west of the Appalachian Mountains.

The crises of the Trans-Appalachian West were many. British soldiers remained garrisoned on the Great Lakes, and a Native American resistance movement was well underway in Ohio. Spanish operatives blockaded the Mississippi River, and western settlers were openly suspicious of federal authority.

The nascent republic was on wobbly legs, but one of its most overlooked troubles was its utter lack of currency. In the Early National Period we hadn’t yet begun to mint coins or print paper money.

We were reliant on foreign specie to power our economy.

It was not until the passage of the Coinage Act of 1792 that Congress authorized the minting of coins, and most wouldn’t see circulation until late in 1793.

In cities like Philadelphia and Boston, business was done with coinage from Europe, which was literally worth its weight in gold.

But the Appalachian Mountains loomed large in the Early Republic and proved to be a critical obstacle to the formation of a unified marketplace between East and West. Commerce struggled to flow over the mountains and into the backcountry, and foreign coinage was equally scarce.

As a result, backcountry settlements in Pennsylvania, Virginia, and Kentucky were forced to create an economy of their own without gold and silver.

By 1791, the western frontier sustained itself through a barter system. Goods and services were traded in lieu of cash. I’ll paint your barn, you give me a hog. Simple. Straight-forward. Practical.

It was an agricultural world, and its people were highly innovative. Based mostly in the production of grain, whiskey became a critical staple of western life. Whiskey distillation was so prevalent that William Findley, a Congressman from Pennsylvania, stated that “in many parts of the country, you could scarcely get out of sight of the smoke of a still-house.”

Whiskey was king on the frontier, but it was also America’s first “cryptocurrency.”

Rather than exchanging gold and silver, western farmers instead traded whiskey for payment. It was valuable, abundant, and most importantly, possessed attributes very similar to the hard coinage that was used in the east.

Whiskey never spoils and only improves with age. Just like money accrued interest in a bank, whiskey likewise gained value when stored on a shelf. It wasn’t a perfect system, but it powered the economy of the frontier in America’s earliest years.

Thus, when Alexander Hamilton introduced the Whiskey Act in 1791, it sent shockwaves across the region. The new law required distillers to register their stills and imposed a tax on their produce. The Whiskey Act was the first federal tax imposed on a domestic product in American history.

For westerners, one of the most galling aspects of the new tax was its collection requirements. The Treasury Department insisted that the tax be paid in hard currency only, with no exceptions. Many saw it as an unfair burden.

Once this fact became understood, frontiersmen balked. They were backed into a corner. The lack of gold and silver in the west meant that farmers couldn’t pay the tax even if they wished to.

Whiskey was their currency, but it was no good in Philadelphia.

The Whiskey Rebellion is much more complicated than many realize.

Following the Revolution, the young American republic sought to define itself as a new economic power in North America. While the rich cities of the east made fortunes trading with superpowers overseas, the true future of the nation lied in its vast interior. Filled with almost limitless resources, the Ohio River became a superhighway west for settlers seeking prosperity across the frontier.

From approximately 1780 to 1816, thousands of boatmen would float from Pittsburgh to New Orleans, a journey of over 1400 miles, to sell their wares to the waiting markets of the Gulf Coast.

The journey was perilous and accomplished utilizing a watercraft known as the flatboat. Clumsy and slow, the flatboat would be poled down river at a snail’s pace by crews of five or more men. Although the vessels proved adept at transporting large amounts of goods safely over long distances, they were difficult to steer and difficult to defend.

From Louisville to the mouth of the Ohio, the desolate wilderness still reigned, and many uneasy travelers dreaded the stretch of river. Their fears were justified, for a new breed of criminal lied in wait to exploit the defenseless flatboats at their most vulnerable.

Known as the Ohio River Pirates, these bandits struck fear in the hearts of travelers across the frontier and nearly brought America’s western expansion to a screeching halt.

Cave-in-Rock: Den of Lawlessness

Along the twisting corridor of the Ohio River valley sat an immense natural wonder known as Cave-in-Rock. Located on the northwestern bank of the river, this 55-foot-wide cavern became a notorious landmark on the journey from Pittsburgh to New Orleans. Originally called Caverne dans le Roc (Cave in the Rock) by French military engineers in 1729, the towering rock formation offered shelter and safety to native peoples for thousands of years.

Located in the modern state of Illinois, the cave appeared just before one of the most treacherous stretches of the Ohio River. As crews anxiously navigated low water levels, piercing snags, and uncertain passages, Cave-in-Rock greeted them as a welcome respite to rest their heads and plan for the voyage ahead.

Cave-in-Rock had long been considered stopover for weary travelers throughout the colonial period, but in the years following the Revolution a clientele of a different sort took up residence within its ancient walls.

By the 1790’s the cave had proven to be a perfect ambush site for eager bandits looking to capitalize on the Ohio’s busy traffic. After floating seven hundred miles from Pittsburgh, crews were excited to disembark and make camp.

