Appalachias Deadliest: The Hannon Family

Appalachias Deadliest: The Hannon Family

A cabin lays in ashes and only three small children survive, but what really happened? This is the true story of the Hannon family. The story of North Carolina’s Hannon family is one of the greatest tragedies in America’s past and vividly illustrates the harsh realities of frontier life, the resilience of pioneer families, and the enduring impact of violence during a tumultuous period in America’s history. History tells us that the year 1776 was the birth of the United States, but for the generations of folks who lived during this time, that year was more accurately remembered as the days that tried men’s souls. In fact, all one needs to do is look at a map of America prior to the Revolutionary War to see the struggle of governments from all over the world trying to gain control of this vast land. On the eastern side, you had the 13 colonies and the province of Quebec and Florida controlled by Great Britain, while Spain controlled nearly all of the land west of the mighty Mississippi River, and even Russia claiming part of what was known as Oregon Country. All the while, Native Americans saw all of these countries as invaders, and they too were fighting to keep the land that had once been theirs. Over the previous century, many men from all sides had spilled blood for control of this land, and to be quite truthful, it was anything but united. This was especially true for the white settlers who were living in the frontier settlements and the contested Appalachian Mountains. This 1,500-mile mountain range stretched from Canada all the way to Alabama, creating a literal wall that served as the official boundary line separating land claimed by the European settlers on the east coast from the land that was still ruled by Native Americans. This boundary line was officially known as the Proclamation Line of 1763 and was established by Britain’s King George III at the conclusion of the French and Indian War in an effort to build trust with the natives and ensure them that colonists would no longer encroach on their land.

Although white hunters continued to illegally take game from the western side of the mountains and natives occasionally raided homesteads of settlers who lived just over the eastern side of this Proclamation line, for the most part, there was an uneasy peace between the two sides. But many of the colonists were outraged that a British king on the other side of the world was telling them where they could and couldn’t live and hunt, and several illegal settlements of white pioneers began to spring up on the western side of the mountains in places that would eventually become Tennessee and Kentucky. This angered the Cherokee Nation, especially the younger warriors who viewed these people as squatters. This new generation of Cherokees were sick and tired of standing by and watching the treaties negotiated by their grandfathers being broken and rewritten, with the only result being that more of their land was conceded to the white man. In their mind, it was time to go on the offensive. This resulted in the Cherokee War of 1776, led by men such as the warrior Dragging Canoe, who vowed to defend their land at all costs and even dared to cross over the eastern side of the Appalachian Mountains and conduct attacks on innocent white settlers who had abided by these treaties and had lived peacefully with the Cherokees. The bottom line was that at no other time in history had it ever been more dangerous for settlers in the Appalachian Mountains.

Enter into this story William Hannon, a simple man who was born in the foothills of Virginia in 1734. During his lifetime, he witnessed firsthand the dangers of living on the western frontier, and as a boy, he and his family had survived an Indian raid on their home. All their cattle was slaughtered, and their cabin was burned to the ground, but luckily the family had barely escaped with only the clothes on their backs. Over the course of his life, William continued to migrate south along the base of the Appalachian Mountains, and by the time he was a man, he had made his way to the North Fork of the Pacolet River in Polk County, North Carolina. Centuries of floods from this river had created a small oasis of fertile farmland, and even better, it was located just on the eastern side of the Proclamation line that separated North Carolina from Indian Country, making it perfectly legal for William to establish his homestead here. So for 10 years, it was here that the mountaineer lived together with his wife, where nearly every spring they welcomed a new baby to the family. William did the best he could to raise his children upright, to live by God’s commandments, and to respect the laws of the land, but most importantly, he made sure that every child knew to never cross to the dark forest on the other side of the river that bordered their farm, since that land belonged to the Cherokee.

Although the young ones had never seen an Indian in real life, they knew they were out there somewhere. They had listened to their father tell the stories of the Indian attacks during his childhood, and then there were those strange rings on the trees. Each time they fetched a bucket of water from the river, they couldn’t help but notice that all of the trees lying on the Cherokee side of the riverbanks had a ring of bark removed from them as a notice that this was forbidden land, and for as long as anyone could remember, no white man had ever dared to enter that forest. But I tell you right now, no one on the Hannon homestead could have ever imagined just how real the danger in that forest was or the horrors that laid ahead. By the winter of 1775, peace between the white man and the Cherokee had become an accepted thing, like the quiet hum of the river through the valley. No longer did rifles lean against fence posts ready to grab at a moment’s notice, and no longer did the men in the fields take turns keeping watch for the shadow of a raiding party slipping through the trees. Those days of fear and vigilance had faded into memory, leaving the Hannon family to till their fertile land with unguarded hands and a measure of contentment. Their homestead thrived during these years, with the rich soil of the Pacolet Valley yielding bountiful corn crops each season. The family was strong and close-knit, with each member playing a part in the daily grind of frontier life. That winter had also brought a new baby to the Hannon family, making nine total kids in all.

