Pull up some ground and sit yourselves down; fill your cups from that banged-up old pot on the fire and listen to a lesson in history. The drama about to unfold is as authentic as historical documents allow and is, thereby, living history.

I recently returned from a mountainous roller-coaster ride along the eastern panhandle of our sister state, West Virginia. My Shawnee companion, with yours truly riding shotgun, reined in at Fort Seybert, a few miles north of Franklin, West Virginia, on a beautiful slice of land owned by Jed and Jake Conrad of The Killbuck Riflemen. We no sooner exited the wagon when buckskin-clad West Virginians were upon us with greetings of welcome.

I can’t recall a camp with more friendly and hospitable hosts. With seemingly endless mountains as a backdrop, this eighteenth-century encampment was crowded with frontiersmen, settlers, and West Virginia mountain men; a spectacle transplanted from the pages of a history book.

Not a hundred yards from the camp’s nucleus, hemlock logs jutted up from the ground, creating a vertical fortress; a small blockhouse rested above the logs at the main gate of this sturdy little fort; small holes were cut out randomly for shooting from within should the fort come under attack. This was Fort Seybert and it was attacked.

The actual calamity occurred on April 28, 1758, when a Shawnee war party, led by the infamous war chief and medicine man, Killbuck, laid siege and massacred the settlers huddled within the fort; most were women and children. Approximately fifty settlers had sought refuge at the time of assault.

I had traveled there to participate in the seventeenth re-enactment of the massacre and burning of the fort. For seventeen years, The Killbuck Riflemen have been re-creating history by burning and rebuilding the backwoods fort; spectators come from near and far to witness an incident from dog-eared pages of history, as did I.

A narrator, seated some fifty yards from the fort and speaking through a public-address system, described the re-enactment for the multitude of spectators, four to six deep behind a roped-off semicircle around the fort. And though positioned inside the fort during the re-enactment and knowing what will occur, I couldn’t help but sense what it was like to be in a small fort under siege by an Indian war party and to be a prisoner once the fort was taken.

The drama unfolded and the narrator told us that “Indians,” their faces painted hideously with vermilion and black, were moving down a ravine just behind the little stronghold brandishing muskets and war clubs, intent on creating havoc. They remained undetected.

Early on April 28, a woman and a young boy had left the fort to milk cows and shear sheep; they were confronted by scouts from the war party and, after a scuffle, were taken captive and led past the fort and tied to a fence rail.

Shortly afterward, a settler returning from a hunting trip approached the fort and was spotted by a group of six to eight Indians. He was taken unaware and fired upon; he dropped dead on the spot as the Indians approached with guns at the ready. Upon reaching the fallen settler, an Indian knelt beside him and scalped him; he held his trophy high and proudly let out a scalp yell. The warriors then encircled the fort and took up their battle positions.

Now aware of the foe, the riflemen within the fort assumed their stations of defense. As the enemy surrounded the fort, Nicholas Seybert, the son of Jacob Seybert, the fort’s commander, spotted an Indian peeking around the side of the log fortress. The young rifleman fired from his position in the blockhouse and deposited a lead ball in the Indian’s head. Two  comrades went to his aid; after examining the wound, a warrior ran to Killbuck and informed him of the loss.

The other hostiles, enraged by the fall of their confederate, placed the fort under full siege and exchanged musket fire with the inhabitants. A volley of gunfire lasted perhaps five or ten minutes; hot-blooded yelps from the attackers mingled with the blue-gray cloud of smoke drifting around the fort. The acrid odor of black powder filled the air.

Indian customs dictate that a war chief such as Killbuck must provide a prisoner for the family of each slain warrior. Fortunately, his warriors had already captured two prisoners, so he will be able to present one to the family if the wounded warrior dies.

Nevertheless, it would be unwise to press the attack and lose more warriors. If he returned without enough prisoners to replace all of those lost, he would likely forfeit his position as war chief. With this in mind, he changed strategy and called in English to the fort: “Longknives, hear me! I am Killbuck, chief of the warriors that surround you. Ssurrender and you will receive good treatment. If you do not surrender, my warriors will gain entry into your fort and kill all of you!”

Captain Seybert responded, yelling from the fort: “Killbuck, do not attack! We are going to discuss your offer among us.”

Two factors weighed heavily on the final decision of the fort’s occupants. First, the fort’s riflemen at the time consisted of only five or six men and a few teenage boys.

Most of the normal garrison had gone east the day before, on business and to procure supplies. The second consideration was that the fort’s population consisted mainly of women and children.

Captain Seybert yelled again: “Killbuck, do not attack! We are going to surrender and leave the fort.”

“Leave your  guns,” Killbuck shouted back, “and your knives and tomahawks by the gate and come out slowly.”

The chief stepped from cover and faced the fort in anticipation of the gate opening. Just before it did, Nicholas Seybert, situated in the blockhouse, took aim at Killbuck. Nevertheless, just as he pulled the trigger his father spoiled his aim and the musket ball landed harmlessly in the dirt near Killbuck. Ironically, had Killbuck been killed, the warriors would have ended the siege and returned to their village. The superstitious warriors would have considered the death of their war chief a bad omen.

Indians immediately rushed into the fort and began a furious assault; everyone in the fort was made a prisoner; Captain Seybert was struck in the mouth by Killbuck.

Young Seybert refused to surrender and was overpowered; a man named Roberson, able to secret himself, was the only one to escape. The inhabitants were now prisoners, their money and valuables taken, and the fort set on fire. A woman named Hannah Hinkle, who was bedfast, perished in the flames.

The Indians moved their prisoners a quarter-mile distant of the burning fort and divided them into two groups, placing in one group those selected as captives to be carried home for possible adoption. Nothing of mercy or humanity entered into their choice, only expediency and the Indian point of view: only brave, young men who would make valiant warriors and strong, young women who would help the village women do the work. They wanted no old people, no weaklings, and no cowards.

The unfortunate victims were seated on a log, where they were swiftly tomahawked, then scalped, their bodies left lying where they fell, seventeen in all. The surviving captives were marched single file up the east side of South Fork Mountain; they traveled for nine days until they reached the Indian’s village near present-day Chillicothe, Ohio.

A short way into the march, the infant son of Hanna Conrad began crying. She was unable to quiet the child and an annoyed warrior jerked the baby from her arms. While she screamed and begged for her baby’s life, the Indian killed the infant by slamming his head downward into the forks of a small tree. Indians were taught from the moment they could walk to be quiet in the woods because making noise could reveal their location to passing enemies and result in death or capture.

The four days I spent at Fort Seybert were a dazzling experience and one that will never fade in my memory. The seriousness of all those who took part; the authenticity with which it was carried out; the overwhelming friendship and camaraderie so amply delivered from all in attendance, and especially the members of The Killbuck Riflemen, was monumental in this thing we call “living history.”

And to you sitting around my fire. Thanks for paying attention; you’ll need overcoats this time next month.

You can contact Roy at mountainman@mountainhomemag.com. Someone will walk up into the hills and make sure he gets the message.