The fate that awaited the unsuspecting boatmen at Cave-in-Rock was a terrible one. Men were killed, women assaulted, and entire shiploads of goods were stolen and sold. The isolated location of the cavern made law enforcement almost impossible, and most of the pilfered goods were sold at cut-rate prices to families and merchants across the frontier. While the Ohio River pirates were considered vile criminals back east, they were often treated as Robin Hood-style figures in the emerging west.

The scandalous history of Cave-in-Rock captivated the imaginations of later settlers. In the mid-nineteenth century, travelers scoured the location for evidence of the site’s swash-buckling past. According to the book The Outlaws of Cave-in-Rock (1924), locals discovered fascinating relics that offer a keen insight into the pirate’s mindset and tactics.

Along with bullet molds and stone idols, the criminals left behind other, more deadly, calling cards. The weapons found at the sight were a flintlock pistol, tomahawk, and dagger; given the need for mobility and the critical element of surprise, these were the pirate’s weapons of choice.

All three weapons were staples of frontier combat in the eighteenth century, and by the 1790’s the pirates of Cave-in-Rock had mastered them. Not as accurate as a rifle, the flintlock pistol allowed the attackers to inflict terrible damage at close range while freeing their other hand for wielding a blade.

Piracy required close-quarters, hand-to-hand combat, and the combination of the flintlock pistol, tomahawk, and dagger was used with devastating effectiveness.

Samuel Mason: Terror of the West

No river pirate captivated the imagination of the western backcountry as much as Samuel Mason. Described as weighing over two hundred pounds and being “a man of gigantic stature and of more than ordinary talents,” Mason’s life is a cautionary tale of life in the lawless borderlands.

Originally a Patriot officer in the American Revolution, Mason’s fall from grace saw him shirk a life of service and legitimate business to become one of the most infamous bandits in the history of early America.

At the outset of the Revolution Mason answered the call of duty and was commissioned a captain in Virginia’s Ohio County militia in 1777. Stationed in the vicinity of Fort Henry, Mason became an early influencer in the region that would become Wheeling, WV. During his command the county was rife with war, and Mason regularly fended off raids from British-allied Indian warriors.

Mason was a rising star in the west, and he remained in the area until the end of the war in 1781. At the close of the conflict, he was awarded land for his service, and he decided to try his hand in the fertile plains of Kentucky.

Whether it was the absence of law enforcement or simply hard times, the former war hero slowly turned to a life of crime. Mason’s fall from grace began in the 1780’s, and by the 1790’s his unlawful actions were well recorded. First operating out of the tiny Ohio River island known as “Diamond Island,” Mason’s outlaw activities caught the attention of Kentucky authorities and newspapers.

His greatest exploits, and his most terrible acts, came in 1797 when he relocated his operations to the notorious Cave-in-Rock.

By 1797 Mason’s good name was forever tarnished, and he assumed the alias of “Wilson” to continue his criminal enterprise. Under his previous name, Mason and his crew raided and plundered the slow passing flatboats that travelled up the Ohio River, but that ruse became increasingly difficult.

To ambush his victim’s Mason posted a sign outside of the cave reading “Wilson’s Liquor Vault and House of Entertainment.” The unsuspecting boatmen eagerly stopped to rest, only to be killed and dumped in the river by the waiting outlaw band. He would operate this ruse with brutal efficiency until 1799.

Mason and his gangsters ultimately moved south to capitalize on the busy river traffic of the Mississippi. Finding it difficult to operate on the bustling waterway, Mason soon took to robbing travelers along the 450-mile highway from Nashville to Natchez known as “the Natchez Trace.”

What followed was a four year crime spree of robberies, murders, and assaults that cemented Samuel Mason’s reputation as the most successful fugitive in the west. One observer noted that “the name of Mason is still familiar to many of the navigators of the Lower Ohio and Mississippi…His depredations became the talk of the whole western country…”

Colonel Plug: The Boat Wrecker

Much like the life of the legendary pirate Blackbeard, a great deal of mystery surrounds the most infamous of the Ohio River pirates. Historians often struggle to piece together the details of these shadowy characters, and in that absence their legend only grows.

One such figure was the famed “Colonel Plug,” or sometimes “Colonel Fluger.” While his birthdate is unknown, Plug operated in the dense cypress swamps of the Cache River near the confluence of the Ohio and Mississippi in modern Illinois.

The swamps in which he launched his piratical raids were inhospitable; travelers regularly perished from disease or from becoming lost when navigating through them. In short, it was the perfect place to launch a criminal enterprise. Descriptions of Plug are scarce, but contemporary accounts suggest that he may have been of a mixed African-Indian-European lineage.

While those details will likely never be known, his actions were never in doubt. Known as a “Boat Wrecker,” Plug and his crew had a unique way of capturing flatboat shipping that coursed by the Cache River swamps. When crews would dock their boat to sleep for the evening, Plug and his men would secretly board the vessels and sabotage the hulls.