Yet not long after the birth of her youngest, Miss Hannon developed a powerful fever. Worn down by the strain of bringing nine children into the world and the unrelenting hardships of frontier life, the mountain woman’s body was aged beyond her years and it seemed to surrender to the weight of it all. Day by day, she grew weaker, and with a heavy heart, William sent word for the preacher who lived a few miles away. There in the small cabin, the family gathered around with their heads bowed as the man of God read a few chapters from the Bible. Once the prayer was over, sadly, barely a month after the newborn’s arrival, the family laid the mother to rest on a quiet hillside above the cabin. Death was a part of life with much more regularity during those days, and the daily survival for the living left little time for grieving. Although the children missed their mother terribly, after a few months passed, their mother’s name was rarely ever spoken out loud again. Spring came early the following year, and it was a welcome relief from the long, dark days of that tragic winter. Each morning, William paid careful attention to the shape and the direction of the clouds, and he observed that the redbud that painted the side of the surrounding mountains had begun to fade and give way to the dogwoods that were now in bloom. Back then, all men planted by the signs, not the calendars, and William knew that the perfect time to plant corn was when the dogwood was in full bloom.

The next morning, the farmer had the children up just after dawn. It was the first planting day of the year and sure to be a busy day. Everyone played a role in the family farming operation. The five oldest children, ranging from ages 11 to 16, would work in the fields alongside their pa, while 10-year-old Edwin and 7-year-old Winnie were left at home to keep the fire going and attend to their 3-year-old brother John and the newborn baby Elizabeth. The goal for the day was to plant a patch of land that ran alongside the river on the edge of the property, and William had cleared the spot a few days earlier. Mr. Hannon and the three eldest boys carried all the necessary rakes and tools out into the field as the girls rode on the back of the family’s only work animal, an old ox named Tom who also had a bag of seed thrown across his back. While old Tom wasn’t much to look at, he was the most important member of the work crew. Once they reached the area to be planted, Mr. Hannon hitched a homemade plow to old Tom that was made out of sourwood saplings held together by strips of deer hide that had been soaked in water and then dried in the sun to draw them tighter. The point of the plow was slightly curved oak that had been hardened by fire and tipped with the only piece of raw iron the family owned. With everything in place, the family got down to work.

Mr. Hannon guided old Tom as the plow scratched the surface of the dirt into rows, and walking right behind the plow was one of the children with a sharpened hickory stick punching holes every few inches into the newly open row. Next, another kid would drop a couple of seeds in the hole, while another kid followed behind and raked dirt over the seed. And so it went throughout the morning as the sun rose higher and higher into the sky. This was an exciting time of the year, and getting off to a good start would surely pay dividends come harvest time, so the father did the best he could to brighten up the spirits of his crew of five young’uns by telling stories about the old days as they worked. Back home, little Winnie and Edwin had been busy tending to the babies and to the fire, and more importantly, making a pot of cornbread on a cast-iron skillet and setting it on the fireplace. It would be ready for lunch when the workers came in. They might have been young, but back then children were raised to assume grown-up responsibilities at an early age. It was just normal life on the American frontier. Once Mr. Hannon and his children had finished up planting for the morning, they walked over to the waters at the edge of the river to get a drink of cold water and to wash their hands for lunch.

As they waited for their turn with the metal dipping cup, the children peered out over the water to the ringed trees on the opposite banks. The sounds of several crows could be heard calling from somewhere in the forest, and about that time the eldest boy spoke up, “Pa, it sure is strange how those birds have been squawking all morning long, but I ain’t seen every one of them flying.” The boy’s father took another drink out of the dipper and squinted his eyes as he looked out. “That sure is strange. You know, when I was a boy, I remember your grandsire telling me that anytime a man would hear crows talking back and forth while perched in the trees, that was a sign of Indians being hidden somewhere. And back then, when you heard those crows, you’d best be running to get your gun.” Just then, a few of the children laughed nervously while taking a few steps back from the riverbank. “Oh now, gals, there ain’t near a thing to worry about these days. You see that boundary line there?” the father said as he pointed towards the ringed trees. “As long as we stay over here, they’ll stay over there. Ain’t no one seen an Indian in these parts in near 10 years now. Come on now, let’s go get them viddles.” With that, the five children and their father pitched the ox to a shade tree and set out walking back towards the cabin.

