Monongahela

July 9, 1755. The forests of western Pennsylvania echoed with musket fire, panic, and the cries of wounded men as the mighty British Empire came face to face with a kind of war it didn’t understand. At the center of it all was a proud general who wouldn’t listen, an outnumbered enemy who knew the terrain, and a young Virginian named George Washington who refused to break. The Battle of the Monongahela should have been a victory. Instead, it became one of the most humiliating defeats in British colonial history. In this episode of Dave Does History, we’ll walk you through the bloody path to Fort Duquesne, unravel the leadership failures of General Edward Braddock, and witness the moment Washington’s legend truly began. This wasn’t just a battle. It was a brutal lesson in arrogance, terrain, and the unforgiving nature of frontier warfare. Stick around. This one gets personal.

In the summer of 1755, deep in the tangled wilderness of what we now call western Pennsylvania, an army marched with the confidence of empire. It was a force dressed in red, proud and precise, led by General Edward Braddock, a British officer of the old school. His mission was simple in theory but disastrous in practice. He was to seize the French-held Fort Duquesne at the forks of the Ohio River and secure the Ohio Country for the Crown. What he didn’t understand—what he refused to understand—was that he wasn’t marching into a European battlefield. He was walking into a trap of his own making.

Braddock had all the textbook credentials. He brought with him nearly 2,200 men including the 44th and 48th Regiments of Foot, some colonial provincials from Maryland and Virginia, a few New Yorkers under Horatio Gates, and some Carolinians. Twenty-seven cannons followed them into the trees. But despite all that firepower, all that polished rank and drill, Braddock lacked the one thing the French had in abundance—friends in the forest.

Before he ever left Fort Cumberland, Braddock insulted and alienated the very Native American tribes he needed as scouts and allies. When tribal leaders offered their services, Braddock is said to have scoffed that “no savage shall inherit the land.” The French, by contrast, welcomed their Native allies and brought them close. That choice would cost Braddock dearly. Of the hundreds of Native warriors who could have guided and guarded his expedition, only eight remained. The rest joined the French. The general, hardened by European war but blind to the American frontier, had already lost half the battle before it began.

Among Braddock’s aides was a 23-year-old volunteer who had a lot to prove. George Washington had tasted bitter defeat the year before at Fort Necessity. His surrender there had cast a long shadow. But now he was back, determined to redeem himself. He wasn’t in command, but he was riding beside it, ready for whatever came.

The column crawled through the Pennsylvania wilderness, building its own road as it went. Progress was agonizing. Braddock eventually split his force in two. He led a “flying column” of about 1,400 troops ahead toward Fort Duquesne, with the remainder trailing behind under Colonel Thomas Dunbar. The faster unit crossed the Monongahela River with drums pounding and banners waving. They were less than ten miles from the fort. They thought they were close to victory.

What they didn’t know was that French Captain Daniel de Beaujeu had scrambled together a force of about 800—a mix of French marines, Canadian militia, and Native warriors from the Ottawa, Potawatomi, Shawnee, Delaware, and Mingo nations. They were too late to set a true ambush, but it didn’t matter. They met the British head-on, and from the moment the first shot rang out, it was chaos.

Beaujeu was killed almost immediately, a bullet catching him as he charged bare-chested into the British vanguard. His death might have scattered the French, but it didn’t. Captain Jean-Daniel Dumas took control, and the Native warriors melted into the trees on both sides of the road. They didn’t form ranks or fire in volleys. They fought like they hunted. Fast. Silent. Deadly. They struck from the shadows, using every branch and stump as cover.

Braddock’s troops responded with textbook precision. Platoons formed, lined up shoulder to shoulder, and fired their muskets into the trees. The trouble was, they couldn’t see the enemy. And worse, in the smoke and confusion, they started firing on each other. Regulars panicked. Provincials broke ranks. The narrow forest road turned into a trap. Those who didn’t run stood and died in place. Braddock had five horses shot out from under him. Still, he kept riding, trying to rally the men. Around him, the disciplined force of the British Empire disintegrated.

Amid the slaughter, George Washington somehow kept his head. He rode through the gunfire, giving orders, dragging men to safety, and forming a rear guard. Twice he had horses shot from beneath him. Four bullet holes were later found in his coat. He was not scratched. To some, it looked like Providence itself was shielding him.

The battle lasted three hours. Braddock, still believing victory was within reach, pushed forward until a bullet tore into his right arm and lodged in his lung. The general fell. His army, now leaderless, fell with him. Some units tried to retreat in order. Most simply ran. When they reached the river again, all discipline vanished. Indian warriors swept down, not in pursuit, but to take trophies and plunder. British wounded were scalped. Some were tortured and burned alive that night, according to survivors.

Only Washington’s improvised leadership prevented total annihilation. He gathered what men he could, including wounded officers like Robert Orme, and guided them back down the road they had so laboriously carved into the forest. Braddock lingered for days, still giving orders from a litter. He finally died on July 13. Washington buried him in the middle of the road, then marched the wagons and troops over the fresh grave to hide it from enemy eyes.

In all, over 450 British troops were killed and another 400 wounded. Among the officers, more than half were casualties. The French and their Native allies lost fewer than 90. Of the women who followed the army as cooks and maids, nearly all were taken or killed. The British defeat was absolute.

Colonel Dunbar, now in command, torched his remaining supplies and limped back toward Philadelphia. He refused to try again. The frontier was left wide open. For the next three years, Native raids across Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia would leave settlers in constant terror.

The Battle of the Monongahela was more than just a defeat. It was a humiliating failure that forced the British Army to confront the hard truths of wilderness warfare. Traditional European tactics had failed them. Their bright red coats had made them perfect targets. Their rigid formations were death traps under the green canopy of North America. It wasn’t just the trees or the enemy—it was the mindset that cost them the battle.

And yet, out of that forest came one man who would never be forgotten. George Washington, unranked and untested, had stood in the fire and survived. He had done what Braddock could not. He had adapted. He had endured. And the men who followed him never forgot it.

The Battle of the Monongahela was supposed to be a march to glory. It became a bloody lesson in humility. For the British, it was a wake-up call. For Washington, it was the beginning of something much larger. And for the American frontier, it was proof that the empire didn’t understand the land it claimed to rule.