Using hand augers, hatchets, and knives, Colonel Plug would systematically drill holes and chip away at the caulking of the ship. In short order the vessel would sink, and the pirate band would attack the panicked crew.

Little is known about the mysterious Colonel Plug, and his identity will likely remain a secret forever. His actions and reputation as a disruptive force on the Ohio River remain his only legacy, but such is often the life of a pirate. He made his career by escaping the watchful eye of law enforcement, and he still eludes historians well into the twenty-first century.

The End of an Era

The reign of the Ohio River pirates ended with the advent of new technologies, and the deaths of their most famous leaders. In 1803, after being found with $7,000 dollars and numerous scalps in his possession, Samuel Mason was arrested by Spanish authorities and taken to New Orleans.

Following a brief investigation, Spanish authorities handed him over to American officials in the Mississippi Territory for trial. Although he escaped in transit, the Territorial Governor William C.C. Claiborne placed a sizable bounty on his head, and Mason was subsequently murdered by his own crew to collect the reward.

Some time later (the exact date remains unknown), Colonel Plug unceremoniously drowned onboard a flatboat that he had recently sabotaged, sinking along with his victims to the bottom of the Mississippi.

In 1811, a new kind of vessel known as a steamship paddled successfully from Pittsburgh to Louisiana. Named The New Orleans, this innovative new craft made the journey in record time, and vexed river pirates from its maiden voyage. While the flatboats that they typically preyed upon were all but defenseless, these new steam powered ships were virtually untouchable.

They simply moved too quickly for pirates to successfully raid their cargos, and their crews were far more numerous than their primitive forerunners.

River piracy would continue in some form on the Lower Mississippi until the 1840’s, but the most legendary outlaws of the western frontier had come and gone. Spanish and American officials in Pittsburgh, Kentucky, Mississippi Territory and Louisiana all struggled to mitigate the damage that their raids had caused, but their successes were few.

The Ohio River pirates thrived in a world of opportunistic lawlessness, and they were the undeniable product of the western frontier.

Long before Paul Bunyan or Pecos Bill, America crowned its first “King of the Frontier.”

Mike Fink captivated the imagination of early Americans. His exploits were legendary, and he was the subject of countless short stories and songs.

In his own words he was “half wild horse and half cockeyed-alligator,” and he boasted that he could “out-run, out-jump, out-shoot, out-brag, out-drink, an’ out fight…ary man on both sides the river from Pittsburg to New Orleans.”

Mike Fink was a titan of the west but rest assured…he was a real figure.

Finding Mike Fink has been an interest of mine for many years, but separating fact from fiction has been a challenge.

Primary sources are hard to come by on the frontier. The Scots-Irish were an oral culture, and they wrote little. Their traditions remain strong though, and more often than not, family stories are proven to be true.

According to 19th century sources, Mike Fink was born in Pittsburgh in 1770. His father settled in Western Allegheny County along a creek called Robinson Run. By the time he reached adulthood, Fink was 6’3 and weighed 180 pounds.

He was big, strong, and frontier tough.

The economy of the west in the eighteenth century was based on the commercial shipping of grain, and the production of whiskey. With these facts in mind, we can rebuild Mike Fink’s world.

Early histories of Allegheny County published in the 19^th century claim that Fink began his career working for Henry Noble, a prominent mill owner who lived west of Pittsburgh.

Below is a gray marker noting the location of Noble’s mill, as well as its remnants in the creek. Note the square blocks of its foundation, shaped by hand.

Fink would load Noble’s grain into canoes and float them down Robinson Run to Chartiers Creek. From there the produce would be ferried to the Ohio River and loaded onto flatboats destined for the Mississippi.

That is what we can be sure of. The rest is a matter of legend.

Fink was called “the King of the Keelboats,” and became a celebrity from Pittsburgh to St. Louis to New Orleans.

He was a crack shot. Local stories say that he would entertain travelers by shooting tin cups off their heads. This is no doubt a homage to William Tell.

To pass the time, Pittsburgh’s residents hosted target shooting contests. Fink was banned from competition because he won too much. Stories claim he could shoot the tail off a hog at fifty yards. Later histories stated that he shot the ponytail off the head of an Indigenous Warrior, just for his own amusement.

In one of his journeys down the Mississippi, Fink was said to have sniped at an enslaved man from aboard his keelboat on a dare. He wounded him in the foot, and a judge ordered that he pay a restitution of “a handful of silver” to the injured victim.

These are the kind of stories that one encounters when researching Mike Fink. The frontier often shows us its ugly side to keep us from romanticizing it too much.

Stories like this are impossible to prove, but there can be no doubt that Mike Fink was a celebrity in the west.