There was the sound of those crows again. It sure was curious. The oldest gal tugged on her father’s shirt as she looked back towards the woods. “Pa, do you reckon they’re watching us?” “Now, okay, what’s gotten into you? There ain’t near a thing to worry about.” But as the father spoke, the crows grew louder and louder, and suddenly they were calling from all sides of the field. It was almost as if they were talking to one another. Mr. Hannon stopped walking, and something about him instantly changed as he looked back towards the forest. But before he could utter a word, the air was filled with a blood-curdling cry that was immediately echoed by a wild howling mob who emerged from the forest on every side of the field. William knew that cry immediately. It was the war whoop of the Cherokee, and as he stood frozen in astonishment, a horrifying fear washed over him. Within an instant, the field was full of nearly naked, screaming savages, and just then their leader let out a terrifying cry, and suddenly the air was full of arrows coming towards the family. “Run, children, run! For God’s sake, run to the cabin and get the gun!” But it was no use. Those were the father’s last words as an arrow ripped through his back and emerged from his chest.

Instantly he fell face first into the dirt, and within seconds a savage stood over him and ripped his scalp from his head and thrusted it high into the air like a trophy while unleashing another terrifying war cry. The five children ran for their lives, but there would be no escape. One by one they were tracked down, and the sound of the tomahawk would silence their scream, followed by another scalp thrusted towards the heavens. Within the span of a minute, every single one of them had met their demise. The natives promptly took all their clothing and everything of value. Old Tom was still tied to a tree when they turned their attention towards him and took their hunting knives and stripped the animal’s hide to sell as a trading fur, and then they cut huge hunks from the beast and began gorging on the raw flesh. Back inside the cabin, 10-year-old Edwin and 7-year-old Winnie had heard all of the screams and war cries from the Indians. They ran to the window, and there they saw their entire family laying in the field. The two children were completely horrified, realizing the danger they were in. Edwin called out, “Look, Winnie, those are real Indians! Get the baby and run!” With that, Edwin quickly grabbed his 3-year-old brother as Winnie scooped up the newborn baby.

In a flash, Edwin bolted from the cabin and made a frantic run towards the creek that ran at the back of the property. He knew of a hollow tree trunk that he could hide in. However, no sooner than Edwin had begun, he was spotted by one of the natives who yelled a blood-curdling war whoop and started chasing him. The 10-year-old boy ran with all his might, but his little brother was so heavy and slowing him down, and by now several Indians were giving chase. Edwin was practically exhausted, and he had no choice but to drop his brother and run for his own life. Somehow he made it to the hollow log, only to hear one last terrifying scream from his little brother and then the silencing blow from a tomahawk that fell upon his skull. Meanwhile, 7-year-old Winnie had scooped up the newborn baby, and she ran as fast as her little legs would take her to a laurel thicket and she hid. But she was completely terrified. How long could she keep that baby from crying? All hell had been unleashed on the Hannon farm, but the nightmare wasn’t over yet. Within the span of only a few minutes, seven of the 10 members of the Hannon family had fallen at the hands of the Cherokee, and now 10-year-old William (Edwin) hid inside a hollow log at the edge of the creek, while 7-year-old Winnie had managed to take the newborn baby Elizabeth to the forest and hide.

After the group of Cherokees finished their feast on the family’s ox, the tribe made their way to the cabin and ransacked it of anything of value. There in the distance, Winnie watched through the leaves as they set fire to the cabin, and as that fiery blaze sent smoke across the entire valley, the band of warriors danced and celebrated and then disappeared back across the river to the forbidden forest. Now there was nothing but silence. Hours passed before Edwin got the courage to crawl out of the log, and when he arrived back to the smoldering embers of his home, he found Winnie still holding the baby. As horrific as it had all been, children learned self-reliance at an early age back in those days, and so the brother and the sister started to walk down the river, taking turns carrying the baby. They knew that somewhere down the river they’d find another settler’s cabin. That evening, as the sun was setting, Colonel John Earl looked out across his farm and quickly stood from his chair in astonishment, as there standing before him were three orphan children, exhausted and terrified as they approached his cabin. Somehow Edwin, Winnie, and the baby Elizabeth had survived.

This story highlights the harsh realities of frontier life, the resilience of pioneer families, and the enduring impact of violence during a tumultuous period in American history. It also serves as a testament to survival and loss and the strength of children thrust into unimaginable circumstances. Colonel Earl and his wife took in the three orphaned Hannon children and they raised them as their own, yet decades would pass before Edwin would stop waking up in the middle of the night from nightmares and a cold sweat as his mind replayed the screams of his little brother, the sound of the tomahawk, and the cry of the Cherokee. Edwin would one day have a family of his own, raising 12 children. Winnie, however, would never marry, and no one knows whatever became of baby Elizabeth. I’d like to leave you with this one final thought today: tourists from around the world flock to Polk County, North Carolina, to the beautiful mountains along the Pacolet River to spend the night in historic Mimosa Inn bed and breakfast, yet none of them know that this was the site of the Hannon family massacre.