Based on the story that appeared on RootsWeb.  See US GenWeb notice below.

Killing of Fanny Napper and Her Children  By Emory L. Hamilton

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From the unpublished manuscript, Indian Atrocities Along the Clinch, Powell and Holston Rivers, pages 52-53.

Per a letter written from Metamora, Indiana by Samuel Alley to Dr. Lyman C. Draper and published as part of the Draper Manuscripts (Draper Mss 5 C 70):

My father’s sister, Fanny Napper and her five (5) children were killed and scalped by Indians near Fort Blackmore. I was born in a few yards of the fort in 1801, and have just returned from a visit to my old birthplace. The ground where the fort stood was being cultivated.

A large apple tree stands near the fort that my father set out. It is to this day called the “John Alley Apple Tree”. My aunt and family were killed, I think, in 1777. My father was born at Petersburg, VA, in 1760, and settled on Clinch when a young boy. Died on Piper Creek, Franklin Co., Indiana, in 1842, where I now live, aged 82 years.

In addition, in the Shane Historical Collection of the Draper Manuscripts (Draper MSS 13 CC 130), an interview with Jessee Graddy tells of his trip and arrival in Lincoln County, Kentucky on September 3, 1777. He describes what is felt to be the killing of Fanny Nappier and her four children:

The morning before we came to the ford of Clinch (Blackmore’s Station was 10 miles beyond that) these murders were committed. A mother and four (4) children killed within eight of the fort. The husband was in the field, but escaped.

A girl about half grown, and three little boys tomahawked and scalped, who were talking while their brains were boiling out. The grandmother asked them if they saw their little brother.  What had become of him? Said they didn’t know. These were Dutch people.

We stayed a good part of the day. Their aunt sat on a stump in sight of the fort and cried all day. Went by Blackmore’s Station next day and didn’t see the smoke of a chimney after that until we got to Boonesboro. The pretty springs of water and the woods rendered Powell Valley exceedingly beautiful. I could have stopped very freely in it. A rock road all the way down and mountains to one side of us.

Just before we got to the foot of Cumberland Mountain the company, three fourths of a mile ahead of us, had all their horses stolen. They could do nothing better than just turn their featherbeds loose. They could do nothing with them about their cattle. We never saw any Indians and were not interrupted. I was most afraid coming down Cumberland Mountain. The place was narrow and rocky. Stood up on either side not broader than a house. Woods more beautiful in Cumberland Valley than any other place.

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