One newspaper columnist in Louisville recalled that Fink could “drink a gallon [of whiskey] without its effect being perceptible in his language or demeanour.” Another claimed that he could “eat a whole buffalo robe” and “must fight something…or catch the dry rot.”

As a testament to his popularity in American culture, Walt Disney even featured “Mike Fink’s Keelboats” as an attraction in Disneyland’s “Frontier Land” until 2001.

Fink’s life is shrouded in myth. Davy Crockett claimed to have met him, as did Hugh Glass (made famous as the lead in “The Revenant”).

As the story goes, Fink mastered three frontiers. First, the Ohio River Valley, then the Mississippi, and finally, the Yellowstone.

Legend has it that Fink was one of William H. Ashley’s famous “one hundred” fur trappers. In 1822, the enterprising fur mogul formed a company to push deep into the Rocky Mountains, and Fink was amongst them.

Admittedly, evidence of this has proven to be elusive.

Tradition holds that Fink attempted his famous “tin cup” trick along the Yellowstone River in 1829. He goaded a fur trapper named “Carpenter” to place the cup on his head, but Fink missed his mark.

He shot low, killing the man.

Fink was said to have been murdered in a retaliatory strike by Carpenter’s associates. Like most of the details of Fink’s life, this is all hearsay.

Back to the twenty-first century. Source material of Fink’s life and death are scarce, so what can we verify?

Today in Pennsylvania’s Allegheny County there is a road called “Fink’s Run.” It sits less than two miles from the site of Henry Noble’s mill where Mike Fink was said to have worked.

After speaking with locals, many of whom are multi-generational residents going back to the 1770’s, Mike Fink resided on a bluff overlooking the creek. I’ve been to the site. It makes perfect sense to me. Good, high ground, easily accessible, and readily defended.

It’s a classic eighteenth-century homestead.

I would encourage anyone to drive by the site today but be warned: there isn’t much to see.

As minor as it seems, this patch of ground and the creeks that feed it are our only true, verifiable connections to finding the elusive Mike Fink.

Mike Fink’s life was a tall tale. As historians, we can only do our best to sift through the source material available. While we have many stories of Fink’s exploits, most are embellished.

Accounts like these were common in the Jacksonian Era, and Americans were hungry to believe them.

I feel confident that Mike Fink was a real man. I have no doubt that he was a well-traveled boatman in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century.

History has done what it can. The rest is legend. That doesn’t mean we can’t have fun with it though.

I’ll leave you with a quote attributed to Mike Fink himself.

“I’m a Salt River Roarer! I’m a ring-tailed squealer! I’m a reg’lar screamer from the ol’ Massassip’! WHOOP! I’m the very infant that refused his milk before its eyes were open, and called out for a bottle of old Rye! I love the women an’ I’m chockful o’ fight!”

Deep within the confines of Raccoon Creek State Park lies a forgotten burial ground.

It’s called King’s Creek Cemetery. Its crumbling headstones are ensnared in brush, brambles, and trees.

Its an oddity to most visitors, but it stands as a stark reminder of the region’s Revolutionary past.

The American Revolution in the West was a brutal affair. British-allied Native warriors raided the homesteads of Scots-Irish families with regularity. The result was often kidnapping, destruction, and murder.

Naturally, this led to retribution. While the Continental Army tangled with British Redcoats in the east, the frontier was ruled by a singular guiding principle…

An eye for an eye.

No one was innocent in the western war. Native communities and settler farms suffered equally. It was a brutal partisan conflict marred by explosive periods of extreme violence.

Today, King’s Creek Cemetery stands as a testament to the era’s blood-letting. It is a forgotten memorial to the struggles of the Revolutionary generation.

In mid-February, 1782, an unseasonable warm spell swept over Western Pennsylvania. This was the first sign of spring, and British-allied warriors of the Lenni Lenape (often called “Delaware”) nation set out to raid nearby settlements.

Operating out of the village of Upper Sandusky in central Ohio, the warriors’ campaign was designed with plunder in mind. They sought horses, supplies, foodstuffs, and if possible, captives.

The timing was ideal. Fort Pitt was responsible for patrolling the Ohio River Valley from Pittsburgh to Wheeling, a distance of 110 miles. Unfortunately, they only had 230 men at their disposal.

It was a porous defense, to say the least.

After crossing the Ohio River (the unofficial boundary separating Pennsylvania from Indian Country), the Lenapes struck at the villages to the east. This included settlements in Hanover Township, Hookstown, and Georgetown, still present along Route 18 in Beaver County.

All were vulnerable to attack, and all were within a stone’s throw of Raccoon Creek State Park.

One February afternoon (the exact date is lost), a farmer named Robert Wallace left his cabin. In his absence, his wife and five children were left defenseless.

The Lenapes executed a raid on the farm. They struck quickly and without warning. They dragged the family from their cabin and set fire to it.

The Natives didn’t stick around. They fled the scene with the Wallace family in tow. A classic hit-and-run attack.

When Robert Wallace returned home, he knew exactly what transpired. While the scene was traumatic, Native raids were a regular occurrence on the frontier.

Wallace rallied his neighbors to pursue the war party; he was determined to rescue his family.

Sadly, he was too late. The fast-moving warriors headed west but found Mrs. Wallace and her infant daughter to be slow and cumbersome.

They were both murdered on the spot. The woman was scalped and impaled, and the child was dismembered in the forest.

Shortly after destroying the Wallace farm, the Lenapes also captured a neighbor named John Carpenter and stole several of his horses. This will be a vital detail later.

By the time the Lenapes crossed the Ohio River, they gathered a stupendous plunder. Along with one of the Wallace boys, they also trafficked Carpenter and his horses back to Upper Sandusky.

Before returning to their village, they passed through the Moravian settlement of Gnaddenhutten.

Gnaddenhutten was founded as a German mission to convert the Lenapes to Christianity, and it was a peaceful village of noncombatants.

The warriors warned the pacifist Christian Lenapes that a rescue party was likely to follow. The Christian Delawares were deeply concerned.

A few days later, the captive John Carpenter escaped from Upper Sandusky. He promptly returned home and told his story to local officials in Pennsylvania.

They organized a posse and set out to avenge the murdered Wallace family.

On March 8th, just three weeks later, members of Pennsylvania’s Washington County militia attacked Gnaddenhutten. Their bloodlust was historic in its brutality.

The militiamen, including the grieving Wallace, murdered 96 Christian Lenapes in cold blood.

They tortured them, chopped off their limbs, and clubbed them to death. None were spared, including women, children, and the elderly.

The Gnaddenhutten Massacre stands as the most brutal single event in the history of the Revolutionary frontier. Even General George Washington was mortified by the callous inhumanity.

The Moravian Lenapes had nothing to do with the attack on the Pennsylvania settlements a month earlier, but they were killed, nevertheless.

Amongst the wreckage of the mission, Wallace found his wife’s tattered dress. Three years later, at modern Georgetown in Beaver County, he also found his wife and daughter’s mutilated skeletal remains abandoned in the wilderness.

In 1785, the slain Mrs. Wallace and her infant daughter were buried in King’s Creek Cemetery.

In 2026, as the nation celebrates the Revolution’s 250th anniversary, their final resting place has been swallowed by the forests of Raccoon Creek State Park.

Their headstones are now in ruins, illegible and broken. Moss obscures their names, and fallen leaves surround their markers.

Their graves may be hidden, but their story lives on.

The US Army’s first basic training ground is under siege.

First constructed in 1792-1793, Legionville was a first of its kind in US history. It was built by General Anthony Wayne to train soldiers for combat against the Western Confederacy of tribes living in the Northwest Territory.

Its new enemy is the encroachment of the twenty-first century.

During George Washington’s presidency, powerful Native leaders like Little Turtle (Miami), Blue Jacket (Shawnee), and Buckongahelas (Lenape), formed a powerful confederation of warriors to halt American expansion.

They delivered crushing blows to our nascent militias, and President Washington elected to create America’s first standing army under the US Constitution.

It was called “The Legion of the United States,” and helmed by a wily Revolutionary veteran named Anthony Wayne.

Wayne wanted to train his men in Pittsburgh, but the outpost was still a wild west city filled with vice and distraction.

Instead, he elected to train them on a flat piece of ground approximately twenty miles northwest on the Ohio River.

Enter Legionville. From 1792-1793, Wayne whipped his new army into shape. Amongst their ranks were one-day explorers Merriwether Lewis and William Clark, future President William Henry Harrison, and a young go-getter named Zebulon Pike (of Pike’s Peak fame.)

Wayne’s army completed its mission. They defeated the Western tribes at Fallen Timbers in August of 1794 near modern Toledo, OH.

Now Legionville faces a different enemy. In the 230 years since the battle, its been all but forgotten.

In the 1970’s, Republican Senator John Heinz nearly succeeded in preserving the location as a National Park. The Democratic President Jimmy Carter subsequently vetoed the measure on partisan grounds, and sealed Legionville’s fate.

Today, this sacred ground is home to a Sheetz gas station, a Dollar General, Ba-Runi’s Restaurant, and a car dealership called Wright Buick, Chevrolet, GMC.

As galling as the loss of the landmark has been, the most upsetting fact is that between 14 and 17 US soldiers are buried on site, and they rest under a gravel parking lot. There are no markers to memorialize their service, and no record of their names.

I’d like to use this article to highlight some of Legionville’s features that remain and provide what the federal government never could…a proper tour of the site.

1. This is Redoubt #4. It overlooks the Ohio River, and is currently the home of a 19^th century cemetery that has no connection with its military past.

2. The most striking remnant of Legionville is a massive roadcut in a dense thicket of woods. This is the original road used by General Anthony Wayne and it enters from the west. It would’ve carried troops, wagons, and supplies. Amazingly…it’s still there. It is also privately owned, and in grave danger of being plowed over by developers.

3. Redoubt #3 defended Legionville from the west. Today it is a Dollar General.

4. Redoubt #2 sits along Duss Avenue and is the most memorialized site of the camp. There have been several markers installed here over the last hundred years. They are there because this part of the camp is the most visible from the modern road.

5. Redoubt #1 sits on the property of the Wright car dealership. It also overlooked the Ohio River.

6. General Wayne’s headquarters. The site of this old building is sadly out of reach, but it sat near what is today a grove of trees near PA Route 65.

7. This is the cemetery where Legionville’s dead are buried. It is a gravel parking lot, and in terrible shape. Of all the places that should be preserved and honored, this is our greatest failing. There are between 14-17 fallen US Soldiers buried here. May we never forget their sacrifice

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8. This is Legionville’s parade ground. It was the heart of the site. It held quarters for the soldiers and was the primary field for practicing the maneuvers that gave the young United States its first military victory under the Constitution at Fallen Timbers.

9. To prepare his troops for Native war, General Wayne held mock battles in the forest. Soldiers would strip down and paint themselves as Native warriors to engage their comrades. These “dress rehearsals” were held amongst the modern homes between Ambridge and Baden.

Resources like Legionville are precious, and sacred to preserving the soul of America. We must do better, because once they’re gone, they’re gone for good.

From 1797-1803, Micajah and Wiley Harpe rocked the frontier with a murderous spree that was unrivaled in early America. During that seven-year period, the Harpe Brothers killed dozens of people across three states and became as the most prolific serial murders of western borderlands. As one Kentucky newspaper stated, “it may be regretted that such monsters as the Harpes ever should have existed, yet it is an incontrovertible fact.”

Shadowy Origins

Micajah “Big” Harpe (born approximately 1768) and Wiley “Little” Harpe (born approximately 1770) lived unremarkable lives prior to the American Revolution. Born in North Carolina to Scots-Irish immigrant parents, the Harpe family were dedicated Calvinists and ardent supporters of the Crown. As a member of Carolina’s Loyalist militia forces, their father raided Patriot settlements and fought at the Battle of King’s Mountain in 1780. Following the Peace of Paris three years later, the Harpes packed their belongings and fled for the safety of the Trans-Appalachian frontier. Like many of their peers, the Harpes fled the inevitable persecution of their revolutionary neighbors and sought refuge closer to the Mississippi River.

After settling in the modern state of Tennessee, the mysterious lives of the Harpe’s took shape. While evidence is sparse, traditions holds that the teenaged brothers began raiding settlements alongside Dragging Canoe’s Chickamauga Cherokee. Although their actions are mostly grounded in rumor, the young men developed a reputation as ardent Tories with a penchant for violence. According to 19^th century historian T. Marshall Smith “Big” and “Little” Harpe lived in the Chickamauga village of Nickajack (near Chattanooga) for the next thirteen years until 1795.

A Life of Crime Begins

By 1797 the Harpe Brothers became figures of ill-repute in the frontier city of Knoxville. The elder Micajah was a known polygamist claiming marriage to sisters Betsey and Susan Roberts, while his younger brother wed a preacher’s daughter named Susan Rice. Known as drinkers and horse thieves, the Harpes regularly caused havoc in the emerging western community.

In the summer of 1797, the Harpes became public enemy number one in Knoxville, and a posse raided their home to arrest them. Stolen horses and livestock were recovered, but the fugitive brothers were nowhere to be found. That event, it seems, was the catalyst that led to one of the darkest chapters in the history of the American frontier. Days after the failed raid, the body of one of its leaders (a man named Johnson) was discovered in the Holston River. It was badly mutilated, and its torso was sliced open; within the body cavity were heavy rocks designed to sink the corpse. The murder shocked eastern Tennessee and established a ghastly calling card that would be used by the Harpe Brothers for years to come.

To escape the scrutiny of law enforcement “Big” and “Little” Harpe took their families through the Cumberland Gap into Kentucky. In short order they continued their murderous spree. While passing along the famed Wilderness Road they attacked a killed a salesman Peyton, and later victimized a pair of Maryland travelers named Paca and Bates. After being lured into making a camp with the group, and disarmed by the charm of the Harpe women, both men were shot and chopped to death with hatchets. Their remains were mutilated, robbed, and abandoned by the trailside.

For the next two years the Harpe Brothers carved a path of destruction across Kentucky. Using the Wilderness Road to trap their victims, they murdered dozens of men, women, and children seeking a better life in the west. The actual body count is impossible to tally, but later recollections claim dozens of unsuspecting victims. In the fall of 1799, after presenting themselves as destitute travelers, the Harpes appealed to the good nature of a wealthy Virginian named John Langford in modern Rockcastle County, Kentucky. Langford treated the impoverished family to breakfast at a local tavern and traveled with them after the meal. Just a few days later the gentleman traveler’s corpse was discovered stuffed under a log, with the Harpes nowhere to be found.

After Langford’s body was returned to the tavern where he previously dined, local law enforcement set out to capture the Harpe Brothers and bring them to justice. Led by Captain Joseph Ballenger of Stanford, KY, the posse set out into the forest “with a determined resolution never to quit the chase until he has secured them.”

In mid-December Micajah, Wiley, Sarah, Betsy, and Sally were arrested without struggle eight miles south of Stanford. They were incarcerated in the town of Danville on January 5^th, 1800, to await trial in the District Court. Despite the extra security to keep them in place, including “Two horse locks to chain the men’s feet,” “Big” and “Little” Harpe managed to escape custody on March 16^th. They left their wives behind, and the frontier shuddered at the news of their flight. The exact circumstances of their getaway remains a mystery, and the Harpe Brothers bloody rampage continued.

Barbarity Unrivaled

In the months after their escape, “Big” and “Little” Harpe resumed their bloodletting without delay. As they fled northward from Danville, the brothers murdered two men named Dooley and Stump outside of Bowling Green; at the mouth of the Saline River they later attacked and killed three campers who were resting for the night. With these crimes the Harpes officially announced their arrival in Illinois, and sought to lay low while Kentucky authorities continued their pursuit.

Once in the Prairie State, Micajah and Wiley took up residence with the famed river pirate Samuel Mason and his outlaw band. Based out of the infamous Cave-In-Rock on the Ohio River, Mason and his crew were a notorious collection of fugitives that preyed upon passing flatboats. While the Harpes’ penchant for violence proved to be a useful asset to Mason, their insatiable desire for killing overshadowed Mason’s primary goal of plunder and riches. One evening during the summer of 1799 the pirate crew attacked a passing ship, and took the passengers as prisoners. While Mason and his men sorted through their newfound treasure, the Harpe Brothers snuck away with a captive that had been onboard. According to eyewitness accounts the murderers secretly took the raftsman to the top of the cave wall, tied him naked on horseback, and pushed the steed off the cliff’s edge. Much to the horror of the outlaws in the cave, the bodies of both man and beast crashed one hundred feet to their deaths just a few feet away.

Mason’s crew were considered amongst the most depraved and dangerous men on the frontier, but the killings were too much for even them. The pirates demanded that the Harpes leave Cave-In-Rock at once.

Frontier Justice

After their dismissal from Cave-In-Rock, the bodies continued to pile up. The Harpes returned to Tennessee where they killed farmers, travelers, families with children, and the young son a prominent local landowner named Chelsey Coffey. One account stated that “Young Coffey was riding along the road one evening to get a fiddle. These terrible men smeared a tree with his brains, making out that his horse had run against the tree.” In the weeks that followed more bodies were dredged out of rivers and ditches across the frontier, with no ending of the violence in sight.

Like most serial killers, the Harpes were careful when choosing their victims. They often set traps, and relied on ambush tactics to achieve their grizzly ends. In the summer of 1799, the pair murdered a man named James Brasel, whose death aids in establishing a pattern for the killings. According to the Carolina Gazette, the Harpes kept loaded flintlock pistols at their hips but would dispatch their victims with their own firearms when possible. In the newspaper account, James and his brother Robert were travelling from Knox, TN to Stockton’s Valley, KY when the Harpes overtook them.

In a calculated maneuver, the Harpes seized James Brasel’s rifle; they subsequently robbed him and shot him to death. Although Robert was taken by surprise and unarmed, he managed to escape. When he returned to the scene, his brother’s corpse was discovered to be badly mutilated, and the murder weapon “had been shattered.” This destruction of evidence made the shooting virtually untraceable and proved that the Harpes were becoming more discerning in their murderous spree. The killings were reported across Appalachia, and the Knoxville Gazette declared unequivocally that “this unfortunate man is supposed also to have fallen a victim of the above named atrocious villains.”

In the wake of the killings, Kentucky Governor James Garrard offered a bounty for the capture or killing of the depraved Harpes. That summer the Governor penned “I have judged it necessary to the safety and welfare of the community” to bring the murders to justice. With the government offering a prize of $300, vigilantes from across the Bluegrass State raced into the wilderness to track down the assassins.

Finally on August 24^th 1799, the law caught up with the Harpes. After killing a family along the Pond River in Western Kentucky, the Harpes engaged a posse led by John Leiper. Although “Little” Wiley Harpe escaped the shootout, his older brother was not so lucky. The vigilantes shot the killer as he ran away and dropped him in his tracks. In a chaotic scene the Kentuckians demanded a confession from Micajah Harpe and decided to kill him where he lay.

One ranger named Steigel stated “very well, I believe I will not upon reflection shoot him in the head, for I want to preserve that as a trophy.” He decapitated “Big” Harpe and hung his head from a tree branch. The ghastly spectacle became an icon of law and order in the west, and the crossroads where it was displayed became known as “Harpe’s Head.” A Kentucky Historical Society marker still denotes the location along US 41A in Dixon, Webster County.

Wiley “Little” Harpe evaded capture for another four years operating under the alias of “John Setton.” Still a wanted man, Harpe once again fell in with Samuel Mason’s pirate gang for protection and cover. Following the announcement of a large bounty for Mason’s capture, Harpe double crossed the pirate leader and murdered him.

In January of 1804 Wiley travelled to Natchez to collect his reward; he proudly presented Mason’s severed head to territorial authorities as evidence. Despite his efforts to conceal his identity though, “Setton” was positively identified as the younger Harpe. After a brief escape he was arrested and tried for his crimes.

Wiley Harpe was hanged in Jefferson County, Mississippi in January of 1804.

Legacy of Terror

Micajah and Wiley Harpe murdered almost fifty men, women, and children from 1797 to 1803. Their bloody legacy remains a frightening testament to the uncontrolled nature of the American frontier and has cemented them as the first serial killers in American history.

This story starts like so many others from this time: striking miners reach their breaking point, and violence follows. Unlike others though, this tale ends with a crucifixion. Seriously.

The town of Avella has a deep past. During the colonial period it was home to Scots-Irish settlers carving out a life on the frontier. Their cabins were raided by British-allied Native warriors during the Revolution, and their communities were ravaged by war. In the wake of Independence, they joined their neighbors in an insurrection known as the “Whiskey Rebellion,” which would be America’s largest until the Civil War of 1861.

Throughout the nineteenth century, Avella, like so many other western settlements, had to adjust to a changing world. Their first economy was agrarian and driven by whiskey production. This staple moved westward in the 1830’s. The distillation of “Monongahela Rye” was replaced by coal, and a new industry flourished.

With this new coal economy came immigrants, and plenty of them. By the end of the 1800’s Western Pennsylvania was flooded with newcomers from Eastern Europe, Russia, Ukraine, Poland, Italy, and Germany. Naturally, this influx came at a cost. Mining communities were torn apart by ethnic strife, and with each passing year, these newcomers were seen as a threat. They came looking for work, but whose job would they take?

This brings us to 1910. Tensions were high. Miners and owners were at odds, and there were talks about a general strike in the region. That’s when the whispers started. According to news reports coming out of Pittsburgh, a group of Slavic miners in Avella attacked a foreman named George Rabish. They accused him of spying for the Pittsburgh and Washington Coal Company and crucified him on a cross fashioned out of railroad ties. They stoned him, drove nails through his palms, and “danced around the foot of the cross, jeering and cursing” Rabish until he died.

Ghastly. Horrible. A sign of the times. Newspapers across the country reported on this event, and a magazine in France even made it their cover story. The New York Times reported that Rabish was “stripped of his clothing” and made to wear a crown of thorns “until the blood coursed down over his naked body.” That’s extreme, even by the standards of Washington County. The perpetrators, described as “Aliens,” were subsequently arrested and imprisoned.

Hundreds of newspapers ran the story from April 10^th to April 24^th, 1910. Then the buzz died down, and the people of Avella spoke up. According to local Justice W.W. Weigmann, there was never any attack, and certainly no crucifixion.

“The miners were arrested for being drunk and disorderly and not for assault of any kind.” Weigmann said. “They had built a cross of tree branches to be used in some sort of church jubilee. They just got too disorderly and we locked a few of them up to teach them a lesson. It’s the veriest bosh to talk of a crucifixion and bloodshed.”

Weigmann took his defense of his townsfolk seriously. He even opined that “It’s nothing but an attempt to make, the miners look bad before the public…Their mine is unusually peaceful.”

Even the District Attorney C.L.V. Acheson spoke up. “The story of the crucifixion of a mine boss at Avella is a malicious falsehood,” he said. “The whole thing from start to finish is a falsehood and evidently sent broadcast to injure the cause of the striking miners.”

As for George Rabish, the supposed victim of the attack? He was a real person, but according to Weigmann, he “hadn’t been in Avella or near there for thirteen years.”

This story is false. I’m convinced. In the heat of the Mine Wars, disinformation and bad faith reporting were the norm. The details provided by the agitators are telling, too. The attackers were identified as “Slavic,” “Aliens,” and “foreigners.” Anti-Catholic prejudice was rampant in the early twentieth century, and the crucifixion narrative was certain to stir up ill-will nationwide. Mine owners had powerful friends, in both the media and the government. Sadly, these kind of “fake news” tactics were the norm. Mostly, because they worked.

This event would have been horrible, if it actually happened.

It didn’t.

In the wake of all of this, the small town of Avella is left to pick up the pieces.